You press a finger to your ear, take a deep breath, and push into the side door—into the nightclub proper.
There’s a half-second where you go completely deaf before your hearing returns to you. The noise hits you all at once: the hissing spray of the fog machines overhead, the thumping of the bass that threatens the warranty of the surround-sound speakers, the cheers and jeers of the crowd, the rhythmless thumping of bouncing bodies. Everything is a shade of red-orange. You have to hold up a hand to your face to stop one of the strobe lights from blinding you. As you take your first few steps into the scene this evening, you smoothen out the creases of your blazer and nod.
This is SAXO—the most prestigious nightclub on this side of Seoul. Belonging to a collection of different spots all under The Kingdom Collective, hundreds—if not thousands—of warm bodies find their ways at SAXO’s doorstep to drink, spend, and party to forget their pitiful lives for even just a few hours.
But not you. Not you.
You take a deep breath. Really feel it in your chest. And when you exhale slowly, letting the drag of air on the way out tickle your nostrils, you lock in as time slows down to a blur all around you.
You scan the room.
Slashed purse at Table Fourteen. Half-filled beer bottle at the DJ’s mixing pad. Fingers thrusted at the bar area.
Index to thumb, you snap. Then it all comes back to life.
You strut over to Table Fourteen and grab the idiot with curly hair by the inside of his belt, preventing his escape. “Huh? What—?”
Smack. You backhand the son of a bitch and take the opportunity to grab the wallet he was just holding as he stumbles backwards onto the floor.
You sift through the I.D. cards and glance at the group of unaware ladies who are now looking at you in confusion. “This must be yours. Keep an eye on your things please. Our staff can only do so much.”
After the ponytailed woman nods at you in silent gratitude, you whistle and call over a triad of bouncers. They immediately swarm the perpetrator and have him pinned with his arms behind his back. “You know the drill. Put his photo up on the wall. Then give these ladies a bottle from the top shelf. On the house.”
The same lady from earlier gasps and shakes her head. “No no, it’s fine. Getting my wallet back’s more than enough.”
But you calm her down with a gesture of your hand and signal to one of the bouncers. “Hennessy. On me.”
When her drunken friends scream in elation over hearing this, the lady smiles and lifts her glass up to you. You salute with two fingers before trudging towards the dance floor.
Cutting through should be easy, but the ongoing rave makes the crowd feel like an actual ocean.
Shoulders bumping. Backs pressing into you. Whispers exchanging at decibels higher than they should be. You don’t part the crowd—you know better than to do that. Instead you run your hand through your hair and get with it. Get with them. You go with the flow. Head bopping. Arms in the air. Swaying and shimmying past person to person. All until you reach the elevated podium.
One of the bouncers stationed at the front sees you and snaps into a straighter posture, but when you lift both your hands at him he learns to relax a bit. “First night?”
He glances left and right to make sure you’re talking to him. “Y-Yeah … s-s-sorry, boss.”
“Relax. Take it easy. Just remember: make sure everyone’s having a good time. The safe way.”
“Y-You got it!” he wheezes, unclipping the velvet cord so you can pass through. You pat him on the back and squeeze his shoulder before jogging up the steps towards the sound booth.
Pressing fingers against your ear to fold it shut, you dip forward and jab your waist at the DJ. You give him no time to complain. This sudden motion makes the wire connecting his headphones to his laptop coil around his bottle of beer and would have sent it toppling onto the mixing pad had you not swiped it up in time.
“Jesus Christ—you fucking scared me. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a set here?” Hajoon groaned, unraveling the wire.
“I said no drinks while you’re on set. This is the third time this week.”
He flaps his lips in mockery, snatching the beer back from you. Downs it in one go. Sighs in contentment. Then shoves it back to your chest, dampening the fold of your blazer. “Whatever, bossman. Learn to loosen up a little. Here—ready for the drop?”
As soon as he pushes one of the doodads on his device, you hear the music start to quicken and pulsate throughout the room. You can feel the hastening thrum in the back of your throat. When you think you can’t take the tension anymore, Hajoon flicks his wrist and throws his hands in the air.
“Everybody make some noise!”
Then the drop happens and everyone’s cheering to the beat. Tongues out. Fists pumping. Bodies yielding.
Hajoon jabs you with his waist and wraps an arm around your neck. “You see that, bossman? That’s the kind of magic we fucking enable each night. So will you cut me some slack? If it helps, I’ll cut back on the drinks too. I only got to sneak one in because you sent a newbie to guard me tonight.”
You peel his sweaty arm off you and dust yourself off. “We’ll see. Maybe play some good music first, then I’ll think about it.”
He hisses. “So fucking cold. But that makes me respect you all the more—not gonna lie.”
You ignore him and duck under the cord to rejoin the shifting masses. The new bouncer doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye as you slither your way once more through the crowd to get to the other side of the room where the bar is.
“I fucking told you—we paid for our table in advance. What do you mean we need to show you ‘proof of purchase’? Fucking bitch. Your place is already expensive—.”
“Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem here.”
The gravitas you exude is enough to silence the four men trying to overpower and intimidate your bar staff.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” you repeat, making sure they hear you over the second beat drop Hajoon just laid out for the people. “You can relay it to me directly.”
One of the guys tugs on the sleeve of his complaining friend, but he swats him away. He’s the only one who still looks arrogant despite his face being as red as a raspberry. “Ya … who the fuck are you? Are you their manager? I’d like to speak with the fucking manager.”
“You’re talking to him.”
“O-Oh … oh, then good,” he flinches. “Like I was saying—your club’s trying to fucking scam me and my friends. Bleeding us dry, huh? We paid for the table reservation fee AND the three-hour extension for our table. And they say we can’t get more fucking drinks?”
You gesture to the poor girl just trying to do her job. She hands you one of her small tablets and you begin scrolling through records. “Says here you paid in full and still have some credit for your tab. What do you want to order?”
He scoffs. “Was thinking of getting me and my boys a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Each. But you’re all ruining our fun, so maybe we’ll just—.”
“You can’t afford it.”
The man raises a brow. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just—.”
“I said. You can’t afford it,” you utter once more, diction sharp enough to penetrate through their thick skulls. “The table’s a million won. You already spent nine-hundred thousand on other liquors. Four bottles of this gin will cost you two-hundred-and-forty thousand more—over your cap.”
“I can—.”
You point to the lanyard one of his friends wears. Then to the knock-off Ray Bans on his other friend’s forehead. Then to the crumpled envelope in his right pocket. “Keep burning your stipend money and you’ll be out of college faster than I can kick you out of this club.”
His little group inhales so tensely through clenching teeth over what you just relayed to them that their little leader starts to physically fume in the well-deserved embarrassment. “Y-Yeah? Well fuck you, asshat. Let’s go, guys. We’re leaving—.”
You hold your arm out to stop his lanky body in time, grabbing some middle shelf liquor in the same stroke. “Here. Bit over your tab, but on me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
You don’t get the privilege to see his dumfounded face. You salute the woman working the bar before heading towards the back wings.
This was you. This is your nightly life as the manager of SAXO. It’s never dull. Not with the constant flow of people like these it isn’t.
When you lean against the wall adjacent to the restrooms, one of the bouncers notices you and offers you a seat by one of the empty tables along the balcony area, but you reject it with a shake of your chin. Hard to patrol when seated. Hard to monitor without a vantage point. There’s never any rest for the wicked, so you don’t allow yourself any either. Instead, you fix the grip of your watch against your wrist and check the time.
Twelve-fifty-three.
Glancing back up, your hairs stand on edge.
You find yourself as if you were on the roof of the building. Atop SAXO. Where the humdrum of the club below can blur enough to the point that it can almost be considered silence. You take what you can get. In this spec of solitude amidst your night to night affairs for work, you enjoy being able to stare up at the evening sky and just gaze. Stargaze.
When you look at the stars, you never really focus on a single fixed point. There are many stars out there, constantly burning, some already having died out, some whose light have yet to reach your eyes. They all look the same to you. Same shining orbs. Same glow and halation. Same patch of freckles that dot the expanse of the universe. But once in a while, once you let your guard down—if you can even let it—you find yourself drawn to a star that calls to you. Grabs your attention. Not brighter. Not differently-colored. Not even more attractive.
It just pulls you in. And before you know it, it’s all you look at. It’s all your weary eyes focus on.
It’s all you see.
That’s the same thing she does to you.
Chests lift and drop. Shoulders form waves that veil her visage. Strobe lights paint everything around her in a light haze. She whips her head around, hair fanning out downwards. Dip of the chin. Rise of the nose. Lock of the eyes.
She isn’t just looking at you. She’s caught you.
And the pull of her lips into a smirk is enough evidence of it.
You know very well that meeting someone’s gaze at the club is a death sentence. You know their appearance now. How they act. What they do. Where they are. You can track them down around the dance floor. Pinpoint their table. Vibe check their company. Note how intoxicated they are. Check to see if they’re hitting on someone. Or if anyone’s hitting on them.
But when someone catches you staring? That isn’t just a death sentence.
It’s an execution. And she drops the guillotine on you the moment she bites her lip.
You look away. You just meant to look respectfully. You hope you did. You didn’t linger, did you? If you did, it was just out of appreciation. Admiration. She’s beautiful. That much you can glean from an initial glance. Not enough to mark her in your mind, but enough to make her relevant in your field of view.
You’re an idiot. You look again.
Honey blonde hair, dark at the roots. Freshly threaded brows. Slender nose—sharp at the tip, softer around the sides. Oval-framed visage that looks soft upon a caress but sharp upon provocation. Lower lip so plump you forget she has two to form the curve of her smirk.
But really. What catches you are her eyes.
Because they’re staring right at you now.
You look away. For good this time. You’re certain because you push off the wall and walk a few steps away from your initial perching position. Not stopping until you’re sure that she isn’t looking at you anymore
You brush past a pair of heaving girls rushing to the toilets to vomit.
Nope, still looking at you.
You lean over a group of college kids playing King’s Cup and ask them how their night is.
Nope, still looking at you.
You run a hand across the bar counter to inspect its cleanliness.
Nope, still looking at you.
She won’t fucking stop looking at you. And you hate it.
Because you can’t stop looking at her either.
She shifts. Hands behind her head, hips swaying in a figure eight to the music. You’re still pissed at Hajoon, but you have to thank him for the boppy track he’s put on now. It makes her thrust her elbows out. Side to side. Doing a little spin. And when she comes back around, she smirks at you again.
It’s only then that you scan the rest of her. Filling out the form of her figure.
Buckled corset tight around her petite frame. Red pants dotted with silver buttons that you just know jingle with even the slightest movements. Nails painted silver. Armband dripped in gold. Boots that cheat her height and allow her to look taller men in the eye.
But really. What catches your attention this time isn’t in the seen. It’s in the unseen.
At the swell around her cleavage that’s threatening to spill out.
You look away. But you’re not sure you’ve done so because you can still see her in your peripheral. Like what happens when you stare at the sun for too long like a dumbass and it imprints its afterimage so fucking deep into your retinas.
You move over to the receiving area where there’s still a line steadily being processed by your diligent staff. A pair of bouncers recognize you and one of them dips their shades to greet you. You hang around them for a moment. Cross your arms. Return to the crowding dance floor. Let out a sigh.
Holy shit she’s moving towards you now.
One guy’s blatantly looking down her top. Another’s grinding against her. But she pushes past them, body still enslaved by the beat. But honing in on you like a beacon.
You make the mistake of looking her in the eyes again. She smirks wider. Like she’s got you in her clutches with a lasso, she shimmies through the sweaty bodies around her until she’s parted from the crowd.
You snap behind your back, and time pauses.
You scan the room.
Wide hips flaring out of the confines of her fitted leather pants. Gait so resonant you can almost hear its cadence amidst the blasting music. Face dyed a myriad of colors, but her expression remains unchanging.
“Are you just going to keep staring?”
It didn’t work.
She’s right in front of you now. Three steps away. You fail to realize it until she points it out. “Not much of a dancer?”
“I dapple. Just not tonight. Just not here.”
“I’ll only believe it when I see it. Too pompous to join the crowd? Are we not good enough for you?” she remarks, voice lilting like a tease towards the end.
“Got business to attend to—always. Can’t mix work and play.”
“Didn’t seem that way when you were eye-fucking me just now.”
The bouncers on either side of you flinch. You can tell because of the way these two burly buffoons fucking twitched. She can tell too because she’s two steps away now and pressing the matter still.
“I wasn’t eye-fucking you. Just patrolling. Just work.”
“Is your job supposed to be undressing wasted girls like me in your mind? You’re doing a terrible job then. I’m pretty fucking wasted right now, but I don’t feel very naked.”
“You’re not—.”
She’s one step away now.
“Hm?” she raises, and so does her brow. “Too on the nose for you? Or are you still ‘working’?”
Her hand finds its way to your chest as she presses into your clavicle, wiping away that one bead of sweat that rolls down your blazer. Your eyes never leave her face. Even as she tugs on and adjusts the rise of your collar. “What’s it going to take to be supervised by you? Directly.”
You tilt your head to the side. When that isn’t enough, you step as far back as you can before bumping into another velvet cord. Then you sigh. “Respectfully. Hands off. I’m an employee here.”
Her eyes widen like she just caught something. “Part of the background? Boring. Someone like you being off-limits—such a waste.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. That’s fine. Because she doesn’t let you. “Is it company policy to not mingle with your clientele? I just saw you getting real handsy with a group of girls earlier. You’re making me jealous just thinking about it.”
The implication of that statement is something you just keep to yourself.
Before she can move closer, you hold your hand out. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. But this?” you pause, pointing your finger to her then back to yourself. “Not a chance.”
She clicks her teeth and backs away too. Finally. But her eyes are what do you over. She’s rolling them at you. Mockery. Frustration. Disappointment. “You’re no fun. Keep eye-fucking me then. Hope you get a kick out of it.”
Before you know it, she seamlessly rejoins the crowd, dancing with the masses once again.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened?
You don’t know. You’re not sure.
All you can think of is finishing your patrol so you can get some rest. You want to make sure everything’s in order for the evening before you leave the rest to your second. So you continue on your nightly routine. Just like nothing happened.
But god forbid this woman is making it difficult for you to pretend like nothing happened.
You can’t explain it.
When you patrol the lower tables—the ones closer to the dance floor—you see her spiraling around the edges of the crowd. Not really lingering too long at any one spot. Like she’s trailing you. Following you. You had to make one of the customers repeat themselves when you got distracted by the way she ‘fixed’ her top, flashing you enough skin to imagine the rest of what’s hidden beneath it.
Over by the entrance, while you were in the middle of resolving a dispute over fake I.D.s, she was hovering behind you. At a safe distance. Behind the barriers and bouncers. She’s watching you work. Observing how you tell someone off without needing to raise your voice. Smirking at you, twirling her hair, staring at you as she’s playing thoughts in her mind that you can only assume are no good.
Even when you sneak away to relieve yourself at the staff washroom. The moment you come back out, she’s sipping on a glass of whiskey. Staring daggers at your surprised face. With that gaze of hers that short-circuits your brain. She doesn’t say anything. Just sips. Just drinks. Just relishes in your flushed state as you hurry yourself away from her.
She’s not even meddling. She’s not even provoking.
She’s just there.
She’s going around you, but god does it feel like you’re the one orbiting her. Because this woman knows she’s got you.
She’s got you good.
“Anything else I missed? I’ll leave the cleanup and closing to you. Like always,” you tell your second, who’s already writing things down on his notepad. “And Minho, please, for the love of god, will you stop wearing those ridiculous ties?”
Minho peeks up from his sheets and pokes the yellow rubber-ducky tie with his pen. “This? My mother bought it for me, boss. It’d be a waste not to wear it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “At least wear it somewhere else. Well—whatever. Before I go, make sure to keep an eye out on Table Nine. Got a feeling they’re runners—.”
“Boss!”
The beckon rings like a siren. You register it immediately and are ready to strafe past Minho when you see one of the serving staff runs up to the both of you. Panting. Completely out of breath. “Boss, there’s … ha … there’s a commotion on the dance floor!”
Your eyes first dart over to Hajoon. But oddly enough, he’s not trying to hit on anyone again this time. Instead, he’s watching something. Watching someone.
In fact, everyone on the dance floor’s watching someone. Noticeably so now that you realize there’s a small circular parting in the center of the crowd.
You follow the staff over and freeze at the outer edge of this commotion.
You see her.
She’s dancing like she owns the place. Like she owns the dance floor. Hajoon’s got his hands on the beat, but she’s got her hands all over her body. She’s being a diva right now. Bathing in the glow of the lights shining down on her. Feeling herself. Basking in the attention that’s being dripped all over her.
She ropes in one guy at a time. Dancing with him. Swaying next to him. Grinding on him. She slides her back up and down the front of one of them. Wraps her arms around the neck of another. One of the poor blokes makes the mistake of moving in to kiss her. She immediately bites his lip and gets a kick out of his pained reaction.
Your fist is clenching tightly by your side, and you’re not sure why.
Before you know it, you’re pushing—no, shoving—people aside just to get to the center of it all. Just to get to her. Tugging on the length of your necktie, when you make it to the lady in question, you hold out an arm to stop the next guy from entertaining her, and just grab her by her arm.
“What the hell are you doing?” you demand. She reeks of alcohol and sweat. “You’re drunk. You’re making a scene.”
“Yeah? Is that not allowed?” she prods, stepping closer to you. She shrugs your grip off and crosses her arms. “Didn’t think it wasn’t, but hey, made you look didn’t I? I knew it was the only way to grab your attention.”
You glance past her. To Hajoon. The man scrambles for his headphones and changes up the music, inviting everyone to return to the dance floor and party like there’s no tomorrow once again. Back to the regular routine of things.
But you don’t let up on her.
And she doesn’t let up on you.
Because her hands are now resting on your waist.
“Saw you talking to shorty over there,” she announces, pointing at Minho with her lips. “Thought you’d be off the clock now, manager. Didn’t think you’d eye-fuck me again that quickly though.”
“I was not eye—.”
She pulls you in. Whether it’s with her hands or with her gaze, you can’t tell. “Just shut up and dance.”
You indulge her.
You lied. You’re not a very good dancer. And she notices this. She leads you both. At times she lets you do your stupid little shindig while she’s busting out a move. Other times she’s holding you by the wrist and guiding your hands to either her shoulders or her hips.
And you’re starting to come undone.
How could you not?
Every run of her fingers across one of your shoulders to the other. Every bump of her butt against your crotch. Every nick of her knee against your thigh. She’s toying with you. She’s building you up. Leading you on. Because she knows.
She knows you can’t do a single damn thing about it.
You don’t keep track of time. But after what feels like an hour of working the dance floor with you, she finally pulls away enough to give you your own personal space again. She walks you over to the wings to where her table is. Table Twenty-Three.
First thing you see are two couples engaged in a contest to see who could be the sloppiest when making out.
“Don’t mind them. They won’t get naked. At least, they told me this isn’t that kind of club,” she explains. She casually reaches over one of the couples, who you are pretty sure are sneaking in some fingering on the couch, and grabs one of their drinks. She sniffs it. She reels. But she downs it anyway.
“Are we done here? Had your fill yet?” you ask. Unsure of where you’re trying to go with that.
“Yeah. Be seeing you.”
What?
You swear you almost hear yourself say that out loud. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it must be an entertaining one—for her at least.
“Was fun. Maybe we’ll come back here again.”
She followed you around. She stalked you like a hawk. She dragged you into her little shenanigans in the middle of work. All for this? All for nothing?
It was your turn to feel dumbfounded tonight. Dumbfounded because you were a fool for expecting anything bigger to have come out of this.
You bit your tongue enough to bleed iron into your tastebuds before nodding stiffly. “Right. Right, be seeing you.”
To add insult to injury, she waves at you with a smirk as you lug your body towards the staff exit.
---
“Boss, Table Eleven’s going red.”
You know that signal. You know that queue.
In moments, you’re already halfway towards said table, when your shoes screech against the polished floor. Stopping yourself.
“Hm? Care to join us?”
It’s her again.
Honey blonde hair pulled behind her. Black ribbed plunging half-sleeve top baring a fraction of her upper midriff. Bandeaux bra on full display. Exposed skin moist from collecting the condensation dripping from her glass.
You clock the empty vodka bottle on the table. You scan the eight different people gathered around the table with her. You take note of her challenging half-lidded stare.
“If you’re done with that drink, I’m taking it.”
“Tsk, we’re just playing spin the bottle. Is that not allowed?”
“Your little ‘game’ is disturbing everyone else. Take a hint,” you warn her, eyes fixed on her face that remains unflinching before you.
“It’s a fucking club. Of course we’ll be loud. Don’t want your customers having fun, manager-nim?”
The way she addresses you makes your blood boil all the more. “Give me that—.”
She beats you to it and spins the bottle. Lo and behold it lands with the snout facing you. The bottom facing her.
Smirking, she taps her lip with her newly painted red nail. “Five shots of scotch. In a row. Think you can do it?”
The crowd around her table is clapping and leering at you. But you ignore them. “I’m not playing—.”
She loops an arm around you and blinks innocently. Twice. For just a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party? Let’s get this night started properly. Shots! Shots! Shots!”
They begin to mimic your chant. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
The other tables begin to chime in. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
Soon even some of your serving staff applaud you. Egg you. Even when you give them the eye.
You glance at the bottle of scotch conveniently already at the table. You glance at the clubgoers surrounding you now. Then you glance at her.
“I don’t drink. Not anymore.”
You get booed in a heartbeat.
Shrugging, she dips down and fills up one of the shotglasses for herself. “Suit yourself.” Before you know it, she’s already drank one. Then two. Then five. All down the hatch.
Just as you are about to leave this brewing cesspool, someone tugs you from behind.
You’re not one to take that lying down. Ready to unwrap your arm from them and shove them to the ground. But the lightness of the grip is what throws you off.
And it’s enough hesitation for her to pounce on your lips and kiss you.
You don’t pull away. You can’t.
She’s holding your face. Both hands. One on each cheek. When you tug upwards, she follows, moaning into your mouth. But where you expect her bare tongue, something liquid is in its place. When you realize what’s happening, it’s already too late.
She just snowballed five shots of scotch right into your mouth.
When the taste of liquor hits your tastebuds, something fires in your brain. Something reflexive. Something ingrained. You rip your lips from her and spray out the alcohol. The two dudes behind you are fucking pissed, but you apologize sincerely and call for some staff to help clean the mess.
Returning to her, you grab her by the elbow. “I told you I don’t fucking drink—.”
“That wasn’t a drink. That was a taste,” she corrects you, smirking once more. Using that fucking gaze on you again. “Taste of me. Don’t get too drunk now.”
You’re unable to react. You let her kiss you once more on the lips and giggle before rejoining her posse for the night.
“Are you alright, boss? You look—.”
“Don’t just stand there, Minho. Get me some damn water,” you snap as you feel the liquor burning your tastebuds still. Thank god it didn’t drip into your throat. A taste was more than enough to give you goosebumps.
As Minho disappears towards the bar, you just watch as this woman pours cognac down her throat. Straight from the bottle. While looking at you.
With a smirk.
“B-Boss …? Boss!”
“What is it newbie? I don’t have all night,” you huff at the bouncer. You could have been nicer to him. Nicer about it. But doing arithmetic manually on a calculator and a physical spread sheet for hours would put anyone in a fuckass mood. “What do you need from me?”
“S-S-Someone’s um … stripping—.”
You don’t even have to ask for context.
As soon as you burst out from the break room, your eyes immediately train on the sound booth. On Hajoon.
On her.
You claw through the crowd. Is it to get closer to the unfolding scene? Is it to stop it? You’re not sure. You don’t fucking know. All you can picture are the things that will spread about your club after tonight if this continues.
When you make it to the divider, the newbie watches your back as you jump over the cord. From the first few steps up towards the elevator platform alone, you get a clear view from the side.
The twin-tailed little brat’s undressing in the fucking DJ booth. And Hajoon’s just letting her. Of course he fucking would.
Her tail point fur jacket hits the floor first. Pools at the ankles like shorn elegance. Pure irony though given the debauchery that persists to unfold. Her hair whips forward. Then back. She’s dancing in place like she’s boxed in a tight circle. Hands draw forwards and slide down Hajoon’s chest as she sways downwards herself too. When she shoots back up, she makes the extra effort to jut her butt out.
If you didn’t have any self-control, you would have slapped the fucking tease out of her voluminous rump.
It’s a miracle they’re still contained within her shorts. Those things are cut closer to her crotch than her knees. You cut her some slack. It compliments her plain white crop top that exposes the expanse of her navel.
Your focus drifts to the jewel affixed above her belly button. Sparkling. Beckoning to you.
When you glance back up again, she’s caught you once more. “Eye-fucking me up close this time? Get in line, manager. This one’s a public show.”
Hajoon notices your arrival and lifts up his beer, nearly fucking spilling it on his setup like an idiot. “Yo, bossman! Where’d you pull this baddie? She said you knew each other? You two banging or something?”
But the woman between you both hushes him with a finger and whispers something you can’t hear from all the music. Hajoon licks his lips when she pulls away and winks at you. “Fine shit, man. Fine fucking shit! Let’s turn this party up!”
As the tempo of the song speeds up, so does her dancing. She’s got a way with her body—you’ll give her that. Even as you walk back down, you can’t help but take a peek. When you do, you see her flex and swirl that torso of hers like she was goddamn built for it.
She locks eyes with you a final time before digging her thumbs into the hem of her top. “Think you can handle this?”
Just when you lunge for her, she chuckles and puts her hands back down. “Did you really think I was a slut? Disappointing. And here I thought you cared about me more than that.”
Clenching your teeth so hard they could shatter, you pick her coat off the floor and dump it in one of the chairs behind Hajoon. The last thing you see before heading back is her playing up the role she’s taken on for the night and acting as Hajoon’s eye candy for his set.
She manages to catch you in the crowd and licks her lips, biting her tongue midway.
“Fucking brat.”
“Fuck me—boss!”
You quite literally snap your pen. The ink fountains forward but you’re faster. You wrap it up in some of your old quarterly reports. Cursing under your breath, you dump the blotting mess beneath you and drag your fingers across your face. “What the fuck is the problem this time, Minho?”
“It’s her. Again.”
That’s not possible. It’s almost five in the morning now. Club’s been closed for an hour at least. What the hell was she still doing here?
No matter. You push out of your chair. Don’t bother to put your blazer back on. Just lower your head and allow Minho to accompany you to the scene of the next crime.
You hear it before you see it—the sound of glass breaking.
Then it all comes into view.
The closing staff standing frozen outside the bar. The three bouncers exchanging looks at each other in an attempt to figure out what to do. Hajoon who’s finishing his order of truffle fries while recording the whole thing.
Not a single one of them dared to stop her.
“All of you. Out. Now.”
Your command echoes throughout the now empty club. All eyes are on you as you tug on your tie and tilt your head to the side. Vein along your neck threatening to pop. “I said. Out. Now.”
“Manager, she’s been causing—.”
You raise your palm up to one of the bouncers. “I’ll take it from here. Leave closing to me. And Minho, go take our closing staff out for some fish sticks. Use my card.”
“Boss …”
You toss him your credit card and gesture for them to get the hell out of here. They look confused. They look concerned. But by the end of it, they all feel relieved. Even Hajoon whose set finished earlier tonight tagged along with your staff to freeload. You let it slide. You have bigger fish to fry.
And she reminds you of this with the sound of another glass item shattering across the floor.
“Oops. That one was accidental this time.”
You saunter over to the bar and lean on the counter. Arms folded against each other. Eyes trained on this little goddamn devil in front of you.
Her outfit surprises you.
You thought you had her figured out. The more comfortable she got here at SAXO, the less you’ve seen her wear. But tonight, she’s all covered up. Long sleeve leopard print. Matching ankle length tights. Pink nails. Some glitter sprinkled across her eyes just above her splash of blush. For someone’s who’s been clubbing all night, she looks like she just came fresh out of the shower.
She smirks. “You just love eye-fucking me, don’t you?”
“Cut the charade. It’s just you and me. What the fuck is your deal?”
She raises a brow. Runs a finger across the convex surface of a bottle of Patron in her hands. Contemplating. “Does it always have to be something in here?”
“There’s always something with you.”
You could never understand her. Even if you tried. She does everything she can think of to be an absolute thorn in your side. But she never acknowledges you beyond the provocation. She pushes and pulls. But she never reaches. And you’re not sure what irritates you more.
The fact that she keeps doing this each night. Or the fact that you want her to reach you.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed the attention.
Looking at that flirty smile of hers that dances dangerously across the boundary of your tolerance, you can’t help but acknowledge it. She’s played you. She’s played you good. Attention-seeking. Body-chasing. Mind-filling. Every night—every fucking night—she’s on your mind. What she’s up to this time. What she’s wearing. If she’s looking at you. Looking for you. Testing you. Teasing you. Tempting you. You’ve thought about what it might be like if you weren’t surrounded by other clubgoers. What you might say to her if you had the chance to pull her away in private. What you might do to her if you were away from any prying eyes.
And now, as you’ve said, it’s just the two of you. There was no need to pull on any acts.
That’s what you want to believe, at least. It’s immediately shattered once you see the bottle smash onto the floor. Spilling alcohol across her boots.
“Oopsie,” she utters without a hint of fucking remorse. “That didn’t taste good anyway. I’m doing you a favor.”
As she reaches out for another battle, you exhale roughly. “What … What do you want from me?”
“Want? From you?” she repeats, swinging her next victim between her knuckles. Just waiting for one wrong move to let it slip and shatter. “You’re already doing what I want you to.”
“Which is—?”
Shatter. “Entertaining me.”
She doesn’t even pick up the bottles anymore. She’s just flicking them off the shelves.
“Ooh, expensive.”
Down goes the Armand de Brignac.
“Expensive?”
Along with the Magnum Moët & Chandon.
“And oh, most expensive.”
And so does the Rosé 1959 Dom Pérignon.
“You see what I mean?” she spins around and leans against the remaining shelf with alcohol still lining the higher echelons. Prodding at you as if you’ve already proven her point. “This is why I’m having so much fun with you. You can’t do anything to me, can you? You’re not allowed to.”
“You just manage—.”
Your hand’s already gripping her wrist. Pinning it to the corner ledge. She gasps. And for the first time since you’ve met this lady, she flashes you a look you’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“You,” you pause, trying to control your breathing. Your eyes are scrambling for something to look at but they’re stuck on her. Just her. “Do you know … how much fucking money … all of this … is going to cost me?”
“H-Hey … relax. If it’s really that much—?”
“Don’t try to slither your way out of this one. I asked you a question. Answer.”
She trembles. You can feel it in her pulse. You can sense it as you tighten your grip. “I-I … I don’t. But I swear, I didn’t think—.”
“What? You didn’t think it was ‘this serious’? Thought you were still ‘playing games’ with me?” you retorted, scoffing mid-sentence. “Where the fuck have you been living all your life? Under a rock? Top shelf liquor is so fucking expensive to import. I bet recovering all of this is going to cost more than the clothes you’ve been wearing here, or the fucking dingy ass pad you live in.”
“Stop, I-I-I was just—.”
“Just? Was just? Just having fun with me?” you fill in. “I run a fucking business here. And god forbid, you have been really bad for it. Just fucking terrible. This?”
You gesture to the liquor seeping into the cracks between cabinets and the counter. Mixed scents of shattered spirits wafting between the two of you.
“This is the last straw. I’m—.”
“Going to punish me?”
What was that? What the fuck was that?
There it goes again. The glint in her eye. The pull of her lips. That snarky tone of hers when she says, “Going to write me off? Report me to the police? Call my parents or something?”
It’s almost like she’s nudging you. Pushing you past your bloody fucking limits.
Like she’s challenging you.
Like she’s enjoying it.
“Go on. What are you going to do with me? Squeeze an apology out of me? Fine me? Blacklist me?” she lists, shaking off your grip when she knows you’re stunned and crosses her arms. Just under her bust. Highlighting it. “Go ahead and try. I fucking dare you.”
“Make me.”
There’s at least seven different things you could have done in this moment. Each likely more effective than the last as you play them out in your head. But when you’re face to face with her like this, bodies inching closer to one another, you can’t fucking take it anymore.
It’s time to show her who’s in charge.
It’s time to show her her place.
“Strip.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me say it again,” you press, stepping so close to her that your feet are now directly parallel to hers. “You’re right. Maybe I’m here as your ‘entertainment’. Then if so, let me ‘entertain’ you some more. Could bring you to the station down the street. Could make you call your lawyer or something. Could even just ban your sorry ass from SAXO myself. But that’s no fun, is it?”
“Strip. Now.”
Her mouth is taut. But it quivers. And you catch that.
“Ya … Isn’t this harassment, manager? I don’t think you’d want a case against you and your little club now, would you?” she tries to bargain.
But you see through her chicanery and subterfuge. “After all you’ve done, this is child’s play. Strip. I’m not repeating myself again.”
Growling, she rolls her eyes and pushes you away. “Fine. Pervert. But I’m not doing it with you around—.”
“Oh, you will.”
You turn around only to remove yourself from the slimy pools of spilt liquor on the floor. Vaulting over the bar counter. Dusting your hands off. You face her again. Arms crossed. Eyebrow cocked. Waiting.
“Are you for real right now? Are you fucking serious?”
“I am. You love putting on shows, don’t you? Then put on a show. Just for me,” you fired back. Smirking. “What? You’re the one who said I kept ‘eye-fucking’ you. Shouldn’t you have expected this much from me? Strip.”
You see her knuckles go white. But you also see her mask crack.
Then you see her do as you’ve told.
She whips her hair back. Of course she does. This little princess always has to have her hair fixed. The bangle earrings she’s wearing doesn’t make it any easier for her either. Digging her thumbs against her ribs, the same way she did on the night she got into the sound booth, slowly, she starts to peel upwards. You watch as the cloth of her patterned print top tantalizingly comes undone. And you get an unfiltered view of her compliance.
She hooks the hem of her top around the back of her neck, flashing the elastic band she’s using for a bra. “There. Happy?”
You shake your head. “I said strip.”
“You said strip, and I did. This is the best you’re getting out of me—.”
“How much do you make in a day?”
“What? I’m not some fucking hooker,” she chimes. And you appreciate the sass now. Because the raise of her voice makes the soft spots of her body ripple ever-so-slightly.
“Never said that. I just asked—how much do you make in a day.”
“I don’t work.”
You chuckle again. “Then you’ve got no frame of reference for how much this all costs. How much is your top.”
“My top?”
“Yeah, how much is it.”
“I don’t fucking know. Just bought it off an app. Around ten thousand won I guess?”
“A shot of that first bottle you broke costs six times that amount. A bottle can last about twenty shots. Each. Is the math computing?”
You see the exact moment the life drains from her eyes when the math, indeed, computes.
Whistling, you click your teeth to draw her attention back to you. “Strip. Before I start thinking stripping isn’t enough.”
She’s moving. She’s stripping. But she’s doing so in a way that feels different. As her top fully comes off, she doesn’t throw it. She folds it on the countertop. Not minding your direct view from above her bra. She does the same for the tights, peeling them off like a second layer of skin, folding it on top of the former.
The fur belt around her waist remains for a while. She’s using it to cover her crotch. And you realize why.
She’s wet.
“Do … do I have to also … the underwear …?”
“What part of ‘everything’ do you not understand?” you clarify mockingly. You know she’s not getting away without undressing all the way. She knows it too. “If you don’t hurry up, my second might come back to check on me. Want him to see you like this too?”
She glowers. Even though it’s a lie. “Fuck you.”
The panties come off first. Only because the belt’s in the way. It stretches against her ankles like a spiderweb when she tries to move away from the puddle she’s standing on. You catch a glimpse of the inside. It’s darker and more prominent—the stain.
Leaning forward, she holds the counter for support before grunting to take off her panties fully now. Folds it beneath her previous layers.
“Now the bra.”
“I fucking know,” she grunts back. You know she doesn’t need a reminder. But you let her know anyway.
Her bra isn’t the usual. Not a hook type. Not a strap type. Not even a clip type. It’s an elastic type. Just comes over the chest. Supports it naturally as gravity does its thing. Your knowledge of women’s undergarments is proven almost immediately right as you watch in utter astonishment at the way her swell of a chest comes loose from her final piece of clothing.
The recoil into one another. The ripples. The gentle sag.
You hate to admit it. But it’s fucking perfect.
She forgets to put it aside. To fold it. She just tosses it to the counter because she’s got her hand and arm across her bare tits now. You let her. Because this allows you to dip forward and tug on the long end of her belt.
“Hey, what—?”
“Walk with me. Walk to me.”
You tug on her belt. Lead her like it’s a leash. And she follows. She resists a bit, and you feel it against the tightness of the garment. But you tug back and she winces. Then moves again. Until she’s all the way out of the bar area and is now hovering next to you by one of the tables in the wings.
You clear the surface of the sturdy glass and gesture to it. “Get on.”
She doesn’t question you. Not while she’s naked. Not when you hold her dignity in her hands. In order to mount the table, she had to let go of her chest, and when she lays down, you finally get to see it.
Her full form. Naked. Unadorned. Natural. All of it for you to see.
All of it laid bare.
“God, if you weren’t such a fucking brat, you’d be perfect,” you whisper. You mean it.
Her smooth pale skin. The shape of her chest and the sheen of sweat across it. The quiver of her thick full lips. The spread of her legs. The clasp of her thighs against each other. The bare and kempt state of her nether bits.
They’re all right there. Laid out on the table. On full display.
Just for you.
“Yeah? Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that,” she replies. Halfway between a smirk and scorn. You then realize you had said it out loud. She chuckles. Gestures to you with a finger. A hither-to motion coupled with that stare of hers again. Those ‘make me’ eyes. That ‘fuck me’ gaze. “Gonna do something about it? Or is that against company policy again, manager?”
Oh she’s asking for it now.
You loosen your tie. You kneel on the table. She looks frightened for a moment—worried the glass might break. But you prove her otherwise when you lean forward between her legs so your face is level with hers now. Hovering above it.
“I’ll show you what a fucking tease like you deserves.”
You press your lips against her and feel no resistance. Instead, she welcomes you. Her own soft hydrated folds part for you. Nibble on you. Suck you in. Her tongue is a welcome mat that unfolds into a stretch of red carpet for your own tongue to gloss and strut all over. She whimpers and moans the moment she gets her own tongue caressed in velvet. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t react.
Doesn’t resist.
Her hands come around your neck now as she pulls you further in, and you take this opportunity to get a little handsy yourself.
You go for her tits. God, how could you not go for her tits?
You’re cupping them. Fondling them. You know better than to just squeeze them like a child—no. You lift them up. You caress down the inner curve of each, polishing down and along her cleavage. If you weren’t kissing her right now, you’d have smothered your face between them. Sniffing them. But you save that for later. For now, you register the sensation of her in your head.
Hefty. Heavy. Fucking heavenly.
She gasps sharply when your right pinky hits her left nipple. You notice when you peek open an eye that she’s hard. Both of them are. Both of her nipples. They’re stiff and rounded little peaks that tempt you to oblivion. So you succumb.
One pinch and she forgets how to kiss you. Another and she’s gasping for air, breathless in your clutches. A third and she’s arching her back upwards.
“Fuuuuck,” she groans, her face getting flushed. “Do that again …”
You press your pointer to her nipple. Thumb on the other side. Wind her up by rubbing them together. Before pinching on the supple tip and pulling it upwards. Polishing it. Relishing it. Treasuring it.
She shudders more intensely now. You do the same to the other side and she’s willingly showing you the column of her neck as her body lifts from the table. “God … shit, you’re … you’re actually good with the—AHHH!”
You lick her neck.
One stripe. Two. Slow. Tracing over the parts that make her quiver. Prolonging over the parts that make her moan. You lick upwards to her chin. Over her lips. And press a kiss on them before repeating the cycle.
Her eyes flutter open and close, unable to focus. Whenever your gazes meet, she doesn’t turn away. She stares deeper into your soul. The facade from earlier having crumbled completely.
She reaches for your chest. However she can in this tightened position. She runs her hands across your pecs, down to your abdomen, where she then hitches her fingers into your waist and belt, and unbuckles it.
While you’re licking her nipples now. suckling on them, teasing them with the sharp of your tongue alternating with the long flat wall of it, you notice she’s grinding against your thigh. There’s a noticeable dampness. A moisture. Permeating your supposedly waterproof slacks.
You chuckle and bite down on one nipple. And this makes her scream in absolute ecstasy.
One hand moves from your fly to the back of your head, gripping your hair, guiding you to where she wants you to kiss, suckle, and lick across her full fucking tits. The other unzips you. Hastily pushes your pants off. And tries to get you out of your clothes this time. When the back of her palm hits your bulge however, she freezes.
“Wait … wait—NGHHH—stop, I-I want to see this …”
You withdraw from the addiction that are her breasts and wipe the slobber from your lips against the cup of your shoulder. “What?”
“Your dick. I … I just want to see how it looks like, ok …?”
You push up from the table, nearly slipping from how sweaty your palms have gotten, and right yourself so she can sit up against the edge and be leveled with your crotch. Taking a deep breath, she palms over your bulge that’s on the verge of bursting against your boxers.
“Oh. Oh wow, you’re …” she stutters. Fails to find the right words. She looks up at you and blushes. Nothing like the incessant little prick she’s been previously. Instead, she has this yearning look on her. Like she wants to know. Wants to see. Wants to feel.
So you let her.
You don’t even move. You let her do it herself. Nails digging into your waist, prying your black underwear downwards until it slides off. You flick it off once it’s just around one heel, and you present this woman with the unadulterated direct view of your cock.
She doesn’t speak.
Her face hovers closer and closer until her left cheek presses against your semi-erect shaft. “Fuck … you’re bigger than my face … I-I … I don’t know if I can …”
“You’ll work it out. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you manage to.”
She licks her lips and bites her tongue. “Mmmh, yeah? Make me then.”
One palm on the top of her head. Another beneath her chin to angle it the right way. You press your swollen tip against the entrance to her mouth and groan. “Then fucking take it.”
You push open. Burst into the warmth. Get enveloped by the wet velvety walls past her little locked lips.
She whimpers from the first breaching. You take it slow. Knocking down an inch more. Then two. Then she’s taking you halfway in. Then, you’re knocking against her uvula at the back of her throat.
Her neck stiffens rigidly against your persistent hand, but she’s not strong enough to break free even if she tried. So you keep her there. All the way down. Lips forming a tight ring around your base as she gags and hlurks and spews her own saliva out from the small tears in her vacuum sealed mouth. You keep her there for god knows how long, taking pleasure in both the physical sensation of her mouth and the knowledge that you’re finally getting to see her use it for something other than provoking you.
Once her eyes redden beyond reason, you let go of her head, and in moments, she spits you out with a guttural groan as she could breathe properly again.
“Nguh … ha … ha … You fucking psycho … Could have—I could have choked to death on your fucking dick,” she spits out, smudging her hand across her chin. “But … ha … that was good.”
“Good?”
She bites her lip and nods, gripping your cock now with a hand. “Yeah … fucking delicious. I want more.”
“Then suck it like a good little slut.”
Knees spread, bending at an angle now, she closes the gap and licks up from your base to your tip before suckling on the head. Just a few swirls with her tongue. Before she throats your cock herself.
No prompting. No input. No hesitation.
Her head and neck work in tandem to bob her salivating mouth back and forth along the length of your shaft. Lips cruising down your sensitive skin. Tongue flattening and caressing your underside. Whenever her lips meet her hand that’s gripping what she can’t reach, it makes this popping sound that you want to hear more and more.
She’s got no technique. She gags too easily. But fucking hell—the raw and primal energy she exhibits is relentless. It’s fucking intoxicating.
This woman’s moaning in between violent gags, and you notice it whenever her nipples bump into your thighs. You smirk. You push deeper into her, making her eyes go wide, hit the back of her throat, and force her to adjust while sucking you hard and fast still. But this time, her nipples graze your inner thigh each time and you see her eyes melt from their initial panic and hesitation.
When she pulls you out with a loud smacking sound, she’s gasping, panting, eyes wet, lips swollen, but tongue licking up your precum on the tip oh-so-fucking-hungrily.
“You taste so … fucking … good, mmm,” she murmurs, stroking your first few inches, thumb rolling over the head. “Who knew the uptight manager was packing so fucking much?”
“Consider yourself the exception and not the rule,” you barely get out in one full breath as her stroking is getting more intentional rather than lazy.
“Lucky me then,” she mutters, blowing your tip a kiss. She licks up once. Then twice. Then circles around ridge of your head. Playing with it. Toying with you. Face disappearing beneath you as her eyes almost glow. “This is all mine—.”
The doors to the club open and you hear footsteps.
Time doesn’t afford you the luxury to curse. You’re both scrambling. For clothes. For refuge. Anything.
You only manage to put your pants back on. Not even to fix your underwear. Your belt’s not even buckled. When you see who it is walking into the open space of the club, he shoots you a weird look. “Boss?”
“Already done? Thought you’d all be enjoying spending my money a bit more,” you reply, hands in your pockets to stop your slacks from falling down. “Where are the others?”
“Um, home, boss. It’s six in the morning.”
“Right, right.”
“Boss, you haven’t been drinking again, have you?”
You gesture to yourself with a thumb jutting up from your waist. “Me? Why would I be?”
But Minho shakes his head, one hand smoothening the folds of his brown and white checkered tie that reminds you of brownies. “Nothing. Just making sure. Did you manage to sort out the issue? With the lady?”
You nod. That’s all you can give him. That’s all you really want to give him. Because your dick’s being bent at such a bad fucking angle in your tight slacks that you want to just let it free again. It would rather be inside somewhere else too. “Told her off. She got scared easily when I talked to her alone. Said she’ll ‘behave’ more—whatever that means.”
“Is she still here?”
You freeze. Muscles behind your thighs tighten. “She left just after you and our staff did.”
“Then why is her fur thing still there?” he asks, pointing to the peeking belt the woman left behind. If Minho hadn’t pointed it out, you wouldn’t have seen the terrible fucking hiding spot she chose. On all fours behind one of the table’s walled legs. Buck naked.
As Minho approaches, you casually just pick up the belt with your left hand and tug on it. Even when it goes taut. She gasps and shakes her head nervously, but you continue as you stare down at her. “Must have left it. I’ll hand it back when she comes back. I know she will. Leave it to me.”
Those final four words are always enough for your second to stop in his tracks, just a few meters away from your table, and nod. “Got it. You should get some rest too, boss. If, you know, only if you can. I don’t want to pressure you if it doesn’t—.”
“Thanks, Minho. I appreciate it.”
“And hey, if you ever need someone to talk to or share the workload from admin—.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Go home, Minho. I’ll see you tonight.”
He nods and salutes you with three fingers. “See you tonight, boss.”
Once you’re certain your second’s walked out the door and is well beyond the entrance of SAXO, you pinch the bridge of your nose and feel the other end of the belt shifting between your knuckles.
“Is he always like that? Sounds like he sucks your dick more than I do.”
“He’s enthusiastic. He’s a godsend,” you tell her, helping her up to her feet. But you don’t let her go. Not the belt. Not her waist. You pull her in until she’s arching her stomach towards you. Dipping backwards. “And you? I’m not done with you yet. Let’s head to my office.”
Her drool-covered mouth shifts into a smirk. “Yeah? Make me—.”
You crash your lips onto hers and she jumps into your arms. You lift her up by her thighs and support one arm around her lower back as you stumble across the wings of the club to get to the staff-only area.
Kicking the door open, you slip in before it can close. And you feel her tongue lapping at your lips and teeth as she grips your head firmly like she doesn’t want you to leave. Oh boy, do you have no plans to leave her at all.
You hasten down the corridor. Shoulder bumping into the water dispenser. Then, you fish for your keys and unlock your office.
Once you’re both in, your elbow flies to the button and it locks with a click. She pulls away from you and presses her forehead against yours, caressing your cheek. “Hmm, you’re sexy like this. Taking control. Not holding back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she giggles lowly as you put her on your desk. Her ass is compressing against your laptop as she sits on it. She takes a moment to look around. At the only light hovering above you both. The two sofas on either side of the front of your desk. At the pictures, certificates, and permits on one wall. “Never done this before. Banging in the backrooms of a place.”
“Who said I was going to fuck you?”
She slaps your neck and points her chin at you. “Really? You worked me up like this just to—.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Her sentence is choked off immediately when you rub two fingers against her clit. Her hand instinctively flies to your neck, holding you for support. You rub steadily in circles, occasionally swiveling over the hood, swiping back and forth over her sensitive little button. And which each motion, you watch her progressively soften her face up from a glower, to a whimper, to a moan.
“Yeah—NGHH MHHH—yeah I think I-I like you like this best.”
“Like what?”
She inhales through her clenching teeth. You’re still swiping down her clit with your thumb like you’re flitting through bills at the bar counter during closing time. “L-Like you … hnghh … like you know just what to do.”
“Do I?”
“I-I-I don’t know. I’ll … mmh—give you a point for the kissing, but—.”
She interrupts herself with a moan. The culprit? Your tongue.
“But what?” you raise, licking once more from her entrance all the way to her hood. Her pussy tastes like it smells. Sweaty. Musky. Bit of tang.
Tastes like need.
You feel her fingers knit through your hair. “But … I nghh … but I was the one doing most of the kissing …”
Palms to her thighs, you keep her legs parted. Eyes up to see her reaction. Nose bumping into her button as a tease at first, but now you’re intentionally grinding the pad of it against her clit. Tongue swiping up and down her slit like a credit card that won’t register at the terminal. “Go on. I’m sure I’ve got more points in there somewhere.”
Her fingers dig into your scalp. “I’d … I’d give you two points for all … the fucking things … mmm you did to my … to my tits …”
You kiss her clit. Suckle on it. Pin the hood between your flaps as you peel it back gently with the sharp of your tongue and swirl around her now-exposed button like it’s your favorite M&M. “I sense a but there.”
As you say that, you grip her ass now, finger jammed between her plush bottom and the edge of your laptop. “Continue or I’ll stop.”
“But it’s not fair because—AHHH—because I-I … I’m always sensitive there anyway …”
You figured. But you don’t excuse her.
Your tongue flattens itself against her and does this perpetual motion that makes her feel like you’re never running out of tongue. Up and down. Side to side. Rotations in both clockwise and in reverse. You don’t let up. You never let up. Not until you feel her dribbling that delicious nectar against your chin. Not until she’s moaning up a storm from just your tongue alone. Not until she’s yanking your fucking head lose.
You press your cheek to the side to catch your breath. Rest your tongue. “How many points am I getting for this?”
She dunks your head back against her pussy. “Shut u-up and just eat me … please …”
You smirk. That’s what you want to hear. You slow down your pace though. No longer giving her endless stimulation. No longer lapping her up like a hungry dog. You take your time. Build your pace. Get her closer and closer to that fucking point of no return. But don’t send her off into the deep end.
“What am I doing? Tell me,” you say between medium-paced strokes. Like you’re enjoying a vanilla soft serve. Taking your time. But not letting the cream melt off. “Lost your words? You were so full of them—.”
“You’re teasing me,” she pushes, groaning with her back arching up. “Please … fuck … please …”
“Please what?”
“Please … eat my fucking pussy out like you own it!”
That’s all you need.
You slide your wide palms up from her butt, down her thighs, until they’re behind her knees, pinning both of them next to her face, folding her in half. Her back arches. Just the perfect height for you to lean forward and eat her the fuck out.
“OHHHH FUCK YES! Shit … shit … too much—TOO MUCH!”
But you don’t stop.
Your tongue hones in on her clit. Spreading around your saliva and her juices like a butter knife against smooth toast. She’s trembling, then shuddering, then palpitating. And that’s your queue to keep it steady. You lap at her like you’ve been starving for days. Even when your tongue numbs. Even when your jaw slacks. Even when your mouth is now full of her fucking scent and flavor.
You. Don’t. Stop.
“Fuck—CUMMING!”
She’s a squirter. She’s a goddamn fucking squirter.
When she erupts she glazes your face with a warm spray. It lasts for more than ten seconds. Not stopping until the mess she’s made is dripping down onto your long-sleeves. She can’t breathe. She’s forgotten how to. So you decide to not be a dick and let her have a moment to herself first.
And the moment she’s regained her senses, she looks up at you and sits up. “That … ha … ha … felt amazing. You were amazing.”
But you hold your hand out against her thigh and push her back into that folded ball, knees to her head, ass up in the air.
“What—?”
“Hold it. Hold yourself like that for me.”
Reddened at the face, she nods and tucks her hands beneath her knees to hold herself in position—in offering—for you.
Now that? That is a picture-perfect moment.
You press your thumbs to the highest button. By your neck. You pop it open. You do the same for the second. Pop it open. You have about eight of these. And you take your time with each one. Because you know she’s watching you. Waiting for you. Wishing she could be the one to just rip your polo from you and finally see your bare body. You know that much. You know it because while her mouth may lie, her eyes? They don’t.
Her eyes never lie.
Once you’re finally pulling your arms through your sleeves and dropping the polo on the floor, she groans when she sees what’s underneath. “Are you kidding me? That must be fucking hot in there. You wear that every night?”
You don’t answer. You pull your undershirt off. Shove your slacks down with your boxers. And step forward. Pressing your hands next to her knees, which are next to her face. You lean in and grin. “Manager’s choice.”
You slap your cock against her pussy like you would her lips, and she responds with a tremble. Her pussy has a life of its own. It’s throbbing. Pulsating. Even after an orgasm. Such a fucking greedy little hole on an insatiable little brat. But no matter. You’ll feed her soon enough.
You grind into her. Rub your length against her folds. Poke your tip into her receding belly button. Make her feel the heat between her legs. Giving her the appetizer.
Her eyes flicker with the fire of someone who just can’t fucking wait to burn. But you don’t move. Not much. Not anything beyond some grinding and dry humping. If you can even still call it ‘dry’ at that point. Considering your underside is being conveniently lubricated with each caress of her pussy.
“Are you going to fuck me or just stare me to sleep?” she spits. You have to admire her spunk despite how she’s folded on your desk like this. “Maybe I should call your little errand boy to do me instead. Maybe he won’t waste my time—.”
“Beg.”
She falls silent. Like you pushed the right button.
“No.”
You slap your shaft against her pussy and wake her up. Like you slapped her across the face too. “Beg. Or I can just walk out of here, head to a strip club, and fuck one of the girls there instead.”
“Like hell you could. They don’t allow that.”
“I could. I know people.”
She bites her lip. “Fuck you. I’m not going to beg. You either fuck me or you don’t.”
You pull away. Motioning just the slightest bit for your undershirt. But immediately, you feel a grip against your arm.
“If you put that fucking undershirt back on, I will never forgive you.”
You chuckle. “Yeah?”
She spreads her legs. Wider. Lifts her butt. Higher. Makes it so her body is parted not just in invitation, but also so you can see her face clean down the middle. Past her tits. Resting against the fan of hair draped behind her like a veil.
“Please. Fuck me. Or whatever—.”
You push your dick in.
The enlarged tip meets some resistance already, noted by the pitch of her moan. There’s a ring. A tight fucking ring at the entrance. And for a heartbeat you’re afraid you might rip something. But just like her attitude, her body learns to cave in to you.
You’re in now. Not just the tip that flares at the base of her. Not just the first few inches that part the tight clenching walls of hers. But all the way in.
You’re pressed in so deep that there’s nowhere else to go. And your cock isn’t even fully inside her.
Her eyes widen. Whites glowing as her pupils dilate. “Shit. Fuck. Y-You’re stretching me … T-T-Take it slow—please—AHHH!”
You don’t take it slow.
Pressing her hands firmer against the back of her own knees, using that grip to slide her closer to you. You pull out and then ram your cock deep inside her. Once. Twice. Repeatedly. Faster. Gaining pace. Gaining momentum. Knocking on her womb with everything you’ve fucking got.
And she is just a mess.
“Is this what you fucking imagined when you were messing with me? Is this what you fucking wanted when you were acting like a little brat every night? Answer me,” you demand, pressing into her thighs now, gripping them, pounding incessantly. You haven’t had sex in god knows how long. It only felt right to dissolve completely into the temptation of her. “What? Lost your words?”
Her eyes can’t focus on any one thing, drifting here and there. Mouth agape. Tongue firmly planted between her lips. She’s moaning with each of your thrusts. So you fuck into her faster to hear it. To hear more. You’re immediately rewarded by the change in pitch, the change in frequency, and the added percussive of her tits slapping together.
Sweat dripping down your face and neck, you grip her ass from the side and slap it. Watching the pink blossom. Feeling her skin heat up. You spank her again. And again. And again. Until she finally screams her reply.
“YES! Fuck … fuck … FUCK—YES! Pound me like this. Keep fucking going. NGHHH you’re going to fucking ruin me!”
“Yeah? Then get fucking ruined.”
You press your thumb to her clit and start rubbing it fast. No direction. No patter. Just fast flicks and rotations.
“FUCK! YOU’RE—.”
Smack. Smack. Smack. Your hips meet the swell of her ass as she’s bouncing on your dick. Matching your pace. Meeting each upward thrust of yours with a downwards stroke of hers.
“C-CLOSE! Don’t stop—DON’T FUCKNG STOP!”
You pull her ass off the edge just to knock her knees into your desk. Her eyes are glazed over. Pure fucking bliss. You’re working double time with your heels and your waist to deliver blow after blow deep into her pussy. She’s clenching. Squeezing you. Craving your fucking release. But you don’t stop. You don’t give her that luxury. Not yet.
“Who’s fucking your little pussy right now?”
“MMMH … wh-what—?”
“Answer me! Who’s fucking ruining your little pussy right now?” you grunt, fucking the daylights into her while fiddling with her clit.
“Y-You … AHH!”
“Yeah? And who’s going to make you cum? Answer me.”
There’s less hesitation this time. She spits it out, “You! Fuck ….fuck I-I-I can’t—.”
“And who fucking owns you? Tell me. Say it. Moan it. Fucking scream it—.”
“YOU FUCKING OWN MY PUSSY, MANAGER!”
That was it.
You smudge your thumb against her button, really grind into it. You force whatever remaining strength you have left to thrust specifically upwards into the soft spongy spot that kept making her lose her breath. And you lean in to kiss her. Passionately. Sloppily. Possessively.
Claiming her. As you claim her squirting orgasm all over your cock.
She can’t even moan. Just whimpering into your kiss as she lets go of her shaking legs. You grab her ankles and feel her feet tensing into a point. But she slaps your arms and pulls them closer to her, tugging on them like reigns so she can feel your full erect length stretching her pussy down to the final spasm of her release.
One arm behind her back, holding her close. The other lifting her leg up so her knee’s hooked over your shoulder. One hand gripping her waist. The other palming her clit. You send her into a state of borderline catatonia as she moans and groans and scrambles to try and break free as you overstimulate her senses. But you don’t stop. You chase after your own release while inside her clenching and spasming death-grip of a pussy.
“Going to fucking—.”
“GIVE IT TO ME! GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING LOAD!”
You burst.
Your whole body’s tensed. Did you know that? You didn’t up until you allowed yourself to let go. To let it all loose. The first shot burns your tip with how rapid it fired out. With how tight she’s clamping around you. The next few shots spread pleasure all over your stomach, racing up your spine, and then finally scattering across the back of your head. The last few shots send your mind into a daze as your first orgasm in arguably months finally escapes you. Finally finds its place. Finally fills her the fuck up so bountifully.
Unsheathing yourself from her warm, sweating, and pulsating orifice, you let your cock droop against your thigh. Semi-erect still. Sensitive to the cool air of your office. Dripping an ounce or two of leftover cum.
And she’s there. On your desk. Unmoving. Naked, heaving mass. Sweaty all over. Arms flayed out to the side. Chest rising and falling unsteadily. Nipples perking from the cool. Ass hanging off the edge. One knee pointed upwards. The other outstretched with her leg to keep her steady.
There she is. Cum dripping out of her like a mark. Like a signature.
There she fucking is. No masks. No games. No resistance.
Completely laid bare.
---
The door to your office bursts open. But you’re not flinching this time. You’re focusing on transferring your hand-written computations from the pile of papers next to you. Digitalizing them.
“What’s the matter this time, Minho? We haven’t even opened yet.”
“Sorry for not knocking boss, but it’s Hajoon. He … let’s just say he ‘pre-gamed’ a little too hard and is um, throwing up all over Table Thirty-One—.”
“Well, clean it up. Do I have to be the one to deal with every single mess?”
Minho’s eyes lower to his polished shoes. “I … You’re right. I’ll handle this myself.”
He pauses. Looks at you now. You know this despite being deep in your sheets. You can see him from your peripheral. “And?”
“Boss, are you … eating something?”
You shrug. “Haven’t had a meal all day. Haven’t caught any shuteye either. All the damages. All the losses. Marking them all down first.”
“Want me to grab some food then before we open? What are you craving?” he asks with a smile. And you can sense that he’s quite hungry too.
“Think that American place a few streets down’s still open? I could go for a sloppy joe right about now.”
He snaps and winks at you. “You got it boss. I’ll be on my—huh. There’s that sound again.”
“Must be a leak in the vents. I’ll call plumbing later.”
Minho grins and nods. “Always one step ahead, aren’t you, boss?”
You nod in reply and return to your sheets. There’s a brief pause. Then, Minho’s finally disappeared behind your closing door.
In moments, her head resurfaces from underneath your desk. Face sweaty, half dripping with cum half drying in it, thick lips pursing and bubbling over the tip of your cock.
“You like it sloppy, don’t you? Mmmmh,” she teases while wiping your thick shaft against her softer features. “Who could have guessed?”
You reach down to lift her chin and say, “If you’re going to pay off your debt, you might as well get back to it. We’re opening in two hours. So unless you want my staff to wonder why one of our clubgoers is walking around ruined like a cheap little whore, I suggest you make it worth my while.”
Giggling with that same teasing energy of hers, but just converted into something else now, she nods and kisses your tip again.
The first time someone told Karina that Y/N was handsome, they were six years old and sitting on the cracked concrete of the elementary school playground.
“He looks like a prince,” one of the girls from their class had whispered, cheeks pink, watching him push another kid on the swing with a toothy grin.
Karina had frowned, scooted closer to him, and held onto the hem of his T–shirt like it proved something.
“He’s not a prince,” she’d muttered under her breath. “He’s mine.”
Back then, “mine” meant partner in tag, eater of her leftover snacks, boy who shared his umbrella and homework answers. It meant the only person who sat with her when she cried. It meant the one constant thing in a life that seemed to change too fast.
Years later, “mine” would start to sound different in her own head.
But for a long time, it felt simple.
—
By the time they were in their second year of high school, everyone knew Y/N.
It was not because he tried. It was because he breathed and walked through the hallways like the universe had forgotten to give him an awkward phase.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, all clean lines and a smile that showed one chipped tooth from when he fell off his bike in third grade. His hair fell into his eyes in that way stylists tried to recreate idols. He laughed too loud in the cafeteria, made teachers reluctantly smirk when he cracked jokes, and somehow remembered everyone’s names.
He did not know any of that.
Karina did.
She watched girls straighten their backs when he walked by, watched underclassmen linger at the stairwell a little longer if they heard his voice, watched boys drift toward him during lunch because it was fun to orbit someone like that.
What she hated most was that he did not change at all.
He ruffled hair, shared notes, lent out his pen that had half its grip chewed off, and never once looked like he knew people were staring. He only seemed flustered when teachers called on him in math.
“You know everyone likes you, right?” Karina said one afternoon, the words slipping out sharper than she meant.
They were on the school rooftop, legs dangling through the metal railing, cheap bread from the vending machine in their hands. The wind tugged at his hair and blew hers into her lip gloss.
He blinked up from the chocolate milk carton.
“Huh?”
Karina rolled her eyes. “You are not stupid. You know.”
“Know what?” He took a sip and squinted at her. “You are being weird about something again.”
“People like you.”
“I hope so.” He shrugged. “It would suck if they all hated me.”
She glared. “You know what I mean.”
He only grinned, lazy and bright. “You like me too. So I must be doing something right.”
It was infuriating how easily he could say that and not realize it made her heart skip.
She made a face to cover it up. “You are barely tolerable.”
“You were not saying that when I carried your bag up five floors because your legs were ‘weak from PE’.”
“The elevator was broken. I am short, not weak.”
He laughed and leaned back on his hands, head tipped to the sky. The afternoon sun softened the angle of his jaw, and the breeze tugged at his shirt.
Karina stared a second too long and then looked away, annoyed at herself.
Everyone liked him. Of course they did. He was easy to like. Easy to talk to. Easy to fall for.
And he was stupidly, stubbornly hers.
At least, she intended to keep it that way.
—
Their relationship had never had a clean border between “friends” and something else.
They were the kind of kids teachers automatically seated together because they worked well in pairs. They went to each other’s houses often enough that both sets of parents stopped asking when or why. His mother kept a pair of indoor slippers for Karina by the door. Her father grumbled less when Y/N was the one walking her home late.
They had their first fight in middle school when a boy from class 2–B confessed to Karina behind the gym.
He had been red to his ears, clutching a crumpled letter, stuttering through practiced lines. Karina had listened politely, heart pounding with nothing but discomfort, and then said, “I am sorry. I like someone else.”
She did not. Not properly. Not yet.
But she could see Y/N through the window, face smashed against the glass, wearing an expression like someone had stolen his lunch. Later he claimed he had been “just curious” about what a confession looked like in real life.
She had gone home that night and stared at the ceiling for hours, realizing that her first instinct, when a boy told her he liked her, was to look for Y/N’s face.
Years later, in their final year of high school, that instinct had not changed.
Their classroom was loud with end-of-day chatter. Exam season meant everyone was half hysterical, half resigned. Some kids took pictures, some slept on their desks, some copied homework they had conveniently “forgotten.”
Y/N sat sideways in his chair, one leg stretched out, twirling a pen between his fingers. There was a smear of ink across his knuckles. He was asking if she wanted to hit the convenience store before going home, already listing the snacks they could get.
Karina watched his mouth move and suddenly could not hear anything over the thud of her own pulse.
It occurred to her then, with the bluntness of a thrown brick, that nothing outside that classroom felt solid without him. Not graduation. Not college. Not her secret daydreams of singing on stage.
Every future scene she imagined had his laugh in it.
The thought terrified her.
People left. Friends lost touch. She had moved schools twice as a kid and watched faces blur together into old class photos. But not him. Never him.
Unless someone took him.
Unless he woke up one day and realized someone prettier, smarter, kinder was waiting with both arms open.
The idea made something bitter twist under her ribs.
She slapped her notebook closed.
“Be my boyfriend,” she said.
Y/N blinked. “Huh?”
The classroom noise dimmed in her ears. She leaned forward across the shared desk, eyes locked on his, daring him to misunderstand.
“Date me,” she clarified. “Starting today.”
He stared at her, searching her face for the punchline.
There was none. Her cheeks were warm, but her eyes were steady. No laughter, no teasing curve of her mouth.
“Why?” he asked, honest as always.
Karina’s fingers curled around her pencil so hard the wood creaked.
Because I cannot stand the thought of you with someone else. Because I have been saying “mine” in my head since we were six and I need it to be true in a way that does not disappear when we graduate.
“Because I want to,” she said instead, blunt, almost brusque. “Is that not enough?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then laughed under his breath, like he still half expected someone to jump out and shout a prank.
“Sure,” he said.
No stars. No fireworks. No dramatic buildup.
Just that. Sure.
He said it like she had asked if she could copy his notes. Like this was inevitable. Natural.
“Really?” she pressed, eyes narrowing. “Do not say it if you are joking.”
He put down his pen, propped his chin in his hand, and gave her a look that had always been reserved for her when nobody else was listening.
“I am not joking,” he said. “I like you. So… yeah. Let’s date.”
Heat flooded her chest, sharp and dizzying.
From then on, “mine” was not just a word in her head anymore.
—
Dating Y/N turned out to be exactly like being his best friend, but with more hand holding and less pretending she did not want to lean into his side all the time.
He carried her bag even when she insisted she was not weak. He stole the pickles off her burgers and rolled his eyes when she put melon soda on top of instant ramen and called it “gourmet.” He walked her home, fingers curled around hers like second nature. They shared airpods and playlists and increasingly shameless amounts of skinship.
He had never been touch shy with her. But now there was a quiet intention behind every brush of his thumb over her knuckles. A new warmth in the press of his palm against the small of her back.
If people stared before, they stared more now.
“About time,” was the general consensus. Some classmates clapped when they first saw them holding hands in public. Someone tried to start a betting pool over how long they would last and got chased off when Karina fixed them with a deadpan stare.
For once, she did not mind the attention.
He was hers. Officially. Publicly. Everyone knew. It should have been enough to silence the old fear.
But sometimes in the hallway, when girls from other classes called his name with too-familiar smiles, that ugly, sour feeling still crawled up her throat.
“Your fan club is noisy today,” she muttered one morning as they pushed through a knot of first years obviously pretending not to look at him.
“Fan club?” He choked on a laugh. “There is no fan club.”
“Sure.” She tugged on his sleeve, forcing him to walk closer to her. “Maybe they can form a line and get your autograph later.”
He slung an arm over her shoulders in that easy way he had, pulling her into his side. “You sound jealous.”
“I am not jealous.” She clicked her tongue. “I am realistic.”
“Realistically,” he said, leaning down until his breath brushed her ear, “I am walking to school with my girlfriend and not with them. So they can be as noisy as they want.”
Her heart flipped. She scoffed to cover it up.
“Corny.”
“You like it.”
She did.
That was the problem.
—
The man in the suit appeared on a Wednesday.
They had just finished cram school and were cutting through the back street behind the main road. It was one of their usual routes, lit by a flickering streetlamp and the neon wash of the convenience store sign at the corner.
Karina was scrolling through her phone, complaining about homework. Y/N was balancing a carton of banana milk on his head for reasons known only to himself.
“Stop that,” she said without looking up, catching the carton before it fell. “You are going to waste it.”
“Art requires sacrifice.”
“Art can pay for its own snacks next time then.”
He was laughing when a shadow stepped into their path.
“Excuse me.”
They both stopped.
The man was in his thirties, clean cut, black suit pressed so sharp it caught the light. He had a leather bag slung over his shoulder and a lanyard with an ID peeking out from under his blazer.
Karina tensed automatically, body shifting half in front of Y/N without thinking.
“We are not interested in religion,” she said flatly.
The man blinked, then chuckled. “I am not here about that.”
He took out a wallet, flipped it open, and showed them his card.
SM Entertainment. Casting Manager.
Karina’s brain stuttered.
She knew the logo on sight. Everyone did. Trainee reality shows, debut announcements, legendary senior groups. SM was not just an agency. It was a myth machine.
“We have been observing the area around this station for a while,” the man said smoothly. “Looking for potential talent.”
He looked at Y/N then. Really looked. His eyes sharpened with something like satisfaction.
“You,” he said. “Have you ever considered auditioning?”
Y/N glanced over his shoulder, like there might be someone else behind him.
“Me?”
“Yes.” The manager stepped closer, professionally polite. “Great proportions, good face. You stand out in a crowd. Have you had any experience singing or dancing?”
Y/N scratched the back of his neck. “Um. Not… professionally. Just karaoke and… YouTube? And school festivals, I guess.”
Karina could not breathe.
She had watched trainee videos in secret for years. Practiced choreography in her bedroom when everyone was asleep. Built silent castles of fantasy around stages she had never stepped on.
To hear those words directed at him with such easy confidence hurt and thrilled her at the same time.
The manager’s gaze flicked to her for a moment.
“You too,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You have a good look. Sharp features. You would show up well on camera.”
Almost.
Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Is this… real?”
The manager smiled like he had heard that question a hundred times.
“You can call the company number if you want to verify,” he said, handing each of them a card. “Auditions are open, but a recommendation from scouting helps your profile stand out. We are holding first–round evaluations next month.”
He turned to walk away, then paused and looked back at Y/N again, eyes gleaming.
“You especially. It would be a waste if you did not at least try.”
When he disappeared down the street, the world felt slightly tilted.
Y/N stared at the card in his hand. The SM logo glinted under the streetlight.
“Holy shit,” he said.
Karina did not say anything.
Her heart was beating too hard, her palms slick. SM. The company she had seen in every late night search bar. The one she had never had the courage to approach.
She had always imagined that if this moment ever happened, she would explode with joy or cry or scream.
Instead, her first thought was ugly and selfish.
Of course they notice him first.
He was still looking at the card, mouth parted in faint disbelief. “Do you think it is fake? Like a scam?”
“No,” she said quietly. Her voice did not sound like hers. “It is real.”
He glanced up at her then, eyes bright, boyish excitement starting to dawn.
“This is crazy,” he murmured. “Me? An idol?”
You would be perfect, she thought bitterly. Of course you would.
“How about you?” he asked. “You love music. You should try.”
Her head snapped up.
He was not mocking. His eyes were warm. Encouraging. Like he genuinely wanted her there.
“I…” Her throat tightened. Stage lights. Crowds. Cameras. Panic.
“I cannot,” she said, too fast. “I would die of embarrassment.”
“You will not.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “You sing better than half the people on those shows anyway.”
“That is not true.”
“It is. I have ears. I use them sometimes.”
She stared at the card. It felt heavy.
All those nights of practicing choreography in front of her mirror with the sound turned low came back in a rush. All the times she had fantasized about someone, anyone, looking at her and saying I see something in you.
Now that moment was here and it hurt like a bruise.
He had not come for her. Not really.
But he had looked. And he had said potential. And Y/N was watching her with that open, earnest face, waiting for her to say yes so they could jump into this new world together like they always had.
If she said no, what would happen? He might still go. Alone. Into a place full of people who would see every good thing about him and want a piece of it.
She pictured trainees crowding around him, laughing at his jokes, girls confessing backstage, older idols patting his shoulder. Pictured herself outside, watching through a screen while someone else became his default.
Her grip on the card tightened.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “If it sucks, we can quit together and pretend this never happened. At least you will know you tried.”
He always talked like that. We. Together.
He had no idea how much she had built her life around that word.
“Fine,” she said. “I will do it.”
—
Audition day smelled like sweat and cheap perfume.
Dozens of kids lined the hallway, some clutching lyric sheets, some fixing their hair in tiny compact mirrors. There were girls in full makeup and heels, boys in practice clothes and branded sneakers, a few parents hovering anxiously near the doors.
Karina’s stomach churned so much she wondered if she should have skipped breakfast.
Y/N sat beside her on the waiting bench, bouncing his knee like an excitable puppy. He was in a simple black T–shirt and joggers, hair pushed off his forehead. He looked stupidly good without trying, which irritated her and steadied her in equal parts.
“Number 43,” an assistant called.
Y/N glanced at his number tag. “That is you.”
Karina swallowed.
She stood on wooden legs. Her palms were slick.
“You will be fine,” Y/N said. He reached up and squeezed her hand. “Pretend it is just karaoke. With some men in suits staring at you.”
“That is not helpful.”
“You are going to kill it.” His smile was so confident it was almost offensive. “I promise.”
She wanted to say I am only here because you are. Instead, she nodded and walked into the audition room before she could talk herself out of it.
Three judges behind a long table. A camera pointed at her. A mark on the floor for her to stand on.
She introduced herself, voice shaking a little, then forced herself to breathe, the way she had practiced.
When the music started, her body moved automatically.
She sang a song she had never admitted out loud was her dream debut track. Her voice was not perfect, but it did not crack. Her hands did not shake. She hit the high note clean.
By the end, her lungs were burning and her heart felt strangely light, despite the nerves.
The middle judge scribbled something on his paper. The one on the right hummed thoughtfully.
“You have a pleasant tone,” the left one said. “You are stiff and your breathing needs work, but there is potential.”
That word again.
“Thank you,” she managed, bowing.
Outside, Y/N was pacing.
“How was it?” he asked immediately, searching her face. “Did they like you?”
She blinked. “I… I think so. They said I have potential.”
His grin lit up. “Of course you do. See? I told you.”
His name was called then.
He bounced to his feet, made a face at her, then walked in with that same easy posture he wore to school.
Karina sat down, pressed her hands between her knees to stop them from shaking, and stared at the closed door.
Through the wall, she could barely hear the echo of his voice when he greeted the judges, confident and clear.
When it was over, he came out smiling.
“And?” she demanded.
He shrugged, too casual. “They said my singing is rough and I need breath control. But they liked my dancing. One of them said my expression was good.”
Of course it was. Looking at him felt like watching a stage director’s dream even in practice videos. He moved like music lived under his skin.
“They said they will call in a few weeks,” he added. “If we pass.”
He said we again without thinking.
She hung onto it like a rope.
—
They both passed.
Karina found out from an email after school, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped her phone. Her parents were skeptical. Her mother frowned at the contract. Her father asked if this was some kind of elaborate scam.
But when she said SM, their expressions shifted.
“You still have to finish school,” her mother said. “You are not dropping everything for a dream.”
“I know.”
“And if it affects your grades…”
“I know,” she repeated, firmer this time. “I will handle it. Please. Let me try.”
Her father studied her for a long moment. It was the first time she had sounded so certain about anything that was not Y/N.
“Fine,” he said at last. “You get a year. If it is all nonsense, you focus on university.”
She nodded.
Y/N called that night, voice crackling over the line.
“You got in too, right?”
“Yes.”
He whooped so loudly she had to hold the phone away from her ear.
“See? We are going to be idols,” he crowed. “You and me. I told you this would be fun.”
His joy was contagious. For a little while, it drowned out the small, mean part of her that whispered they wanted him more than they wanted you.
—
Trainee life was hell with shiny floors.
The SM building was intimidating from the outside, all glass and chrome, but inside it smelled like disinfectant and effort. Practice rooms with mirrored walls, corridors with posters of seniors who felt like distant gods. A cafeteria where everyone looked either exhausted or too awake.
On their first day, they were given ID cards and schedules.
“Y/N,” the coordinator said, sliding his across the desk. “You will be in the male vocal and dance classes. You are in the B batch for now.”
He turned to Karina. “Karina, right? You are in the female dance C batch and vocal C as well.”
C.
She told herself it meant nothing. Just letters. Just a starting point.
They changed into practice clothes and stepped into their separate rooms.
Karina’s first dance class left her gasping, knees weak, T–shirt drenched. The trainer did not raise his voice, but his comments cut sharp and clean.
“You are thinking too much. Your upper body is stiff. Loosen your shoulders. If you cannot breathe, your lines look dead. Again.”
Each “again” felt like a hammer.
She saw the other trainees. Some younger. Some older. Some clearly already at a high level, bodies moving with a crisp snap she could not replicate yet.
In the mirror, her own face looked pinched.
When class ended, she dragged herself into the hallway and nearly collapsed against the wall.
Y/N found her there, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.
“You survived,” he said, dropping down beside her.
“Barely.” She wiped her face with her towel. “How was yours?”
He scratched his cheek, sheepish. “Vocal was rough. They said I have good color but no control. Dance was… okay.”
“Okay” turned out to mean the trainer had made him demonstrate steps for the others by the end. Within two months, he was moved from B batch to A.
“Monster trainee,” one of the boys muttered under his breath once, not unkindly.
Karina heard it from the open door as she walked past for her own class.
Monster.
Of course.
He took to this world like he had been born for it. His body responded; his rhythm sharpened; his voice, under proper training, grew steadier. That same natural charisma that made classmates flock to him now drew trainees too.
“Y/N sunbaenim, can you help me with this step?”
“You hit that note so clean, did you always sing?”
“You should audition for the next boy group, you would get in for sure.”
She watched from the periphery, hands knotted in the strap of her bag.
At first, she was happy for him. Proud. This was good. This was what he deserved.
But pride curdled on the days when trainers asked him to stay back and practice with seniors, while she was told to run basics again. When she saw girls from vocal class laughing with him in the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, too close.
“Your boyfriend is popular,” one of the trainees commented to her in the locker room, tone light.
Karina forced a smile. “He is just friendly.”
“Still.” The girl giggled. “If my boyfriend was that handsome and talented, I would not let him out of my sight.”
Karina laughed too, as if playing along.
The words stuck like a thorn.
—
“Is this about that girl again?”
They sat in the tiny convenience store near the station, the one that had become their unofficial post–practice crash site. It was almost midnight. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The clerk was half asleep behind the counter.
Karina stabbed a fish cake on a stick and glared at him.
“I am not ‘about’ anyone.”
“You get weird every time she talks to me.” He slurped his ramyeon, oblivious to the soup splashing onto the table. “She is just a classmate.”
“She touches your arm a lot for ‘just a classmate’.”
He blinked. “Does she?”
“You do not notice because you are an idiot.”
He laughed. “Hey. I am not an idiot. Just clueless sometimes.”
She set her chopsticks down harder than necessary.
“What if,” she muttered, staring at the stew instead of his face, “one day you stop being clueless and realize you like someone else?”
The words came out more fragile than she intended.
The question hung between them, heavy.
He chewed for a moment, oblivious at first. Then he saw her expression and his gaze softened.
“Jimin,” he said quietly.
She hated how much that name could still calm her down.
He reached across the table and hooked his pinky finger around hers.
“When have I ever not picked you?” he asked. “Since we were kids. Every group project, every game, every stupid thing. It is you. I am not suddenly going to wake up and forget that.”
“That is not how it works,” she muttered, but some of the ice in her chest melted.
He squeezed her pinky. “I picked you as my girlfriend too, remember?”
“You only said yes because I asked out of nowhere,” she said. “You did not even think about it.”
“I did.” His voice was so serious she had to look up. “Maybe not in that exact second. But I thought about it a hundred times before without noticing. It felt… obvious. When you asked, it just clicked.”
Her throat went tight.
“You are so cheesy,” she whispered.
“You like it.”
She did.
She also liked hearing him say I picked you, as if it was a choice he kept making, not a default he could get bored of.
She held onto that, even as the gap between their growth in the company slowly widened.
—
The break came during a holiday.
Most trainees went home for a few days. SM’s schedule eased slightly around the national break, but the serious ones stayed to practice. Y/N was one of them, of course.
“You should rest,” Karina told him that morning, standing in the empty dance room with her hands on her hips. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, cutting the room into stripes.
“I will rest when I am a superstar,” he replied, grinning. “Come on. One more run–through.”
He had found a new choreography on YouTube the night before. Some insane routine from a senior boy group that involved spins, jumps, and footwork that made her ankles ache just watching.
Karina followed him as best she could. They were both tired from the week, but moving together felt familiar. Safe.
Halfway through the song, her lungs started to burn. Sweat ran into her eyes. She made a mistake on the turn, bumped into him, muttered an apology, and kept going.
He did not complain. He only pushed harder, effort etched into the line of his shoulders.
On the final chorus, there was a jump. A full spin and land.
They did it once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth, Y/N’s foot slid on a patch of sweat on the floor.
Karina saw it in slow motion. His leg extended, weight wrong, knee twisting grotesquely to the side as his body went down.
There was a sound like someone snapping a thick branch. Then his scream.
“Y/N!”
The music cut off as she fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. He was curled on the ground, clutching his right leg, face white, sweat suddenly cold on his skin.
“It hurts, it hurts, fuck, it hurts,” he gasped, voice ragged.
She knelt beside him, useless, trying not to panic.
“Do not move,” she said, though he clearly could not. “I am calling someone. Hold on. Just hold on, okay?”
He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaked out despite his effort.
By the time staff rushed in and an ambulance was called, his breathing had turned shallow. He went quiet with the kind of stillness that felt worse than the screaming.
Later, at the hospital, a doctor in a white coat said the words “multiple ligament tears” and “surgery” and “six to twelve months minimum recovery.”
“Will he dance again?” Karina asked, voice thin.
The doctor hesitated. “We will do our best. But he should not rush. If he pushes too hard, he could cause permanent damage.”
Y/N stared at the ceiling. His fingers clenched in the bedsheet.
“I am sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I am so fucking sorry.”
Karina did not understand why he was apologizing until he looked at her, eyes wild.
“I ruined it,” he said. “We just started. We were going to do this together and I ruined it. You could have been practicing instead of babysitting me in a hospital.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, because the alternative was crying. “None of this is your fault.”
That night, she sat in the uncomfortable visitor chair and watched him sleep through the pain medication, his leg wrapped in bandages and metal.
He looked small for the first time in years.
It hit her then, with ugly clarity, that he might not come back from this the same. Physically. Mentally.
He had thrown himself into this dream for her. Because she asked. Because he always went where she went.
Guilt twisted with a quieter, more shameful feeling.
If he could not dance anymore, if he decided to quit, he would be free from this world that wanted too much from him. He would go back to school. Back to being just hers.
The thought made her sick.
She hated herself for even thinking about it.
But she did.
—
Recovery was brutal.
The first days post–surgery, Y/N could barely move without cursing. Physical therapy made him sweat through shirts he was not even allowed to stand in. His muscles atrophied quickly. The leg that had once carried him through endless choreography now refused to cooperate, stiff and untrustworthy.
SM sent get–well baskets. Trainers visited once or twice. The casting manager came, patted his shoulder, and said, “Focus on healing. We will reevaluate later.”
The word later stretched into something fragile.
Karina’s schedule did not pause. She still had dance classes, vocal drills, monthly evaluations. She siphoned every free minute to visit him, carrying class gossip and ramen and stupid jokes to fill the silence.
He tried to stay upbeat, but sometimes, late at night when the pain was bad, his mask slipped.
“What if this is it?” he whispered once, staring at the dark ceiling. “What if I never get back to where I was?”
“You will,” she said reflexively.
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“Jimin.”
She flinched.
He turned his head, eyes tired.
“You always say that,” he murmured. “Like if you believe hard enough, the universe has to listen.”
“Has it not worked so far?” she shot back, too sharp.
His mouth twisted. “We are in a hospital, and I might lose the only thing I am good at. I do not think it is working this time.”
She had no answer for that. Only her own selfishness coiled in her chest.
“You were good at things before this,” she said finally. “You are not… only a trainee.”
He laughed without humor. “Yeah. Class clown. Neighborhood dog–walker. Very impressive.”
She reached out and took his hand.
“You were mine,” she wanted to say.
Instead: “You came here because of me. If you decide this is not worth it anymore, it is okay.”
His eyes searched hers, sharp.
“Do you want me to quit?” he asked.
The question cut her open.
“No,” she lied automatically. “Of course not.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
She swallowed.
About how walking into the practice room without you makes me feel like the floor is gone. About how every time a trainer praises me now, I hear their unspoken but not as good as him. About how the idea of you coming back and being surrounded again, shining, terrifies me in a way I do not know how to name.
“About your future,” she said instead. “If you push your leg and hurt it more, then what? You will not even be able to dance at karaoke.”
He snorted. “Tragic.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.” He squeezed her fingers back weakly. “We started this together. It feels wrong to stop now.”
There it was again. We.
He did not see what she saw. That this thing, this dream, wrapped around him easier than it did around her. That with or without her, he would have been scouted if he stood on any other street on any other day.
The guilt swelled, hot and acid.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, “this is a sign.”
He frowned. “A sign of what? That gravity is a bitch?”
She managed a humorless smile. “That you were never meant to be here in the first place.”
His eyes stilled.
“You only auditioned because of me,” she pushed on, quiet. “You had plans. University. Music production. That business major you pretended you did not want but your mom kept talking about.”
“So?”
“So maybe this was never your path. Maybe… maybe it is better if you go back. Before it gets harder to leave.”
It sounded almost reasonable out loud. Logical. Concerned.
Inside, something ugly sneered at her own hypocrisy.
He stared at her for a long moment.
“Do you want me there alone?” he asked. “In the company?”
The way he phrased it made her feel like dirt.
“You think everything is about what I want?” she said weakly.
“Is it not?” He tried to make it a joke, but the edge was there.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“I am saying,” she whispered, “I do not want you to hurt yourself more because of me. If you decide this was just… an experience, that is okay. You do not owe this place anything.”
He closed his eyes.
The worst part was that he heard concern in her voice and believed it. It was concern. It was also a quiet, desperate attempt to keep him from stepping back into a room where everyone else seemed to want a piece of him.
“I will think about it,” he said eventually. “After the therapy. After school decisions.”
Karina nodded.
She left the hospital that night feeling like she had swallowed glass.
—
He did not go back.
It did not happen all at once. There were months of rehab, stretches where it looked like he might heal faster, days when he joked about stage names and fan chants.
But when the year mark approached, when his leg finally bent and straightened without a knife of pain, he stood at a crossroads.
SM asked him to come in for reevaluation.
He looked at the text for a long time. Then at his acceptance letter to a good university’s music production and business program.
Karina sat beside him on the park bench where they had eaten ice cream through half of middle school, watching his profile as he thought.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He blew out a breath.
“When I think about going back,” he said, “I remember the injury first, not the dancing. The panic. The way it hurts to move. It is like… something in my brain rewired it from joy to fear.”
She listened in silence.
“I do not want to be scared every time I step into a practice room,” he confessed. “I do not want to flinch every time I jump.”
“You could get past that,” she said quietly.
“Maybe,” he replied. “But I keep coming back to what you said. About signs.”
Her stomach twisted.
“This feels like a sign to try something else,” he went on. “I still love music. I still want to be around it. But maybe my place is not under a spotlight. Maybe it is behind it.”
He smiled then, small but surprisingly peaceful.
“I think I will focus on college,” he said. “At least for now.”
The words were a relief and a gut punch at once.
“You are sure?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
He looked at her, eyes warm.
“You are staying, right?” he asked. “You are… happy there?”
She thought about the endless drills, the stress, the hierarchy. The trainers who had started nodding at her more. The one time a vocal coach told her, “You are starting to sound like a singer, not just a trainee.” The way her body had started to move when music played, not stiff but almost free.
She thought about the posters on the wall she still sometimes touched with her fingertips.
“Yes,” she said, and this time it felt true. “I think I am.”
“Good.” He bumped his shoulder into hers. “Then I will be your biggest fan.”
He said it easily. Without irony.
She smiled back and leaned her head against his shoulder, ignoring the way guilt gnawed somewhere far beneath her ribs.
It would be years before she admitted to herself that she had nudged him toward that choice. Softly. Gently. For his sake. For hers.
For both.
—
Karina debuted in aespa on a cold November day that smelled like hairspray and nerves.
The build up felt like drowning slowly. Years of training, monthly evaluations, cuts. New girls coming in, old ones disappearing without goodbye. The constant hovering threat of injury, of being “not quite what we are looking for.”
Then one day, the company called her into a room and told her she was in a new girl group.
“You will be Karina,” they said. “This is your concept. Here is your teaser schedule. Here are your members.”
Winter, sharp eyed and deceptively soft looking. Giselle, loud laughter and quick comebacks. Ningning, a voice like liquid gold and a mischievous streak.
They became a second kind of family.
The day their debut MV dropped, Y/N sent a screen recording of the YouTube page to their old group chat with nothing but a string of capslocked swearing.
“Look at you,” he wrote after, spamming emojis. “Are you even real? Proud of you.”
She watched the video in the practice room bathroom on break, staring at her own reflection in the polished tiles as she mouthed along to her own lines.
The girl on screen did not look like the one who had clung to a boy’s sleeve on a playground and declared him “mine.”
This one was sharp, ethereal, eyes lined black, lips painted. She stood in formations that made use of her height. She moved with control she had bled for. Her voice slid into harmonies and hooks people might hum without knowing her name.
aespa exploded faster than even the company had dared to hope.
Staggering streaming numbers. Variety shows. Award shows. Stage after stage. Fancams. Trend videos.
Karina’s life became schedules, cameras, and snatched hours of sleep. Managers knocking on van windows to wake them. Stylists fussing with hair while their artists ate kimbap between makeup touches.
Sometimes, at two in the morning, she would lie in a hotel bed in another city, phone screen dim on the nightstand, and watch old photos of her and Y/N from high school.
Him holding an umbrella over both their heads. Her making a disgusted face as he tried to feed her tteokbokki. His arm slung around her neck like a human scarf.
It felt like looking at someone else’s dream.
They stayed together. Somehow.
It became harder.
He juggled university life, part time jobs, and their relationship. She juggled comebacks, training, and the constant threat of fans or reporters seeing them together.
They texted. They called. They met in hidden corners of the city, hoods up, masks on.
“You are losing weight,” he would say, thumb brushing under her cheekbone.
“You are getting eye bags,” she would retort.
He would laugh, but his eyes would stay worried.
He supported everything. Sent her flowers secretly to the company building when she got her first solo magazine cover. Stayed up to watch music show live streams and texted reactions like a fan.
“You looked fucking insane today,” he wrote once after a particularly intense performance. “That last dance break? I am suing.”
She basked in it. In him.
Even when their calls were short. Even when she snapped at him out of exhaustion and he went quiet on the other end.
She always expected him to be there when she reached.
He always was.
—
He went viral on a night she was not there to see it.
She was overseas for a concert. Another city, another hotel room that looked like all the others.
aespa had just finished a chaotic V Live. Her throat hurt from singing and laughing. Her shoulders ached from the weight of the mic pack. She showered, changed into pajamas, and collapsed onto the bed, scrolling through social media on autopilot.
A video popped up on her explore page.
No caption. No tags. Just a screengrab of a familiar profile under neon karaoke lights.
Karina froze.
She pressed play.
The clip started mid–song. The sound quality was shit, muffled and uneven, but his voice cut through clean.
Y/N was in a cramped karaoke room, holding a mic in one hand, the other gesturing loosely as he hit a high note most people would have murdered. He wore a casual oversized sweatshirt, hair pushed off his forehead, sweat darkening the fabric around his collarbone.
Two friends sat on the couch behind him, cheering. One idiot was yelling, “Look at this guy! Why is he not an idol?” in the background.
The song shifted into a dance track. Someone shouted for the instrumental to play. Y/N laughed and obliged.
He moved.
Not the half–hearted jokey moves people did at parties. Real choreography. Sharp, clean angles. Footwork is smooth but precise. Expression on point, eyes lit up in a way she had not seen in years.
He hit the chorus perfectly, voice and steps both aligned.
Karina’s chest squeezed.
He looked like he belonged on a stage. Even in that stupid cramped room with peeling wallpaper and colored lights, he looked like someone the camera wanted to follow.
The video cut abruptly. Then replayed.
She checked the view count.
Five hundred thousand. No, wait. Refresh.
Eight hundred thousand.
Comments scrolled down faster than she could read.
Who is this???
He is hotter than half the idols out now
SM HOW DID YOU LET THIS ONE GO
His dancing is crazy and his voice too???
The fact that he said “I was a trainee but quit” casually??? Sir what
Her blood went cold.
She scrolled further.
There he was in the comments, under his own username, replying to someone.
“I used to be an SM trainee,” he had written. “I stopped because of a leg injury and decided to focus on college instead.”
Someone had screenshot that too. It was trending on a smaller forum already.
Former SM trainee. Viral video. Insane visuals.
The algorithm smelled a story and sank its teeth in.
Karina dropped her phone onto the bed, heart hammering.
The door clicked open. Winter poked her head in.
“Unnie, did you see that video? The guy in the karaoke room? People are saying he was from SM. He is hot.”
Karina’s nails dug into the mattress.
“Yeah,” she said, voice tight. “I saw.”
—
JYP contacted him first.
Not SM, which stung in a petty way she knew was irrational. SM had moved on years ago. Trainees came and went. Injuries happened. People disappeared from the system all the time.
She heard about it from him, on a call that felt too calm for what he was saying.
“They want to meet,” he said. “JYP. For a solo artist contract.”
Karina sat at her dressing table in the green room, surrounded by half–finished makeup, the hum of other staff in the background.
“A solo?” she repeated.
“Yeah.” There was a note of disbelief in his voice. “Not a group. Not ‘we will see if you fit anywhere.’ They want to build something around me.”
She swallowed.
“Did you tell them no?” The words were out before she could catch them.
Silence.
“I am going to hear them out,” he said slowly.
“Y/N.” Her voice came out too sharp. “You know how this industry is.”
“I know,” he said. “I watched you go through it, remember?”
“Then why would you jump back in?”
“Because I am not eighteen and clueless this time,” he shot back, uncharacteristically impatient. “I took a business degree for a reason. I know how contracts work. I know what to ask for.”
“Your leg…”
“Is fine,” he said. “I would not even consider this if it was not.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting for calm.
“You already have a path,” she tried. “You are good at what you are doing. Music production, right? Why risk all of that for… for some viral video hype and an offer from a company that will eat you alive if you let it?”
On the other end of the line, he went very quiet.
“Wow,” he said after a moment, voice flat. “Okay.”
Guilt pricked her skin, but the words kept tumbling out, driven by a fear she did not know how to name gently.
“You said it yourself. Trainee life is brutal. Being an idol is worse. You see all the shit I deal with. The schedules, the fans, the scrutiny. You really want that?”
“Do you regret your debut?” he asked.
The question cut her off.
“No,” she said instantly.
“Then why is it okay for you but not for me?”
“Because I have been doing this for years,” she argued. “Because I built my whole life around it. You have options.”
“And you do not?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
She paused, floundering.
She could not tell him the truth. The thought of him on stage, under lights that were not SM’s, with people screaming his name and claiming pieces of him, made her feel like the floor had vanished under her feet. That some paranoid, poisonous part of her was whispering He will outshine you without even trying. He will be everywhere and nowhere near you.
“That you only came into this world because of me,” she said instead, softer. “I do not want you to sacrifice yourself again for something that is not even your dream.”
“This is my dream,” he said quietly. “Now it is. Not because of you. Not for you. For me.”
She sucked in a breath.
Before she could respond, someone knocked on her dressing room door.
“Karina–ssi, standby in five minutes,” a staff member called.
“I have to go,” she said, forced back into professional mode.
“Of course,” he said. “You are busy.”
“Y/N, I am not saying this to hurt you, I just–”
“We will talk later,” he cut in. “Good luck on your stage.”
The line went dead.
She stared at her reflection, makeup half done, eyes too bright.
In the mirror, the girl in lashes and glitter bit her own tongue.
—
He accepted.
Of course he did.
JYP trained their idols differently than SM. A different flavor of polish, a different kind of pressure. But they knew how to make a soloist. They had history.
He told her in person, sitting on the same rooftop where she had first asked him to be her boyfriend.
“They made a good offer,” he said. “Creative control. Time to develop. They want to build me, not squeeze me dry. At least, that is what the contract looks like.”
Wind tugged at his hair. The sky was gray.
She stared at him, feeling the ground tilt.
“So you are really doing this,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“For you.”
“For me,” he said firmly.
She laughed, brittle. “You sound so proud of that.”
“I am.” He watched her carefully. “Is that so bad?”
The answer was no. It was good. It was healthy.
It scraped against every selfish thing in her chest.
“You are going to be competing with me,” she blurted. “Do you get that? People will compare you. To me. To aespa. To everyone.”
“People compare you already,” he pointed out. “You do not let it stop you.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“Because…” She flailed. “Because I am used to it. Because I chose this a long time ago. Because I thought if one of us was on stage and one of us was not, that would be… simpler.”
“How convenient,” he said dryly. “For you.”
She flinched.
His gaze hardened slightly, the way it did when he was really, truly angry, which was rare.
“You keep saying this is about me,” he said slowly. “My health. My options. My happiness. But every time you talk about it, all I hear is how it affects you.”
“That is not fair,” she snapped, hurt and stinging. “I have been supporting you since day one. I was the one in the hospital with you. I was there when you were depressed. I pushed you to go to therapy. I told you to chase what you wanted before you even knew what that was.”
“And I am grateful,” he said. “I always have been. But this is the first time I have wanted something this big for myself. Really for myself. And the only thing you have done since is look like you are waiting for me to change my mind.”
Her hands fisted in her lap.
“Because I am scared,” she said, the truth bursting out, ugly and raw. “Okay? I am scared. I watched this industry chew people up and spit them out. I watched people go crazy from the pressure. I am terrified you will get hurt again, and I am so tired of being the reason why.”
“The reason why?” he repeated. “You think you are the reason I exist?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” He leaned back, eyes on the sky. “Sometimes it feels like you want me to stay small. Where you can reach. Where nobody else can see what I can do.”
“That is not fair,” she said again, weaker this time.
“Is it not?” He looked at her, gaze sharp. “You loved it when I supported your dream, Jimin. When I put college on hold to be your backup dancer in practice rooms. When I quit SM and told you to stay. You called me your biggest fan.”
“You are,” she whispered.
“What about you?” he asked. “Can you be mine? Or do you only like my dreams when they do not collide with yours?”
The silence between them hummed.
He had never spoken to her like this. Not with this much frustration, this much tired hurt.
Fear crawled up her throat.
“Y/N,” she started. “I just do not want to lose you.”
He laughed once, without humor.
“You know what is funny?” he said. “That is exactly what this feels like from my side. Like I am losing you by daring to want something you do not control.”
Her breath hitched.
“Do you think I am controlling you?” she asked, voice so small it disgusted her.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I think you are scared,” he said. “I think your fear makes you say things that sound like support but feel like shackles. I think you love me. I know you do. But sometimes it feels less like love and more like you are holding on for dear life, even if it chokes us both.”
The words landed like blows.
She wanted to cry. To scream. To tell him he was wrong, that she had always, always tried to be good for him. That everything she did was because she loved him so much her bones hurt.
Instead, she stared at her own hands and realized he was not completely wrong.
“Are you breaking up with me?” she whispered.
The question came out so quietly that if the wind had been louder, it would have swallowed it whole.
He was quiet for a long time.
“I do not want to,” he said finally. “I have never wanted that.”
Her heart lurched.
“But I cannot do this?” she finished for him.
He closed his eyes.
“I am about to walk into something huge and terrifying,” he said. “I need people around me who will hold my hand and say, ‘Go. I have your back. I will be there when you fall.’ I did that for you. Gladly. For years. I did it when it was not even my dream.”
He opened his eyes again, meeting her gaze dead on.
“If the best you can manage is to tell me all the reasons I should stay small, then no,” he said. “I cannot do this. Not as your boyfriend.”
The hurt was numb for a moment. Then it came in a wave.
“So this is my fault,” she said dully.
“It is not about fault,” he said. “It is about… what we have become to each other.”
His voice broke a little on the last words.
“I love you,” he added, almost angrily. “You know that, right? You are not… some fling. You are my entire childhood. You are every memory that matters. Breaking this is the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
“Then do not,” she said, desperate. “I can change. I can–”
“You should,” he cut in gently. “For you. Not to keep me.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“What if I cannot?” she choked.
“Then at least I am not helping you hurt yourself or me anymore,” he said quietly.
He stood up.
Panic clawed at her chest.
“Y/N,” she said, reaching out.
He stepped just out of reach.
“I am going to debut,” he said, voice steady now, lined with something like resolve. “I am going to do it with or without your support. I hope you can be happy for me. Someday. Even if it is from far away.”
He hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming reluctance.
“I am not doing this because I stopped loving you,” he said. “I am doing it because I finally started loving myself enough to not let your fear decide my life.”
Then he turned and walked away.
She did not chase him.
Her legs would not move.
She sat there on the rooftop where they had once decided a relationship in a single, casual “Sure” and realized things did not break all at once.
Sometimes they cracked over years, under the weight of words like mine, mine, mine.
The wind was cold.
For the first time in years, she was alone in a way that felt real.
—
He debuted the following year.
She watched it happen through a screen first, then through endless clips shared by people who had no idea who he was to her.
Stage name different. Styling sharp. Vocals strong. Dancing better than ever, refined by time and intention rather than panic and fear.
He looked incredible.
Karina hated him a little for it, in the way people hate what they cannot stop looking at.
JYP knew what they were doing. They built his concept around contrast: clean visuals, sharp performance, lyrics that cut deep. He wrote some of his own songs. They let him talk about fear, about failure, about getting back up.
Fans ate it up.
Her staff started playing his debut track in the waiting room before she even had a chance to ask them not to.
“Have you heard this?” a makeup artist asked one day, dabbing concealer under her eyes. “This new JYP soloist. He is insane. My little sister is obsessed.”
Karina looked at her own reflection as his voice filtered in from the speakers.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I know him.”
Outside, the world spun on. Schedules piled. aespa kept climbing. He did too. Interviews, variety shows, special stages. Collabs with other idols she passed in hallways but never stopped to talk to.
They did not speak.
At first, it was because everything was raw and every notification with his name felt like a blade.
Then, slowly, it was because she did not know what to say anymore.
She watched from afar as he navigated the same storm she did, but on a parallel track.
When reporters asked him about his time as an SM trainee, he smiled and gave neutral answers. When fans asked if any of his songs were about someone specific, he laughed and said, “Aren’t they always?”
Sometimes in the car, between schedules, she would pull up fancams of his performances. Alone. No screaming fans in the background. Just him and the stage.
He looked free.
It hurt like hell.
It also made something inside her crack in a way that felt… necessary.
She started seeing a therapist.
At first, it was for “stress.” The company liked to pretend that was a progressive move. Idols taking care of their mental health made for good PR.
Karina told the therapist about schedules, about pressure, about panic.
Eventually, she told her about a boy on a playground and the first time she had said “mine” in her head.
She told her about the buzz she got from his attention. About the way fear had wrapped around that buzz like barbed wire. About how every girl who looked at him felt like a thief, even before they did anything.
“I thought loving someone meant never letting go,” she said once, voice hoarse. “I thought if I held on tight enough, they could not leave.”
“What did you think would happen if he did?” the therapist asked.
She thought about it. Really thought about it.
“I would disappear,” she whispered. “I did not know who I was without him.”
“Who are you now?” the therapist asked.
Karina did not have an answer.
Not yet.
—
Growth was slow and ugly.
It came in little realizations. In late night thoughts that made her cringe at herself. In remembering arguments and seeing her own words from his perspective.
She remembered the hospital room, her voice planting ideas about signs and college. Remembered the way his brows had furrowed. The way relief and shame had warred in her chest when he chose university over the practice room.
She remembered every time she had used “I am just worried” as a way to steer him away from things that scared her, not him.
She remembered his face on that rooftop when he had asked, “Can you be my fan?”
She cried, sometimes. In bathrooms with the fan on. In vans with her face turned to the window. On her therapist’s couch, when the facade finally cracked and she said, “I was selfish,” out loud for the first time.
“You were scared,” the therapist said. “And you coped with that fear by clinging. It does not excuse the ways you hurt him. But understanding why you did it is the first step to changing.”
“Is it too late?” Karina asked once. “To change? To… fix anything?”
“For him?” the therapist asked. “Or for you?”
“Both.”
“For him, I do not know,” the therapist said honestly. “That depends on where he is now and what he wants. For you? It is never too late to be better.”
She clung to that.
aespa’s schedules did not slow down. She did not get a neat sabbatical for self discovery. Growth had to happen in the cracks between comebacks, in tired moments in hotel rooms, in quiet talks with her members who had seen enough to know something was wrong.
“You are hard on yourself,” Winter said once, sitting cross–legged on the bed with a sheet mask on. “And on him, I think.”
“I am not anymore,” Karina said. “He is… gone.”
“He is not dead,” Ningning called from the bathroom. “He is just across town on a bigger stage.”
Giselle threw a pillow at the door. “Insensitive.”
“I am just saying,” Ningning protested, head peeking around the frame. “If you still like him, you could talk to him. We do collab stages with JYP. It is not like he is on another planet.”
Karina stared at her phone.
She still had his number. Of course she did. She had hovered over it more times than she could count, thumb shaking over the call button.
“What would I even say?” she asked.
“Sorry,” Winter said simply. “And then… whatever else comes after.”
Easier said than done.
—
They saw each other again for the first time two years later.
Not by design.
It was at a year–end music festival. One of those sprawling events where every group, soloist, and their stylists congregated backstage in a massive, chaotic maze of hallways and dressing rooms.
aespa performed third in the lineup. He performed fifth.
She knew his set time. She had checked the schedule unconsciously the moment they had arrived.
“Do not freak out,” Giselle murmured, bumping her shoulder as they waited in the wings. “You do not have to talk to him if you do not want to.”
Karina focused on the stage. The roar of the crowd. The familiar rush of adrenaline.
Their performance passed in a blur of movement and sound. When they came off, hearts pounding, she barely registered the staff crowding around them with towels and water bottles.
“Great job,” their manager said, voice distant in her ears. “Stay nearby. We have interviews later.”
Karina drifted toward the corridor where the monitors were set up, intending to watch the next stage on autopilot like she usually did.
His face filled the screen.
The cheers were deafening.
He stepped onto the stage alone, bathed in sharp white light, wearing a fitted black outfit that made his lines look even cleaner. The intro to his latest single thrummed through the floor.
He smiled at the crowd. The same smile he used to give her over convenience store ramyeon. More polished now. More controlled. But underneath, she could still see the boy who had once balanced banana milk cartons on his head.
He performed like the stage belonged to him.
Every move precise. Every note steady. Expression alive, drawing the camera in. At the bridge, his voice cracked slightly on a sustained note, not out of pitch but out of emotion, and the crowd roared.
Karina’s throat closed.
He was doing exactly what he had said he would. He was chasing his dream. For himself. Without her.
He finished to a wall of sound.
“Please look forward to more from me,” he said into the mic, bowing. “Thank you.”
He turned to walk off stage.
And saw her.
She had not realized she had drifted so close to the entrance. For a second, it was just the two of them in that narrow space, separated by five meters and years of history.
He stopped.
Their eyes met.
His expression flickered. Surprise. Something like pain. Something like… softness. It passed too quickly to name.
He nodded once, a small, polite gesture, then moved on, swallowed by staff.
Her chest ached.
Later, in the chaos of the dressing room, she stared at her phone again.
Her thumb hovered over his contact.
This time, she pressed call.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
She almost hung up.
Then he answered.
“Hello?”
His voice was deeper than she remembered and exactly the same.
Her own caught in her throat. For a moment, she could not speak.
“Hello?” he repeated, cautious. “Who is this?”
“Me,” she forced out. “It is… Karina.”
Silence. Then a faint, disbelieving laugh.
“Jimin,” he corrected automatically.
Her heart twisted.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Hi.”
“Hi.” The word felt absurdly small.
They stood on opposite sides of the same building, phones pressed to their ears, separated by walls and people and the things they had never said.
“I saw your stage,” she blurted.
“Yeah?” He sounded wary.
“It was… incredible,” she said, fists clenching to keep her voice steady. “You were… I mean, you are always good, but… you looked… happy.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words that had sat in her chest for two years crowded her throat. Apologies. Explanations. Half formed sentences.
“I am sorry,” she managed finally. “For… everything.”
Silence stretched.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I could tell. From… the outside. From how you are now.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You talk about other people differently in interviews,” he said. “About your members. About fans. About… old trainees. You used to sound like the world was something you had to keep in your hands or it would run away. Now you sound like you are willing to share.”
Heat burned behind her eyes.
“You watch my interviews?” she asked, stupidly.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Old habits.”
She sat down on the nearest chair, knees weak.
“I was scared,” she said. “Back then. More scared than I can explain. I did not know how to keep you without… keeping you.” She laughed, shaky. “That sounds insane.”
“It sounds human,” he said. “Does not make it right. But… I get it a little more now.”
“I pushed you away from SM,” she whispered. “In the hospital. I made it sound like concern. I was concerned. But I was also relieved. Because if you stayed with me there, I was terrified everyone else would see what I saw in you and take you.”
He did not respond right away.
“I know,” he said eventually.
“You do?”
“I thought about it a lot too,” he said. “Therapists are dangerous like that. They make you replay everything.” He chuckled weakly.
“You went too?” she asked.
“Yeah. Different reasons. Same couches.” He paused. “I was angry at you for a long time. For… making me feel small. For making my dreams feel like a threat to you. But I was also angry at myself. For letting your fear weigh more than my own desires.”
“I am so fucking sorry,” she said, voice cracking. “I do not expect you to forgive me or… or to want anything to do with me. I just… needed you to know that I know. That I see what I did. That I am trying not to be that person anymore.”
He sighed.
“Jimin,” he said slowly. “Look. I… I forgave you a while ago.”
She almost dropped the phone.
“What?”
“Forgiveness is for me too, you know,” he said. “I did not want to carry around that much resentment. It was heavy. We were kids. We fucked up. You were selfish. I was passive. We both hurt each other.”
Her vision blurred.
“That does not mean we can just go back,” he added gently. “I do not even know who you are now. You do not know me.”
“I want to,” she said, the words out before she could stop them. “Know you. Again. Not the version in my head. The actual you.”
He was quiet.
“I do not know if that is a good idea,” he said honestly. “Our patterns were… not great. I do not want to fall back into them.”
“I do not either,” she said quickly. “That is the last thing I want.”
Footsteps echoed outside her dressing room. Someone called her name. She ignored it.
“How about this,” she said. “Not… dating. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Just… one conversation. In person. Somewhere we are not being watched. No expectations. If after that you decide you never want to see me again, I will respect it. I swear.”
He let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for a long time.
“Where?” he asked.
—
They met at a small, out of the way music festival two weeks later.
No idol lineups. No cameras. Just indie bands on rickety stages, food trucks, and people in mismatched outfits dancing in muddy fields.
He wore a plain cap and a mask, which he took off once they were swallowed by the crowd. She did the same.
Nobody looked twice. It was almost disorienting.
They stood awkwardly at the edge of the main stage area for a moment, both at a loss.
Then he nodded toward a patch of grass.
“Sit?” he suggested.
“Yeah.”
They sat.
The band on stage was mid song, some dreamy track about lost summers. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in colors that did not look real.
“I used to hate festivals,” she said suddenly. “Too many people.”
“You are an idol,” he pointed out. “You are people’s festival.”
“That is different.”
He smiled faintly. “I like this kind.”
“Me too,” she admitted.
They listened to the music for a while. It filled the space between them so they did not have to fill it themselves.
“I did not support you,” she said eventually. “Not when it mattered.”
He did not argue.
“I want to,” she went on. “Now. Not because I am scared you will leave if I do not. Not because I think I have to keep you. Just because… I like seeing you on stage. Even if it is not my company’s logo behind you.”
He glanced at her, something like surprise and cautious hope flickering through his eyes.
“I watched your last comeback,” he admitted. “The one with the crazy dance break. You looked… free. Less like you were trying to prove you belonged. More like you knew you did.”
She thought of the nights on her therapist’s couch, of the members’ support, of the long road from that girl who had needed one boy to define her worth.
“I am starting to know,” she said softly. “Who I am. Outside of you.”
“That is good,” he said.
They were quiet again.
“Do you… hate me?” she asked, because she needed to hear it out loud.
“No,” he said. “I did. For a while. But not now. I do not think I could ever fully hate you.”
“Do you…” Her mouth was dry. “Still… love me?”
He stared at the sky.
“I do not know,” he said honestly. “I love who you were to me. I care about who you are now. I am… scared of what we could be if we are not careful.”
She nodded, throat tight.
“Me too.”
“But,” he added, turning to look at her fully, “I am willing to… see. Slowly. As friends. As… something that does not try to own each other this time.”
Her heart stuttered.
“You are?”
“On one condition,” he said.
She held her breath.
“We promise to be each other’s fans,” he said. “Not managers. Not puppet masters. Just… people in the crowd. Cheering. Even when we do not understand every decision.”
It was simple. It was everything they had never managed to do before.
She smiled, small but real.
“Deal,” she said, and held out her hand.
He looked at it for a second, then took it.
The music swelled. The crowd cheered for a band that did not know who they were. The sky darkened, stars peeking through.
They sat there, hands clasped not like chains, but like something they both could let go of if they needed to.
For the first time, love did not feel like possession.
It felt like choosing.
—
Two years later, fans lost their minds when SM and JYP announced a special joint stage for the year–end festival.
“A once–in–a–lifetime collaboration,” the posters read. “Two generations of excellence on one stage.”
Online, people guessed.
BoA and some JYP veteran? NCT and Stray Kids? Red Velvet and Twice?
No one guessed it right.
When the lights went down and the VCR ended, the opening beat of a brand new, unreleased track shook the arena.
Karina stepped into the light first.
She wore a black and silver outfit that cut clean lines along her body, hair pulled back, eyes rimmed in glittering shadow. The crowd screamed.
On the second verse, as she hit a turn, another voice cut in over the track.
Familiar. Powerful.
Y/N walked out from the opposite side, mic in hand.
For a heartbeat, the arena went silent in shock.
Then it erupted.
They moved together like they had been doing this for years. Because they had. Just not in front of this many people.
His voice slid under hers in harmonies that felt inevitable. Her footwork complemented his, sharp where he was smooth. There was tension in their choreography, a push and pull that told a story without hitting anyone over the head.
The lyrics talked about fear. About breaking chains. About letting go enough to be held properly. About standing on different stages and still calling out to each other.
When the final chorus hit, they met in the center, backs almost touching, gazes turned outward to the crowd.
They did not need to face each other to show how far they had come.
The last note rang out.
They bowed.
Backstage, amid the chaos of congratulations and staff herding them to interviews, they found a quiet corner.
Karina’s heart was still racing. Not from nerves. From something like joy.
“You were crazy out there,” she said, grinning despite herself.
“So were you,” he replied. “As always.”
She hesitated, then stepped a little closer.
“Thank you,” she said. “For… letting me share that stage with you.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” he countered. “It was your idea, right?”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It felt… right.”
He smiled, soft.
“It did.”
They stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, the echo of the crowd still buzzing in their bones.
Then she leaned in, close enough that no mic could pick it up, and whispered, “I used to be scared you would leave me. Now I am just grateful you came back.”
His eyes softened.
“I did not come back,” he said quietly. “We both just finally walked in the same direction.”
He held out his hand, palm up, not demanding, not pleading.
She took it.
Not because she was afraid he would vanish if she did not.
YN has achieved many things that any man would usually want in life, most of the things he has ever accomplished so far were not on his own will but his parents’.
They told him who he should befriend with, what school should he go to, what should he study, what should he do to succeed the strong foundation, his family’s business that they’ve built.
YN understood it, but he could never be a rebel as true parents wanted what’s good for their kids even sometimes it’s against their will.
Until he met Giselle, a rebel with a good heart who has been struggling with her life, she worked for a famous club making big bucks. All that makeup, the glossy facade just to cover a messed-up past.
YN taught her how turn her life around and she taught him how to enjoy life
YN brought Giselle home as he has found the right one and this time he’ll be a rebel, protect her and prove that she could be a great daughter-in-law
REBEL HEARTS
AESPA Giselle x Male Reader
9K WORDS COUNTED
SMUT
—
The conference room on the forty-second floor smelled of polished mahogany and expensive coffee. Y/N sat at the head of the long table, listening as the executives from the partner company praised the terms of the merger he had just closed. His presentation had been flawless. Every number, every projection, every calculated risk had been anticipated weeks in advance. The older men in their tailored suits clapped him on the back and called him impressive. Brilliant, even.
He offered them the polite smile his father had drilled into him since he was twelve.
Inside, he felt nothing.
This was how it had always been. His life was a series of carefully arranged milestones. The right private academy. The right university, where he studied business and economics exactly as planned. The right internships. The right friends from the right families. Even the woman he had dated for two years after graduation had been introduced to him by his mother. That relationship had ended quietly when both sides agreed it lacked "strategic synergy."
Y/N had not fought any of it. He understood the logic. His parents had built a powerful conglomerate from nothing. Their expectations were not cruelty. They were protection. At least that was what he told himself every time the emptiness in his chest grew heavier.
When the meeting finally ended, his phone vibrated. A message from his father.
Well done. Come home for dinner tonight. Your mother wants to discuss the next phase of the succession plan.
Y/N stared at the screen for a long moment before replying with a single word.
Understood.
He left the building at eight-thirty and drove through Seoul in silence. The city lights blurred past his window like colorful streaks painted by someone else's dreams. For a brief second he wondered what it would feel like to turn the car in a completely different direction. To just drive. No destination. No schedule.
He shook the thought away.
By the time he reached the family estate in Hannam-dong, the house was lit up like a museum. His mother was waiting in the formal dining room, already seated at the long table. His father stood by the window with a glass of whiskey.
"You closed the deal," his father said without turning around. There was approval in his voice, but it carried the same weight as a command. "Good. That puts us ahead of schedule."
"Thank you, Father."
His mother studied him with sharp eyes. "You look tired, Y/N. Are you sleeping enough? We cannot have you burning out before the board meeting next month."
"I am fine, Mother."
Dinner was served. They discussed his future the same way other families discussed the weather. Which subsidiaries he would oversee first. Which political connections needed strengthening. Which eligible daughters from allied families he should consider meeting for coffee in the coming weeks.
Y/N nodded at all the right moments. He had perfected the art of being present without actually being there.
Later that night, after his parents had gone to bed, he stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the garden. The silence pressed down on him until he felt like he might suffocate. For the first time in years, the urge to do something reckless crawled under his skin.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from his university friend, Minho.
Velvet Eclipse tonight. Come with us. You need to loosen up, man. Stop living like a robot.
Y/N stared at the invitation. Velvet Eclipse was the kind of place his parents would never approve of. An ultra-exclusive nightclub in Gangnam known for its beautiful hostesses, expensive liquor, and complete disregard for rules. The kind of place where rich boys went to forget their last names for a few hours.
He had never been.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. The responsible part of him, the part that had been shaped since childhood, told him to decline. To go to bed. To prepare for tomorrow's agenda.
Instead, he typed back.
What time?
—
The bass inside Velvet Eclipse hit Y/N like a physical force the moment he stepped through the doors. The lighting was low and seductive, shifting between deep violet and blood red. Beautiful women moved through the crowd like predators dressed in designer clothes. Expensive champagne flowed freely. In the VIP sections, men in suits laughed too loudly and touched too freely.
Y/N immediately regretted coming.
Minho and two other friends had already secured a large booth upstairs. They waved him over with bottles in their hands and grins on their faces.
"Look who finally decided to join the living," Minho shouted over the music. "I thought you were going to die a virgin to your father's expectations."
Y/N forced a smile and sat down. He ordered a whiskey neat, hoping the burn would settle the unease in his stomach. His friends were already half-drunk, talking about their latest conquests and the hostesses they wanted to call over.
That was when he saw her.
She moved through the VIP area like she owned it. Tall, confident, with striking silver-blonde hair that caught every flash of light. Her makeup was sharp and glossy. Dark liner, blood-red lips, and a shimmering highlight that made her cheekbones look lethal. She wore a tight black dress that left very little to the imagination. Every step she took drew eyes.
One of the hostesses leaned over to Minho and whispered, "That's Giselle. She's one of our best. Expensive, though. Worth every won if you can afford her."
Minho whistled. "Bring her over. And a couple of her friends."
Y/N watched as Giselle approached their table. Up close she was even more intimidating. Her eyes scanned the group with professional interest, but there was something colder underneath. Something tired.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, voice smooth like honey poured over broken glass. "Looking for company tonight?"
Her gaze passed over Y/N and lingered for half a second longer than the others. He wondered what she saw. Another rich idiot, probably.
The next hour passed in a haze of alcohol and forced laughter. Giselle sat close to their group, playing her role perfectly. She laughed at Minho's terrible jokes, let one of the other guys rest a hand on her thigh, and kept the energy high. But Y/N noticed the way her smile never reached her eyes. The way her fingers tightened around her glass when someone touched her without permission.
At one point, their eyes met across the table. She raised an eyebrow at him, almost like a challenge.
"You do not look like you are having fun," she said, leaning closer so only he could hear. Her perfume was intoxicating. Something sweet and expensive. "Did Daddy force you to come here too?"
Y/N blinked. No one spoke to him like that.
"I came by choice," he replied.
Giselle smirked. "Sure you did. You have that look. The good boy who is pretending not to be bored out of his fucking mind."
Before he could respond, one of the drunk VIPs at the next table called her over. The man grabbed her wrist too hard. Y/N saw her flinch for a split second before she covered it with a dazzling smile.
Something protective stirred in his chest. He did not like it.
The night continued. Minho and the others grew louder and sloppier. Y/N stayed relatively sober, watching everything with quiet detachment. Eventually his friends stumbled out to find another club. He told them he would stay a little longer.
He was not sure why.
When he looked up again, Giselle was standing near the railing overlooking the dance floor. Her glossy facade had slipped slightly. She rolled her shoulders like they ached. The bright hair and heavy makeup suddenly looked less like seduction and more like armor.
Y/N stood up and walked over before he could talk himself out of it.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She turned, surprised to see him still there. The professional smile returned instantly.
"Why would I not be? You should go home, rich boy. Places like this are not for people like you."
Y/N studied her. "You looked uncomfortable earlier. When that man grabbed you."
For a moment her mask cracked. Irritation flashed in her eyes.
"You think you are some kind of hero because you noticed?" She let out a bitter laugh. "I deal with worse every night. Go back to your perfect life and stop pretending you give a shit about girls like me."
She started to walk away.
"Wait," Y/N called after her.
Giselle stopped. She looked back at him over her shoulder, silver hair catching the neon lights.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She stared at him for a long time, as if deciding whether he was worth the breath.
"Giselle," she finally said. "And trust me. You do not want to know anything else."
Then she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Y/N standing there with a feeling he had never experienced before.
—
Three nights later, Y/N found himself back at Velvet Eclipse. This time he came alone. No Minho. No loud friends. No excuse except the nagging feeling that refused to leave him alone. The silver haired hostess with the sharp tongue had stayed in his thoughts longer than he cared to admit. He told himself it was simple curiosity. Nothing more.
The club felt different without the buffer of alcohol and company. The music still pulsed through the walls, but tonight it felt heavier. More invasive. Y/N paid for a private VIP booth on the second floor, one that overlooked the main dance floor but offered some distance from the chaos. He ordered a single whiskey and waited.
He did not have to wait long.
Giselle appeared twenty minutes later, dressed in a deep crimson outfit that clung to her body like liquid. Her hair was styled even more dramatically tonight, falling in glossy waves past her shoulders. The makeup remained flawless. A glittering shield she clearly wore like armor. When she spotted him sitting alone, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
"You again," she said, stopping at the edge of his booth. "I thought you would have run back to your castle by now."
Y/N gestured to the empty seat across from him. "I wanted to talk to you."
Giselle laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Talk? Baby, men do not pay what you paid for this booth just to talk. What is it? You want me to sit on your lap and tell you how strong and powerful you are? Or maybe you are the type who likes to hear about my sad little life before you try to fuck me."
Her words were crude and direct. Y/N did not flinch. Instead he met her eyes steadily.
"I am not here for any of that," he said. "I just want to know who you really are under all of that makeup."
Giselle stared at him for several seconds. Then she slid into the booth with the graceful movements of someone who had done this a thousand times. She crossed her legs and leaned back, studying him like he was some strange creature behind glass.
"You want the truth, rich boy? Fine. My name is Aeri. Uchinaga Aeri. But nobody calls me that here. Here I am Giselle. I make enough money in one good month to pay for most people's rent for a year. I dance when they ask me to. I laugh at terrible jokes. I let disgusting men touch my thigh if the tip is big enough. And at the end of every night I go home, scrub all this shit off my face, and try to forget tomorrow is going to be more of the same."
She tilted her head, silver hair catching the light.
"Your turn. What the fuck is a guy like you doing here alone? Should not you be closing billion won deals or marrying some proper girl your parents picked out?"
Y/N felt the words hit closer than he expected. He took a slow sip of whiskey before answering.
"My parents have decided almost everything in my life. What I study. Who I associate with. What I do with my future. I have never fought them on it. I always thought they knew best."
Giselle's lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"And now the perfect son is having a crisis. How original. Let me guess. You saw me the other night and thought I looked like a fun rebellion project. Save the poor club girl. Teach her how to be respectable. Is that it?"
"No," Y/N said firmly. "That is not it."
"Then what do you want from me?"
He hesitated. The truth felt ridiculous even in his own head.
"I want to know what it feels like to want something for myself. And for some reason I cannot explain, I keep thinking about you."
Giselle went quiet. For the first time since he had met her, the confident mask slipped. She looked almost vulnerable for half a second before she covered it with a bitter smile.
"You are dangerous," she muttered. "Guys like you come in here thinking they can handle girls like me. Then they get bored and go back to their real lives. Meanwhile I am left cleaning up the mess."
She stood up suddenly.
"Go home, Y/N. Go back to your perfect world. I do not have the energy to be your midlife crisis."
She started to walk away, but Y/N called after her.
"I will be here again tomorrow night."
Giselle stopped but did not turn around.
"Then you are even more stupid than I thought."
—
He returned the next night. And the night after that.
By the end of the week, it had become a pattern. Y/N would arrive around ten, secure the same VIP booth, and wait. Sometimes Giselle came over immediately. Sometimes she made him wait an hour while she worked other tables. Each time she sat with him, their conversations grew longer. Sharper. More honest.
She told him pieces of her past without ever giving the full picture. How she ran away from home at eighteen after her father raised his hands one too many times. How she had once worked as a fashion merchandising intern at a small but promising brand in Hongdae. How that dream had collapsed when she could no longer afford rent and her so called friends introduced her to the club scene as an easy way to make money.
"Easy," she had laughed bitterly one night. "What a fucking joke."
Y/N listened without judgment. In return he told her things he had never admitted to anyone. The crushing weight of his parents expectations. The fear that if he ever stepped out of line they would see him as a failure. The terrifying realization that he was almost thirty years old and had never made a single major decision for himself.
One night the club was particularly crowded. A group of loud businessmen in the neighboring VIP section had clearly overindulged. They kept calling Giselle over, waving thick stacks of cash and demanding she dance for them. Y/N watched from his booth as she tried to keep control of the situation with professional smiles and careful deflections.
Then one of the men, a heavy set guy in his late forties with a gold watch that looked ridiculous on his wrist, grabbed her wrist hard enough to make her stumble.
"Come on, you little tease," the man slurred. "Stop acting like a stuck up bitch and twerk that ass for us. That is what we paid for."
Y/N was on his feet before he even realized what he was doing.
"Take your hands off her," he said, voice low but carrying over the music.
The man turned, eyes bloodshot with anger and alcohol. "Who the fuck are you? Her boyfriend?"
Giselle tried to pull away, but the man's grip only tightened. "Y/N, do not. I can handle this."
But Y/N had spent his entire life swallowing his words. For once, something inside him refused to stay quiet. He stepped closer until he was directly in the man's face.
"I said let go. Now. Or I will make sure every person in this club knows exactly who you are and what you just did. My family name carries more weight in this city than whatever dirty money you crawled out of."
The threat landed. The man looked at Y/N's expensive watch, his tailored clothes, and the absolute certainty in his eyes. Slowly he released Giselle's wrist. She immediately stepped behind Y/N, rubbing the bruised skin.
Security finally arrived and escorted the entire group out. When they were gone, Giselle grabbed Y/N by the sleeve and pulled him into one of the private rooms at the back of the club. She shut the door behind them. The music became a dull throb through the walls.
"You idiot," she hissed. "Do you have any idea who that man was? He is a regular. He has connections. You do not just threaten people like that here."
Y/N looked at the red marks on her wrist. Something protective and angry burned in his chest.
"He had no right to touch you like that."
Giselle stared at him. Her breathing was uneven. The glossy makeup, usually so perfect, had started to smudge slightly at the corners of her eyes. For the first time she looked like a real person instead of the fantasy she sold every night.
"Why do you keep coming back?" she whispered. "What do you actually want from me, Y/N?"
He took a step closer. "I want the real you. Not the girl who twerks for money. Not the one who hides behind bright hair and heavy makeup. I want to know the person who once dreamed about fashion. The one who is still fighting even after everything."
Giselle's eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. She turned away from him, shoulders tense.
"You have no idea how fucked up my life is," she said quietly. "You think you can just walk in and fix me? That is not how this works."
"I am not trying to fix you," Y/N replied. "I am trying to know you. And maybe in the process you can show me how to live for once."
Silence stretched between them. When Giselle finally turned back around, something had changed in her expression. The walls were not gone, but a small crack had appeared.
She took a deep breath.
"Fine," she said. "One chance. Meet me outside the club tomorrow at four in the morning after my shift ends. No drivers. No fancy cars. Just you. And if you are even one minute late, I swear to god I will never speak to you again."
Y/N felt something loosen in his chest for the first time in years.
"I will be there."
Giselle gave him a small, tired smile. The first real one he had ever seen from her.
"We will see, perfect boy. We will see."
—
The next morning at exactly four o'clock, Y/N stood outside the employee entrance of Velvet Eclipse wearing jeans and a simple black coat. No driver. No luxury car. He had taken a taxi three blocks away and walked the rest of the distance like a normal person. It felt strangely liberating.
Giselle emerged at four fifteen. She had changed out of her club outfit into an oversized hoodie, black sweatpants, and sneakers. Her silver hair was tied up in a messy bun and most of the heavy makeup had been removed. She looked younger. More fragile. But no less beautiful.
She stopped when she saw him waiting.
"You actually came," she said, sounding almost impressed.
"I told you I would."
They started walking down the quiet street. The city was still asleep except for the occasional delivery truck and early morning joggers. For a while neither of them spoke. Then Giselle broke the silence.
"I usually get fried chicken and beer after bad nights," she said. "You eat that kind of thing, Mr. Perfect?"
Y/N smiled. "Of course I do. Who doesn't like fried chicken?"
They found a small twenty four hour chicken spot tucked behind a side street. The owner clearly knew Giselle. He greeted her warmly and gave them a quiet table in the back. They ordered a large platter of fried chicken, two cold beers, and some pickled radish.
As they ate, the conversation flowed easier than it ever had inside the club. Giselle told him more about her past. How her father had been an angry drunk who blamed her for every problem in his life. How she had gotten the internship at the fashion company through pure stubbornness and talent, only to lose it when she could not keep up with both work and the growing pile of bills. How the club had seemed like the only answer at the time.
"I hated it at first," she admitted, picking at a piece of chicken. "But after a while you get numb. You put on the makeup, the bright hair, the fake smile. You become Giselle. She does not get hurt. She does not cry. She just survives."
Y/N listened carefully. "And who is Aeri?" he asked gently.
She looked down at her beer for a long moment.
"Aeri is tired," she said quietly. "Aeri wants to draw clothes again. Aeri wants to feel safe for once in her fucking life. But Aeri does not know how to trust anyone anymore."
Y/N reached across the table and gently touched her hand. She did not pull away.
"I am not asking you to trust me overnight," he said. "But I would like the chance to earn it. Let me help you. Not because I want to save you. Because I think we both need saving in different ways."
Giselle looked at him with eyes that had seen too much for her age. Then she gave a small laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
"You are going to ruin me, Kim Y/N. Or maybe I am going to ruin you. I have not decided yet."
They stayed in that small chicken restaurant until the sun began to rise. For the first time in his life, Y/N did not check his phone once. He did not think about his parents waiting at home or the board meeting scheduled for next week.
He simply sat across from a girl with messy silver hair and no makeup, eating fried chicken and feeling more alive than he had in years.
When they finally stepped back onto the street, Giselle turned to him.
"Actually, I never felt this peace when talking to people. Same time tomorrow?" she asked, trying to sound casual but failing.
Y/N nodded. "Yeah, I would love to."
As he watched her walk away, hood pulled up over her bright hair, he realized something dangerous.
He was already falling.
And for once in his carefully controlled life, he had no desire to stop himself.
—
The weeks that followed their first meal together became a secret world that belonged only to them. Y/N began to structure his days around the moments he could steal with Giselle. He would finish his assigned tasks at the company with mechanical precision, attend the meetings his father demanded, and then slip away under the excuse of late night networking or solo workouts. Each lie felt heavier than the last, yet the reward was worth every risk.
They met at odd hours. Sometimes at four in the morning after her shift. Sometimes in the early afternoon when she had recovered enough to face daylight. Giselle showed him parts of Seoul he had never known existed. Narrow alleyways filled with street vendors selling hotteok and tteokbokki. A small park near the Han River where they sat on cold benches and watched the water move under moonlight. A hidden record store in Hongdae that stayed open until dawn.
In return, Y/N slowly began to open the doors to his own world. He took her to a quiet art gallery after closing hours through a connection he had. He brought her books on fashion design and watched her eyes light up as she traced the pages with careful fingers. The more time they spent together, the more the glossy version of Giselle faded away. She stopped wearing the heavy club makeup when she met him. Her silver hair was often tied back simply. She looked softer this way. More dangerous to his heart.
One night in late October they sat on the roof of an old building Giselle knew about. The city spread out beneath them like a sea of lights. A half empty bottle of soju rested between them. The air had grown cold enough that their breath fogged slightly.
Giselle leaned her head against his shoulder. It was the closest they had ever been physically.
"I keep waiting for you to get bored," she said quietly. "Rich boys always do eventually. They realize a girl who used to dance on tables does not fit in their world."
Y/N turned his head and looked at her. Without the heavy makeup he could see the faint freckles across her nose and the small scar near her left eyebrow. He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"I am not bored," he said. "I have spent my whole life feeling nothing. With you I feel everything. Anger at your past. Joy when you laugh. Fear that I might lose this. I do not want to go back to being numb."
Giselle lifted her head. Her eyes searched his face for any sign of deception.
The air between them had grown thick and electric. For weeks they had been holding back, but tonight the dam finally broke.
Giselle shifted closer, her thigh pressing firmly against his. The oversized hoodie slipped off her shoulder, exposing smooth skin and the thin strap of her top. Y/N’s gaze darkened as he stared at her lips, then lower, watching the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath.
He couldn’t wait anymore.
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss. What started as something tentative quickly turned filthy. Their mouths opened hungrily. Tongues slid hot and wet against each other as years of pent-up lust exploded between them. Giselle moaned loudly into his mouth, a needy sound that went straight to his cock.
Y/N gripped her face with both hands and kissed her harder, devouring her. Giselle responded just as desperately, sucking on his tongue while her hands fisted the front of his coat. She swung one leg over him and straddled his lap without breaking the kiss, grinding her clothed pussy down against the hard bulge in his pants.
“Fuck…” she gasped against his lips, rolling her hips in slow, dirty circles. “You’re already so hard.”
Y/N groaned deeply, his hands sliding under her hoodie to grip her bare waist. He could feel the heat of her cunt through both their clothes as she rocked against him. His cock throbbed painfully, trapped under her grinding pussy. He bucked up instinctively, pressing his thick length against her clit, drawing a sharp, filthy moan from her throat.
“Ahh— Y/N…”
He attacked her neck, sucking and biting the sensitive skin while one hand moved up to squeeze her breast, pinching her hardened nipple through her thin top. Giselle’s head fell back as she moaned louder, grinding faster against his cock. Her panties were already soaked. He could feel the wetness seeping through his pants.
“Shit… you’re dripping all over me,” he growled against her neck.
Giselle whimpered at his dirty words. She reached between them and boldly palmed his cock through his pants, stroking him firmly as she continued grinding her soaked pussy against his thigh.
“I want you so fucking bad,” she breathed, voice hoarse with lust. “I’ve been wet for you for weeks.”
Y/N cursed under his breath. He shoved his hand into her sweatpants from behind, bypassing her soaked panties. His fingers immediately found her slick folds, rubbing her swollen clit in tight circles.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “Such a wet little pussy for me.”
Giselle cried out, her hips jerking hard as two of his thick fingers sank inside her without warning. She rode his fingers desperately while still stroking his cock, her moans growing louder and more shameless. The wet sounds of his fingers pumping into her drenched cunt filled the quiet rooftop.
“Y/N… oh my god— right there,” she moaned, her walls clenching around his fingers. “Don’t stop… fuck, I’m gonna cum—”
He kissed her again, swallowing her moans as he curled his fingers inside her, stroking that perfect spot while his thumb rubbed her clit. Giselle shook in his lap, her hand tightening around his throbbing cock as her orgasm crashed into her.
She came hard with a broken cry of his name, her pussy gushing around his fingers. Her whole body trembled as she rode out the waves of pleasure, moaning filthily against his mouth.
When she finally came down, she looked at him with glazed, lust-drunk eyes. Her breathing was ragged.
Y/N pulled his fingers out of her and brought them to his lips, tasting her. The sight made Giselle whimper again.
“I think I am falling in love with you,” he whispered against her swollen lips, voice rough with need.
Giselle let out a shaky laugh that sounded close to tears, even as her hand continued slowly stroking his painfully hard cock.
“You are such an idiot,” she breathed, kissing him deeply. “I fell first. Weeks ago. I just didn’t want to admit it.”
She rested her forehead against his, still gently grinding her soaked pussy against his cock as the sky slowly turned pink around them.
They stayed on that rooftop for a long time, wrapped in each other, exchanging slow, filthy kisses while the city woke up beneath them. For the first time, their relationship had been named. Confirmed.
It was no longer two broken people carefully circling each other.
It was raw, desperate, and real.
And it was only the beginning.
—
Their confirmed relationship brought new challenges. Giselle began to pull away from the more dangerous aspects of club work. She reduced her hours and focused on studying for her GED during the day. Y/N paid for her textbooks and a quiet tutor, despite her initial fierce protests.
"You are not my sugar daddy," she had snapped one afternoon in his secret apartment that he had rented just to have somewhere private with her.
"I am not trying to buy you," he answered calmly. "I am trying to help the woman I love reach her dreams. Let me do this one thing."
She had cursed at him in both Korean and English for ten straight minutes before finally accepting with tears in her eyes. That night they made love for the first time. It was slow and intense. Giselle cried afterward, not from sadness but from the overwhelming feeling of being truly seen and wanted for who she was beneath everything.
Y/N began to rebel in small ways. He missed two family dinners. He turned down a golf outing with important investors. When his father questioned him, he gave vague answers instead of the detailed reports he used to provide without hesitation. His mother noticed the changes immediately.
"You seem distracted lately," she said during one breakfast. "Is something wrong at the company?"
"Everything is fine," Y/N replied. But his voice lacked its usual certainty.
Meanwhile Giselle was transforming. She started sketching again. Simple designs at first. Then bolder ones. She dyed her hair back to a more natural dark brown with only subtle silver highlights. The heavy makeup became something she wore only when necessary. Each change made Y/N fall harder.
"I am scared," she admitted to him one night as they lay tangled in sheets. "What if I am not enough for your world? What if I drag you down?"
"You are not dragging me anywhere," he told her, kissing her bare shoulder. "You are pulling me up. For the first time I am choosing my own life. And I choose you."
Those words would soon be tested.
—
The illusion of secrecy could not last forever.
Y/N's mother had always maintained a network of discreet contacts throughout Seoul. When her son began coming home at strange hours with unfamiliar scents on his clothes, she grew suspicious. One phone call to a manager at Velvet Eclipse was all it took. The information she received made her physically ill.
A club hostess.
Not just any hostess. One with a well documented history of entertaining wealthy men. A girl who had once worked as a fashion merchandising intern before falling into that pit of sin and glitter. The dossier her investigator brought her was thorough. Photos. Bank records. Even testimony from former clients.
Y/N's father read the file in silence. His face grew darker with every page.
"This is who he has been wasting his time on?" he said coldly. "After everything we have given him. This is his rebellion?"
They waited for the perfect moment. It came two nights later when Y/N arrived home earlier than usual. His parents were waiting in the formal living room like judges preparing a sentence.
His mother spoke first. "We know about the girl. Giselle, is it? Or should we call her by her real name? Aeri. The club whore."
Y/N froze. The word hit him like a slap.
"Do not call her that," he said, voice low and dangerous. It was the first time he had ever spoken to his mother with real anger.
His father stood up. "You will end this immediately. We have already begun arranging meetings with appropriate young women from good families. This nonsense has gone on long enough."
Y/N looked at both of them. Years of suppressed resentment rose to the surface.
"No," he said.
His mother blinked. "What did you say?"
"I said no. I am not ending anything. I love her. And tomorrow night I am bringing her here for dinner. You will treat her with respect or I will walk out that door and never come back."
The silence that followed was deafening.
His father laughed bitterly. "You would throw away your future for a girl who twerks for money?"
Y/N met his father's eyes without flinching. "She is worth more than every deal you have ever made."
He left the room before they could respond. His hands were shaking. For the first time in his life he had directly defied them. The feeling was both terrifying and exhilarating.
That night he called Giselle.
"I am bringing you home tomorrow," he told her. "It is time they meet the woman I am going to marry."
Giselle was quiet for a long time on the other end of the line.
"I am going to ruin your life," she whispered.
"No," Y/N answered. "You are saving it."
—
The dinner was set for eight o'clock.
Giselle arrived at the Hannam-dong estate wearing a simple but elegant black dress. Her hair was its natural dark brown with subtle silver tones. The makeup was light and tasteful. She looked nervous but determined. Y/N held her hand tightly as they walked through the front doors.
His parents were already seated at the long dining table. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Servants moved silently, placing dishes with perfect precision. No one spoke until the first course had been served.
Y/N's mother spoke first, her voice icy.
"So you are the girl who has been distracting our son from his responsibilities."
Giselle lifted her chin. "Yes, ma'am. My name is Uchinaga Aeri. Though most people know me as Giselle."
The questions began immediately. His father asked about her family. His mother inquired about her education. Every answer Giselle gave seemed to disappoint them further. When they learned she had dropped out of university and worked at Velvet Eclipse for nearly four years, the mask of civility began to crack.
"You worked at that place," his mother said with clear disgust. "Dancing. Entertaining men. And you think you are suitable for our son?"
Giselle's hands tightened around her napkin. Y/N could see the old defensive walls rising rapidly.
His father piled on. "We know everything. The bright hair. The dancing. The men who paid you to twerk your ass for them like some cheap performer. Our son deserves better than a glorified prostitute."
That was the moment something inside Giselle snapped.
She slammed her hand on the table and stood up. Her eyes burned with years of pain and anger.
"Yes, I was but now I am with better man, and my man does not deserve a bright hair girlfriend who can twerk her ass. He deserves better. So if the thing that me learning to be better bothering you, then go fuck yourselves."
The words echoed through the dining room like gunshots. Y/N's mother looked genuinely shocked. His father turned red with rage.
Y/N stood up beside Giselle, placing a protective hand on her lower back. He had never felt prouder of anyone in his life.
Before his parents could respond, Giselle took a deep, shaky breath. The fire in her eyes dimmed and was replaced by something much more vulnerable. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes but she refused to let them fall.
"I am wholeheartedly sorry for your son to date a girl like me," she said, voice trembling. "But I will not give up on him, ma'am. Your son offered me a way out of my pathetic life and I have promised to make him happy. So please. Can you give me a chance?"
The room fell into heavy silence.
Y/N's mother studied her for a long time. The older woman seemed to be weighing something carefully. Finally she spoke again.
"You said you once worked as a fashion merchandising intern before you worked for the club, right?"
Giselle nodded slowly. "Yes, ma'am."
Y/N's mother folded her hands on the table. Her expression remained cold, but there was a calculating look in her eyes.
"You can consider working for that same position or one similar to it. Start from the bottom and I will have my secretary keeping an eye on you. Let us see how you progress from there. If you fail, you will leave my son alone. If you succeed, perhaps we can revisit this conversation."
It was not acceptance. It was a test. A conditional lifeline wrapped in control.
Giselle looked at Y/N. He gave her a small nod, pride and love clear in his eyes.
She turned back to his mother.
"I accept," she said firmly. "Thank you for the opportunity."
Y/N's father looked ready to argue further, but his wife raised a hand to silence him. The rest of the dinner passed in uncomfortable silence. When it finally ended, Y/N walked Giselle to the car he had waiting outside.
The moment they were alone in the backseat, she collapsed against him and began to cry.
"I am sorry," she whispered between sobs. "I should not have cursed at them. I ruined everything."
Y/N held her tightly and kissed the top of her head.
"You were perfect," he said. "You showed them both sides of you. The fighter and the woman trying to grow. I have never loved you more than I did in that room."
As the car drove away from the estate, Y/N knew the real battle had only just begun. His parents would not surrender control so easily. But for the first time in his life he was ready to fight.
And he would fight for her until the end.
—
The days after the dinner became a battlefield veiled in cold politeness.
Y/N's mother followed through on her word. Giselle was given a junior position in the merchandising department of one of their smaller fashion subsidiaries. She started at the very bottom. Early mornings. Menial tasks. A secretary who reported her every move directly to Y/N's mother.
The pressure was immense. Some days Giselle came home exhausted and defeated, convinced she would fail their test. On those nights Y/N held her and reminded her why she was doing this. He watched her sketches fill entire notebooks. He saw the quiet determination in her eyes grow stronger each week.
His father refused to speak to him beyond necessary business matters. The disappointment was constant and heavy. Yet Y/N felt strangely free. He began making decisions at the company that his father did not approve of. He took on projects that interested him rather than ones chosen for him.
The relationship between Y/N and Giselle grew deeper through the fire. They fought sometimes. The stress brought out ugly sides of both of them. But they always found their way back to each other. She taught him how to argue without shutting down. He taught her how to accept help without feeling weak.
One night, three months after the dinner confrontation, Giselle came home with her first major success. A small design suggestion she had made had been approved and implemented in the upcoming line. She was glowing.
Y/N pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply.
"We are really doing this," she whispered against his lips. "We are actually building something real."
Y/N smiled. "We are. And we are not stopping. We will prove to them no matter what."
However, unknown to them, Y/N's parents were preparing one final test. A decision that would force both of them to choose once and for all between the life they had been given and the life they were building together.
—
The final test came without warning on a rainy Thursday evening. Y/N had just returned from the office when both of his parents requested his presence in the study. The room felt colder than usual. His father stood by the window with a glass of whiskey. His mother sat behind the large oak desk like a judge.
"We have been patient," his father began. "We allowed the girl to work in one of our companies. We have watched her for months. But this rebellion has gone on long enough. You will end the relationship. You will marry someone appropriate. You will take your rightful place as heir without any further distractions."
Y/N stood perfectly still. The old version of himself would have nodded. He would have swallowed his feelings and obeyed. That version no longer existed.
"No," he said clearly. "I will not end anything. I love Giselle. She is not a distraction. She is the best part of my life."
His mother’s eyes narrowed. "Then you will choose. Continue this foolish relationship and we will remove you from all company positions. You will receive nothing from us. No money. No connections. No inheritance. You will be on your own."
The threat should have terrified him. Instead Y/N felt an odd sense of relief. He looked at both of them with calm determination.
"If that is what you want, then I accept. I would rather build a life with the woman I love than live in a golden cage without her."
His father slammed his glass down. "You are throwing away everything we built for some club girl who will eventually show her true colors."
"She already has," Y/N replied. "And her true colors are more beautiful than anything you could ever understand."
He walked out of the study without another word. That night he drove straight to the small apartment he now shared with Giselle. When he told her what had happened, she stared at him in disbelief.
"You gave up everything? For me?"
Y/N pulled her into his arms. "I did not give up anything. I finally chose something for myself. We will be okay. I have some savings. I can start consulting independently. You are already doing so well at the company. We will build from the ground up together."
Giselle cried that night. Not from fear, but from the overwhelming realization that someone truly loved her enough to burn every bridge behind him.
—
The first six months after Y/N was cut off were brutal. They moved into a smaller apartment in a modest neighborhood. Y/N started a small consulting firm from their living room, taking on whatever clients he could find. Many doors that used to open easily for him remained closed now that his family name no longer protected him.
Giselle worked even harder. She arrived at the company every morning at seven and often stayed until nine at night. The secretary assigned to watch her slowly stopped reporting negative things. Instead she began reporting genuine progress. Giselle’s eye for trends was exceptional. Her sketches were fresh and commercial at the same time. She volunteered for every extra project. She learned from every mistake.
There were nights when they ate instant ramen because money was tight. There were mornings when Giselle woke up exhausted and doubted herself.
"What if your parents were right?" she asked one particularly hard day. "What if I am just dragging you down?"
Y/N cupped her face gently. "You are not dragging me down. You are the reason I get up every morning excited about life. We are doing this together. No matter how long it takes."
Their love deepened through the struggle. They fought sometimes. Stress made them sharp with each other. But they always apologized. They always chose each other again. Giselle began to sketch late into the night after work, creating an entire portfolio of original designs. Y/N supported her completely. He believed in her even when she struggled to believe in herself.
Slowly the hard work began to bear fruit. A senior director at the company noticed one of Giselle’s designs during a presentation. He asked to see more. Within weeks she was moved from the bottom rung to the creative team. Her ideas started appearing in actual product lines. Customers responded well. Sales numbers proved her instincts were correct.
Y/N’s consulting business also began to grow. He refused to rely on his family name and instead built his reputation on honesty and results. The couple celebrated every small victory with cheap wine and homemade dinners. Their apartment might have been small, but it was filled with laughter, sketches, and the kind of genuine happiness Y/N had never known in the mansion he grew up in.
—
One year after Y/N had been cut off, Giselle’s career exploded.
It started with a single collection. The creative director had given her a chance to lead a small capsule line aimed at young professional women. Giselle poured everything she had into it. She worked eighteen hour days. She listened to customer feedback. She combined her knowledge of street style from her club days with the technical training she had received. The result was a collection that felt fresh, wearable, and empowering.
When it launched, it sold out in three days.
Fashion magazines began calling. Industry veterans who had once dismissed her wanted meetings. A major department store chain approached the company wanting exclusive rights to her next line. Within six months Giselle was promoted to Associate Creative Director. She was only twenty seven years old.
She no longer needed the silver hair or heavy makeup to feel confident. Her natural beauty, paired with her sharp talent, made her a force in the industry. Interviews called her a rising star. One magazine featured her on the cover with the headline "From Nightlife to Runway: The Relentless Rise of Uchinaga Aeri."
Y/N framed that cover and hung it in their new, slightly larger apartment.
"I told you," he said one night as they lay in bed together. "I always knew you would become a big shot. This was never about me saving you. You saved yourself. I just got to watch it happen."
Giselle traced patterns on his chest. "I could not have done it without you. When I wanted to quit, you reminded me why I started. You gave me stability when my whole life had been chaos."
Their success was not without challenges. Old clients from her club days occasionally tried to resurface with ugly rumors. Giselle faced them head on with grace and honesty. She never hid her past. Instead she spoke about it in interviews as a period of survival that taught her resilience. The fashion world respected her for it.
Y/N’s own business had grown into a respected boutique firm. He no longer needed his family’s name. He had created his own reputation.
But the final piece still missing was his parents’ approval. Giselle still carried the quiet fear that they would never accept her. Y/N told her repeatedly that it did not matter. They had built a beautiful life without them. Yet he knew deep down that reconciliation would bring her peace.
—
The call came on a warm spring afternoon two years after the disastrous family dinner.
Y/N’s mother requested a meeting. Not at the family estate, but at a quiet cafe near Giselle’s company. When they arrived, both of Y/N’s parents were already seated. There were no dossiers this time. No cold threats. Just two older people who looked strangely tired.
His mother spoke first, looking directly at Giselle.
"We have been following your progress. The capsule collection. The sales numbers. The way you have conducted yourself. We expected you to fail. Instead you have become one of the most promising talents in the industry."
Giselle sat very still. "I worked hard, ma’am. Not to prove anything to you. But because Y/N showed me I was worth believing in."
His father cleared his throat. "We were wrong about you. We saw your past and assumed the worst. We did not see the woman willing to fight for our son. We did not see how much he has grown since meeting you."
Y/N’s mother reached across the table and placed a small box in front of them. Inside was a beautiful engagement ring that had belonged to Y/N’s grandmother.
"We withdraw our opposition," she said quietly. "You have both proven that your relationship is not a rebellion. It is something real. We would like to be part of your lives again. If you will have us."
Giselle looked at Y/N with tears in her eyes. He nodded.
"We would like that," Giselle answered. "Thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself."
His mother actually smiled. It was small and hesitant, but it was real. "You have more than proven yourself, Aeri. Welcome to the family."
The conversation that followed lasted for hours. Old wounds were acknowledged. Apologies were made. His father admitted that watching Y/N build success without him had been both painful and impressive. His mother confessed that Giselle’s determination reminded her of herself when she was young.
Healing would take time. But the door was finally open.
—
One year later, on the rooftop where they had shared their first kiss, Y/N got down on one knee.
The city sparkled beneath them just as it had that night years ago. Giselle stood in front of him wearing a simple white dress. Her hair was its natural dark brown and fell softly around her shoulders. No heavy makeup. No armor. Just the woman he loved more than anything.
"Aeri," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You taught me how to live. You taught me how to fight for what matters. You turned my world upside down in the best possible way. I do not want to spend another day without you as my wife. Will you marry me?"
Giselle covered her mouth with both hands as tears spilled down her cheeks. "Yes," she whispered. "God, yes. A thousand times yes."
He slipped the ring onto her finger and stood up to kiss her. The kiss tasted like salt from happy tears and the sweetness of fulfilled promises. Below them the city continued its endless rhythm, but up here on the roof, time seemed to stop.
Their wedding was beautiful and intimate. Y/N’s parents attended and sat in the front row. His mother even helped choose the flowers. Giselle’s designs were featured prominently in the ceremony. She had become a genuine big shot in the fashion world. Her own brand was launching the following season. Critics called her collections revolutionary. She gave interviews where she spoke openly about her journey from survival to success.
Y/N continued growing his consulting firm. They bought a house with a garden where they planted vegetables together on weekends. They took spontaneous trips on motorcycles just like they had in the early days. The perfect son had become a man who chose his own path. The rebel with the messy past had become a respected artist and wife.
On their first wedding anniversary they returned to the same small chicken restaurant where they had eaten after her shift years ago. They sat at the same table and laughed about how far they had come.
Giselle reached across the table and took his hand.
"Thank you for saving me," she said softly. "When I was all gloss and armor, you fixed me."
Y/N kissed her knuckles. "Thank you for teaching me how to feel alive. I was sleepwalking through my own life until I met you."
They left the restaurant holding hands. The night air was cool and full of possibility. As they walked toward their future, bright lights of the city stretching out before them, both of them knew one simple truth.
They had not just found love.
They had built an entirely new life together.
One that was messy, real, passionate, and completely their own.
~NJZ's Hanni (x Male Reader), Fluff, Smut, 7.7k words, One Shot
Read it on Fanprose
A/N: Guess I'll go first, lol
A/N 2: This is part of the time based prompt @azelfty and I hosted! Stay tuned for a masterlist of everyone's prompts
Time Duration: Until they call back
Wildcard: MC can always see a timer counting down their [duration of time]
“We just—”
“Just what Hanni?” You say with a shaking voice full of desperation.
“We just need a break.”
Your heart does that thing where it slows, so much so your head goes woozy and time seems to freeze.
And she says your name as if she didn’t just rip the vocal chords out of your throat.
“Is that what you want?” You ask.
“It’s what we need,” she says after a while. “We— we can’t be apart, but when we’re together, it’s like we’re suffocating each other. Like we’re walking on threads.”
“We didn’t even fight last night”
“We sat on my couch for 6 hours. We barely talked, barely looked at each other.”
Your voice goes thin. “I don’t want to lose you Hanni.”
“But we’re losing ourselves. I— I don’t even know how to be me anymore.”
You try to push whatever it is you need to out, to beg, to apologize, to tell her you love her. But the line stays silent.
“I don’t want to lose you either.” She says.
“Then why?”
“I think that’s what we have to figure out.”
Your bed feels like thorns.
“It’s late. I’ll call you. When I do. Figure it out,” she says when the silence feels too close.
“Han—,” but the line is already dead and the tears have already started.
You look at the phone, now just a phone and not a 7 inch box burning a hole into your heart. It’s 2:52 in the morning, and you want to call her back. But you don’t. Instead, you do what you always do. Lay there.
And the blackness is painful but familiar.
No, not blackness, you realize. Because your brain is doing that thing it does. In the back of your mind, you can almost see it. A little timer, dropping in ticks like acid burning through a beaker.
You’ve been to the doctor about it. They say it’s just a psychological response, something your mind does when your stressed, or excited, or anxious; when you’re waiting for something. It’s something your brain does to give yourself some sense of control, to not have to wait in agony. They say it’s not accurate— but it is. Every single time.
I’ll call you. When I do. Figure it out.
2 weeks, 3 days, 7 hours, and 23 minutes.
That’s when she’ll call.
A near 3 weeks. You’ve not gone 48 hours without talking to her since, well, you’ve met her.
You don’t sleep tonight
---
You didn’t even check who was calling when you answered. It was 11:11. She always called at 11:11.
“Morning,” Hanni said.
“What happened to not calling? I thought we called too much,” you teased.
“You don’t seem that mad, you’re smiling!”
“How would you know?”
“I can hear it.”
“You can hear me smiling?”
“Of course I can. I missed your voice.”
“I called you last night.”
“That doesn’t count, I was walking home alone.”
“So?”
“So it doesn’t count. What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“Perfect, you’re free!”
“No, I’m cleaning.”
“I want to see you.”
You looked around your living room, littered with hoodies and an empty coffee mug. That TV needed dusting too. Plus that bookshelf was definitely not organized.
“I’ll be there in 10.”
---
It’s 11:11. You can barely close your eyes, lest you see the timer, still mockingly counting down the 2 and a half weeks before Hanni calls.
She hasn’t called you at this time in over 2 months, and today would be no different, you’re on ‘a break’ after all. Your timer confirms it. Hanni won’t call you until it ends. Still, you can’t help but stare at your phone, hoping it buzzes. The Sun shines through your apartment windows, softened by the blinds you’ve kept drawn for the past who knows how long.
You throw your phone down on the couch, standing up and kicking the takeout box you still haven’t thrown out from last night. It’s still on the floor. Because apparently you keep takeout boxes on the floor now.
You keep replaying the conversation, the NOT breakup in your head. Over and over. We’re suffocating each other. We’re losing ourselves.
You love Hanni; Hanni loves you. You know that, you know in your hearts very cells that it’s true. So why? What good would taking a break do? She says she’s losing herself, that she doesn’t know who she is anymore. So why couldn’t you help her with that? You close your eyes.
2 weeks, 2 days, 23 hours, and 4 minutes
She’s gonna call, you remind yourself. She’s gonna call and you’ll talk it out, and you’ll get back togethe—
Your phone rings and you nearly trip on the cardboard boxes you’ve been storing near your door— kept there to remind you to take them out next time you leave. They’ve been there for 2 weeks.
You’re at your phone in a second, answering it before you can process who it is.
“Hanni I—” you start.
“Hanni?” A familiar voice questions.
“Oh, sorry Danielle. I—”
“Yeah, I heard,” your oldest friends voice pierces through the phone. It was a different type of tightness, to hear someone else confirm your situation. If it was just you, if it was unknown, you could pretend, pretend like everything was okay, like you and Hanni were still happy.
“What did she say?” You asked, though you weren’t sure you wanted to know.
Danielle’s cheerful inflection never leaves. Maybe it’s mockery, but probably not. This is Danielle. “She just said she needed— both of you needed time.”
“And? Did she say anything else?”
“No, that’s why I called. But you better not let her go. I didn’t introduce you two for you to break up 2 years later!”
“We won’t,” you say, closing your eyes to the timer. “We won’t. I just wish I could talk to her. But maybe it’s best— to, I don’t know, figure things out.”
“Maybe,” Danielle ponders. “Things have been different lately— between you two I mean.”
“I hadn’t even noticed,” you lament.
“Well, maybe that’s the problem.”
---
Lemon. That’s what it needed.
You squeezed some over the chicken piccata. Something she’d never had. You closed your eyes, welcoming the blackness, welcoming the enhancement it brought to your other senses. The smell, fragrant and rich.
It was 10:30. Hanni’s shift ended at 11. The timing, perfect. Save for the dishes, you’d have to do those later. Still, you gave the counters a wipe down, organized the pans by size, and put them in the sink to soak.
You stepped outside, Tupperware wrapped in a plastic bag. Feeling the chill, you turned back and grabbed the black wool cardigan hanging on your coatrack. Colder than yesterday. The walk to the diner was short if you took the back alleys. It was nice, walking in the dim glow of the streetlights and looking at the graffiti, of the harsh lines of spray paint coalescing into beautiful murals.
You passed the old park, the one you and Danielle used to play at with the other kids your age, the park you got the small scar above your eye at, and the park where you and Hanni had your first kiss. 10:42, still time. The diner wasn’t too far now.
Hanni always described the diner as shitty. It’s décor corny and outdated, with the checkered floors, bright red vinyl booths and tables that seemed to be perpetually sticky. You thought that’s what gave it character.
Still, you could tell she loved working there— everyone could. You watched through the window as she delivered a plate to an elderly couple, smile full and bright. She said something to them, and the old man laughed so hard he almost spat his sprite. You imagined he was drinking sprite, for whatever reason.
You circled around to the back, close enough to the back door, but far enough from the trashcans to wait. It was times like these you would’ve lit a cigarette in the tranquility of the night air. Not anymore, though. Hanni didn’t like it.
Soon enough the backdoor opened. She hadn’t noticed you yet, so you just watched. Her hair tied up in a loose pony tail above her head, thick bangs covering the forehead she thought was too big even when you showered it with kisses. She wore the blue button up shirt and long skirt that fell down below her knees like it wasn’t just a diner uniform, like it was something more, something elegant.
You watched her shiver in the cool air, watched her brush a lose strand of hair back behind her ear.
“Cold?”
Hanni perked up at your voice, running towards you with arms outstretched.
“What are you doing here?” She asked, pulling you in, head sinking into your chest.
“I missed you.”
“You saw me on Sunday.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Mmm, I don’t know, just doesn’t,” you teased, wrapping her black cardigan around her shoulders. “Plus, it’s late. I don’t want you walking home alone.”
“I wouldn’t have walked home alone! I was just about to call you.”
“You’d still be alone.”
“No, you would be there.”
“How could I be there on a phone?” You grabbed your hand in yours, fingers interlocking.
Hanni fake sighed, but the smile that could bring you to your knees still lined her face. “You don’t get me, do you?”
You returned the fake sigh. “I get you Hanni.”
She gave your hand a squeeze. “I know you do. What’s that?” She asked, pointing to the plastic bag in your hand.
“I made dinner.”
“What’d you make?”
“It’s a secret,” you said.
Hanni ran off, hand still intertwined in yours dragging you away. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”
---
Your routine hasn’t changed much, really. You still wake up past noon most days, order some shitty take out that costs too much, turn the TV on and sit until the Sun starts to come down.
Except now it comes with an anxious vision in your head.
1 week, 6 days, 14 hours, and 39 minutes
And of course, a gnawing at your chest replacing the spot Hanni - all of her - used to occupy. You’ve barely touched the pasta you ordered. A couple of bites from the place you love. It doesn’t taste much.
You almost don’t get up when the ring of your doorbell interrupts your show— something about regular people? You never bothered remembering the title. Too melancholic anyway.
It’s only when you hear the unmistakable charm of your best friends voice that you answer.
“I know you’re in there! Open up,” Danielle knocks.
It’s only about a 6 second walk from your living room to the front door. It takes you about 45 second to haul yourself off the couch and shuffle your way there.
“Danielle?” You ask, covering your eyes from the light.
“What the vampire?” She asks, looking at the sky. “The Sun’s not even out. It’s sunset. The sky is literally purple.”
“It’s not literally purple,” you say annoyed.
“No, it literally is. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said ‘the sky is literally purple’”.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m your next door neighbour. I haven’t seen you in like 5 days. It was trash day today, and your bin hasn’t moved an inch. I thought you were dead!” And she smiles, for some reason.
“I forgot.”
And she does that thing she does where she rests her her hands on her hips like a teacher. “You forgot? Before I introduced you to Hanni, what did I tell you?” You just stare at her for a second, incredulous. “What, did you forget that too?”
“No— you said, you said I’d want to marry her.”
“And has that changed?”
“No! Of course not!” You say.
“There’s the passion I know from you. And what, do you think she’s gonna marry some slob?”
“I’m not a slo—”
“You weren’t.” Her expression softens as she looks at you. “You’re not. But look at you! It’s Hanni too. You’ve grown too comfortable.”
“What’s wrong with comfortable?” You ask.
“What’s wrong with comfortable,” she says all highbrow, “is that you forgot to take your trash out! And I think Hanni realized that. That she— both of you, were growing comfortable.”
“It’s not Hanni,” you say in reflex.
“2 weeks ago she didn’t leave her house for a week! She took time off from work just to rot in bed.”
“That’s just self care.”
“That is not self care.”
“Then what is?” You ask.
She smiles. You roll your eyes, but really, you’re glad she came. Of course she would have the answers. She turns heel and runs down your front steps, grabbing something before running back.
“This is self care!” She says, shoving a guitar into your hands.
“Is this my guitar?”
“Yup. I took it, like 2 months ago.”
The weight of it feels familiar in your hands. “I didn’t even notice it was gone.”
“Exactly!” She says.
“Exactly what?”
“Self care!” She yells before dashing off back to her house.
And you’re left there, standing in your doorway confused.
---
“I want a snack,” Hanni said.
“Yeah, but you’re comfy,” you retorted, head lolled on her lap, Hanni’s hand stroking your hair. “What do you want?” You said, caving in. You knew she knew you would cave in anyway.
“Mmm, I don’t know.”
“You never know.”
“Yeah, because you know for me.” Her hand finds your cheek, resting there in a gentle cup.
“I have chips.”
“I don’t want chips. Let’s just go to the convenience store.”
“But you’re comfy.” You said, eyes still closed.
Her other hand found your other cheek, squishing your face together. “C’mon, we skipped date night last week.”
“That’s ‘cause you said you were tired,” you teased, hands finding hers and rubbing the back of her palms as she continued to squish you.
“I want a fruit sando,” she decided. “Doesn’t that sound good right now?”
“Mmm, no. I had one yesterday.”
“When did you have a fruit sando?”
“Yesterday. Me and Danielle went.”
“Danielle? When?”
“I don’t know, it was late.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked.
You opened your eyes, sitting up from her lap. “Are— are you mad I went out with Danielle?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You look mad.”
“I’m not.”
“She’s my next door neighbour, Hanni. She’s your best friend— she introduced us.”
“I told you, I wasn’t mad. But I would’ve told you if I went out.”
“It was late, and I was going anyway. She was already outside, so I asked her if she wanted to come. I don’t see the problem,” you said defensively.
“There is no problem,” Hanni said, voice raised.
“It sounds like it’s a problem.”
“You’re making it a problem.” She retorted.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Danielle, if that’s your problem.”
“Are you even listening to me? I know there isn’t. I’m just saying, you could’ve told me you went out.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know,” you sighed.
Hanni looked at you, searching. Eyes flicking to each of yours, her own, watery. She plopped back down on the bed. “Just get me the chips.”
---
For some reason, you’re at a pottery studio.
Scratch that, maybe you started to realize what Danielle was saying. Maybe. Because honestly, you haven’t touched the guitar she gave you. Well, gave back to you.
But it was Sunday. Historically, date night for you and Hanni. Recently, though, it was the times you and Hanni would lie on your couch, or her bed and not talk for 6 hours. Still, you missed the way she felt in your arms, or the way her lap more comfortable than any pillow.
There was that word again, comfortable. You close your eyes, feeling the soft wet clay in your hands. Better to not look at the mess you’re making anyway.
1 week, 1 day, 21 hours, and 59 minutes.
A rush of excitement fills you. 1 week! The timer dropped by almost a whole week! You almost topple over your mound of clay still attached to the pottery wheel.
“Remember,” the soft voice of your pottery teacher says. One of phony transcendence. “Mistakes are okay.”
Why did the timer drop? This has never happened before, not when Hanni was on her 3 week vacation to Australia, not when you were waiting for your thesis grade, not even when your father was stuck in the hospital bed, cancer slowly witling him away.
Was she doing okay? Was she getting better, less comfortable, and ready to talk it out and make up? Or did she realize something? Realize she was better off without you? Was she ready to call you back to rip your heart out of your chest?
You slowed your breathing. This doesn’t— shouldn’t change anything. You’ve still committed to giving Hanni space, to respecting her wish to think things over, timer or not.
You look down at your mound of nothing. A plate should be easy, right?
---
“Where should we go?” Hanni asked, clinging to your arm. You always loved her style. Date night, but the yellowish-green top that slanted up to only cover one shoulder and layered translucent skirt that fell to her ankles still screamed chic and coziness with that backdrop of elegance.
“I already made reservations,” you said smugly.
Hanni hits you playfully. “Without asking me? What if I wanted—”
“That new Italian place that just opened?”
Her face went into the cutest pout you’d ever seen. But her smile still etched her face, even brighter if that was possible. “How did you know?”
“I always know,” you said, squeezing the arm wrapped around yours even tighter. “You sent me a Tiktok. Said you liked the plates, as if that’s a reason to go to a restaurant,” you said in response to the pout that still lined her face.
“Mmm, sure. You booked it for me. Not because you want their tiramisu.”
It was your turn to smile. “You caught me,” you said, as you ran playfully away of her.
“Get back here!” She chased.
---
It’s 11pm. Miraculously, you’re already in bed. You still wonder if Hanni is okay. If she’s eating properly, if she’s remembering to plug her phone in every night, if she’s getting home safely. You scour over every memory you’ve ever had with her. Interestingly, it’s the little things you remember, the way she rolled her eyes, the way she would play fight you whenever you took her side of the bed. It’s the simple things that make you long for the call she promised.
5 day, 11 hours, and 38 minutes
So soon now.
But the sound of your phone’s ring jolts your hand to it despite the timer you’ve been staring at, still ticking down the days..
“It’s Danielle, FYI.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Thought you’d think Hanni was calling.” It’s meant to be teasing, but Danielle says it as fact.
It’s already been over a week since your break, and hearing her name, hearing ‘Hanni’ said so casually feels as if you’re drowning in knee deep water.
“Have you seen her? Hanni I mean?”
“I’m seeing her tomorrow.”
“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to. “Tell her—,” you stop yourself. “Or, no. Just, I hope she’s alright.”
“Are you alright?” She asks, with none of the facetiousness she usually carries.
“Yeah,” you blurt. “Yeah, I’m alright?”
“How’s that guitar?”
“Haven’t touched it.”
“You haven’t— what did I say about self care? Hanni won’t want to get bac—”
“I took a pottery class.” Danielle’s laugh doesn’t help you feel better. Maybe it does, though. “It’s just, I think I know what you meant. About self care.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she says.
---
“You’ll have fun, trust me,” Danielle said, annoyed.
“Who’s going again?”
“Minho’s going. So is Minji—”
“Minji doesn’t like me,” you pointed out.
Danielle’s voice grew even more impatient, said, “you keep saying that, she doesn’t hate you,” then clicked her tongue at you.
“I never said anything about hate. Who else is going?”
“One of our other friends.”
“I know them?”
“They’re nice. You know, cool. Chill,” she reverted to a less annoyed but still annoying voice, probably hoping it would help convince you.
“I think I’ll pass.”
Danielle grabbed you by the collar. “You have to come!”
“And why do I have to come?”
“To meet our friend.”
“Oh because they’re nice? Cool? Chill?” You mocked.
“Just trust me. She’s kind of perfect for you. You’re gonna want to marry her.”
You laugh, but really it’s more of an annoyed exhalation.
“Seriously.” She said, and for some reason, you believed her. Not the part where you thought you’d want to marry a girl you’d just met, but just that Danielle believed it.
“Fine,” you sigh. “I’ll go.”
“What’s the hold up, we’re outside.” Danielle bellowed into your cars speakers. “We’re gonna be late.”
Minho’s voice pierced through your cars sound system. “Just a sec, the new girl forgot to charge her phone.”
Hmm, the car. That’s probably why Danielle wanted you to come so bad, you realized. For your car.
“Who, Hanni?” Danielle smiled.
“Yeah,” Minho replied annoyed.
“Just tell her she can charge it in my car,” you yelled too loud, before ending the line— something about talking on the phone in cars tricked your voice.
“You think I’m gonna want to marry a girl who can’t remember to charge her phone?”
“Just wait until you meet her.” She was confident— smug. You didn’t believe her. But when Minji, Minho and the new Hanni exited the house, Danielle rushed out of the car. “Minji! Hanni! Go sit in the front so you can charge your phone,” she said before turning back to you with a wink.
She climbed in sheepishly, and maybe you were starting to believe Danielle. Her hair tied in a loose ponytail, her impeccably chic fasion, the way she looked so effortlessly cool but approachable at the same time.
“Hey, it’s okay if I use your charger right?” The new Hanni asked.
Safe to say, you wanted to marry her.
---
You’ve been cleaning your place again. Not that it was dirty, just messy; you used to not like messy. You did it in waves, figuring if you organized it all at once you’d let it get messy again. Binge cleaning, you’ve heard it called somewhere. So instead, day by day, you organize. Taking out the boxes here, organizing your pantry there.
Other times you would just sit, closing your eyes and focusing on that damned timer in the back of your head. It didn’t exactly bring you comfort, but it was nice, nice knowing you and Hanni’s story wasn’t over, that there was still a chance.
3 days, 18 hours, and 19 minutes.
You think of her often, constant. Not in an ‘I need to get her back’ kind of way, just about… her. You never resent her for her choice to take a break. But still, the thoughts of her are consuming, so you commit to this self care nonsense Danielle pushed on you. And although your thoughts linger on the thing you know you want most, Hanni, your days are getting better. You no longer stay awake until the ungodly hours of the morning, no longer sleep in until the afternoon on the days you don’t work.
And today, you decide to deal with the mess that is your front yard. You always wanted a garden. Now’s as good a time as ever, you decide. You’re knee deep in the dirt, wrangling overgrown weeds in the 5 o’clock Sun, when it’s heat less overbearing when Danielle’s voice sings behind you.
“So he does leave his house.” She mocks, standing on the sidewalk in front of your lawn.
You silently thank her for the distraction from the weeds, tossing your trowel on the grass. “I told you, I went to pottery. Did you—”
“I saw her.”
“How is she?” You ask, and you drop the pretense. Your voice is hoarse and desperate.
“She’s good. Better, like you,” she says, and it’s weird to hear that you’re doing better when a week and a half ago you thought everything was okay. “Here,” she says, crossing the lawn. It’s a small Tupperware.
“What’s this?”
“Muffins. Chocolate chip. Hanni made them, she’s learning to bake!”
You stare at the container like it’s gold. “Hanni made them?”
“She told me to give you some.”
You don’t know what your heart does. Maybe it’s yearning, to see her again. Maybe it’s relief, to know she still thinks about you, or maybe it’s something else. Something you can’t say. “Hanni made them,” you repeat, soft.
Danielle eyes you like you’re a lost puppy. “Yeah… they’re good,” she says before turning off.
“Wait did you— did you guys talk about me?”
She turns, just her head, before smiling. “Only a lot!” She cheers before walking off.
The cupcakes were indeed good.
---
11:06pm, a call from Hanni. That was weird, she told you she was fine walking home from work alone now. You had told her it was fine, you liked being there when she walked, even if it was just on the phone. Weirder in fact because your fight the previous night wasn’t exactly resolved. You and Hanni just snacked on the bag of chips in silence.
It took you longer to answer than you’d want to admit. “Look, if this is about yesterday, I still don’t think—”
But when she says your name her voice is filled with urgency.
You stood up, knocking the takeout box you’d been eating from to the floor. “What? Where are you?”
“I just left work,” she said, voice barely audible.
“Go to the convenience store,” you rushed, gathering your things at the same time. “I’ll be there.”
“It’s fine,” she mumbles, trying to mask the fear in her voice. “Just— stay on the line with me.”
But you ignored her, leaving anyway, still clutching the phone to your ear. Hanni just breathed, assured you that she made it to the convenience store. You assessed the situation once you arrived. A man, middle aged, wore a dark sweater, hood strings drawn tight lingered outside the door, walking side to side with practiced patience. He was eerily calm. He looked dangerous.
You strolled past him into the convenience store, rushing to find your Hanni. She flinched at the sound of the chime when you entered. “It’s just me, Hanni,” you said through the phone. She turned to the front, locking eyes with you, and relief flooded her system. You hung up, and ran to her. The hug felt warm and present, but you weren’t paying attention to that. You just held her. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.” She breathed into you.
Another chime of the bell and the man was inside. He didn’t seem so calm now. You gripped Hanni close as the man wandered the aisles with faux interest in the snacks that lined them. But his eyes kept darting to Hanni. You were starting to get nervous, even here, in the light of the convenience store with the burly cashier standing at the register. You could only imagine how Hanni had felt.
You gripped Hanni by the waist now, exiting the building. You didn’t know the plan, but you couldn’t just walk Hanni home, revealing her residence to the guy. So you crept along the edge of the window, Hanni still in your arms, until you were in eyeshot of the cashier.
You had seen him before, knew him well enough to know his name was Marc, had even seen him at the gym a couple of times, back when you went at least. He locked eyes with you, and you gestured over to the hooded man. He had completed his fake round of the store, and was headed to the exit. Marc understood the gesture, nodding to you, and before the hooded man could leave, Marc’s hands were on his shoulder. You’d need to thank him later.
Before you could register what had happened, you and Hanni dashed. Back to a main street, back to safety. You imagined Marc would have just distracted him, said he thought he saw him steal something and needed to confirm before letting him go; you hoped he’d punched him.
---
You did a lot of reflecting the past near-2 weeks. How you and Hanni would fight but brush it off, let your words sit unresolved as you pretended everything was okay. How she would brush off date night because she was tired, or how you would let her texts go unanswered for hours.
Danielle was right: you two were too comfortable. Too okay with not progressing, too fine with letting yourselves forget what it was like before you’d gotten comfortable. Until Hanni asked for a break.
And she was right too. Because you don’t think you would’ve realized it if you hadn’t had this separation.
You scrub the dishes from the dinner you just cooked, something simple. Sometimes you close your eyes, letting the timer tick down.
12 hours and 14 minutes.
The call is right there. You don’t know if you dread it, you just know you miss her voice. It’s been great, up until now, ever since Danielle reintroduced self care to your life. Scratch that, not great, just okay. You’ve just always kept track of it, that little timer in your head, but you never let it consume you.
But tonight is different. It’s the only thing on your mind. Everything you want to tell her, everything you’ve realized, it sits there on your mind like fire. You think of calling her, you have the whole break, but tonight the action sits there on the tip of your fingers. But you can’t let up this far into it. Plus, she’s at work right now, if her schedule hasn’t changed within the past couple of weeks.
You haven’t done much today, really. Just watched the time tick away. It’s only 10pm and you’re already in bed, jittering at every phantom ring of your phone. The anxious yearn is killing you. You don’t know when sleep starts or ends today. The timer is there either way.
---
“You’re late, it’s 11:17,” you said in a faux disappointed voice, but when Hanni chuckles it wipes away all pretense of the feeling.
“Sorry, I slept in~”
“That’s okay baby,” you let up.
And Hanni yawned through the phone, asking you: “What do you think love is?” As if she were asking you the time.
“Love? Well, it’s this, isn’t it. Us.”
You could almost hear her smile through the phone. “Well yeah, dummy. But what about us.”
“Well, we talk every day; I tell you I love you every day. I can’t help to wait for Sunday’s because I know every week, come rain, work or sickness, I get to see you. You’re in my thoughts and my dreams, my heart and my mind.”
Hanni giggled and you wished you could hug her through the line. “I know baby. But isn’t that the result of love?”
“The result?” You thought of a second. “I guess.”
“Then what is love?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
“Me neither. Usually you know for me.”
“Well I know I love you. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’ll always be enough,” she cooed.
---
You wake up to perfect blackness. You keep your eyes closed, let your mind slowly crawl out to consciousness. You’ve gotten used to waking up early, but still, on days like these you keep your—
Where’s the fucking timer?
Your body acts like a spring, shooting up. Please, please let her have called during the night. In the scramble you barely find your phone. Under your pillow, in case she called. But there’s nothing there. Hanni, from your phone background just stares up at you, notifications clear.
Okay, calm down, what could this mean? Did she decide she was done with you? And wouldn’t end up calling like she promised? No, she wouldn’t do that, not your Hanni. So then why?
She had work last night. You try not to think of the worst, but the memory of the hooded man following her home not a month ago sits in your mind like a brick.
And you don’t care anymore, don’t care that you’re on a break.
You call her with shaky hands, and it barely goes to voicemail before you’re out your front door, rushing, running to Hanni’s with her spare key in hand.
It doesn’t matter that you’re out of shape; that you just started going back to the gym this week, your legs work like wheels.
You’re running through every scenario in your head. You’re hoping to God she blocked you, she decided she didn’t need you anymore and cut you off, because the alternative— the alternative is something you won’t even think.
You’re up her front steps in a second, jamming the key in the lock with precision. You dash up the stairs.
And swinging her door open, your worst fears are stifled. She’s there, safe, asleep. And she looks so peaceful.
But it’s replaced with another fear. Is this what she can be? Without you? Sound and safe, and most importantly, happy? She lies there with a smile on her face, sprawled out in true comfort.
You shouldn’t have come, should’ve just called Danielle, asked her to check up on her and left her to live her life. A life without you.
Your hand is still on the doorknob, lingering there as if to say goodbye.
You try to turn to leave, but your hand can’t find respite. But then she stirs in the way she always does when she wakes up. With a yawn, first, then a stretch of her back as if she’s a cat after a particularly refreshing nap. She sits up, leaning back on her palms before her eyes open, and her irises are already locked on you.
“Oh,” she says, and it’s loaded, but you know what none of it means.
“I— I shouldn’t be here,” you say out loud. “I’m sorry.” You tear your hand away from the doorknob, even harder now that she’s looking at you.
“You can stay. If you want,” she says.
You turn to her, searching, searching for any hint of what she wants. But she acts as if all is right, as if the man she’s on a break with hasn’t just barged into her room unannounced. “What time is it?” She asks, noticing the high Sun shining through her window, like it’s the most important thing of note.
She reaches for her phone. “Oh, I forgot to charge it. It’s dead.”
Relief washes over you. She forgot to charge her phone. Like always. Is that why the timer disappeared? Was it linked to the phone, and not her? Usually you would scold her, but today, you smile. She notices.
And she puts your heart back to where it should be with an “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” is what you say, but it’s not enough. You want to run into her arms, to hold her again, to stroke her hair and tell her everything, every little detail of the two weeks you hadn’t seen her. “I’m sorry Hanni.”
It’s loaded too, but Hanni was never one to let things hold in the air, until you lost yourselves. Something on her face breaks. “Come here.”
You cross the room with unrestrained need, and she takes you in her arms as you fall into her bed.
“I missed you so much, Hanni. I’m so sorry, sorry I let you get away from me, so sorry I let us lose ourselves,” you cry, and you can tell by the wetness on your shoulder and her shuddering that she is too. “I thought you were— I thought you’d—”
“I’m right here.”
Her hold feels like warm liberation, like honey on oats, and you quench every moment of it.
“I should’ve realized— that I was pushing you away.”
“It wasn’t just you,” she says, pulling away so she can look in your eyes, and they’re deep and wet but they’re also what you’ve been craving. “It was both of us— it was me too.” She takes the sleeve of her shirt and wipes your tears away. “But,” and she stutters, “but I can’t do this if nothing changes— I can’t do this if we continue like we’ve been.”
“I know,” you say, and she she rests her forehead on yours. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what love is.”
“I asked you that like, 8 months ago,” she chuckles.
“And I didn’t know the answer then. But I think I do now.”
Her hands find yours, fingers interlocking. “What is it?”
“It’s choosing each other every day. It’s taking care of each other, it’s two people coming together to form one. Two wholes in one unit. But we can’t do that if we’re not taking care of ourselves, if we ourselves aren’t whole. I can’t put you first when I’m putting me last, can’t take care of you if I’m not taking care of myself. I think that’s why we started to resent each other.”
“Self-care,” Hanni laughs.
“Danielle?” You laugh as well.
“Mm-hmm. I guess we should thank her, for getting us back together.”
You break your forehead away from her, just a little. “Does that mean you want to get back together?”
“If you’ll have me. The new-old me.” You stay there for a moment, eyes locked. But when her eyes flick down to your lips, you close the distance.
And she tastes like she always has, like tea and rain and Hanni.
The kiss is slow and deep, but your heart is racing. You’ve felt— you’ve tasted these lips a thousand times, but you savour them. It’s pure and it’s raw, the kiss. No pretense of anything more, other than ‘I miss you’, and ‘I love you’.
She breaks away, breathy, uncomposed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says with her forehead still on yours.
“I know,” and your voice is equally breathy.
“I just— I needed to think—”
“I know.”
“And I’m sorry, I wanted to call you every day—”
“Hanni, I know.” You bring your hand up to her cheek, brushing it with your thumb.
“Come here,” she says again, but this time you don’t leave a shred of restraint. You take her lips again, and this time it’s passionate and soft, but unfiltered. Your tongues dance in each others mouths, hands in each others hair. She holds you tight, but her comforter is still wedged between you despite the closeness of your bodies.
You manage to break a way for a second. “Maybe we should slow down. Talk things out more,” you throw out.
“We can talk later,” she says, voice still laced with desperation. “I need you right now,” and she pulls you back in. Her hands claw at your shirt, still the one you slept in, and through tangled limbs and tongues, you manage to get it off. Her hands roam your chest with practiced knowledge, as if she already has the whole thing mapped, but the vigor of someone exploring something new.
Your hands work to slide the blanket from between you to, and eventually, you do. The contact of her on you is ecstasy, just her thin sleeping shirt separating you two. But you need to feel her, feel her flesh on yours. But your lips barely separate, only the few short breaks saving you from suffocation.
She wants it too, to feel your skin on hers, but your hands are in her hair, on her cheek, wrapped around her— everywhere. So when she eventually slides it up you’re forced you to tear away. And the sight of her is everything you need. Her toned midriff, her skin so smooth it could be frictionless, climbing up the breasts that always fit perfectly in your hands, her otherworldly collarbone. You can see her legs, her black lace panties framing her hips, because she never did wear pants to sleep. You stare for a moment, and she stares back.
And it’s like you’re still waiting for the call, still yearning for her. But she’s right in front of you. She reaches out again, and you take her hand in yours, your other sliding your pajama pants off of your throbbing member. It springs free, already lined up perfectly with her.
Her other hand slides the strings of her panties to the side, revealing her light stubbled and already wet pussy.
You can’t wait anymore, can’t put it off any longer. With a squeeze of your hand, she signals it too. You enter, feeling the wet hotness inching up your member. You almost lose it, almost release right there, but Hanni’s eyes are trained on yours and you know you must keep your composure.
There’s no words— they’re unnecessary. Her soft breaths, wanting moans say it all as you slide ever slowly deeper. The feeling engulfs you, her tightness wrapping perfectly around you.
Hanni shudders as you bottom out, hand squeezing yours.
Every movement conveys a feeling, every shudder a response as you continue your pace. Slowly, her hips match your rhythm and her hands reach out to your body once again. Your hands find her breasts, nipples like gems in your hands, and the sensation proves overwhelming. Hanni’s moans grow more frequent, every flick of her nipples causing her to tighten.
You fall into her, latching your mouth onto hers again. Your rhythm increases as she tightens and she breaths moans into your mouth.
Pressure starts to well up through your hips, crawling up your spine. “I’m gonna come, Hanni.”
“M-me too,” she manages.
Your bodies connect in the pleasure, and she compresses around you as you burst your load. The sensation is blinding, and all you can do is collapse into her, your load spewing into her in waves.
She gasps, throwing her head back in an arch of her back.
The comedown is a haze of breath and pecks. You collapse beside her, and she crawls up beside you. The two of you just lay there, letting the sex, the admittance, the two weeks sit between you. And none of it matters, because Hanni is beside you, leaning her head on your chest and looking up at you, eyes dreamy and brown. Just like it should be.
---
It’s 11:11 in the morning. You’re tending the garden. Finally, you can plant some flowers, weeds having been cleared.
You wish you stayed with Hanni, wish you could’ve spent the night just laying with her on your chest. But alas, she had plans with Danielle. And you weren’t the type of couple to stop living life for each other anymore.
Your phone rings. Your head doesn’t jolt, your body doesn’t react on its own, scrambling for your phone.
Instead, you slowly pull off your gardening gloves, smiling all the way.
You pick up the phone without checking who it is.
“You called,” you note.
“I did,” Hanni admits. “Do you want to come over? I learned how to make tiramisu.”
“Funny, I have the perfect plate for that.”
---
A/N 3: Really wanted to practice dialogue in this fic, so yeah. Wrote this a while ago so IDK what to say but Hanni so cute n pretty n perfect. I love you all!
Hello all! I present to you my submission for our server's latest prompt challenge, where my task was to write a story using the time of sunset, and the added challenge of "The story must open with the end of the time duration, then rewind to the beginning and play through again".
Hope you guys like it <3
~~~
"You lasted longer than I thought you would," she says between breaths, and even now—completely fucked out, thighs still trembling—she's got that fucking pleased little smirk on her face.
You don't have the energy to respond, just managing to flip her the bird while you stare at the ceiling, pulse still racing.
There are scratches down your back that sting when you shift position, her nails having carved you up badly when you'd finally pinned her against the mattress.
The sheets are ruined—no saving them. Not with the mix of sweat, cum, and whatever's left of Yujin's makeup smeared across the fabric. She's sprawled beside you, chest still heaving, her hair a complete disaster fanned across the pillow. Her sundress is crumpled by the door, one strap torn clean off.
Yujin rolls onto her side to face you, and you can see the aftermath of everything that just happened all over her body. Her lipstick is smeared from her mouth to her jaw, dark bruises already forming on her neck and collarbones. Cum is still leaking from between her thighs, making a mess on skin that's flushed and marked with your fingerprints.
"Worth it though, right?" She traces a finger down your chest, lazy and satisfied, like she's admiring her handiwork.
"You're impossible," you finally manage.
"You love it."
She's not wrong.
~~~
Six hours earlier, you'd been stupid enough to think this would be a normal date.
Yujin had texted you that morning with a simple "pick me up at 2 <3" and you'd thought—fine, easy. Lunch, maybe walk around, watch the sunset over dinner. Standard relationship stuff. You should've known better the second you pulled up and saw what she was wearing.
The sundress is light blue, thin cotton that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact she's not wearing a bra. It hugs her waist before flowing down to mid-thigh, and when she bounces over to the car, you can see everything move in ways that make it very clear she planned this outfit specifically to fuck with you.
It's working.
"Hi baby," she says sweetly, sliding into the passenger seat and leaning over to kiss your cheek. Innocent enough, except her hand lands directly on your thigh and stays there while she buckles her seatbelt.
"You're evil," you tell her.
"I'm adorable." She grins, adjusting the dress that's already riding up her thighs. "Where are we going?"
"That café you wanted to try."
The drive is only ten minutes, but Yujin makes it feel like an hour. Her hand doesn't leave your thigh, fingers tracing lazy patterns while she chatters about her week. Every time you glance over, she's doing something designed to distract you—adjusting her hair so the dress pulls tighter across her chest, crossing and uncrossing her legs, biting her bottom lip while she looks out the window.
At the café, she orders an iced vanilla latte and immediately wraps her lips around the straw in a way that's just absolutely not necessary for drinking coffee.
You watch her take a slow sip, eyes locked on yours.
"What?" she asks, like she doesn't know exactly what she's doing.
"Nothing," you mutter, taking a drink of your own coffee and trying to focus on literally anything else.
She leans forward on her elbows, and the neckline of her dress dips low enough that you can see the curve of her tits. "You seem tense."
"I'm fine."
"Mm." She doesn't believe you, and that little smirk says she knows exactly why you're tense.
You finish your coffees and decide to walk through the nearby park since the weather's nice and you're clearly a masochist. Yujin loops her arm through yours, pressing close enough that you can feel the heat of her body through that thin dress.
"Isn't this romantic?" she says, full of fake innocence as her free hand traces up your arm.
"Very," you say flatly.
She's already sliding that hand down, lacing her fingers with yours, bringing your joined hands to rest at her hip where the dress cinches.
The park is busier than you expected—couples on blankets, families with kids, people walking dogs. Yujin doesn't seem to care. She steers you toward a quieter path lined with trees, and the second you're out of immediate sight, she stops and turns to face you.
"I want a picture," she announces, already pulling out her phone.
"You take like fifty pictures a day."
"And I'm going to take fifty-one." She steps close, arm around your waist, phone up for a selfie. You're about to smile when her ass presses back against your crotch—a deliberate roll of her hips.
You grab her waist on reflex.
The camera clicks.
Wow. That is not a graceful expression.
"Perfect," she says, grinning at the photo before tucking the phone away.
She doesn't move away from you. You don't let go of her waist. She leans her head back against your shoulder.
"You're being very well-behaved so far."
"I'm being patient."
"And how long do you think that'll last?" She turns in your arms, and suddenly you're face to face with her, close enough to kiss. Her hands slide up your chest, fingers playing with the collar of your shirt. You can smell her perfume, feel her breath against your mouth.
"Yujin—"
"What?" Those big, innocent eyes blink at you, like she's never done a thing wrong her entire life. Her thigh presses between your legs, just enough pressure to make her point. "We're just taking pictures, baby."
Someone walks past on the main path and you step back, mostly to maintain some semblance of dignity in public. Yujin just laughs, bright and delighted, before grabbing your hand and pulling you back toward the park exit.
"Come on, I want to look at the shops before dinner."
The boutique she drags you into is small, full of expensive clothes and a bored-looking attendant who barely glances up when you enter. Yujin immediately starts browsing through racks, pulling out dresses and holding them up against her body.
"What do you think of this one?" A black one that would barely cover her ass.
"It's short."
"That's not a no." She grins and drapes it over her arm, moving to the next rack. You follow behind. Her fingers trail over the different materials, hips swaying just a little more than necessary.
She disappears into the dressing room with three dresses, and you lean against the wall outside to wait. The curtain doesn't close all the way—you can see flashes of movement, the sundress pooling at her feet. Then her hand appears, crooking a finger at you.
"I need a second opinion," she calls out.
You glance at the attendant, who's fully absorbed in her phone, and slip behind the curtain.
Yujin is standing in just her panties. Holding up one of the dresses in front of her body.
Not wearing it.
The dressing room mirror shows everything—the curve of her bare tits, those panties sitting low on her hips, the cheeky smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing.
"Well?"
"You're not even wearing it," you point out.
"I wanted to see your reaction first." She drops the dress entirely, closing the small distance between you. Her hands find your belt, fingers tracing the leather. "Are you going to do something about it?"
"There's a person right outside."
"So you'll have to be quiet." She's already popping the button on your jeans, and fuck, her hand sliding into your boxers is not helping your resolve.
You grab her wrist, stopping her before this gets completely out of hand. "Get dressed. We have dinner reservations."
The look she gives you is pure frustration, but there's need underneath it. "You're no fun."
"I'm RESPONSIBLE."
"I don't like responsible," she pouts, but she lets you pull her hand away and picks the sundress back up. You slip out before you do something stupid.
She emerges a minute later. Doesn't buy any of the clothes she tried on.
She does, however, grab your ass when you're walking out of the store.
"An Yujin."
"Hand slipped!"
The restaurant is one of those places with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. You'd picked it specifically because Yujin mentioned wanting to watch the sunset over dinner.
Romantic as hell. Seemed like a good idea this morning.
You’re having second thoughts.
The golden light of the sunset coming through the windows catches in Yujin's hair when she sits down, makes her skin glow in a way that's entirely unfair. She's gorgeous in normal lighting, but with a sunset behind her she looks… unreal.
"This place is beautiful," she says, and she actually sounds genuine for once, looking out at the water where the sun is starting to paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.
"Yeah," you manage, trying to focus on your own menu and not the way the light is hitting her.
The waiter comes by and you both order—she gets the salmon, you get the steak, and she requests a wine she definitely can't pronounce but sounds expensive. (She knows you’re paying, after all). She's suspiciously polite, ordering without any funny business.
Then the waiter leaves and you feel her foot slide up your calf.
"Yujin."
"What?" She’s staring at the sunset like she’s never done a thing wrong in her life.
"We're in public."
"I'm just getting comfortable." She blinks at you as her foot reaches your thigh and stays there, and you become very aware of how thin her dress is, how the sunset behind her makes it… almost see-through in places…
The wine arrives and she takes a slow sip, eyes on you over the rim of the glass. When she sets it down, her hand disappears under the table, and a second later you feel her fingers on your knee, sliding up your thigh with clear intent.
"Can't you just wait for the food," you plead, grabbing her wrist under the table.
"I'm not hungry for food." She leans forward, and the neckline of her dress dips dangerously low. The sunset behind her creates this halo effect that would be romantic if she wasn't currently trying to get her hand on your cock in a public restaurant.
You don't let go of her wrist, keeping her hand firmly on your thigh and nowhere else. "Behave."
"Make me," she says, and there's that fucking smirk again.
The food arrives. You let go of her hand so the waiter can set down the plates.
Yujin thanks him sweetly. He's barely gone before her hand is back—making it all the way to your crotch before you can stop her.
She palms you through your jeans, and fuck, you're already half-hard from her teasing all day. Her fingers trace the outline of your cock while she cuts into her salmon with her other hand like nothing's happening.
"How's your food?" she asks conversationally.
"Yujin, I swear to god—"
"You should try the salmon, it's really good." She takes a bite, and her hand squeezes you just enough to make you bite back a groan.
The sun is almost touching the horizon now, the entire sky turning brilliant shades of orange and red. The light hits her face and she looks like a fucking angel.
An evil little cock-teasing angel who’s decided getting you off under the table is way more fun than eating.
"You're so hard already," she murmurs, leaning closer like she's sharing a secret. Her hand works you through the denim, and you're trying to keep your expression neutral while she's clearly enjoying watching you struggle.
"Stop," you say, but it comes out strained.
"You don't want me to stop." Her thumb finds the head of your cock through your jeans, rubbing in slow circles. "You've been wanting to fuck me since I got in your car."
She's not wrong, and you're done.
You grab her wrist, pull her hand away. Harder than necessary. "We're leaving."
"But we haven't finished—"
"Now, Yujin."
Pure triumph on her face. This is exactly what she wanted.
She doesn't argue, just grabs her purse while you flag down the waiter and hand him your card without even looking at the bill.
The sun is halfway below the horizon when you walk out, the sky on fire with color, and Yujin is practically skipping to the car.
She beats you to the passenger side, slides in with that pleased smile still on her face.
You're barely in the driver's seat. She's already leaning over the center console, hand on your thigh again.
"That was mean," she says, not sounding very sorry at all.
"You started it." You turn the key and pull out of the parking lot faster than necessary, and the sky is deepening now—brilliant orange fading to pink and purple at the edges.
"So you're admitting I won?"
"I'm admitting I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."
The way her breath catches is supremely satisfying, but she recovers quick. "Promises, promises."
Her hand slides higher on your thigh and you grab it, pinning it in place. "You're going to make me crash."
"Then drive faster."
"You… want me to make our crash worse?"
"Just drive, idiot!"
The sunset is in your rearview mirror now, the sky ahead darker where night is already creeping in. You make it maybe two minutes before her other hand finds your belt, and you have to move your grip to catch that one too.
"Yujin."
"What? I'm just sitting here." She's absolutely not just sitting there—she's shifted in her seat so that dress is riding up her thighs, and when you glance over at a red light, you can see the lace edge of her panties.
"You're insane."
"You love it," she says again, and manages to get one hand free to palm you through your jeans. You're fully hard now, have been since the restaurant, and her touch makes you grip the steering wheel hard enough that your knuckles go white.
The light turns green. You have to let go of her to shift gears.
She takes full advantage—gets the button of your jeans open before you can stop her.
"Jesus Christ, Yujin—"
"Keep your eyes on the road, baby." Her hand slips into your boxers, fingers wrapping around your cock, and the feeling of her actually touching you after hours of teasing makes you groan.
You catch her wrist but don't pull her away, too far gone to pretend you don't want this. The sky outside is streaked with the last colors of sunset, deep purple and orange, and her hand is stroking you slowly while you're trying to drive through downtown traffic.
"Let me reiterate. You, me, a semi-truck, all meeting in less than a second if you don't get your stupidly smooth hand off my cock."
She laughs but settles back in her seat, pulling her hand away with clear reluctance. You make it three more blocks before you have to pull over at another red light, and the second the car stops you're hauling her in for a kiss.
It's messy and desperate, her mouth opening for you immediately, and your hand finds her thigh, pushing that dress up until you can feel the heat of her through those thin panties. She's soaked, and when you press against her she makes this needy sound that goes straight to your cock.
Someone honks behind you and you realize the light's green.
"Fuck," you mutter, pulling back and trying to focus on driving. Your hand stays on her thigh though, high enough that your fingers brush against the lace edge of her panties every time you shift.
The sun is gone now, just the afterglow painting the sky, and you can see your building up ahead. Yujin sees it too, and her hand goes right back to your cock, stroking you through your open jeans.
"Almost there," she purrs, and you don't know if she means the building or something else entirely.
You pull into your spot and kill the engine, and then you're both out of the car and you're crowding her against the door, kissing her hard while she fumbles with your keys. She gets the door open and you're inside, kicking it shut behind you, and her back hits the wall in the entryway.
"Now?" she asks breathlessly, and there's triumph in her voice even now.
You don't even dignify her with an answer.
The dress hits the floor before you've even moved away from the door, and Yujin's hands are already pulling at your shirt, yanking it over your head while you work your jeans down. She's in just those lace panties now, and you can see the wet spot where she's been soaked for hours.
"Took you long enough," she breathes, but you shut her up by shoving her harder against the wall and kissing her like you're trying to devour her whole.
Your hand slides between her legs, fingers pressing against the soaked lace, and she gasps into your mouth. "You've been wet all fucking day, haven't you?"
"Since the car," she admits, hips rolling against your hand. "Maybe before."
You hook your fingers in her panties and drag them down her legs, and the second they're off you're dropping to your knees. Her eyes go wide.
"Wait, I thought you were going to—oh fuck!"
Your mouth is on her pussy before she can finish the sentence. Tongue dragging through her folds.
She tastes as good as she looks.
Your hands grip her thighs, holding her against the wall while you eat her out like you're starving for it. Maybe you are, after the torture she's put you through today.
"Oh god, oh f-fuck, yes—" Her hands fist in your hair, and she's trying to grind against your face, shameless and desperate. You focus on her clit, sucking it between your lips, and her whole body jerks.
You don't. You work her with your tongue until her thighs are shaking, until she's practically sobbing, and when she cums it's with your name broken on her lips and her pussy clenching against nothing.
She's still trembling when you stand up and kiss her, letting her taste herself on your tongue. "Bedroom. Now."
"Fuck the bedroom," she pants, already reaching for your cock. "Right here."
Her hand wraps around you and strokes, and you're so fucking hard it almost hurts. But you catch her wrist, spin her around so she's facing the wall, and kick her legs apart.
"You wanted this so badly," you growl against her ear, lining yourself up. "So take it."
You push into her in one thrust and she cries out, hands splaying against the wall for balance. She's so wet and tight that you have to pause, breathing hard, trying not to cum immediately like a teenager.
"Move," she demands, pushing her hips back. "Fuck me already."
"Greedy, aren't we?"
You pull out and slam back in, and the sound she makes is perfect—broken and needy and so fucking desperate. You set a brutal pace, one hand on her hip and the other sliding up to grip her throat, not squeezing, just holding her in place while you fuck up into her.
"Yes, yes, fuck, harder—"
The angle is incredible, and you can feel her getting wetter with every thrust, slick dripping down her thighs. Your grip tightens on her hip, hard enough to leave marks, and she loves it, pushing back to meet you.
"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, voice rough. "Teasing me all day just so I'd fuck you like this?"
"Yes," she gasps. "Knew you'd—ah!—knew you'd s-snap eventually."
You pull out suddenly. She whines at the loss.
Then you're turning her around, lifting her up. Her legs wrap around your waist automatically. You push back inside her, using the wall for leverage.
"Oh fuck, so deep—" Her nails dig into your shoulders, and you can feel her pussy clenching around you, tight and perfect.
You kiss her while you fuck her, messy and hard, and she's moaning into your mouth. The angle has you hitting the spot inside that makes her gasp every time, and her tits are pressed against your chest, nipples hard.
"Gonna cum again," she warns, "don't stop, please—"
"Cum on my cock," you tell her. "Let me feel it."
She does, her whole body tensing and then releasing, pussy spasming around you in a way that almost takes you over the edge. You carry her to the couch—fuck the bedroom—and lay her down, pulling out just long enough to flip her onto her stomach.
"Ass up," you command, and she scrambles to obey, presenting herself to you.
The view is impeccable—her pussy swollen and dripping, cum already leaking out of her. You push back inside and she moans into the cushions, and this angle lets you go even deeper.
You fuck her hard, hands gripping her hips. The wet sounds of your cock driving into her pussy fill the room.
She's babbling now—words barely coherent, just broken pleas and your name and "yes" over and over.
"So fucking perfect," you groan, watching your cock disappear into her. Wet coating your shaft. Dripping down to make a mess on the couch. "Look at you, taking it so well."
"More," she gasps. "Harder, p-please, I need—"
You give her what she wants, slamming into her with enough force that she has to brace herself against the arm of the couch. Her pussy clenches around you, still sensitive from cumming twice already, and you can feel how close you are.
Your hand slides around to find her clit. She practically screams, body jerking. "Can't, too much, I can't—"
"Yes you can." Your fingers rub tight circles. "Cum with me."
She's shaking, thighs trembling, and you can feel her getting tighter. You lean over her, changing the angle, and she sobs out something that might be your name.
"Gonna fill you up," you warn, thrusts getting erratic. "Gonna cum so deep inside you."
"Please," she begs, "please, I want it, want you to—fuck!"
She cums first, pussy spasming around your cock, and that's all it takes to drag you over with her. You slam in one final time and cum hard, spilling deep inside her while she moans. You can feel it flooding her, so much that it starts leaking out around your cock even while you're still inside her.
You stay buried in her for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, before finally pulling out. Your cum immediately starts dripping down her thighs, obscene and perfect, and she's so thoroughly fucked that she just stays there, ass in the air, too wrecked to move.
"Bed," you finally manage.
She makes a sound that might be agreement. You both stumble to the bedroom, collapse onto the sheets.
You should probably stop.
You don't stop.
You're on her immediately, pinning her wrists above her head, and she gasps when you push back inside her. She's oversensitive and so fucking wet—cum from earlier mixed with how turned on she still is—and the slide is almost too easy.
"Sure you can handle one more round?" she teases, but her legs are already wrapping around your waist, pulling you deeper.
"You started this," you remind her, rolling your hips. "We finish when I say we finish."
She moans, head falling back against the pillow, and you take the opportunity to bite down on her neck, hard enough to leave another mark. Her pussy clenches around you in response, and you can feel how swollen she is, how thoroughly fucked.
You let go of her wrists, brace yourself above her.
Her hands find your back. Nails dig in immediately, dragging down your shoulder blades as you thrust into her.
The sting is perfect.
"Fuck, Yujin—"
"Harder," she demands, and her nails scrape down your back again, definitely breaking skin this time. "Give it to me harder!"
You shift the angle, driving deeper, and she cries out. The bed frame is hitting the wall with every thrust, and the sheets are getting soaked beneath her—sweat and cum and her pussy dripping everywhere.
"Look at me," you tell her, and when her eyes meet yours they're glazed and desperate. "This is what you wanted all day, isn't it? To get fucked until you can't think straight?"
"Yes," she gasps, nails carving new lines down your back. "Yes, god, don't stop—"
You don't. You fuck her hard into the mattress, one hand gripping her hip while the other slides up to wrap around her throat. Not squeezing, just holding her there while you fuck her apart.
She's babbling again, that incoherent mix of your name and "fuck" and "please," and you can feel her getting close. Her nails are brutal on your back, scratching hard enough that you know you'll be marked for days.
"Gonna cum again?" you ask, and she nods frantically.
"Can't help it, you're so deep, I can't—"
"Do it," you command. "Cum on my cock one more time."
She does, and it's like her whole body seizes up. Her nails rake down your back viciously as she screams, pussy clamping down so tight around you that it's almost painful. The sensation drags your own orgasm out of you, and you bury yourself as deep as possible, filling her up for the second time.
You can feel it mixing with the first load, so much cum that it's leaking out around your cock, soaking into the sheets beneath you. When you finally pull out, the evidence is everywhere—her thighs covered in it, the sheets stained, her pussy absolutely wrecked and dripping.
You collapse beside her, and she immediately sprawls out, chest heaving. Her makeup is completely destroyed now, smeared down her face, and her hair is a disaster. She looks thoroughly, completely fucked.
Perfect.
Your back is on fire where she scratched you, and when you shift, the sting reminds you of every mark she left.
"You lasted longer than I thought you would," she says between breaths, and even now—completely fucked out, thighs still trembling—she's got that fucking pleased little smile on her face.
You don't have the energy to respond, just managing to flip her the bird while you stare at the ceiling, pulse still racing.
~~~
Sorry for the wait! I have a big project waiting to go, and also maybe another Twice smut that should be out within the next week or two :)
The elevator hums on its way up. Yujin fixes her blazer for the fourth time in thirty seconds. She glances over at Rei, who’s clutching two leather briefcases like a rookie paralegal at a firm that definitely launders money.
"Okay. One more time," Yujin says, cracking her neck. "We arrive, we explain the situation, we get him to sign the contract, and then we do what we came here to do. Simple. Clean. Professional."
Rei nods emphatically, though her grip on the briefcase handles tightens. "I still can't believe we're actually doing this..."
“This is everyday business for powerful people. Breakups, mergers, emotional takeovers. It’s just corporate restructuring with feelings thrown in. You'll get used to it, little bird." Yujin adjusts Rei's collar with two fingers, smoothing a crease that wasn't really there. "Wonyoung demands results. And you are going to deliver. Give it your best, yeah?"
Rei straightens slightly, a spark lighting up her eyes. "Wonyoung’s going to be proud of me!”
"That’s the attitude!" Yujin pats her on the shoulder.
The elevator dings.
The doors glide open straight into your suite - no hallway, no buffer. That’s the kind of place this is. Forty-two floors up, with a private elevator that answers only to you, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing a city that feels curated for your view. You’re standing in the bedroom doorway, halfway through buttoning your shirt, fingers lingering on the third button, when you hear footsteps on marble in a place where you’re supposed to be alone.
Two girls stride out of your elevator like they own the entire building.
You lift an eyebrow. “…How exactly did you two get in here?”
The taller girl moves in first, posture unshaken, like self-doubt has never been part of her vocabulary. Her shoulders are squared, chin angled with precise control - refined, yet quietly intimidating. “I’m An Yujin,” she says, holding out her hand.
You shake it. Her grip is firm, unwavering
The other one, a few centimeters shorter, shifts the briefcases to one hand and gives a small bow that's almost endearing in how formal it is. "Naoi Rei. Pleasure to meet you."
"It was easy to get in here," Yujin continues, already scanning your suite with the casual appraisal of someone who's been inside a lot of expensive rooms. "We can get into anywhere. Think of us like the Men in Black, but without being men."
"And without wearing black," Rei adds, glancing down at her navy blazer.
"Right. We also don't handle UFO events. Or alien immigration. Or memory wiping. Although," Yujin taps her chin, "that last one could be useful sometimes."
You finish buttoning your shirt and fold your arms. "So you have literally nothing in common with the Men in Black."
Yujin pauses. Thinks. "Yeah. That sounded better in my head.”
"My underwear is black, Yujin. That's already a start."
Yujin points at Rei without looking at her. "See? She's committed to the bit. I respect that."
You pinch the bridge of your nose. There are two strangers in your penthouse, one of whom just volunteered information about her underwear, and it's not even noon yet. "Look. As much as I love pretty girls trespassing on my private property, and I want to stress that this is extremely private property, what the hell are you doing here?"
"We're here on behalf of Jang Wonyoung," Yujin says, your eyebrow rises slightly. Now that she's said it, you actually do recognize Yujin. You've seen her at a few events, always orbiting Wonyoung, always laughing too loud at things that probably weren't that funny. Part of the entourage.
"What's this about, exactly?"
Yujin doesn't answer right away. She walks over to your sofa, a twelve-thousand-dollar Italian leather piece you've sat on maybe three times, and drops herself onto it without a shred of hesitation. She crosses her legs and leans back like she's been living here for months. Rei bows slightly, murmurs a quiet "excuse me," and sits down next to her with considerably more grace, placing both briefcases on the coffee table with the care of someone handling evidence.
"So here's the thing," Yujin begins, folding her hands in her lap. "Your relationship with Wonyoung is coming to an end. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. Well, actually, I'm not that sorry, because I barely know you. But professionally speaking, I'm sorry."
You stare at her.
"It didn't perform as well as she hoped. There were metrics, projections, social media engagement targets, public perception polling, a whole spreadsheet situation. And the numbers just didn't hit. The relationship underperformed across every key indicator." She shrugs. "In other words, you're a flop, darling."
"Thank you for your kind assessment," you say, the sarcasm obvious in every word. "I bet you love what you do, don’t you?”
"Hey, chill, I'm just the messenger. Think of me as the Hermes of the situation." She wiggles her feet. "My winged sandals are by Prada, though…"
You lean against the wall and try to process this. You knew. Somewhere in the back of your mind, past the optimism and the carefully curated date-night photos and the way she sometimes smiled at you when cameras were around, you knew. The relationship was a strategy from the start, something cooked up between Wonyoung's management team and the political arm of your family. Good optics on both sides. You were useful, and she was beautiful, and for a while that felt like enough.
But you'd been hoping, stupidly maybe, that she'd eventually come around. That the dinners would start feeling real. That the hand-holding would stop being choreographed...
Wonyoung is so goddamn gorgeous she fried your brain.
"She could've at least come and told me herself," you say. "Or called. A text, even. Carrier pigeon. Smoke signal. Anything."
"Wonyoung doesn't have time for that," Yujin says, completely matter-of-fact. "She's a global star. Schedule's packed. And to be blunt with you, she doesn't care enough about the relationship to handle this personally. That's what we're for."
That one stings, but it's not a surprise. You exhale through your teeth. "Fine. I get it. But why both of you? With all due respect, it feels like you’re more here to mess with me than actually handle any legal issue.”
Yujin reaches over and pops open one of the briefcases. Inside, a thick contract sits nestled in foam like it's a piece of jewelry. She slides it toward you across the coffee table. "Part of the original relationship contract included a breakup-sex clause. Section fourteen, subsection C. If one of the involved parties declines to personally fulfill the obligation, a consenting third party may represent them."
You blink. "I do not remember that clause."
"It was in the fine print," Rei says, speaking up with the tone of someone who genuinely finds contract law interesting. "It's always important to read and review every document with a qualified attorney before signing. These things have layers. The legal world is full of traps."
"The little bird is right," Yujin nods sagely. "You really should have had better representation."
You run a hand through your hair and try to assemble the sentence correctly in your head before you say it. "So if I'm understanding this correctly, you two came here to have sex with me. In the name of Wonyoung."
Rei nods. "Yeah, that’s pretty much the idea."
"Sorry, I can't do that. That's unethical. That's professional abuse. You're being exploited. Wonyoung is sending you here to sleep with a stranger because she can't be bothered to handle her own breakup. Do you not see how messed up that is?"
Yujin holds up a finger. "First of all, darling, we read our employment contracts. Every word. Every footnote. Unlike some people in this room." She glances at the breakup contract on the table and back at you. "Second, we're both here willingly. One hundred percent. Nobody's being exploited. This is a task we accepted with full knowledge and enthusiastic consent."
"Then it's fine. You can go home. I'm not going to hold a grudge. I'll survive."
"It's not quite that simple." Yujin uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Our job is to make sure you leave this relationship completely satisfied and without resentment. The goal is to prevent any future public bitterness, accusations, tell-all interviews, leaked texts, the works. Wonyoung's PR team was very specific."
"I promise I won't say a single bad thing about Wonyoung. I never have. I wouldn't."
Rei shakes her head gently. "Unfortunately, a verbal promise doesn't constitute a legal guarantee. You need to fulfill the terms of the contract, or there could be litigation."
"Litigation," you repeat.
"Litigation," she confirms, not blinking.
You take a breath. "Wouldn't it have made way more sense to just put a mutual non-disparagement clause in the contract? No public criticism from either side after the breakup. Done. Simple."
Yujin and Rei look at each other. A beat passes.
"That… would have been better," Yujin admits.
"That would have been much simpler," Rei agrees.
"Honestly, that feels like a plot hole." Yujin scratches behind her ear. "But it is what it is. The contract says what it says. We need to make you cum, man. That's the rule of the game. Them's the terms. You’ll be king for a day, so live it up." She slaps both her thighs and stands up. "Besides, Rei already shaved everything for this occasion. Don't let that effort go to waste."
Rei's cheeks flush a shade of pink that's almost impressive in how fast it appears. "I shaved because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with this!"
"Sure it didn't."
"It didn't…”
You look at the two of them. You're tired. It's not even lunchtime and you've been dumped by proxy, threatened with a lawsuit, and propositioned by two women you met four minutes ago. This is, without question, the last thing you needed today.
But you'd be lying if you said they weren't both stunning. Yujin is tall, almost catching up to your height, with long legs that her tailored slacks do absolutely nothing to hide. Dark hair falls past her shoulders, thick and straight, framing features that seem built for trouble.
Rei is different. Softer. Her face is rounder, her features more delicate, with wide dark eyes that make her look endlessly curious. She's shorter than Yujin by a handful of centimeters, and her frame is slimmer, more compact. Her hair is long and dark, parted neatly, falling past her chest. Something in her reads as gentle and careful, as though she’s constantly anticipating what comes next but keeping that knowledge to herself. The blush is still sitting on her cheeks, making her look even more endearing.
Together, standing in your living room in their formal wear, they look like a legal team that accidentally wandered into a very inappropriate comedy movie.
You sigh. A long, defeated, resigned sigh. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."
Yujin grins and claps her hands together once, all business. "Rei. Open the black briefcase again. Get the contract."
Rei nods, turns to the coffee table, and pops open the latch on the nearest briefcase. The lid flips up, and you all three stare at its contents in a brief moment of shared silence. Inside, nestled in neat little compartments, is a full spread of lace lingerie in various colors, two bottles of lubricant, a silk blindfold, a set of what appear to be very expensive restraints, and a few other items you don't even want to identify right now.
"That's the other briefcase, idiot."
"Both briefcases are black, Yujin!”
"One has a silver clasp and one has a gold clasp. I told you this in the car."
"You told me a lot of things in the car. You talked for forty-five minutes straight about how a hotdog is technically a sandwich."
"Because it is. Open the other one."
Rei closes the sex briefcase with a firm snap and reaches for the second briefcase. This one, mercifully, contains a thick stack of legal documents and a matte black pen. She pulls them out and hands them to Yujin, who fans through the pages with ease before turning the whole thing over to you.
"Sign here." She points. "Here." She flips a page. "And here. This document certifies that we have completed our objective and that you agree to all terms and conditions outlined in the original relationship contract between yourself and Jang Wonyoung." She flips to the last page and taps a highlighted section. "And in case of non-compliance, you will be sued for millions."
"How many millions?"
"Many millions. You’d probably have to sell this place to help cover the costs."
Whatever. You read approximately none of the fine print, which is ironic given the conversation you just had about reading fine print. You scrawl your signature across all three lines, grumbling the entire time about how this is the most absurd Tuesday of your life. You hand the contract back. Yujin slots it into the briefcase with the reverence of someone archiving a sacred text.
"Beautiful. Now." She turns to face you fully, hands on her hips. "Do you have any preferences? Sexually, I mean. We'll do basically anything. I personally won't do anal." She jerks her thumb at Rei. "But maybe this one will. She looks like she'd be quite the little slut given the chance."
Rei's back straightens. "Hey, I am not doing anal. That's too kinky. And filthy..."
"Nobody needs to do anal," you say, rubbing your temples. "I don't need to fuck anyone's ass. Can we just… not talk about asses for a second?"
A silence settles over the three of you. It is, without exaggeration, one of the most awkward silences you have ever experienced. You're standing in your own living room with two women you met less than ten minutes ago, a signed sex contract on the table between you, and absolutely no idea what the appropriate next move is. Do you offer appetizers? Put on music? Is there a Spotify playlist for "breakup sex mandated by your ex-girlfriend's legal team"?
"Do you guys want something to drink?"
Rei perks up instantly. "I want a Coke."
"We're not drinking anything," Yujin cuts in. "You can have a Coke on the way home."
"You said that last time and I didn't get a Coke."
"I forgot. I bought one later."
"You bought Pepsi. I don't like Pepsi."
"They taste the same, Rei."
"They absolutely do not taste the same. Coke is better. It's always been better. It's scientifically proven."
You hold up a hand. "I'll give you a Coke before you leave. I have a whole fridge full."
Rei beams at you like you just promised her a pony. Yujin rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers twice, redirecting the room's energy back to the task at hand.
"We should start. Right now. Before this turns into a beverage debate." She reaches back into the first briefcase, the fun one, and pulls out several sets of lingerie, holding them up for your inspection. A red lace set. A black number with straps that seem architecturally impossible. Something white and sheer that leaves less to the imagination than a clear window. "Which one do you prefer?"
You look at the options. You look at Yujin. You look at Rei. "You don't have to wear any of that. I’m fine."
Yujin's face falls. She stares at the lingerie in her hands, then slowly, mournfully, folds each set and places them back in the briefcase. "I arranged all of this for nothing. I spent an hour picking these out. An hour. At La Perla."
"I'm sure they're very nice."
"They're gorgeous. You have no taste." She closes the briefcase. "Fine, Mr. Vanilla. Let's go."
You lead them down the hallway to your bedroom. It's large, open, and minimal. King bed against one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the other, clean surfaces, muted colors.
You turn to face them. "So. How do we start?"
Rei raises a tentative hand, half like she's in a classroom. "Maybe a few kisses? To break the ice?"
Yujin is already unbuttoning her blazer. "You two get started. I'm going to warm up."
You watch her shrug off her jacket and toss it onto a chair. "Why do you need to warm up before sex?"
"To avoid joint problems." She rolls her shoulders in slow circles. "Warming up is a fundamental part of any physical activity, including sex. Especially sex. I don't want to wake up tomorrow with neck pain and a tweaked hip because I went in cold." She drops into a lunge, stretching her right quad with absolute seriousness. "You can’t mess around when it comes to your health.”
You sit on the edge of the bed. Rei sits next to you, close but not quite touching. Her hands rest on her thighs, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. You look at her, and she gives you a small, shy smile that makes her round cheeks push up slightly.
"I've never seen you before," you say. "Are you new?"
"I started working with Wonyoung pretty recently. This is actually my first time doing something like this." She glances over at Yujin, who is now doing push-ups in her underwear on your bedroom floor. "Yujin is supervising me. She says I need field experience."
"Field experience."
"That's what she calls it."
In the corner, Yujin knocks out another push-up, perfectly controlled. Her arms flex, and her dark hair pools on the floor beneath her. The girl has form; you'll give her that.
You turn back to Rei. "Can I kiss you?"
She nods. Just a small dip of her chin. With her permission, you reach up and cup her face with one hand, your thumb resting just below her cheekbone. She's warm. Her skin is impossibly soft. You lean in and press your lips to hers, gentle, unhurried. Her mouth is full and plush, and there's a faint sweetness there, something glossy and almost fruity. The kiss stays soft for a few seconds before it deepens, just slightly, her lips parting, the tip of her tongue brushing against yours with a tentativeness that's almost careful. Like she's still figuring out how much of herself to give.
When you pull back, you drag your thumb slowly across her lower lip. The gloss smears just slightly.
"You're pretty," you tell her. "Cute, too."
"Thank you." A faint blush creeps up from her neck. "You're very polite. Most guys just skip straight to grabbing."
"I'm a gentleman. For now."
She bites the inside of her cheek, fighting a smile. "Can I take my clothes off now?"
You nod. Rei stands and starts with her blazer, folding it neatly over the back of a chair. You help her with the buttons on her blouse, fingers working down the front while she unzips her skirt and lets it slide down her legs. She steps out of it, and there she is. Black panties. Black bra. Just like she said.
Her body hits different without the corporate layers hiding it. She’s curvy in a way those formal clothes were clearly trying to keep in check. Full hips, a soft waist, thick thighs that brush together when she shifts. Her chest fills out her bra easily. Her face hasn’t changed though - round cheeks, wide brown eyes, lips still faintly smudged from your kiss. That contrast, innocent face and everything beneath it, makes your pulse spike.
You pull her gently back onto the bed and kiss her again, slower this time, your hand sliding to the back of her neck as you ease her down against the mattress. Her hair fans out across your sheets, dark against white. When you settle over her, careful to hold your weight, she looks up at you and there's this brightness in her eyes, something electric and new.
“You’re a really good kisser,” she murmurs. “Even more handsome in person, too.”
"Rei." Yujin's bark comes from the foot of the bed. She's finished her push-ups and is standing there in nothing but a matching navy bra and panties, hands on her hips, a thin sheen of sweat across her collarbones. "Tone it down with the sweet talk. You're here to accomplish a task, not fall in love with the target."
"What happens if she falls in love?" you ask, still hovering over Rei.
"I'll have to kill her."
Rei's eyes go wide.
Yujin holds the serious face for exactly two seconds, then breaks into a grin. "Kidding! But seriously, this is a professional engagement. Keep it professional."
"You just did push-ups on his floor in your underwear, Yujin. How professional is that?"
"Extremely. That was occupational health and safety." Yujin climbs onto the bed, and the mattress dips under her. She's lean and long, toned arms, flat stomach, legs that don't seem to end. She crawls toward you with a confidence that borders on territorial. "Move over, little bird. I want to see if he's really that good."
She grabs your jaw with one hand, not rough but not gentle either, pulls you off Rei and onto your back, and swings a leg over you. Before you can get a single syllable out, she's kissing you. And where Rei was tentative and sweet, Yujin is immediate and aggressive, her mouth hot against yours, her tongue pushing in without asking permission. She kisses like she's trying to win something. You match her energy, one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding up her back, and she makes a small sound of approval against your lips.
When she pulls back, she's slightly breathless. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb and tilts her head, evaluating. "Not bad. Eight out of ten. Room for improvement."
"Tough grader."
"I have standards." She looks down at Rei, who's propped up on her elbows watching the whole thing with mild fascination. Yujin's gaze drags over Rei's body with open appreciation. "She does have a really nice body, though. For someone who only drinks Coke."
"I don't only drink Coke! And I work out."
"When?"
"Sometimes..."
"Wow, that's fucking convincing." Yujin leans down and kisses her. Rei's hand comes up to rest on Yujin's shoulder, and for a moment the two of them are just tangled together on your bed, all lips and skin. Then Yujin pulls away and turns back to you.
"Clothes off. Rei, help me."
They work in tandem. Rei handles the buttons on your shirt while Yujin goes straight for your belt. Your shirt comes off first, and Rei's fingers trail briefly across your chest before she catches herself and pulls back. Your pants follow, Yujin yanking them off your legs with zero ceremony and tossing them somewhere behind her.
Both girls sit back on their heels and look at you. Just your boxer briefs left, and they're not doing a great job of hiding anything.
"Wonyoung picks her boyfriends very well," Yujin says, her gaze traveling across your torso, your arms, down your stomach. "At least she's got good taste in bodies."
Rei's head tilts. "Is it true that you and Wonyoung never actually had sex?"
"Yeah. We kissed a few times, tops. It never went further than that."
Yujin snorts. "That's pathetic."
“Hey, don’t be so harsh,” Rei says.
"No, she's right," you admit. "It was a pathetic relationship. The whole thing was for show."
"Okay, that's enough moping." Yujin flicks your forehead with her finger. "Stop crying. You've got two girls to fuck today. That's a net upgrade from zero. Rei, calm the baby down."
Rei leans over you and starts pressing small, quick kisses all over your face. Forehead. Cheeks. Nose. Chin. The corner of your mouth. Each one leaves a faint lipstick mark on your skin, and she giggles between them. Yujin joins in from the other side, stamping little prints across your jaw and temple.
You can feel them both laughing, their breath warm against your skin, and despite everything, you have to press your lips together to stop yourself from smiling. "Okay. You can stop now,” you say, and they obey, still laughing. “You’re gonna leave me looking like a passport full of stamps.”
Yujin's hand slides south. Her fingers trail down your stomach and settle over the front of your boxer briefs. She palms you through the fabric, and her eyebrows lift, not dramatically, just a little. Her grip adjusts, fingers curling slightly, testing the thickness, the length. You feel yourself twitch against her hand.
Rei reaches over too, her smaller hand pressing against you from the other side, and her lips part just slightly. "It's really big."
"The little bird loves a big cock in her mouth, don't you, Rei?" Yujin squeezes you gently through the cotton, not taking her eyes off Rei's face.
"Maybe..."
Yujin takes Rei's face in her free hand, squishing her cheeks gently between her fingers, and angles her toward you like she's presenting a product. "Look at this adorable little face. These brown eyes. These full lips. Tell me they don't look perfect wrapped around a cock."
The blush on Rei's cheeks darkens, spreading down her neck. She pulls her face free from Yujin's grip. “You’re way more of a slut than I am,” she says flatly.
They continue this back and forth while their hands work together to tug your boxer briefs down your thighs, over your knees, and off your ankles. Your cock springs free, fully hard, thick and flushed and straining against your stomach.
Both of them go quiet for about half a second.
"Well," Yujin says.
"Yeah," Rei agrees.
Your cock sits between them, heavy and at their complete disposal. Rei makes the first move. Her fingers wrap around the base of your cock, tentative at first, like she's testing the weight of it. Her grip is soft, polite even, and she gives a slow experimental stroke from root to tip. Yujin's hand joins a second later, wrapping around the upper half, and together their fingers overlap and slide in a lazy, uncoordinated rhythm that somehow still feels incredible.
"Okay, he's really hard," Rei murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. Her thumb swipes across the head, spreading the bead of precum that's already gathered there. She watches it with a focus that borders on academic.
"What did you expect? We've been touching him for ten minutes." Yujin adjusts her grip, tighter, more purposeful. She strokes you with a confidence that suggests she's done this more than a few times, her wrist rolling at the top of each stroke. "Rei, match my pace. You're going too slow."
"I'm being gentle."
"He doesn't need gentle. He needs results." They find a rhythm eventually, both hands working you in tandem, Yujin's grip firmer and faster, Rei's softer and more exploratory. The contrast alone is enough to make your hips shift against the mattress. Two different touches, two different temperatures, four hands on you at once. Your cock throbs between their fingers, thick and flushed, and you let your head fall back against the pillow.
Then Yujin leans forward and spits directly onto the head of your cock. A thick, wet strand that rolls down the shaft and over both their fingers. Rei blinks. "Yujin!"
"What? It needs to be wet. I'm providing lubrication. This is a professional service."
Yujin doesn't wait for further commentary. She dips her head and takes you into her mouth, her lips stretching around the tip, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she slides down. She's sloppy about it on purpose, generating as much spit as possible, pulling back to let long strings of saliva connect her lips to your cock before diving back in. She bobs her head with an efficiency that matches the rest of her personality: fast, aggressive, no wasted motion. Her hand works what her mouth can't reach, twisting on each upstroke.
She pulls off and nudges your cock toward Rei. "Your turn. Show me what you've got, little bird." Rei tucks her hair behind both ears, lowers her head, and takes you in. And immediately goes deeper than Yujin did. Significantly deeper. Her throat opens and your cock slides in past the halfway point, then further, her nose nearly touching your pelvis before she pulls back with a slow, controlled drag. Your stomach clenches. Your fingers grip the sheets.
"What the fuck," Yujin says, watching Rei's throat work.
Rei comes up for air, a thin line of spit trailing from her lower lip. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand. "What?"
"Since when can you do that?"
"I've always been able to do that."
The two alternate. Yujin takes the left side, her tongue tracing the length from base to tip, getting you soaked, spreading spit everywhere with a shamelessness that's almost admirable. Then Rei swallows you deep again, her throat constricting around your shaft, and holds there for a count that makes your toes curl before pulling back.
It's been a long time since anyone has put their mouth on you. Months. Maybe longer. You stayed faithful to Wonyoung through the entire relationship, which in retrospect was probably the stupidest form of loyalty you've ever demonstrated. You very much doubt she showed you the same courtesy, but that's a thought for another day, because right now two beautiful girls are sharing your cock and your brain is having trouble forming complete sentences.
"So," you manage, your breathing a little uneven as Rei takes you deep again. "What do you two usually do when you're not, uh. Working?"
Yujin pulls her mouth off the side of your shaft and gives you a flat look, saliva glossing her chin. "Don't try to engage in personal conversation. This is a professional engagement."
"You're literally licking my dick."
"And it's a perfect dick, by the way. I mean that professionally." She drags her tongue from your balls to the tip in one long stripe. "Professionally perfect. Five stars on the dick Yelp."
Rei surfaces, catching her breath, her lips swollen and shiny. "I like watching anime," she says casually, like she's not kneeling between your legs with your cock an inch from her face. "And I play my Switch 2 a lot. And I listen to music."
"Yeah? Who do you listen to?"
She wraps her hand around you and strokes slowly while she talks, absentminded, like she's forgotten what her hand is doing. "I really like Noah Cyrus. Aphex Twin. Gracie Abrams. Björk. A lot of different stuff."
Yujin groans. "Here we go. She's so performative with this indie shit. She even has a Letterboxd."
"What's wrong with having a Letterboxd?" Rei asks, visibly offended.
"You probably fakelist all those weird movies. There's no way you actually watched Mulholland Drive and understood it.”
"I understood it."
"What's it about then?"
Rei opens her mouth, pauses, then puts your cock back in it instead of answering. A tactical retreat.
"That's what I thought." Yujin grabs a fistful of Rei's hair, gently, and guides her pace. "Stop talking and keep sucking him off. Earn your five stars for best blowjob giver." She leans down and joins her, both their mouths working you simultaneously. Yujin shifts lower, her tongue finding your balls, lapping at them with broad, wet strokes while her hand holds the base of your cock steady. She takes one into her mouth and sucks gently, and you feel it all the way up your spine.
Meanwhile Rei has you deep in her throat again, her nose pressed against your lower stomach, swallowing around you in a way that makes your abs tense involuntarily. She holds there, eyes watering just slightly, then pulls back with a gasp and immediately goes back down.
"She can swallow the whole thing," Yujin observes, pulling off your balls to watch. "She must have sucked a lot of dick to get this good. That's just math."
Rei comes up, flushed. "That's not true. I just have a good throat."
"That's what they all say."
"It's what I say. Because it's true."
"Sure, Rei. And Mulholland Drive makes sense." They both come together at the tip, their tongues meeting around the head of your cock, lapping at it from opposite sides. Rei's tongue slides across the sensitive underside while Yujin circles the ridge, and then their tongues touch, slick and pink, and they kiss over the head of your cock, slow and messy. Yujin bites Rei's lower lip gently before pulling away. Rei's eyes are glazed, her cheeks are red, and there's spit all over her chin.
They pull back. Your cock stands between them, absolutely drenched, twitching against your stomach. Rei leans in one more time and presses a soft, almost tender kiss to the very tip. Just a peck. She looks up at you through her lashes. "Do I deserve five stars?"
"Absolutely,” you reply, sounding slightly breathless. “I'd write a review praising your technique. Detailed. With specific examples."
Her smile is genuine, bright enough to crease her whole face. It’s achingly cute, at odds with her puffed lips and the messy trail of spit and precum glistening on her chin. “That’s so sweet.”
Yujin sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Okay. Enough of the customer satisfaction survey. It's time to put this cock to work." She pats your thigh firmly. "Let's see if it's just for show or if it has some practical use."
"It has practical use,” you inform Yujin.
"We'll be the judges of that." She settles back on her heels and looks at you expectantly. "So who do you want to fuck first?" Before you can answer, Yujin turns her head sharply to the side and sneezes. Hard. She sniffles, blinks, and waves a hand in front of her face. "Sorry. My rhinitis flares up when I give head. Something about the angle." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I really need to get that deviated septum surgery. I've been putting it off."
"Take your time."
"I'm fine. Answer the question. Who do you want first?"
"I don't mind. Whoever wants to go."
Yujin gestures at Rei with a tilt of her head. "Rei goes first, then. Since she's already head over heels for you."
Rei straightens up, indignant. "I am not head over heels for anyone. I'm just an affectionate person."
"You kissed the tip of his dick like it was a puppy."
"That's just how I am."
"Great. Then you can be very affectionate eating my pussy while he fucks you from behind. Put all that affection to good use." Yujin is already reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra. "Clothes off. Both of us. Let's go." The two of them strip. Yujin's bra comes off first, and her breasts are small but firm, her nipples already stiff. She hooks her thumbs into her panties and peels them down her legs without an ounce of self-consciousness, kicking them off the side of the bed. She's lean all over, slim hips, toned stomach, long legs, with a neat strip of dark hair between her thighs.
Rei takes a little longer. She reaches back and undoes her bra with careful fingers, letting the straps slide down her shoulders before pulling it away. Her breasts are fuller than Yujin's, round and heavy, and they settle against her chest with a softness that makes you stare. She wiggles out of her panties, and true to her earlier claim, she's smooth everywhere. Her hips flare wider than Yujin's, her thighs thicker, her whole body built along softer, rounder lines. She looks like a Renaissance painting someone accidentally dropped into the twenty-first century.
Both of them naked, side by side on your bed, are a sight that your brain is going to be replaying for the rest of your natural life.
Yujin catches you staring. "Have you never seen two naked girls at the same time before?"
"No. Never."
"Seriously? With your money?" She shakes her head with genuine disbelief. "If I had your bank account, my bed would be full of whores every single day. I'd have a subscription service."
"I had a girlfriend."
"You had a business partner. There's a difference." She crawls up the bed and settles against the headboard, sitting upright with her legs parted. She pats the space between them and looks at Rei. "Come on, little bird. Get in position."
Rei gets on all fours. She lowers herself, her elbows resting on the mattress, and settles her face between Yujin's open thighs. Her back arches naturally, pushing her ass up and out toward you. The curve of her spine is ridiculous, dipping down from her shoulders to the swell of her hips, and from this angle you can see everything, the smooth skin between her thighs, the pink of her pussy already glistening. She shifts her knees apart slightly, adjusting, and looks back over her shoulder at you. You're on your knees behind her, your cock still slick and hard, and the two of them are spread out in front of you like something your subconscious could never have conjured on its best night.
You're halfway to lining yourself up when a thought hits you. You pull back slightly. "Wait. Condom. I need a condom."
Yujin doesn't even blink. "Not necessary. We're both clean and on the pill. It's a job requirement. Wonyoung's team is very thorough about health compliance."
Rei turns her head, her cheek resting against Yujin's inner thigh. "We prefer to fuck raw anyway."
Yujin strokes Rei's hair once, almost affectionately. "The little bird is right. Besides, we've already had access to your medical records. Full panel. You're clean too."
You stare at her. "I think it's better if I don't ask how you got access to my medical records."
"Yeah, that would be wise."
You settle back into position behind Rei, your knees sinking into the mattress between her spread thighs. Her ass is pushed up toward you, round and full, and the arch in her lower back deepens the curve of her hips into something that makes your cock twitch. You reach down and run your index and middle fingers together along her entrance, slow, tracing the seam of her. She's soaked. Her lips are plump and pink and slick, and when your fingers drag through the wetness gathered there, she trembles. Not a big shudder, just a fine vibration that runs through her thighs and up her spine. Your fingers slide easily, parting her, feeling the heat radiating off her.
"Please put it in," Rei says, her grip tightening on the sheets near Yujin's hips. "Quickly. Sir."
Yujin's eyebrows shoot up at that. She looks down at Rei, then up at you, and a grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. She says nothing, but the look on her face says plenty. She threads her fingers into Rei's hair and guides her head gently between her legs. "Focus here, little bird. You've got a job to do too."
You take your cock in one hand and press the tip against Rei's entrance. The heat alone is staggering. You push forward, just the head at first, and her body resists for a second before opening around you, tight and slick and deliciously warm. You sink in an inch and stop, letting her adjust. She's so fucking tight it's almost difficult to move. Every fraction you push deeper, her walls grip you, squeeze you, like her body is trying to memorize the shape of you.
Rei exhales shakily into Yujin's thigh. Her fingers curl into the sheets. "My god, his dick..." You give her another inch. Then another. You can feel every ridge of her around you, the wet heat pulling you in, her muscles clenching and releasing in tiny flutters as she stretches to accommodate your thickness. By the time you're halfway inside her, Rei's forehead is pressed against Yujin's pelvis and her breathing has gone shallow and ragged.
"Breathe, Rei," Yujin says from above, her fingers still laced through Rei's hair. "And start licking. Multitask, babe."
Rei lifts her head slightly and lowers her mouth to Yujin's pussy. You watch her tongue extend and make contact, a slow, flat stroke from bottom to top, and Yujin's stomach muscles tighten visibly. Rei licks again, finding her rhythm, her tongue working in careful, measured passes while you continue feeding your cock into her from behind.
"Good girl," Yujin murmurs, and her hips shift against Rei's mouth.
You bottom out. Your hips press flush against Rei's ass, every inch of you buried inside her, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you have to hold still for a moment and just breathe. She's tight and hot and wet and alive around you, her walls pulsing, adjusting, gripping. You pull back slowly, watching your cock slide out of her, glistening, before pushing back in with a long, steady stroke. Rei gasps against Yujin's pussy, and you feel the vibration of it through your own body somehow.
You set a slow pace. There's no rush. Each thrust is full and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the base, and you savor every single second of it. The way her body yields to you, the wet friction, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin. You grip Rei's hips with both hands, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her ass, and use that leverage to control the depth and angle of each stroke. Her ass ripples slightly every time your hips connect, and the sight of it alone is enough to keep you hard for the rest of the afternoon.
Your eyes lift from Rei's back and find Yujin's. She's sitting against the headboard, legs spread wide, Rei's face buried between them, and she's looking right at you. Not at Rei. Not at the ceiling. At you. Those dark eyes are half-lidded and sharp at the same time, full of something that isn't quite challenge and isn't quite invitation but sits in that dangerous space between the two. She bites her lower lip, slow, letting her teeth drag across the pink of it, and holds your gaze.
"You look good like that," she says. "Behind her. Holding her hips. All that control." Her chin dips slightly. "It suits you."
You thrust into Rei again, unhurried, and watch Yujin's expression flicker as Rei moans against her. "You look pretty good yourself. Legs spread. Holding her hair while she eats your pussy." You push in deep and hold there, grinding slightly, and Rei whimpers. "Speaking of which. How's she doing down there?"
Yujin's breath catches. A low, unguarded moan slips out of her before she can stop it. She recovers quickly, tipping her head back against the headboard. "Pretty good. The little bird has a very skillful tongue. I'll give her that."
"I know. I just had that mouth on my cock. She's talented."
"Mm. Multi-talented." Yujin's hips roll forward against Rei's face, a slow, grinding motion she's clearly trying to keep subtle and failing. Her fingers tighten in Rei's hair. "She's doing this thing right now with the tip of her tongue that's... yeah. That's really good."
You pull back and thrust into Rei harder. Not brutal, but firm enough that the impact travels through her entire body, pushes her face deeper between Yujin's legs. Rei moans, a muffled, desperate sound that vibrates directly against Yujin's clit, and Yujin's thighs clamp around Rei's head for a split second before she forces them open again.
"Fuck," Yujin breathes. "Do that again."
You do it again. A deep, intentional thrust that buries you to the hilt inside Rei, and her whole body rocks forward. She moans louder this time, the sound smothered by Yujin's pussy, and you can see the effect it has in real time: Yujin's stomach flexing, her toes curling against the sheets, her fingers pulling Rei's hair tighter.
"You're using her as a vibrator," Yujin says, and there's a breathlessness in the way she says it that wasn't there before. "That's very resourceful."
"I'm a problem solver."
Rei pulls her head up just long enough to gasp for air, her chin slick, her lips swollen and shiny. "You two are going to break me and I haven't even been here an hour." She sounds wrecked already, her eyes glassy, her cheeks flushed so deep they're almost red.
"Get back to work," Yujin says, pressing Rei's head back down. "You're on the clock."
You settle into a rhythm. Each stroke is measured and full, your hips meeting Rei's ass with a steady, wet impact that echoes off the bedroom walls. You're not rushing. You're not chasing anything. You're just enjoying the feel of her, tight and slick and trembling around you, and the view in front of you is so fucking good it almost doesn't feel real. Rei's back, arched and glistening with the faintest sheen of sweat. Her ass, round and pushed back against you, taking every inch of you like she was built for it. And beyond her, Yujin, watching you with those dark, sharp eyes, her chest rising and falling a little faster than she'd probably like to admit.
You change the angle slightly, tilting your hips upward on the next thrust, and Rei's entire body jolts. She pulls off Yujin's pussy and her mouth falls open, a choked, guttural sound pouring out of her that she clearly wasn't expecting. "There," she pants. "Right there. Please."
"You found her spot," Yujin says, looking at you over Rei's trembling body. "You're getting warmer."
You hit the same angle again, a slow grind that presses the head of your cock against that swollen ridge inside her, and Rei's arms give out. Her chest drops to the mattress, her face turning sideways against Yujin's thigh, and her fingers grip Yujin's hips with a desperation that leaves white marks on her skin. You keep going, maintaining that exact angle, that exact pressure, and Rei is falling apart beneath you in a way that's almost too satisfying.
"Use your tongue, Rei," Yujin reminds her, tugging her hair. "Don't forget about me." Rei, with visible effort, turns her head back and buries her face between Yujin's legs again. Her licking is messier now, less precise, all broad strokes and sloppy enthusiasm, but from the way Yujin's abs keep clenching, it's working just fine.
You lean forward slightly, one hand still on Rei's hip, the other bracing on the mattress, and fuck into her with a slow, grinding pace that never lets her catch her breath. Every time you bottom out, you hold there for half a second, letting her feel the full depth of you, before pulling back and doing it again. Rei is shaking. Her thighs are quivering. And the sounds she's making into Yujin's pussy are getting louder, needier, more broken with every thrust.
"She's dripping all over your sheets," Yujin observes, glancing down between Rei's legs. "Absolutely ruining them. I hope you have a good dry cleaner."
"I'll manage."
"You better. Egyptian cotton isn't cheap." Yujin's hips buck forward against Rei's mouth, just once, a sharp involuntary movement she immediately tries to play off by adjusting her position against the headboard. But you saw it. You saw the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers gripped a fistful of Rei's hair and held on, the way her thighs tensed and trembled for a fraction of a second.
She catches you watching and narrows her eyes. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Stop smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're smiling with your eyes. Stop it." You thrust into Rei again, deep and firm, and the moan Rei produces into Yujin's pussy makes Yujin's head fall back against the headboard with an audible thud. Her eyes flutter shut. Her chest heaves. And for just a moment, the cocky, controlled, chaos-agent exterior cracks, and underneath it there's just a girl getting her pussy eaten really, really well.
She opens her eyes and finds you still looking at her. Something shifts in her expression. Something warm and a little bit dangerous. "Your turn is coming," she says. "And I'm not going to be as easy as she is."
"Looking forward to it."
Rei lifts her head, breathless, chin soaked, and manages to look over her shoulder at you with half-lidded eyes. "Can you go a little harder? Please, sir?" You grab Rei's hips with both hands and give her exactly what she asked for. The pace shifts from slow and teasing to firm, constant, each thrust landing with purpose and weight. Your hips snap forward and drive deep, pulling back just enough to slam home again, and the wet, rhythmic slap of your skin against hers fills the room like a metronome set to filthy. Rei's whole body rocks forward with every stroke, her knees sliding on the sheets, her fingers clawing at whatever she can reach.
You spread her cheeks with both thumbs, pulling them apart, and the view opens up completely. Her pussy stretched around your cock, pink and swollen and glistening, gripping you on every outstroke like she doesn't want to let you go. Her tight little asshole on full display above it, clenching involuntarily every time you bottom out. Everything wet, everything exposed, everything yours to look at while you fuck her at a pace that's making her lose the ability to form thoughts.
"Don't stop," Rei pants into Yujin's thigh, her face turned sideways because she can barely hold herself up anymore. "Please don't stop. Your dick is too fucking good."
Yujin looks down at her with undisguised delight. Her eyes are wide and bright and she's grinning in a way that suggests she's witnessing something she's been waiting to see for a very long time. The sweet Rei. The polite Rei. The girl who watches anime and plays her Switch and listens to Björk and blushes when someone mentions her underwear. That Rei is currently face-down between another girl's legs, getting railed from behind, and begging for more. Yujin reaches down and strokes Rei's hair away from her flushed, sweaty face like she's petting a cat.
"Look at you," Yujin says, and her tone is somewhere between pride and amazement. "Little miss 'I just have a good throat.' Little miss 'I'm just an affectionate person.' You're a complete slut, Rei."
Rei's fingers tighten on Yujin's thigh. Her back arches deeper, pressing her ass harder against you. "I can't help it." Her eyes are squeezed shut and her mouth is hanging open and the flush on her face has spread all the way down her neck to her chest. "His cock is just too fucking good. It's so thick and it's hitting everything and I can't think straight."
You thrust into her hard enough that her body lurches forward and she lets out a sound that's half gasp, half moan, entirely desperate. You bring your hand down on her right ass cheek, a sharp, clean slap that leaves a pink print on her skin and makes her whole body clench around you. The tightness is staggering. You feel it from the tip of your cock to the base of your spine. "Moan for me," you tell her.
Rei's head drops. Her shoulders tremble. And when you thrust into her again, she lets it out, a raw, unfiltered moan that she doesn't even try to contain. It's loud enough to bounce off the walls of your minimalist bedroom, and it's the most genuine sound you've heard all day.
"Yes, daddy!" The word falls out of her mouth like it's been sitting there waiting for permission. "Spank my ass more. Please. Harder."
You slap her left cheek this time, harder, and Rei's pussy clenches so tight around you that your rhythm stutters for a second. Her skin blooms red under your palm and she pushes back against you, grinding herself onto your cock with a desperation that's completely unrecognizable from the shy, formal girl who handed you a briefcase forty minutes ago.
"Again," she begs. "Please, daddy, again."
You give her another one, right across the curve where her ass meets her thigh, and the moan she produces is broken and raw and so loud that Yujin stops even pretending Rei is going to eat her out anymore. Rei's face is buried in the mattress between Yujin's legs, her mouth open, drool soaking into the sheets, and every thrust you deliver makes her entire body shake.
Yujin shifts her position, sliding her back up the headboard so she can see better. She spreads her legs wider, her left hand drifting between her own thighs, two fingers finding her clit and starting to rub in slow, tight circles. Her right hand stays in Rei's hair, gripping loosely, more for contact than control now.
"Fuck her good," Yujin tells you, her fingers picking up speed between her legs. "Harder. Reset her brain. I want to see her forget her own name."
You grab Rei's hips and pull her back onto your cock as you thrust forward, and the collision draws a sound out of her that isn't even a moan anymore, it's just noise, raw and broken and high-pitched. Her hands are fisted in the sheets so hard her knuckles have gone white. Her back is arched so deep her stomach nearly touches the mattress. And she's babbling, a stream of fragmented, barely coherent pleas that tumble out of her in between gasps. "So deep, you're so fucking deep, I can feel you in my stomach, don't stop, please don't stop, daddy, please..."
"She called you daddy," Yujin says, rubbing her clit faster, her chest rising and falling with quickening breaths. "Twice. The sweet little rookie is calling you daddy. This is the best day of my professional career."
You maintain the pace, steady and relentless, your cock driving into Rei with a consistency that never lets her come down. Every time she thinks she's caught her breath, you're already bottoming out again, filling her completely, your hips pressed flush against her ass. The wet sounds between you are constant and obscene, and Rei's pussy is so slick that every thrust produces an audible squelch that would be embarrassing in any other context but right now just makes you fuck her harder.
"I think I'm gonna cum," Rei gasps suddenly, and her whole body goes rigid. Her walls clamp down on you so hard you can barely move. Her thighs are shaking violently, her toes curling, her fingers tearing at the sheets. "Holy shit. Holy shit, I'm going to cum on your dick. I'm going to cum, I can't stop it, it's right there..."
"Cum for me." You grip her hips and keep your pace exactly where it is, deep and firm, hitting that spot inside her with every stroke. "Cum like a good girl."
"Yes, daddy." Her entire body is vibrating. Her head lifts off the mattress and her back arches and her mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second, two seconds, three seconds. "Yes, daddy, I'm cumming, I'm cumming, I'm—"
Yujin exhales sharply, her fingers a blur between her own legs. "Fuck, it's so hot watching her like this. She's completely gone. I'm almost cumming just from looking at her."
Rei's orgasm hits her suddenly and all at once. Her body locks up completely, every muscle tensed, and then she lets out a sharp, sustained moan that breaks in the middle and keeps going. You feel it around your cock, intense rhythmic contractions that squeeze and release, squeeze and release, her pussy pulsing around you in waves. Her thighs clamp against your hips. Her fingers claw the sheets so hard you hear fabric rip. The flush on her skin darkens to a deep, blotchy red that spreads from her cheeks down her neck to her shoulders.
You slow your pace, dragging it out. Long, deep, lazy strokes that keep her trembling, keep the contractions going, coax every last tremor out of her. Every slow thrust draws another whimper from her, smaller now, softer, her body twitching each time you push in. You can feel the aftershocks rippling through her, her walls fluttering weakly around your cock, and the wet heat between you is almost unbearable.
Gradually, Rei's body goes slack. Her knees give out and she melts onto her stomach, sinking into the mattress with the boneless grace of someone whose skeleton has temporarily left the building. She's still shaking, tiny little aftershocks running through her limbs, and her breathing is ragged and uneven. You lean over her, your chest close to her back, and press your lips to her shoulder. She's warm and damp with sweat and she smells faintly like floral fruity perfume and sex.
Rei turns her head on the pillow and looks up at you. Her eyes are glazed. Her lips are parted. Her hair is plastered to her forehead in sweaty strands. And she's smiling. It's the dumbest, happiest, most sex-drunk grin you've ever seen on a human face, the kind of smile that only happens when someone's brain is still rebooting after a catastrophic pleasure event. "I can't believe Wonyoung never tried your cock," she mumbles, still catching her breath. "What a waste. What an absolute waste. She had this the entire time and she never once sat on it."
"Her loss,” you say.
"Her monumental loss." Rei shifts slightly, wincing at the sensitivity, then settles back into the mattress with a contented sigh. "I barely had one orgasm and I already want more. My legs don't work though. Give me a minute."
"Take your time."
"Nope." Yujin is already moving. She crawls across the bed with the energy of someone who's been watching the previews and is ready for the main feature. She nudges Rei's leg out of the way and settles between yours, her fingers wrapping around your cock, still slick and hard and coated in the evidence of Rei's orgasm. She looks at it for a second, appraising, then lowers her mouth and takes you in.
The taste of Rei's cum on your cock makes Yujin hum appreciatively, a low, sustained vibration around your shaft that sends a shockwave through your hips. She sucks slowly, savoring it, her tongue swirling and pressing, cleaning every inch of you with a thoroughness that's almost meditative. She pulls off with a wet sound and licks her lips.
"Tastes so good," she says, stroking you lazily, her thumb smearing Rei's slickness along the shaft. "Like Coke."
From somewhere behind her, Rei grunts. "Stop it!"
A pillow flies across the bed and catches Yujin in the side of the head. She catches it one-handed before it falls, laughing so hard her shoulders shake, and tosses it onto the floor. "Chill! I’m kidding..." She gives your cock one more long, slow lick from base to tip, then releases you and crawls forward, positioning herself above you.
Yujin straddles your hips, her knees on either side of your waist, her hands flat on your chest. She's lean and warm above you, her dark hair hanging around her face, her small breasts catching the light from the windows. Up close, you can see the thin sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the slight flush across her chest, the way her pupils are blown wide despite the composed expression she's wearing. She reaches back with one hand and takes hold of your cock, angling it upward, and you feel the head press against her entrance, hot and slick. She's wetter than she probably wants to admit.
She holds you there, right at the edge, not letting you in. She looks down at you with an expression that's part challenge, part warning. "Let's see what all the fuss is about." She rolls her hips slightly, teasing, the tip of your cock sliding through her wetness without entering. "I should tell you upfront. I'm not easily impressed. Not like Rei."
From across the bed, Rei lifts her head just enough to protest. "I wasn't easily impressed, his dick is just really good."
"You called him daddy within five minutes."
"He earned it." Yujin ignores her. She adjusts her grip on your cock, positions it exactly where she wants it, and locks eyes with you. "Ready?"
"Yes. Let's see if the professional is really that good."
Yujin's eyebrow lifts. A slow, dangerous arch. "Are you challenging me?"
"I am."
She grins. "You just made a very big mistake." She shifts her weight above you, her thighs flexing on either side of your hips. "New rule. Whoever orgasms first loses. And the loser has to fulfill one request from the winner. Anything. No limits, no negotiations, no backing out. Are you in?"
"Yeah, I'm in,” you say, confidently.
"Good." Yujin sinks down onto your cock. Her jaw tightens and her eyes narrow but she doesn't make a sound, taking you inside her with a controlled patience that's almost defiant. She's tight, not as tight as Rei but tight in a different way, her muscles gripping you with an intentional squeeze that tells you she knows exactly what she's doing with her body. When she bottoms out, her ass flush against your thighs, she lets out a single measured breath through her nose and rolls her shoulders.
From the other side of the bed, Rei is lying on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, watching the two of you with the satisfied, dreamy look of someone who just got thoroughly fucked and is now enjoying the show. She catches your eye and gives you a small, conspiratorial nod. "I'm rooting for you."
Yujin's head whips toward her. "Traitor. Traitor to the entire gender. I'm writing you up for this."
"Write me up all you want. I want him to win."
"You've known him for an hour. I expected a bit more from you.” Yujin turns back to you and starts to move. Torturously slow. She lifts her hips until just the head of your cock is inside her, holds there for a count that feels like an eternity, then sinks back down in one fluid, rolling motion. It's sensual in a way that's almost aggressive, every movement calculated to make you feel as much as possible while she gives away nothing. Her stomach flexes. Her thighs tense. She keeps her eyes locked on yours the entire time, watching for any crack in your composure, any twitch, any tell.
"So," she says, rolling her hips in a slow circle that makes your fingers dig into the sheets. "Do you know what you'll ask for? If, hypothetically, by some miracle, you manage to win this bet?"
You look up at her. At both of them. "I wanna get to know you two better. I want to take you both out. Get dinner. actually having a real conversation instead of just this… transactional sex."
Yujin laughs. "A date? That's your big ask? You could ask for anything and you want to take us to dinner?" She shakes her head, still riding you with that agonizing slowness. "Smart aleck. Trying to charm us. Well, it doesn't matter, because you're not going to win. We'll finish the job today and you'll never see either of us again. We serve Wonyoung."
"I can treat you both better than she does,” you argue.
Yujin's rhythm falters for just a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable. She covers it immediately. "Oh yeah?"
"As people. Not tools for her to dispatch whenever she can't be bothered to handle her own life."
The room goes quiet for a beat. Just the wet, slick sound of Yujin moving on you and the soft rustle of sheets. Then she starts bouncing. Properly bouncing, lifting herself up and dropping back down with a snap of her hips that drives your cock deep and draws a sharp exhale from your chest. Her ass connects with your thighs on every downstroke and the impact sends ripples through her body that you can feel in your teeth.
She's good. She's really fucking good. The way she angles her hips, the way she squeezes you at the top of each bounce, the way she uses her weight on the drop. Her ass is incredible, firm and round, and watching it work as she rides you is pure bliss.
"What about you?" you manage, keeping your breathing even through sheer willpower. "What's your request if you win?"
Yujin's grin turns feral. She leans forward, her hands on your chest, her face close to yours. "I'm going to fuck your ass." You swallow hard. "There's a strap-on in the briefcase in the living room. You're going to be my slut." She punctuates this with a hard downward thrust that buries you to the hilt. "I'm going to bend you over this very expensive bed and make you call me mommy."
Across the bed, Rei buries her face in the pillow. Her ears are bright red. You can hear her muffled squeak of shock through the cotton.
You hold Yujin's gaze. You keep your expression perfectly flat, perfectly unbothered, even though she's riding your cock like she's trying to break it. "Then maybe you'd better try harder. I've had better rides from girls before."
Her face changes instantly, the playful confidence slipping away as raw irritation takes its place. Her jaw clenches, her eyes narrow, and she starts riding you harder, slamming herself down with a ferocity that shakes the entire bed frame. Her pace doubles, then triples, her hips working furiously, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room in a relentless rhythm. She's going to make you cum through sheer force of will and spite, and honestly the strategy isn't bad.
But it's costing her. Her breathing is getting ragged. Short, sharp inhales through her nose, quick exhales through parted lips. And the moans, the ones she's been holding back since this started, are beginning to leak out. Small ones at first, barely more than breathy gasps, but they're growing in volume and frequency with every passing second. Her thighs are trembling. The flush across her chest is deepening. "Rei." Yujin's composure is cracking and she knows it. "Help me. Do something. Get over here."
Rei lifts her head from the pillow and looks at you, questioning. You give her a small nod. It's fine. She crawls across the bed to your side, her body still flushed and marked from her own session, and lowers her mouth to your chest. Her lips close around your left nipple and she sucks gently, her tongue flicking across the sensitive skin, and the added sensation sends a jolt straight down your spine to your cock. Rei's hand rests on your stomach, warm and grounding, and she alternates between soft licks and gentle suction, her eyes closed, completely content in her supporting role.
You place both hands on Yujin's waist. Your thumbs press into the grooves of her hip bones and you guide her rhythm, not changing it, just steadying it, controlling the angle so that every time she drops down your cock hits exactly where it needs to. Yujin lets you, too focused on maintaining her pace to fight the direction, and the adjustment makes her next moan come out louder than the ones before.
You watch her. The way her stomach flexes with every movement. The way her small breasts bounce with each impact. The way her dark hair swings and sticks to the sweat on her neck and shoulders. The way her lips part and her brow furrows with concentration and barely contained pleasure. She's stunning. Absolutely, unreasonably stunning, in a way that's completely different from Rei's softness, all sharp angles and lean muscle and controlled power that's currently losing its grip. "You're gorgeous," you tell her.
Her eyes snap to yours. "What?"
"You're gorgeous. I'm looking at you riding me and you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen." Something complicated happens on Yujin's face. She tries to smirk but it comes out uneven, one corner of her mouth lifting while the other trembles. Her rhythm stutters and she has to reset, grinding down on you to find her pace again. "More gorgeous than Wonyoung?"
"Yes. A lot more."
The reaction is subtle but it's there. A softening around her eyes. A looseness in her shoulders that wasn't there before. Her fingers, braced on your chest, press a little harder, like she's anchoring herself to something. She liked it. She liked it a lot, and she's going to go to her grave before she admits that out loud. "You just broke up with your girlfriend," she says, and her attempt at a dismissive tone is undercut by the breathlessness in every syllable, "and you're already hitting on someone else. You're a slut. All men are the same. Every single one."
Rei detaches from your nipple, her chin resting on your chest, and looks up at Yujin with raised eyebrows. "You're being too bratty."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Rei's hand squeezes your stomach once, encouraging. A grin spreads across her face, still loopy from her own orgasm. "Daddy, put her in her place."
You tighten your grip on Yujin's waist. She sees the shift in your expression half a second before she feels it, and her eyes widen just slightly. "Wait, what are you..." You plant your feet flat on the mattress and thrust upward. Hard. A single, powerful stroke that drives your cock deep inside her and lifts her knees off the bed for a fraction of a second. The sound that comes out of Yujin's mouth is loud and unguarded and completely involuntary, a full, open moan that she claps her hand over a second too late.
"Oh fuck," she whispers behind her fingers.
And you don't stop. You grab her hips and start fucking her from below, driving up into her with a pace that's fast and punishing and completely controlled. Every thrust is deep, the kind of deep that makes her stomach clench visibly, and you're not letting her set the rhythm anymore. She's riding you but you're the one in charge now, using your grip on her waist to pull her down onto every upstroke, meeting her body with a force that turns her controlled bouncing into something messy and desperate.
The transformation is immediate. Yujin's hands drop from her face to your chest for stability, her fingers splayed, her nails digging in. Her head falls forward, hair curtaining around her face, and the moans are coming freely now. Real moans. Loud, surprised, helpless moans that she couldn't stop if she tried. Her thighs are shaking against your sides, her abs are twitching, and the wet sounds between you have gotten louder, sloppier, more urgent.
"Oh my god," she breathes, and her hips jerk involuntarily. "How are you... what the fuck, how are you this..."
"This what?" you ask, not slowing down.
She grits her teeth, refusing to finish the sentence, but another deep thrust pulls a whine from her that answers the question anyway. Her back arches and she grinds down onto you, trying to find some control, some leverage, and you give it to her for exactly two seconds before slamming up into her again and watching her composure shatter.
You shift the angle slightly, tilting your hips, and on the next thrust you feel Yujin's entire body seize. Every muscle locks, her nails claw into your chest, and the moan that tears out of her throat is so raw and so loud that it makes Rei's eyebrows shoot up. You found the spot. You keep the angle and fuck into it relentlessly, steady and deep and unforgiving, and Yujin's composure doesn't just crack, it collapses.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chants, her head thrown back, her throat exposed, her body bouncing on you helplessly. She's not riding you anymore. She's holding on. "You're so fucking deep, oh my god, you're so fucking deep and hard and I can't..."
She catches herself. Bites down on her lower lip so hard it goes white. Straightens up and plants her hands on your stomach, trying to wrestle back control. Her hips start moving again, grinding in slow circles, and she looks down at you with an expression that's equal parts furious and aroused. "I'm not losing this bet," she says, and the tremble in her thighs says otherwise.
Rei rolls onto her side, propping her head up on one hand, watching Yujin bounce on your cock with the serene satisfaction of someone who already got hers. "You really don't look like someone who's winning, Yujin."
"If I don’t peg his ass," Yujin pants between thrusts, her thighs trembling around your hips, "I'm fucking yours."
"Mm, I don't think so." Rei stretches lazily, running her fingers along the damp sheets. "After daddy makes you cum, you're not going to have the strength to get out of this bed. Trust me. I speak from very recent experience."
Yujin grinds down on you, her jaw tight, sweat rolling down her neck into the valley between her breasts. She shakes her head, stubborn to the bone. "His dick isn't even that good. Very overrated. All this hype for a solid six out of ten at best."
You plant your feet and drive up into her so hard that her hands slip off your chest. Her eyes roll back, her whole body jolting, and the moan that comes out of her is guttural and helpless and completely involuntary. She catches herself with both palms flat on your stomach, fingers splayed, panting, and for a second she just stays there, impaled on you, her brain clearly buffering.
You look at Rei. "Give me some space." Rei scoots back immediately, pulling a pillow with her, settling in cross-legged near the foot of the bed with the eager posture of someone who just got front-row seats to the best show of her life. You turn your attention back to Yujin, who's still trying to reassemble her composure above you. "You sound a lot better moaning than you do talking all that bullshit."
"That's so fucking rude,” she grumbles. “You don't get to tell me when to talk and when to..."
You tighten your grip on her waist. Both hands, firm, fingers digging into the lean muscle of her hips. In one fluid motion, you lift her off your cock, shift your weight, and flip her onto her back on the mattress. The air leaves her lungs in a sharp gasp as her shoulders hit the sheets, her hair fanning out around her head, her legs falling open on either side of you. Before she can process the change in position, you're already between her thighs, one hand pressing her hip into the mattress, the other guiding your cock back inside her. You push in with a single, deep stroke that fills her completely, and Yujin's entire body arches off the bed.
"Oh, fuck—" Now you're on top. Now you're in control. And from the way Yujin's eyes have gone wide and glassy, she knows it too. You set a pace that's fast and hard and unrelenting, your hips slamming into hers with a force that shakes the headboard against the wall.
Each thrust drives deep, bottoming out, and the wet, obscene sound of your cock pounding into her fills the room alongside Yujin's increasingly desperate moaning. Her legs wrap around your waist instinctively, her heels digging into the small of your back, pulling you closer even as her hands push against your chest in a confused, contradictory bid for some kind of control she's already lost.
"You're such a fucking asshole," she spits, but her pussy is clenching around you so tight with every thrust that the insult loses all its teeth. "You absolute piece of shit, you think you're so fucking special because your dick is big and you can last a long time, you arrogant, smug, insufferable..."
"Keep going." You thrust harder, deeper, angling your hips to hit that same spot that made her fall apart earlier. "Every time you insult me, I just want to fuck you harder."
"You're the worst lay I've ever had." Another thrust. She chokes on a moan. "You have no technique. Zero finesse. You're just a rich boy with a big cock and no personality."
"That's a lot of talking for someone who's shaking."
"I'm not shaking." She's shaking. Her entire body is trembling beneath you, her thighs quivering against your ribs, her stomach muscles twitching every time you bottom out. The insults keep coming but they're getting shorter, more fragmented, punctuated by moans she can't swallow anymore.
You bring your right hand up and place it on her throat. Not squeezing. Not choking. Just resting there, your fingers curled around the column of her neck, your thumb against her pulse point, a firm, steady pressure that says everything without applying any real force.
Yujin's reaction is nuclear. Her eyes blow wide, her back arches so sharply that only her shoulders and hips are touching the mattress, and the sound that comes out of her mouth is raw and loud enough to make Rei flinch at the foot of the bed. Her hands fly up and grab your wrist, not to pull your hand away, but to hold it there. Her fingers wrap around your forearm and grip so hard you can feel her nails leaving crescents in your skin.
"Oh my god," she breathes, and her pussy clenches around you so hard your vision blurs for a second. "Oh my fucking god."
"Holy shit," Rei whispers from the foot of the bed. She's sitting forward, her eyes huge, her lips parted, her thighs pressed together. "That's so hot. That's so incredibly hot. Fuck her, daddy. Fuck her harder." You maintain the hand on Yujin's throat and pound into her, your hips relentless, each stroke driving so deep you can feel her cervix, feel the full length of you burying inside her again and again. Yujin's legs tighten around you, her heels locked behind your back, and she's pulling you into her on every thrust, her body working against her brain's protestations.
She's fighting it. You can see the battle playing out in real time on her face, the way she bites her lip, the way she squeezes her eyes shut, the way she tries to slow her own breathing. She's fighting the orgasm with everything she has, refusing to let it happen, refusing to lose. Her jaw is clenched so tight the muscles in her neck cord beneath your palm. "I'm not going to cum," she says through gritted teeth, but it comes out like a plea, not a statement. "I'm not. I refuse. I don't lose. I never lose."
"Cum on his cock, Yujin." Rei has crawled closer now, kneeling beside the two of you, her face flushed, her eyes bright with a wildness that wasn't there an hour ago. "Just let it go. It's going to be the best orgasm of your life. I promise."
"No." Yujin shakes her head against the pillow, her hair sticking to her face. "No, no, no, I'm not going to..." You hit the spot again. Hard. And hold there, grinding the head of your cock against that swollen ridge inside her while your thumb presses just slightly firmer against the side of her throat. Yujin's mouth opens. Her eyes go wide. Her hands fly from your wrist to the sheets, fisting the fabric.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..." It pours out of her in a continuous, panicked stream, each repetition higher and more desperate than the last. Her hips are bucking up against you, meeting your thrusts with involuntary, frantic movements she's clearly not controlling anymore. The flush on her chest has spread to her face, her neck, her ears. "You're going to make me cum. Damn it. Damn it, you're going to make me cum."
"That's it," Rei breathes, leaning close to Yujin's ear, her hand finding Yujin's thigh and squeezing. "Cum for him. Make her cum, daddy. Fuck it out of her."
Yujin's body goes rigid beneath you. Every muscle locks. Her back arches, her thighs clamp around your waist like a vice, the orgasm hits her and her mouth opens in a scream that your hand on her throat compresses into a strangled, ragged moan, muffled but still audible, still raw, still the loudest thing in the room. You feel it around your cock, a violent, rhythmic clenching that squeezes you in waves, her entire body convulsing beneath you, her hips jerking against yours in uncontrollable spasms. Her eyes are squeezed shut and there are tears at the corners, not from pain, from intensity, from the sheer overwhelming force of what's ripping through her.
You release her throat.
The sound that erupts from Yujin is unholy. A full, unrestricted moan that tears itself from her chest and fills the room, followed immediately by a series of gasped, broken syllables that aren't really words anymore. Her hands fly to your arms, gripping your biceps, and her whole body starts shaking, genuine, full-body tremors that make the bed vibrate beneath you.
"You won." It comes out wrecked, barely intelligible. "Damn it. You won. Fuck. I can't take it anymore. Stop. I can't..."
But you don't stop. You keep the same pace, your cock driving into her still-spasming pussy, and the hypersensitivity hits her like a second wave. Her eyes snap open and they're unfocused, pupils blown, tears tracking down her temples into her hair. Her mouth moves but nothing coherent comes out for a few seconds, just gasps and whimpers and fragments of sounds.
"She can take it." Rei's kneeling beside Yujin with a grin on her face that borders on feral. "She's a slut. Keep going."
"No no no no, fuck, please." Yujin's head thrashes on the pillow, her nails dragging red lines down your arms. "Daddy, no. Please, daddy, stop. You're going to make me cum again if you keep going like this. I can't. My body can't. Please."
That's exactly what you want. You grab her thighs and push them wider, opening her up completely, and fuck into her with everything you have. Deep, hard, constant, targeting that same angle, that same spot, and Yujin's protests dissolve into a continuous, high-pitched moan that climbs in pitch with every thrust. Her hands grab at everything, your arms, the sheets, the pillow behind her head, the headboard. Her body is arching and writhing beneath you, completely out of her own control.
"Fuck, fuck, I'm cumming, oh god I'm cumming again, I can't stop it, it's happe—”
The second orgasm slams into her harder than the first. Yujin screams, a real scream, sharp and loud and broken, and her body bows off the mattress. You feel a sudden rush of warmth around your cock, slick and hot and forceful, and then you see it. She's squirting. A hard, pulsing spray that soaks your stomach, your thighs, the sheets beneath her. It just keeps coming, her pussy clenching and releasing in violent contractions around your cock, each one pushing out another warm jet.
Rei's eyes go enormous. For exactly one second, she stares. Then she moves.
Her hand shoots between Yujin's legs and two fingers find Yujin's clit, exposed and swollen and drenched, and she starts rubbing. Fast. Hard. Aggressive circles with her fingertips pressed flat against the sensitive nub, and the effect is immediate and devastating. Yujin's squirting intensifies, the spray arcing higher, soaking Rei's wrist and forearm, splashing against your abs. Yujin's screams have gone silent, her mouth open, her body locked in a sustained convulsion, only her heels and shoulders touching the bed.
Rei giggles, bright and delighted, watching the chaos Yujin is making with the same breathless fascination as someone mesmerized by a burst of fireworks. "Look at all of that. Look at her go. She's making such a mess." Her fingers don't stop, rubbing Yujin's clit with a relentless enthusiasm that borders on cruel, and every pass of her fingertips draws another gush from Yujin's trembling body. "Come on, Yujin. Give us more. I know you've got more."
Yujin's hand grabs Rei's wrist weakly, trying to push her away, but there's no strength behind it. Her body is spent, wrung out, every muscle exhausted from the sustained intensity of two consecutive orgasms. She's making sounds that aren't moans or screams but something in between, small, broken, hitching gasps, her chest heaving, her stomach flexing with each aftershock.
You pull out. Slow, careful. And as your cock slides free, one last jet of clear fluid pulses from Yujin's swollen, flushed pussy, splashing against your thigh before trailing down between her legs and pooling on the already ruined sheets. Rei finally pulls her hand away, her fingers glistening, and wipes them on the sheet next to Yujin's hip with a casual nonchalance that makes you shake your head.
Yujin lies there. Breathing. Trembling. Her legs are still spread, too heavy to move, and her arms are limp at her sides. Her hair is a dark, tangled mess across the pillow. Her skin is flushed from her face to her navel, blotchy and pink and damp with sweat. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted and her chest rises and falls in deep, unsteady rhythms that gradually, slowly, begin to even out.
You lean down and press your lips to her cheek. Soft. Unhurried. You can taste the salt of her sweat on her skin. "Looks like I won."
Yujin's arms come up and wrap around your neck. She pulls you down against her, tight, her face burying into the crook of your shoulder. She's holding you like someone who just survived something, her fingers gripping the back of your neck, her body still trembling in small aftershocks against yours. The embrace is fierce and needy and completely at odds with everything she's projected since she walked out of that elevator. You let her hold on. You settle your weight carefully, not crushing her, and let her take what she needs.
Rei tilts her head, watching the two of you with a soft, teasing smile. "Look at that. Daddy softened up the bratty girl."
"Shut up," Yujin mumbles into your shoulder, but there's no harshness in it. There's barely any volume.
You pull away slightly, just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes are open now, softer, different - no more sharpness. Just a stunned, wide look, like she’s still trying to piece together what just happened. Her lips are swollen and her mascara has smudged slightly at the corners of her eyes and she looks completely, thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.
She grabs the back of your neck with one hand and pulls you down into a kiss. Not teasing, not competitive, not calculated. Hard. Deep. Her mouth opens against yours and she kisses you with a hunger that tastes like surrender, her tongue pressing against yours, her teeth catching your lower lip. Her other hand comes up to cup your jaw, holding you there, and when the kiss finally breaks she doesn't let you pull away. She keeps your face close, her forehead against yours, and brushes her nose against yours. Once. Twice. An almost unbearably tender gesture from someone who, five minutes ago, was calling you every name in the book.
A small, mischievous smile curls the corner of her mouth. Her thumb traces your jawline. "That was the best orgasm of my life," she murmurs, her breath warm against your lips. "Motherfucker. Congratulations."
Yujin turns her head on the pillow and looks at Rei, who's sprawled out on her stomach beside you both, chin resting on her folded arms, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Yujin narrows her eyes. "You were way too harsh on me back there. The little bird has claws."
Rei shrugs one shoulder, not even a little apologetic. "It was really fun. And you had it coming."
"I had it coming?"
"You called me a slut like four times today."
"That's because you are one. But fine." Yujin's mouth twitches. Something almost warm passes through her expression. "I'm proud of you. You were vicious. I respect vicious."
"Thank you. I learned from the best."
"Damn right you did."
You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "So. I won."
Yujin groans and presses the pillow over her face. Her response comes out muffled through Egyptian cotton. "Yes. You won."
"Which means you owe me a date. Both of you."
She pulls the pillow down just enough to glare at you with one eye. "You're going to complicate my life so badly."
"That seems fair. You two showed up at my apartment unannounced, broke up with me on behalf of my fake girlfriend, threatened me with a lawsuit, and then fucked me. I think one dinner is a pretty mild complication by comparison."
Yujin lets the pillow drop and stares at the ceiling. She exhales slowly, her chest still rising and falling a little faster than normal, the flush on her skin only now beginning to fade. "If Wonyoung finds out, Rei and I are done. Not just fired. Done. She's not the forgive-and-forget type."
"She really isn't," Rei agrees, but her tone is remarkably casual for someone discussing career annihilation. She traces a pattern on the sheet with her fingertip.
"I know she isn't," you say. "Wonyoung's petty. Always has been. She wouldn't care that she dumped me. She'd care that you two are seeing me, because in her head, everything that was hers stays hers. Even the stuff she threw away."
Yujin looks over at you, a subtle flash of surprise in her eyes, as though hearing her own thoughts echoed back in a way she didn’t expect. "That's... exactly right, actually. She'd do so much worse than fire us."
"I know. But she's not going to find out anytime soon. And if she does, I'll handle it. That's my problem, not yours." You hold her gaze. "I've dealt with petty rich people my entire life. I come from a family of them. I know how the game works."
Yujin chews the inside of her cheek, considering. She turns to Rei. "What do you think?"
"Yes!" Rei says instantly.
"Girl, I hadn't even finished the question."
"You were going to ask if we should go on the date. The answer is yes. I don't need to think about it."
Yujin squints at her. "Fifteen minutes ago you were a nervous intern who couldn't open the right briefcase. Now you're making life-altering decisions in half a second?"
"I've had a productive afternoon." Rei rolls onto her side to face both of you, tucking one arm under her head. "I thought I admired Wonyoung. Before I started working with her, I really did. She was this incredible, untouchable person and I wanted to be around that." She pauses, picking at a loose thread on the pillowcase. "Then I actually started working with her, and I saw how she treats people behind closed doors. The way she talks about them. The way she throws them away when they stop being useful." Her eyes drift to yours briefly. "My admiration kind of eroded after that."
The room sits with that for a second. Nobody fills the silence.
"Okay." Yujin pushes herself up on her elbows. "One date. Just one. To see how it goes." She points at you with a finger that still isn't entirely steady. "Don't get your hopes up. I just need to add some variety to my life. Everything's been work, Wonyoung, work, Wonyoung, repeat. A girl needs some seasoning."
"Noted. No hopes. Very low expectations."
"Extremely low. Rock bottom. Subterranean."
"Got it."
Yujin shifts her weight and her hand drifts down between you. Her fingers find your cock, still hard, still flushed and thick against your stomach, and she wraps around it loosely. She gives it a slow, lazy stroke, and then stops. She looks down at it. She looks up at you. "You didn't cum."
"Nope."
"How." It's not a question. It's an accusation. She strokes you again, slow, her thumb circling the head, and watches your cock twitch against her palm. "No guy has ever lasted through me riding them. I've broken every man I've been with. Every single one. And you just... sat there and flipped me over and kept going."
"I've always had good stamina." You fold your arms behind your head, casual, even though her hand on your cock is making it hard to project total nonchalance. "I can get pretty competitive sometimes. Especially when someone threatens to peg me."
Yujin's teeth catch her lower lip. She's trying not to smile and failing at it, a slow, reluctant grin spreading across her face that she absolutely cannot contain. Her hand keeps stroking you, absentminded, her fingers exploring your length and girth like she's cataloguing it for future reference. "I like that," she admits. "I like a guy who doesn't fold."
Rei yawns and stretches, her back arching, her body unfurling against the sheets. The movement is lazy but it draws your attention to every curve, every line, the fullness of her thighs, the soft weight of her breasts shifting as she moves. She catches you looking and doesn't shy away from it this time. "Anyway," Rei says, rolling her neck. "This is all very sweet, but I'm still really horny."
Yujin releases your cock and rolls her eyes so hard her whole head moves. "She's insatiable. One orgasm and she turns into a monster."
"Your fault. You brought me here."
"Fine. Since you're so worked up, go ahead and let him fuck your ass then."
Rei pauses. Looks at you. Looks at Yujin. takes one brief, unashamed look down and shrugs. "Okay."
You sit up slightly. "Hold on. I thought anal was too kinky and filthy. Your exact words."
"I changed my mind." Rei says this with the serene conviction of someone announcing they've decided to try a new restaurant. "A girl can change her mind."
Yujin barks out a laugh. "Please. She's always liked anal. The whole innocent act was bullshit. I knew it the second she said it." She gestures at Rei like a prosecutor presenting evidence. "Look at her. That angelic face. Those big brown eyes. That thick ass." She shakes her head. "Anyone with a functioning brain can see that girl loves a cock in her ass. It's practically tattooed on her forehead."
Rei blinks, and for the first time, she looks genuinely caught off guard. "Is it that obvious? Can people actually tell?"
"Rei. Babe. Everyone who has ever looked at you knows immediately."
"Everyone?"
"It's the combination. The sweet princess face and the body that won't quit. It broadcasts a very specific frequency." Yujin swings her legs off the bed and stands, still naked, still glistening faintly with sweat. "I'm getting the lube from the briefcase. Don't start without me."
She pads out of the bedroom on bare feet, moving with the easy confidence of someone who's entirely comfortable being naked in a stranger's penthouse. The view from behind is excellent. Her ass, round, full, juicy and still faintly pink where the sheets creased against her skin, disappears around the corner.
The second Yujin is out of earshot, Rei scoots closer to you. She puts a hand on your chest and leans in, her lips near your ear, she murmurs: "She called you daddy."
You look at her. "I caught that."
"While you were fucking her. Multiple times." Rei pulls back and grins at you, her nose scrunching. "She was begging. Actual begging. 'Daddy please, daddy no, daddy stop.' She's going to pretend it didn't happen."
"Probably."
"She likes to act all tough and unbothered, like nothing gets to her. But she loves being put in her place. She needs it." Rei taps your chest once with her index finger. "She's been waiting for a guy who wouldn't buckle. Every other guy she's been with folded the second she started pushing. You pushed back harder. That broke her brain."
"You figured all that out in one afternoon?"
"I'm observant." Rei smiles, and there's nothing shy about it anymore. "Also, she talks in her sleep during naps at the office. Very revealing stuff."
You hear Yujin's footsteps coming back down the hall. Rei immediately scoots to a respectable distance and adopts an expression of pure, guileless innocence. The transformation is so seamless it's almost frightening. Yujin rounds the corner holding a bottle of high-end lubricant. She tosses it onto the bed, where it bounces once and lands between Rei's knees. Her gaze flicks between the two of you, eyes narrowing.
"You were talking about me."
"We absolutely were not," Rei says, and she sounds so sincere that even you almost believe her.
Yujin stares at her for two full seconds, then decides she doesn't care enough to pursue it. She climbs back onto the bed and grabs Rei's shoulder, spinning her around. "All fours, little bird. Show's about to start."
Rei catches your eye one more time as she moves into position, and the look she gives you is quick and private and full of mischief. Then she turns, plants her hands on the mattress, and arches her back. Yujin pops the cap on the lube with her thumb. She squeezes a generous amount directly onto Rei's ass, a thick, clear line that drips between her cheeks, and then another dollop onto her own palm. She rubs her hands together, warming it up.
"This one heats up," Yujin says, spreading the lube across Rei's skin with slow strokes. Her fingers glide over the curve of Rei's ass, working the slick between her cheeks, coating everything thoroughly. "High-end stuff. Wonyoung's company card paid for it, so you know it's premium."
Rei shivers. Her back dips and her fingers curl into the sheets. "That feels really good. The warming thing is nice."
"Of course it does. You love being pampered." Yujin's thumb traces a slow circle around Rei's tight hole, spreading the lube, not pushing in yet. Just getting her used to the contact. "And your absolute favorite pampering is a thick cock in your ass. Isn't that right?"
Rei presses her face into the mattress and says nothing, which is an answer in itself. You lean back against the headboard, watching Yujin work. Her fingers are careful, attentive, making sure every inch is slick and warm. It's the kind of consideration that comes from actually giving a shit about someone, not from following a job description. "You don't seem like Wonyoung's biggest fan," you say.
Yujin doesn't look up from what she's doing. "Wonyoung is my boss. I do what she tells me to do. End of story."
"I don't know. Seems like there's more to it."
Her fingers pause on Rei's skin for just a fraction of a second. "Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?" She resumes, her thumb pressing gently against Rei's rim, applying just enough pressure to tease without entering. "Put the magnifying glass away."
"Just making conversation."
Yujin stays quiet for a few seconds. The only sounds are Rei's soft breathing and the wet, slick noise of lube being worked into skin. Then, without prompting, Yujin says, "We used to be closer. Me and Wonyoung. It wasn't always a boss-and-employee thing. There was more to it than that."
You wait. Don't push.
"If you're going to ask what happened, don't bother. Better question is what didn't happen." She squeezes more lube onto her fingers and slides one fingertip just barely inside Rei, who exhales slowly and pushes back against the intrusion. "I don't like talking about it. It's boring and depressing and I've spent enough energy on that woman for one lifetime."
The subject closes itself. You let it go. Yujin works her finger deeper into Rei with a patience that borders on surgical, rotating slowly, letting her adjust, and Rei's breathing gradually shifts from tense to steady to something that sounds a lot like enjoyment. She's rocking her hips back in small, barely-there movements, instinctive, chasing the feeling.
After a moment, Yujin speaks again. Quieter this time, her eyes still on her own hand. "Did you mean what you said earlier?"
"About what?"
"That I'm prettier than Wonyoung."
There it is. Past all the attitude, the sarcasm, the Theatrical indifference - this. A question she couldn't bury, surfacing again the moment she convinced herself enough time had gone by to make it seem offhand. "Yeah. I meant it."
"Why, though?" She adds a second finger alongside the first, scissoring gently, stretching Rei open. Rei whimpers into the mattress, her toes curling. "Wonyoung is one of the most beautiful women on the planet. That's not even an opinion. There are rankings."
“Rankings are bullshit.” You keep your eyes on her. “There’s something in your eyes, Yujin. The way you look at people, the way you talk, even when you’re being a pain in the ass. There’s a spark there. You feel… I don't know, alive? Present?” You pause, choosing your words. “Wonyoung’s stunning, yeah, but she’s like a photograph. Perfect, but still. You’re not. You’re always moving. That’s why it’s so hard to look away from you.”
Yujin's hand goes still inside Rei. For a couple of seconds she just stares at you, and something passes across her face that she doesn't manage to hide in time. Her throat bobs with a swallow. Then she blinks, resets, and the classic Yujin is back, smooth as ever. "Jesus Christ." She looks away, her mouth twitching. "You could've just said I'm hotter than her. You didn't need to write a whole TED Talk about my eyes."
"That too. You're way hotter than her."
"Obviously." She pulls her fingers out of Rei and wipes them on the sheet. The flush on her cheeks has nothing to do with exertion. She slaps Rei's ass with a crisp, ringing smack that makes Rei yelp. "She's ready. All warmed up and stretched. Now all that's missing is your dick."
Yujin turns to you, grabs your cock, and squeezes the bottle directly onto the shaft. The lube is warm, almost hot, and it runs down your length in thick rivulets. She strokes you with both hands, one twisting at the base while the other slides up and over the head, spreading the slickness everywhere, making sure every inch is coated. "You're not small," she says, matter-of-fact, her fist gliding up your lubed shaft. "So go slow or you'll break her."
"I'm right here," Rei says from all fours, looking back over her shoulder. "And I'm not fragile."
"Your ass is about to have a very different opinion on that."
Yujin gives your cock one final stroke, root to tip, and releases it. She wipes her hands on the sheets, already ruined beyond salvation, and scoots to the side, settling into a cross-legged position near the pillows with a clear sightline to the action. Supervising.
You move behind Rei. She's on her hands and knees, her back arched, her ass pushed up and out toward you. The lube is everywhere, glossy and warm, catching the light from the windows. Her hole is slick and relaxed from Yujin's prep work, pink and tight and glistening. You run one hand up the back of her thigh, over the swell of her ass, and she pushes back against your touch, eager.
You grip the base of your cock and press the head against her. The contact alone makes her tense, a reflexive clench that tightens everything, and you hold still. Just the tip against her, not pushing, letting the warmth of the lube and the pressure do the work.
"I'm going to start. Tell me if you need me to stop."
Rei nods. Her fingers are bunched in the sheets, her head hanging between her shoulders. "Go ahead."
You push forward. Gentle. Steady. The head of your cock presses against her ring and meets resistance, firm and tight, her body instinctively clenching against the intrusion. You hold the pressure, not forcing, just a constant forward push, and after a few seconds you feel her start to relax. The muscle yields, slowly, incrementally, and the head slips inside.
Rei sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. Her back goes rigid and her knuckles go white in the sheets. She's impossibly tight around you, her ass gripping the head of your cock with a pressure that's almost painful, hot and slick from the lube but so constricting it takes genuine effort not to just shove forward.
"Breathe," Yujin says from her perch near the pillows. She's watching with her head tilted, clinical and attentive. "Don't tense up. Push out, not in. Let him in."
Rei exhales slowly. You feel the shift, a conscious relaxation that eases the grip around you just enough to move. You push another inch inside her and Rei's mouth falls open, a long, shaky exhale escaping her.
"How's it feel?" Yujin asks.
"Big," Rei manages. "Really, really big."
"I told you." Yujin looks at you. "Slower."
You give Rei a moment. Your hands rest on her hips, thumbs tracing small circles on her skin, grounding her. When you feel her body soften again, you push deeper. Another inch. The lube does its job, the warming sensation easing the slide, and Rei groans low in her throat. It's a sound of fullness, of being stretched in a way that walks the tightrope between too much and exactly enough.
Another inch. You're halfway in now, and the tightness is unreal. Nothing like her pussy. This is a different kind of grip entirely, relentless and uniform, squeezing every millimeter of your cock with equal, crushing pressure. The heat is staggering. Rei's thighs are quivering, her breathing short and fast, and every tiny movement you make sends a visible tremor through her body.
"More," Rei whispers. "Keep going." You push deeper. So slow it's almost painful for you, the urge to thrust fighting against every ounce of restraint you have. The lube squelches obscenely as you slide further in, and Rei lets out a broken, stuttering moan that builds in volume the deeper you go. Her ass is swallowing you inch by inch, her body opening for you, and the visual alone, your thick, glistening cock disappearing into her tight little hole, her round ass pressed against your hips, is enough to make your pulse hammer in your ears.
"Almost there," Yujin narrates, leaning to the side to get a better angle. "About two inches left. She's taking it like a champ."
"I can feel every single inch of him," Rei says, and her tone is dazed, almost drunk. "Every ridge. Everything."
You push the last two inches in slowly, steadily, until your hips press flush against her ass. All of you. Every inch buried inside her. Rei's body shudders beneath you and she lets out a sound that's half gasp, half sob, her face dropping to the mattress, her fingers twisted in the sheets so hard the fitted corner pops off.
"There you go," Yujin says. "All of it. How do you feel?"
Rei doesn't answer right away. She's breathing in short, shallow bursts, her body adjusting to the fullness, the stretch, the sheer overwhelming presence of your cock lodged deep in her ass. You hold completely still, giving her time, and you can feel her pulse throbbing around you, fast and heavy.
Then she lifts her head. Turns to look at you over her shoulder and says: "I'm ready, daddy." Her hips push back against you, taking you deeper, and the moan that leaves her mouth is filthy and absolutely nothing like the girl who asked for a Coke two hours ago. "Please fuck your good girl's ass."
You pull back. Feel every inch of her gripping you as you slide out until just the head remains inside, her rim stretched tight around the thickest part of you. Then you push forward again, steady, controlled, and Rei's whole body sinks into the mattress as you fill her. Her fingers claw the sheets and a long, trembling moan pours out of her, muffled against the pillow, a sound that starts in the gut and doesn't stop until there's no air left.
She's perfect on all fours. Back arched deep, ass pushed up and round and full, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and sticking to the sweat on her skin. Every slow thrust makes her body rock forward, her breasts swaying beneath her, her thighs trembling with the effort of holding position. The lube has made everything slick and warm and the friction is sinful, that impossible tightness squeezing you on every stroke, hot and constant and so good your jaw aches from clenching it. "Deeper," Rei breathes. Her hips push back against you, greedy, impatient. "Go deeper. I want all of it."
You give her all of it. Bottom out with a slow grind that makes her toes curl and her spine flex. She lets out a choked, guttural sound and her arms give out, her chest dropping to the mattress, face turned sideways, mouth open. "Fuck, your cock is so good in my ass," she moans, pushing back onto you, taking you deeper even though there's nowhere deeper to go. "It's so thick. I can feel you stretching me open. Every single inch."
Yujin is sitting cross-legged beside the two of you, close enough to touch, her chin propped on her fist. She's watching Rei with an expression that's somewhere between a proud older sister and a director reviewing her best actress's career-defining performance. Her eyes are bright, engaged, drinking in every moan and tremble with obvious relish.
"Look at you, little bird." Yujin reaches over and traces a single finger down Rei's spine, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, and Rei arches into the touch. "All that 'it's too kinky and filthy' bullshit. Too kinky for her. Can't do anal. Absolutely not." She laughs. "And now you've got a fat cock balls deep in your ass and you're begging for more. You're a natural."
"I am," Rei pants, and there's zero irony in it. "I'm a natural. I love it. I love his cock in my ass."
"Tell him that. Don't tell me. Look at him and tell him how much you love it."
Rei cranes her neck to look back at you over her shoulder. Her lips are swollen, parted and there's a strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to the pillow. She looks absolutely ruined. "I love your cock in my ass, daddy." She pushes back against you again, a slow, rolling grind that takes you deeper. "Please don't stop. Please keep fucking me."
You grip her hips tighter and pick up the pace. Not fast yet, but firmer, more rhythmic, each thrust landing with a slap of skin that punctuates the wet, obscene sounds between you. Rei drops her head and moans into the mattress, long and loud and completely uninhibited, and her hands slide forward on the sheets, reaching for something to hold onto, finding nothing, her fingers just clawing at empty fabric. "Harder," she begs. "I can take it. I promise I can take it."
You give her harder. The pace builds gradually, your hips snapping forward with more force, more speed, and Rei starts making sounds you didn't know she was capable of. Deep, throaty moans that break into whimpers at the peak of each thrust, her body jolting forward with every impact, her ass rippling where your hips collide with it. The lube is doing its job beautifully, everything warm and slick, and the tightness of her ass around your cock is relentless, gripping you from every angle, so snug it's almost unbearable.
"Oh my god," Rei gasps, her fingers twisted in the sheets, pulling them off the corner of the mattress. "Oh my god, oh my god, I can't believe Wonyoung never tried this. She had this the whole time. She had this cock and she never even let you fuck her. She never even let you inside her."
"Wonyoung is a fucking loser," Yujin says, casual and absolute. She shifts closer to Rei, settling onto her knees beside her. "The biggest loser in this whole city. She had a man who could make two girls fall apart in one afternoon and she used him for photo ops."
Yujin brings her hand down on Rei's right ass cheek with a clean, sharp smack that echoes through the bedroom. Rei's whole body clenches, her ass squeezing your cock so hard you have to grit your teeth, and the moan she lets out is wild and broken and grateful.
"Say it," Yujin tells her. She leans close to Rei's ear, her hand resting on the reddening handprint she just left. "Say Wonyoung is a loser. A stupid rich girl playing pretend. Say it, little bird." Another smack, harder than the first. Rei's back arches violently and her hips jerk back onto your cock, taking you deep, her body spasming around you.
"Wonyoung is a loser," Rei moans, her face pressed into the sheets, drool pooling on the cotton. "She's a stupid rich girl who throws people away. She doesn't deserve him. She never deserved him."
Yujin's hand smooths over the red mark on Rei's skin, soothing, possessive. "Good girl. That's my girl." Her fingers trail down between Rei's cheeks, brushing the stretched rim where your cock is splitting her open, feeling the slick junction of the two of you. Rei whimpers at the added touch, pushing back against both of you. "Now say you're hotter than her. Say you're better. Say Wonyoung could never give a blowjob like you gave today. That prissy bitch wouldn't even know where to start."
You thrust harder into Rei, punching deep, and the sound that rips out of her is raw and savage and nothing a polite girl would ever produce.
"I'm hotter than Wonyoung!" Rei practically shouts it into the mattress, her hips bucking back against you. "I'm so much fucking hotter than her. She could never suck a dick like I do. She could never take a cock in her ass like I do. She'd tap out in thirty seconds. She doesn't have the range." Her head lifts, hair falling in sweaty tangles around her face, and her eyes are wild. "And I give better head. Way better. She probably just lies there like a starfish. I bet she's never even made a guy cum with her mouth. I could make him cum three times before she even figured out what to do with her tongue."
Yujin's face lights up with pure, unadulterated glee. She grabs Rei's chin and angles her face upward, looking into those blown-out, frenzied brown eyes. "That's my fucking girl. Don't you dare stop. You hear me?" She slaps Rei's ass again, a stinging crack that makes Rei's whole body seize. "Fuck that cock. I want to see your ass moving. Show daddy what you can do."
Rei plants her palms on the mattress and starts rocking back onto you. Hard. Aggressive. Her hips snap backward, her ass slamming against your pelvis with a force that catches you off guard, impaling herself on your cock with a desperate, single-minded hunger. She's not just taking it anymore. She's fucking herself on you, driving back into every thrust you give, meeting you in the middle, and the combined force of both of you sends shockwaves through her entire body. Her ass bounces against your hips, round and full and glistening with sweat and lube, and the wet, filthy slap of impact fills the room in a constant, accelerating rhythm.
"That's it," Yujin breathes, her eyes locked on where your cock is disappearing into Rei's ass over and over. "That's fucking it. Look at her go. She's a goddamn machine."
"Don't stop, daddy," Rei pants, slamming herself back onto you. "Fuck my ass. Use me. Use my tight little ass. It's yours. Everything is yours." You grab her hips and start meeting her pace with your own, thrusting forward hard every time she pushes back, doubling the impact. The collision of your bodies is brutal, wet, loud and Rei screams into the mattress, a sustained, guttural wail that breaks into stuttered gasps with each thrust. Her ass is clenching around you in frantic, involuntary pulses, so tight you can barely pull out before slamming back in.
"Harder," Yujin commands, and she's talking to both of you. Her hand comes down on Rei's ass again, a rapid series of slaps, one two three, each one drawing a sharp cry from Rei. "I want her stupid. I want her drooling. Fuck her brains out."
You grab a fistful of Rei's hair and pull her head up off the mattress, and what you see confirms that Yujin's already gotten her wish. Rei's face is a wreck. Her mascara has smeared into dark streaks beneath her eyes. Saliva trails from her lower lip to the pillow in a thin, glistening string. Her jaw is hanging open, slack, her tongue half out, her eyes rolling and unfocused. She's trying to say something but the only thing coming out is garbled, fragmented nonsense punctuated by moans that sound barely human.
"More," she manages, and even that single syllable comes out slurred and broken. "More more more more more."
"She's gone," Yujin says, and there's a kind of awe in her expression. "Her brain is completely fried. Look at her. She's drooling on your thousand-dollar pillowcase." She cups Rei's face in both hands, tilting it toward her, examining the damage with a grin that's equal parts cruel and affectionate. "Hey. Rei. What's your name? What year is it? How many fingers am I holding up?"
Rei blinks at her, unfocused. A string of drool stretches from her lip. "Fuck me," she whispers. "Just keep fucking me."
"That's not an answer to any of my questions, but I respect the commitment."
You increase the pressure. Each thrust is deep and hard and unrelenting, your cock driving into her ass with a force that pushes her entire body forward on the mattress, her knees sliding on the sweat-damp sheets. You pull her hips back onto you every time she slides away, keeping her pinned, keeping her full, and Rei has stopped trying to form coherent thoughts entirely. She's just noise now, raw and animal, her body shaking and clenching and trembling beneath you. You can feel it building in her. The way her muscles are tightening, the way her thighs are quaking uncontrollably, the way her ass is gripping you in rhythmic, desperate spasms that are getting shorter and faster and more intense. She's close. Her whole body is a coiled spring about to snap, every nerve ending firing, every muscle tensed to the breaking point.
Her fingers are white-knuckled in the sheets, her toes curled, her back locked in a rigid arch that presses her ass up against you as hard as her body can manage. The moans have gone high and thin and continuous, a keening sound that wavers with each thrust, building and building toward something massive. Yujin sees it too. She's leaning close, one hand still on Rei's face, the other resting on the small of Rei's back, feeling the tremors running through her. Her own breathing has quickened, her nipples hard, her thighs pressed together. She strokes Rei's hair, almost tender, and watches her unravel with hungry, fascinated eyes.
"She's about to blow," Yujin murmurs, looking up at you over Rei's quaking body. "Whatever you're doing, don't you dare stop."
Your hips keep their rhythm, steady and deep, your cock driving into Rei's ass with a force that shakes her entire body. Your balls swing forward with every thrust, slapping against her soaked pussy. Rei's face is buried in the mattress, her fingers twisted in the ruined sheets, her entire body trembling with a vibration that's getting worse, tighter, closer.
"I'm gonna cum," Rei chokes out, and her back arches so deep her stomach nearly touches the bed. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna cum like this. From my ass. I'm gonna cum from your cock in my ass, daddy."
"Cum for daddy." You grip her hips and drive deep, holding there, grinding against that spot deep inside her that makes her whole body clench and spasm. "Let go. Give it to me."
Yujin leans in close to Rei's face, her hand on the back of Rei's neck, fingers threaded through damp, tangled hair. "He said cum, little bird. You heard him. You're his good girl. You deserve this." She strokes Rei's cheek with her thumb, almost maternal, while her other hand reaches under Rei and finds her clit, swollen and slick, and presses down. "Cum for your daddy. He earned it. You earned it."
You pull back and slam forward, burying yourself to the hilt, and Rei's scream is instant and raw. You don't stop. You keep that depth, that angle, fucking into her with short, punishing strokes that never let the pressure drop, your balls slapping against her drenched pussy with every impact. Rei's thighs are shaking so violently her knees are sliding apart on the sheets, and Yujin's fingers on her clit are relentless, rubbing in tight, fast circles that make Rei's whole body jolt and twitch.
"I can't, I can't, I can't," Rei babbles, but her hips are pushing back against you harder than ever, her body chasing what her mouth is trying to deny. "It's too much, it's too much, I'm gonna—"
The orgasm tears through her hard. You feel it before you hear it, her ass clamping down on your cock with a crushing, rhythmic pressure that squeezes you in violent waves. Then the sound hits, a scream that starts in her chest and rips its way out of her throat, high and sharp and sustained, her entire body locking up beneath you.
Her back goes rigid, her toes curl so hard her feet cramp. She convulses against you, her hips bucking in frantic, involuntary jerks, and you feel a rush of wetness flood against your balls as her pussy clenches in sympathy, her whole body detonating at once.
"Yeah, cum," Yujin breathes, her fingers still working Rei's clit through the orgasm, extending it, dragging it out. "Cum like the little slut you are. That's it. All of it. Every fucking drop."
Rei's scream breaks into a series of sobbing, gasping moans, each one weaker than the last, her body shuddering through wave after wave of contractions that you can feel rippling along every inch of your cock. Her arms collapse and she goes flat against the mattress, twitching, her fingers opening and closing on nothing.
You slow down. Pull back, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge of you as you slide out. Her swollen rim clings to you, stretched and pink and glistening, and when the head finally slips free, Rei's body sags into the mattress with a full-body shudder that runs from her shoulders to her toes.
Rei rolls over onto her back, and the sight of her is extraordinary. Her face is flushed scarlet, her makeup destroyed, mascara streaked in dark smears beneath both eyes. There's drool on her chin, trailing down her neck, and her lips are swollen and parted and curved into the stupidest, most blissed-out smile you have ever seen on a human being.
"This is the best day of my life," she mumbles. "Nothing will ever top this. I peaked. It's all downhill from here."
Yujin leans over her friend's wrecked face and licks a stripe up her chin, collecting the drool on her tongue and swallowing it without a shred of hesitation. Then she cups Rei's face in both hands and peppers her with quick, firm kisses, lips pressing against her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her mouth.
"You were incredible, babe,” Yujin says between pecks, and there's no sarcasm in it. None. Just genuine, unfiltered pride. "That was beautiful, Rei. You took it so well. You're amazing." Another kiss, on the lips this time, lingering. "My little bird."
You lean down and brush a strand of sweat-damp hair off her forehead. "Don't thank me. That was all you. You were amazing."
Rei hums contentedly, her eyes drifting shut for a moment, basking. Yujin's gaze drops to your cock. Still hard. Still slick and flushed and thick, jutting up from your hips with an insistence that borders on unreasonable. She stares at it. "You still haven't cum."
"Nope."
"How is that physically possible? You just fucked her ass for..." She trails off, trying to calculate the timeline, and gives up. "A long time. You fucked both of us. Multiple orgasms. Squirting. Anal. And you're still hard."
"Girls cum first. That's always been my rule. I like making sure they're taken care of before I worry about myself."
Yujin's lips part slightly. "That's... actually really hot. You keep surprising me. I came here today expecting some spoiled rich kid who couldn't find the clit with a map and a flashlight. You're nothing like what I expected."
"Good surprises?" You ask.
"Really good surprises. Now wait here, both of you. Don't move."
Yujin climbs off the bed and walks out of the bedroom. You watch her lean figure disappear around the corner with her stride purposeful and quick.
Rei lifts her head. "Where's she going?"
No answer. Just the sound of the briefcase clicking open in the living room. Rei lets her head fall back against the mattress and turns to look at you. That loopy grin is still plastered across her ruined face. "I'm excited for the date," she says softly. "I already know what I'm going to wear. I have this dress that I bought months ago and never had a reason to put on."
"Yeah?"
"It's dark green. It makes my eyes look good." She rolls onto her side, facing you, tucking her hands under her cheek. "Yujin's going to pretend she doesn't care. She's probably going to complain the whole time about how we're being reckless and how it's a terrible idea. But she's excited too."
"You think so?"
"I know so. The way she looks at you." Rei pauses, searching for the right way to say it. "She found somebody who can actually keep up with her. Someone she can't bulldoze. She's been running over every guy she's ever been with, and she's bored of it. You pushed back. You didn't fold." She smiles. "She'll never tell you this, by the way. If you mention I said any of it, I'll deny everything."
Footsteps in the hallway. Yujin rounds the corner and walks back into the bedroom, and between her legs, strapped snug against her hips with black leather harnesses, is a silicone cock. It's not comically large but it's not modest either, a smooth, dark-colored shaft that bobs slightly with each confident step she takes.
Rei pushes herself up on her elbows. Her eyes go wide. "Oh. Holy shit."
Yujin stands at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, looking like a general surveying a battlefield. "Time for the fatality." She slaps the strap-on once, letting it bounce. "Today is a day you are never going to forget, little bird."
"It's already extremely memorable, Yujin. I've already had two orgasms."
"This is just to make absolutely sure." Yujin climbs onto the bed, the strap-on jutting forward, and kneels behind where Rei is lying. "You need to cum with two dicks in your holes. Full completion. Hundred percent achievement unlocked."
Rei sits up, her expression oscillating between terror and excitement with a healthy dose of horny delirium mixed in. "You're going to kill me."
"You're going to die happy. And when it's all over, you can have an ice-cold Coke. Straight from the fridge. That's your reward."
Rei looks at Yujin. Then at you. Then at the strap-on. Then at your cock. She chews her lower lip, and something sparks behind those big brown eyes, something calculating and mischievous that looks remarkably like a trait she picked up from Yujin. "Fine," she says. "I'll do it."
Yujin nods, satisfied. "Good girl."
"But." Rei holds up one finger. "Only if we spend the night here."
"You've lost your mind," Yujin says flatly.
"We stay here tonight. Both of us. We leave tomorrow morning." Rei crosses her arms over her bare chest, and despite the fact that she's naked and covered in sweat and her makeup looks like a Rorschach test, she projects a surprising amount of authority. "Those are my terms."
"That's insane. We need to go back. We have schedules. We have obligations. Wonyoung's expecting a debrief."
"Wonyoung can wait until tomorrow. The debrief isn't going anywhere."
"I can make dinner for everyone," you offer. "I'm a good cook."
Yujin's head swivels toward you. "Of course you're loving this idea."
"I make a really good pasta. From scratch."
"Nobody asked about your fucking pasta!" Yujin exclaims.
Rei tilts her head at Yujin. "You want to stay. I can see it on your face."
"You can't see anything on my face."
"Your left eye twitches when you want to say yes but your pride won't let you. It's twitching right now."
Yujin slaps a hand over her left eye. Holds it there for a second. Drops it. Takes a breath that contains the weight of every professional boundary she's crossed today, which is all of them.
"Okay! Fuck it!" She throws both hands up. "The plan's already gone to hell. Everything's gone completely off the rails. We've violated about thirty company policies. Who cares anymore." She points at Rei. "Fine. We sleep here tonight. But I am going to make you regret this idea later. That's a promise." Rei beams. "Wipe that grin off your face and get on top of him."
Rei climbs over you and settles on your hips, straddling you. She looks back over her shoulder at Yujin, who's kneeling behind her, adjusting the straps on the harness. That victorious, shit-eating smile is still spread across Rei's face like she just won the lottery and the Nobel Prize on the same day.
Yujin meets her eyes and smiles back. It's not a warm smile. "I'm going to fuck that grin right off your face tonight, little bird. Enjoy it while it lasts."
You reach down and take your cock in hand, lining the head up with Rei's pussy. She's still soaked, swollen and sensitive, and when the tip presses against her entrance she shudders visibly, her thighs clenching around your hips. Behind her, Yujin squeezes a fresh line of lube along the strap-on and presses it against Rei's ass, the tip nudging her already stretched, tender hole.
"Ready?" Yujin asks, one hand on Rei's hip, the other guiding the silicone cock. Rei nods. Her hands are flat on your chest, her fingers spread, steadying herself. She takes a breath.
You push up. Yujin pushes forward. Simultaneously. Rei's mouth falls open but nothing comes out. Her eyes roll back, the brown disappearing behind her lids, and her entire body goes taut, every muscle locking as both holes are filled at once. Your cock sinks into her pussy, hot and tight and clenching, and you can feel the strap-on through the thin wall separating her holes, the hard ridge of silicone pressing against your shaft through her body. The fullness must be staggering. Rei's fingers curl against your chest, her nails biting into your skin, and a thin, reedy whine escapes her throat.
Yujin pushes deeper, slow and steady, one hand on the small of Rei's back. "Breathe, little bird. Open up for us."
You sink in further. So does Yujin. Inch by inch, together, filling Rei from both sides until your hips are flush against her ass and Yujin's thighs are pressed against the back of hers. Both of you completely inside her. The tightness is absurd, her pussy squeezed even tighter by the presence of the strap-on in her ass, gripping your cock with a pressure that makes your stomach clench.
Rei is frozen above you. Trembling. Her eyes are still rolled back and her mouth is open in a silent oval. She's not breathing. You put a hand on her cheek and she blinks, focuses, sucks in a ragged gasp of air like she just surfaced from underwater. "There you go," you murmur. "Breathe. We've got you."
Yujin leans forward, pressing her chest against Rei's back, and wraps an arm around her waist. "You're doing so well. Just relax. We'll go slow."
The three of you hold there, connected, waiting. Rei's breathing gradually steadies. The trembling doesn't stop but it changes, shifting from shock to anticipation. Her pussy clenches around you in slow pulses, testing, adjusting, getting used to the impossible fullness of being stuffed in both holes at once.
"Okay." Her hips shift, just barely, a tiny experimental rock that makes all three of you feel it. "You can start. Just... go slow." She exhales shakily. "I really hope I survive this."
You start to move first. A slow, shallow thrust upward into Rei's pussy, feeling the tight, slick grip of her around your cock, made even tighter by the strap-on filling her from behind. A second later, Yujin follows, pulling her hips back and pushing the silicone cock forward into Rei's ass with a careful, exploratory rhythm that's clearly out of practice.
"It's been a minute since I've done this," Yujin admits, adjusting her grip on Rei's hips, finding her angle. "I'm relearning the choreography. Bear with me."
Rei is between you, suspended, her chest against yours, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Every movement from either direction makes her entire body shudder. Her fingers are digging into your shoulders so hard you're going to have bruises tomorrow, and the sounds coming out of her are small and constant, tiny whimpers that pulse with every thrust.
"It's really intense," Rei manages, her lips moving against your collarbone. "Both of you at the same time. I can feel everything. Every inch of both of you. It's so much."
"Having second thoughts?" you ask, running a hand down her spine.
"No. Just... recalibrating." She shivers as Yujin pushes deeper. "It looks so much easier in porn. Those girls are just bouncing around like it's nothing. They lied to me."
"Welcome to the harsh reality of having two cocks in your holes," Yujin says, settling into a slow, steady rhythm. "Porn is propaganda, little bird. This is the real thing."
You and Yujin find each other's rhythm. It takes a few strokes, a couple of adjustments, a silent negotiation between your bodies that happens through Rei, but after a minute you're moving in sync. When you thrust up, Yujin pulls back. When you pull out, she pushes in. Rei is never empty, always full of one of you, and the alternating pressure is making her lose her grip on reality one thrust at a time.
You cup the back of her head and tilt her face toward yours. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her lips wet and parted. You kiss her. Your tongue slides against hers and she moans into your mouth, the vibration traveling through your chest. She kisses you back with a sloppy, desperate hunger, her teeth catching your lower lip, her tongue chasing yours, and when you pull away she tries to follow, whining softly when the distance opens between you.
"You're doing so well," you tell her, brushing your thumb across her cheekbone. "You feel incredible. Both holes squeezing me. I've never felt anything like this."
Rei's cheeks flush even deeper, which shouldn't be possible given how red she already is. "Really?"
"Really. You're unbelievable."
Behind Rei, Yujin leans to the side, admiring the view. She reaches down with both hands and spreads Rei's cheeks apart, watching the strap-on slide in and out of her stretched, lubed hole. The sight makes her bite her lower lip and push in harder on the next stroke.
"The little bird was truly born to take it in the ass," Yujin says with the conviction of someone stating scientific fact. "Look at this. It's art. Someone should put this in a museum."
Rei whimpers into your chest. "That's not a museum-appropriate activity."
"Everything is museum-appropriate if the curator is brave enough." Yujin gives Rei's spread ass a long, appreciative look, then lifts her gaze to yours. That mischievous spark is back in her eyes, brighter than before. "So. What do you think of your first threesome?"
You thrust up into Rei and feel her clench around you. "I'm having a great time. Really enjoying the company."
Yujin snorts. She actually giggles, a sound you didn't think she was capable of producing. "I genuinely can't tell if you're describing a threesome or a picnic in the park."
“I love picnics,” Rei mumbles into your shoulder.
Yujin lets out an incredulous breath. “Nobody asked you anything, Rei."
“Sorry,” Rei says quickly, shifting slightly, almost sheepish. “I just… really like picnics. With sandwiches.”
Yujin actually pauses, then exhales a short, disbelieving laugh. “I’m literally inside your ass right now,” she says flatly, “and you’re talking about sandwiches. My fake dick almost went limp.”
Rei winces faintly at that, her fingers tightening where they rest. “Sorry,” she murmurs again. “didn’t mean to kill the vibe.”
Yujin's face softens. She runs her palm up Rei's back, gentle, grounding. "I'm just teasing, babe." Then her hand comes down on Rei's ass with a sharp crack that makes Rei's whole body jolt. "Now moan for mommy, okay?"
Rei obeys. A long, unfiltered moan that starts in her belly and spills out hot and broken against your skin. Her pussy clenches hard around your cock, and you feel the pressure of the strap-on through the thin wall between her holes, the silicone pressing against your shaft from the other side. "Good girl," Yujin purrs. "Louder."
You pick up the pace from below. Your hips drive up with more force, more speed, and Yujin matches you, the two of you falling into a faster rhythm that has Rei gasping and writhing between your bodies.
She's pinned. There's nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it, and the realization seems to hit her all at once because her body goes slack against your chest and she just surrenders. Completely. Every muscle releases and she becomes soft and pliant and open, her hips rocking between you in small, involuntary movements, her moans coming on every exhale.
"There she goes," Yujin murmurs. "She stopped fighting it. Now she's just taking it."
"That's it, Rei." You grab her ass with both hands, spreading her, giving Yujin a better angle. "Just feel it. Let us take care of you."
"Both of you," Rei pants, and her hips grind down onto your cock with a needy, circular motion. "Both of you feel so good. I'm so full. I've never been this full in my life."
You thrust harder. Yujin matches you. The rhythm is faster now, the bed rocking beneath the three of you, the headboard tapping the wall in a steady beat. Rei is sandwiched between your bodies, skin against skin, sweat mingling, and every thrust from either direction makes her cry out. The sounds she's producing are raw and uncontrolled, a continuous stream of moans and gasps and fragments of words that don't connect into sentences.
"Come on, little bird," Yujin says, snapping her hips forward, driving the strap-on deep. "Take it. Take both of us. You wanted this. You asked for this."
"I love it." Rei's nails score lines down your chest. "I love both of you inside me. Please don't stop. Daddy, please don't stop. Mommy, please."
You grab Rei's face in one hand and make her look at you. Her eyes are barely tracking, rolling and glassy, her pupils blown so wide the brown is nearly gone. There's drool on her chin again, her mascara is a lost cause and she is the most beautiful wreck you've ever seen in your life.
"Who makes you feel this good?" you ask, thrusting up hard enough to make her whole body bounce.
"You do, daddy." She can barely get the words out between moans. "You and Yujin. Nobody else. Nobody has ever made me feel like this."
"That's right,” Yujin says. “And nobody else is going to."
Yujin increases her pace. She's gripping Rei's hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, her own breathing getting heavier, her thighs slapping against Rei's ass with every forward snap. She leans over Rei's back, pressing close, her mouth near Rei's ear. "You're taking it so well, babe. Both holes stuffed full and you're still begging for more. You're our perfect little slut."
"I am," Rei sobs. "I'm your slut. Both of yours."
The three of you are moving together now, a single organism of tangled limbs and sweat and noise. You and Yujin have locked into a brutal, alternating rhythm, never letting Rei rest, never giving her a moment without one of you buried deep inside her. Your cock drives up into her pussy, thick and hard and relentless, while the strap-on fills her ass from behind, and Rei is caught in between, overwhelmed, overloaded, every nerve in her body firing at maximum capacity.
You feel her start to tighten. Not just her pussy, her whole body. Every muscle drawing taut, her thighs clamping against your sides, her fingers digging into your shoulders, her teeth sinking into the meat of your chest hard enough to sting. The moans are getting higher, tighter, more desperate.
"She's close," you tell Yujin.
"I know. I can feel her shaking." Yujin pounds harder, the strap-on driving deep. "Come on, Rei. Finish. Give us everything."
"I'm gonna cum." Rei's entire body is vibrating against yours, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that runs through her like an electrical current. "I can't hold it. Both of you are too much. It's too good. I'm gonna cum with both of you inside me."
"Then cum, babe," you tell her, grabbing her hips and driving up into her so hard she bounces off your pelvis. "Cum for us."
Yujin slams forward at the same time you do, and for one brutal, perfect second, Rei is completely filled from both sides at once. Maximum depth. Both holes stretched and stuffed and speared on cock.
Rei detonates. The orgasm is violent. Her body seizes above you, rigid as steel, and the scream that comes out of her is inhuman, a raw, tearing sound that doesn't stop, that just keeps pouring out of her throat as her body convulses. Her pussy crushes your cock in rhythmic, crushing contractions, so tight it's almost painful, and you can feel the strap-on jerking on the other side of that thin wall as her ass clenches just as hard.
She's shaking so violently that Yujin has to grab her waist to keep her from bucking off both of you, and wet heat floods around your cock as she cums so hard her body can't contain it, her juices spilling out around your shaft and running down your balls.
"Holy fuck," Yujin breathes, holding Rei steady, still buried inside her. "Holy fuck, she's still going."
Rei's orgasm keeps rolling, wave after wave, her body clenching and releasing in violent spasms that you feel through every inch of your cock. Tears are streaming down her face, mixing with the drool and the smeared mascara, and she's making sounds that have stopped resembling anything human, just raw, primal noise, her body expressing what her brain no longer can.
You and Yujin slow down together. Easing off. Letting the aftershocks ripple through her without adding to the overload. Yujin pulls out first, slow and careful, and Rei whimpers at the withdrawal, her body twitching. Then you ease your hips down, letting her feel you soften your rhythm to a gentle rocking, just enough contact to keep her grounded while the tremors gradually subside.
Rei collapses onto your chest. Completely boneless. Dead weight. She's breathing in ragged, hitching gasps, her whole body still twitching with aftershocks, and she doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just lies there, draped across you, her face pressed against your neck, her heartbeat hammering so hard you can feel it against your own ribs.
Yujin unstraps the harness and tosses it off the bed. It lands somewhere on the floor with a thud. She lies down beside you both, propping herself on one elbow, and looks at Rei with something that transcends amusement and enters the territory of reverence.
"Rei. You alive?"
A long silence. Then, muffled against your neck: "I'm going to need a wheelchair from now on." Yujin laughs. "My legs don't work," Rei continues, her face still hidden. "My brain doesn't work. Nothing works. I'm broken. Both of you broke me."
"You're welcome,” Yujin says proudly.
Rei slowly, painfully, rolls off your chest and lands on her back beside you. She lies there spread-eagled on the destroyed bed, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, body glistening. Every few seconds a residual shudder passes through her and she twitches, her thighs squeezing together involuntarily.
"Tell my Switch 2 I loved it a lot," she mumbles. "We had some amazing moments. Sadly, I won’t be finishing Pokopia..."
Yujin is grinning at Rei when you feel a hand on your jaw. She turns your face toward hers and kisses you. It's unexpected, and that's what makes it hit different. Her lips are soft against yours, warm and unhurried, and she kisses you like she's taking something for herself rather than proving a point. When she pulls back, her eyes are clear and steady. "Good job."
"You did pretty well yourself. Tag team of the century."
She grins, but it fades into something else. She leans close, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her hand resting on your chest. Her breath is warm and her whisper is low enough that Rei can't hear it. "Can you make me cum again?" She traces a small circle on your chest with her fingertip. "I'm kind of obsessed with your cock. It's becoming a problem."
You turn your head and catch her eye. No guarded expression this time, just a lingering heat, a flicker of want, and something raw she isn’t covering up. "Of course I can,” you say.
Yujin grins again, grabs your hand and pulls you off the bed. Your feet hit the hardwood floor and she positions herself in front of you, standing at the edge of the mattress, her back to your chest. The late afternoon light is cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows and painting gold stripes across her skin, across the lean lines of her shoulders and the sharp curve of her waist.
On the bed, Rei rolls onto her stomach and props her chin on her fists, settling in. Her legs kick up behind her, crossed at the ankles. "Go ahead. I'll just watch and enjoy the show."
Yujin glances back over her shoulder at Rei. "Didn't know you were into voyeurism."
"After today? Voyeurism is all I've got left." Rei shifts and hugs a pillow to her chest. "Everything else has been thoroughly explored. I'm retiring from active duty. Observer status only."
You put both hands on Yujin's waist. She's warm under your palms, her skin damp and smooth, and you can feel her pulse ticking fast beneath the surface. You pull her hips back against you, your cock settling between her thighs, sliding through the slick heat gathered there. She inhales sharply but doesn't move, letting you take the lead. You angle yourself and press the head of your cock against her entrance. She's wet. Embarrassingly wet, from everything she's watched and done and felt over the last however many hours this has been.
You push inside her. Slow. Steady. And Yujin exhales like she's been holding her breath since the last time you were in her, a long, shuddering sigh that drops her shoulders and tips her head forward. "I missed this," she murmurs. "It's been like thirty minutes and I missed this. That's pathetic."
You slide your hands up from her waist. Over the flat plane of her stomach, up her ribs, until your palms cover her breasts. They're full, firm and her nipples are stiff against your palms, and when you squeeze, gentle but possessive, she pushes back against you and takes you another inch deeper.
Your lips find the side of her neck. You kiss the spot just below her ear, then lower, along the tendon, tasting salt and perfume, and she tilts her head to give you more room. You mouth your way down to her shoulder, teeth grazing skin, and feel the goosebumps rise under your lips.
"You have the most incredible body," you tell her, squeezing her breasts again, rolling her nipples between your fingers. You thrust into her, slow and deep, and feel her clench around you. "Every single part of you. Your stomach. Your hips. These legs." You press deeper and she gasps. "You're so fucking hot it's hard to concentrate."
Yujin laughs, breathy and unsteady, her composure fraying at the edges. "You're so obsessed with me. It's borderline clinical."
"It's the truth. Why would I lie about it?" You pull back and push in again, a long stroke that fills her completely, and her laugh cuts off into a moan. "I've been with one woman for over a year and she never once made me feel anything close to what I feel when I'm inside you."
"Stop being smooth while you're fucking me. It's not fair. I can't think of comebacks."
"Then don't think." You start thrusting deeper. Not faster, just deeper, each stroke reaching further, grinding at the peak before pulling back. Yujin's head falls back against your shoulder, her hair spilling over your skin, and she stares at the ceiling with her lips parted and her eyes half-shut.
From this angle you can see everything. The way her throat works when she swallows a moan. The way her stomach clenches with every thrust. The way her hands hang at her sides because she doesn't know what to do with them, because she's given up trying to control the situation and she's just letting you have her.
"Damn… you’re fucking me so good," she says, voice low, stripped of anything but pure feeling. "You're hitting something in there that I didn't even know existed. How are you doing that?"
"Trade secret."
"Asshole."
"You two look really good together," Rei says, and her tone has a roughness to it that wasn't there a minute ago. "Like, unreasonably good. The height difference. The way she leans into you. The way your hands look on her body." She shifts again. "Maybe I'm more into this voyeurism thing than I thought."
Yujin moans, long and open, as you thrust particularly deep. "Enjoying the view, little bird?"
"Very much."
You keep fucking Yujin. Slow, measured strokes from behind, your hands exploring her body with a thoroughness that's making her squirm. Every time you squeeze her hip, she clenches around you. Every time you kiss her neck, she tilts into it. Every time you murmur something against her skin, her breathing gets shorter.
There's no pretense anymore. No competition, no performance, no score-keeping. She's just here, with you, feeling everything, and for the first time today she's letting herself have it without a fight.
"Wrap your arm around me," she says, quiet, tentative even. You slide your arm around her waist and pull her flush against your chest, and she makes a small, satisfied sound and reaches back to grip the back of your neck, holding you close. The position is intimate in a way that nothing else today has been. Your chest against her back, your arm around her, your cock buried deep inside her, the two of you moving together in the golden afternoon light.
After several minutes, the mattress creaks. Rei has gotten tired of watching. She pushes herself up, swings her legs off the bed, and stands in front of Yujin on unsteady legs. She's still flushed, still wrecked, still marked with the aftermath of everything that's happened to her body today, but there's a renewed energy in her eyes.
She steps close and cups Yujin's face in both hands. Yujin looks at her, surprised, and Rei kisses her, their lips meeting softly, tongues touching, Rei's thumbs stroking Yujin's cheekbones. When they part, Yujin's eyes are glassy. "Looks like the little bird got her strength back."
Rei smiles. "Watching you get fucked is like spinach. Instant recovery."
"Don’t ever let those words come out of your mouth around me again."
"Stop being so grumpy,” Rey says, then her mouth travels down. She kisses Yujin's jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips close around Yujin's left nipple and she sucks softly, her tongue flicking across the stiff peak. Yujin hisses through her teeth and her hand comes up to cradle the back of Rei's head, fingers threading through dark hair. You keep fucking Yujin from behind, your pace steady, and between the two of you she's starting to shake.
Rei kisses lower. Down Yujin's sternum, across her stomach, her lips tracing the faint lines of definition there. She drops to her knees between Yujin's thighs, looking up at both of you, and the angle gives her a perfect view of your cock sliding in and out of Yujin's pussy. "Let me help," Rei says, licking her lips.
You lift Yujin's left leg and place it on the edge of the mattress, opening her up. The new angle drives you deeper and Yujin gasps, grabbing your arm for balance. Her pussy is spread wide now, everything exposed, and Rei leans in and presses her tongue flat against Yujin's clit.
"Fuck—" Yujin breathes. "Oh, fuck."
Rei licks her in slow, broad strokes, her tongue running from where your cock enters Yujin all the way up to her clit and back down again. She's licking both of you, tasting Yujin's wetness and the slick coating your shaft, her tongue sliding along the underside of your cock every time you pull back. The sensation is staggering, Rei's hot, wet tongue dragging along your cock while Yujin's pussy grips you from every angle, and you have to lock your jaw to keep your composure.
"This is too fucking good," Yujin gasps, her head falling back against your shoulder again. "Both of you. Her tongue and your cock. It's too much. I can't handle this."
"You can handle it," you tell her, thrusting harder. "You're handling it right now."
"I'm barely surviving."
Rei focuses her attention on Yujin's clit, sucking it between her lips, flicking it with the tip of her tongue in quick, precise strokes. Her hands grip Yujin's thighs, holding her open, and every few seconds she dips down to drag her tongue along the stretched rim of Yujin's pussy where your cock is splitting her apart. The wet sounds are filthy and constant, Rei's mouth and your cock working together in a symphony of slick, obscene noise.
You increase your pace. Harder, faster, your hips driving into Yujin with a force that makes her whole body rock forward with each thrust. Rei adjusts, staying close, her tongue never leaving Yujin's clit. You grab Yujin's hip with one hand and her breast with the other, pulling her back onto your cock as you slam forward.
"I'm not going to last," Yujin pants. Her fingers are tangled in Rei's hair, pulling her closer, grinding her pussy against Rei's face. "Both of you at once is cheating. This is fucking cheating."
"Complain about it later," Rei says against her clit, the words buzzing against sensitive flesh, and Yujin's legs buckle for a second.
"Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god." Yujin's hand shoots back and grabs the back of your neck, nails biting into your skin. Her body is tensing up, that familiar full-body clench, every muscle drawing tight. "I'm close. I'm really close. Don't stop. Neither of you stop. Please, daddy, don't stop—"
You pound into her, relentless, your cock driving deep on every stroke. Rei sucks her clit hard, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Yujin is caught between the two of you, shaking, gasping, her body coiling tighter and tighter. "Cum for us," you growl against her ear. "Let go, babe."
Yujin cums. Her whole body seizes, her spine arching away from your chest, her mouth opening in a silent scream that hangs in the air for one eternal second before the sound catches up. A raw, shattered moan rips out of her, and then the flood. She squirts hard, a forceful spray that catches Rei directly in the face.
Rei flinches back, eyes flying open, sputtering. Her face is drenched. Her hair is drenched. She's blinking rapidly, mouth open in shock, Yujin's release dripping off her chin and running down her neck.
Yujin sees Rei's face through the haze of her orgasm and starts laughing. A breathless, broken laugh that mixes with her moans, her body still convulsing around your cock. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, little bird. But your face right now..."
Another jet pulses out of her, arcing through the air and hitting Rei square in the chest, splashing across her breasts and running down her stomach. Rei looks down at herself, then up at Yujin, her expression caught between outrage and disbelief. "Yujin!"
"I can't control it!" Yujin is laughing so hard she can barely stand, her legs wobbling, her body still twitching through the tail end of her orgasm. "It just happens!"
You ease your pace, slowing to a gentle rocking, letting her ride the last waves. When you finally pull out, Yujin shudders one last time and exhales a breath that seems to empty her completely. She leans against you for a moment, catching her balance, then looks at Rei, who is kneeling on the floor absolutely soaked from the chest up.
Yujin's mouth twitches. "Okay. Since little bird got a surprise facial..." She pushes herself off you and lowers to her knees beside Rei, both of them on the floor in front of you. Yujin wipes a streak of wetness off Rei's cheek with her thumb and grins. "Let's finish the job properly."
Yujin's fingers wrap around the base of your cock. Rei's hand joins hers, overlapping, both of them stroking you in tandem. Their faces are inches from the head, looking up at you, and the visual alone almost does you in. "Look at these balls," Yujin says, her free hand cupping them, weighing them, rolling them in her palm. "So fucking full. You've been holding it in this whole time while you made both of us cum how many times? You're gonna explode. There's gonna be so much."
Rei runs her tongue along the underside of your shaft while Yujin strokes, a long, slow lick from base to tip that makes your thighs tense. "He deserves it. He's been so patient."
"Patient isn't the word. This man has the self-control of a monk." Yujin leans forward and takes the head into her mouth, sucking hard, her cheeks hollowing, tasting herself on you. She pulls off with a wet sound. "I can still taste my pussy on your dick. That's so hot."
Rei takes over, swallowing you deep, her throat opening around your shaft with that natural ease that made Yujin's jaw drop earlier. She holds there, her nose pressed against your pelvis, then pulls back slowly, a thick string of saliva connecting her lip to your cock. "You taste like both of us now."
They alternate. Rei goes deep while Yujin works the shaft. Then Yujin takes you in her mouth, sloppy and aggressive, while Rei dips lower and sucks your balls, taking one into her mouth, rolling it gently with her tongue. The combined sensation of two mouths, two tongues, four hands, all of it focused on your cock with a coordinated intensity that borders on worship, is pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has all afternoon.
"You two are so fucking good together," you manage, your hand finding the back of Yujin's head, your other hand tangled in Rei's hair. "The best mouths I've ever had. Nothing even comes close."
Yujin pulls off long enough to grin up at you. "Tell us more."
"Fishing for compliments with my dick in your mouth. Classy."
"Always." She runs her tongue in a circle around the head. "Now tell us how bad you want to cum."
"Pretty fucking bad."
Rei releases your balls and licks her way back up, joining Yujin at the tip. Both their tongues meet at the head, lapping at the sensitive ridge, their lips brushing against each other and against you in a wet, messy tangle that makes your abs clench hard enough to ache.
"Then cum for us, daddy," Rei says, looking up at you with those wide brown eyes that have no right to look that innocent given what her mouth is doing. "Please. We want it."
"We need it," Yujin adds, stroking you faster. "Cum on our faces. Give us what Wonyoung would never let you have." She spits on your cock and twists her fist on the upstroke, her grip tightening. "That prissy bitch would never let you cum on her perfect little princess face. Too messy. Too dirty. Too beneath her."
"But we're not her," Rei breathes, her tongue flicking across your slit. "We actually want it. We're begging for it."
"We're so much better than her." Yujin's pace increases, her fist pumping your slick cock fast and relentless. "We let you fuck our pussies raw. We let you fuck Rei's tight little ass. We let you do anything you want with us. Wonyoung could never."
"She could never," Rei echoes, sucking the tip between her lips briefly. "She doesn't deserve this cock. We do."
"So give it to us." Yujin's hand is a blur now, her wrist snapping on every stroke, your cock drooling precum that she smears across the head with her thumb. "Cum all over us. Paint our faces. We want to wear it."
Your grip tightens in both their hair. Your thighs are shaking. Your balls are drawn up tight and the pressure is building, building, a coiling heat in your lower stomach that's about to snap. Both of them are focused on the tip now, their tongues overlapping, licking, their lips kissing the head of your cock from either side.
"Cum, daddy," Rei whispers.
"Fucking cum," Yujin demands.
You break. The first rope hits Yujin across the bridge of her nose and her right cheek, thick and white and hot. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't close her eyes. Just keeps stroking, her fist pumping your cock through the orgasm, milking every drop. "More," she says. "Give us more. Don't stop."
The second shot catches Rei across her forehead and her left eye, which she squeezes shut just in time. It drips down her brow and along her cheekbone. The third hits them both, streaking across Yujin's lips and Rei's chin. You're cumming harder than you've ever cum in your life, weeks and months of pent-up frustration and loneliness and faithfulness to a woman who couldn't be bothered to break up with you in person, all of it pouring out of you in thick, pulsing ropes that keep coming and coming.
Yujin's hand doesn't stop. She keeps stroking, fast and tight, pulling every last drop from you while your cock throbs and kicks in her grip. "That's it. Keep cumming. Fuck, there's so much. Look at all of it, Rei."
Rei is a mess. Her face is glazed with it, white streaks across her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, dripping off her chin onto her chest. She opens her good eye and looks up at you with that stupid, blissed-out grin. Your cock pulses one more time, a final weak spurt that lands on Yujin's collarbone, and then you're done. Empty. Completely and thoroughly spent.
Yujin smiles up at you. Her face is covered. It's in her eyelashes, across the bridge of her nose, on her upper lip. She looks like a glazed donut and she couldn't look more satisfied about it. "Amazing… And to think I'm getting paid for this."
Rei scoops a thick line of cum off her cheek with two fingers and slides them into her mouth, sucking them clean. She considers the taste for a moment, like a sommelier evaluating a vintage, and nods approvingly. Yujin runs her tongue across her upper lip, collecting what's gathered there, and swallows.
You sit down on the edge of the mattress. Your legs feel like they've been deboned. You lean back on your hands and let out a breath that comes from somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere that's been clenched tight for months. "That was fucking awesome."
"The best part," Rei says, still kneeling on the floor, still dripping, "is that we're sleeping here tonight. So we can do it again later."
Yujin groans from the floor. "Do we really need him? What if he's a serial killer? We don't know this man."
Rei looks at her flatly. "I just let the serial killer cum on my face, Yujin."
Yujin purses her lips. Opens her mouth. Closes it. "You have a point."
You lean forward and offer both of them a hand up. "How about a bath? I've got a tub big enough for three."
"You made the mess," Yujin says, taking your hand and pulling herself to her feet. "You clean it up." She touches her hair and her fingers come away sticky. "There's cum in my hair. This is a two-hundred-dollar blowout."
"I'll wash it for you."
"Damn right you will."
—
A few hours later, the penthouse feels calmer. Golden daylight has slipped into a cool evening blue, and the city beyond the windows begins to glow.
Yujin is in your kitchen. She's wearing your shirt, a white oxford that hangs to the top of her thighs, the hem just barely covering the curve of her ass, which peeks out whenever she reaches for anything above counter height. Her legs are bare, her hair is damp from the bath and starting to curl at the ends, and she's got your wireless headphones clamped over her ears.
She's singing, her hips swaying as she opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of ice cream. Her bare feet pad across the kitchen tile and she grabs a spoon from the drawer, scooping out a bite and eating it while she sings between mouthfuls.
"Hey, Miss Sun, what can I say?" She twirls the spoon between her fingers, bobbing her head. "I tried to hold you, but the moon got in the way..." She does a little spin, sliding on the tile in her bare feet, and catches herself on the counter. "It won't be long before the morning has you back in my arms—"
The music cuts out. Her phone buzzes on the counter, the screen lighting up. She glances at it and the spoon freezes halfway to her mouth.
Jang Wonyoung
Yujin sets down the ice cream. Pulls off the headphones. Takes a breath. Answers. "Hey, boss."
Wonyoung's tone comes through tinny and sharp, even from across the room. Yujin leans against the counter and examines her nails while she listens.
"Where are you two? You've been off the grid all day. I tried calling Rei three times."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Rei hurt her ankle. Fell down some stairs on the way out of his building." Yujin picks at a cuticle. "That girl doesn't look where she's going. I keep telling her. She just spaces out and trips over everything."
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine. It's just a mild sprain. I took her back to her apartment to keep an eye on her. We'll probably be in tomorrow."
A pause on the other end. "How did it go? Everything run smoothly?"
"Smooth as silk. Textbook operation. Contract signed, obligations fulfilled. All wrapped up."
"Did he cry?"
A flicker of tension pulls at Yujin’s jaw before she smooths it over. “No,” she says, light as ever.
"Seriously?" Wonyoung sounds genuinely annoyed. "He should have cried. I expected at least some tears. I would have cried."
"I think he wanted to. He was definitely holding it back. Didn't want to cry in front of two girls, you know? Fragile masculinity. Big ego, small emotional range. The usual."
"Men..." Wonyoung sighs with the weariness of someone who has never once been inconvenienced by her own behavior. "How was the sex?"
"Everything went according to plan. He was satisfied by the end. No complaints. No resentment. Mission accomplished."
"Perfect. Great work, Yujin. Now we just have to wait about six months." Wonyoung's tone shifts into something brighter, more animated, the sound of someone admiring their own strategy. "The breakup's going to generate tons of attention. Everyone loves a fallen romance. Sympathetic press for me, speculation, mystery. And then in six months, we get back together. Reconciliation arc. The public eats that up. Engagement numbers will be through the roof."
Yujin stares at the far wall. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out."
"I always do. Just keep the documents safe. I want everything on my desk tomorrow."
"Of course. You can count on me, boss."
"I know I can. Goodnight, Yujin."
"Goodnight."
The call ends. The screen goes dark. Yujin stands there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at nothing. Then she puts the headphones back on. The music starts again, Miss Sun picking up where it left off. She grabs the ice cream tub and turns toward the hallway. On her way past the kitchen trash can, she glances down.
Inside, sitting on top of crumpled paper towels, is a small pile of ashes. Gray and black and still faintly warm. The edges of a few charred paper fragments are still visible, corners of thick, expensive legal stock, the kind used for contracts that were meant to be kept in briefcases and filed in offices and presented to bosses who think they run the world.
Yujin takes a bite of ice cream and looks at the ashes for a long, satisfied moment.
“That bitch has no idea what’s coming,” she murmurs around the spoon.
Yujin turns off the kitchen light and pads down the hallway to your bedroom, carrying the ice cream with her, humming softly.
Ok now we need Daughter's friends a Smut version For realllll🫠🥶😭😭😭😭
DAUGHTER'S FRIENDS - PART 2
BLACKPINK X Male Reader
13K WORDS COUNTED
SMUT
—
The jasmine was in full bloom for the wedding.
White blossoms crawled thick along the trellis that arched over the lawn, their scent drifting through the late afternoon air as if Min ji herself had arranged it. The backyard in Hannam dong, once the quiet refuge of a widower and his daughter, had been transformed into something soft and intimate. Simple white chairs. A narrow aisle of scattered petals. String lights looped from tree to tree, still pale in the fading daylight, waiting for dusk to turn them into stars.
It was small by any outside standard. No press. No sponsors. No streaming cameras. Just the people who mattered.
Family by blood. Family by choice.
On the left side of the yard, a handful of chairs held parents and siblings. Lisa’s mom, already dabbing at her eyes with a neatly folded handkerchief. Rosé’s parents, flown in quietly from New Zealand and Australia, clutching each other’s hands. Jisoo’s mother, elegant and composed, sitting beside her younger brother who kept glancing around with wide eyes like he could not quite believe this was happening. Jennie’s mom in a simple pastel dress, lips pressed together hard every time emotion threatened to ruin her careful makeup.
On the right, the friends the girls had chosen over a decade. Managers, stylists, a few fellow idols who had slipped in under the radar, people who knew enough to keep their mouths closed and their blessings loud.
In the front row, alone on the right side, sat Soo-ah.
She wore a simple pale lavender dress that brushed her knees, hair curled softly, a small jasmine corsage at her wrist. She looked both like a bride’s sister and like something more important: the keeper of the story that had led everyone here. Her hands were folded around a small bouquet of white tulips that YN had given her that morning with a quiet kiss to her forehead.
The officiant stood beneath the jasmine arch. An old friend of YN’s from his early music days. Now a registered officiant with laugh lines deep enough to hold decades. He held a simple leather folder and kept glancing toward the sliding glass doors that led from the living room to the backyard.
Music drifted out first.
A piano version of Playing with Fire, slowed and turned tender, played through small speakers hidden behind pots of hydrangeas. A nod to their past lives, rewritten for today.
Everyone rose.
The glass doors slid open.
YN stepped out first.
He wore a simple black suit, no tie, white shirt open at the throat. He had insisted on that part. No choking collars today. His dark hair was threaded now with more silver than two years ago, temples streaked in a way that only made him look more solid. More real. He held a single jasmine blossom pinned at his lapel.
He walked slowly down the aisle and took his place beneath the trellis.
For a heartbeat he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of jasmine. He could almost see Min ji’s bare feet in the grass, hear her laughing at how nervous he looked.
Look at you, she would have said. Such a handsome idiot. Do not faint. It is bad for the photos.
His mouth twitched.
He opened his eyes as the living room doors parted again.
The song shifted into a gentle medley. A quiet thread of Rosé’s voice in the instrumental, recorded secretly weeks ago when she had locked herself in the basement studio and told no one what she was making.
They came out not in a line of hierarchy, but together.
Four hands held the edge of the sliding door for a second like they were bracing themselves, then released.
The first to step into the light was Jisoo.
She wore a satin dress in soft ivory, the neckline clean and simple, the skirt falling in a straight elegant line to her ankles. Her hair was twisted into a loose low bun, a few dark strands framing her face. She carried a small bouquet of jasmine and pale pink roses. Her eyes were already shining.
Beside her walked Rosé.
Her dress was similar in cut but with a slightly softer drape, the fabric catching the light with each step. Her honey blonde hair fell in waves down her back, a few jasmine flowers tucked above her ear. She carried white lilies mixed with eucalyptus, the greens a gentle contrast to her flushed cheeks.
Behind them, in perfect, unplanned synchronicity, came Lisa and Jennie.
Lisa wore a dress that hugged her figure at the waist before flaring slightly, slit just high enough to let her move with her usual easy stride. Her dark hair was long and straight, a single jasmine tucked at the nape of her neck. She clutched a bouquet of orchids, bright and playful. Beside her, Jennie’s dress was minimalist, almost severe in its clean lines, but softened by the soft wave of her hair and the tiny diamonds at her ears. Her bouquet was made of white peonies, full and lush.
They did not come one by one.
They came in pairs, then all four, walking down the aisle like the universe had decided that the rules of weddings could be rewritten for them.
The murmur of guests faded. The music seemed to quiet, even as it played.
YN felt his chest pull tight.
He had seen them in every state. Sweaty in practice clothes. Half asleep in his kitchen. Crying into his chest on the basement floor. Laughing on his couch with soju flushed cheeks. But now, walking toward him in ivory and flowers and sunlight, it hit with a different weight.
This is real.
This is happening.
They reached him and took their places in front of him. Two on each side, then shifting instinctively until they made a loose half circle, all facing him.
The officiant cleared his throat, smiling.
“I will admit,” he said, voice gentle, “in all my years doing this, it is my first time marrying one man to four women. But when I look at you all together, I see something I recognize. Not a spectacle. A family.”
A soft ripple of laughter moved through the guests, easing some of the tightness in the air.
He continued.
“Today is not about what the world thinks is normal. Today is about what you know in your bones is right. You walked into this backyard over and over again, each time leaving a little less lonely than when you arrived. You cooked together. Fought together. Cried together. You healed here. And you chose each other. That is what we are honoring today.”
He looked at YN.
“YN. Do you have vows you would like to say?”
YN had not wanted something written. He had tried, pen hovering over paper for nights, but nothing felt like it fit. In the end he had folded the blank sheet and thrown it away. Today, looking at them, he was glad he had.
He took a breath.
“I used to think,” he said slowly, “that I had used up all my chances at happiness before I hit thirty. That I had ruined my life and someone else’s and that the rest of my days were just… atonement. When Minji died, I thought that was part of what I deserved. To be alone. To raise Soo-ah and make sure I did not pass on any of the worst parts of me. To cook dinners for two and pretend the silence did not swallow me at night.”
Four faces watched him. Behind them, Soo-ah’s shoulders shook once.
“Then you started showing up,” he said, looking at each of the girls in turn. “Loud. Hungry. Tired. Laughing. You invaded my kitchen, my studio, my weekends. You brought noise into rooms that had forgotten the sound of it. You let me teach you how to flip a pancake without burning it. You let me listen when the world was too heavy. Somewhere along the way, without asking permission, you made me want to live again. Not just exist.”
He swallowed, eyes blurring for a second, then focused on Jennie.
“Jennie. You taught me that strength is not pretending you are not scared. Watching you walk through this world with your armor up and still choosing to trust me with the soft parts… that is one of the biggest honors of my life. I promise to be the man who will always step between you and the things that try to hurt you. I will never ask you to be less than you are. Only to lean on me when the crown feels too heavy.”
Jennie’s lower lip trembled. A tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
He turned to Lisa.
“Lisa. You remind me what joy looks like when it moves. You crash into rooms like a storm, hug first and ask later. You made it impossible for me to keep walls up. You make me laugh when I forget how. I promise to give you a place you can always come back to, no matter how far you roam. A couch to crash on. A bed to steal all the blankets in. Arms that will hold you when the lights go down after the loudest show of your life and you just need to be someone’s girl, not everyone’s idol.”
Lisa sniffed hard, eyes shining, a watery grin breaking through.
He looked to Rosé.
“Rosie. You carry your heart in your songs even when you think you are hiding it. You let me hear the parts of you that never make it to the radio. You trusted me with your unfinished melodies and your doubts. I promise to listen. Really listen. To your music, to your silences, to the things you do not know how to put into words yet. I will be your safe place to fall apart and the arms that help you put yourself back together.”
Rosé bit down on a sob, shoulders shaking, tears spilling freely now as she clutched her bouquet a little tighter.
Then Jisoo.
“Jisoo. You have spent so long being composed, the unshakable one everyone leans on. You showed me the parts of you that are tired. That want to rest. That want to be held and told it is okay to step back. I promise to be your quiet. To be the place where you do not have to smile if you do not feel like it. I will protect your peace, even from the parts of you that think you are only worth something if you are performing.”
Jisoo’s lashes clumped with tears. She let them fall, making no move to hide them.
YN drew a slow breath.
“And to all four of you together,” he said, voice rough, “I promise to never take what you are giving me for granted. I promise to be honest, even when it is ugly. To communicate. To listen when you are jealous, or scared, or hurting. To hold your hands, one by one or all at once. To show up. To cook too much food. To be the man you can be proud to say you chose. I am not perfect. I never will be. But every day you give me, I will spend trying to be worthy of this life we are building.”
He fell quiet.
The officiant gave the girls a small nod.
“Would the four of you like to speak?”
The plan had been for one or two to say something short.
Instead, Rosé stepped forward first, eyes red, voice shaking a little but clear.
“When I first came to this house, I thought it was just a place with good food and a comfy couch,” she said, sniffing. “Then I realized it was more. It was a place that smelled like jasmine and garlic and safety. YN, you made me feel seen without asking for anything back. You never looked at me like a product. You looked at me like a person who could be tired, or silly, or wrong. You gave me a space to write songs that were not designed for charts but for my own heart. I promise to keep bringing my messy drafts to you. I promise to be there when your past feels heavy. To remind you that you are not that man anymore. To sing with you in the kitchen until we burn the toast.”
Soft laughter rippled through the guests, breaking some of the tension.
Lisa stepped up next, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“You know me,” she said, lips wobbling. “I joke. I tease. I climb you like a jungle gym. But it is because when I hug you, I feel ten again. Safe. Not judged. Not performing. Just… me. You never told me to calm down or act more ladylike. You just told me to take my shoes off before I ruined your floors. When the tour offer came and I thought I would drown in the pressure, you did not tell me what to do. You told me you would be here whether I went or stayed. That kind of steady? I did not know I needed it until you. I promise to keep making you laugh when you get too serious. I promise to send you dumb dance videos from whatever city I am in. And I promise to come home. Always.”
She looked like she might crumble, but Rosé squeezed her elbow, steadying her.
Jisoo stepped lightly forward.
“I have played a lot of roles,” she said quietly. “Funny unnie. Responsible member. Good daughter. Good sunbae. With you, I learned I can be just… Jisoo. The girl who likes bad jokes and worse puns. The woman who sometimes wants to drop all the expectations and just breathe. You looked at me like I was enough even when I was doing nothing. I promise to bring you bad jokes for the rest of our lives. To make sure the house is always stocked with snacks. To pull you away from your guilt when it tries to drag you under. And to let you hold me when mine tries to do the same.”
Finally, Jennie.
She took a breath like she was steadying herself before a stage she could not see past the lights.
“I have a hard time trusting people,” she said, voice low but strong. “Everyone wants something. Everyone has an angle. That night in Gangnam, when you pulled over and stepped out of the car without even thinking twice, you could have gotten hurt. You did not care. You just saw someone in danger and moved. Later, you did not make it a big thing. You just checked if I had eaten and waited in your car until my lights turned on. You have never used it against me. Never made me feel small for being scared. That is when I started falling. I promise to be honest with you even when it is ugly. To tell you when I am jealous or spiraling instead of punishing you for it. I promise to protect what we have from anyone who tries to cheapen it. Including parts of myself that still think I do not deserve this.”
The officiant cleared his throat quietly, suspiciously shiny eyed.
“Do you,” he said, looking at YN, “take these four women, each of them, as your partners? To love, to honor, to support and to cherish, in whatever ways you all agree, for as long as this love lives?”
“I do,” YN said, without even a moment of hesitation.
“Do you,” he asked, turning to the girls, “take YN as your partner? Do you promise to communicate, to respect each other in this unusual shape of family you are choosing, to love him and each other with honesty and care?”
Four voices answered in overlapping harmony.
“I do.”
Soo-ah’s breath hitched audibly from the front row.
The rings were not traditional either.
No perfect matching set.
Instead, they had decided months ago, giggling over samples at the kitchen table, to choose something that fit each of them.
First, YN took Jennie’s left hand. Slid a slim band of white gold with a tiny black diamond flush in the center onto her ring finger. Strong. Understated. A secret only visible up close.
He turned to Lisa next. Her ring was a simple yellow gold band with a tiny engraving of a smiley face on the inside where only she would feel it. She laughed wetly when she slid it on and saw the engraving, shoulders shaking.
Rosé’s was rose gold, thin and delicate, with microscopic notes etched along the side. A bar of sheet music, the notes forming the beginning of the melody she had written for today.
Jisoo’s was platinum, clean and straight, but with a tiny jasmine flower engraved on the inside curve. She traced it with her thumb when she felt the cool metal slide home.
Then, together, they each took a simple band from the padded box on the small table.
One by one, they slid them onto YN’s finger. Four slim bands of different metals that stacked together. Gold from Lisa. White gold from Jennie. Rose gold from Rosé. Platinum from Jisoo.
Not identical.
But together, they made something new.
The officiant smiled.
“By the power vested in me by the government that does not technically recognize this but can mind its own business,” he said, earning a low rumble of laughter from both sides, “and by the love you have all clearly chosen, I pronounce you… a family.”
He closed his folder.
“You may kiss your… husbands, wives, each other. Just do it quickly before the parents faint.”
Laughter broke the tension entirely.
They did not choreograph it. Had tried, then given up, deciding to let it happen.
Unsurprisingly, Lisa moved first.
She lunged forward and kissed YN square on the mouth, both hands on his cheeks, laughter tickling at the edges of the kiss. He kissed her back, one hand on her waist.
When she pulled back, Rosé leaned in, slower but no less sure. Their kiss was soft, lingering, tasting of tears and jasmine. She whispered something against his lips that only he heard.
Jisoo stepped closer, hands light on his shoulders, kissing him with a tenderness that made something in his chest ache.
Jennie waited until last again.
She took his face in her hands, kissed him with a quiet intensity that promised tonight would not be quiet at all. When she broke away, her thumb swiped at the wetness at the corner of his eye.
For a moment, beneath the jasmine trellis, it was just them.
Four women, one man, all of them holding some piece of each other.
The applause washed over them like a tide.
Soo-ah was on her feet before anyone else, hands clapping, tears streaming freely down her face and a grin wide enough to split it.
He caught her eye over the heads of the girls crowding him, mouthed thank you.
She shook her head, mouthed back you are welcome.
The reception was not some grand hotel ballroom.
It was their backyard.
Long wooden tables set under string lights, simple white plates, food brought in from the places that meant something to them. The tiny pojangmacha where YN used to sneak off at twenty three. The Thai place Lisa swore tasted closest to home. The brunch café Rosé loved. The family restaurant in Gunpo that Jisoo had taken them all to once on a rare free day. The bakery in Cheongdam that still sent Jennie birthday cakes no matter where in the world she was.
There was no seating chart.
People found their own places. Parents mingled cautiously at first, then, after a few glasses of wine and seeing how happy their children looked, relaxed.
Lisa’s mother pulled YN aside halfway through the meal. Her eyes were damp but clear.
“Take care of my daughter,” she said, voice thickly accented. “She is big on stage but small in here.” She tapped a finger to her own chest.
“I know,” he said softly. “I promise.”
Rosé’s father gripped his hand hard, English lilting. “You seem like a good man,” he said. “Unusual situation. But my girl smiles different when she is here. That is enough for me.”
Jisoo’s mother was more reserved.
“This is not what I ever pictured for my daughter,” she admitted. “But then, I did not picture her standing on stages in front of tens of thousands either. She has always chosen her own path. She looks… peaceful. I cannot argue with that.”
Jennie’s mom hugged him wordlessly. When she pulled back, she patted his cheek like he was nineteen.
“You saved her twice,” she said quietly. “Once in that alley. Once from herself. Take care of her stubborn heart. It matches yours.”
The girls stole him back whenever they could.
Jennie dragged him to the side of the yard near the jasmine trellis for photos, insisting on at least one where he kissed her forehead.
Lisa made him dance, badly, to an old 2NE1 song playing from the speakers. She laughed until she had to wipe her eyes again.
Rosé sang.
Not on a stage.
Standing on the grass with a cheap wired microphone they had dug out of a cupboard, her guitar slung over her shoulder. She sang the song she had written in the basement studio, the one she had almost been too scared to show anyone.
This time the lyrics were complete.
Verses about jasmine and midnight soju and a man who learned to forgive himself.
The chorus about choosing a love that did not fit in any neat box but fit perfectly around their bruised hearts.
By the time she finished, YN was not the only one clapping through tears.
Later, long after the food had been picked over and the parents had begun to stand and stretch and hug and make their way toward taxis and quiet streets, the five of them slipped away.
Not upstairs.
Not yet.
To the basement studio.
It felt right, ending the night where so much had begun.
The fairy lights cast a soft glow over the mixing console, the worn leather couch, the rug where they had once sat in a knot of limbs and tears and heavy confessions.
Now, they stood facing each other.
Suits and dresses. Rings catching the low light.
Soo ah had gone to sleep two hours earlier, insisting she would be fine alone, that she had a midterm next week and needed to actually rest sometime between all this history. She had paused at the top of the basement stairs though, turned back and said:
“Do not be too loud. I have an exam. And we have neighbors.”
Her grin had made a liar of her scolding.
In the studio, no one spoke at first.
Lisa finally broke the quiet, rocking back on her heels.
“So,” she said softly. “We really did it.”
Rosé let out a shaky laugh. “We are all legally still single, technically, but emotionally very much not.”
Jisoo touched the jasmine engraving on her ring, idly. “The government cannot handle us. Their loss.”
Jennie stepped into YN’s space, fingers pressing against his chest just above his heart.
“We get to go home with you,” she murmured. “No drivers. No early call times. No managers waiting in vans. Just… us.”
He lifted his hands, one settling at the small of her back, the other reaching out for whoever wanted to take it.
They all did.
For a moment there was nothing complicated about it.
Lisa’s fingers twined with his left hand, thumb stroking the back of it.
Jisoo slid her smaller hand over his knuckles, their rings clinking softly.
Rosé stepped in behind Lisa, pressing her chest to YN’s arm, cheek against his shoulder.
Jennie leaned into his front, forehead resting against his collarbone.
They stood there, in the heart of the house that had heard their worst and best, wrapped around each other.
No cameras.
No curated version.
Just five people who had decided the world’s rules did not get the final say on their happiness.
Tears came again.
Quieter this time.
Relief more than anything.
YN bent his head, pressing his lips to Jennie’s hair.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough. “For choosing me. For choosing this. For giving me a second life.”
Jennie sniffed, laughing a little. “You are stuck with us now, old man.”
Lisa lifted her head, smirking even as her eyes shone. “We are going to ruin your back. And your sleep schedule.”
Rosé hummed softly. “We will also stretch with you and make you tea, so it balances.”
Jisoo smiled, slow and sure. “We will grow old together. That is the point.”
He looked at them.
Saw his past, his present, his impossible future.
Four women who had walked into his kitchen one weekend and slowly dismantled every wall he had learned to live behind.
He tightened his arms.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let us go home.”
They went upstairs together.
—
The master bedroom had never looked like this before.
Soft lamps glowed from either side of the bed, their shades turned down low so the light washed the room in warm gold instead of harsh white. The windows were open just enough for the jasmine-scented air to drift through the curtains. On the dresser someone, probably Soo-ah, had left a small vase of white blooms and a handwritten card that simply said:
Do not break the bed.
Love,
Your favorite child.
Rosé laughed when she saw it, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
“I am framing that,” Lisa said, already kicking off her heels one by one, toes sinking into the thick rug.
They were all quiet in that particular way that comes after a long, perfect day. Happy. Drained. Deliciously dazed.
The room felt smaller with all five of them inside it, not cramped, just deliciously full. The bed dominated one wall, a broad, solid thing that had seen too many lonely nights. Tonight the crisp white sheets were turned down neatly, the soft gray duvet folded halfway back. The sight of it made something hot and possessive twist deep in YN’s gut.
He had slept here alone for so long that his body still expected emptiness.
Now four breathtaking women in ivory silk and soft perfume stood barefoot on the same rug, looking at him like he was their favorite meal.
For a second he forgot how to breathe.
Jennie noticed first.
She stepped close, reached up, and popped the top button of his shirt open with nimble fingers. Her nails grazed his skin.
“Breathe,” she murmured, voice already husky. “You look like the one about to be ruined tonight.”
He let out a rough laugh, tension bleeding away.
“I kind of am,” he admitted. “First time as your husband.”
“Well,” Lisa grinned, wiggling her toes deeper into the rug, “you did good for our husband.”
Rosé moved to the window, brushing the curtain aside to glance at the glittering city lights below. When she turned back, her hair spilled over one shoulder and her eyes were soft and hungry.
“We are really here,” she whispered. “No cameras. No guests. Just us… and this bed.”
Jisoo had already drifted to the bedside table, absently straightening the lamp, fingers trailing over the wood. She looked up at him with that calm, knowing smile.
“We should get out of these dresses,” she said, laughter dancing at the edges of her voice, “before Lisa rips hers trying to do a cartwheel.”
“Hey,” Lisa protested, eyes sparkling, “I only do cartwheels when I am trying to get fucked.”
The words snapped the last thread of ceremony. The room filled with easy, filthy laughter and the rustle of fabric as they moved.
They slipped into the adjoining bathroom two at a time. Giggles floated out, the hiss of zippers, soft curses when hooks caught, and one sharp yelp from Lisa followed by Rosé’s bright laugh.
“You are stepping on the train, you clumsy slut.”
Outside, YN sat on the edge of the bed and worked his tie loose, then shrugged off his jacket. He unlaced his shoes slowly, watching his own hands, heart pounding with a new kind of hunger.
He had been nervous during the vows.
This felt different. This was the raw need to claim and be claimed by all four of them at once.
He was still in his shirt and trousers when the bathroom door opened.
Jennie stepped out first, barefoot, wearing nothing but a tiny cream camisole and matching shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass. The thin cotton clung to her nipples, already hard and poking against the fabric. She climbed onto the bed without hesitation, settling on her knees between his spread thighs, palms sliding up to rest high on his legs.
“Hi, husband,” she purred.
His cock twitched at the word.
“Hi, wife.”
Jennie’s thumbs traced slow circles dangerously close to his growing bulge. “You okay?”
“Getting harder by the second.”
Behind her the others emerged.
Rosé wore one of his old white t-shirts and nothing else. The hem barely reached the tops of her thighs; every time she moved he caught a flash of smooth, bare pussy. Lisa had on a tight ribbed tank that hugged her perky tits and tiny cotton shorts riding high enough to show the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. Jisoo wore a pale beige silk slip that skimmed her full breasts and hips, the thin straps slipping slightly off her shoulders.
They crawled onto the bed around him like hungry cats.
Rosé curled against his right side, pressing her soft tits against his arm, one bare leg sliding over his. Lisa sprawled on his left, knee up, thigh draped possessively over his lap so her warm core pressed against his hip. Jisoo knelt at the foot of the bed between his legs, hands resting on his thighs, eyes dark with intent. Jennie stayed right where she was, straddling one of his thighs now, slowly rocking her barely-covered pussy against the muscle there.
For a long moment they simply breathed each other in.
Then Jennie leaned in and kissed him, deep and filthy from the start. Her tongue slid into his mouth, tasting of champagne and pure want. He groaned into her, one hand fisting in her hair while the other grabbed a handful of her ass and squeezed hard.
Rosé’s small hand slipped under his shirt, nails raking lightly down his abs. “We waited all day for this,” she whispered against his neck before sucking a mark just below his jaw.
Lisa nipped at his earlobe, then licked the shell of his ear. “Gonna ride you so good tonight, oppa. All of us.”
Jisoo’s fingers worked open his belt and zipper with calm precision. She tugged his pants and boxers down just enough to free his thick, heavy cock. It sprang up, already leaking at the tip, veins pulsing. Jisoo wrapped her elegant fingers around the base and gave one slow, firm stroke.
“Fuck, look at him,” she murmured, voice low and reverent. “So hard for his wives already.Do I have to mention about his size?”
Heat flooded his body. Four sets of hands, four mouths, four perfect bodies all focused on him.
Jennie broke the kiss only to pull her camisole over her head, freeing her full tits. Her dark nipples were tight and begging. She cupped them, offering them to him. He leaned forward and sucked one into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly while his hand pinched the other. Jennie moaned, grinding her soaked pussy harder against his thigh, leaving a wet streak on his pants.
Rosé tugged his shirt open, buttons flying. She kissed and licked down his chest, teeth grazing a nipple before she continued lower. When she reached his cock, Jisoo kindly held it upright for her. Rosé licked a long, slow stripe from balls to tip, then swirled her tongue around the head, tasting the precum beading there.
“Mm, so sweet,” she hummed.
Lisa shimmied out of her tiny shorts, revealing her smooth, glistening pussy. She climbed higher, straddling his chest facing away from him so her ass was right in front of his face. “Eat me while they suck you, husband.”
He did not need to be told twice. He grabbed her hips and pulled her back until her dripping cunt covered his mouth. He licked broad and messy, tongue fucking into her tight hole before sucking hard on her swollen clit. Lisa cried out, grinding down on his face, her juices coating his lips and chin.
Jisoo and Rosé took turns sucking his cock. One would deep-throat him until her nose pressed against his pelvis while the other licked and sucked his balls. They passed him back and forth like a toy, spit dripping down his shaft, making wet, obscene sounds that filled the room.
Jennie watched for a moment, then straddled his hips properly. She reached down, lined his cock up with her soaked entrance, and sank down in one slow, greedy motion. Her tight, velvet pussy swallowed every inch until her ass rested against his hips.
“Fuck… so full,” she gasped, head falling back.
She started riding him hard, tits bouncing with every slam of her hips. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with Lisa’s moans as he ate her out and the wet slurping sounds from Rosé and Jisoo worshipping his cock and balls whenever Jennie lifted up.
They rotated.
When Jennie’s thighs started shaking, Lisa took her place, bouncing on his cock with wild energy, her ass clapping loudly against him. Rosé climbed onto his face next, grinding her sweet pussy against his tongue while Jisoo sucked on her tits.
Jisoo was last. She rode him slow and deep, rolling her hips in sensual circles, letting him feel every ripple of her inner walls. Her silk slip was pushed up around her waist, tits spilling out of the top as she fucked herself on him with perfect control.
They took turns riding his cock, his tongue, his fingers. Sometimes two at once: Jennie on his dick while Rosé sat on his face. Sometimes all four of them touching him, kissing him, marking him with teeth and nails.
He lost count of how many times they came. Jennie first, screaming his name as her pussy clenched and gushed around him. Then Lisa, squirting messily all over his stomach while she rode him like a woman possessed. Rosé came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head. Jisoo milked him with slow, devastating rolls of her hips until she shattered, whispering filthy praises in his ear.
Finally, when he could not hold back any longer, they knelt around him, faces close, tongues out, hands stroking him fast and tight.
“Cum for us, husband,” Jennie ordered, voice wrecked.
“Fill our mouths,” Rosé begged.
“Paint your wives,” Lisa grinned.
Jisoo just squeezed the base of his cock and leaned in to suck the head.
He came with a guttural groan, thick ropes of hot cum shooting across their beautiful faces and tongues. They moaned and licked it up, sharing messy, cum-covered kisses, swallowing every drop they could reach.
Afterward they collapsed in a sweaty, sticky, satisfied tangle.
Rosé curled half on his chest, one leg thrown over his thigh, her cum-smeared lips brushing his nipple. Lisa draped herself over his side, fingers lazily playing with his softening cock. Jennie tucked under his chin, one leg hooked over his, her pussy still leaking his cum onto his hip. Jisoo lay along his other side, arm across his stomach, their wedding rings glinting together in the low light.
The room smelled of sex, jasmine, and pure bliss.
He pressed soft kisses to each of their heads, tasting salt and cum on their skin.
“My wives,” he whispered into the dark, voice rough with exhaustion and love.
Four soft, contented murmurs answered him.
—
By the time the jasmine bloomed again, the house on the hill had changed in ways no one could have predicted.
It started, like most big things in that home, quietly.
Rosé was the first.
It was a chilly morning in late autumn, two years after the wedding. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toasted bread, the usual Saturday orchestra of clinking mugs and soft music humming from the living room speakers.
YN stood at the stove in sweatpants and a white tee, flipping eggs with the ease of a man who had cooked breakfast for too many people for too many years. Jennie sat at the island scrolling through her phone, hair up in a loose bun, Yoo-hoo, look at this tone of half distraction. Lisa was perched on the counter, legs swinging, trying to dip her toast directly into the pan until he smacked her hand away with a spatula. Jisoo leaned against the fridge sipping coffee, eyes still heavy with sleep, smiling at the chaos.
Rosé had not come down yet.
At first no one thought much of it. She was often the slowest in the mornings if there had been a late studio night.
But when YN called up the stairs for the third time and got only a faint, muffled answer, something in his chest tightened. He turned off the stove and wiped his hands.
“I will check,” he said.
He pushed open the bedroom door to find Rosé sitting on the edge of the bed, still in an oversized gray tee, hair a tangled halo, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping in. “You okay?”
She looked up at him, eyes wide in a way that made her seem younger for a second. There was a white stick in her hand.
He knew what it was before he saw it properly.
His heart stuttered.
“I… I did not feel right,” she said, voice small. “Late. Tired. I thought it was just… tour stress. Jet lag. But Jess unnie made a joke yesterday about me eating like a pregnant woman and I…”
She held the stick out with trembling fingers.
He sat beside her, the mattress dipping. The little plastic window was impossible to misread.
Two clear lines.
Bold. Sure.
Positive.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
He felt his throat tighten. Old memories hit with surprising force: the sterile smell of the clinic two decades earlier. The grainy black and white of Soo ah’s first ultrasound. The knot of terror and awe.
Those days had been wrapped in so much guilt that he had not given himself permission to really feel the joy. He had been too busy wondering if he deserved any of it.
Now he looked at Rosé. At the fear and hope warring in her eyes. His own hand shook a little when he reached out to curl his fingers around hers.
“How do you feel?” he asked quietly.
“Scared,” she whispered. “Happy. Really… really happy. But scared. I have schedules. Tours. The label will freak out. The fans… I do not know. And you… the others…”
“Hey.” He squeezed her hand, firm. “We will figure that out. Together. The label, the fans, all of it. You are not alone in this. And me?”
He swallowed, letting the truth swell in his chest until it had to come out.
“I am happy,” he said. “So happy it hurts. If you want this, if we choose this… I am here. Every step.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Really?” she asked. “You are not… overwhelmed? You already raised one. Now there is four of us and…”
He laughed, soft and a little shaky.
“I am definitely overwhelmed,” he admitted. “But in the best possible way.”
Tears spilled over her lashes.
He pulled her into his arms.
She folded against him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, her breath hitching once, twice before settling into a pattern between laughter and sobs.
They sat like that until the door burst open without a knock.
“Yah, did you two elope without us? Breakfast is getting cold,” Lisa announced, then stopped dead when she saw Rosé’s face and the way YN’s arms were wrapped around her.
Jennie and Jisoo were right behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“What is wrong?” Jennie’s voice sharpened instantly. “Who do I have to kill?”
Rosé turned in YN’s arms, still clutching the test in one hand. Her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling now. Small. Disbelieving.
“I am pregnant,” she said.
The room froze.
Even the air stilled, somehow.
Lisa’s mouth fell open.
Jennie’s eyes went huge.
Jisoo’s coffee cup wobbled in her hand before she set it very carefully on the dresser.
“Pregnant,” Jennie repeated, like she had never heard the word before. “Like… with a baby.”
Lisa made a small strangled sound that might have been an attempt at a cheer, then half tripped over her own feet in her rush to cross the room. She flung herself down beside them and wrapped both arms around Rosé’s shoulders from the other side.
“A baby,” she said into her hair. “Our baby. Oh my god.”
Jennie sat down on the floor at their feet, as if her knees would not hold her. Her hand, almost on instinct, moved to Rosé’s stomach, though there was nothing visible yet.
“How far along?” Jisoo asked, voice soft but clear, perching on the other side of the bed.
“I do not know,” Rosé sniffed. “A few weeks maybe? I only realized I was late last night.”
She looked up at YN again, searching.
His gaze was steady.
“We will see a doctor,” he said. “Today if we can. We will do this properly.”
Lisa’s eyes were wet now too, tears spilling down even as she laughed.
“I am going to be the hottest aunt in Seoul,” she declared, then corrected herself quickly. “No, wait, we are not doing that aunt thing. I am going to be… what are we?”
Jennie let out a small watery laugh.
“Moms,” she said. “We are going to be moms.”
The word hung in the air like a new constellation.
Moms.
Rosé burst into fresh tears, nodding, half laughing, clutching the test and YN’s shirt like lifelines.
Jisoo’s hand settled gently over Jennie’s on Rosé’s belly.
“Then let us be good ones,” she said simply.
—
The months that followed rearranged their world in the gentlest, most relentless way.
The first ultrasound was an exercise in controlled chaos.
The five of them squeezed into the small room, four women and one man clustered around the examination table, Rosé in a hospital gown, bare stomach slick with cold gel. The obstetrician, a middle aged woman with kind eyes and the resigned air of someone who had seen every possible shape of family, barely blinked at the crowd.
“As long as no one faints,” she said dryly, “you are all welcome to stay.”
Her English was clear enough that Rosé’s parents, on a video call propped up against the wall, understood too. Their faces filled the small phone screen, beaming from a different hemisphere.
The grainy toll of the machine filled the room as the probe slid across Rosé’s skin.
Then there it was.
A flicker.
A small, pulsing light on the screen.
“That is the heartbeat,” the doctor said. “Healthy. Strong.”
The sound came a second later, a rapid whoosh whoosh whoosh that filled the space like a secret revealed.
Rosé covered her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking.
Lisa’s hand found YN’s and squeezed so hard his fingers popped.
Jennie blinked rapidly, tears spilling anyway.
Even Jisoo, who had seen lives being made into stories on scripts for years, looked undone.
YN stared at the screen until it blurred. His own heart raced in his chest in time with the small one.
He remembered standing in a room like this once, terrified he would not be enough.
This time, the fear was still there, but it was balanced by something else: four other adults whose hands he could feel on his skin, on Rosé’s arm, on each other.
They walked out of the clinic that day a little dazed.
On the sidewalk, under a pale blue sky, Lisa suddenly grabbed Rosé’s free hand and lifted both their arms.
“Baby’s first sky,” she announced.
Rosé laughed, wiping her eyes. “She cannot see it.”
“Or he,” Jennie said.
YN looked at them. At Rosé holding the little black and white sonogram printout like a holy object. At Jennie already googling prenatal vitamins on her phone. At Lisa bouncing on the balls of her feet as if she might burst with excitement. At Jisoo steady, already mentally color coding schedules for check ups and rest days.
He felt something unclench deep inside him.
They would make it work.
They did more than make it work.
They built a new rhythm.
Schedules were rearranged. Secret meetings were held with labels and managers and PR teams. There were negotiations and compromises and at least one heated argument in a conference room where YN, very calmly, told an executive that if they tried to push Rosé on a world tour in her third trimester he would personally see that every detail leaked to the press.
He did it politely.
Firmly.
The message was received.
The fandom found out in little bursts and then all at once, as they always did. There were think pieces and hashtags and opinion wars. But there were also oceans of congratulatory messages, fan art of tiny jasmine crowned babies, trending tags celebrating “Rosie’s baby” and “Appa YN.”
At home, the baby grew.
So did the house.
—
The room that used to be a rarely used guest room on the second floor became the nursery. Over the span of a month, the white walls turned a soft pale green. A crib was assembled in the middle of the room after a three hour battle with instructions in four languages and Lisa trying to use a screwdriver as a drumstick. A mobile of little stars and clouds hung from the ceiling, each one a different pastel color, chosen half by aesthetics and half by who got to the display first.
Bookshelves appeared, filled with picture books in Korean, English, Thai, and the occasional one in French that Jisoo insisted on because “it sounds pretty, they do not have to understand it yet.”
The jasmine vines outside the nursery window bloomed early that spring, as if in anticipation.
They decided not to know the sex ahead of time.
“Too many opinions,” Jennie said, wrinkling her nose at the thought of everyone projecting pink or blue onto a person not even born yet. “She or he or will tell us when they are ready.”
Instead, they called the little life “Bean.”
Bean kicked for the first time during a quiet evening in the basement studio.
Rosé sat on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, head resting on YN’s thigh while he absentmindedly combed his fingers through her hair. Jennie sprawled on the floor with a notebook, scribbling lines. Lisa and Jisoo were going through a folder of old demo tracks.
Rosé suddenly went still.
“Wait,” she said, eyes going wide.
Everyone looked up.
She pressed a hand to the curve of her stomach, now clearly rounded under her oversized tee.
“Bean?” Lisa asked, already half off the couch.
“There,” Rosé whispered. “Something… moved.”
She grabbed YN’s hand and pressed it to the same spot.
At first he felt nothing.
Then, faint but unmistakable, a little thump against his palm.
Like a knock from the inside.
His breath caught.
“Hello,” he said softly, words aimed at the curve of her belly. “I am your dad. We are a lot. Sorry in advance.”
Lisa laughed, then pressed her own hand in next to his, crowding.
“Let me feel, let me feel.”
Jennie crawled up onto the couch, joining the cluster, her hand layering over his.
Jisoo watched for a moment, expression melting into something that made her look very young and very old at once, then moved closer and rested her fingers on the other side.
The baby kicked again.
Louder this time.
All four women erupted into a hush of delighted sounds. Gasps, soft curses, laughter.
“You feel that?” Rosé asked, tears in her eyes.
“Yes,” YN said.
He had never believed in second chances from the universe.
But the universe, apparently, did not care what he believed.
It gave him one anyway.
When the time finally came, it was in the middle of the night in June.
The jasmine scent was heavy in the air through the open windows, the heat settled and humming. Everyone was home, for once: schedules aligned, flights delayed, a minor miracle of timing.
Rosé shook YN’s shoulder around 3 a.m.
“Hey,” she whispered, too calm, which scared him more than if she had been panicking. “I think it is happening.”
The next hours blurred into a pattern of bright moments.
—
The rush to the hospital, Lisa half dressed and hopping as she tried to get her sneakers on, a duffel bag already packed from weeks before slung over her shoulder. Jennie on the phone with the obstetrician, voice clipped and efficient. Jisoo gathering documents, ID cards, prenatal records with a precision that would have impressed any military officer.
Contractions came and went.
Rosé squeezed hands, cursed in at least three languages, laughed in between, cried once when a wave hit particularly hard and did not break as fast as she wanted.
YN stayed by her side, anchored.
He remembered Min ji’s labor in flashes. The terror of not knowing what to do. The helplessness. The way he had felt like an imposter in the room, a man who had already failed her once being given something precious.
This time, the fear did not leave, but it had company. Confidence built not only on his own growth, but on the presence of the others.
Jennie leaned over Rosé’s head, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth, whispering encouragement in her ear that somehow balanced tough and tender.
Lisa cracked terrible jokes that made the nurses snort and Rosé giggle weakly between contractions.
Jisoo watched the monitors with sharp eyes, ready to press the call button for the nurse the second she sensed anything off.
When the pushing started, the room narrowed.
There was just Rosé’s face. The doctor’s calm instructions. The white of the sheets. The sound of her breath, harsh then suddenly breaking into a raw sound when the force of it all hit.
“You are doing so well,” YN kept saying, though the words felt small compared to what she was really doing. “Almost there, Rosie. I am here. We are all here.”
He could feel Lisa’s hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in. Jennie’s hip pressed against his. Jisoo’s presence at his peripheral vision, steady and grounding.
Then there was a cry.
Not Rosé’s.
High. Thin. Then quickly stronger.
The doctor said, “Here we go,” and in a blink, the little life they had been calling Bean for months was real and loud and furious at being removed from their warm water world.
Everyone froze.
Then everything happened at once.
“Healthy,” the doctor said. “Very vocal. Congratulations. You have a daughter.”
Tears hit YN’s eyes so fast he did not even register them falling.
A daughter.
He saw Rosé’s chest rise and fall, eyes glazed with effort but already tracking the nurses as they moved, checking the baby, suctioning her nose, wrapping her in a small blanket.
Then the nurse was turning, bringing a tiny shaped bundle of white and pink closer.
“Do you want to hold her first?” she asked Rosé.
“Yes,” Rosé whispered. “Please.”
They placed the baby on Rosé’s chest.
The world stopped.
She was so small.
So impossibly, heartbreakingly small.
A little face scrunched up from the insult of being born, fists clenched, a tuft of dark hair plastered damp against her head. Her cries quieted almost instantly when she felt skin and warmth and the familiar thump of the heart she had lived beneath for months.
Rosé sobbed.
Not the pretty kind. The ugly, shaking, whole body kind.
She curled her arms around the baby carefully, shoulders shaking, whispering, “Hi, hi, hi, hi,” over and over.
YN leaned over them, one hand hovering, terrified to touch and desperate to at the same time.
Lisa was openly crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks as she bit her knuckles.
Jennie had a hand over her mouth, eyes huge, breath hiccuping.
Jisoo’s cheeks were wet, her expression soft enough to break something in him.
The nurse looked at him.
“Dad?” she said gently. “You can touch her.”
He did.
His hand, which had once thrown punches in alleyways and gripped whiskey glasses too hard, now brushed one finger along the baby’s cheek.
Her skin was softer than anything he had ever felt.
Her tiny mouth opened, rooting instinctively along Rosé’s chest.
He laughed, choked.
“Hungry,” he said. “Just like her moms.”
Later, when the baby had latched, when the initial flood of adrenaline eased and everyone had had a turn tracing a fingertip along tiny fingers, she lay in a clear plastic bassinet beside the bed, bundled like a little burrito, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks.
“She looks like you,” Lisa told Rosé.
“She looks like him,” Jennie countered, nodding at YN’s nose.
“She looks like a potato,” Jisoo said dryly, but her eyes were shining.
They named her Min seol.
Min for the woman who had planted jasmine vines and taught YN what love could look like. Seol for snow, because she had arrived on a day the weather report had sworn would be clear, bringing her own quiet storm.
The hospital released them after a couple of days.
They brought her home wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, a tiny hat with bunny ears tugged over her head. The ride up the hill in Hannam felt like the most dangerous journey YN had ever taken. He drove at exactly the speed limit, both hands white knuckled on the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every other second to make sure her car seat was still, that her chest was rising and falling.
At the front door, Soo-ah waited.
She had flown back from a research workshop early, suitcase abandoned in the hallway, hair a little messy, expression a mix of excitement and something heavier.
When Lisa carried the car seat over the threshold, Soo ah’s eyes filled instantly.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “She is… tiny.”
The baby made a small unhappy noise, face scrunching.
“That is Bean,” Lisa said proudly, then corrected herself. “I mean Min seol.”
“Can I…?” Soo-ah’s voice was nearly reverent.
Rosé nodded from the couch, exhausted but smiling.
“Wash your hands,” Jennie ordered automatically, sounding exactly like a veteran mom even though this was new to her too.
After half a minute of furious scrubbing at the sink, Soo ah came back, drying her hands on her jeans.
Lisa carefully unbuckled the straps, then lifted Min seol out, the baby’s head supported with exaggerated care, as if she were made of glass.
“Okay, new rule,” Lisa said. “No one is allowed to drop her. Ever. Or I will fight you.”
“No one is dropping her,” YN said, voice rough but amused.
He watched as his daughter, now an adult, took his new daughter, impossibly small, into her arms.
Soo-ah cradled Min seol like she had been waiting to do it her whole life.
The baby blinked, eyes unfocused, mouth making little moue shapes.
“Hi,” Soo-ah whispered. “I am your… I do not know what I am.”
“You can be whatever you want,” Jisoo said. “Sister. Auntie. Chaos coordinator.”
Soo ah laughed, tears spilling freely.
“I am your family,” she corrected softly, pressing her cheek to the top of the baby’s head. “That is enough.”
The house adjusted around the new heartbeat.
—
Days rearranged themselves into cycles of feeding, changing, burping, sleeping.
The big bed upstairs, already crowded before, became a rotating landscape of positions. Some nights it was all five of them and Min seol tucked safely in a bassinet beside the bed. Other nights one or two took shifts so the others could really sleep.
They worked out a system without ever officially sitting down to draft it.
Jennie was best in the brutal early morning hours. She had spent years on insane schedules and could function on little sleep. She would take the baby for the 3 a.m. feeds, padding softly through the hall with a bottle, humming low under her breath.
Lisa was queen of giving Rosé breaks. She would take Min seol for long walks in the baby carrier once the doctor cleared it, narrating the neighborhood to her in a mix of Thai, Korean, and English. “This is the park, Bean. This is the ajusshi who always complains about my music. This is the store that sells your favorite milk.”
Jisoo tracked everything.
She had an app on her phone where she logged feed times, diaper changes, naps. She was the one who leaned over YN’s shoulder in the middle of the night to say, “She has not pooped in eight hours, that is okay, but if we hit twelve we call the doctor.”
Rosé, when she was not half asleep with the baby draped on her chest, wrote songs in her head about the weight of tiny fingers curled into her shirt.
YN discovered he had not forgotten how to change diapers.
He also discovered that doing it at forty nine was a very different back workout than doing it at twenty seven.
“Stretch,” Lisa scolded him once, catching him rubbing the small of his back after a particularly spectacular blowout. “You have to warm up before wipe downs now, ajusshi.”
He tossed a burp cloth at her.
“You wait until you are the one wiping yellow explosions off the wall,” he said.
“Worth it,” she shot back, scooping up Min seol and blowing a raspberry on her belly. The baby responded with a delighted squeal that made everyone in the room stop and grin.
Min seol grew.
She had Rosé’s mouth, a tiny cupid’s bow that already looked made for song. She had YN’s nose, which none of them could deny when she wrinkled it in sleep. Her hair came in dark at first, then lightened a little at the ends in certain lights, a nod to no one and everyone.
At six months, she learned to roll over.
At nine months, she pulled herself up on the coffee table and looked around proudly like she had conquered a mountain.
At eleven months, she took three uncertain, wobbling steps between the couch and YN’s outstretched arms while four phones recorded from four different angles and Lisa cried louder than the baby.
“Proof,” Jennie said smugly later, replaying the videos. “She walked to him first. Daddy’s girl already.”
“She only walked because he was holding a snack,” Jisoo pointed out, but her eyes were soft.
The first time Min seol said “appa,” it was in the middle of the night.
The house was quiet. Rain tapped lightly at the windows. YN sat in the nursery rocking chair, swaying gently, Min seol drowsy against his chest after a feed. He hummed an old song under his breath, one of the ones Min ji had loved, now turned lullaby by use.
Her tiny hand patted his shirt.
“Appa,” she mumbled sleepily, not quite awake.
He froze.
Then smiled so wide his cheeks hurt.
He did not wake anyone.
He just sat there in the dim light, breathing in baby shampoo and jasmine from the open window, and let tears roll warm and grateful down his face.
They did not stop at one child.
Life was good.
Busy. Messy. Loud in a way that made the old silence feel like it had belonged to someone else’s house entirely.
A year and a half after Min seol was born, on a bright afternoon in spring, with the jasmine just beginning to bud, Jennie walked into the kitchen holding another stick with two bold lines.
She did not say anything at first.
She just set it on the kitchen island in front of YN, who was in the middle of chopping vegetables for dinner, and raised an eyebrow.
He stared.
Then looked up.
Her eyes were alight, nervous and fierce.
“You ready to do this again?” she asked. “With me this time?”
He laughed, a little helplessly.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Always yes.”
She did not cry.
Jennie rarely cried where others could see.
Instead she stepped around the island, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him until the knife on the cutting board was the last thing on his mind.
Lisa walked in ten seconds later, saw the test, screamed so loud Min seol, in the living room, started laughing just because everyone else was loud.
This time the conversations with managers were shorter.
The public had already adjusted in their own messy, opinionated way to the idea that Blackpink had a collective domestic life that did not fit the idol mold. Contracts had been renegotiated. Boundaries had been drawn.
“What are they going to do?” Jennie had shrugged. “Tell me I cannot be happy?”
No one tried.
—
Jennie’s pregnancy was different from Rosé’s.
Where Rosé had been a mix of dreamy and anxious, Jennie was laser focused. She read every article she could find. She argued politely with the obstetrician about specific tests and procedures. She organized her schedule with ruthless efficiency, carving out protected blocks of rest no one was allowed to infringe upon.
She trained through her second trimester with care, listening to her body. She sent YN annoyed texts when strangers on the internet commented on her weight gain.
He replied every time with a photo of a heart shaped post it note he stuck somewhere in the house with the words Perfect written on it.
At seven months, late one night, she lay on the couch with her feet in his lap, phone abandoned, both hands cradling her belly.
“It is different when it is me,” she admitted, voice quiet. “I thought I understood when Rosie was pregnant. But feeling it… I get it now. The fear. The… bigness of it.”
He massaged her feet gently, thumbs pressing into familiar knots.
“I know,” he said. “But you also have more tools than we did then. More support. You chose this. That makes a difference.”
She was silent for a while.
Then, almost too soft to hear:
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If I ever start to feel like this is… too much. Like I am drowning. Tell me. Make me talk about it. Do not let me disappear behind being ‘strong.’”
He set her foot down carefully, leaned over, and kissed the smooth curve of her stomach.
“I promise,” he said into her skin.
Their son arrived on a stormy night in October.
Thunder rolled over the hill. Rain lashed against the windows.
In the delivery room, Jennie gripped the rails of the bed, hair plastered to her forehead, eyes blazing between contractions.
“I hate you a little right now,” she hissed at YN at one point, then immediately shook her head. “No, I do not, I love you, I am sorry, do not leave.”
“I am not going anywhere,” he said, voice thick with emotion and something like awe.
Lisa paced.
Rosé stroked Jennie’s hair between pushes, murmuring encouragements.
Jisoo, as always, watched the monitors like they were sacred texts.
When their son’s cries finally split the air, deeper and more indignant than his sister’s had been, Jennie’s face crumpled.
They laid him on her chest.
He was smaller than Min seol had been, but every bit as loud. His hair was even darker, his brows already faintly knit like he had inherited his mother’s seriousness.
“Hey,” she whispered, one hand cupping the back of his tiny head. “Hi, baby. It is me. I am your mom. I am not going to let anything hurt you if I can help it. I am a lot. But I am yours.”
She named him Haneul.
Sky.
She wanted him to know there was always space for him. That even when things felt small and closed in, there was always something wider above.
Home with two babies was a different level of chaos.
The house somehow absorbed it.
Toys multiplied like rabbits. Little shoes lined up next to bigger ones at the door. The living room rug became a rotating stage for block towers, picture books, and impromptu dance performances to children’s songs that Lisa swore were secretly bangers.
Soo-ah, now deep into her postgraduate work, split her time between the lab, the library, and the house.
—
One evening, she stood in the doorway of the living room and watched as Min seol, now three, carefully “read” a picture book to Haneul, who sat beside her on the floor, chubby hands occasionally grabbing at the pages. Rosé sat on the couch nearby, answering Min seol’s questions about the story. Jisoo folded tiny socks into pairs on the coffee table. Lisa and Jennie were in the middle of a very intense debate about which baby carrier design was coolest.
YN walked in from the kitchen with a tray of cut fruit and yogurt cups, set it down, kissed Rosé’s temple in passing, ruffled Haneul’s soft hair, and scooped Min seol up for a spin that made her shriek with laughter.
Soo ah smiled, the expression softer and more settled than in her college days.
The house was louder than it had ever been.
It had never felt more like home.
Years unfolded.
They did not have a third child right away.
Careers shifted. The group officially stepped back from relentless idol activity, moving into a new era where they chose their projects with care. Solos, acting, production work, brand partnerships that aligned with who they were now, not who they had been sold as at nineteen.
They talked, often and honestly, about whether to grow their family more.
“Two is a good number,” Jisoo said once, sipping tea at the kitchen table while Haneul napped and Min seol watched cartoons in the other room. “One for each hand.”
Jennie nodded thoughtfully. “I do not want to stretch us too thin. Emotionally, physically… career wise. But also…” She looked at the stairs where the faint sound of little feet could be heard. “I never thought I would want more than this. And sometimes I look at them and think, how can I not want another.”
Lisa was unequivocal.
“More babies,” she said. “I would carry if we could figure out all the logistics without killing my old injuries. I love them. I want a whole soccer team.”
Rosé laughed, stirring sugar into her tea. “You just want someone to share your terrible taste in cartoons.”
In the end, it was Jisoo who came back from a routine check up one day with a stunned look on her face and a stack of pamphlets in her bag.
They had not been actively trying.
They also had not been avoiding.
Life, apparently, had its own timeline.
She sat them down in the living room, hands folded in her lap.
“I am pregnant,” she said simply.
They all stared.
“You?” Lisa squeaked, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, yes, obviously you, but… you.”
Jisoo’s lips quirked.
“Yes, me,” she said. “The one who was not sure she wanted to do this. The one who thought she was too tired. Joke is on me.”
Her eyes softened.
“Joke is also on me because I am… very happy.”
The third pregnancy threaded itself into the fabric of their now much larger life.
This time, the older kids were old enough to be aware.
Min seol, now five and serious about certain things, took to “helping” Jisoo in small but earnest ways.
She would fetch pillows for her back when they watched movies.
She would carefully place her favorite stuffed bunny on Jisoo’s lap “so the baby is not lonely.”
Haneul, three and a whirl of energy, would randomly pat Jisoo’s belly and announce to anyone listening, “Baby is in there,” like he had discovered something new each time.
“Do you want a brother or a sister?” Lisa asked him once.
“Yes,” he said confidently.
They laughed.
“Fair answer,” YN said, scooping him up under his arms.
They turned one of the extra rooms into another nursery, this time with walls painted a warm soft yellow, tiny glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling by four adults who argued over exact placement for an hour.
—
Labor was shorter this time.
She moved through it with the same calm she brought to everything, but there were moments when her composure cracked and they saw the rawness beneath. She did not hide it.
“Talk to me,” YN said at one point, brushing damp hair from her face.
“I am scared,” she said, voice shaking. “Not of… this. Of after. Of giving too much of myself away again. Of disappearing into a role.”
He took her hand, squeezed.
“We will not let you,” he said. “You have us now. We know you too well.”
She believed him.
When their second daughter slid into the world, crying with a voice that sounded like a high note at the edge of breaking, they all laughed through their tears.
She was named Hana.
Not because she was first – she was third – but because she was, in some ways, the beginning of a new chapter. Also because she had been conceived after a night of too much soju and karaoke where they had butchered some old one hit wonder with that word in the chorus until they cried laughing.
Hana grew up in a house full of music, jasmine and noise.
By the time she was old enough to walk, the jasmine vines had been trimmed back and trained into a sort of canopy over the back patio, flowers spilling down in the spring like a curtain.
Three small figures could often be seen playing underneath.
Min seol, eight, long legs already giving hints of future stage presence, practicing little dances while humming half finished songs.
Haneul, six, more introspective, sitting cross legged with building blocks, constructing elaborate structures that he knocked down with equal enthusiasm.
Hana, two, toddling after them, hair in tiny pigtails, a determination in her steps that made everyone joke she was the secret boss.
On one such afternoon, YN sat on the steps leading down to the lawn, watching them.
Beside him, Jennie leaned her head on his shoulder, sunglasses perched on her nose, a coffee in hand.
Lisa lounged on the grass, scrolling through her phone, occasionally calling out, “No, no, Seolie, like this,” and demonstrating a ridiculous move that made Hana clap and try to copy.
Rosé sat cross legged close by, guitar in her lap, fingers moving lazily over the strings as she worked out a lullaby for Hana she pretended was just a melody.
Jisoo came out from the kitchen, two cups of tea in her hands, and handed one to YN before sitting on his other side.
They were older now.
You could see it in the faint lines around their eyes, in the way they sighed when they sat down after a long day.
But you could also see it in their ease.
In the way they reached for each other without thinking.
In the way their shoulders fit together like puzzle pieces that had found their correct positions.
“You know,” Jennie said, watching Min seol twirl, “if she ever wants to be on stage, we are in so much trouble.”
“She will have four stage moms,” Lisa agreed. “I will be the cool one though.”
“You will be the one crying in the front row with glitter all over your face,” Rosé said absently, still picking at the guitar.
“Yes,” Lisa said proudly.
Jisoo smiled into her tea.
“And Haneul will direct music videos for all of them,” she predicted. “He has that look.”
“He has your focus,” YN said.
“And your seriousness,” Jennie added.
“And Rosie’s stubbornness,” Lisa threw in.
“And Soo ah’s brain,” Rosé said.
They all went quiet for a second, realizing the truth of that.
Soo-ah visited often, even though her work now took her abroad for months at a time, part of a research team that hopped between universities and field sites. She always came home with small gifts from wherever she had been. A tiny wooden toy from Switzerland. A snow globe from Canada. Stickers from Tokyo.
On one of those trips home, she sat with YN on the balcony off the bedroom, mugs of tea warming their hands, the muffled sounds of the kids downstairs drifting up through the open windows.
“How is it,” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, “being the patriarch of this circus?”
He laughed.
“Tiring,” he admitted. “Loud. Messy. Perfect.”
She smiled.
“I used to be scared,” she said. “When I was a teenager. That you would be alone when I left. That I would start my own life somewhere else and you would just… fade into the background of your own.”
He turned to look at her.
“What changed?” he asked.
She nodded toward the yard, where through the branches of the jasmine trellis they could see four women and three kids in varying degrees of motion and noise.
“I realized you built something so big and full it could never fade,” she said simply. “Even when we are all gone at work or on tour or whatever, the echo of us will still be in these walls.”
He swallowed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For… all of it. For bringing them. For… giving me permission to be happy again.”
She shrugged, a little embarrassed.
“Thank them,” she said. “They did most of the work. I just opened the door.”
He did, in little ways.
Thanked them by making sure the fridge was always stocked with their favorites. By learning how to braid hair three different ways because no stylist was allowed near his daughters’ heads with too much product. By staying up late in the studio with Haneul when he got older and wanted to experiment with beats. By listening to Min seol’s first shaky guitar chords as if he were at a stadium concert. By carrying Hana up the stairs when she fell asleep in the middle of a movie night, her head on his chest, small arms around his neck.
The years put more silver in his hair.
Lines deepened around his eyes, carved there now as much by laughter as by old sorrow.
The girls changed too.
They were not girls anymore.
They were women.
Mothers. Artists. Partners. Sometimes tired. Sometimes radiant. Sometimes both at once.
They had bad days.
Fights. Misunderstandings. Slammed doors.
There were nights when someone slept in the guest room to have space.
There were mornings when they all spoke in clipped tones until coffee and apologies smoothed things out.
But the house, the family, bent.
It did not break.
—
One late summer evening, years after that first chaotic group dinner all together, the house was quiet in a way it had not been for a while.
The kids were at Soo ah’s apartment for a sleepover, a treat they had demanded with the seriousness of a board meeting.
“We will build a fort and eat sweets and you are not invited,” Hana had told them solemnly, pointing at each adult in turn.
“Traitor,” Lisa had said, but kissed her cheek three times at the door anyway.
So now it was just the five of them.
Empty house.
No schedules.
No baby monitor on the nightstand.
They sat in the backyard under the jasmine trellis, which was now thick and lush, white blossoms glowing in the dusk.
A bottle of wine sat open on the table. Glasses half full.
The air was warm, the kind of heavy that made everything feel slowed down, softened.
“You realize,” Jennie said, stretching her legs out and wiggling her toes, “we did it.”
“Do not jinx it,” Lisa said immediately. “There is still time for someone to set something on fire.”
“Lisa,” Jisoo said.
“I meant metaphorically,” she defended. Then paused. “Mostly.”
Rosé tilted her head back, looking up through the jasmine at the darkening sky.
“We did not follow any rules,” she said. “And somehow… it worked.”
“No,” YN said quietly. “We followed the ones that mattered. Talk when it hurts. Listen. Apologize for real. Stay. Those rules work anywhere.”
Rosé smiled, eyes shining in the low light.
“That too,” she agreed.
He looked at them.
At the way the light caught on Jennie’s profile, softer than the girl who had once hidden behind sunglasses and sarcasm. At Lisa’s hands, calloused from dance and baby lifting and building kids’ furniture. At Jisoo’s eyes, more peaceful now, the old constant tension eased. At Rosé’s hair, a little shorter than before, falling over her shoulder as she laughed.
They looked back.
He realized, suddenly, that he was not thinking about his past mistakes.
He was not waiting for the universe to punish him.
He was here.
Present.
Loved.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low. The same words he had said into the dark that first wedding night, now worn in by use. “For this life. For our kids. For… putting up with me.”
“Always so dramatic,” Jennie said, but there was affection in every syllable. She reached over and took his hand, lacing their fingers.
Lisa leaned her head on his other shoulder, hair tickling his neck.
“You put up with us too,” she said. “We are a handful.”
“A sexy handful,” Rosé added.
“Four,” Jisoo corrected. “Sexy handfuls. And three small ones. Seven handfuls.”
He laughed, head tipping back.
For a moment he saw it all at once.
The house as it had been. As it was. As it would be.
He saw the jasmine vines climbing and being cut back, blooming and resting in cycles.
He saw little shoes growing bigger, then being replaced with bigger ones again.
He saw the downstairs walls with scuff marks at exactly the heights of his kids as they grew.
He saw old tour posters fading slightly from the sunlight.
He saw himself at sixty, perhaps, sitting in the same spot under the same trellis, watching teenagers crash through the backyard in a swirl of limbs and laughter, some of them carrying echoes of the four women beside him in their faces.
He did not know exactly what would come.
But he knew this.
Whatever it was, they would face it together.
He squeezed their hands.
“Come on,” he said softly after a while. “The house is too quiet. Let us go make a little noise before the kids come back and show us how it is really done.”
They went inside, laughter floating ahead of them through the open door.
The jasmine swayed in the night breeze.
One man.
Four women.
Three kids.
One home.
The house on the hill in Hannam dong still smelled faintly of jasmine some nights.
Now, it also smelled of crayons, spilled juice, coffee, warm rice, and the particular scent of shampoo left in small damp footprints down the hall.
1.3k boner fueled haze with sideward philosophical considerations.
a/n: This might be the dirtiest thing I've ever written lmaoooo, randomly wanted to write today. Also, I decided the mechanics of typing quotation marks is just annoying... let me know if it's too hard to read. It's so much easier for me if I can write like this T-T
-
Daddy, she mewls.
Hands in your lap.
There's no sympathy for her. You're in this cramped bathroom with her, your groin pushed up to her face, and all she can say is: Daddy.
Open your mouth
Through the small opening in her mouth, you slot in a finger, trace the lower lip and upper lip - gather spit from the tip of her tongue to glaze her lips.
Wider. You say.
She's just sitting there, rubbing her thighs together - like she isn't so fucked and slippery in her underwear that just a small touch could make her cum - that you pressing a finger into her mouth - letting her throat close around that digit - wouldn't make her burst into decibels and let the whole town know that you - her dependable assistant - is fucking her dumb.
She's doing this to prove that she's listening - that she can be... good. Her own idea of being better for you - this twisted idea.
She's staring at how you unbutton your pants. Button by button, all the way until your cock's out half-mast diagonal to her face and she's fucking drooling. Slowly moving forward and you pin her head to the wall of the bathroom stall.
How do you want this dick?
Like how you fucked her.
And this 'her' is the mystical idea - Sohyun thinks you fucked that other girl so much better than you fucked Sohyun. That in her twisted world, the way you fucked Sohyun wasn't the same as that girl.
And you keep telling her:
You think I'm not enjoying every moment with you? That day, we fucked like lovers. You cup her cheeks with one hand and her glazed lips point out duck-like. I'll show you what I like.
You bundle two fingers - index and ring - down her mouth, until her throat closes and she half-gags. Eyes fill with these tears and she tries to straighten herself. All the while, your fingers are still down there, and it makes it hard for her breathe but -
She's fucking climaxing, barely keeping her hands on her lap. A breathless moan escapes her and you take this opportunity to let your fingers in deeper. Her chest jerks, a tear goes down her left cheek as your knuckles bump her teeth.
Roughly: good girl.
White-knuckled against her spit-trickled dress shirt that won her millions in lawsuits. Just then, you pull your fingers out, and she finally gets to swallow down.
There's this unscrupulous contradiction you keep thinking about: you read about the dadaists and about how they contradict everything they see and you thought: what a bunch of fucking clowns. About how the world's at peace and the dadaists would actually want war rather than peace and all of it was so incorrigible - so unfathomable. Until you met Sohyun, this trailblazing lawyer in need of an assistant who would do her grunt work. The internship experience seemed great and all but the days were hell. An attitude that betrayed her beauty (or supported it). By the 3rd week you were telling your parents that you'd rather become a line cook than anything ambitious, anything that could take them out of suburban mortgage hell. Then the day after that you came inside her and everything crumpled.
Your spit-slick fingers wrapped around your cock and you fisted it gently, just inches away from her mouth. She couldn't help but move forward, but you pin her head again and she's completely mindless - obeying any mechanic of hers that'll grant her a feather of stimulus.
You tap your cock against her tongue. You could see the way her lips twitched to close, but she seemed to contextualize enough context to know that anything that you didn't allow would be swiftly punished. And maybe now everything was dawning on her:
That you enjoyed sex with her rather than the opposite - that sex may not be just about desperation and grisly bounces and broken penises (oh the horror!) and hoarse-broken throats. That it's supposed to be as intimate as the day you came inside her.
Because this? This was heady, broken, and embarrassing - and all of it was happening in her own office bathroom that she shares with subordinates. One mistake and she's kicked off the ladder.
And yet:
I want all of it. I want it. I want it.
You could see how her cloudy eyes mechanized - she was about to cum again - you let your tip on her tongue and she's already around the cycle again. You press the heft of your shaft into her mouth and push in gently. Push in gently because she already came, push in gently because you want to savor - for a few moments longer - how she crumples under you.
You're gentle with it, letting her set the pace, letting her get breaths between strokes. She anchors herself, and this control you give her makes her shiver - even the way her throat clenches when she goes too deep has that particular tremor.
She pulls back to breathe, a strand of saliva still connects your tip and her lower lip. And she's staring at the corded red-tipped shaft, speechless.
Stand up
She does, her skirt crumpled just a way's up. She's expectant, wanting something. But this wasn't a day for her wants.
You grab the waistbands of her panties and nylon, pull it down midway and her pussy's just glistening - all-pink, heady, musky, almost pulsing.
Hold your skirt up
And she does, further surrendering to your hand around her throat. And everything was a bit clearer:
You began fisting your spit-slick cock again, pointed down to her panties. Another embarrassing and heady position she can't seem to get enough of: Her eyes are full of will-you's and wants that she can't act on. You press a thumb over her pulse - grunting more hunch-backed trying to not spray your cum too early - and you tighten, tighten until she grips your forearms and loses her breath for just a second - then you release. There's this rush of inhales and exhales as she catches some air and you repeat it - until, just until, you press harder than you've done before and you cum all over her panties. Cloudy liquid dotting her skirt, the floor, the nylon , the front of her pussy, and all over the panties.
Fuck.
Is all she says, can say. You pin her jaw to the side so that she can't look at you, only the door, the cruel door that may open for a coworker - and you jolt closer, scooping a bit of your cum and letting two fingers enter her just then. And she's already climaxing, screaming in her own hand.
This is what happens when I do what I want.
Your nose is buried into her exposed throat and your fingers throttling her pussy. your callused hand scraping the hood of her clit, your hooked finger rubbing that spot that makes her legs splinter half-way. You take your fingers out and mash the front of her pussy with the heel of your palm before going into her again. She's rolling with how your cum-slicked fingers penetrate her.
Her body finally gives out and that's when you hug her, your fingers still slotted into her.
In truth, I can't fuck you the way I fucked her - whatever mystical conception of you have of her. Your fingers finally slow their rolls. I want to enjoy my time with you, not treat you like trash.
And her reply, as best as it could be presented: a wet kiss, hands wrapped around you, grasping the hair behind your head.
Her kiss fluttered gently as you finally let her have one final climax.
I love you.
a/n: let me know if yall want the au I came up with that sets the background of this story lmao.
Seulgi's eyes dart from Irene's cum-drenched face to your spent cock, still glistening with lube. Her cheeks flush a deep pink, but she doesn't look away. If anything, her gaze lingers, tracing the sticky trails on Irene's skin, the way a fresh drop slides from her leader's chin and lands on the floor.
Irene doesn't move. She stays kneeling, still somehow radiating confidence, even with her face painted like a masterpiece of cum. Slowly, she turns her head toward Seulgi, her expression calm, almost amused. A strand of cum clings to her eyelash, but she doesn't blink it away. Instead, she licks her lips, tasting the salty evidence of your climax, and smiles.
"Seulgi-yah, close the door."
Seulgi hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. Her bodysuit clings to her, clearly showing her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breaths. The unbuttoned pants hang loose around her hips with the thin straps of her panties clearly visible. She looks like she was about to change into some different clothes.
"I... I didn't mean to interrupt."
Seulgi stammers, but her feet don't move. Her eyes flick back to you, then to Irene again. There's shock there, yes, but also something else. Curiosity? Envy? Heat?
Irene tilts her head slightly, cum dripping from her jaw onto her dress, staining the pristine white fabric.
"You're not interrupting. You're joining."
Your heart stutters. Joining? You glance at Irene, still catching your breath, your cock twitching weakly at the implication. You knew when Irene suggested this meeting it’d be about making you cum. What you didn’t expect was her inviting Seulgi as well.
The younger woman’s eyes widen, but she steps inside, pushing the door shut behind her with a quiet click. The room feels smaller now. She leans against the door, arms crossing over her chest as if she’s hesitant, but it only pushes her breasts up further, drawing your gaze despite everything.
“Unnie, what... what is this?"
Irene rises slowly to her feet, graceful even in her messy state. She doesn't wipe her face, doesn't even acknowledge the cum cooling on her skin. Instead, she steps toward Seulgi, her heels clicking softly on the floor.
"This,…"
She says, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Seulgi's ear.
"Is what happens when a good boy finally cums."
Seulgi swallows hard, her gaze dropping to Irene's stained dress, then back up.
"Was that a problem before?"
She asks, her voice a little higher. As if she’s curious to why Irene had to make you cum.
Irene glances over her shoulder at you, her smile widening.
"He's had a little bit of trouble at first. But look at him now. Empty. Drained. All because of me."
She turns back to Seulgi, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper.
"Don't you want a taste, Seulgi-yah? You've been so good lately. Practicing extra hours, helping with the choreo... You deserve a reward."
Your pulse races. Seulgi's cheeks burn redder, but she doesn't pull away when Irene leans in closer, their faces inches apart. Irene's cum-smeared cheek brushes against Seulgi's clean one, leaving a faint streak. Seulgi gasps softly, but her eyes flutter half-closed.
"I... I don't know."
Seulgi murmurs, but her body betrays her. Her hips shift. Her thighs press together. She's tempted. You can see it in the way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she's fighting the urge to touch.
Irene chuckles, then steps back, gesturing toward you.
"Come here."
She commands Seulgi, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"Kneel with me."
Seulgi hesitates for one more beat, her eyes finally meeting yours. There's a spark there. Nervous, excited, hungry. Then she moves, crossing the room with tentative steps until she's beside Irene, lowering herself to her knees. Now there are two of them before you: Irene, messy and triumphant, Seulgi, pristine and eager, her bodysuit hugging every curve.
Irene reaches over, her hand sliding to the back of Seulgi's neck, guiding her forward.
"Taste him. From me."
Seulgi leans in, her tongue darting out carefully to lick a trail of cum from Irene's cheek. The older woman hums in approval. Her free hand reaches for your cock again, stroking lazily as if to coax it back to life. You groan, oversensitive but already stirring under her touch.
"Good girl."
Irene praises, her eyes locked on yours.
"Now, let's see if he’s good for another load."
Seulgi moans softly against Irene's skin, licking another streak clean, her confidence growing with each pass. Her hand joins Irene's on your shaft, their fingers intertwining in a slick, coordinated rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming. Two hands, two mouths inches away. You lean back in the chair, watching them, your body igniting again despite the exhaustion. NNN is over for you, shattered in the best way possible. But as Irene and Seulgi work you over, you can't help but wonder: How will you explain this to Karina? Or... should you even try?
The thought fades as Seulgi's lips brush your tip, tentative at first, then bolder. Irene watches, smiling wickedly.
"That's it."
She coos.
"Make him hard again. We have all afternoon."
Seulgi's tongue flicks out again, bolder this time, lapping another thick stripe of your cum from Irene's cheek. The older woman hums approvingly, her fingers still loosely curled around the base of your cock, keeping it angled toward their mouths. Seulgi's lips close around the streak she just collected, sucking it clean with a soft, wet sound that sends a fresh jolt straight to your groin.
You twitch in Irene's grip. She notices. Her dark eyes flick up to meet yours, lips curling into a knowing smile. A fresh bead of your cum clings to her lower lip. She drags her tongue across it slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"Look at that. Not even two minutes and he's already waking up again."
Seulgi pulls back just enough to glance at your cock, now thickening noticeably between Irene's fingers, and lets out a soft, surprised laugh that vibrates against Irene's skin.
"Unnie… he's really sensitive right now."
"Of course he is."
Irene replies, strokes you once, lazily, spreading the leftover lube and the slick remnants of your orgasm.
"He just came on my face.”
Your hips jerk involuntarily. The oversensitivity is almost painful, but you feel yourself getting closer to enjoying it again. You can already feel that familiar coil tightening low in your stomach again. Your cock starts pulsing hard against Irene's palm like it forgot it just emptied everything it had.
Seulgi leans in closer, hesitant at first, then braver. Her tongue darts out and traces the underside of your shaft, right where Irene's fingers are wrapped. The dual sensation - Irene's firm grip and Seulgi's warm, tentative licks - makes your breath hitch audibly.
"Fuck."
You mutter, head falling back against the chair.
Irene chuckles darkly.
"See? Told you he has more for us."
Seulgi's eyes lift to yours for a heartbeat, before she opens her mouth and takes the head between her lips. Just the tip. Soft suction. No bobbing yet. Just holding you there, letting her tongue swirl lazily around the sensitive ridge while Irene keeps that slow, steady stroke at the base.
The sight alone is almost enough to finish you.
Irene, still fully dressed in that now ruined white dress, face absolutely painted with thick ropes of your cum, some of it drying in sticky trails down her neck, some still glistening wet, kneeling beside Seulgi, guiding your cock like she’s feeding it to her.
Seulgi, black bodysuit clinging to her body, pants still unbuttoned and sagging low on her hips, exposing the thin straps of her panties, lips stretched prettily around your tip, cheeks hollowing as she starts to suck in earnest.
Your hands fist the arms of the chair so hard your knuckles blanch. You can feel something building already. That tight, electric pressure behind your balls, the kind that says you're on your way toward another orgasm already. You force a ragged breath through your teeth.
"Wait-fuck-I'm… I'm already-"
Irene's free hand slides up your thigh, nails digging in just enough to keep you from focusing on the pleasure.
"Shhh. Hold it."
Seulgi hums around your cock in agreement. The vibration rips another groan out of you. She pulls off for a moment, then immediately dives back down, taking you deeper this time. Halfway. Her tongue flattens against the underside as she starts a slow, sinful bob. Irene leans in beside her. Their cheeks brush - Seulgi's clean skin against Irene's cum-streaked one - and then Irene's tongue joins in, licking along the side of your shaft wherever Seulgi's mouth isn't covering. They move in perfect tandem, like they've done this before, trading places seamlessly: Seulgi sucking the head while Irene laps at the base, then switching so Irene can take you deep into her throat while Seulgi tongues your balls.
Your hips buck once, twice, before you force them still. Every muscle in your body locks tight, fighting the rising tide. You can feel your cock swelling impossibly harder in their mouths, leaking steadily now, pre-cum mixing with their spit and the drying remnants of your last load. Irene pulls back just long enough to speak against your slick skin.
"You're doing so well."
She praises, voice dripping with mock sweetness.
"Look how hard you're trying not to cum again already. Cute."
Seulgi giggles softly, the sound muffled around your length, before she takes you even deeper, nose brushing Irene's cum-streaked cheek.
You groan louder.
"Not yet."
Irene whispers, licking a slow stripe up the side of your cock until her tongue meets Seulgi's at the tip. They kiss around you, open-mouthed, filthy, tongues sliding together over your leaking slit, before diving back down in unison.
Two sets of lips. Two tongues swirling. Irene's hand pumping what their mouths can't reach. Your vision blurs at the edges. The pressure is unbearable now, coiling so tight it hurts. You can feel every individual pulse, every throb, every fresh bead of pre-cum they eagerly lap away.
But beneath the overwhelming need to explode again, something else flickers to life. Excitement. Raw, greedy excitement. Because if you can just hold on a little longer… If you can survive this dual assault without painting their faces a second time right now… Then maybe, maybe, you'll get to fuck both of them. The thought alone makes your cock jump violently between their lips.
Irene feels it. Seulgi moans around you in response. They don't let up. They just keep sucking.
You swallow hard, voice rough and barely above a whisper.
“Can I… fuck her?”
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Seulgi freezes mid-lick, lips still wrapped loosely around your tip. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, wide, glassy, cheeks flaming red even through the flush of arousal. She doesn’t pull off right away. Instead, she gives one last slow, heavy suck before letting you slip free with a wet pop. A thin string of saliva clings between her lower lip and your cock before it snaps.
She looks embarrassed. Needy. Almost shy. Irene’s grin is dangerous. She leans back on her heels, still kneeling, face glistening with the drying evidence of your first orgasm, and lets out a low, pleased hum.
“Because you painted my face so prettily.”
She drags a fingertip through a thick streak on her cheek and brings it to her lips.
“You’re allowed.”
Seulgi’s breath hitches audibly. She glances between you and Irene, biting her bottom lip hard enough to leave a small indent.
Then, voice small but trembling with heat, she asks:
“Do you… want to bend me over?”
You nod so fast like never before.
Seulgi exhales shakily, a tiny, nervous laugh escaping her. She rises to her feet and turns toward the wide table in the center of the room. Without another word she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her already unbuttoned black pants and shimmies them down her long legs, kicking them aside carelessly. The thin straps of her black thong ride high on her hips, framing the perfect curve of her ass. She glances back at you once, lust glistening in her eyes, then bends forward, planting both palms flat on the table. Slowly, she lowers her upper body until her chest and forearms are pressed against the cool surface, back arched, ass presented high. The deep side cutouts of her bodysuit expose the smooth dip of her waist. The fabric stretches taut across her ass, outlining the perfect heart shape.
Irene moves first. She steps up beside Seulgi, elegant even with cum still streaking her face and neck and reaches for the row of small press-studs running vertically down the front of Seulgi’s bodysuit, right above her mound. One by one she pops them open with practiced ease - snap, snap, snap - until the fabric parts like curtains.
The material snaps back to either side, revealing Seulgi completely. No panties underneath the bodysuit after all. Just smooth, bare skin and a glistening, swollen pussy already slick with arousal. Her folds are puffy, clit peeking out, inner thighs shining faintly.
Seulgi whimpers softly at the sudden exposure, hips shifting like she can’t decide whether to hide or push back.
Irene doesn’t give her the chance to second-guess.
She places both hands on Seulgi’s ass and spreads her cheeks apart, opening her wide for you.
“Look at her.”
Irene purrs, voice thick with satisfaction.
“So wet already. Practically dripping for you.”
Seulgi’s face is turned to the side, cheek pressed to the table, eyes squeezed shut in mortified pleasure. A fresh shiver runs through her entire body. Irene glances back at you over her shoulder, eyes glittering.
“You can be as rough with her as you want.”
She says calmly, like she’s granting permission for something as simple as borrowing a pen.
“She likes it. Don’t you, Seulgi-yah?”
A muffled, desperate whine is Seulgi’s only answer.
You push off the chair on unsteady legs, cock so hard it almost hurts. The tip is still slick with their combined spit. You step up behind Seulgi, drinking in the sight. Her long legs trembling slightly, back arched to perfection, Irene’s fingers keeping her spread open, pretty pink pussy clenching around nothing.
You wrap one hand around the base of your cock and guide the head to her entrance. The moment you nudge against her, Seulgi gasps and instinctively pushes back, trying to take you inside. You freeze with your tip just barely kissing Seulgi’s slick entrance, the heat of her pussy radiating against you, tempting you to sink in deep.
Irene’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Wait. That’s the wrong hole.”
Your brain short-circuits for a second.
Seulgi’s entire body jolts beneath you. Her back arches higher, a startled little whimper escaping her lips. She tries to twist her head around to look at Irene, cheek still pressed to the table, eyes wide and glassy with confusion and sudden heat.
“Unnie…?”
Seulgi’s voice trembles.
Irene doesn’t let go of Seulgi’s ass cheeks. If anything, her fingers dig in a fraction deeper, keeping her spread wide and vulnerable. She tilts her head toward the small bottle of lube still sitting on the edge of the table. The same one she’d used on you earlier. Her cum-streaked face is perfectly composed, lips curved in that serene, wicked smile.
“You heard me.”
Seulgi lets out a shaky exhale that’s half moan, half nervous laugh. Her thighs quiver. You can see the fine tremor running through them.
You reach for the bottle without thinking. The cap is still open. You tip it over your cock and cool, thick liquid spills down the shaft in a generous stream, dripping over your length and onto Seulgi’s exposed skin below. You coat yourself thoroughly, stroking once, twice, until you’re gleaming again.
Then you shift. You drag the slick head upward, tracing the tight little pucker of her asshole. Seulgi sucks in a sharp breath. Her whole body tenses, then melts just as quickly, hips tilting back instinctively even as her fingers curl against the table.
“Jin-wol…”
She whispers, voice cracking with a mix of nerves and raw need.
“Go slow first… please?”
Her plea is so soft it almost breaks you. Irene catches your eye over Seulgi’s arched back. She winks. The message is crystal clear.
“Do whatever you want.”
Her fingers tighten, spreading Seulgi even wider, exposing that tight ring completely. You press forward. The head of your cock meets firm resistance at first. Seulgi gasps, her rim fluttering against you like it’s trying to decide whether to push you out or pull you in. You pause, letting her adjust, letting the lube do its work. You can feel every tiny twitch, every nervous clench.
“Relax for him, baby.”
Irene murmurs, stroking one thumb soothingly along the curve of Seulgi’s ass.
“Breathe.”
Seulgi exhales shakily. You feel her try - feel the moment her body softens just enough.
You push again. The head pops past the first tight ring with a slick, satisfying sound. Seulgi cries out, her voice edged with pleasure. Her back bows higher, knuckles whitening against the table.
“Oh-fuck-”
You stop immediately, buried only an inch or two inside her. Her walls are scorching, impossibly tight, gripping you like a vice. Every heartbeat pulses around your cock. Irene leans down, pressing a soft, filthy kiss to the small of Seulgi’s back.
“Good girl. Look at you taking him so well already.”
Seulgi whimpers, face buried against her forearm now. Her hips twitch, tiny, helpless rocks that push her back onto you another fraction. You groan. The sight alone is devastating. Seulgi bent over the table, ass high, bodysuit snapped open, Irene’s cum still drying on her perfect face while she holds Seulgi open for you like a gift.
You give one shallow thrust, barely moving, and Seulgi moans brokenly.
“More…”
She gasps.
“Please… more…”
Irene chuckles.
“You heard her.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You sink in another inch, then another, slow and relentless, until your hips are flush against her ass and you’re buried to the hilt inside her impossibly tight heat. Seulgi’s entire body shudders. A long, trembling whine spills from her throat. You grip Seulgi's hips tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh where her bodysuit meets bare skin, and pull back slowly, feeling every ridge and clench of her impossibly tight ass as you withdraw halfway. The lube makes the slide slick and obscene, a wet schlick echoing in the quiet room with each inch. Seulgi whimpers beneath you, her knuckles white against the table, back arched so perfectly it's like she's offering herself up on a platter. Irene's hands are still there, spreading her wide, thumbs pressing into the plump curves of Seulgi's cheeks to keep her open for your view.
"Deeper."
Irene murmurs, her cum-streaked face hovering close enough that you can feel her breath on your skin.
"Make her feel it."
You snap forward again - harder this time - and Seulgi's cry is muffled against the wood, her body jolting with the impact. Her ass squeezes around you like a vice, hot and unrelenting, every thrust dragging fresh moans from her throat. You build a rhythm. Slow out, brutal in, each one bottoming out with a slap of skin on skin that makes her tremble. Seulgi's legs shake, her thighs flexing as she pushes back to meet you halfway.
"-fuck-yes, like that."
Her voice breaks into a whine when you grind deep, rolling your hips to stir inside her. The tightness is overwhelming. After weeks of denial, every sensation feels amplified. Your cock throbs with the need to claim her completely.
Irene watches, her dark eyes flicking between your face and where you're buried inside Seulgi. Then, without warning, she lifts one hand and brings it down – smack - a sharp slap against Seulgi's right cheek. The flesh jiggles under the impact, a pink handprint blooming almost immediately. Seulgi yelps, her ass clenching harder around you mid-thrust.
"Unnie!"
"Good girl."
Irene purrs again, rubbing the spot soothingly before slapping again – smack - this time on the left. Seulgi's moan is louder, more desperate, her body arching higher as if begging for more. Irene alternates now. A slap every few thrusts, timing them perfectly so that each one makes Seulgi’s hole tighten around you like she's trying to milk your cock. You groan, pace quickening. The added sting seems to drive Seulgi wild. She's babbling now, incoherent pleas spilling from her lips
"Harder, please-don't stop-"
Her pussy is dripping untouched below, slick trailing down her thighs.
After a particularly deep thrust, you pull out halfway again, watching the way her rim grips you, stretched and flushed. Irene leans in closer, pursing her lips. She gathers saliva in her mouth, before tilting her head and letting it dribble down in a thick, glistening string right onto your exposed shaft. The warm spit mixes with the lube, making everything even slicker as you push back in. Seulgi shudders violently.
"Oh god-"
A broken moan escapes her as you fill her again. Irene does it twice more over the next few minutes. Gathering, dribbling, her own cum-dried face inches from the action, like she's blessing the filthy union. You're lost in it - the heat, the tightness, the way Seulgi's ass bounces with every slam, Irene's slaps punctuating the rhythm like a metronome. Sweat beads on Seulgi's back, her bodysuit clinging damply, and you can feel your own high building again, that familiar coil tightening low in your gut.
But Irene shifts suddenly, her free hand trailing up Seulgi's spine.
"This is getting boring."
She says casually, as if commenting on the weather, even as her other hand delivers another sharp smack to Seulgi's ass.
"Switch it up. Fuck her pussy for a bit, then back to her ass. Keep her guessing."
Seulgi whimpers in protest - or anticipation? - but you don't hesitate. You pull out fully, Seulgi's hole winking at the sudden emptiness. Her pussy is right there below, swollen and dripping, clenching needily. You align quickly and thrust in, deep, easy, her slick walls welcoming you like velvet.
"Fuck-yes!"
Seulgi cries, pushing back hard. Her pussy is looser than her ass but no less hot, juices coating your cock immediately as you pound into her. The change in sensation is dizzying. From tight resistance to wet, fluttering embrace. You fuck her like this for a dozen strokes, hard and fast, her moans rising in pitch. Then you switch, pulling out and sliding right back into her ass without warning. Seulgi's back bows, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat.
"Too much-"
But she doesn't stop you. If anything, she grinds back, chasing the fullness.
You alternate now: five thrusts in her pussy, then three in her ass, then back. The lube and her arousal mix into a filthy slurry that drips down her thighs. Irene keeps her spread, slapping occasionally, her eyes gleaming with approval.
Every few switches, Irene intervenes more directly. You pull out of Seulgi's pussy, cock gleaming with her juices, and before you can realign, Irene lowers her head. Her mouth engulfs you, cleaning you off in one deep bob. She hums around you, tasting Seulgi on your skin, her tongue swirling to lap up every drop.
"Delicious."
She murmurs against your tip before pulling off, guiding you back to Seulgi's ass.
"Now fuck her harder."
You do. Thrust after thrust, switching holes seamlessly now. Her pussy is slick and forgiving, her is ass tight and demanding. Seulgi's a mess. Sobbing into the table, hips bucking wildly, her bodysuit rumpled and stained with sweat and lube. Irene spits again during one pull-out, the dribble landing perfectly where you need it, then slaps Seulgi's cheek hard enough to make her clench mid-thrust.
"Such a good little slut for you. Aren't you, Seulgi-yah?"
"Yes-unnie-please don't stop-"
You switch again. Out of her ass, into her pussy, slamming deep. Irene leans down once more, sucking you clean mid-switch, her lips stretching around your girth. She pulls off, a string of saliva and Seulgi's arousal connecting her mouth to your cock, before nodding you back in.
The pattern drags on. Thrust, slap, spit, suck, switch. Your stamina is getting pushed to the limit after your earlier release, but the sheer filth of it keeps you going. Seulgi's moans turn to wails, her body shaking uncontrollably, pussy and ass both fluttering wildly around you. Irene's face, still painted with your cum, hovers close, directing the scene.
You feel Seulgi tightening. Her orgasm is building. You chase it, switching faster now. Ass, pussy, ass, each hole getting only a few thrusts before the next. Irene slaps harder, spits thicker strings, sucks deeper during the cleanses.
Seulgi breaks first.
"I'm-cuming-fuck!"
She screams, body convulsing as her pussy gushes around you mid-thrust. You switch to her ass one last time, pounding through her climax, feeling her clench and pulse in waves that nearly drag you over the edge with her.
Irene laughs, now rubbing Seulgi's clit furiously.
"That's it. Cum for him. Squeeze that cock."
Seulgi slumps against the table, spent but still trembling, as you slow your pace, savoring the aftershocks. She's a beautiful wreck, face flushed, bodysuit disheveled and snapped open at the crotch, ass still slightly pink from Irene's slaps, her holes glistening with a mix of lube, spit, and her own arousal. She whimpers softly, forehead pressed to the cool surface, thighs quivering like she might collapse if you weren't still buried halfway inside her ass, holding her in place. You slow to a stop, cock throbbing angrily inside her, so close to the edge again that every tiny clench from her feels like torture. Sweat drips down your back, your muscles burning from the relentless pace, but the high is intoxicating. You pull out inch by inch, watching her rim flutter and grip at you until you're free with a wet, filthy pop. Seulgi gasps at the emptiness, her body slumping further as she recovers, mumbling incoherently into the table.
Irene doesn't waste a second. She releases Seulgi's cheeks at last, the flesh jiggling back into place with faint red marks from her grip. Then, with that same graceful, predatory elegance, she shifts forward on her knees. Her cum-streaked face, still absolutely painted with thick, drying ropes of your first load, hovers close to Seulgi's ass. Without a word, Irene rests her cheek against one plush globe. Her flawless skin, smeared and sticky, pressed to Seulgi's sweat-dampened curve like it's the most natural pillow in the world. Her dark eyes lock onto yours, lips curving into a sultry smile.
"Don't think you're done yet."
One hand wraps around the base of your cock and guides it to her mouth. You can't believe this is happening. Irene, face covered in your cum, now sucking you off while using her member's ass as a headrest. And Seulgi, who just let you wreck both her holes like she was made for it. You've fucked them both by now. Your mind reels, pulse hammering in your ears. How did NNN lead to this? Weeks of teasing, denial, blue balls, and now you're balls-deep in a fantasy that feels too good to be real. These two women, just doing everything for your cock.
Irene's lips part, and she takes you in deep with no hesitation. Her mouth is warm, wet heaven. Her tongue swirls around the head to clean off every trace of Seulgi. She hums low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight up your spine, as she bobs slowly. Her free hand cups your balls, rolling them gently, while the other strokes what she can't fit in her mouth. The taste, Seulgi's pussy, her ass, the lube, your pre-cum, doesn't faze her. If anything, it makes her suck harder, cheeks hollowing with each pull.
Seulgi stirs beneath her, a soft moan escaping as Irene's weight shifts on her ass.
"Unnie..."
She whispers, voice weak and spent, but there's no protest, just a lazy roll of her hips like she's still chasing aftershocks.
You groan, hips bucking involuntarily into Irene's mouth. She's relentless. Deepthroating you in one smooth motion, then pulling back to lick long, flat stripes up the underside, her tongue tracing every vein. Spit dribbles from her lips, mixing with the mess on her face, but she doesn't care. Instead, she gathers more saliva and lets it drip onto your shaft mid-suck, making everything even sloppier.
Minutes drag on like this. Irene working you over with expert precision, her head bobbing in a steady rhythm, using Seulgi's ass as leverage to angle herself perfectly. Your thighs burn, cock aching with the need for release, but she keeps you teetering on the edge, slowing whenever you get too close. Seulgi's breathing evens out beneath her, the younger one recovering bit by bit, her whimpers turning to soft sighs.
Finally, Irene pulls off, after giving your tip one last messy kiss.
“Enough. Sit down again. I'm going to ride you now. And you better finish inside me this time. Fill me up properly."
Your legs feel like jelly, but you obey without question, staggering back to the chair and collapsing into it. Your cock stands straight up, slick and throbbing, begging for more. Irene rises gracefully, her white dress, now stained with cum, lube, and sweat, clinging to her curves. She doesn't bother fixing it. Instead, she hikes it up around her waist, revealing smooth thighs and a glimpse of her own arousal-soaked panties. She straddles you, knees planting on either side of your hips, her heat radiating against your cock even through the thin fabric. But she doesn't sink down yet. Her hands brace on your shoulders, nails digging in lightly as she grinds down, rubbing her clothed pussy along your length. The lace of her panties drags against you, wet and warm, teasing the head with every pass.
"Feel that?"
She whispers, leaning in close, her cum-dried lips brushing your ear.
"I've been wet since you painted my face. Watching you fuck her... it made me ache."
You groan, hands instinctively grabbing her waist, but she swats them away.
"Not yet."
She strokes your cock, one hand wrapping around your shaft, pumping lazily while she continues to grind. Her thumb circles the tip, spreading the pre-cum that's leaking steadily now. At the same time, her free hand trails up your chest, nails scraping lightly, before she leans in and kisses your neck.
"You're so hard for me. After all that with Seulgi... still ready to give me your cum? Good boy."
Her hips roll faster now, panties soaking through, the friction maddening but not enough. You buck up instinctively, chasing more, but she lifts just out of reach with a soft laugh.
"Patience."
Seulgi stirs during this, pushing up from the table with a low groan, her legs still shaky. She turns, bodysuit hanging open, tits straining against the tight fabric, pussy still glistening from her orgasm. Her eyes lock onto the scene: Irene teasing you mercilessly in your lap. A small, wicked smile curves her lips as she recovers fully, sauntering over on wobbly legs.
"Room for one more?"
Seulgi asks, voice husky from her cries.
Irene glances back.
"Always."
She finally reaches down, pulling her panties to the side with one hand while guiding your cock with the other. The head nudges her entrance, slick and hot, and she sinks down just an inch, before pausing.
"Ready?"
Before you can answer, Seulgi's there, cupping your face and turning you toward her. Her lips crash into yours in a deep, hungry kiss, tongue sliding in immediately, tasting of salt and sex. You moan into her mouth as Irene sinks lower, taking you fully into her pussy in one slow motion.
Irene's walls are velvet fire, tight, wet, clenching around you like she was made for this. She bottoms out with a soft gasp, hips settling flush against yours, and starts to ride. Slow rolls at first, building to a steady bounce. Her dress bunches higher, tits bouncing beneath the fabric, her cum-streaked face flushed with pleasure.
You kiss Seulgi harder, one hand flying to Irene's waist for balance as she picks up speed, up and down, grinding deep on every downstroke. Your other hand roams to Seulgi's chest, palming her tits through the bodysuit. The fabric is thin, her nipples hard and pebbled beneath your fingers. You squeeze, pinch, roll them between thumb and forefinger until she whimpers into your mouth.
"More."
Seulgi breathes against your lips, breaking the kiss to nip at your jaw.
"Touch me... please."
Your hand wanders lower, down her toned stomach, past the snapped-open crotch of her bodysuit, to her pussy. She's still dripping, folds swollen and sensitive from earlier. You circle her clit first, light and teasing, making her hips buck into your touch. Then you slide two fingers inside and curl them, pumping in time with Irene's rides. Seulgi moans loudly, head falling back, her hand bracing on your shoulder as she grinds onto your fingers.
"Yes-fuck-right there-"
Irene's pace quickens. Her pussy squeezes you rhythmically. Wet sounds fill the room with every bounce. She's relentless, lifting almost off you before slamming down, rolling her hips to hit that perfect angle inside her.
"That's it."
She pants, nails digging into your shoulders.
"Fuck me-fill me-"
You thrust up to meet her, the chair creaking beneath you, while your fingers fuck Seulgi harder - three now, curling deep, thumb on her clit. Seulgi's walls flutter around you, her second orgasm building fast. She kisses you again her nails trails down your neck.
The sensations overlap. Irene's tight heat milking you, Seulgi's pussy clenching on your fingers, her tits heaving under your palm when you switch hands briefly to grope her again. Irene leans forward, her breath hot on your ear.
"Cum inside me. You’re so close…”
Seulgi cums first though, gushing around your fingers with a sharp cry, her body shuddering against you. The sight pushes you closer. Her flushed face, Irene's bouncing form, the way they both use you like their personal toy.
Irene clenches hard, one last deep grind, and you lose it. You thrust up, burying deep as you spill inside her, rope after rope flooding her pussy. She moans triumphantly, riding through it, milking every drop until you're spent and twitching. Seulgi collapses against your side, panting, as Irene slows to a stop, your cock still inside her.
"Good boy. But we're not done yet."
Irene doesn't give you much time to recover. She's still seated fully on your lap, your cock buried deep inside her pulsing heat, your cum slowly leaking out around the base where you're joined. She rolls her hips once, testing your sensitivity, and you hiss through your teeth at the overstimulation.
"Already twitching again."
She murmurs, voice low and amused, her cum-streaked face hovering inches from yours.
"Good. I want you hard for another round."
She starts riding you properly now, lifting herself until only the head remains inside her, then dropping back down with controlled force. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room again, her pussy gripping you like a glove every time she bottoms out. She's not rushing. Each downward motion is measured, deep, grinding her clit against your pelvis on the upstroke. Her nails dig into your shoulders for leverage as she picks up a steady rhythm, tits bouncing beneath the stained white dress, the fabric riding higher with every bounce.
Seulgi, meanwhile, has pushed herself upright again. Her legs are still shaky, but the haze of her orgasm is clearing, replaced by a hungry gleam in her eyes. She reaches behind her back and unzips her bodysuit. The tight fabric peels away from her shoulders like a second skin, sliding down her arms and pooling at her waist. Her breasts spill free, nipples already hard from earlier teasing and the cool air of the room. She doesn't stop there. Hooking her thumbs into the waistband, she shimmies the rest of the bodysuit down her hips, stepping out of it completely. The black material lands in a careless heap beside her discarded pants. Now she's entirely naked. Her skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, pussy still swollen and slick from your fingers and her own climax.
By the time she's fully bare, your cock is rock-hard again inside Irene, throbbing, leaking, impossibly ready despite everything. The sight of Seulgi standing there completely exposed, watching Irene ride you with dark, wanting eyes, it hits you. Seulgi steps closer, straddling one of your thighs so she can lean over you. Her breasts hang heavy and perfect right in front of your face.
"Suck."
She whispers, voice still hoarse from moaning. One hand cups the back of your head, guiding you forward. You don't hesitate. Your mouth closes around one nipple faintly tasting salt and skin. You suck hard, tongue flicking over the peak, then switch to the other when she whimpers and arches into you. Seulgi's fingers tighten in your hair, hips grinding slowly against your thigh as she chases the friction. Irene moans above you, her rhythm faltering for a second at the sight.
"Look at you two."
She pants, slamming down harder now, chasing her own peak.
"Can't get enough of each other… or of me."
She rides faster, her pussy clenching rhythmically around your cock. The chair creaks beneath the three of you. Seulgi's free hand reaches down to rub her own clit in tight circles while you lavish attention on her tits, sucking, biting gently, leaving faint marks that make her gasp.
The room is filled with nothing but wet sounds, heavy breathing, and broken moans. Irene's nails rake down your chest. Seulgi's thighs tremble against yours. Your hips start thrusting up to meet Irene's drops, the overstimulation long since burned away into pure, desperate need.
Irene leans forward, forehead pressing to yours, voice wrecked and commanding at the same time.
"Cum with me."
She orders. "Fill me again-"
Seulgi's breath hitches against your ear as she grinds harder against your thigh, chasing her third orgasm of the afternoon.
You’re sprawled on the couch in the dim living room, legs stretched out, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. The TV is on, some random Knowing Bros episode, but the volume is low enough that the apartment feels quieter than it should. Karina is curled up on the opposite end, knees tucked under a blanket, scrolling through her phone. The dynamic between you two has been… off. Not hostile. Not even tense, exactly. Just strange. Like there’s an invisible wire stretched across the cushions, humming with potential tension. You know she failed NNN already. You heard her. The moans and sighs through the bedroom door when you made Giselle cum on your fingers. But you still haven’t said anything. You just let it sit between you like a secret she doesn’t know you’re keeping. But sometimes you catch her looking at you, sideways glances when she thinks you’re distracted, and there’s this tiny, knowing glint in her eye. Like she’s waiting for you to crack first. Like she suspects you faked it with Winter that day in her room, even though you’re certain she couldn’t have distinguished your real cum from your fake one. The thought loops in your head. Maybe she faked it too. Maybe that little solo session of hers was theater…another layer of the game. You can’t prove it. You can’t even ask without sounding paranoid. So you both sit in this weird, polite limbo. Smiling. Making small talk. Pretending the air isn’t thick with your thoughts of winning or losing this stupid bet.
Behind you, the soft click of a door. Footsteps pad across the hardwood. You don’t turn your head, but every nerve ending tracks Giselle’s path as she moves from the guest room toward the kitchen. You can picture her: oversized hoodie, bare legs, hair loose and messy from napping or scrolling or whatever she does when she hides in there.
You haven’t really spoken since that night. The night you pressed her against the bedroom door, fingers buried inside her while Karina was masturbating, or pretending to. The way Giselle bit her own wrist to stay quiet. The way she came so hard her knees buckled and you had to hold her up. Afterward she just slipped back into her room without a word. No goodnight. No eye contact the next morning. Nothing. The silence has been louder than any conversation.
Now the fridge door opens. A soft clink of glass. The rustle of plastic. She’s making something, probably one of those fruit bowls she likes to make. Karina glances toward the kitchen, then back to her phone. Doesn’t comment. A minute later, Giselle appears at the edge of the living room. She hesitates like she’s debating whether to keep walking or bolt back to her room. In the end she chooses the couch. She sits at the far end, closest to Karina but leaving a careful gap between all three of you. In her lap is a glass bowl of cut strawberries, mango chunks, and kiwi slices. She spears a piece with a fork, stares at it for a second too long, then puts it in her mouth.
The TV laughs at something you didn’t hear. You feel the couch dip slightly under her weight. Smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. Hear the quiet crunch of fruit between her teeth. No one speaks for a full commercial break.
Your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you. You fish it out, unlock the screen.
“Hey there! Tomorrow night the whole drama cast is going out for drinks first official team bonding thing you coming? 8pm, that rooftop bar in Itaewon don’t flake ㅋㅋ“
You read Yeri’s message twice, then turn slightly toward Karina.
“Yeri just texted. The drama cast is doing drinks tomorrow night. Whole team. Rooftop bar in Itaewon.”
Karina’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. She doesn’t look up right away. When she finally does, her expression is… amused. Not surprised. Not excited. Just quietly, almost smugly entertained. Like she’s already picturing the night in her head and finding it hilarious.
“Sounds fun. You should go.”
There’s no jealousy in it. No warning. Just that tiny upward curve at the corner of her mouth.
“Another chance for you to slip. Another night full of pretty actresses and soju shots. Go ahead. See how long you last.”
You can almost hear it.
Giselle spears another piece of mango. Doesn’t look at either of you. But you notice her fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
You set the phone down on your thigh.
“Yeah.”
You say.
“Maybe.”
Karina hums in agreement, eyes already drifting back to her screen.
The TV drones on. Giselle chews slowly. She keeps her eyes fixed on the bowl in her lap, spearing another strawberry with care, as if the simple act of eating fruit requires her full concentration. But her mind is elsewhere, locked in a loop she can’t escape.
“Tomorrow night. Drinks. The whole drama cast.”
The words repeat like a bad song stuck in her head. She doesn’t need to look at you to know you’re rereading the message. She can feel the subtle shift in the air when you speak to Karina like it’s no big deal. But it is. To her, it is. She imagines it too clearly: you at some dimly lit rooftop bar, surrounded by the cast. Laughing. Clinking glasses. Yeri sitting close - too close - leaning in to whisper something in your ear, her jawline catching the neon lights, her laugh bright and effortless. Yeri, who’s objectively hotter. Nicer legs, more beautiful features... Giselle has seen the way men look at her. The way you might look at her. A sharp, unexpected pang twists in her chest. Jealousy. She hates it. Hates how childish it feels. Hates that she’s even capable of feeling it toward someone who isn’t hers to claim.
“He’s Karina’s boyfriend.”
She reminds herself for the hundredth time today.
“Not yours. Never yours.”
The reminder doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the ache worse. She remembers that night against the door. Your fingers inside her. The way you held her up when her legs gave out. The way she came so hard she saw stars and had to bite her own wrist to keep from screaming loud enough to alert Karina. She’d convinced herself afterward that it would be enough. That one reckless, stolen moment would burn the want out of her system. That she could go back to being the polite guest, the third wheel. But it didn’t work. If anything, it made everything worse.
Now every time you walk past her in the hallway, every time your eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary, every time she hears you and Karina laughing in the next room…it all feeds the same fire. She still wants you. Wants your hands on her again. Wants your mouth. Wants to feel you lose control because of her.
She risks a glance sideways. Karina is still scrolling, legs tucked under the blanket, looking relaxed as always. Giselle’s gaze drifts to you, your profile lit by the soft blue glow of the TV, jaw relaxed, thumb idly tapping the edge of your phone. The same hands that pinned her against the door. The same mouth that whispered her name when she clenched around your fingers.
Her throat tightens. In her head, the fantasy unspools without permission. She sees herself setting the fruit bowl aside. Standing up. Crossing the short distance between the couch ends. Dropping slowly to her knees right there, between your spread legs. She imagines the way your breath would hitch when she reaches for your waistband. The way Karina’s phone would freeze mid-scroll. The silence that would fall over the room…
She pictures her own hands pulling you free. Your cock already hard because you’ve been thinking about her too. She imagines leaning in, mouth open, tongue flicking out to taste you first, just the tip, before taking you deep. The wet heat of her mouth. The way you’d groan despite Karina sitting right there. The way Karina would watch - shocked, frozen, maybe even aroused - while Giselle sucked you off like she’d been starving for it. Right there. In front of her.
The thought sends a fresh pulse of heat between her legs. She shifts slightly on the couch, pressing her thighs together under the oversized hoodie, hoping neither of you notices. She spears another piece of kiwi. Bites down harder than necessary. The tartness bursts on her tongue but does nothing to drown out the images.
“Stop it.”
She thinks.
“This is wrong. So fucking wrong.”
The hostess leads you through the scattered high tables and velvet ropes of the rooftop bar. The night air feels cool against your skin despite the heat lamps glowing overhead. The city sprawls below in a glittering sprawl of lights, neon bleeding into the dark sky, but your focus narrows the moment you spot the corner booth.
Only one person is there.
Yeri.
She sits alone at the table meant for six, legs crossed elegantly, leaning back against the dark cushion with casual confidence. She’s wearing a deep burgundy-black dress, which looks almost black in the low light, a halter-style neckline that shows off the delicate line of her collarbones and highlights subtle swell of her chest underneath. Tiny sequins catch every flicker of the rooftop lights, making the fabric shimmer like liquid obsidian every time she breathes. Her long black hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder. She looks up as you approach, lips curving into that mischievous smile that you know so well already. You stop short for half a second, confusion flickering through you. No other cast members. No group. Just her. She tilts her head, eyes sparkling with amusement as she gestures to the seat beside her.
“Surprised? Sit. You look like you need a drink.”
You slide in next to her, close enough that your knee brushes hers under the table, and the hostess sets down a menu before disappearing back into the crowd. You exhale, trying to shake off the sudden shift in expectation. Part of you had braced for a full table of actors, awkward small talk and shots being passed around. This… this feels more dangerous.
A server appears almost immediately. You order a simple whiskey neat without looking at the menu. Yeri watches you the whole time, chin resting on her hand, that same small smile playing on her lips.
Once the server leaves, you turn to her.
“You said the whole cast was coming.”
She shrugs one bare shoulder.
“I might have… exaggerated. A little.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You lied.”
“‘Lied’ is such a strong word.”
She leans in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“If I’d told you the real reason, you wouldn’t have come.”
You lean back, crossing your arms, playing it cool even though your pulse has already picked up.
“And what is the real reason, Yeri?”
She laughs at your attempt at looking composed.
“Relax. It’s not about sex.”
A pause, then she leans even closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Not right now, anyway.”
You feel the warmth of her breath and the faint scent of her perfume. Something sweet and expensive. Your body reacts before your brain catches up, your cock twitching at the proximity despite every intention to stay composed.
She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.
“It’s about dancing.”
You blink.
“Dancing?”
Her smile turns wicked. She leans in again, voice barely audible over the music drifting from the bar speakers.
“How did you like dancing with Joy unnie?”
The name hits like cold water. Your stomach tightens. Joy. The practice room. Her body pressed against yours during that choreography session, hips grinding back into you, her breath hitching every time you had to correct her form. The way she’d looked at you in the mirror…like she wanted to devour you right there.
How the hell does Yeri know about that?
Before you can form a question, a new voice cuts through the air.
“Yeri-yah!”
You turn.
Joy is standing at the edge of the table, hand lightly resting on the arm of the man beside her. She’s wearing a black dress as well, but hers is sleek black with spaghetti straps and the neckline plunging deep enough to show the perfect curve of her cleavage. Her hair is down, loose waves framing her face, and the silver earrings catch the light every time she moves.
Her eyes meet yours. For one split second, raw surprise flashes across her face. Then worry, quick, sharp, gone in an instant. And then something else: heat. A flicker of lust she tries to smother immediately, but it lingers in the way her lips part, the way her gaze drops to your mouth for half a heartbeat before she forces it back up.
She recovers fast, smiling brightly as she slides into the seat across from you, pulling her boyfriend down beside her. He’s handsome. Dark hair, easy smile, clearly comfortable in this kind of scene. He extends a hand across the table.
You glance at Yeri. She’s watching you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow arched like she’s daring you to contradict him.
You shake his hand.
“Yeah. Friend.”
Joy’s eyes meet yours again over the rim of the table. She bites the inside of her cheek, just for a second, trying to keep her expression neutral. But you see it: the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl around her clutch, the subtle shift of her thighs under the table like she’s pressing them together. Yeri leans back, sipping whatever clear drink she already had waiting, looking entirely too pleased with herself. The server returns with your whiskey.
Joy’s boyfriend leans forward, elbows on the table, clearly trying to play the role of the chill plus-one who’s happy to be included.
“So, man, how long have you known Yeri?”
He asks, gesturing vaguely toward her with his beer bottle the waiter just brought him.
“She’s been hyping up this ‘friend from the drama’ all week.”
You force a laugh that sounds more natural than it feels.
“We’ve been working together for a few weeks now. Let’s just say it’s not boring”
Minho chuckles, clearly oblivious that you had Yeri bent over your car.
“Yeah, that tracks. Joy says the same thing about her. ‘Chaos in heels,’ I think was the exact quote.”
You nod, keeping your eyes on his face. Safe territory. Normal conversation. You ask him about his work and he launches into a story about a recent recording session. It’s easy to nod along, ask follow-up questions and keep the surface level polite and flowing.
But underneath the table, the air feels electric. You don’t dare look directly at Joy. Not at the way her black dress clings to her, the deep V-neck dipping low enough that every small breath makes the fabric shift and threaten to reveal more. Not at the way her collarbones catch the light, or the subtle rise and fall of her chest when she laughs at something her boyfriend says. You keep your gaze firmly on him, on your whiskey glass, on the city lights beyond the railing…anywhere but her.
Your peripheral vision, though, keeps snagging on Yeri. She’s sitting right beside you, close enough that her bare knee brushes yours every time she shifts. Her phone is now unlocked on her lap, screen angled just enough that you catch the flash of incoming messages when she tilts it slightly toward herself.
The first one pops up as a notification banner before she swipes it away.
“What the fuck yeri”
You see it for half a second before Yeri’s thumb covers the preview. She doesn’t react outwardly. Her face stays perfectly neutral. Her lips are curved in that same faint, amused smile, but her fingers start moving quickly under the table. You pretend not to notice. You laugh at something Joy’s boyfriend says about studio monitors, ask a follow-up about mic placement, keep the conversation alive like your life depends on it. But your eyes keep darting toward Yeri’s lap.
Another message lights up the screen.
“seriously?? you said the whole cast”
“why is he here”
Yeri types back without looking down. You can’t read the reply, but you see the three bouncing dots appear almost immediately on Joy’s side of the chat.
Joy’s still smiling at her boyfriend’s story, nodding at the right moments, but her grip on her own phone is white-knuckled. Every few seconds her eyes flick toward Yeri - sharp, questioning and angry - then back to her boyfriend. Yeri’s reply comes through. You catch only the first few words before she angles the screen away.
“calm down. it’s not what you think”
Joy’s jaw tightens. She types furiously for a moment, then sets the phone face-down on her thigh. Her free hand reaches for her drink and she takes a long sip. You force yourself to ask Minho another question, something about the difference between analog and digital mixing, while your mind races.
Did Joy tell Yeri everything? Did she confess the practice room tension in a drunk text or something? Or did Yeri see something herself? Maybe caught a glimpse through the practice room window, or heard rumors from staff?
You don’t know. And you can’t ask. Not here. Not now at least.
Yeri finally sets her phone down, screen dark, and leans back with a small stretch that makes the sequins on her dress catch the light like tiny stars. She turns to you, voice light and innocent.
“You okay? You look a little tense.”
You meet her eyes and give her the smallest shrug.
“Just taking in the view.”
She smiles wider, like she knows exactly which view you mean.
Across the table, Joy exhales through her nose. Suddenly her boyfriend’s phone buzzes sharply against the table. He glances at the screen, frowns slightly, then pushes back his chair.
“Sorry, guys…work call. Gotta take this somewhere quieter.”
He stands, leans down to press a quick kiss to Joy’s temple, and gives you and Yeri a friendly nod.
“Back in ten. Don’t drink all the good stuff without me.”
He weaves through the crowd toward the far end of the rooftop where the noise thins out near the glass railing. You watch him disappear behind a cluster of standing tables, then turn back to the booth.
The atmosphere shifts the second he’s gone, like someone flipped a switch and sucked the oxygen out of the air. Joy’s shoulders stiffen. Yeri’s smile doesn’t waver, but it sharpens at the edges. You lean back, arms crossed, trying to keep your expression neutral while your mind races. Why the hell did Yeri bring you here? Why invite Joy and her boyfriend if the goal was… whatever this is?
Joy clearly has the same questions burning behind her eyes. She’s staring at Yeri like she’s trying to decide between strangling her or bolting.
The moment her boyfriend is out of earshot, Joy tries to kick Yeri under the table.
“What the fuck, Yeri?”
Yeri tilts her head, all wide-eyed innocence.
“What? I just wanted to hang out. Catch up. Have a drink. You know, normal friend things.”
Joy scoffs.
“Normal friends don’t peek into practice rooms when other people are using them.”
There it is. The confirmation lands like a brick. Yeri saw you two. Not rumors, not second-hand gossip…she was there. Watching through the glass, maybe lingering in the hallway.
You feel heat crawl up your neck. You open your mouth, your voice rougher than you intend.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Yeri finally looks at you, almost like she’s savoring the question. Before she can answer, Joy cuts in, sharp and urgent.
“Don’t say a word to him.”
She jerks her chin toward the direction her boyfriend disappeared.
“Not one word. Please.”
Her eyes are wide now, anger and fear warring across her face. She’s furious at Yeri, but underneath it there’s real panic. The kind that comes from knowing one careless action could end a relationship.
She turns back to Yeri, voice dropping even lower.
“It was nothing. I just… wanted to try some sexier choreo. He was there. That’s it. Nothing happened.”
Yeri’s smile turns mocking.
“Mhm. Sure. ‘Sexier choreo.’”
She draws the words out, letting them drip with sarcasm.
“You always press your ass back that hard when you’re just practicing? Looked pretty personal from where I was standing.”
Joy’s cheeks flush dark red.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Yeri laughs and leans back, crossing her legs so the hem of her dress rides higher.
“You’re cute when you’re mad, unnie.”
As she speaks, you feel it. Her hand sliding from her own thigh to yours. Your breath catches. She doesn’t look at you. Her eyes stay locked on Joy’s, holding the stare like a challenge. But her fingers move with purpose: first resting lightly on the top of your thigh, then drifting inward, tracing the seam of your pants. You freeze. She reaches the button of your fly. Pops it open with a quiet snick.
Joy’s eyes widen - she hears it. The small metallic sound cuts through the rooftop noise like a gunshot. Her gaze drops to Yeri’s wrist, then flicks back up, horrified.
“Yeri, what the fuck-”
Yeri’s fingers find the zipper tab. She pulls it down slowly - agonizingly slowly - letting the teeth part one by one. The quiet rasp is loud enough in the sudden silence between the three of you.
Joy’s voice cracks.
“Stop it. What’s wrong with you? Why would you do this here?”
Yeri finally breaks the stare with Joy to glance at you, brief and amused, before returning to her target.
“It’s fun.”
She says simply, like she’s explaining why she likes a particular song.
“I love watching you squirm.”
Her hand slips inside your open fly, fingers brushing over the fabric of your boxers. Not stroking yet, just resting there, warm and confident, letting you feel the weight of her palm against your growing hardness. You’re rock hard already. You hate that you are. But the combination - the public setting, the risk, Joy watching in stunned silence, Yeri’s complete lack of shame - it’s doing things to you that you can’t control.
You shift slightly, torn. Part of you wants to let her keep going. Wants to see how far she’ll push this. Jerk you off under the table, maybe more. The thought of cuming in her hand while Joy watches, helpless and furious, is filthy enough to make your cock twitch against her fingers. But another part of you feels the awkwardness like a weight in your chest. This is public. Joy’s boyfriend could walk back any second. And Joy…Joy looks like she’s two seconds from either crying or throwing her drink in Yeri’s face.
You realize, with sudden clarity, that this isn’t really about you. Not at the core. Yeri isn’t doing this because she desperately wants to touch you. She’s doing it because it hurts Joy. Every slow tug of your zipper, every inch her hand creeps closer, is a knife she’s twisting just to watch Joy bleed. You’re not the goal. You’re the weapon.
Yeri’s fingers curl lightly around your cock through the fabric, giving one lazy stroke, enough to make your hips jerk involuntarily. Joy’s voice is barely a whisper now, shaking with anger and something close to desperation.
“Stop. Please. Just… stop.”
Yeri hums, thoughtful, like she’s actually considering it.
Then she leans forward, voice sweet as poison.
“Make me.”
Joy opens her mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you-”
The sound of approaching footsteps cuts her off mid-breath.
Her boyfriend rounds the corner of the standing tables, phone still in hand, sliding it back into his pocket with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that. My manager. He needed to confirm the schedule for next week.”
He drops back into his seat across from you, completely relaxed, completely unaware.
“Did I miss anything good?”
The table goes still for half a second.
Yeri’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, she adjusts. Less obvious arm movement now, elbow resting casually on the table like she’s just resting her chin on her hand. Only her wrist and fingers keep working. Slow twists around your cock, thumb circling the head every few strokes. The motion is hidden perfectly beneath the table, but you feel every twist like a live wire.
You swallow hard, forcing your face to stay neutral while your cock throbs violently in her grip.
“Nah.”
Yeri answers smoothly, voice sweet as honey.
“Just catching up.”
Joy’s eyes are wide, locked on the spot under the table where she knows Yeri’s hand is moving. She looks like she’s one second away from lunging across the table, but she forces a tight smile instead.
“Yeah.”
Her voice is a little too high.
“Just… normal stuff.”
He nods, oblivious, and waves the server over to order another round of drinks. Conversation picks back up like nothing is happening. Joy’s boyfriend picks up where he left off, talking about work again. You nod along, laugh at the right moments, ask a follow-up question about vintage tape machines, anything to keep your voice steady while Yeri’s hand keeps twisting, never speeding up enough to push you over the edge but never slowing enough to let the pressure fade.
Your gaze has nowhere safe to land either. Looking at him feels wrong, almost disrespectful, while his girlfriend’s friend is jerking you off under the table. So, you glance away: at the city skyline, at the string lights overhead, at the half-empty glasses. But your eyes keep drifting back. To Yeri’s side profile, her jawline, the faint smirk playing on her lips, the way her long lashes lower every time she gives your cock an especially slow, twisting stroke. To Joy’s face, flushed and angry, eyes darting between Yeri and the table like she’s trying to see through it. And, inevitably, to Joy’s tits. The black dress she’s wearing is doing nothing to hide them. Every time she breathes a little harder, the deep cleavage shifts, the soft swell rising and falling, the faint shimmer of light catching on her skin. You catch her glancing down at the table again - staring at the exact spot where Yeri’s arm disappears beneath the cloth - and there’s something new in her eyes now. Not just anger. Curiosity. A hungry, conflicted wonder.
“How big is it right now? What does it look like while she strokes it?”
She bites her lip, then forces her eyes back up to her boyfriend, nodding at whatever he’s saying about reverb plugins.
But Yeri never stops.
She keeps the pace maddeningly perfect. Firm twists, thumb gliding over the sensitive head, fingers squeezing just enough on the downstroke to make your thighs tense under the table. Every few minutes she changes it up. A slow, full-length stroke followed by quick little pulses around the head, then back to the twisting motion that makes your vision blur at the edges. It feels incredible, but she’s deliberately keeping you right on that knife’s edge, never letting the pressure build to the point of no return, never letting you get close enough to cum.
You order another round when the server comes by and sip your new whiskey slowly. The conversation flows around you - him talking about upcoming gigs, Joy chiming in with forced enthusiasm about her latest choreo, Yeri laughing and adding teasing little comments - all of it perfectly normal on the surface.
Underneath, it’s anything but. Joy catches your eye once, right as Yeri gives your cock a particularly slow, twisting pull. Her gaze flicks down again, lingering this time, like she’s imagining the exact shape of your cock in Yeri’s hand, how hard you must be, how wet the head is getting with precum. When she looks back up, there’s heat in her eyes she can’t quite hide, mixed with pure frustration at Yeri. Yeri notices. She leans in just enough to whisper against your ear while pretending to reach for her drink.
“Keep looking at her tits like that and I might let you cum just to watch her lose it.”
You choke on your whiskey. Joy’s boyfriend laughs.
“Easy there, man…slow down on the drinks.”
Yeri smiles sweetly and gives you another slow, twisting stroke under the table.
The night stretches on like that - drinks arriving, conversation flowing, laughter ringing out at all the right moments - while Yeri’s hand stays busy beneath the table, never stopping, never letting you tip over the edge.
You’re trapped in the most exquisite kind of torture, surrounded by three people who are all pretending everything is perfectly fine… except two of them know exactly what’s happening, and one of them is using your cock like a weapon in a silent war you’re caught in the middle of.
And the worst part? You’re not sure you want her to stop.
Yeri’s hand gradually slows on your cock, the twisting strokes turning into lazy, drawn-out pulls. Each movement becomes lighter and gentler, until she finally comes to a complete stop. Her fingers are still loosely wrapped around your throbbing length beneath the table though. You have to fight every instinct not to thrust up into her fist. Your hips twitch once, involuntarily, before you clamp down hard and stay still, jaw tight, breath shallow through your nose. She gives you one final, teasing squeeze, then carefully tucks your cock back into your boxers. Her fingers are steady as she buttons your pants and zips you up, making sure everything looks perfectly normal from the outside. You feel both bitterly disappointed and strangely relieved at the same time.
Yeri checks the time on her phone, then looks across the table with a bright, innocent smile.
“Oh, it’s getting late. We still have plans tonight, right?”
When she says “plans,” she looks straight at Joy and gives her a slow, teasing wink.
Joy’s face tightens instantly. She understands exactly what Yeri is hinting at. Her boyfriend, however, just nods politely.
“Plans? Nice. Don’t let us keep you then.”
You play along, standing up with Yeri.
“Yeah, we should head out. It was good seeing you guys.”
Joy forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Have fun with your… plans.”
You and Yeri say your goodbyes, then walk away from the table. The moment you’re out of sight, heading toward the exit of the rooftop bar and back into the building, Yeri grabs your hand, fingers lacing tightly with yours.
“You’re coming with me.”
You let her pull you along, heart already pounding.
“What the hell were you thinking back there?”
You mutter under your breath.
“That was insane.”
Yeri only laughs softly, squeezing your hand.
“I know you liked it.”
She leads you through the dimly lit hallway inside the building, straight toward the women’s bathroom. Your stomach flips the second you realize where she’s taking you. You know exactly what she has planned next. Yeri pushes the door open without hesitation and walks inside, still holding your hand. She checks quickly that the bathroom is empty, then pulls you toward the last stall at the end. The two of you slip inside, and she locks the door with a quiet click.
You stare at her, pulse racing.
“You’re crazy.”
Yeri turns to face you, eyes dark with heat. She steps closer, pressing her body against yours in the tight space.
“I’m crazy for your cock.”
She whispers, voice dripping with need.
“And after you let me down last time by not shooting your load all over my face… you owe me. Now you get to make it up to me.”
Before you can answer, she rises onto her tiptoes and wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you into a hungry kiss. Her lips are soft but demanding, her tongue sliding against yours immediately. At the same time, her hands are already working on your pants again, unbuttoning, unzipping, pushing them down just enough to free your still-hard cock. You groan into her mouth and reach around her, cupping her ass with both hands, squeezing the firm cheeks through the thin fabric of her dress and pulling her even closer. The kiss turns messier. Yeri’s fingers wrap around your bare cock, stroking slowly as she moans softly against your lips. Her mouth is hot and insistent against yours, her tongue sliding deep as she kisses you like she’s been starving for it all night. Her body presses flush to yours in the cramped stall, the sequins on her dress catching faintly against your shirt. You slide one hand down her side, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, then slip beneath the hem of her dress. The fabric rides up easily. Your palm meets smooth, warm skin, then the delicate edge of her panties. She moans softly into your mouth when your fingers push the thin material aside. She’s already soaked, heat radiating against your fingertips. You stroke her slowly at first, two fingers gliding up and down her slit, spreading her wetness before you sink them inside her. Yeri gasps, hips jerking forward, her walls clenching tight around your digits. At the same time, her hand strokes your length with the same lazy rhythm you’re using on her. The two of you move together - kissing, fingering, stroking - like you’re feeding off each other’s need.
But Yeri’s getting wetter by the second. You can hear the soft, wet sounds of your fingers pumping into her pussy. You can feel her arousal coating your hand as she rocks against you. Her body presses harder into yours, tits pushing against your chest, breath coming in short, needy pants between kisses.
“You’re making me so wet.”
She whispers against your lips.
“Fuck… I can hear it.”
“Your pussy feels so good when you’re this wet.”
You murmur back, curling your fingers deeper, brushing that spot inside her that makes her thighs shake.
“So fucking tight and slippery.”
Yeri laughs, almost in disbelief that she’s actually doing this, the sound turning into a moan when you thrust your fingers faster.
“I can’t be the only one that’s wet.”
She teases, giving your cock a firm, twisting stroke that makes your hips buck. A suggestive eyebrow makes you pull your hand out of her cunt. She sinks down into a squat in front of you, dress riding all the way up her thighs, heels planted on the tiled floor. Her face is now perfectly level with your cock, which is still hard from her earlier teasing under the table. She looks up at you once, eyes dark with hunger, that same teasing smirk from the rooftop bar curling on her lips. Without another word she leans in and takes your dick into her mouth.
The heat is overwhelming. Her lips stretch around your thickness as she sucks you down, tongue swirling along the underside. She bobs slowly at first, taking more with each pass, hollowing her cheeks. You groan, one hand resting on the back of her head, the other braced against the stall wall. After a few deep sucks she tries for more, pushing forward until her nose brushes your stomach, trying to take all of it. Her throat tightens around you and she gags softly, eyes watering, but she doesn’t pull back right away. Lipstick smears along your shaft in dark streaks. She gags again, the sound wet and filthy, then pulls off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her upper and lower lip with each other. When she looks up, that teasing smirk is back. Exactly the same one she wore while jerking you off right in front of Joy.
“Get my phone.”
You reach for her purse on the small windowsill above the toilet. She tells you the passcode. You unlock it and open the camera app.
“Take a few pictures for Joy.”
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the shutter button. The idea feels insane - filming this in a public bathroom stall - but you’ve done something similar with Winter before, taking pictures, even a video of you fake cuming on her face. The memory pushes you forward. You comply. Yeri immediately switches into full model mode. She straightens her posture even while squatting, tilts her head, parts her lips just so. It feels surreal: this gorgeous idol squatting in a bathroom stall, your cock in her hand, turning the moment into a private photoshoot.
She leans in and takes you back into her mouth, sucking slow and deep while you snap pictures. Every few seconds she pulls off just enough to pose, winking at the camera, pressing your cock against her cheek so the length is visible next to her face, or holding you with one hand while laying her tongue flat along the underside, pretending to lick you from base to tip but staying perfectly still so you can capture the shot. You keep clicking, the flash off, the sounds of the shutter mixing with her wet sucks and soft gags. She looks incredible - lipstick ruined, eyes watery, hair slightly messy - but she still manages to look like she’s on a runway.
You stop taking pictures when you feel her shift. Her focus turns needier now. She stops posing and starts sucking for real, deeper and faster, moaning around your cock like she’s forgotten the phone entirely. Except for one brief moment. She pulls off with a wet gasp and looks up at you.
“Send the best ones to Joy.”
You hesitate again, phone still in hand. Yeri rolls her eyes, that teasing smirk returning.
“Coward.”
She murmurs, but there’s no real bite in it. She strokes you slowly while she talks.
“I’m helping you out here. Showing her exactly how good your cock tastes… so when the time comes, she’ll be dying to take it herself.”
The words hit you hard. You finally nod, thumbs moving across the screen. You pick the clearest, most explicit shots - the ones where her tongue is pressed to your shaft, where her lips are stretched wide, where her eyes are locked on the camera while she sucks - and send them to Joy.
“Done.”
Yeri’s smirk widens. She rises back to her feet.
“Good. Now that that’s done…”
She presses her body against yours again, lips brushing your ear.
“You should take care of my pussy with that cock.”
You set the phone on the windowsill beside her purse. The kiss that follows is messy and hungry. The hem of her dress has ridden all the way up from squatting, so her clothed pussy is now rubbing directly against your bare cock. You grab her ass with both hands, squeezing the soft, firm cheeks, pulling her tighter against you.
Almost naturally, you lift her. Your hands slide under her thighs. Yeri wraps one arm around your neck for balance. Her other hand reaches down, pulling her panties to the side. You feel the wet heat of her pussy hovering right above your cock.
You sink her down slowly. The head of your cock parts her folds and slides inside her. Yeri moans into your mouth, legs tightening around your waist as you fill her completely.
You start fucking her right there, standing, holding her up, hips thrusting up while you bounce her on your cock.
The stall fills with the wet sounds of skin on skin and her breathless moans against your lips. Yeri clings to you tighter, whispering filthy little encouragements between kisses.
“Fuck me harder… just like that… use me…”
You do exactly that, gripping her ass and driving up into her again and again, the risk of the public bathroom only making everything feel more intense.
Yeri’s tight pussy stretches around your cock as you lift her higher, her walls clinging desperately to every inch until only the head remains inside her. She’s impossibly wet, her arousal coating your shaft and dripping down your balls. For a heartbeat she hovers there, gasping, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. Then you let gravity do the rest. You drop her. Yeri slams down hard onto your cock, taking every thick inch in one brutal, wet plunge. Her walls flutter violently around you as she’s impaled, a sharp, broken cry tearing from her throat.
“Fuuuck-!”
You don’t give her time to recover. You lift her again - slowly this time, feeling her pussy lips drag along your length, gripping greedily at the head - then let her fall once more. Gravity drives her down, stuffing her full in a single devastating stroke. The wet slap of her ass meeting your hips echoes loudly in the small stall.
Again.
And again.
You keep the brutal rhythm going, lifting her until she’s barely gripping your tip, then releasing her so she drops hard, her tight cunt swallowing all of you. Each fall makes her tits bounce inside the sequined dress, her head rolling back as she takes you deeper than she thought possible. Yeri becomes louder with every thrust.
“Ah-! Fuck-too deep-!”
Her voice cracks, turning into shameless, high-pitched moans that bounce off the tiled walls.
“You’re-splitting me-oh my god-!”
Her head lolls back completely now, neck arched, mouth open in a constant stream of broken cries. Every time you let her fall, her eyes flutter and roll back, lashes fluttering as her pussy spasms wildly around your cock. She’s so wet that obscene, squelching sounds fill the stall with every drop. Her juices run down your thighs and drip onto the floor. You grip her ass tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh, using it as leverage to bounce her even harder. Her legs wrap around your waist, heels digging into your lower back as she tries to hold on.
“Yes-yes-keep doing that-fuck me like that-!”
She sobs, voice hoarse and desperate.
“I’m so full-your cock is so deep-ahh-!”
You can feel her walls rippling and clenching rhythmically every time you bottom out. Her pussy is gushing now, soaking your cock and balls with every hard drop. Yeri’s entire body trembles in your arms. Her tits bounce in your rhythm. She tries to kiss you again but can barely manage it, her lips brush yours messily between moans, tongue flicking out weakly before her head falls back once more, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being repeatedly impaled on your cock.
“Harder please make me take it all-!”
She whines, voice breaking on every word.
“I’m yours-fuck-use my pussy-!”
You obey, lifting her higher this time, almost pulling out completely, before letting her crash down again. The force makes her cry out loud enough that you’re sure someone outside the bathroom must have heard. Yeri’s eyes are glassy, unfocused, completely lost to the pleasure as you keep bouncing her on your cock, gravity doing half the work, your strong arms and hips doing the rest. Her tight little pussy spasms harder and harder around you with every deep, punishing thrust, her moans turning into constant, shameless wails.
She’s getting closer. You can feel it. In the way her walls flutter and squeeze. In the way her thighs tremble violently around your waist. In the broken, desperate sounds spilling from her lips.
You keep fucking Yeri exactly like that, holding her up in your arms, her legs wrapped tight around your waist, her tight pussy taking every brutal drop. Each time you lift her high enough that only the head of your cock remains inside her, her walls flutter and cling desperately, trying to pull you back in. Then you let her fall. Gravity does the rest, slamming her down hard onto your length until her ass meets your hips with a loud, wet slap. Her pussy stretches wide around you, swallowing everything you make it take. Yeri’s nails dig viciously into your back through your shirt, sharp little crescents of pain that only make you fuck her harder. You answer by digging your fingers deeper into the soft, plump flesh of her ass, spreading her cheeks apart as you bounce her on your cock.
“Fuck-yes-!”
She cries out, head thrown back with her hair moving wildly. Her voice is raw and shameless, echoing off the tiles.
“You’re so deep-ahh-filling me up-!”
Her tits still bounce inside the sequined dress with every drop. Her pussy is soaked, gushing around your cock, the wet squelching sounds growing louder and filthier with each thrust. Every time you impale her, her walls spasm and squeeze, milking you like she never wants to let go. You don’t slow down. You lift her again - higher this time - until she’s whimpering at the empty feeling, then drop her hard. The force makes her cry out louder, her nails raking down your back as her body jolts in your arms.
Yeri’s phone, still sitting on the small windowsill, suddenly buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
Then it starts vibrating almost continuously, short, angry bursts that rattle against the metal sill. Joy is probably spamming her with furious messages, demanding to know what the hell is happening, cursing Yeri out, maybe even begging her to stop.
Neither of you care.
You don’t even glance at the phone. Yeri doesn’t either. Her eyes are rolled back, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans as you keep dropping her onto your cock, using gravity to stuff her full over and over again.
“Harder-please-don’t stop-fuck me like a toy-!”
She sobs, voice cracking. Her legs tighten around you, heels digging into your lower back.
“Your cock feels so good-stretching my pussy-ahh-!”
You growl against her neck, fingers bruising her ass as you lift and drop her again, faster now. The burn in your arms is starting to creep in. Your muscles are straining from holding her weight and fucking her so relentlessly. But you push through it, driven by the wet heat of her cunt and the desperate sounds spilling from her lips.
Yeri’s head rolls back again, eyes fluttering, completely lost. Her pussy clenches rhythmically around you, getting tighter and wetter with every thrust. She’s close…but you don’t slow down.
The phone keeps buzzing on the windowsill. Joy’s angry messages are ignored.
All that matters right now is the tight, soaking grip of Yeri’s pussy, the sting of her nails in your back, and the lewd sound of her ass slapping against your hips as you keep impaling her again and again.
But your arms are definitely burning now. You can’t stop though. Not when she feels this fucking good.
You spin around inside the narrow stall, turning so Yeri’s back presses against the cold tiled wall. The sudden shift makes her gasp, but you don’t stop moving. You keep her impaled on your cock, legs still wrapped around your waist, and start fucking her harder against the wall.
Your arms are burning, a deep, aching fatigue spreading through your shoulders and biceps from holding her weight for so long. But Yeri is right on the edge, chasing her climax with desperate little rolls of her hips, and you refuse to change positions. You nail her against the wall with deep, forceful thrusts. Each one drives your cock all the way inside her tight, soaking pussy, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loudly in the small space. Yeri’s back arches, her head thumping softly against the tiles as she moans brokenly.
“Fuck-yes-right there-don’t stop-!”
Her pussy is getting tighter by the second, walls pulsating and clenching around your cock like she’s trying to pull you even deeper. You can feel her getting close. The rhythmic spasms. The way her thighs tremble violently around your hips. The way her breath comes in short, desperate sobs.
You grab her arms and push them up, pinning her wrists together above her head against the wall with one hand. The new angle forces her back to arch even more, pushing her tits forward. You hold her entire body up now using just your cock buried inside her pussy and the grip on her wrists. Your other hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding her sensitive clit. You rub her in fast, firm circles while you keep giving her deep strokes that nail her into the wall again and again.
Yeri starts to lose it completely. Her eyes roll back. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream before she finds her voice again.
“Nail me-fuck-nail me into the wall like a painting-please-harder-!”
Her voice cracks every time your cock bottoms out, as if you’re pushing the air out of her lungs.
“Use me-destroy my pussy-ahh-!”
You lean in closer, your lips brushing her ear as you pin her wrists tighter and rub her clit faster.
“Be a good girl for once. Cum on my cock.”
That’s all it takes.
Yeri’s entire body seizes up. Her pussy clamps down around you like a vice, pulsing violently as her orgasm crashes through her. A loud, broken cry tears from her throat - raw and shameless - echoing off the bathroom walls.
“Fuuuuck-! I’m cuming-cuming on your cock!”
Her walls flutter and squeeze in powerful waves, gushing around you as she shakes in your arms. Her head falls back against the wall, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a constant moan while her climax rips through her. Her legs lock around your waist, heels digging hard into your lower back as she rides it out, pussy milking your cock with every spasm.
You keep thrusting through it, but slower now, deep and steady, letting her feel every part of your cock while she falls apart around you. Her wrists are still pinned above her head and her body is trembling violently against the wall as the orgasm drags on and on.
“So good… your cock feels so fucking good…”
She’s still twitching and clenching around your shaft, aftershocks rolling through her body, when her eyes finally flutter open again. They’re glassy, unfocused, and completely satisfied.
But the look she gives you is still hungry. You can feel her pussy still gently pulsing around your cock as she catches her breath, chest heaving against yours.
She licks her lips, then grins up at you.
“…Your turn.”
You slowly lower Yeri back down, your arms trembling from the strain of holding her up for so long. Her legs are shaky and weak, barely able to support her weight as her feet touch the tiled floor. The moment your cock slips out of her soaked pussy, she lets out a soft, disappointed whine.
“No… put it back…”
Her knees buckle slightly, one hand slapping against the wall for balance. She’s so thoroughly fucked-out that she can’t even protest properly. She just stands there on trembling legs, breathing hard, pussy still visibly clenching around nothing.
You don’t give her time to recover. Your own need is burning too hot now. You turn her around roughly, spinning her so she faces the stall wall. Yeri gasps but doesn’t resist. If anything, she pushes her ass back toward you instinctively. You step in close, trapping her between your body and the cold tiles. Your chest presses against her back, your cock - still rock hard and slick with her juices - resting heavily between her ass cheeks. Yeri’s breathing quickens immediately. You can hear it: short, shallow gasps against the wall.
You reach down with one hand, gripping the base of your cock, and align the head with her dripping pussy. The moment she feels the thick tip nudge against her entrance, her breath hitches sharply. You push in slowly. Inch by inch, you sink back into her tight, velvety heat. Yeri’s forehead presses against the tiles as she moans low and long, her walls stuttering wildly around every thick inch you feed her. She’s still so sensitive from her orgasm that the stretch makes her thighs shake. You don’t stop until your hips are flush against her ass, your cock buried to the hilt inside her once again. Yeri is completely filled, her pussy stretched tight around you, clenching like she never wants you to leave.
A broken, satisfied whimper escapes her lips.
“Fuck… so full again…You’re so deep…”
You stay there for a moment, letting her feel the entire moment of being filled to the brim, your chest pressed to her back, one hand braced on the wall beside her head. Your other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as you grind slowly against her ass, stirring your cock deep inside her. Yeri’s breathing is ragged now, hot little puffs against the cold tiles. Her legs are still shaking, but she pushes back against you anyway, greedy for more. You can feel her pussy pulsing around you, still sensitive and still dripping.
You start fucking Yeri hard from behind, driving your cock into her with deep, powerful thrusts that slam her body against the stall wall. Each snap of your hips forces a wet slap of skin on skin, her soaked pussy taking every inch as you pound into her. Yeri has to turn her head to the side so her forehead doesn’t bang against the tiles with every brutal thrust. Now her left cheek is pressed flush against the cold wall, rubbing back and forth against the smooth surface every time you drive into her. Her mouth stays open, broken moans spilling out continuously as she struggles to stay upright on her shaky legs.
“Ah-! Fuck-! So hard-! You’re-ngh-fucking me so deep-!”
She’s barely able to form full sentences anymore, but she tries anyway, desperate to push you closer to the edge.
“You feel that?”
She pants between moans, cheek sliding against the tiles.
“My pussy is still so tight for you… even after I came all over your cock…”
She tries to sound bratty, but it comes out wrecked and needy.
“I bet Joy would love this too… getting railed against a wall like a little slut… bet she’d moan even louder than me if you fucked her like-ahh-!”
You’ve had enough.
“Shut up.”
Your free hand moves up, pressing firmly against the back of her head. You push her face harder into the wall, squishing her left cheek against the cold tiles. Her words instantly turn into muffled, unintelligible strings of sound.
“mmph-! Fmmph-! mmm!”
Her lips and cheek are pressed flat. Yeri’s eyes flutter, a fresh wave of arousal flooding her pussy at the rough treatment. She doesn’t fight it. If anything, she pushes her ass back against you even harder, silently begging for more. And you keep pounding into her without mercy, hips snapping forward, cock spearing deep into her tight cunt again and again. The new angle lets you hit even deeper, the head of your cock grinding against her sensitive spots with every thrust. Her muffled moans vibrate against the wall, her body jolting forward with each powerful stroke. Even with her face pinned, she keeps trying to talk back. Bratty little sounds that come out as wet, garbled nonsense.
You lean in closer as you rail her harder.
“That’s better. Just take it like a good girl.”
Yeri whimpers loudly into the wall, her pussy spasming around your cock. She’s soaking wet, juices running down her thighs. Even after her own orgasm, she’s clearly determined to help you reach yours, pushing back to meet every stroke, squeezing her inner walls around you on purpose, doing everything she can to make you lose control. Her cheek stays smashed against the tiles, eyes half-lidded and glassy with pleasure, completely at your mercy while you fuck her relentlessly from behind. You can feel your own climax building fast now, the tight heat of her pussy, the way she’s still trembling from her earlier orgasm, the filthy sounds she makes even when muffled, all of that pushes you closer.
Yeri is still trying to be a brat, even like this, making little defiant noises against the wall, as if daring you to fuck her even harder. You keep pounding into Yeri from behind, driving her body against the wall with every deep, hard thrust. Her cheek is smashed against the cold tiles, her mouth open, drooling slightly as broken moans spill out of her. Suddenly, her hand flies up and grabs your wrist, the one pinning her head to the wall. Her fingers wrap around it tightly.
“Mmmph-hurts…”
She manages to mumble against the tiles, the word barely intelligible. You freeze instantly, worry spiking through the haze of lust. You quickly release her head, pulling your hand back.
“Shit, are you okay?”
Yeri slowly turns her head over her shoulder to look at you. The moment her eyes meet yours, that familiar bratty, wicked smile spreads across her face with her lipstick smeared, her cheeks flushed, her hair a complete mess. She laughs breathlessly.
“Got you.”
You stare at her, realization hitting you. She was playing you, faking the pain just to make you let go so she could keep being a little brat.
“You little-”
Before you can finish, she cuts you off, voice dripping with smug satisfaction even while your cock is still buried deep inside her.
“I bet Joy would love your cock.”
She purrs, pushing her ass back against you.
“If you fucked her like this… she wouldn’t even care if her boyfriend was watching. She’d probably beg you to ruin her right in front of him.”
You narrow your eyes, heat and irritation mixing with raw arousal.
“You’re a depraved whore, you know that?”
Yeri laughs again, completely unashamed.
“Thank you.”
You reach over to the windowsill, grab her phone, and unlock it with the code she gave you earlier. Yeri’s eyes widen when she sees what you’re doing.
“What are you-?”
“You wanted pictures for Joy earlier. Let’s send her some real ones. Show her what a filthy slut her friend actually is.”
Yeri’s body tenses hard around your cock. A flash of surprise, worry, and undeniable arousal flickers across her face. Earlier, when she posed for the pictures, she had control - she looked hot, put-together, in charge. Now she’s a wreck: makeup ruined and smeared, hair sticking to her sweaty face, cheek still red from being pressed against the tiles, a thin trail of drool at the corner of her mouth.
You angle the phone and take the first picture - a close-up of her face, completely destroyed, pressed against the wall while your cock is buried inside her. The second her pussy registers the flash and the humiliation, it clenches violently around your dick. You slow your thrusts on purpose, focusing on the camera. Yeri whimpers and immediately starts pushing back against you, trying to fuck herself on your cock. You grab the back of her head again and press her cheek harder into the tiles, then snap another picture - her face smushed, eyes glassy, looking utterly ruined while you’re balls-deep inside her. Yeri lets out a needy, embarrassed whimper, only able to imagine how pathetic and slutty she must look right now. You lean back slightly and angle the phone downward, capturing a clear shot of your thick cock stretching her pussy open from behind, her ass cheeks spread around you, her juices visibly coating your shaft.
“Stop-fuck-stop taking pictures. Just cum in my pussy… please… fill me up…”
You take one more picture, then finally set the phone back on the windowsill. You grab her hips with both hands and resume the brutal pace from earlier, slamming into her hard and deep.
“Needy little bitch.”
Your voice is dark with lust.
“You act all bratty but the second I treat you like the slut you are, you start begging for my cum.”
Yeri moans loudly, pushing back to meet every thrust, her pussy fluttering and squeezing around you as you ruin her against the wall. You keep slamming into her from behind, fucking her hard against the stall wall. Her cheek stays pressed to the cold tiles, her body jolting with every deep thrust.
“I’m getting close.”
You growl into her ear.
The second the words leave your mouth, Yeri’s entire body reacts. Her pussy clenches violently around your cock, and a fresh wave of wetness floods around you.
“You better shoot your load into my pussy this time.”
Her voice trembles with need.
“Don’t you dare pull out-fill me up. I want every drop.”
You press her harder into the wall, your chest flush against her back as you fuck her even deeper. The wet, filthy sounds of your cock pounding into her soaked cunt echo loudly in the small stall. Yeri reaches back with one hand, blindly grabbing your free wrist. She drags your hand around to her front and presses it firmly against her clothed tits. You grope her roughly through the sequined dress, fingers digging into the soft, full flesh. Her tits feel incredible in your palm. You knead and squeeze them hard, rolling her nipples between your fingers while you continue to rail her from behind.
The combination is too much. The tight, wet grip of her pussy, the way her walls flutter and milk you, the soft weight of her tits in your hand.
Your hips stutter.
“Fuck-I’m cuming-”
You bury yourself as deep as you can and let go. Your orgasm hits hard. Thick, heavy ropes of cum erupt inside Yeri’s pussy, flooding her in wave after wave. You keep thrusting through it, grinding deep, making sure every drop pumps into her. Yeri trembles violently between your body and the wall, a broken, satisfied moan spilling from her lips as she feels you filling her up.
“So much… you’re filling me so much…”
She whimpers, her pussy spasming around your pulsing cock, milking every last spurt. You stay buried inside her for a long moment, breathing hard against the back of her neck as the last pulses of your orgasm fade. Only then do you slowly pull out. The moment your cock slips free, Yeri’s hand moves between her legs. She quickly pulls her soaked panties back into place, trapping your cum inside her. A soft, possessive little sound escapes her as she makes sure nothing leaks out. When she finally turns around to face you, her left cheek is bright red, the faint imprint of the tile pattern still visible on her skin. Her makeup is ruined. Mascara smudged, lipstick completely gone, hair a wild mess. She looks thoroughly fucked.
And yet, she smiles up at you. That same bratty, satisfied smile as always.
You tuck your cock back into your pants and zip up, still catching your breath. Yeri steps closer, tilting her head playfully.
“I’ll expect similar treatment at the next script reading.”
You walk down the quiet hallway of the SM building. You had just dropped Karina and Giselle off at their practice room a few minutes ago. The tension between the three of you makes the air feel thick in the apartment, but at least for now, you have a moment of peace.
Suddenly, you hear light, quick footsteps approaching from behind.
“Oppa!”
Before you can turn fully, Winter is already there. She throws her arms around your neck in a tight hug, pressing her body flush against yours. She rises onto her tiptoes immediately, tilting her head up to kiss you. It’s not a quick, innocent peck. It’s needy, lingering, her lips soft and warm as she kisses you like she’s been waiting all day for this. When she finally pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes are dark and hungry.
“Hi.”
She whispers, still holding onto you, not stepping away. You can feel the heat radiating off her, the way her hips press subtly against you. She’s obviously needy.
“Winter… hey.”
You manage, trying to sound neutral. She bites her lower lip, looking up at you with those big, pleading eyes.
“When are you finally going to have sex with me?”
Her voice is sweet, but her question is laced with clear frustration.
“I’ve been waiting… I thought after everything…”
You swallow hard.
“Soon. I promise. Just… not right now.”
Winter’s expression shifts. She doesn’t look satisfied at all. She leans in closer.
“You always say ‘soon’…”
She murmurs, almost pouting.
“I want you now. I’ve been thinking about it every day.”
As she talks, something feels off. Her tone is too eager, too urgent. It almost feels like she’s trying to seduce you as quickly as possible. Like she’s hoping to get you to fuck her before November is officially over. The realization makes your stomach twist. Karina already lost the bet… so why is Winter still pushing this hard? Are you being played?
You do your best to deflect gently, keeping your hands on her waist but creating a little space between your bodies.
“Winter, I can’t right now. I have things to do and-”
Footsteps echo from further down the hallway. Winter’s eyes widen slightly. She quickly pulls back, fixing her expression into something more innocent.
“See you later, oppa.”
She says sweetly, giving you one last quick kiss on the cheek before turning and hurrying toward the practice room.
You let out a long sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing as you watch her disappear around the corner. Thank God.
You start walking again, trying to shake off the encounter. But then you stop dead in your tracks. Further down the hallway, leaning casually against the doorframe of another practice room with her arms crossed, is Joy.
She’s wearing a bright red, tight-fitting dress that hugs her upper body especially well. The hem is short, showing off her long legs. Her short dark hair frames her face perfectly, red lipstick making her lips stand out. She has her eyes fixed on you, her gaze looking slightly dangerous.
There’s a beat of silence.
But Joy’s lips slowly curve into a small smile. She doesn’t move from her spot, just watches you with that intense gaze, like she’s been waiting for you to notice her.
The hallway suddenly feels much smaller. You stand there, heart picking up speed again, unsure what to say or do as Joy continues to stare at you with clear, unmistakable interest. You take a few steps forward, closing the distance between you and Joy. The hallway suddenly feels narrower, the air thicker.
She’s leaning against the doorframe, one leg slightly bent, looking effortlessly confident. But you can see it. The tiny crack in her composure. Her eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something raw beneath the calm surface. Lust. She tries to hide it, but it’s there.
You haven’t seen her since that night at the rooftop bar with Yeri and her boyfriend. The memory of those pictures you sent - Yeri on her knees, ruined makeup, your cock in her mouth - hangs between you like smoke.
“Hey.”
You try to keep your voice casual.
Joy straightens a little.
“Hey.”
There’s a short, awkward pause.
She tilts her head.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just dropped Karina and Giselle off at practice.”
Joy nods, but her eyes don’t leave yours. Then, without any warning, she asks something that catches you completely off guard.
“Does Karina have a problem with you fucking other women?”
The question hits like a sudden drop. You blink, surprised by how direct she is, but you answer honestly.
“No… she doesn’t. Actually, it kind of started as her idea.”
You watch Joy’s reaction carefully. For a split second, jealousy flashes clearly in her eyes. She wants this. She wants you. Badly. But her relationship is still holding her back. You can see the internal war playing out behind her composed expression.
Yeri’s words echo in your head:
“I’m helping you out… so she’ll definitely take your cock soon.”
You decide not to waste the opportunity.
Trying to sound as innocent as possible, you ask.
“Do you… want to dance again? Like last time?”
Several emotions flicker across Joy’s face in rapid succession: surprise, raw lust, hunger, a flash of disgust at herself, guilt, and then clear interest.
She hesitates for a long moment. Then, quietly, almost like she’s convincing herself:
“…Yeah. Just… practicing some dancing.”
She turns around without another word and walks into the empty practice room. You follow her inside.
The door clicks shut behind you. The practice room is dimly lit, mirrors lining the walls. Joy stops in the middle of the room, her back to you for a second, before she turns to face you again. She looks nervous. Excited. Guilty. But mostly… hungry.
The silence stretches between you, thick with tension. She holds your gaze, then reaches into her small bag and pulls out her phone. A few taps later, the opening beats of your song "Addicted" start playing through the practice room’s speakers. The low, seductive bass fills the space.
Joy puts the phone down on the floor near the mirror and steps toward you. She moves exactly like the female dancer in your usual performance. She walks right up to you, close enough that you can smell her perfume. You instinctively place your hand on the small of her back, just like you do on stage. But Joy doesn’t put her arm around your neck. Instead, she places her palm flat on your chest. Her fingers slowly slide downward, tracing the lines of your abs through your shirt as she bends backward in a smooth, controlled arch. Her body rolls sensually, pressing her hips forward so her core grinds lightly against the front of your pants, right over your growing bulge. You feel the heat of her through the fabric. The teasing pressure makes your cock twitch. She holds the backbend for a moment longer than the usual choreography, eyes locked on yours the entire time, before she straightens up and steps away, continuing the dance.
You both fall into the choreography…more or less accurately at first. The familiar moves feel electric now that it’s just the two of you in this empty room. Your hands find her waist during the turns, her body rolls against you during the slower sections.
The song builds. As the second verse starts and your voice fills the studio:
"You know what you do when you look at me…"
Joy stops dancing. She stands straight in front of you, breathing slightly heavier. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches up and slowly unbuttons the top button of her red dress. Then the second. The fabric parts just enough to reveal more of her cleavage and the hem of her bra.
"Biting your lip, dropping to your knees…"
Joy does exactly that. She bites her lower lip, eyes never leaving yours, and gracefully sinks down to her knees right in front of you. The moment her knees hit the practice room floor, her hands move to your belt. She unbuckles it with steady fingers, then pulls down your zipper. The sound is loud in the quiet room, mixing with the beat of your own song.
She looks up at you, lips slightly parted, a mix of nervousness and raw hunger in her expression. Your cock strains against your boxers as she tugs your pants and underwear down just enough to free you. The cool air hits your skin for only a second before her warm breath ghosts over your length. Joy stays on her knees, one hand wrapping loosely around the base of your cock, staring up at you like she still can’t quite believe she’s doing this.
The song continues playing in the background, your voice echoing through the mirrors.
"Swallowing me whole, like you need the taste…"
Joy’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She leans forward slowly, parts her lips and takes the head into her warm mouth. She starts slowly, almost carefully, her tongue swirling around the tip, tasting you with soft, tentative licks. A quiet hum vibrates from her throat as she sinks a little deeper, sucking gently.
“It’s… just this once.”
She whispers, pulling back just enough to speak, her breath hot against your wet skin.
“This doesn’t mean anything… okay? Just… one time.”
She leans in again, taking more of your cock into her mouth, her lips stretching around your thickness. Her head bobs slowly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again, still trying to convince herself.
“This is just… practice.”
She murmurs between slow sucks, voice a little shaky.
“We’re just dancing… that’s all…”
But her actions betray her words. Her tongue presses flat against the underside of your cock as she takes you deeper, sucking with more purpose. Her free hand rests on your thigh, fingers digging in slightly. You rest your hand gently on the back of her head. Joy moans softly around you, the vibration traveling straight through your length.
She pulls off for a second, catching her breath.
“It’s not cheating… right? Not if your cock is bigger than his…”
The confession slips out in a breathless whisper, and the moment she says it, her cheeks flush darker. She immediately dives back down, taking you deeper this time, sucking harder as if trying to drown out her own words. You let her set the pace for a little longer, but the need building inside you makes your grip on the back of her head firmer. Slowly, you start guiding her movements, fucking her mouth with slow, deep thrusts. Joy whimpers around your cock but doesn’t pull away. Her eyes water as you push a little deeper than she can comfortably take. She gags softly, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth and running down her chin, eventually falling into the deep cleavage of her red dress.
You pull back slightly, letting her breathe, but she only leans forward again, eager despite the mess. Another thrust, deeper this time, and more spit spills down her chin, dripping onto her tits and making the fabric of her dress glisten.
“It’s… just once…”
She mumbles again when you let her pull off for air, strings of saliva connecting her lips to your cock. Her voice is hoarse, eyes glassy.
“Just… helping with the choreo… that’s all…”
But even as she says it, she opens her mouth again, taking you back in willingly. Her head moves in time with your slow thrusts. Her hands grip your thighs as you fuck her face with controlled, steady strokes. Every time you push a little too deep, she gags wetly, more drool spilling down her chin and onto her chest. The sight is filthy. Her red dress getting stained, her makeup starting to smudge, her eyes watering as she looks up at you. You can feel her throat tightening around you, her tongue still working desperately even as she struggles to take everything you give her. Joy’s muffled moans grow needier, her body shifting on her knees as if she’s getting turned on by her own surrender. She pulls off just long enough to gasp.
“Don’t stop… just… fuck my mouth…”
Then she’s back on you, letting you use her throat while she keeps mumbling weak excuses between gags and slurps.
“It’s not cheating… it’s not…”
But her actions say something completely different. The red dress has ridden up high on her thighs as she takes your cock back into her warm, wet mouth. The song "Addicted" continues playing through the practice room speakers, your own voice filling the space with its low, seductive rap verses and catchy chorus.
She knows this is wrong. She knows it with every slow bob of her head, every swirl of her tongue around your shaft. Her boyfriend is waiting somewhere, completely unaware. But right now, with your cock sliding between her lips and your hand resting on the back of her head, the guilt only seems to make her wetter.
“It’s just once…”
She tells herself again, trying to convince herself even as she sucks you deeper.
Just helping with the choreo… nothing more…
But your song is playing, and the lyrics hit her differently now.
"You know what you do when you look at me… Biting your lip, dropping to your knees…"
She feels every word like it was written for this exact moment.
Joy pulls back slightly, gasping for air once more. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed.
“I shouldn’t be doing this…This is so wrong…”
Yet she immediately leans forward again, taking your cock back into her mouth with a needy hum. Her head moves with more confidence now, sucking you deeper, her tongue pressing firmly against the underside as she works your length.
She really is starting to like your cock. The thickness, the way it stretches her lips, the heavy weight on her tongue…it’s intoxicating. She can see exactly why Yeri let you fuck her like a cheap slut in that bathroom stall. The pictures Yeri sent had already shocked her. Yeri on her knees, lipstick ruined, eyes watery. But the ones with Yeri’s face pressed against the tiles, makeup smeared, drooling while you fucked her from behind… those had stunned Joy even more. Her boyfriend had never been rough with her. Never pinned her down like that. Never made her feel used and wanted at the same time.
Joy moans around your cock, the vibration traveling through you as she takes you deeper, gagging softly when the tip hits the back of her throat. More spit drips down her chin, landing on her cleavage and making the red fabric darker. She pulls off for a second, breathing hard.
“Your cock…It’s so much bigger than his… fuck…”
She looks up at you with hazy eyes, conflicted but clearly excited.
“I can’t believe Yeri sent me those pictures… especially the ones where you had her face against the wall.”
She licks her lips, then leans in and kisses the side of your shaft.
“She looked so wrecked… I kept staring at them. I shouldn’t have… but I did.”
Joy takes you back into her mouth, sucking with renewed hunger. Her head moves faster now, cheeks hollowing as she works you eagerly. She’s no longer pretending this is just “practicing.” She’s sucking you off because she wants to. Because she’s getting wetter thinking about what’s coming next.
She wants your cock inside her. She wants to feel what Yeri felt. The song reaches the bridge, your voice low and cocky through the speakers.
"Tell me you’re addicted too… Tell me you can’t sleep without me inside you…"
Joy whimpers around your length, her free hand slipping between her own thighs, rubbing herself through her soaked panties as she continues blowing you. She’s completely lost in it now. Excited, guilty, and aching for you to fuck her properly. Her eyes flick up to meet yours again, watery and desperate, silently begging you to take control and give her what she’s been fantasizing about since she saw those pictures.
She stays on her knees for a while longer, completely focused on your cock. She sucks you with slow, hungry devotion, taking you deep, then pulling back to swirl her tongue around the head, licking up every drop of spit and pre-cum that leaks from you. Her eyes are half-lidded, cheeks flushed, and every few seconds she lets out a soft, needy moan that vibrates around your length. She seems to be genuinely enjoying it now, lost in the taste and the weight of you on her tongue.
She pulls off for a moment, breathing heavily
“Fuck… your cock tastes so good.”
She whispers, almost to herself. Then she leans in again, sucking you deeper, her head bobbing with more rhythm as she starts to lose herself in it.
After a minute, Joy reaches into the deep cleavage of her red dress. Her fingers fish around for a second before she pulls out a small, silver condom packet she had tucked securely under the strap of her bra. You watch, surprised and turned on, as she rips the packet open with her teeth. She holds the condom between her fingers, looks up at you with dark, hazy eyes, and slowly rolls it down your hard, glistening cock. Her hands are steady, but her breathing is shaky.
Once it’s on, she doesn’t waste time. She leans forward and takes you back into her mouth, sucking you through the thin latex. The sensation is different, but still incredibly hot. Joy moans around you, clearly enjoying the act of sucking you while you’re wrapped up, her tongue pressing against the underside as she works you deeper. She keeps going like that for a while, eyes watering slightly whenever she takes you too deep, spit dripping down her chin onto her dress.
Eventually, she pulls, breathing hard.
“Floor. I want you between my legs.”
You don’t argue. Joy lies back on the cool practice room floor, the red dress riding up her thighs as she spreads her legs for you. You kneel between them, pushing the hem of her dress higher until her soaked red panties are fully exposed. You hook your fingers into the waistband and pull them to the side, revealing her glistening, puffy pussy. She’s dripping wet. You lean down and drag your tongue slowly up her slit, tasting her. Joy’s back arches instantly, a broken moan escaping her lips.
“Oh my god…”
You eat her out with focused hunger, long, slow licks followed by firm circles around her clit. At the same time, you slide two fingers inside her tight heat, curling them upward while your thumb rubs her clit in steady strokes. Joy’s hips buck against your face, her hands flying down to grip your hair.
“Fuck-yes-right there-”
She gasps, voice trembling.
“Your tongue feels so good… don’t stop-”
You keep going, licking and sucking her clit while your fingers pump into her, making wet, lewd sounds that mix with the fading music still playing in the background. Joy’s thighs start to shake around your head, her moans growing louder and more desperate. She’s soaking your chin and fingers, her pussy twitching. Joy looks down at you between her legs, eyes glassy with lust, breathing ragged.
“Oh fuck…”
You eat her out with slow, steady licks, long strokes from her entrance up to her clit, then firm circles around the sensitive bud. Every time her breathing starts to quicken and her thighs begin to tremble, you pull back and switch to kissing her inner thighs instead. Soft, open-mouthed kisses, gentle bites, your tongue tracing lazy patterns on her smooth skin.
The back-and-forth drives her insane. Every time she feels her orgasm building - hips lifting, breath hitching, fingers tightening in your hair - you switch again, focusing on her thighs and denying her the direct stimulation she craves.
Joy’s body shakes with frustration and need.
“Stop-ah-stop teasing me…”
She whines as her voice cracks.
“Please… just make me feel good… I can’t take it anymore…”
You kiss her inner thigh again, right next to her dripping pussy, making her whimper.
“You want my cock? Or do you want my tongue in your pussy?”
Joy tries to answer, but the moment she opens her mouth you lick a slow, wet stripe along her thigh, dangerously close to her folds but not quite there.
“I- I want- fuck-”
She stutters, hips twitching desperately.
You do it again, another teasing kiss on her thigh, then a gentle bite. Joy’s head falls back against the floor, a frustrated, needy sob escaping her.
“Your cock…I want your cock… please…”
You smile against her skin.
“Good girl.”
The praise makes Joy whimper loudly, her pussy visibly clenching around nothing. You move up between her legs, kneeling right there. Your condom-covered cock is rock hard and throbbing as you align the head with her soaked entrance. You rub it up and down her slit once, coating yourself in her wetness, teasing her clit with the tip. Joy’s breath catches, her nails scrape against the wooden floor. You push forward slowly, the thick head stretching her open as you sink into her tight, dripping pussy. Joy’s back arches off the floor, a long, broken moan tearing from her throat as you fill her inch by inch.
“Oh my god… you’re so big…”
You don’t stop until you’re buried to the hilt inside her, hips pressed flush against hers. Her walls flutter and squeeze around you, still sensitive from your earlier teasing. You stay there for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling her pulse around your cock. Joy looks up at you with glassy, desperate eyes, breathing hard.
“Please… fuck me…”
You start thrusting into Joy’s tight, wet pussy with slow, deep strokes, savoring the way her walls grip your cock. The moment you pick up a steady rhythm, Joy becomes surprisingly loud. She doesn’t talk much, no long sentences, but the sounds she makes fill the entire practice room. Soft, breathy whines spill from her lips with every thrust. High-pitched whimpers when you bottom out. Little broken moans that grow louder as you fuck her harder.
“Ah… ahh… mmph-”
Every time you drive into her, a needy sound escapes her. Her head tilts back against the floor, eyes half-closed, mouth open as she lets out continuous, shameless noises.
“Deeper…”
She gasps occasionally, voice trembling.
“Mmm- harder…”
That’s all she manages. The rest is just raw, instinctive sounds: whines, whimpers, and moans that echo off the mirrors around you.
You look down at her, hands gripping her naked thighs, spreading them wider as you ruin her pussy with steady, powerful thrusts. Her red dress is bunched uselessly around her waist, her body jolting beautifully every time your hips slap against hers.
Your eyes drift to her chest. Her tits bounce with every thrust, not dramatically yet, but enough to draw your full attention. You can’t stop staring, wondering how they’d feel in your hands, how heavy they’d be, how soft her nipples would feel between your fingers.
Joy notices. Even through her moans, she sees where your gaze is locked. Her lips part, and between two shaky whimpers she manages to ask.
“You want to see them…?”
You nod, breathing hard. Without hesitation, Joy reaches down, grabs the hem of her red dress, and pulls it up and over her head in one smooth motion. She tosses the dress aside, leaving her in just her red bra. She arches her back slightly, reaches behind herself, and unhooks the bra with ease. The straps slide down her shoulders, and she pulls it off completely.
Her tits spill free. They’re fuller and heavier than you expected, beautiful, soft, with pretty pink nipples already hard from arousal. The moment the bra is gone, they bounce more freely with every thrust you give her, jiggling hypnotically as you fuck her. Joy’s moans grow a little louder now that she’s fully exposed. Her hands move up to cup her own breasts for a second, squeezing them gently before letting them go again, letting them bounce naturally as you continue pounding into her.
You can’t take your eyes off them. The sight of her perfect tits bouncing while you ruin her tight pussy on the practice room floor is almost too much. Her loud, needy whimpers and moans keep filling the room, mixing with the wet sounds of your cock sliding in and out of her soaked cunt. Joy’s head falls back again, another long, trembling whine escaping her as you thrust deeper. You keep pounding into Joy’s tight, wet pussy with steady, deep strokes, your hands still gripping her naked thighs and your eyes are locked on her tits. They bounce beautifully with every thrust. You can’t help but compare them silently to Karina’s. Karina’s are perky and perfectly shaped, sitting high on her chest with cute, sensitive nipples that always get rock hard the moment you touch them. Joy’s are noticeably smaller, with a natural softness that makes them jiggle more freely. Her nipples are a pretty shade of pink, already stiff and begging for attention.
After a few more thrusts, you make up your mind. You want a taste. You lean down without slowing your rhythm, still fucking her deep and steady, and wrap your lips around one of her tits. You suck greedily, tongue swirling around her hard nipple before you gently bite down. Her back arches sharply off the floor, pushing her chest harder into your mouth. A loud, broken moan tears from her throat as her hands fly to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
“Ah-! Yes- suck them-!”
She pulls you deeper into her tits, pressing your face between her soft, warm mounds. You switch from one nipple to the other, sucking harder, licking, gently biting while your hips keep snapping forward, cock plunging into her soaked pussy again and again.
The combination is overwhelming for her. Being fucked deep and having her tits worshipped at the same time makes Joy lose control. Her back stays arched off the ground, body trembling as loud, needy moans spill from her lips without restraint.
“Oh my god- fuck- it feels so good-!”
She tries not to think about her boyfriend. She really does. But the comparison creeps in anyway. Her boyfriend is gentle. Sweet. He touches her like she’s fragile. He never fucks her like this, never pins her down, never sucks on her tits while pounding her pussy, never makes her moan this loudly.
You’re different. Rougher. Hungrier. You’re taking what you want, and her body is responding in ways she didn’t know it could. The guilt flickers in the back of her mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by pleasure. Joy’s fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you even harder against her chest as she whimpers.
“Don’t stop-please-suck them harder-fuck me deeper-!”
Her pussy stutters around your cock, getting wetter with every thrust. Her tits jiggle against your face as you devour them, sucking and licking while you ruin her on the practice room floor. Joy’s head falls back, another loud, shameless moan echoing through the mirrors. She’s completely lost in it now, back arched, tits in your mouth, pussy stuffed full of your cock, moaning like she doesn’t care who might hear. You keep fucking Joy with deep, steady thrusts, your cock sliding in and out of her tight, soaking pussy while your mouth stays latched onto her tits. You suck harder on one nipple, tongue flicking over the stiff peak, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same hungry attention. Your free hand moves from her thigh down between your bodies. Your fingers find her swollen clit and start rubbing it in firm, fast circles, matching the rhythm of your hips.
Joy’s reaction is instant and overwhelming. Her moans grow much louder, echoing through the empty practice room.
“Ah-! Fuck-! Too much-!”
She cries out, voice cracking. Her back arches sharply off the floor again, pushing her tits harder into your mouth. She can barely handle the triple stimulation. Your thick cock stretching and pounding her pussy, your mouth sucking greedily on her sensitive tits, and your fingers rubbing her clit without mercy. She doesn’t know what she wants more. She can’t decide. The cock filling her so deep, the wet heat of your mouth on her nipples, or the relentless pressure on her clit. All three sensations crash into her at once, leaving her a trembling, moaning mess.
“Oh my god-I can’t-it feels too good-!”
Her hips jerk uncontrollably against you.
You don’t let up. You keep thrusting into her, sucking her tits, and rubbing her clit all at the same time, determined to push her over the edge. Joy’s moans turn into desperate, broken cries. Her walls start spasming wildly around your cock, getting tighter and tighter. Suddenly, her entire body seizes up. She arches her back even further off the floor, hips bucking up violently as her orgasm crashes through her.
“Fuuuuck-! I’m cuming-cuming-!”
Her pussy clamps down hard around your cock, pulsing and spasming in powerful waves. She shatters around you, gushing wetly as her climax rips through her body. Her thighs shake uncontrollably, her tits bouncing wildly as she trembles beneath you.
You have to fight hard to hold it together. Her pussy is milking you so tightly, rippling and squeezing around your cock like it’s trying to pull your orgasm out of you. Combined with the sight and feel of her tits in your mouth and the way she’s moaning and falling apart…it’s almost too much. You grit your teeth and keep thrusting through her orgasm, fucking her deep and steady, riding out every wave of her climax until her body slowly starts to calm down. Joy’s back finally lowers back to the floor. Her chest heaves with heavy breaths, her face flushed and glistening with sweat. Her pussy continues to flutter weakly around your cock, aftershocks still rolling through her. She looks up at you with glassy, fucked-out eyes, lips parted, breathing ragged. You’re still buried deep inside her, rock hard and throbbing, having barely managed to hold back your own release.
Joy’s body slowly relaxes beneath you, her back finally lowering to the cool practice room floor. Her chest rises and falls with heavy sighs. The loud, shameless moans and whimpers from moments ago have quieted into soft, exhausted pants. Her pussy continues to flutter weakly around your cock, still buried deep inside her, aftershocks gently pulsing through her.
For a moment, she almost forgets the music is still playing. Then the beat shifts. The familiar opening of your "Ride It" starts filling the room. The moment Joy hears it, something changes in her eyes. A fresh spark of lust flickers across her flushed face. For the first time in a long time, she feels a strong, almost overwhelming urge to ride. It’s not that she usually dislikes being on top, but with her boyfriend, it never felt like this. He never made her want to take control, to bounce on his cock like a desperate slut. With you, though… with your thick cock still stretching her and your song playing in the background… she suddenly craves it. And the mirrors surrounding you two only make it hotter. She’ll be able to watch herself, watch every bounce, every roll of her hips, every expression on her face as she rides you.
Joy looks up at you, breathing still heavy.
“Lie down.”
You pull out of her and lie back on the floor. Joy immediately climbs on top of you, straddling your hips. She reaches down, wraps her hand around your condom-covered cock, and lines it up with her dripping entrance. She sinks down, taking every inch until her ass rests against your thighs. A deep, satisfied moan escapes her as she feels you fill her again. Then she starts riding. To the rhythm of your own song.
Joy rolls her hips slowly at first, grinding down on your cock, letting the beat guide her. Her hands rest on your chest for balance as she begins to bounce. Her tits jiggle with every movement, the red dress long discarded, leaving her completely naked on top of you. You place your hands on her waist, fingers digging into her soft skin as you let her take control. Your palms explore her body, sliding up her sides, cupping her bouncing tits, thumbs brushing over her hard nipples. You enjoy the view. Her tits look incredible as they bounce freely while she rides you. But in the back of your mind, you can’t help but miss Karina’s. Because of this stupid NNN bet, you haven’t been able to touch, squeeze, or suck on Karina’s tits properly since the beginning of the month. The memory of how they feel in your hands, flickers through your thoughts even as Joy rides you like a slut to your own song.
Joy’s moans start growing again, mixing with the lyrics of "Ride It" playing around you. She leans forward slightly, hands planted on your chest, bouncing harder, chasing the pleasure she clearly craves. Her eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, completely lost in riding your cock while your own voice fills the practice room. She looks down at you, voice breathy and needy between moans.
“Fuck… your cock feels so good…”
Joy keeps bouncing on your cock, her hips rising and falling with increasing rhythm. She’s fully committed now, no hesitation, no more half-hearted excuses. She lifts herself up until only the head remains inside her, then slams back down, taking every inch with a wet slap. Her tits bounce beautifully with every movement. You can’t resist anymore. Your hands slide up her body and cup her full, soft breasts, squeezing them greedily. You massage them firmly, thumbs brushing over her hard nipples, rolling and pinching them between your fingers as she rides you.
Joy moans louder at the added stimulation.
“Ah-! Yes-play with them-!”
She watches herself in the mirrors that line the practice room walls. The sight turns her on even more. She sees herself, completely naked, flushed and sweaty, bouncing shamelessly on your cock like a slut. Her tits jiggling in your hands, her hips rolling, her pussy swallowing your thick length again and again. The reflection makes her feel incredibly sexy. That realization gives her a sudden surge of confidence. Her riding becomes bolder, more aggressive. She starts rolling her hips in deep, sensual circles on the downstroke, grinding her clit against you before lifting up and dropping again.
She gets more vocal too. Not just moans and whimpers anymore, actual words spill from her lips between heavy breaths.
“Fuck-your cock feels so good inside me…”
“Look at me-look how I’m riding you…”
“Harder-squeeze my tits harder-!”
While Joy loses herself in her reflection, you can’t stop staring at her body. Your eyes are glued to her abs now. The way they flex and tighten every time she lifts herself up, the smooth, toned muscles of her tight tummy rolling and contracting as she bounces on your cock. The sight is hypnotic. Every time she drops down, her stomach tightens beautifully, highlighting the definition of her core. You keep massaging her tits, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching her nipples while she rides you faster and more desperately. Joy’s moans grow louder and filthier as she watches herself in the mirror.
“Shit, I look so fucking hot riding your cock…”
She gasps, voice trembling with arousal.
“Look at my tits-they’re bouncing so much-ahh-!”
She grinds down harder, her pussy clenching around you as she chases the pleasure, completely lost in the sight of her own body moving on top of you. Her tight tummy keeps flexing and rolling with every bounce, and you can’t take your eyes off it - or off the way her tits jiggle in your hands while she rides you like she was made for it.
Joy’s breathing is ragged now, her moans turning into needy cries as she gets closer again.
“Fuck-I’m gonna-I’m getting close again-!”
She doesn’t slow down. If anything, she rides you even harder, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror, completely addicted to how she looks while taking your cock. You try to thrust up into Joy from below, eager to take control and drive deeper into her, but she immediately presses her hands down on your chest, stopping your hips.
“No. Let noona take care of you.”
She grinds down harder instead, rolling her hips in slow, steady circles, her tight pussy swallowing every inch of your cock and squeezing around you as she moves. The motion is sinful and deep and sensual and she’s completely in control.
Your hands leave her tits, sliding down her body again, roaming over her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass, then back up her sides. You trace every inch of her smooth skin, feeling the way her muscles flex and roll as she rides you. The more you touch her, the more confident Joy becomes. She sits up straighter, hands braced on your chest, and starts talking dirtier, her voice breathy and teasing between moans.
“Look at you… lying there while I use your cock…”
“Mmm-you like when noona rides you like this?”
“My pussy’s so wet for you… can you feel how tight I am?”
She grinds down especially hard on one roll, making you groan. Her second orgasm is building fast now. You can feel it in the way her walls start fluttering around you, the way her breathing turns ragged and her thighs tremble on either side of your hips. Joy’s eyes flutter, but she keeps riding, her voice growing needier.
“I’m getting close again… fuck-I’m so close…”
She leans forward slightly, tits swaying heavily above you, and looks straight into your eyes.
“Use my pussy. Fuck me until I cum-please-make me cum on your cock.”
That’s all you need. Your hands grip her waist tightly. You plant your feet on the floor and start pounding up into her from below, hard, fast, relentless thrusts that make her bounce violently on your cock. Joy cries out, her whole body shaking above you.
“Ah-! Yes-! Just like that-!”
Her tits jiggle wildly with every powerful upward thrust. They bounce and slap together, nipples hard and flushed as she’s fucked senseless from below. Joy’s head falls back, loud, broken moans spilling from her lips as she takes everything you give her. Her pussy clamps around your cock, getting tighter and wetter as her second orgasm rushes toward her. She’s completely lost in it now, bouncing and shaking on top of you, tits jiggling obscenely, her tight tummy flexing with every hard thrust while she chases her climax. You grip Joy’s waist tighter and start destroying her pussy from below. Your hips snap upward with raw power, thrusting hard and deep into her tight, soaking cunt. Each brutal stroke makes her bounce violently on your cock, her tits jiggling wildly above you. The wet, lewd sound of your cock slamming into her fills the practice room, mixing with the beat of your song still playing in the background.
Joy’s moans turn into loud, broken cries.
“Ah-! Fuck-! Too deep-! You’re-ahh-ruining me-!”
She can barely hold herself up anymore. Her hands press desperately against your chest as she takes everything you give her, her body shaking with every powerful thrust.
Suddenly, right before she tips over the edge, Joy feels something unfamiliar. A strange, building pressure deep in her lower belly, almost like she needs to pee. It grows stronger and stronger with every thrust. Her eyes widen.
“Oh my god-wait, I feel-I’m gonna-!”
She doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Joy’s second orgasm explodes through her.
Her back arches violently off your body as she squirts hard, a clear, powerful jet of her juices gushing out around your cock and showering your abs and chest. Her pussy spasms wildly, clamping down on you as she comes undone. The sudden gush surprises you so much that your cock slips out of her dripping pussy mid-thrust. You freeze, eyes wide, watching in shock as Joy squirts all over you, her body writhing and squirming on top of you while you instinctively hold her hips in place. She keeps shaking, a broken, high-pitched cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm rips through her. The stream slowly turns into a messy dribble, soaking your skin and the floor beneath you. When it finally stops, Joy collapses forward onto your chest, breathing hard, face buried against your neck.
She’s clearly embarrassed.
“Oh my god…I’m so sorry… I don’t know what happened… I’ve never… I didn’t mean to-”
You chuckle, one hand gently stroking her back.
“It’s okay.”
You say, still catching your breath.
“I didn’t expect you to squirt like that… but it was fucking hot.”
Joy lifts her head, cheeks burning red, but your calm, almost amused reaction seems to ease some of her embarrassment. Instead, it reignites the heat in her eyes. She bites her lip, looking at you with renewed hunger.
“…Since I came all over you, you better do the same.”
She climbs off you slowly, her legs still shaky. Then she kneels between your legs again, looking at you expectantly.
“Stand up.”
You push yourself up and stand in front of her. Joy reaches out, wraps her hand around your cock, and leans in. She starts cleaning you with her mouth, licking and sucking her own juices off your length, her tongue swirling around the head and shaft. She takes you deeper, moaning softly as she tastes herself on you. Her eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, filled with lust and a hint of playful shame. She pulls off just long enough to whisper.
“Let me make you cum now…”
Then she dives back down, sucking you eagerly, clearly determined to return the favor and push you over the edge. Her lips stretch wide around your thickness as she sucks you deep and sloppy, head bobbing with wet, messy sounds that echo through the practice room. Spit drips freely from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin and onto her tits as she works you with desperate enthusiasm.
On one hand, the thrill is intoxicating. The thought of another man, especially you, painting her face with cum makes her pussy throb. She can already imagine the warm, heavy ropes landing on her skin. It turns her on more than she wants to admit.
On the other hand, guilt gnaws at her. What would her boyfriend think if he saw her like this? On her knees in a practice room, sucking another man’s cock like a desperate slut while his song playlist plays in the background? The shame burns hot in her chest… but it only seems to make her suck you harder.
Her thoughts scatter when you groan deeply, voice rough with warning.
“Fuck-Joy, I’m gonna cum-”
She pulls off your cock. Her hand immediately wraps around your shaft, stroking you fast and firm, twisting at the head. Joy tilts her head back slightly, opens her mouth wide, and closes her eyes, waiting. You can’t hold back any longer. With a low, guttural groan, you explode. Thick, heavy ropes of cum shoot across her face in powerful spurts. The first streak lands across her forehead and nose, the second splashes over her cheek and lips, the third paints her chin and drips down onto her tits. You keep pulsing, painting her pretty face with a messy, generous load until her features are glazed and dripping with your seed.
Joy stays perfectly still, mouth open, taking every drop like she loves it.
When you finally finish, she stays there for a moment, eyes still closed, face completely covered in your cum. A thick strand slowly drips from her chin onto her chest.
She looks utterly filthy. And breathtaking.
Joy slowly opens her eyes. She doesn’t wipe her face. Instead, she looks up at you with a dazed, satisfied expression, the shame and lust still swirling together in her gaze. She licks a drop of your cum from the corner of her lips and gives you a small, shaky smile.
“…That was a lot.”
Her face is still painted with your thick load, some of it already starting to drip down her neck.
The apartment is quiet except for the soft rustle of cards. You and Karina are sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a half-finished game of Go-Stop spread out between you. The coffee table has been pushed aside, and a few empty snack bowls sit nearby. It’s one of those rare calm evenings where nothing dramatic is happening. No schedules, no sudden visitors, just the two of you.
Karina leans forward, studying her cards with a focused little frown. She’s wearing one of your oversized hoodies, the sleeves too long on her arms, and her hair is tied up in a messy bun. She looks comfortable.
She finally plays a card and glances up at you, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
“You’re too quiet tonight. Did something happen at the company?”
You shrug, playing your own card.
“Nothing major. Dropped you two off, ran into a couple people on the way out. The usual.”
Karina hums, not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches over and steals one of the remaining shrimp chips from your side, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied crunch.
The silence that follows is easy, almost peaceful. Until the front door clicks open.
Giselle steps inside, still in her workout clothes. Loose sweatpants and a cropped top that shows a strip of her stomach. She pauses when she sees the two of you on the floor, cards scattered everywhere.
“Oh… card night?”
She asks, voice soft and a little awkward.
Karina looks up and smiles.
“Yeah. Want to join? We’re almost done with this round.”
Giselle hesitates for a second, then nods. She kicks off her shoes and walks over, lowering herself onto the floor beside Karina. She glances at you briefly, just a quick look, before focusing on the cards. The three of you continue the game in relative silence for a few minutes. The atmosphere is… strange. Not uncomfortable exactly, but layered. You can feel the weight of everything that’s happened recently hanging in the air.
Karina wins the round with a satisfied little laugh, collecting the points.
“Ha! I’m on fire tonight.”
Giselle smiles faintly, but her eyes flick toward you again when she thinks you’re not looking. Karina deals the next round, humming softly to herself.
“So,”
She says casually, not looking up from the cards.
“How was your day, oppa? Anything interesting happen after you left us?”
Her tone is light, but there’s a tiny edge to it. The kind that makes you wonder if she already knows more than she’s letting on. Giselle stays quiet, pretending to focus on arranging her cards, but you notice the way her fingers tighten slightly around them.
The game continues, but the peaceful card night suddenly feels a lot more loaded than it did five minutes ago. Karina is winning again, humming happily as she collects points, while Giselle plays quietly, occasionally stealing glances at you when she thinks no one is looking.
Your phone vibrates once on the floor beside you. You glance down, expecting maybe a schedule update or a random message from your manager. Instead, the notification shows a new message from Seulgi.
You unlock the phone and open it. The picture loads.
You stare at the photo for a second longer than you should. The way the fabric clings to her body, the subtle flex of her abs…it’s clearly not just about working out.
You know exactly what Seulgi’s intention is.
A small, dangerous spark of excitement runs through you. You remember how tight her ass felt last time, how she moaned when you fucked her. The idea of bending her over again, maybe even taking her ass once more, makes your cock twitch slightly in your pants. You’re still convinced you’re winning this month. Karina lost. You’ve already gotten plenty of release. So why not enjoy it?
You type a quick reply, keeping it casual but open.
“Sure. What time?”
You hit send and lock the phone, placing it back on the floor as if nothing happened.
Karina looks up from her cards, raising an eyebrow.
“Who was that?”
“Just management stuff.”
You lie smoothly, picking up your next card.
“Nothing important.”
Giselle stays quiet, but you catch her eyes flicking toward your phone for a split second before she looks back down at her hand.
The game continues. Karina wins the round again and laughs triumphantly, leaning over to ruffle your hair.
“You’re distracted tonight, oppa. Losing on purpose?”
You smile and shrug, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“Maybe I’m just letting you win.” Giselle doesn’t say anything, but the tension in the room feels a little thicker now. You pick up your cards again, but your mind is already half on tomorrow.
YN brought Irene home to introduce to his parents, the date went smoothly as first until YN’s dad learned that Irene was the daughter of a male classmate whom he hated to the guts. YN’s dad swallowed down the anger for the young couple’s sake. Days after, YN and his girlfriend then set up a dinner for the two families to meet each other without them knowing.
What would YN’s dad and Irene’s dad say when they have this faithful reunion?
OLD GRUDGES, NEW LOVE
RED VELVET Irene X Male Reader
6K WORDS COUNTED
—
Y/N had never seen his father steamroll his hair so many times in one evening.
“Appa, it is fine,” Y/N said for the third time, watching his dad’s reflection in the mirror by the entryway. “We’re just having dinner. It’s not a job interview.”
“It is more important than a job interview,” Mr. L/N muttered, flattening down a stubborn strand. “This is the woman who is stealing my son away.”
Y/N’s mother glanced up from tying a ribbon around a fruit basket. She smacked her husband lightly on the arm.
“He is thirty,” she said. “He’s not being stolen. He’s walking away willingly.”
“Wow, thanks, eomma,” Y/N said dryly.
His mother smiled. “You know what I mean. Besides, from what you say, Joohyun sounds like a lovely girl.”
“She is,” Y/N said, and that alone made his voice soften. “You’ll love her. She’s a bit shy at first but once she’s comfortable she is really funny. Just… don’t interrogate her, okay?”
“I will not interrogate her,” his father said.
“You say that now,” his mother murmured.
The doorbell rang before the argument could start. Y/N’s heart did a weird, nervous leap. He smoothed his shirt, took one quick calming breath, then went to the door.
When he opened it, there she was.
Bae Joohyun stood in the hallway, hair swept neatly over one shoulder, simple cream blouse tucked into high-waisted black slacks. Minimal makeup. A small, careful smile just for him. In her hands was a blue gift bag and a neatly wrapped rectangular box.
“Hey,” she said, eyes meeting his. The nervous edge in her smile eased.
He forgot half his stress immediately.
“Hey,” he echoed, stepping aside. “Come in. Watch your step, my mom still refuses to throw out that ugly rug.”
He caught the quick twitch of amusement in her eyes as she stepped in and removed her shoes.
“Your place is nice,” she said, glancing around the hallway. “Cozy.”
“Translation,” Y/N said, lowering his voice. “Parents live here.”
She laughed quietly.
His mom appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “You must be Joohyun.”
Joohyun straightened a little. “Yes. Hello, eomeoni. It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.” Her voice was polite but warm.
She bowed, almost perfectly ninety degrees. Then she offered the gift bag with both hands.
“I brought a small gift,” she said. “I was not sure what you liked so I brought tea and some traditional sweets from a shop near my work.”
Y/N’s mother’s eyes lit up, as if she had just been handed a daughter she never had.
“Oh, you didn’t have to,” she gushed, accepting the bag. “Look at her manners. Y/N, learn something.”
“I literally can’t win,” Y/N muttered.
Then his father emerged from the living room, straightening his casual blazer like he was about to host a business meeting. He paused when he saw Joohyun, sizing her up with that assessing dad-look.
“So,” he said, face carefully neutral. “This is the famous girlfriend.”
Joohyun turned to him quickly and bowed again. “Hello, abeoji. My name is Bae Joohyun. It is very nice to meet you.”
She produced the rectangular box this time. “This is for you. I heard from Y/N that you like to drink in the evenings sometimes, so I brought a bottle of plum wine from a place I like.”
Mr. L/N’s eyebrows went up. “You brought alcohol for your boyfriend’s father?”
“Ah… was that… inappropriate?” Joohyun faltered. “I thought since you are an adult and like to drink, it might be a nice… I’m sorry if it…”
Then his father laughed, deep and hearty, and took the box.
“Inappropriate? No. Very appropriate. You are already much more thoughtful than my son.”
“Appa,” Y/N complained.
“It is true,” his father said calmly. “Come in, Joohyun. Make yourself comfortable.”
Joohyun gave Y/N a quick, relieved look. He smiled back and mouthed, “See?” before leading her into the living room.
The first half hour went better than Y/N could have scripted.
Joohyun sat neatly on the sofa, back straight, hands folded in her lap when she was not gesturing politely. She answered questions about her job at the gallery, talked about current exhibitions, and slipped in little comments about how Y/N had helped her carry heavy frames and sat with her when she had to do late closing.
Y/N’s mom ate all that up, nodding and occasionally shooting her son a proud look. “You didn’t tell us you were helpful,” she said. “At home you are like a dead plant.”
“Thanks, eomma.”
His father watched mostly in silence at first, sipping tea, listening. When Joohyun mentioned she had been living alone since university, he perked up.
“By yourself?” he asked. “No roommates?”
“Only for a short while,” Joohyun answered. “But now, yes, just me. I’m used to it. My parents are still in Daegu.”
“Ah. Daegu,” his father said, nodding. “I am also from Daegu. Which part?”
“Near Suseong Lake, actually,” she said. “My parents still live in the same apartment block.”
His father straightened a little. “Suseong Lake? Really? That is where my high school was. I used to live near there too. What a coincidence. What does your father do?”
“Now he runs a small logistics company.” She smiled. “Before that he… well, he tried many things. He was a high school teacher for a bit. He also worked in construction, and then for a trading company, and…” She trailed off and laughed. “He likes to say he failed a lot until he found the right thing.”
“What is his name?” his father asked casually. “Maybe I know him. Daegu is smaller than it looks.”
“Oh.” Joohyun sat up a little straighter. “His name is Bae Dong Chul.”
The room went totally silent.
Y/N thought for a second that maybe a plate had broken somewhere or a car had crashed outside, because his father’s face changed so fast it almost seemed like he had been slapped.
The older man’s grip on his teacup tightened. His eyes narrowed with laser focus on Joohyun.
“…Bae… Dong Chul?” he repeated slowly.
Joohyun nodded, oblivious to the sudden temperature drop. “Yes. Do you know him, abeoji?”
His father set the cup down carefully, very carefully, like it was a grenade with the pin halfway out.
Know him? Y/N had never heard his father laugh with that particular tone before, sharp and humorless, like someone was dragging glass across a chalkboard inside his skull.
Of course you know that bastard, something in his father’s expression said. But what came out of his mouth was entirely different.
“I… might,” he said, jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out. “There was… a Bae Dong Chul in my high school, yes.”
“Really?” Joohyun brightened in innocent delight. “You were classmates?”
Y/N’s mother finally noticed something too. She gave her husband a warning sideways glance. He did not look at her. He was too busy staring into the middle distance like he was mentally replaying a war.
“In the same year,” he said shortly.
Joohyun made a pleased sound. “Wah, that is such a small world. My dad always says his high school days were very… eventful.”
“I bet he fucking does,” Y/N’s father muttered in a low voice, in dialect, thinking no one would catch it.
Y/N caught it. He stared at his father, then at Joohyun, who was still smiling, then at his mother, whose eyes said clearly: Not now. We are not doing this now.
“Appa,” Y/N said under his breath. “You… okay?”
His father inhaled deeply through his nose. Y/N could almost see the choice playing out on his face. Explode and rip this whole dinner apart or swallow it for his son’s sake.
He looked at Y/N. Y/N’s face was open, hopeful, clearly in love. Joohyun’s posture was a little nervous, but she was so obviously trying her best. His wife was watching him in that way that said: If you ruin this for him, I will personally end you.
Mr. L/N swallowed.
“I did not know your father well,” he lied with effort. “Different groups. But. Yes. I know of him.”
“Oh, really? He will be so happy,” Joohyun said. “He always wanted to go to one of these big school reunions but he never could arrange it.”
“I am very sure he did not miss anything,” Mr. L/N replied tightly.
Y/N’s mom cut in quickly, clapping her hands once. “Joohyun, can you help me in the kitchen for a second? I need a young person’s eyes on the plating.” She shot her a warm smile. “You know Y/N, he lies and tells me everything looks good.”
“I do not lie,” Y/N protested. “I am just smart.”
Joohyun laughed and followed his mother to the kitchen.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Y/N turned to his father.
“What the hell was that?” he asked in a low voice.
His father was staring at nothing again, clearly seeing a very specific memory. His hand curled into a fist on his knee.
“Of all the women in this city…” he muttered. “You bring home Bae Dong Chul’s daughter.”
“You knew him,” Y/N said slowly.
His father snapped back to the present with a glare. “Knew him? We were rivals.”
Rivals. The way he spat the word out like it was poison.
“In what, high school romance?” Y/N said skeptically. “What is this, some old drama?”
His father’s eyes flashed. “He cheated in the class president election. He campaigned behind my back. He made secret posters and promised the boys he would convince the school to allow hair perms in winter. It was a betrayal.”
“…that is your big grudge?” Y/N asked.
His father leaned in. “I lost by one vote.”
Y/N blinked. “Appa. It was high school.”
“That is not all,” his father growled. “He took my spot on the soccer team.”
“Because he was better?”
“He was not better,” his father said instantly. “The coach liked him more. And during graduation, he spilled fixer in my hair in the darkroom and I had to take pictures with half my head looking like a dead crow. Do you know how much that haunted me? For thirty years I have lived with that photo.”
Y/N stared at him.
“So let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You have been mad at this man, in your head, for three decades. Because of student council, soccer and a bad hairstyle.”
His father’s eye twitched. “You do not understand. That time was war.”
“Appa,” Y/N said, “I am dating his daughter.”
“I see that,” his father replied, voice completely dry. “God has a very specific sense of humor.”
His mother called from the kitchen. “Dinner time, boys. Put away your stupid faces and come.”
His father took one more steadying breath, then plastered a half-decent smile on his face.
“For now,” he muttered. “I will be… civil.”
“Thank you,” Y/N said.
Outside, he still felt uneasy, but Joohyun came back from the kitchen carrying side dishes and smiling, and for a while, he let himself believe it would be fine.
—
Two days later, the memory of his father’s weird reaction still hung in the back of Y/N’s mind. But Joohyun’s excited voice over the phone distracted him.
“So, guess what?” she said.
“You finally admitted I am funnier than you?”
“Be serious,” she scolded lightly. “My parents want to meet you. Properly. Not just through these phone calls and pictures that my mom keeps zooming in on until your nose fills the whole screen.”
“That is… a disturbing image,” Y/N said. He lounged back on his couch. “Okay. When? I can take a day off, go to Daegu, impress them with my above average bow.”
“We do not have to go to Daegu,” she said. “They actually have to come to Seoul next week for some boring meeting my dad has. I thought… if your parents are okay with it…”
She hesitated.
“…we could do a dinner. Both families. Together.”
Y/N sat up.
Both families.
He remembered his father’s clenched jaw. The muttered “that bastard.” The thirty-year beef over perms and soccer.
“That might be… sudden?” he said carefully. “We just introduced you to my parents.”
“We do not have to rush it,” she said quickly. “It is just, my mom really wants to meet you. She said if she cannot see with her own eyes what kind of person stole her precious daughter, she will have a heart attack.”
“You all talk about ‘stealing’ like we are kidnapping each other,” Y/N muttered. “Okay. Let me ask them. Maybe something small. Just a dinner.”
“Really?” Her relief was obvious. “If it is too much, we can…”
“No,” he said, deciding. “We can do it. I will find a place and we will make sure there are no,” he thought of his father, “explosions.”
—
He did not tell his parents everything.
He brought it up after dinner, when his father had just taken his socks off and sat down in his favorite chair, remote in hand.
“So,” Y/N said, leaning in the doorway. “Joohyun’s parents are coming to Seoul next week. Her dad has some meeting. They want to have dinner. With us. All together.”
His mother looked pleased. “Already? That is fast.”
“That is too fast,” his father said immediately. “Is there a fire? Why the rush?”
“Because we are adults and not in some three-year pre-relationship,” Y/N said. “Look, we found a nice BBQ place near the river. Private room, not too noisy. I booked it for Saturday. Seven. You only have to show up and be less weird than usual.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “What is her father’s name again?”
Y/N swallowed.
“…Bae. Dong Chul.”
His father’s expression darkened like storm clouds rolling over a bright sky.
“I knew it,” he growled. “The universe is calling me to battle.”
“Appa.”
His mother slapped his leg. “Stop it. Over some dumb boy fights from thirty years ago?”
“They were not dumb,” his father insisted. “He knows what he did.”
“Does he?” Y/N asked. “Because it sounds like you have been the only one thinking about this.”
His father pointed the remote at him. “You are very cheeky these days.”
“Please,” Y/N said. “Just… be polite. If he brings up the past, you can… I do not know, glare at him or something. But do not start cursing in dialect the moment you see him.”
His father scowled at the TV for a long moment. Then he sighed, shoulders sinking slightly. “For you,” he said grudgingly. “I will try.”
Y/N believed him. Mostly.
—
The restaurant was one of those polished, trendy reinterpretations of tradition. Dark wood. Brass lamps. charcoal grills set into the table. A light hum of jazz in the background.
The hostess led Y/N and his parents through a corridor lined with frosted glass partitions to a private room with a long, low table. The river glittered faintly through the window.
His mother sat and immediately began rearranging the plates and chopsticks to her liking. His father remained standing, staring at his reflection in the window, adjusting his collar like he was preparing for an enemy negotiation.
“Sit down,” his wife said. “You are making me nervous.”
“I am not nervous,” he lied, sitting anyway. “Why would I be nervous? It is just dinner. With my mortal enemy.”
“You are being ridiculous,” she muttered. “Mortal enemy. What are you, twelve?”
Y/N checked his phone. “They are here,” he said, glancing toward the door. “Please. Remember. Civil.”
His father rolled his shoulders like a boxer.
The door slid open.
Joohyun stepped in first, in a simple navy dress and long coat. Her face brightened when she saw Y/N, and the tension in his chest eased.
Behind her, a woman in a pale beige blazer, short haircut, kind eyes. And then the man.
Bae Dong Chul had the kind of presence that said he had been the loud kid in every room since childhood. Early fifties, broad-shouldered, still holding himself like he could get into a fist fight if needed. His jaw was square, his brows thick, but his eyes when they fell on his daughter were soft as anything.
“Appa,” Joohyun said gently. “These are Y/N’s parents.”
Her father barely heard her. His gaze had locked on Y/N’s father.
Y/N watched the moment of recognition land like a car crash in slow motion.
First, the slight squint. Then his eyes widened. His mouth opened a fraction, then twisted into outright disbelief.
“You,” he said.
Y/N’s father was already half standing. “You.”
Mrs. Bae looked between them. “Oh no,” she muttered under her breath. “So it is that L/N.”
Y/N glanced at Joohyun. She stared back, horrified. Neither of them had expected quite this.
Bae Dong Chul pointed a finger at Mr. L/N, hand shaking with something between rage and disbelief.
“You are the crying boy from the eighty eight regional soccer finals,” he declared.
“It was allergies,” Y/N’s father snapped automatically, stepping fully away from the table. “And you fucking tripped me, you bastard.”
Joohyun’s eyes almost fell out of her head. “Appa!”
“Yeobo!” Mrs. Bae hissed.
Mr. L/N jabbed a finger of his own back across the table. “You bribed half the class with hair perm promises. Hair perms. For boys. In winter. You ruined the school’s dignity.”
Bae Dong Chul snorted. “It was a campaign promise. And it worked. You are just angry that you lost.”
“I lost by one vote,” Mr. L/N shot back. “Because you lied.”
“You were boring,” Bae said. “Your speech sounded like a wet newspaper.”
“What the hell is happening,” Y/N muttered under his breath.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Joohyun whispered back. “Our fathers are insane.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Y/N added weakly to her parents.
Bae Dong Chul dragged his eyes away from his ancient rival long enough to look at Y/N properly. His glare softened by about 10 percent. “So. You are the boy who has been texting my daughter at two in the morning.”
Y/N winced. “Uh. Sometimes we work late…”
“It is called time management,” Mr. L/N snapped. “Not that you would know anything about that, Dong Chul.”
“You are one to talk,” Bae scoffed. “Did you ever pay back the money you borrowed for that stupid band trip?”
“I paid you back!” Mr. L/N spluttered. “And it was not a stupid band trip, it was a cultural exchange.”
“You paid me back in cheap cigarettes,” Bae said. “Which you stole from your uncle.”
“It was a different time,” Mr. L/N yelled.
Mrs. L/N slammed her palm on the table so hard the soy sauce bottles rattled.
“Enough,” she said, in a voice that cut through every other sound like a knife.
Both men froze.
“Sit,” she ordered. “Now.”
They sat. Instantly. Exactly like they were still seventeen and had just been caught by a teacher.
Joohyun’s mother pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Then she met Y/N’s mother’s eyes, and decades of shared suffering as wives of idiots passed silently between them.
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Bae said stiffly, bowing slightly in her seat. “My husband has a problem with…” She searched for a polite word. “…forgetting that he is an adult.”
“It is mutual,” Mrs. L/N replied, equally stiff but not unkind. “Mine too. It is like watching a nature documentary about two very dumb stags.”
The men both made offended noises.
“We are right here,” Mr. L/N protested.
“And we can hear you,” Bae added.
“Good,” Mrs. L/N said. “Then listen. If either of you ruins this dinner for our children, I will personally kick you out of this room and you can go fight in the parking lot like stray cats. Do you understand?”
Silence.
“Yes,” both men said, almost in unison.
Joohyun exhaled a breath she had probably been holding since the door opened. Under the table, Y/N found her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
“So,” Y/N said, clearing his throat. “Now that the testosterone contest is on hold… shall we order?”
—
The server came in and they all pretended very hard to be normal.
They ordered premium hanwoo cuts, pork belly, seafood, endless side dishes. Mrs. Bae insisted on paying at first, but Mr. L/N said politely through gritted teeth that he could handle it. They compromised by saying they would “see later,” which meant they would probably fight over the check like lunatics.
As the server lit the grill, Bae looked across at Mr. L/N.
“So,” he said in a falsely casual tone. “You teach the boy how to play football? Or did you just teach him how to cry on the field?”
“Say cry one more time,” Mr. L/N muttered.
“Appa,” Y/N said sharply.
Bae snorted. “Relax, I am joking.” He turned his attention to Y/N. “Do you play any sports?”
“Just at the gym,” Y/N said. “I used to play futsal with friends but work got too busy.”
“What do you do?” Mrs. Bae asked, much nicer than her husband.
“I am an architect,” Y/N replied. “At a mid-sized firm. Mostly residential projects for now, but I am trying to move into public design.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really? That is very good work. Stable, and creative. Good balance.” She turned to Joohyun. “You did well.”
“Eomma,” Joohyun complained, embarrassed.
“And you?” Mr. L/N forced himself to ask Bae, as if the words physically hurt. “Your company. Logistics, I heard.”
He grilled a slice of beef with unnecessary aggression.
“We handle shipping and warehousing for smaller businesses,” Bae said. “It pays the bills. Good enough. Your son is an architect. That is impressive.” He eyed Y/N for a moment, then begrudgingly added, “He looks smarter than you.”
Mr. L/N’s eyes narrowed. “Of course he is smarter than me. I raised him better than your father raised you.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, very quietly, Bae started to laugh.
Not the loud bark Y/N expected. Something lower, almost disbelieving.
“You are still the same,” he said. “If someone told me in high school that L/N would have a grown up son, I would have said they were crazy.”
“If someone told me you would make it to fifty without being arrested, I would have said the same,” Mr. L/N shot back, but there was less venom in his voice now.
Underneath the sniping, something else was there. Familiarity. Recognition.
The server left them to cook their own meat.
Bae took the tongs first, like it was his birthright, and began laying the marbled slices on the grill with practiced ease.
“You are doing it wrong,” Mr. L/N said immediately. “You overcrowded the grill.”
“I have two children,” Bae replied. “I know how to cook meat, idiot.”
“One child,” Joohyun corrected automatically, frowning. “Do you have a secret life I do not know about?”
“I have you and your father,” Mrs. Bae said dryly. “That is two.”
Everyone laughed, even the dads. Some of the tension bled out of the room.
As the meat cooked and sizzled, conversation smoothed out around the rough edges.
Mrs. L/N asked Joohyun about her gallery work, and Mrs. Bae joined in enthusiastically, because she collected ceramics. They compared favorite artists. At one point, both mothers realized they had gone to the same concert in Busan in the nineteen nineties and laughed over the terrible outfits they must have worn.
“Your father had a perm back then,” Mrs. Bae said, pointing her chopsticks at her husband. “He looked like a sheepdog.”
“It was cool at the time,” Bae protested. “Right, L/N? You wanted one too, but the principal did not allow it.”
Mr. L/N glared. “Because you corrupted the school with your perm politics.”
“You are not still mad about that,” Bae scoffed. “It was hair.”
“It was the principle,” Mr. L/N said.
“Principals do not play football,” Bae replied, smirking at his own pun.
“That was terrible,” Joohyun said.
“I liked it,” Y/N admitted.
“That is because you are his son,” Mr. L/N grumbled.
The two men fell into bickering like it was their default language.
“You cheated in the student council election.”
“You stole my girlfriend in second year.”
“She liked me better.”
“You spread a rumor that I wet the bed on the field trip.”
“You did wet the bed.”
“It was condensation!”
“What kind of condensation smells like pee?”
Y/N pinched the bridge of his nose. “Appa, can we not talk about piss at the dinner table?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Mrs. L/N said. “Honestly. You two sound like you never left homeroom.”
Joohyun leaned close to Y/N, whispering. “I think this is… fine?”
He side eyed the bickering middle aged men. “This is your definition of fine?”
“I mean,” she said, chewing on her lip. “They are fighting, but they are not… trying to murder each other. This seems normal for them.”
That was the worrying part.
Under the table, she laced her fingers with his again.
“Y/N,” Bae called across the table suddenly. “How long have you been dating my daughter?”
“About a year and a half,” Y/N said, sitting up straight.
“You live close to each other?” Mrs. Bae asked.
“A subway ride away,” Joohyun answered for him. “Not too far.”
“You sleep over at each other’s places?” Bae added.
Silence fell like a dropped brick.
Joohyun choked on her water. “Appa!”
Y/N could feel his father's gaze burn into the side of his face.
“Dong Chul,” Mr. L/N said in a dangerously quiet tone. “What exactly are you asking my son at the dinner table, in front of the kimchi?”
“I am asking if your son has manners,” Bae retorted. “If he is going to make my daughter come home alone at night, or if he walks her. Not that other thing. Your mind went there by itself.”
Everyone’s mind had actually gone there, but no one said it.
Y/N cleared his throat. “I… I walk her home,” he said firmly. “Or I pay for her taxi. Or I drive her if it is late. I don’t… I don’t let her go alone.”
Bae stared at him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once. “Good.”
“There are some neurons in there,” Mr. L/N said grudgingly.
“Appa,” Y/N said. “We are not teenagers. We know what we are doing.”
His father’s face tightened slightly. There it was, the parental anxiety beneath the bravado and the grudges.
“I know you are adults,” he said. “That is why this is serious. You think I am angry because of some high school election. But I am… thinking about what kind of man your girlfriend’s father is. And what that means for you.”
The room went quiet again, but this time it was not a bad silence.
Bae put the tongs down and looked directly at him.
“I am an asshole,” he said plainly. “I was an asshole then, and I am an asshole now. I make stupid jokes and I do not think before I talk. I made your father’s life hell in school, probably.” He shrugged. “But. I love my daughter. She is my spine. If she says you treat her well. If she is smiling like that around you…” He nodded toward Joohyun, whose ears had gone red. “Then I will not get in the way.”
He glanced sideways at Mr. L/N. “Even if it means I have to eat at the same table as this guy.”
Everyone looked at Mr. L/N.
He sighed like the weight of his pride was a physical rock.
“For the record,” he said to Bae. “You are an asshole.”
“I already said that,” Bae replied.
“But,” Mr. L/N continued, ignoring him. “You seem to have done something right once. Your daughter is a good person. She is polite. She works hard. She is too smart for my son, but for some reason she likes him. So.”
He looked at Y/N.
“I will not… drag my old shit into your life,” he said. “Not more than I already have. You two deserve to fight about your own stupid things, not mine.”
Something in Y/N’s chest loosened. Joohyun’s grip on his hand trembled.
“Thank you, appa,” Y/N said softly.
Bae snorted. “Look at us. The grown ups.”
“Barely,” Mrs. Bae muttered.
“Do not ruin it,” Mrs. L/N added.
The tension broke again, gentler this time.
—
By the time dessert arrived, things had settled into a strange, lopsided comfort.
The dads still argued, but it had taken on an almost theatrical quality, like each insult was half habit and half performance.
“Back pain comes for everyone,” Bae said, stretching his shoulder. “Even star athletes like me.”
“You were never a star athlete,” Mr. L/N scoffed. “You were a forward with no stamina. You ran for ten minutes then pretended to tie your shoelaces for the rest of the game.”
“That is a strategy,” Bae replied.
“It is laziness,” Mr. L/N said.
“At least I did not faint when the coach made us run laps in winter,” Bae shot back.
“It was low blood sugar!”
Mrs. Bae looked at Joohyun with weary affection. “See? This is why I did not want to go to his stupid school reunion. I knew it would turn into this.”
Mrs. L/N chuckled. “Honestly, it is kind of a relief. I always wondered what he was like at that age. Now I see it.”
“Terrible,” they both said in unison, then laughed.
As they lingered over fruit and tea, the looming question hovered above the table. No one had brought up the future yet. Marriage. Moving in. Things that made parents tense up.
Y/N did not plan to propose tomorrow, but he knew this dinner was not casual. Not really.
It was Bae who finally said it.
“So,” he began, watching Y/N over the rim of his teacup. “Do you… plan to marry my daughter?”
“Yeobo,” Mrs. Bae hissed. “Could you be more blunt?”
“What?” he said. “You are all thinking it.”
Joohyun’s chopsticks halted halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flew to Y/N’s. Wide. Almost frightened. But beneath the panic there was something else.
Hope.
Y/N swallowed. He did not look away from her.
“I…” he started, voice steadier than he felt. “We have talked about it. Not in detail. But. I would like to. One day. When we are both ready. When our jobs are more stable and we have… figured things out.”
He forced himself to meet Bae’s eyes. “I am not just playing around with her. I do not… date for no reason.”
Joohyun exhaled slowly. Her expression softened into something incredibly tender.
“I feel the same,” she said quietly.
Her mother’s eyes shone. She blinked a few times and cleared her throat, pretending to adjust her napkin.
Mr. L/N looked like someone had knocked the wind out of him and filled his chest with pride at the same time.
“So you are serious,” he said to Y/N, softer than before.
“I am,” Y/N replied.
“And you?” Bae asked Joohyun. “You really want this guy? You do not want to upgrade? Maybe a doctor? Or a lawyer?”
“Appa,” she groaned. “He is right here.”
“I know he is right here,” Bae said. “That is why I am asking urgently.”
“Stop being an idiot,” Mrs. Bae said, smacking his arm.
Joohyun straightened her shoulders. “Yes,” she said clearly. “I want him.”
That shut everyone up.
Y/N tried not to look too stunned, but his ears were burning.
“Okay,” Bae said after a moment, sounding like someone signing a peace treaty. “Then. We will… see. Take your time. No rush. But. Do not make her cry.” His gaze sharpened, all father again. “If you hurt her, old friend or not…” He glanced at Mr. L/N. “…I do not care if your father was class president or God himself. I will break your legs.”
“Get in line,” Mr. L/N said mildly. “I will break his legs first.”
“Wonderful,” Y/N said. “I love that my possible future is physical therapy.”
Everyone laughed.
—
After the bill was brought to the room, the real war began.
The waiter placed the small leather folder near Y/N.
Both fathers lunged for it at the same time.
“I invited you,” Bae said, grabbing one edge. “I pay.”
“He booked the restaurant,” Mr. L/N argued, holding the other side. “Our son made the reservation. We pay.”
“You are poor architects,” Bae said. “My company does well enough. Let me pay.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mr. L/N’s eyes flared. “That I cannot treat my own in laws?”
“In laws?” Bae repeated.
The word hung in the air.
Everyone stilled.
Mrs. L/N’s gaze snapped to her husband. “In laws?”
He coughed. “I mean… possibly… future… in laws…”
Bae stared at him. Then at Y/N. Then at Joohyun.
Then, to everyone’s absolute shock, he grinned.
“Fine,” he said. “We split it. For our children. Fifty fifty. First and last time.”
Mr. L/N eyed him warily. “You are not going to sneak your card in when I am not looking?”
“Of course I am,” Bae said. “You think I changed personality in one dinner?”
They wrestled over the bill all the way to the counter, bickering like octogenarian brothers. The poor cashier looked terrified.
—
Outside, the river air was cool and clean. Seoul’s lights flickered on the water, making the whole scene look more romantic than it probably deserved.
The two families spilled out onto the sidewalk. The mothers began coordinating taxi routes. The fathers, temporarily out of things to argue about, just stood side by side, staring at the city.
Y/N and Joohyun stepped a little away, into a patch of shadow near a decorative tree.
“That was…” Y/N started.
“Chaotic,” Joohyun finished.
They looked at each other for a second, then broke into helpless laughter.
“I am so sorry,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “My dad is insane.”
“Yeah,” Y/N said. “My dad too. Maybe it is in the water in Daegu.”
She smiled, then sobered. “But. They tried. In their own weird way.”
“They did,” Y/N agreed. “I thought my dad would walk out when he realized who your father was. Or… punch him.”
“I thought my dad would start with a headlock,” she said. “This was… better than that.”
He studied her face, the way the city lights reflected in her eyes.
“You meant it?” he asked quietly. “Back there. When you said you wanted this.”
Her gaze softened again. “Yes,” she said. “Did you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I did. I do.”
She stepped closer, their shoulders almost touching, hands brushing.
“We will figure the details out,” she said. “Jobs. Money. Houses. Parents who want to murder each other.”
“They do not want to murder each other,” Y/N said. “They just want to dominate each other aggressively for the rest of their lives.”
“That sounds worse,” she said.
He laughed, then reached for her hand. She intertwined their fingers without hesitation.
Behind them, their fathers were arguing about parking strategies. Their mothers were exchanging numbers and already planning some sort of couple dinner without them.
“Our families are going to be… loud,” Joohyun said.
“Yeah,” Y/N replied. “But at least they are ours.”
She leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “You know,” she said. “If our dads were not traumatically involved, this whole night would have been kind of boring.”
“I am not thanking them for this,” Y/N said. “But… I guess it could have been worse. They could have actually fought in the restaurant.”
“They still might,” she said. “Give them a few more months and some soju.”
He grimaced. “I am pretending I did not hear that.”
From the curb, his father’s voice cut through the night.
“Y/N! Walk her to the taxi properly, you punk!”
Bae’s voice followed immediately. “Joohyun! Make sure he opens the door for you! If he does not, dump him on the spot!”
Joohyun rolled her eyes. “I regret introducing them.”
“You do not,” Y/N said.
She sighed. “I don’t.”
They walked toward their ridiculous, stubborn, loud parents together, hands still clasped.
Behind all the history and the grudges and the cursing, something new had begun. A truce patched together with grilled meat, old stories, and the shared determination not to ruin their kids’ happiness.
It was fragile. It would not be smooth. They would probably fight again. A lot.
But Y/N could already imagine a future dinner, years later. The same table. The same arguments. Maybe a white dress. Maybe a ring.
Maybe their dads were arguing over who got to hold the first grandchild.
He snorted at the thought.
“What?” Joohyun asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just. Imagining hell.”
She smiled. “As long as it is hell with you.”
“Sure. I can manage that only because of you,” he said.
And in the cool river air, with the city lights glittering and their fathers still swearing about who parked straighter, that felt like enough.
author's note : guess what, this was from a request in november LMAO. but anyways enjoy or whatever. mostly fluff at the start but trust me here. you can already guess what it's abt, breeding, yeah
The late afternoon sun, a weak, pale gold, stretched long shadows across the polished floor of your apartment. Minjeong sat curled on the sofa, a book open in her lap, though her gaze drifted past the pages to the cityscape outside your window. Her quiet presence filled the space, a soft hum beneath the city's distant thrum. You watched her from the kitchen, wiping down the counters, the scent of fresh coffee lingering. Her hair, a dark spill against the cream cushion, caught the light, gleaming.
You walked over, settling beside her, your arm naturally finding its way around her shoulders. She leaned into your warmth, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked, your voice a low rumble.
She didn’t answer immediately, her fingers tracing the worn edges of the book cover. “The park today,” she finally murmured, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “Those twins. Remember?”
A smile touched your lips. You remembered. The small, sun-drenched patch of green near the Han River, the air alive with the shouts and laughter of children. Minjeong had stopped, captivated, by a pair of identical toddlers chasing a bright red ball. Their chubby legs pumped furiously, their giggles echoing, pure and unburdened. She watched them, a strange, wistful expression softening her usually composed features. You hadn't seen her so utterly absorbed in something so simple in a long time.
“They were cute,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smelled faintly of almonds.
“So much energy,” she continued, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And they held hands when they ran, even when they fell.” She shifted, turning slightly to face you, her clear eyes holding a thoughtful depth. “Did you see the little girl with the flower in her hair? She kept trying to share her snack with the pigeons, even when her mother told her not to.”
You chuckled. “She was determined.”
Minjeong nodded, her gaze drifting back to the window. “They just… live. Without thinking too much.” She closed the book, placing it neatly on the coffee table. Her fingers absently toyed with the hem of her sweater. “Sometimes I wish I could just… live like that.”
You tightened your arm around her, pulling her a little closer. She rested her head against your chest, and you felt the steady rhythm of her breath. “You do, Minjeong-ah. You just think a little deeper about it.”
“It’s different,” she whispered. “They have so much… future. So much waiting for them.”
A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the distant sounds of the city and the soft beat of your heart against her ear. Her quiet observations often led to these moments, where the mundane transformed into something profound under her gentle scrutiny. You loved that about her – the way she found beauty and meaning in the smallest things, then shared them with you, unspoken.
The next week brought a whirlwind of family. Your cousin’s engagement party buzzed with relatives, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. You found yourself navigating a sea of familiar faces, Minjeong a calm anchor beside you. Your cousin, Hyejin, a whirlwind of energy even as a child, now had a two-year-old son, Yuhan, who was just as boisterous.
Yuhan, a tiny force of nature with a mop of dark hair and huge, curious eyes, quickly latched onto Minjeong. He was a small, insistent shadow, tugging at her skirt, offering her half-eaten cookies, and demanding she watch his toy car zoom across the polished floor. Minjeong, usually reserved in large gatherings, surprised you. She knelt, eye-level with him, her voice softer than usual as she engaged in his make-believe world.
“Vroom, vroom!” Yuhan shouted, pushing a miniature fire truck towards her.
Minjeong’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Oh, is it going to save the day?”
He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “Fire!”
“Where’s the fire, little hero?” she asked, her finger tracing the tiny ladder on the truck.
He pointed vaguely towards the buffet table, then giggled, falling into a heap of baby fat and joy. Minjeong scooped him up, careful of his small, flailing limbs, and settled him on her hip. He immediately buried his face in her shoulder, a contented sigh escaping him. She carried him like he weighed nothing, swaying slightly, a maternal instinct you hadn't fully recognized in her before blooming in full view.
Your aunt, noticing the scene, nudged you with a knowing smile. “Minjeong looks good with a baby, doesn’t she, Y/N?”
You just smiled, a warmth spreading through your chest. She did. She looked natural, beautiful, a quiet strength radiating from her as she held the sleeping toddler. Yuhan’s small hand gripped a handful of her hair, his thumb occasionally finding its way to his mouth. Minjeong stroked his back, a tender, almost unconscious gesture.
Later, as you drove home, the city lights blurring past, Minjeong remained unusually quiet. Yuhan’s scent, a mix of baby powder and faint cookie crumbs, still clung to her sweater.
“He’s cute,” you offered, breaking the silence.
“He is,” she agreed, her voice still soft, distant. She looked out the window, her reflection superimposed over the passing neon signs. “He just fell asleep in my arms. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“You’re good with kids, Minjeong-ah.”
She turned her head, her eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the car. A faint flush touched her cheeks. “I just… I liked holding him. His little breaths against my neck.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “He has your cousin’s eyes, but his mother’s smile.”
You reached across the console, taking her hand. Her fingers were cool, slender, but strong. “You notice everything.”
She intertwined her fingers with yours, a small squeeze. “Sometimes it’s hard not to.”
A few weeks later, a local festival transformed a quiet street into a vibrant spectacle of food stalls, street performers, and games. You and Minjeong wandered through the crowds, the scent of roasted chestnuts and tteokbokki filling the air. A small group of children, no older than seven or eight, huddled around a ring toss game, their faces scrunched in concentration. One boy, his hair a wild mess, struggled to land a ring on a brightly painted wooden peg. He kept missing, his frustration growing with each failed attempt.
Minjeong, ever the observer, stopped. She watched him for a few moments, then, without a word, walked over. You followed, curious.
“Having trouble?” she asked, her voice gentle.
The boy looked up, startled, then nodded, his lower lip jutting out. “It’s too hard.”
Minjeong knelt, her posture graceful. “Maybe you’re holding it too tight.” She took a ring from the pile, her fingers demonstrating a loose, easy grip. “Try to relax your wrist. And aim for the base of the peg, not the top.”
She handed him a ring. He looked at her, then at the peg, then back at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes. He tried again, mimicking her subtle movements. This time, the ring sailed true, landing with a satisfying clack around the peg. His face lit up, a wide, triumphant grin splitting his face.
“I did it!” he shouted, jumping up and down. His friends cheered.
Minjeong smiled, a genuine, unreserved smile that reached her eyes, making them sparkle. “You did.”
He ran off, clutching his small prize, shouting his victory to anyone who would listen. Minjeong watched him go, a wistful expression returning to her face.
“You’re a natural coach,” you commented, wrapping an arm around her waist.
She leaned into your touch. “He just needed a little guidance.” Her gaze swept over the festival, lingering on a mother pushing a stroller, then on a group of teenagers laughing raucously. “It’s nice, isn’t it? All this life.”
“It is,” you agreed, pulling her closer. You felt her sigh, a soft, almost imperceptible sound.
That night, lying in bed, the city a muted hum outside your window, Minjeong shifted, turning to face you. The moonlight, filtered through the blinds, striped the room in silver and shadow, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the soft line of her lips.
“Oppa,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“Hm?” you responded, sleepily. Your arm was draped over her waist, your fingers resting on the smooth skin of her stomach beneath her nightshirt.
She took a deep breath, and you felt the subtle rise and fall of her chest. “I want a baby.”
The words, so direct, so utterly unexpected, cut through the sleepy haze. Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light. You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at her. Her eyes, usually so calm, held a new, intense light.
“Minjeong-ah,” you began, your voice thick with surprise. “Are you serious?”
She nodded, her gaze unwavering. “I am. So serious, Oppa.” Her hand, cool and soft, reached up, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. The twins at the park, Yuhan, that little boy at the festival…” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It just feels… right. Like something’s missing.”
You swallowed, your heart beginning to pound a little faster. This wasn’t a casual thought, not a passing fancy. This was Minjeong, quiet, observant Minjeong, articulating a deep, profound longing. You saw the intensity in her eyes, the raw vulnerability in her expression.
“You want to… start a family?” you asked, the words feeling foreign, yet thrilling on your tongue.
“With you,” she clarified, her grip tightening on your jaw. “Only with you, Oppa. I want your baby.” Her eyes searched yours, a silent plea. “I want to feel it grow inside me. I want to see its tiny fingers, its little toes. I want to hold it, just like I held Yuhan. I want to watch it learn to walk, to talk, to laugh.” Her voice cracked slightly with emotion. “I want to give it everything. Everything we have.”
The weight of her words, the depth of her desire, settled over you. Your Minjeong, usually so composed, was laid bare, her longing radiating from her like a physical heat. You saw the baby fever, not as a fleeting whim, but as a powerful, undeniable force that had taken root within her. And looking at her, at the raw, vulnerable plea in her eyes, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you wanted this too. More than you had ever consciously realized.
“Minjeong-ah,” you breathed, leaning down, pressing your forehead against hers. Her skin was warm, soft. “Are you sure? This is… a big step.”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, Oppa,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. She pushed herself up, her body pressing against yours, her legs tangling with yours under the covers. Her eyes, dark and luminous in the moonlight, held yours captive. “I want to feel you inside me, Oppa. I want you to fill me up. I want to be pregnant with your child.”
Her hand slipped from your jaw, trailing down your neck, over your shoulder, and then, with a bold, almost desperate move, she reached for the waistband of your pajama bottoms. Her fingers, cool against your heated skin, found the thick, hard evidence of your own rising desire. You gasped, a low groan rumbling in your chest.
“I want you to make me a mother, Oppa,” she insisted, her voice now husky, laced with a plea that was both tender and fiercely demanding. Her touch, light yet firm, sent shivers through you. “Tonight. Right now.”
Her eyes, usually so serene, blazed with an almost primal intensity. This was a side of Minjeong you rarely saw, this unbridled passion, this unapologetic demand for something so fundamental. It thrilled you, aroused you beyond measure.
“Minjeong-ah,” you whispered, your voice rough with need. You moved your hand from her waist, sliding it up her back, cupping the soft curve of her head, pulling her closer until her lips were a breath away from yours. “You don’t have to ask.”
Her breath hitched. “I want to hear you say it.”
“I want to fill you, Minjeong-ah,” you rasped, your lips brushing hers. “I want to give you a baby. I want to make you a mother.”
A soft, guttural sound escaped her, a mix of relief and fierce anticipation. Her mouth met yours then, not in her usual soft, lingering kiss, but with an urgent, hungry press. Her lips were soft, yielding, but her tongue, once it found yours, was bold, seeking, intertwining with yours in a dance of pure, unadulterated desire. You tasted coffee, a hint of something sweet, and the intoxicating flavor that was uniquely Minjeong.
Her hands, no longer content with just your erection, fumbled with the drawstring of your pajamas. You helped her, your fingers trembling slightly as you peeled the fabric down your hips, freeing your swollen cock. It sprang forth, hot and heavy, throbbing with a life of its own.
“Oh, Oppa,” she breathed against your lips, her eyes dropping to your engorged member, a flicker of awe in their depths. Her fingers, delicate and slender, wrapped around your shaft, her thumb stroking the sensitive head. A shiver ran through you, a delicious jolt of pleasure. Her touch was feather-light, yet it held an electric current that traveled straight to your core.
You broke the kiss, needing air, needing to see her face, to absorb every nuance of her desire. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and glistening. Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her thin nightshirt, her nipples, you could feel, were already hard and aching against the fabric.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, your voice thick with adoration. You reached down, pulling her nightshirt up and over her head, discarding it onto the floor. Her body, pale and luminous in the moonlight, was exquisite. Her breasts, full and round, rose enticingly, her nipples already firm, beckoning. Her stomach, flat and soft, stretched down to the dark triangle of her pubic hair, a lush, inviting garden.
She shivered under your gaze, but it was a shiver of excitement, not cold. Her hands, still wrapped around your cock, began to move, stroking you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through you. You closed your eyes, groaning softly, leaning back into the pillows, allowing her to take control.
“I want to feel every bit of you, Oppa,” she whispered, her voice a low purr. Her fingers tightened, her touch becoming more insistent. She ran her thumb over the tip of your cock, a slick bead of pre-cum already glistening there. “Every inch.”
You opened your eyes, watching her. Her focus was absolute, her gaze fixed on your cock, her lips slightly parted in concentration. She lowered her head then, her dark hair falling forward, obscuring her face. Your breath hitched in your throat as her warm, wet mouth enveloped the head of your cock.
A gasp tore from your lips. Her tongue, soft and agile, swirled around the sensitive tip, teasing, tasting. She sucked you in deeper, a rhythmic pull that sent jolts of exquisite pleasure through your entire body. The suction was incredible, the warmth of her mouth, the gentle rasp of her tongue against your shaft. You gripped the sheets, your knuckles white, your hips instinctively arching into her.
She continued, a master of her craft, her lips and tongue working in perfect harmony, drawing you deeper, then releasing you slightly, only to take you in again, each time a little further. The sounds she made, soft moans and humming noises, were like music to your ears, fueling your desire. Her cheeks hollowed with each suck, her jaw working tirelessly.
You reached down, burying your fingers in her soft hair, holding her head gently, urging her on. “Oh, Minjeong-ah,” you groaned, your voice ragged. “That feels… incredible.”
She pulled away for a moment, her mouth wet and glistening, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of your cock. She looked up at you, her eyes heavy-lidded, dark with desire. “I want to taste you, Oppa. I want to feel all of you.”
Then, with a low growl, she returned, her mouth encompassing more of your shaft, her throat working, trying to take you deeper. You felt the warm, wet pressure of her throat, the soft give of her flesh as she tried to swallow you whole. Your balls, heavy and full, slapped gently against her chin as she bobbed her head, relentlessly, tirelessly.
You were on the verge, the pleasure building, a tight knot in your stomach. “Minjeong-ah,” you gasped, tugging gently at her hair. “Easy, baby. I don’t want to come yet.”
She pulled away, her breathing heavy. Her lips were swollen, red, her eyes still clouded with desire. “I want you to be so full, Oppa,” she whispered, her voice breathless. “So ready to fill me.”
She crawled up the bed, straddling your hips, her knees pressing into the mattress beside your thighs. Her eyes, still locked with yours, held a fierce determination. She reached down, her fingers tracing the path from your navel down your abdomen, over your cock, and then, slowly, deliberately, between her own legs.
You watched, mesmerized, as her fingers parted the soft folds of her labia, revealing her clit, already swollen and glistening, and the dark, wet entrance to her pussy. A gasp escaped you. She was already so wet, so ready. The sight of her, so open, so eager, sent another jolt of desire through you.
“Look, Oppa,” she whispered, her voice raw. “See how wet I am for you? See how much I want you inside me?” She pressed her fingers against her clit, rubbing gently, her hips beginning a slow, sensual grind against your erection.
You reached out, your hand covering hers, your fingers mingling with hers as they continued to stroke her clit. Her hips rocked against you, her wet pussy brushing against the head of your cock, sending exquisite friction through you. The soft, slick sound of skin against skin filled the quiet room.
“You’re so beautiful, Minjeong-ah,” you murmured, your voice husky. You leaned up, kissing her neck, her shoulder, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin. She arched into your touch, her head falling back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Her hand left her clit, moving lower, guiding your engorged cock to her entrance. She parted her lips, her eyes meeting yours, a silent question in their depths.
“Are you ready for me, Minjeong-ah?” you asked, your voice thick with barely suppressed lust.
“More than ready, Oppa,” she whispered, her eyes burning into yours. “I need you. Now.”
With a soft groan, you pushed forward, the head of your cock pressing against her wet, slick folds. She gasped, her body tensing slightly, then relaxing as you began to slide inside. The entrance was tight, so incredibly tight, a warm, wet embrace that squeezed your shaft, making you groan with pleasure.
You pushed deeper, slowly, deliberately, allowing her body to adjust, to stretch around you. Her pipsies, soft and plump, cushioned your cock, making the sensation even more intense. The soft, squelching sound filled the air as your cock slowly, inch by agonizing inch, disappeared inside her.
She whimpered, her fingers digging into your shoulders, her back arching. “Oh, Oppa,” she breathed, her voice a ragged gasp. “So big. So full.”
You continued to push, until the base of your cock met her pubic bone, until you were buried completely inside her, your balls nestling against her wet pussy lips. You paused, gasping for breath, feeling the incredible warmth, the tightness, the absolute perfection of being fully embedded within her. Her muscles contracted around you, a sensual clenching that sent shivers of pure ecstasy through your entire being.
“You feel incredible, Minjeong-ah,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with emotion. You looked down at her, her face flushed, her eyes half-closed in pleasure, her lips parted in a soft moan. Her body, so perfectly wrapped around yours, was a dream come true.
She began to move, a slow, sensual grind, her hips rocking against yours, pushing you deeper, then pulling you out slightly, only to plunge you back in again. The rhythm was hypnotic, primal. The wet, slapping sound of your bodies joining, the soft gasps and moans escaping her lips, filled the room.
You matched her rhythm, your hips lifting, thrusting into her with increasing urgency. Each stroke was a revelation, a deeper plunge into the heart of her wet, welcoming core. Her pussy muscles clenched and released around you, milking your cock with every movement, sending waves of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm you.
“Oh, Oppa,” she cried out, her voice rising in pitch, her fingers gripping your shoulders tighter, her nails digging into your skin. “Faster. Please, Oppa. Faster.”
You obeyed, your thrusts becoming more powerful, more urgent. Your balls slapped against her ass, a soft, rhythmic thud. The bed creaked with your movements. Her head thrashed on the pillow, her dark hair fanning out around her. Her moans became louder, more desperate, a beautiful symphony of pleasure.
You watched her, her face a mask of pure ecstasy, her mouth open, gasping for air. Her clit, you could feel, was being stimulated with every thrust, the friction building, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m going to come, Oppa,” she gasped, her voice thick with impending climax. “I’m so close.”
You leaned down, capturing her lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. Her tongue met yours, intertwining, sharing the taste of your combined desire. You plunged into her, deep and hard, your hips driving into her with a primal need to claim her, to fill her, to make her yours completely.
Her body tensed, her pussy clenching around your cock, milking you with incredible force. A guttural cry tore from her throat as she arched her back, her body convulsing, her climax washing over her in powerful waves. You felt the contractions, the incredible release, squeezing your cock, pulling you deeper into her.
You held her tight, feeling her tremors, her body shuddering against yours. The sight of her, so utterly consumed by pleasure, pushed you over the edge. With a primal roar, you felt the hot, thick rush of your cum surging from your cock, deep inside her, filling her womb, filling her with your essence, with the promise of new life.
You groaned, your body shaking, your muscles spasming as your orgasm ripped through you, a searing, all-consuming release. You collapsed onto her, your weight heavy, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your cock, still throbbing, remained buried deep inside her, pulsing with the last echoes of your climax.
She lay beneath you, still trembling, her breath slowly returning to normal. Her hand, still clutching your shoulder, relaxed, her fingers stroking your back gently.
“Oppa,” she whispered, her voice soft, contented, a hint of awe in her tone. “You filled me. You really filled me.”
You lifted your head, looking down at her. Her eyes, now soft and hazy, met yours. A small, contented smile played on her lips. A bead of sweat trickled down your temple, and you felt the warmth of her wetness, the stickiness of your cum, oozing from between her legs, a tangible sign of your union.
“I hope so, Minjeong-ah,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I truly hope so.”
You stayed like that for a long time, entangled, your bodies still joined, the quiet sounds of your breathing filling the room. The initial intensity slowly faded, replaced by a deep, profound sense of peace and intimacy. You felt the warmth of her body against yours, the subtle throb of your cock still deep within her, slowly softening.
Eventually, you carefully withdrew, a soft, wet plop as your cock slid out of her. You pulled the duvet over both of you, tucking it snugly around her shoulders. She snuggled into your side, her head resting on your chest, her hand finding yours and intertwining their fingers.
“It feels different now,” she whispered, her voice sleepy, yet thoughtful. “Like… something has shifted.”
You kissed the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair, mixed now with the musky scent of sex. “It has, baby. Everything has.”
You felt her smile against your chest. “I love you, Oppa.”
“I love you more, Minjeong-ah,” you responded, your voice thick with emotion. You held her close, tracing patterns on her skin, your mind already envisioning a future filled with tiny hands, soft giggles, and the boundless love of a family you would create together. The baby fever had taken root, not just in her, but in you too, a beautiful, overwhelming force that promised a lifetime of joy. You closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep, a quiet certainty settling deep in your heart.
——— END OF STORY.
hi there, pls send more ideas or anything in my inbox. idgaf if its wild or not, i just need inspo
~IVE's Liz (x Male Reader), Le Sserafim's Eunchae (x Male Reader), 9.4k words, Cafe Cuties Part 4 (previous part)
“No- it has to look natural. Just relax,” Chaewon says again, patience running thin.
“How is it supposed to look natural when I know you’re about to smush cake in my face? It doesn’t help that Eunchae can’t stop laughing!” You exclaim.
Eunchae holds a 10-inch cake, white frosting perfect, a contrast to what it’s about to be. Her mischievous smile lines her face proudly. “Don’t worry, I won’t smush it hard,” she laughs.
“I don’t understand how this is supposed to bring in more customers!”
“Just do it!” Chaewon yells back.
Yunjin— the new social media manager stands at the head of all this bickering, awkwardly recording the three of you with her phone. “We don’t have to go with this idea. There are other reels we could try— you know, if you’re not comfortable with a cake in the face.”
“No!” Eunchae yells. “I like this idea!”
“Well I don’t! And I’m the one getting a cake to the face!” You yell back.
“It’s two against one. And I’m the manager. Yunjin, start recording!” Chaewon answers back.
When you were told you were getting a social media manager, you expected to barely see them. You expected them to be a force in the background, silently swaying would-be customers to try out the cafe, only feeling their presence as the store got busier.
You did not expect to be corralled out of bed 3 hours before your shift started to film TikToks. And you especially did not expect those TikTok’s to end with your face to be covered in frosting.
“Okay then,” Yunjin says awkwardly, bringing the phone back up. “And, action,” she cues.
You do your best to ‘act natural’, or whatever Chaewon told you to do, but it’s hard, considering you know the ending. Chaewon and Eunchae do their little sequence before Yunjin pans to you. You can see her awkward smile, the knowing look that her idea has put someone she just met— you— in mortal danger, death by frosting.
And suddenly you can’t act natural. You’re on high alert. You have a whole shift to work after this, and plus—
The cake comes earlier than expected. It’s wet and cold, and you feel Eunchae’s hand on the back of your head as she pushes the cake harder into your face. You hear familiar giggles erupt around you— even hear a new laugh, loud and short as Yunjin covers her mouth in embarrassment having just laughed at someone she just met.
The cake falls to the floor, half of it still stuck to your face. You scoop out the cake covering your eyes, giving way to Eunchae, smiling proudly and Chaewon, laughing like you’ve never seen her laugh before.
You even see Yunjin biting back her laughter.
“It’s okay Yunjin, you can laugh at him,” Eunchae says as she takes a finger and traces it under your chin, scooping up extra cake before plopping her finger in her mouth.
“Yeah,” Chaewon adds as she too scrapes cake off of your cheek, “He likes to act mad all the time, but he really loves us,” she says despite your face cake in her mouth. “Want some?”
“Don’t offer the new girl my face cake!” You yell.
“I’m okay,” Yunjin says, but lets out her laughter. “Anyways, that was great! I’ll get to editing this right away.”
Chaewon and Eunchae hop over to Yunjin, phone still in hand. The three of them laugh as they watch the replay.
You decide against going to watch, not because you’re particularly mad about the cake— you sort of are, but it’s all in good fun— but because you’re not particularly close with Yunjin. She’s friendly for sure, but, things are still a bit awkward. It seems weird to feel… nervous, knowing how fast you got close to both Chaewon and Eunchae, but those were special circumstances. You were more focused on finally having a job rather than the social aspect of it.
Plus, you were constantly around them. You worked hours on end with them, and it was a good ice breaker to learn how to make drinks side by side with them. But Yunjin doesn’t work as a barista. You don’t have that common ground, don’t have the hours to spend with her during your shifts. The girls seem to be getting along with her just fine, though.
“Eunchae, go help him clean off the cake. Me and Yunjin will clean up here,” Chaewon says through fading laughter.
Eunchae’s soft hand grabs your wrist, dragging you off towards the washroom with hurried laughter.
The door clicks shut, and the temperature change is palpable. Eunchae still giggles, but she’s faced towards you— cornering you in the enclosed space.
You try to ignore it, try to remain somewhat level-headed. You are, in fact, still at work (not that it ever mattered before). You decide to keep the angry façade on. “What happened to not smashing the cake hard? You practically hydraulic pressed my skull!”
Eunchae takes two fingers, eyes locked on yours, and drags them across your cake covered lips. She takes the cake into her mouth. “You taste good y’know”.
You take a step back, back hitting the now locked door— but Eunchae tracks you like a hawk. “Eunchae, wait. I need to get cleaned up, we open soon”.
She ignores you, pressing her body onto yours. She’s still looking up to you, eyes barely blinking. “You looked so fucking hot when I caked you. I think I’ll have a slice”.
You should push her away, should play it off as a joke and get cleaned up. But her large doe eyes are too much to handle, the way her body is pushed up against yours so you can feel her— feel all of her— kills your resolve. When her tongue reaches up to lick your chin, you actually lean into it.
And then she’s licking all over, long strokes trailing up your face, on your cheeks, your jawline— everywhere. Your hands go to her waist, gripping it, claiming it.
“Eunchae— Eunchae wait,” you say without any conviction.
She responds by taking her tongue, slowly licking the cake off of your lips.
“You want to try some?” She asks, breathy and with all the conviction you were missing, frosting-lined tongue sticking out.
And without thinking your tongue is on hers— frosting be damned. You’re lapping her up like you’ve been starved for weeks. Her hands climb to your chest as yours tightened around her.
Your faces are a mix of frosting and saliva, tongues licking it up all the same. You feel her nipples harden against you as you pull her closer, your own hardening member pressing into her stomach. She pushes off of you slightly, reaching down to your waistband. She slides your pants down revealing your stiff rod with a pop.
“I want to taste more of you,” she says, scooping up some of the cake and lathering it on your cock before she drops to her knees. The sensation is almost too much to handle, her warm hand feels like heaven as she spreads the cake up and down your length. Your legs buckle as you lean on the door for support.
“Since when were you so assertive?” You ask.
“It’s your fault I’m like this,” she pouts, pointing the tip of your penis upwards. And when she sticks her tongue out, you almost grab her head, almost lose control. But it’s Eunchae, you remind yourself. The sweet girl who keeps you company, who loves chocolate and coffee and texting you way past your bed time.
So you let her go slow, let her run the tip of her tongue up the underside of your member. You groan loud, almost too loud. Eunchae smiles. She knows the effect she’s having on you, she can feel it in the way you buckle, in the way your eyes are begging for her.
So she takes her tongue, still slow, teasing, and circles it around the head, cleaning the white frosting off of it. She wraps her lips around the tip, sucking with dangerous force. You’re throbbing now, and when she pops it out of her mouth, you see her smile proudly. “I was right,” she says, “You taste so good”.
You reach for her, running your fingers through her hair before it lands on the back of her head. You softly position her mouth in front of your penis before—
A soft knock echoes throughout the washroom, and the sultry look on Eunchae’s face turns to surprise. She scrambles up as you reach for your pants.
“Hey sorry— Chaewon is calling for you guys. You almost done?” A nervous voice calls.
You both stand up straight. The mirror shows you and Eunchae’s face— a mess of frosting and saliva.
“Yeah— just a minute!” You call back.
“Sure, just meet us up front,” Yunjin says before you hear her soft footsteps retreat back.
You turn to Eunchae, who’s staring at you with a mix of horror and embarrassment. It stays that way until Eunchae’s face turns to a smile, full of relief. “That was close,” she says.
---
You’re still pent up by the time Chaewon and Eunchae head home before the store opens. It’s just you today, but Chaewon, hopeful Yunjin can turn things around, assures you things will change— that soon the store will be lined with customers.
But for now, it’s just you, leaning back on the counter as you wait for customers. Oh, and Yunjin, who sits at a table, quietly editing away on her laptop. You think of chatting with her, getting to know your new coworker better, but something is stopping you.
She seems friendly enough though. Maybe you will say something.
“Hey Yunjin?”
She looks over, smiling. “What’s up?”
“Do— do you want anything to drink? I mean you work here now so…”
She lights up. “Oh, is that really okay? I’d love a coffee. Do you have anything minty?”
“Minty? Yeah sure,” you say for some reason. In fact, you definitely don’t have any minty coffee’s on the menu.
But you already promised her a mint coffee, so you take some fresh mint leaves, muddling it before brewing a fresh shot of espresso overtop of it. With some ice and milk it’s surprisingly good— needs some work but Chaewon might even put it on the menu.
You bring it over to the busy Yunjin, who for the most part seems to enjoy it.
The ice isn’t broken, but it’s a start. The day goes by slow, though, and Yunjin seems to be busy with her work, so you decide against bothering her more. Your only customer, of course, is the pretty rich girl that always comes in.
She’s wearing a long overcoat overtop a tight cashmere sweater— designer if you had to guess. She smiles, dimple dotting her cheek.
“Another slow day?” She asks, voice soft but confident.
“Another slow day,” you repeat. “The usual?”
Liz smiles. “You remember my order? Do I really come that much?”
You’ve grown comfortable with Liz over the weeks. She was probably your only regular customer. You also appreciate the fact that she never brings up the incident— her walking in on you massaging Chaewon’s back. You used to cringe every time she walked in, embarrassed of the memory. But she never mentions it— never let Chaewon in on the fact that she caught you two.
“Of course,” you say cringing inwardly at your squeaky customer service voice.
You ring her up, silently making her order. It usually goes like this. Liz comes in, greets you amicably as you make her drink, then leaves with a wink.
But this time is evidently different. “You must be so lonely,” she teases.
You look at her confused. “Lonely?”
“You’re all alone. Usually you look so happy bickering with the cute girl with the bob— Chaewon, I think?” She says with a knowing smile.
You can tell your face goes red by the heat in your cheeks. So much for her not mentioning it. “Oh—”, you stutter. “I mean, umm, yeah I guess it can get kind of boring.”
You should laugh, brush it off, act like you don’t know what she’s talking about, but you’re at her mercy. It’s that damn dimple. It’s staring at you like it knows.
She leans forward on the counter. “You two seem close.”
Suddenly you’re very aware that Yunjin is sitting not 6 feet away, probably privy to this whole conversation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you laugh awkwardly.
Her smile curls up even further. “Oh come on. The first time I saw you you were massaging her back.”
Yeah, your cheeks are definitely burning red. “I think you must be seeing things. Here’s your drink,” you say, placing it on the counter.
She doesn’t take the hint that you want the conversation to be over, but you can’t outright say it— she’s a customer after all.
“You two would look cute together.” Something inside you jolts. Is she being serious? If only she knew what you had done with Chaewon. But you have this weird sense of pride. This girl, Liz— beautiful herself— thinks you and Chaewon would look cute together? Liz must sense the change in your body language, must know she’s struck something. “I’ll be rooting for you~,” she smiles before turning heel and leaving.
You can’t even be angry at Liz. She’s waited until you were alone, away from Chaewon before teasing you. You’re at least grateful for that. And she doesn’t know Yunjin, still sitting at her table is now apart of the team. And it’s not like she was that far off the mark. Your dynamic with Chaewon hasn’t changed— in fact it’s probably grown since Liz has walked in on you.
But you can’t help but feel… watched. As if Liz can see right through you. Where does she get off?
But you are at work. Maybe you have been acting too close to your coworkers, maybe you have been unprofessional to some degree. At least Liz is a good sport about it. Your head hurts thinking about it— you just hope Yunjin didn’t hear anything.
But nearly as soon as Liz is gone, Yunjin is at the counter.
“I finished!” She says. Good, seems she wasn’t paying attention.
“Editing?”
“Mhm. Wanna see?” She puts the laptop on the counter, screen facing you. It’s honestly funny, the Tiktok, yet you still don’t know how it’s supposed to bring in customers. The video has Chaewon and Eunchae in the frame.
Eunchae’s character supposedly has just finished baking a cake, but Chaewon, the manager, tells her it isn’t perfect. And Cozy Cafe’s customers only deserve perfection. So, because the cake isn’t perfect, Eunchae fakes her anger. The camera then pans to you, and Eunchae launches the cake into your face. Yeah, you don’t understand it.
“It’s great,” you lie to Yunjin. One, because you don’t want her to feel bad about you getting caked, and two because she’s new. The Tiktok will probably flop, anyway. No one will see it.
Yunjin smiles. “Just sent it to Chaewon. If she approves I’ll post it right away.”
“Finished for today then?”
“No, Chaewon wants some posters done. Just something to hang around the city”. She goes to sit down again.
Not an hour goes by before Yunjin screams, running to you with her phone out. You look at her inquisitively.
“Look!” She yells, showing you her phone. It’s the posted Tiktok.
“You posted it?”
“Yeah, but look!”
“Sorry, but what am I looking at?”
She pushes the phone forward. “Look!” She repeats, pointing at the small ‘4289’ in the corner.
“It has 4000 views already?” You say surprised.
“Those aren’t views. They’re likes.”
Four thousand likes. Already. Four thousand people watched you get caked in the face and thought it funny enough to like. “It has four thousand likes?”
“And I just posted it like, half an hour ago!” She says excitedly.
But you don’t know how to feel. It’s good for the store, you guess.
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” you say hesitantly.
Yunjin’s smile falters a bit. “Hey— are you sure you’re okay with this being— everywhere? I know the cake thing is embarrassing, but Eunchae and Chaewon insisted on it. If you’re not comfortable with it… I can take it down.”
Wow, is this how it feels to have a supportive coworker? “No—” you say. “No, it’s okay. It’s good for the store.”
---
The effects are almost instantaneous. The next day is your off day, but the work group chat dings with Eunchae’s messages.
[Eunchae]
it was kind of busy today!
[Ms. Manager (scary)]
Yunjin’s Tiktok is working!
Were you okay?
Could you handle everything yourself?
[Eunchae]
don’t underestimate me!
i was fine
☕ 💇🏻
[Ms. Manager (scary)]
k
I can schedule two people if it gets busier
But if we’re fine..
[Yunjin]
i can step in!
i make coffee every morning at home
[Eunchae]
lol
But it was indeed not fine. The day after that, you’re swamped from the beginning. Between baking the cakes and making orders, there’s almost no time to relax (duh, you’re at work). The customers all seem a little hostile too. Weird.
It takes you twice as long to close up, and by the time you get home you’re exhausted. You plop down on your bed, work clothes and all, sending a quick message to the group chat.
[You]
definitely gonna need a second person
[Eunchae]
couldn’t handle it? hehe
[Ms. Manager (scary)]
Weak.
[Yunjin]
Hwaiting!
And another text pops up. One you know all too well. Karina decides it’s a good idea to text you. Didn’t she get the hint last time? Well, you did promise her you’d talk things out with her, but you weren’t even sure you meant it.
It’s a link to the very same Tiktok that leaves you exhausted, followed by
[💔]
Saw this
Lol
When can we talk?
You open the message. You definitely don’t have the energy for this. And when did she think you two were on ‘lol’ terms?
You click the link anyway wanting to see how the Tiktok is doing. In just two days it’s amassed nearly 10 thousand likes and almost quadruple the views. And it has 80 comments. Your face being caked is apparently what the people want to see. Maybe Yunjin is a genius.
You open the comments.
Woah, they’re cute
Who’s that shmuck. Wish I worked there
😍 😻 beautiful
Cozy’s coffee and cakes? MOre like Cozy’s coffee and baddies
Jheez, That last one has like 300 likes
That guy is such a loser
cake boy got what he deserves
bros cooked lmao. girlies ate tho
You stare at your phone in disbelief. Of course, that’s why it’s so popular. It barely has anything to do with the content. No, people are just fawning over two beautiful girls.
But why are you getting strays? Is the internet really that hostile? Is that why every customer that walked in seemed so damn hostile? Because they were expecting the ethereal Chaewon or the adorable Eunchae? But instead they got ‘cake boy’?
Maybe this chill cafe job you got by chance wasn’t a blessing.
---
It doesn’t help that Eunchae’s little stunt last week leaves you blue balled. Your balls are practically bursting. Couple that with the exhaustion of a busy cafe, and you’re going crazy.
The good news is Chaewon decides it necessary to schedule two people to easing the load (if only she could easy another load). The bad news is you have a front seat view to everything— all the pathetic men who come in to see the two cute girls from the Tiktok.
You know they’re just being friendly, putting on their customer service smiles as they take orders. But when Eunchae smiles to the tall guy with nice hair that just ordered, you can’t help but feel jealous. Or when you see 12 pairs of gazing eyes scan Chaewon’s whole body as she bends over to wipe the table, you want to scream.
It takes you everything you have not to shout at them, tell them to keep there eyes to themselves. You want to scream, to shout that Chaewon is yours.
But she’s not. And that’s not who you are. You clench your fists and bite your tongue. It’s just the stress.
For Eunchae and Chaewon, though, their dynamic with you doesn’t change. They’re still as friendly as ever the first coupe days. They still joke with you— hitting you playfully as if every eye isn’t on you. You don’t have the heart to tell them to stop— for one it would be an awkward conversation, to tell them half of the customers you’re getting are because of their looks. Plus it’s not like you have the time anyway. By Wednesday, the store is so busy you can barely think. You’re making drinks from open until close thanks to a couple of popular cafe hoppers who go around reviewing new cafes. Yours is their latest review, and it was glowing. It has almost as great an effect as Yunjin’s Tiktok had.
By Thursday, even Chaewon is a mess. The amount of work that comes with being a manager is no easy task, especially as the store grows. She’s knee deep in the work. Her attitude never left, even when the store was slow, but now it comes with an edge. It’s just a fad, she keeps saying whenever you do attempt to ask her how she’s doing. After the Tiktok’s blow over, things won’t be as busy. That’s how these things worked, Yunjin assures. You’ll get an influx of customers as the Tiktok trends, but it’ll soon even out to a manageable flow.
You want to help Chaewon either way, soothe her like you have before. Maybe share the load with her (or on her, your blue balls remind you), but you’re just too cranky with the week you’ve had. You’re deep into Thursday’s shift having barely talked to her when Liz comes in.
She comes when there’s a slight lull in the flow of customers, a rare occurrence this week. There’s still about 8 people in the cafe, but they’ve all ordered.
Chaewon waves at Liz with a smile. The two talk for a bit while Liz places her order.
“I think I’ll stay here for a bit. I’ve been wanting to try some of your cakes,” Liz says, pointing to a slice of chocolate mousse.
“Okay~~”, Chaewon says in her best customer service voice. She’s too good at this, you think. “Have a seat anywhere, I’ll bring it over”.
She plates the cake, but another customer walks in— a guy who’s all hair and height. Probably half a foot taller than you, and you hate him already. Especially as his eyes find Chaewon as he approaches the counter, then you. Except there’s none of the charm when he looks at you, just suppressed hostility.
“Hiya miss!” He says, smile so big it looks like a snarl.
Chaewon turns to the customer, big smile matching his. She wordlessly hands you the cake. “Welcome!” Chaewon says, all cute and fake. “First time here?”
“First time,” he admits. “Looking for some new study spots. I saw you on Tiktok and knew I found the place!”
Chaewon literally fawns. You almost drop the plate when Chaewon laughs. “Thanks for coming,” she says tilting her head down with a casual bow. “What can I get you?”
“What’s your fav-“
You can’t listen to this anymore. You drag your feet over to where Liz is— hopefully far enough you’re out of earshot.
Liz is sitting all elegant, one leg draped over the other as she scrolls her phone. “Enjoy,” you drop the plate on the table with more attitude than intended.
“My my” Liz sings. “Is that how you greet your favourite customer?”
Who ever said she was your favourite. “Sorry, Liz. Enjoy,” you say, genuinely this time.
“Tough week?“
“Busy. But I’m fine,” you sigh. “Not used to all these customers”
“Seems like something else is on your mind,” she teases. “Have you been thinking about what I said?”
What is she getting at? “I don’t know what you mean”.
Liz spoons her cake, but never brings it to her mouth. In fact, her eyes haven’t left you. “You’re usually so cheerful. All these customers must be getting you down. Especially those here for… the view?”
“Still don’t know what you mean.”
“Aww, don’t get short with me,” she says, voice still teasingly playful. “Chaewon, of course.”
“Sorry Liz,” you sigh, remembering your position. You definitely shouldn’t be giving your customers attitude, especially your most loyal one. “But really, it’s not Chaewon. I’m just tired—“
“Tired? You’ve been staring at Chaewon and Mr. Hair over there. Sad because she’s still talking to the cute customer?”
Why is Liz always smiling. You can’t hide anything from that damned dimple.
“The cake is delicious by the way~”, Liz responds to your stuttering. Weird, she hasn’t even taken a bite. “He is cute. You should tell her how you feel before someone snatches her away.”
It’s not that simple— it’s never that simple. Undoubtedly the week has taught you, you probably do have feelings for Chaewon. You can’t fall asleep without thinking of how she stood up to Karina, how she seemed jealous. Or how she playfully smacks you at work, or teases you when you say something stupid, but doesn’t judge you anyway. You can’t not think of how mad she gets when you tease her back, but still talks to you anyway. You can’t go through a night without dreaming about her— all of her, every nook and cranny Mr. Hair over there will never get to see. But she’s not the only one in your dreams.
Because another girl is there too. Eunchae. How she texts you every night asking what you’re doing, how you can’t work a shift with her and not laugh so hard your stomach hurts. How you opened up to her, and she not only helped through the mess of Karina in your head but made you laugh while you did. How she opened up to you, showed you more than her goofy adorable side. How she dragged you into the bathroom last week with cake on your face—
And what about Karina? It was clear things weren’t over between you two, no matter how one sided it was. You had promised her a conversation, yet you ignored her texts. Could you keep ignoring her forever? Or would you have to face her eventually?
“It’s not that simple,” is all you say.
Finally, Liz’s smile dissipates. “Finally, something real out of you.” She takes her first bite out of the cake. “Mmmm~. It is tough, she is your manager after all. But I can’t stand to see my two favourite baristas annoyed at each other. Talk to her, won’t you?”
You look at Liz. How did she manage to pry all this out of you? You didn’t even admit anything, yet she’s giving you advice as if she knows how you feel.
“It looks like Mr. Hair sat down, go on. Chaewon might get jealous you’ve been talking to a pretty girl like me for so long too,” Liz dismisses you with a wink.
The conversation leaves you confused. Liz and her dimple are all-knowing, you conclude. Chaewon simply looks at you and nods as you return, before clearing the counter of ground coffee and cream spills.
Was what Liz said true? Were you and Chaewon annoyed at each other? Did it seem that way to others? You had just been… giving her space. It was busy after all— you assumed she was doing the same. But you hadn’t exactly realized you were giving Liz attitude until she pointed it out. Had you been doing the same to Chaewon?
“Hey”, Chaewon’s voice snaps you out of your head.
And then she’s looking at you with no sparkle in her eyes— none of the charm she displays with customers is present while she talks to you. And suddenly you don’t want to help her anymore.
And your words come out as a hiss even if you don’t mean it. “Yes?”
There’s the look on her face you’d usually find cute— half a pout and half annoyed. “I think it’s time to hire someone else,” she says, voice a sigh. “You know, give us three a break.”
“I guess.”
Chaewon’s eyes flick to your face, searching. “You guess?”
“Seems like a fine idea to me, Chaewon.”
Something on Chaewon’s face changes. “Si— since when am I just Chaewon?” She says, but it’s with none of the snark it usually has.
“It’s your name, is it not?”
“I’m just asking a question!” Chaewon says defensively.
“Yeah, well— I didn’t know it was my job to decide if we needed to hire people. I thought that was the managers job.”
Chaewon steps back as if you’ve slapped her in the face. And all you feel inside is the stress of the entire week compounded— not the girl in front of you.
She turns away, back to the coffee machine. Her body loosens up as her voice, now devoid of emotion commands you. “We close in an hour. Go clean the kitchen.”
---
You lay in bed that night with only one positive thing on your mind. Tomorrow— payday, is your day off. You have to pry your mind away from thinking of the days events, of how you gave Chaewon the cold shoulder, even if she was just asking for your advice. It doesn’t help to know that Eunchae and Chaewon are working together tomorrow. All of those customers, flocking to see them. You think about going to the cafe. Pretending to study, sit at one of the tables the whole day so you can be there in case a boy gets too friendly. But that would be creepy— and after your week you need a day off. Even if you don’t deserve it after your attitude.
Your rent is covered this month— a problem that used to fill your entire being with dread. Now your dreads are cute and snarky and smell of coffee.
You’ll have enough money after this paycheque to splurge a little. Yeah, tomorrow you’ll go out; you need a break more than anything right now.
By the time you wake up, the Sun is on it’s way back down. You’re groggy and cranky, but just a bit less irritable than yesterday— that’s a good sign. You grab your phone (which you forgot to charge, of course), and awaken to 4 missed messages.
[Eunchae]
u ok?
u didnt respond to my messages last night 😿
busy shift?
i want some more cake lol
[You]
Sorry
Yeah, rough shift
The reply comes immediately.
[Eunchae]
i figured
chaewon is in a bad mood lol
scary 😱
[You]
Have a good shift
You don’t know what else to say— especially with her mentioning Chaewon. You plop your phone down, stretching. Your belly rumbles, but it’s already 3pm. And you decided to eat out tonight— somewhere fancy. Maybe even grab a drink or two, God knows you need it.
You start second guessing yourself. You’re already going to a nice restaurant by yourself. People will probably stare, and it doesn’t help that your nicest clothes are wrinkled. But you step out your door anyway— a testament to how poor your state of mind is. Your phone dings again.
[Eunchae]
hey
me and yunjin are gonna hang out! she wants to go bowling
lol
chaewon has paperwork to do 🙄
wanna come?
[You]
Not today, sorry
Tired
[Eunchae]
:/
next time then
[You]
Next time yes
[Eunchae]
promise?
[You]
Yeah.
Promise
You slide your phone back into your pocket. You’re honestly flattered Eunchae invited you. But you need a night to yourself tonight.
The restaurant you choose— the nice Italian place with the bar— is perfect. The dim lights, the bartender that doesn’t talk much, and the mafalde ai funghi. It’s a perfect meal, you think as you sit at the nearly empty bar, slurping down your meal. Plus, the two old fashions you chugged only make the experience better.
“Another?” The bartender asks.
A short nod is all you give.
The bartender slides you your third drink. You heave a sigh before taking a sip— the harsh bitterness on your tongue just feels right in your mouth. Just bitter and silence, that’s all you want.
But of course, that is not what this night would provide.
“I’ll have, hmm— a vodka cranberry”.
Your head flicks to your left in surprise. That damn dimple is staring back at you, behind a smiling Liz of course.
“Liz!”
She’s wearing a fur coat, a divine black dress peeking out. Her entire outfit is probably worth more than your rent— her earrings alone probably double it. Glossy red lipstick lines those smiling lips.
“What are you doing here?” You ask surprised.
“I could ask the same of you. This isn’t the place I’d expect to find you in. Oh— not like that honey,” she clarifies. It’s a fair point, it’s fancy as all hell. Probably not a place one should frequent if their income relies on a small cafe. “Just doesn’t seem like your vibe.”
You’re already too buzzed to put your guard up; not that it would do you any good anyway. That dimple knows everything. “Just— needed a break.”
“Talk to Chaewon?”
“Not— not really,” you said. Guess you wouldn’t be taking your mind off things.
“Things looked a little heated yesterday. Thought you’d have heeded my advice.” Her drink arrives, and she takes a sip, slow and elegant. Her red lipstick stains the glass.
You take a sip from yours as well. “Sorry Liz, was kind of hoping to take my mind off things tonight.” You say with an air of finality. She doesn’t take the hint that you want to be alone, but she stops her questioning of the particular matter.
You both sit there for a while, sipping your drinks. It’s honestly kind of awkward. You wish so much you were alone. Your wrinkled shirt looks like a wife beater compared to her elegant outfit.
“So… what are you doing here all alone?” You finally ask.
Liz chuckles. “Oh, I’m not alone.” She waves somewhere behind her. There’s a man sitting there, quite evidently staring at you two. “But he’s all jawline and no jokes. Quite boring if you ask me.”
“You’re here on a date?” You feel even more out of place.
She looks back at him— literally makes eye contact with him. You want to shrink.
“Hardly a date. These rich guys think a nice meal is enough to pique my interest. When really I’m much like you. Just need to… let loose every once in a while. Take my mind of things, as you would say.”
“Letting loose would be nice,” you sigh. You can still feel Liz’s date’s eyes on the back of your head, but you suck your drink down and forget. “So, how do I do it?”
“How do you…?”
“Let loose. Take my mind off things. This pasta isn’t really helping.”
Liz covers her mouth, but the laugh is still as clear as the large cube of ice sitting in your cocktail. “See, you’re much more interesting. I think we can start by getting you another drink?” She calls the bartender over, getting one for herself too. “When’s the last time you, let loose as we say.”
You thought back to the night at Chaewon’s over two weeks ago. Not that long ago, you admit, but it feels like a lifetime ago. You thought of what your shared with Eunchae, both emotionally and physically— about how the next morning Chaewon in her jealousy of Karina brought you to the supply closet and—
A pang of guilt overtakes you. When she had been jealous, and you in a predicament, Chaewon only helped. Understood and helped, in her own special way. And now here you were, recognizing Chaewon’s stress as a manager, and all you had to offer her was the bitterness of your jealousy, the peak of your stresses directed at her.
“Been a while,” you said despite the recency of certain events.
“If you really want Chaewon, then you have to take care of yourself. You can’t expect to show her kindness if you can’t even do that to yourself.”
“I told you, there’s nothing going on between me and Chaewon!”
“Oh? And how about the other?”
“Eunchae?”
“Yes, yes her.”
“No, nothing.”
Liz eyes you with an even greater interest. “You insist?”
“Then maybe I can help you show yourself kindness and let loose. How about it?” She says, eyebrow raised inquiringly.
Thank God. Of course a rich girl would know how to really let loose. “Really? I don’t know if I have enough money for like… those nice massages or whatever, but if you know a way I’d love to know.”
Liz’s mouth tilts upwards. “Oh, don’t worry about money, follow me,” she says as she takes 3 1-hundred dollar bills and places it on the bar counter. You could’ve sworn your pasta was only 30 dollars, plus the drinks at 13 a piece, but, rich people, you guess.
You did not expect to find friendship in Liz this night as you walked out of the restaurant (the incredulous look of Liz’s date following you all the way out), but you welcomed it all the same.
---
Friendship is not exactly what you would describe the night to have offered. Liz’s penthouse is otherworldly. The elevator opens to a huge centrepiece— an actual statue of an angel appearing to be diving into a fountain. The marble floors and crystal chandelier are glittering like diamonds. In fact, they probably are diamonds.
“What do you do for a living?” You ask.
She just laughs as she leads you up a grand staircase to the second floor terrace.
“I didn’t know we were going to your apartment.”
“Oh don’t worry honey, make yourself at home.”
She leads you to a large drawing room. Oh to have a drawing room. Your bachelor pad isn’t even a quarter the size. She takes off her fur coat, revealing her stunning black dress. The darkness of the dress only highlights her moon pale skin, her sleek shoulders and slender arms seem to glow bright. “Sit,” she gestures to a large couch.
You do, but despite her assurance you can make yourself at home, you start to feel a little nervous— only natural given the situation.
“So… how will I let loose?” Oh how naive you are. Liz grabs something from a large chest near the balcony exit. She places them behind her back before slowly making her way towards you. Every step her body sways. It would be mesmerizing, if not for the fear overtaking your entire body. You should’ve known— she’s rich and beautiful and definitely a serial killer.
Every bone in your body is telling you to run, but for some reason you stay put. You can overpower her right? But what if she’s carrying a knife behind her back— or worse, a gun. You’re sure if it’s a knife you’d be able to grapple it out of her hands. But a gun? There’s nothing you can do against a gun. She’s close now and oh god she’s about to use whatever it is that she’s hiding.
You don’t wait to find out, you jump over the edge of the couch to the door, screaming all the while— but it’s locked, because of course it is.
Liz just eyes you, and she’s approaching you and it’s over— you’re going to die here and Liz is going to eat you. Every click of her heels on the floor like a countdown, a timer for your survival. She’s so close you just close your eyes and accept it. But you hear something next to you click— probably the gun—
“You’re free to leave if you like,” Liz says.
You open your eyes and see the open door behind you. “Sorry, doors lock automatically, but they unlock from the inside, if you’re so inclined to leave.”
“W-what?” You say through quivering lips. “Y-You’re not going to kill me?“
Liz bursts out into laughter.
“I- I can go?”
“I knew it, you are so much more interesting than my date. I’m only messing with you.”
You’re still confused and scared, but Liz seems to be genuine. It was just a prank, or a misunderstanding.
What she reveals behind her shouldn’t exactly ease your mind. It’s a lacy blindfold. Your eyes flick up to Liz, and she’s smiling— she’s always smiling.
“W-what?’
“You wanted to let loose, didn’t you?” She says, letting a strap of her dress fall off her shoulder.
Your mind is so unclear you don’t even run. She leans in close. “You’re sure there’s nothing going on with you and your coworkers?”
You swallow hard. “Y-yeah I’m sure.” You take in everything, her collarbones, her damn near perfect smile, that fucking dimple. And you know what’s coming, but that damn Eunchae has left you blue balled for over a week. So you stay put.
She leans in close, mouth nearly touching your ear. You can smell her elegant perfume, sort of citrusy. “Just say my name if you want me to stop,” she whispers.
She takes the blindfold and wraps it around your eyes, tying it tight. Just her touch is enough to leave you hard, having been so pent up. “L-Liz,” you mutter. You can’t make out the room anymore, but you can still see light, still sense movement. God you hope she doesn’t kill you.
“Want me to stop already?” You can’t muster a response. “Remember. My name, the safe word.” You nod slowly.
She takes you by the hand, leading you back to the couch. “Sit.”
And you do. You can’t even fathom what’s happening. 2 hours ago you expected to eat your dinner, come back home and wallow. Now you’re in your most loyal customers penthouse, blindfolded.
Her hands move up your body, and she’s unbuttoning your shirt. She slides it off of you, every touch of her sends shivers up your spine. You can’t see her, but the image of her is stuck in your head, her dress perfectly hugging her body in its tightness. Her slender shoulders, those hands that now move up and down your shirtless body.
You reach up to grab her, but something clicks on your wrists, locking them together. You feel soft fur. Handcuffs— the kinky kind. You shudder, trying to rip your hands apart, trying to get away. Her hand cups your face. “Remember,” she whispers. “Just say my name and I’ll stop.”
You calm down a little, and you see a shift in the light through your restrictions. You feel her climb atop of you, the pressure welcome on your throbbing cock. “My, hard already? You really haven’t let loose in a while,” she laughs.
You can feel her slow, painful grinding on you as her hands explore your body. “Neither have I,” she says. Her fingers find your nipples sending electricity through your spine. You let out a moan, and Liz’s grinds grow a little faster.
“Tell me about Chaewon,” Liz says, voice sharp and commanding— filled with desire..
“What?” You ask, but Liz pushes your hands over your head and behind your head so your elbows are bent down, and takes your lips in hers. “Tell me,” she says with excitement between her assault on your lips. Her tongue forces your way into your mouth as you struggle to breathe, to regain your composure. Her fingers are still playing with your nipples, and she breaks off of your lips and attacks your neck next.
A jolt of pleasure erupts within you, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. “Tell me,” she commands.
You grind your hips into Liz’s, your balls threatening to burst already. But your mind flicks to Chaewon, and it’s her lips that replace Liz’s, her hips on yours.
“She’s so— fuck— she’s so damn snarky,” you moan as Liz’s assault grows more vigorous. “She can’t hold her anger in for the life of her. Her attitude is oppressive— mmm, fuck—“
“Keep going,” Liz pants.
“She’s always laughing at stupid shit, always pouting, always yelling”
“Yes, yes and?” Liz says, hips growing more aggressive.
“But she’s— fuck, Chaewon— she’s so damn perfect. She cares for me in every way that it counts. The way she teases me, the way she lights up when I say I’ll help her. The way she looks when I’m fucking her, or she’s on her knees—“
“You’ve fucked her?” Liz asks, voice growing to a peak in excitement.
Liz’s hips stop as she climbs off of you, and you buck your hips up at the sudden arrest in stimulation. But you feel her hands slide your trousers down your legs, and your throbbing cock springs free. You look around, trying to see where Liz is, but the blindfold is too restrictive.
And you feel her hand on your cock, and with one sense removed the sensation hits tenfold, and you almost burst right there. Her hand is slow and painful. You can feel her breath hit your neck, but you’re still unsure where she is— you can only sit there and take whatever she dishes.
“Tell me! Tell me how you fucked her!” She begs.
“I fucked her the very first week I started,” you struggle as Liz thumbs the head of your cock. “I fucked her the day I met you Li— the day I met you.”
“I knew it!” She yelps, stroking you faster. You feel her shift somewhere, feel her separate your legs as she climbs in between. “Keep going,” she orders, hand still sliding up and down your shaft.
“She dragged me into the supply closet, and she tried to have her way with me”
“Tried to?”
“Yes, but I fucked her before she could— fuck,” you buck up into her hand. “I fucked her before she could get the upper hand.”
“Did you come inside of her?” Liz asks.
“N-no, she wouldn’t let me. I c-came on her— fuck Li—“ you stop yourself knowing if you say her name, this whole thing ends. “I came on her face”
You feel wet hotness slide down to the very base of your cock, you hear Liz struggle as she pushes the entire thing down her throat. You can feel yourself throb inside of her, feel her throat enclose on you, before she slides it back out. You can feel every drop of her saliva coat your dick, feel every lick she administers to it.
“And?”
You have to take a moment to clear your head. It buzzes with pleasure, your whole body does, but Liz slows down at your lack of information.
“Tell me!”
“We’ve— nngh— we’ve fucked one more time since but— holy shit,” you say as you buck your hips back up feeling her mouth on you once again. “But still— that’s it. It’s just physical.”
Liz separates your legs further, and you feel a hand cup your balls. She massages them slowly but passionately, as she continues working her mouth. “Pretend.” She says through saliva and precum. “Pretend I’m her”
It’s all she needs to say before you’re thrusting into her throat, every buck of your hips releasing a wet gurgle from the rich girl. Her hands continue to fondle your balls, and she meets you halfway as you thrust, pushing her mouth deeper on your cock.
“Ch-Chaewon,” you yelp, as pressure consumes your entire body, and you release a week’s worth of stress and desire into her. Waves would be understating it— it comes in tsunamis. The sound Liz makes as she slurps up your cum is truly lewd. It only makes you buck harder as you release into her mouth. The feeling is even more blinding than the strap wrapped around your eyes. There’s a ringing in your ears as the pleasure peaks; your whole body is tense and Liz’s mouth continues to extend that pleasure.
Your climax finally subsides, and your body goes slack. Yeah, maybe Liz was right— you needed to let loose. But it is evidently not over as you feel Liz climb back on you. She takes your handcuffed hands and places them on her breasts.
Her voice is even more full of desire as she speaks. “And the other?”
Your hands find her ample breasts as you play with her nipples. The two orbs feel so smooth in your hands— you only wish you could see them.
“Tell me about the other— Eunchae,” she screams as she takes your hands in hers, guiding your hands on her tits. Evidently, you were not giving them enough passion, as her hands guide you to squeeze and flick her nipples even harder.
“Eunchae… Eunchae is so fucking adorable it hurts,” you say. Your penis is growing hard again, despite your recent release.
“Yes, yes!”
“She’s so sweet, and caring. She makes me laugh more than anyone else. We walk home together after every shift. She texts me every night and I respond every time. She’s— she’s perfect as well.”
Liz takes your lips again, this time her tongue invades your mouth easily. She’s licking everywhere, her tongue brushes against your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, your tongue. You continue to knead her breasts. You want to wrap your arms around her waist, pick her up and have your way with her, but the handcuffs do their job well.
“And have you?”
“Yeah— your tits feel fucking perfect. Yeah, we have.”
“How did it feel! Hurry!” You hear a squelch you can only assume is her pussy—Liz is fingering herself.
“It was different. Amazing, but different than Chaewon.“
“How so? Worse?” She pants.
“No— no not worse, just different. Slower, less… aggressive. More— fuck Eunchae— more gentle.”
You can feel her hard nipples, you want to lick them, to have them in your mouth, but you are at Liz’s mercy.
“But— nngh— but that’s changing.”
“Changing? Changing how? You’ve had sex again?”
“N-no. No not sex. But she made a move. We probably— probably would have if it wasn’t for the new girl.”
Liz plops what you assume is her pussy on your dick— hard again. You can feel her wetness, feel her slick coat you as she slides it up and down the underside of your shaft.
“What new girl?”
“We— holy shit Li—”
“Don’t say my name!”
“Sorry— we just hired a— nngh— a social media girl. You saw her, the day you first questioned me— about Chaewon.”
“Her? The redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” She asks. You can feel her growing wetter, her nipples harder.
“A-and what?”
“Have you?” She asks quickly.
“No”
Liz’s hands reach to your face before she takes you in her lips once again.
“Don’t look at me in my eyes,” she pants quickly, before sliding the blindfold off of you. The light is blinding at first, but your eyes adjust. Liz is fully naked, her body divine. She’s looking everywhere, everywhere but you. Her clavicle is so divine you can’t help but take it in your mouth.
Her moans grow louder as you kiss her neck. You’re still handcuffed, and your cock is once again at full mast. The room is a haze of your heavy breaths.
Liz lifts her hips a little, positioning you at her entrance. She doesn’t ask before she slides your cock inside of her. If Chaewon is pushy and Eunchae is adorable, Liz is a monster with a perfect body. The inside of her pussy gives way to pure luxurious pleasure. You can barely catch your breath as she sits on your cock.
“Who are you thinking of?” She asks as she bounces on you. “Tell me.”
“What?”
“Tell me which one you’re thinking of!”
But your head is spinning and the sensation of her pussy proves too much. Your hands are locked in place, and when you close your eyes, you don’t know who you see. There’s someone there, but they’re blurry. You can’t make out who it is, all you know is you’re threatening to burst at any moment.
“I don’t know!” You yell.
You can feel Liz tighten on your shaft. Her hips grow rabid as she continues to buck them. You’re lost in a haze of women, Liz’s games leave you confused. You can no longer tell who you’re fucking, no longer know where you are. You close your eyes as shock goes up your spine, and you’re cumming again.
You can tell Liz is too by the way she screams— by the way her walls shudder on yours. She’s holding herself up on your shoulders, trying her hardest not to collapse on top of you. You display none of the conviction she does, and your head lolls back on the couch and your body goes limp.
“Holy shit Liz,” is all you say.
In no time, Liz’s composure is back. She climbs off of you, putting her dress back on. You’ve barely seen her while she was naked, and if it wasn’t for her disheveled hair, you would have never guessed she just had her way with you.
It’s as if nothing happened with Liz. That smile is back. “Well, that was— adequate. I expect to see you again at the cafe?” She says, her breath back to a steady pace. “You may leave now, if you wish.”
She walks to the door, leaving you sitting there, still heaving, before she turns to offer one last sentiment. “Oh, and do let me know who you choose in the end.” And she’s gone.
You sit there in disbelief. You had planned for a simple night, a nice meal and a drink. Instead you’re at Liz’s apartment, having just been… used for her entertainment.
One thing is certain though. An outstanding invitation from Eunchae to hang out and an unfinished argument with Chaewon— you have a lot to think about.
Hello all! As with almost everything I put out, no idea how this piece came to be. I plan and plan and the end product is nothing like my plan.
But, a lot happened this chapter. Liz finally makes her full appearance, and conflict is starting to brew. Let me know what you all think! Honestly, I just recently got into IVE. I hope my portrayal of Liz is adequate for you all, but I do understand it won't fit everyone's idea of her. I went purely on aesthetic. She just looks so ethereal, like a rich girl.
This series is such a fever dream for me to write, but I honestly had a lot of fun with this chapter (maybe too much, if I'm honest).
Probably won't be updating CC until after It Was Only A Week finishes. This series has really popped off, and I hope these chapters live up to everyone's expectations. If not, I sincerely apologize. Please keep believing in me. All feedback is welcome!
~24.6k words, syndicate boss's daughter Liz x vigilante reader, 'smut'
A/N: This is dedicated to my twin @kwilquib who loves Liz. Happy birthday! This is also my first x reader ... and first fic in second person ... so please be kind ...
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Three bullets.
Bang. Pops the front right tire. Sends the Mercedes-Benz zigzagging down the street. Crashes into a fish stick stall.
Bang. Pops a dark red tunnel through the driver’s skull as he crawls out of the vehicle. His partner screams.
Bang. Now he doesn’t. Larynx blows into his esophagus. Only blood gets to spew out of his lips and all over his suit.
And you still have three-fourths of a round loaded into your Taurus TX22 pistol.
As the final passenger of the luxury car pushes out of their steaming ride, you shove your gun back into its holster. Instead, you unsheathe your hwando blade—the same blade your parents gifted you for your sixteenth birthday—and ready it at your side.
Your mark looks up at you through teary eyes. You don’t even register what they say.
Slick.
With one clean and deft motion, your mark’s eyes turn blood red in an instant. But no sign of remorse is etched on your face. Why? Did they show your family remorse when their Clan broke into your home? Did they show your parents remorse when they shook the living daylights out of them for their debt? Did they show you remorse when they murdered your parents right in front of you?
You still remember it. Every time you smell fresh blood in the air—you remember it.
The way your father begged and pleaded on his knees. He was never the type to bow down to anyone, but his forehead was right between their polished shoes. The sound of shattering dishes as your mother’s heart sank just as fast as the first few shots fired into her. The tightness in your chest as all the air left your lungs the moment you saw your parents turn into lifeless, unmoving bodies, bleeding out against the entryway of your family home.
It’s been eight years. Eight long, grueling years you have spent trying to avenge them—trying to get your revenge.
What was another three more bodies to your growing count?
You don’t care. They’re all just collateral. What you really want—who you really want—is Kim Jaehwi.
And you want him dead.
That was the plan. Until your recent mark started sending more grunts and goons out to hunt you—more than the usual at least.
On any other day, you’d flee the scene of the crime, head to your pathetic excuse for an apartment, clean your weapons and your clothes, and call it a day. But mere hours after you murdered everyone in that Mercedes-Benz, a manhunt for you was already in full swing.
Men in suits trudging up and down the streets. Goons with brass knuckles and similar hwando blades knocking on every house and business within ten kilometers of the incident. Police cars needing to stop at the blockades these thugs have set up themselves to initiate their own ‘investigation’.
You know the Devil Cat Clan is relentless. The moment they hear a man with a crow mask has reduced their member count even by just a bit, they chase after you. But today, you must have killed someone big. Because even the higher-ups want you gone now.
At least, that’s what you gathered when a spray of bullets disturbed your evening tea, shattering the flimsy walls of your two-hundred-thousand-won-per-month apartment. You don’t regret the loss of your favorite safehouse. You regret not salvaging the Samanco still sitting in your refrigerator.
You rush towards your other safehouses: the goshiwon in the Mapo district, the house out in the Gyeonggi-do suburbs, your college buddy’s place in Gangnam, the public safety shelter where you were brought to eight years ago back in Yongsan-gu.
But they have all been either broken into, torn apart inside-out, or heavily guarded by members of the Devil Cat Clan.
Well, shit.
You don’t even have enough time to worry about whether they’ve figured out who you are or not. Instead, you think of the last safe place you could seek refuge at.
The Requiem.
Before you even enter the underground bar, the bouncers on either side of the door give you nasty glances. You wonder if it’s because of your still in your usual tracksuit. They seem new—they aren’t used to you yet. As you push past them and head inside, you soon realize coming here is a bad idea when every criminal-in-hiding, vigilante, and underworld devil at the bar has their eyes on you like you don’t belong here.
Fuck them—you just want a goddamn drink and some room to breathe.
You slide over to the counter and signal for a drink from the bartender. He looks new too. He hesitates for a moment, but when you see your friend warn him with a glance, he immediately begins pouring you a glass of whiskey.
At least he knows better than to ask.
“Seems like someone’s had a rough few days,” Yujin teases, leaning forward on her elbows towards you. “You look like shit.”
“I have you to thank for that,” you say in between sips of your drink, feeling it burn down your throat. “Who the hell did you send me to kill? Ever since then, the Clan’s been on my ass non-stop.”
Yujin shrugs, pulling back to reach for one of the drawers, where a pile of keys were being kept. She picks one up and slides it over to the bald roughneck beside you. “Dunno. I’m just doing what you’ve told me to do: find members of the Devil Cat Clan causing trouble, ping their location, send them your way. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You scoff as you down the rest of your whiskey. “Whoever that was is causing more than just a pain in my neck. How big is this mess you got me in?” you ask, never really having the time to keep up with recent events.
As if on command, Yujin interrupts the ongoing football match on the TV and puts on the news—much to the dismay of several blokes.
You try to take it all in.
They’re covering it up. They made it out as an accident. Potential gang wars. No involvement from the Devil Cat Clan. They’re framing it as a tragedy. Collateral damage. Remnants of the ‘old school’ jopok ways—the old family style of mafia. But then the next few things catch your eye.
Whether it was further cover up, some sort of red herring, or something they actually had planned, the news comes as a surprise to you nonetheless.
Jaehwi has a daughter. And he’s marrying her off.
Something about strengthening the presence of the Devil Cat Clan. Something about metaphorically marrying their former jopok ways to more civilized and ‘clean’ endeavors. Whatever their explanations are, you don’t clock it. Partially because you could never believe that the Clan would ever want to come clean. Partially because there are four men with guns by the door threatening the bouncers to be allowed inside.
“Shit, they followed me all the way here,” you spit as you glance at Yujin for support. “Got anything for me?”
Without thinking twice, she pulls out a briefcase from underneath her and shoves it against your chest. “Bullets, clean set of clothes, burner phone. Get as far away from here as you can and sort this shit out before thinking of coming back again. Until then—don’t die.”
And as every last member of the Seoul underbelly at The Requiem pointed their guns towards the entrance of the bar, you take this as your chance to escape. Before darting out through the back entrance, you take one last look at the news showcasing Jaehwi’s revealed daughter.
Suddenly, an idea comes to you.
==
You thought it would be a good idea. You thought you could benefit off of the chaos going on in the background.
But the moment you walk through the gates of this traditional-style mansion at the very heart of the Devil Cat Clan’s scope of control, you begin to doubt your idea.
The plan was simple: act decent, present yourself naturally, and hope to get chosen as one of the potential aspirants for the hand of Jaehwi’s daughter. The rest? Well, the rest can follow. You have to worry about getting past screening first.
Which proved to be immediately difficult.
They ask for your identity and background, so you tell them the script Yujin prepared for you the moment you showed up at The Reqiuem searching for work as a new vigilante. They ask why you have weapons, and you tell them—who the hell doesn’t have weapons in this day and age? They ask you if you know what the Devil Cat Clan’s about, who the boss and his daughter are, and what your intentions for marriage would be. While you can’t tell them you’re here to get closer to Jaehwi and to end his miserable excuse for a life, you instead tell them, “I’m here because I see an opportunity to not just help the Clan with your endeavors, but to … pursue another endeavor of my own.”
They assume you meant getting with the boss’s daughter. You let it slide.
There are about ten other men of different ages and appearances at the waiting room. While they all form a colorful cast of potential husbands, what they had in common with each other (that you evidently didn’t have) was simple—affluence. Bespoke suits, watches that costed ten job’s worth of payouts, shoes that shined brighter than your future, gravitas that far exceeded what your dirty little lips could muster.
And yet, you still hold out hope.
By noon, that number reduces to seven. The first ones to go were the men pushing fifty—not much else to be said there.
By four, that number reduces further to five. The next ones to go were the men who had yet to make a name for themselves in their respective fields. This makes your legs tense and your breath hitch. You were getting closer and closer to the shaving point.
By nine, that number reduces to just two: you and this other guy in a white suit with a hairstyle that reminds you of Alex the Lion from Madagascar. He has the scars on his face to match the glint of the golden knuckles wrapped around his fists. You make the mistake of staring at him for too long, and when he catches your eye, he lets out some sort of growl as he cracks his fingers.
Well, this is just going swimmingly.
You’ve been a night owl all your life. Staying up past midnight is an easy feat. But the weight of the past few days being on the run is now slowly taking its toll on you. As the clock ticks further into the night, you find yourself losing the battle against sleep.
Until she walks in.
The first thing that rouses you from your slippery slope down into slumber is this fresh and powdery rose scent that’s elegant yet not overpowering. It thrills your nostrils. It captures your mind. The second thing that shakes you awake is the sound of her stilettos against the marble floor—gentle, light, unassuming. The final thing that makes you train your eyes on her was the way her floral dress clings to her slender frame, tracing up the length of her petite figure, and leads your gaze towards the neutral expression on her face.
She doesn’t belong here with the likes of Alex the Lion and you. She belongs somewhere between movie sets and luxury brand billboards.
She’s unreal.
And she’s looking right at you.
In fact, she’s not just looking—she’s pointing right at you. What did you do? Did you say something in your sleep? What the hell is going on? But the heat rushing to your face is overtaken by what her assistant says to you next. “Sirs, the decision by the young mistress has been made. You, in the back, please come with us.”
“Let’s get you acquainted with Lady Jiwon.”
Dinner.
They walk you along polished hallways dotted with traditional decor, through an luscious and well-maintained courtyard, and towards an imposing three-story building surrounded with Devil Cat Clan goons armed to the teeth—just for dinner.
You already regret your decision. But it’s too late to back out now.
As you enter the building, you’re brought towards the dining room that looks less like it belongs to an organized crime syndicate from the twenty-first century and more like it belonged to the owners of this house from six hundred years ago. A low dining table that looks a little larger than the usual soban frames the center of the room. Around it are several cushions atop a carpet with some sort of a mosaic design on it. Before you even contemplate hesitating, the man behind you presses up against you, reminding you of your situation with a shove. Eventually, you yield and join Jaehwi’s daughter at the table.
You have to hand it to the Devil Cat Clan—they are swift and efficient. Within moments, they begin setting the table. In mere moments, they pour you both tea, light some candles around the room, and set up different plates around Jaehwi’s daughter’s side of the table.
You say ‘they’ like there are multiple of them assembling all of this, when really, it’s just one woman in a traditional maid dress.
The assistant from earlier excuses himself and congratulates you for your first meal together. You’re not sure how to go about this, but you resolve to give it a try. Bowing next to you, the same maid from earlier gestures towards your empty side of the table. “Can I get you anything, young master? Our chefs are of the finest caliber, so I assure you—whatever cuisine your heart desires is no problem for us at all.”
You turn to the girl across you, still wearing her floral dress, staring at the food in front of her like she has seen this scene play out a thousand other times before. You return to the maid and say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
You keep it simple. Nothing more than it should be. Dinner. Just dinner.
With that, the maid excuses herself with another bow and heads to the kitchen to relay your request.
You can hardly call it a meal—whatever she was given. It looks more like a batch of impulsively assembled side dishes that had a total calorie count equal to an average meal—less appetizing, more functional. You realize this girl wasn’t even asked what she wanted to eat. She was just served it.
Like she doesn’t have a choice.
The maid returns minutes later with a similar set of food. When you ask her about this peculiarity, she just smiles and says, “Lady Jiwon follows a strict diet as per the request of Master Jaehwi. She is quite used to it by now.”
Like hell she is, you think to yourself as you watch her barely touch anything laid out for her. You admit—it smells good. And these side dishes of hers even taste great. Better than any convenience store meal could offer at three in the morning. But she isn’t eating any of it. Instead, you file away those sentiments. You’re not here to give a damn about what Jaehwi’s daughter thinks about her ‘rich girl food’.
You’re here to find a chance to strike at her father. So, you start something you absolutely dread doing with your marks.
Small talk.
“So,” you begin, poking at the vegetables you saved for later. “Marriage. You and me. Why all of a sudden?”
No response from her.
Instead, the response comes from her maid, which you start to think is her personal maid, as she continues hovering just out of view. “Lady Jiwon has been of age for years now, young master. It was only a matter of time before her father offers her hand to suitors. Lady Jiwon is aware of this, and is prepared to take any actions necessary to preserve the dignity of the Devil Cat Clan as his eldest child.”
You roll your eyes. So much for getting more information out of this girl. But you try again.
“Ok then. What about you? I mean, you as a person. Tell me about yourself.”
Again, before the girl could even get anything past her lips, the maid in the back replies, “Lady Jiwon is a wonderful woman. She has grown so much since I’ve begun taking care of her as a child. She enjoys gardening, traditional arts, and fashion among many other things. I’m afraid I cannot disclose much about her as is forbidden by Master Jaehwi. I hope this much will suffice for you, young master.”
This maid is starting to get on your nerves. You’re never getting to Jaehwi at this rate.
Clearing your throat, you exhale briskly before putting down your chopsticks. This grabs the girl’s attention, and when she locks eyes with you for the first time since arriving here, you ask, “Are you ok with getting married like this? Like a transaction? I mean, there’s always divorce, but your first marriage has to at least mean something, right?”
On cue, the maid responds, “Lady Jiwon has—.”
“Lady Jiwon this, Lady Jiwon that—I’m not asking for what you think she wants to say. I’m asking the damn woman in front of me what she thinks herself. So stop interrupting her,” you growl, maintaining your gaze towards Jaehwi’s daughter. “Just tell me. Do you even want to get married?”
She remains speechless against your first act of defiance within her household—within the territory of the Devil Cat Clan. The girl trembles in a way that a stray cat would when approached by a stranger—or anyone else for that matter—for the very first time. She has this look like she wants to come up with something, like she wants to say something, but what’s stopping her isn’t that she wasn’t sure about it.
She wasn’t sure if she was allowed.
Once the moment has come to pass, the maid interjects once more. “Like I was saying, young master, Lady Jiwon—.”
“It’s ok … Areum-unnie …”
Her voice. It came out. And god forbid—if you weren’t sitting within the premises of the Clan that murdered your parents, you would have likely spared the thought that she sounds just like an angel would. “It’s ok … I’ll take it from here.”
She’s no longer hunched forward. She’s no longer eating—not like she was picking at her food much earlier anyway. Now, posture straight, hands on her lap, she bows her head in a polite manner before rising up to meet your defiance. “I don’t have a choice. It’s … what’s needed of me. The least I can do is try to enjoy this as much as I can. I suggest you do the same.”
“I’d be enjoying this more if you’d stop looking like you’d rather be anywhere else but here.”
Her face does a thing that’s not enough to be a smile but is certainly above neutrality. The corners of her lips twitch in a way that you ascertain is of her own volition. “Thank you for sharing a meal with me. I … I’m sorry I couldn’t offer much for our first meal together. But I hope we can look forward to more … fruitful interactions in the future.
You fight yourself from scoffing. Yeah right—like you’ll let this farce play out for any longer.
Before she is able to stand up and command her maid, you shoot up from your seat and clear your throat. “Your … your father. Is he … home?”
That was such a weird fucking question to ask her, and her expression reflects the same sense of surprise. But still, she replies, “No. Father is away again tonight. Like always.”
Like always. The words echo in your head a few times. “I see. Sorry if that was … a bit weird to ask. I just wanted to—.”
Areum interrupts you with a terribly hidden snicker. “Oh my, young master. How bold of you to be having such … thoughts already. You need not worry. Even if he was home, I imagine he wouldn’t mind his daughter’s suitor seeing her upstairs.”
“Seeing her upstairs?”
Areum nods, running a hand down her mistress’s back several times to smoothen out the creases of her dress. “You did wish to see her to her room, did you not? I don’t blame you—it would be wise to get acquainted sooner rather than later. You do remember that part of the provision for marriage, no? If Lady Jiwon deems you unfit for her hand in marriage, Master Jaehwi will have you killed.”
Well, shit. You should have read through those damn papers better.
Caught between your held breath and the next, you nod like someone who was just realizing what they had signed up for. “Yeah … I’d like to accompany her upstairs. Do you mind?”
Areum shakes her head, extending her hand in invitation. “Right this way, young master. The living room is on the second floor. Her bedroom is on the third. Lady Jiwon, I trust you will be in good hands. Consider this … a test of his prudence and fidelity.”
Prudence this, fidelity that. You just need a chance to escape. If you had known Jaehwi wasn’t going to be anywhere near his daughter, and if you had half a brain cell to even read that contract you signed earlier, you wouldn’t be here right now.
You wouldn’t have done this.
The girl glances over her shoulder without even fully turning around. She eyes you like you should already know what to do. Oh, how mistaken she is when you don’t even offer your arm out to her as you two ascended the stairs. Instead, you left her to cling to the wooden grooves of the railing.
You pause by the landing on the second floor, and she wonders what’s wrong. “Nothing, nothing. I just—can you give me a moment before I head up? This is new even for me, entering a woman’s bedroom and all. I just want to be … a bit more ready.”
While you might not be the best suitor, you are certainly a well-versed liar. She buys your deceit without a hint of doubt and continues upstairs to her room.
Now that you’re alone, your mind races. The plan is in fucking shambles.
You were here for Jaehwi—not for his daughter. But the bloody bloke isn’t even home. Defense mechanism or just poor parenting? You couldn’t care any less. You came here to strike from within the Devil Cat Clan while they were still scrambling outside to find you. You aren’t leaving without doing any significant damage to them at the very least.
When you feel the weight of your hands drift towards your legs, inching closer and closer to your holsters, you then unravel a certain line of thought.
What if you don’t kill Jaehwi?
A riveting idea, you have to admit. But, what if you didn’t kill him? Instead, what if you kill someone else?
What if you took the life of someone that mattered to him, just like how he took the only two people you have ever loved in your life from you?
So you wait an hour. Then two. And once you’re certain the girl isn’t peeking over the balcony anymore to see if you were still coming up after her, you don your crow mask once more and grip your hwando.
This is for your parents.
You ascend up the final flight of stairs, one step at a time, holding your breath.
This is for what they did to your family—this is what they did to you.
One hand on the handle of the sliding door, you carefully tug it open and reveal the dark bedroom with its owner sleeping on her bed, back towards you.
This … is for what he took from you—Jaehwi … Now, it’s your turn to take from him.
And as you hovered over the girl’s bed, blade in hand, the same weapon that you’ve used to take countless of Devil Cat Clan lives with, you slice downwards and split her neck wide open.
At least, you would have, if you didn’t hear her sob.
Pausing with the sharpened edge nearly pressing into the delicate exposed skin of her nape, you shudder and tighten your core.
She’s crying.
Once she shifts and turns towards the reason why there’s a depression next to her on the bed, you swiftly take off your mask and shove it behind you while also sheathing your blade in the same motion.
“It’s … you. You’re still here …?”
Sweating, shaking, body tensing like a strung bow, your neck produces the bare minimum motion for a nod. “Yeah, I … I guess I still am. I didn’t mean to disturb your sleep, really. I was just … I was just …”
You look across her face: at her reddened eyes, at the damp spots against her unblemished cheeks, at the hair that clung to her temples, and at her full lips that quivered with the slightest motions.
Then, you sigh. “Sorry if I woke you up. You were … crying, weren’t you?” you point out like an idiot, as if she didn’t already know that. “Is it because of what I asked you earlier?”
She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even want to look you in the eye.
Instead of the awkward kneel and hover you’re doing above her laying figure, you instead convert to a sit on her mattress. It was only then that the girl fluffed her comforter up so you could apparently join her under the sheets.
You don’t question it. You just slip right in.
Hand on her waist above the comforter, she turns on her side once more. “I don’t want to get married. I … I never even dated anyone yet. Never really liked anyone before. But my father … he said it was time. Our Clan is losing influence. Many of our members are defecting and joining other families and gangs. He … he said there was no other way.”
You thought you hated Jaehwi enough already, but you learned you could hate him even more. “Your dad isn’t exactly the picture of parenthood, is he? Can’t you just say no? Can’t you just run away from all of this?”
She lets out a soft chuckle before shaking her head. You watch as the wavy ends of her hair dance underneath the moonlight. “All that I am … all that I have … is here. With my clan. I have nothing else. No one else. So I … I have no choice but to stay.”
She does something behind her back. She rests the back of her palm against her lower spine and splays her fingers open.
“Just for tonight … you can leave tomorrow and never come back … but for tonight, can you please—can you please just pretend to be mine and stay with me?”
You feel the weight of your blade against its sheathe. You feel the weight of each individual bullet in your pistol. You feel the weight of the pouring rain against your back on the night of your parents’ funeral.
And then, you feel the weight of her open hand against your thigh.
And then, you take it.
“You have some nerve allowing me to stay here. I could be an assassin out for your family’s money or something,” you tease, sublimating the anxiety that’s beginning to build up in the back of your head. “Why did you even choose me in the first place? I’m sure the other guys who were waiting to marry you could do more for you than just … this.”
You thought it would take her longer than that to respond, but you are mistaken.
In a heartbeat, she squeezes your hand in hers and tells you, “You seemed like the least threatening one. It felt like I could be safe with you.”
Your blade clinks in its place as if to laugh at her response, but you keep it silent with a firm squeeze as you sigh.
“Let’s hope you’re right about that.”
==
That is not the only time you attempt to assassinate Jaehwi’s daughter. In fact, that is not the only time you fail to kill her.
Like that one time you tried to maul her with a crowbar you picked up from the armory across the courtyard. You were going to beat her skull in but you had to stop when she ducked down to pet a stray kitten that wandered into the compound.
You stopped for the kitten—not for her.
Or that one time you aimed at her from the living room window on the second floor as she made her way towards some of the Clan members. You could have easily pulled the trigger several times on her, but you held back when she kept bowing politely to each one of them. You had to stop because you couldn’t miss your shot—and the lord knows Yujin didn’t pack you enough bullets.
It didn’t help that she spotted you shortly after and waved at you.
How about that other time when you approached her with a garrote in hand, ready to strangle her from behind? She was too busy watering her flowers to notice that you had arrived. You couldn’t just let her choke to death and cough up blood all over her orchids, right?
Instead, you ended up watching her tend to her personal garden as the sun set quietly behind you both.
This isn’t working out at all. Every time you got close to Jaehwi’s daughter, something would always get in the way of you ending her life. It was meant to be swift. You planned to make it as painless and as clean as possible. But time and again, life had other plans.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
Your window to visit her always opens at four in the afternoon. By the fifth day since the beginning of your arranged marriage, you were all out of ideas on how to take her out as you show up to the front gate of the mansion once more.
“I.D.?”
You look up at the burly guard in front of you, blocking your way. “What would I need an I.D. for?”
He grunts, leaning forward to cast his shadow over you, and repeats, “I said, I’m going to need an I.D. Before I let you in.”
Just when you were about to consider beating the hell out of this gorilla, a familiar face pokes her head through the door and smiles up at you. “Young master, I see you’re on time once again. Come, please head inside.”
You don’t appreciate her comment on being timely—you just had nowhere else to be. You couldn’t take any jobs from Yujin. Couldn’t even be anywhere near The Requiem or any of your safehouses. This was all you had now, so of course you showed up on time.
You give the gorilla-looking guard one final smirk before heading indoors.
Unlike the previous times that you’ve been here, Jiwon was nowhere to be found. Normally, you expect her to be sitting by the courtyard or reading a book in the living room. But today, she wasn’t home.
An idea strikes you.
You race up to her bedroom knowing full well that she wasn’t around, and with a quickened breath, you open her door and welcome yourself inside.
You start going through all of her things.
Her cabinets, drawers, that one compartment attached to her desk, the plastic crates underneath her bed, behind each ornament on her shelf, and even between the nooks and crannies that filled with dust—you leave no stone unturned in your desperate attempt to get any information that you can use on either her or Jaehwi.
But you found nothing.
The only thing you discover is that this girl was abundantly … mundane? There is no better way to put it.
When you pictured what the daughter of Kim Jaehwi would be like, you thought of anything but this.
You imagined a spoiled chaebol who hopped from country to country each week and only visited Korea whenever daddy wanted her back home. You imagined fancy hotels, spending sprees, parties with as much designer drugs as she had designer clothes, running from the law, and getting her father to bail her out with his ‘influence’ each time.
You certainly did not expect someone this … bland and quiet.
As you withdraw from the last of her wardrobe, coughing at the dust that spewed from the hangers of her untouched clothes, you wonder what use killing this girl would be in the grander scheme of things. It almost feels like Jaehwi doesn’t care about her enough to even let her become her own person. It almost feels like she doesn’t even matter to him.
But why do you care?
“What are you doing?”
Yeah, what were you doing? The words repeat in your head. But when you realize someone else said it to you, you hide your hands behind your back and turn to see Liz wrapped up in a pair of towels. “Why were you going through my stuff?”
Well, shit. What’s the lie this time?
You could tell her you saw a bug and couldn’t kill it before it snuck into her wardrobe. You could tell her Areum asked you to prepare some clothes for her—seeing that she’s buck naked beneath those towels. You could even just tell her that the wardrobe was open when you entered, and you were just closing it.
Instead, the truth slips from your lips.
“Look, there’s a reason for this …” you confess, unsure of where this was heading. But when you look at her confused and naive expression, you conscience won’t let you lie to someone like her again. “I just … I don’t know what I was hoping to do actually. I guess I was … I guess I was just trying to get to know you more. Somehow.”
Strangely true. That wasn’t even much of a lie. “Huh. Ok …”
“Ok,” you say in return, bouncing on your heels as you avoid making eye contact with her. But she bats her lashes twice as if she’s waiting for you to continue your alibi. “I uh, how do I put this? It’s weird just marrying you and into … all of this … without really knowing you much at all.”
“You think it’s unnatural,” she wonders, her tone bordering more on curiosity than concern.
“That’s one way to see this. Definitely.”
“So you want to … align stories?” she continues.
“Align stories? Right, right—align stories,” you nod, deciding to go with it. “I’m sure the other higher-ups of the Clan will want to know how I earned your respect. Or love. The media will have questions too when they publicize all of this. We should work on our cover story.”
You are so eager to delve deeper into this farce that you fail to realize Jiwon is waiting for you to stop running your tongue and give her a moment to change. “Right—after you change, of course. Would be difficult talking to you while you’re still naked.”
Her expression doesn’t change. So you shut yourself up, head out, and give her some time.
Once she’s ready, she calls you back in.
Her room smells of citrus shampoo, conditioner, and wet skin. You walk towards her and sit on the edge of her bed while she crosses her legs atop it.
“So, what ideas do you have for a cover story? I think the first few things we need to iron out are how we met, why we started dating, and what we love about each other. Sappy, I know, but it’s realistic at least.”
Jiwon purses her lips in thought, but it doesn’t amount to anything concrete.
“Ok, let’s try to break it down further. Maybe we can start with the first question: how did we meet? Where do you usually go? You know, for fun and stuff. Where do you hang out outside of home? Maybe we can use that—I can work with it. Better something you’re familiar with so you end up making less mistakes when you explain.”
But Jiwon isn’t able to give you a response. She just looks at you as if you might have the answers she’s looking for.
“Wait, do you … mostly just stay at home?”
The way she retreats underneath her comforter is enough of a response for you. “Huh. I can’t really say I met you at home. They’ll think I’m some kind of robber breaking and entering into your house. They’ll have me killed.”
“I … I used to go to school,” she offers up in an attempt to pitch something useful. “I had to stop after middle school because my father didn’t like how there weren’t any exclusive high schools for girls. Any good ones, at least.”
“You could have gone to Sookmyung or Sehwa. Those are really close to my old high school,” you ponder, drawing figures on her bedsheet as if you were mapping it out. “One time, me and my friends got—.”
You stop yourself. Why are you remembering this?
This is a memory from your past life—a life you chose to bury and leave behind. This is a memory attached to who you once were, to who you used to be, to the you that still managed to have a normal life—with his parents. But that’s over now. And you swore not to think about it—any of it—ever again.
So why are you bringing it up again? Why are you even telling her this?
When you pause, she reaches a hand out and tries to place it over yours, but she jerks it back towards her person and gets all shy about it. Despite that, she has this look on her that’s telling you to continue, to not hold back. She must be thinking you were conscious about oversharing. She’s blissfully unaware that you’re intentionally stopping yourself.
“I … This one time, we all tried to get ourselves a date for Valentine’s. Stupid, I know, but we thought we might have a chance asking outside of our high school. So half of us went to Sookmyung, and the other half—my half—we went to Sehwa. I told them to play it cool, but god, they were such dorks. They approached the first girls that walked out of the school entrance, hitting on them right away. I was so embarrassed because of them that I barely got to ask anyone out.”
“Glad you know that was very weird,” she notes. “If I studied there, I would have called the cops on you.”
“Yeah, admittedly I’m not the best at courting or dating anyone. Never really had a girlfriend either so … this is all pretty new to me too. Which is crazy … right? One day I’m … just another person on the street, and the next day I’m … I’m marrying someone like you.”
You two share a look of understanding but immediately glance away when you connect a little too deeply with the other.
“I don’t know why I brought that up, sorry. It just came to me,” you try to continue past the topic. “So you didn’t go to high school. That’s out of the question for our cover story. Did you go anywhere for fun? In your free time?”
You think of asking her when even was her free time because every day seemed like a free day to her. She doesn’t seem to be invested in any form of academics, business, or even hobbies for that matter. She was just … here. At home.
“I … I like to sing.”
You nod, leaning into that. “Yeah, Areum told us. I remember that. What do you usually sing? Karaoke?”
“I’ve only been to a karaoke place once before, actually … I was probably twelve at the time,” she recalls, lacing her fingers together atop her lap. “My father had to meet some people, and he wanted to bring me along to introduce me. I ended up sneaking out and into the empty room next door. I had a blast singing some of my favorite anime songs.”
“You watch anime?” you ask in disbelief like Jaehwi’s daughter having some semblance of a personality was earth-shattering to you. “What did you watch?”
She chuckles like she thinks it’s ridiculous. “Oh, nothing big. Just … Madoka Magica, Shinsekai Yori, San-Gatsu no Lion. Those shows …”
She buries her face into her palms and peaks out at you to see your reaction. You in fact have none. You’re too stunned by this to even think of a response. “So the daughter of a syndicate leader likes dark magical girls, dystopian fantasies, and human drama.”
“Is it … bad?”
You shake your head and laugh at such a question in disbelief. “Not at all, it’s actually very … endearing. By any chance, did you ever watch …?”
You talk about your favorite anime shows and movies. Of course, you can’t help but circle back to the topic of your favorite openings and endings. As a result of this, you talk about other similar things too: your favorite K-dramas, your favorite Western movies, favorite bands and musical artists, favorite genres of music. You even go as far as talking about the places around Korea that she’s visited—Jeju being the standout one. About her favorite types of food—whenever she is allowed a cheat day of sorts, at least. About her favorite pastimes even, which she explains is all she ever does now in her daily idyllic life.
Throughout this entire time, you get the feeling that she’s another person—that she’s another human being. Just like you. The label of being Jaehwi’s daughter is something you easily forget—just like your initial excuse of coming up with a cover story together. It feels refreshing hearing her answer out of her own volition, recount stories and memories without being prompted, and actually responding to you like she has a mind of her own.
It’s incredible watching Jaehwi’s daughter opening herself up like this to you.
When you ask her what kind of cake is her favorite—and you hope it’s oreo cheesecake too because that’s the only cake you will ever eat—she asks if this is for your wedding. “I never really thought about the flavor yet … it has to be fancy though, right? My father—.”
You click your teeth and swat at her. “My father this, my father that—I’m asking you what you want. Actually, screw the wedding. Let’s not … let’s not even think about that right now. If your dad wasn’t in the picture, what would you be doing right now? What would you want to do, huh? What would you try?”
You can see the years of being under control dance across her face as she thinks long and hard about the answers to your questions. It takes her a few minutes to decide on a response that’s satisfactory to her—a quirk of hers, you now learn—but she ends up saying, “I want to … play video games.”
Leaning forward, you stare at her with eyes as wide and as open as your jaw. “What? You’ve never played video games before?”
She crinkles her nose in an innocent way. “Don’t say it like that … I wasn’t allowed to play any games growing up. My father thought it was a waste of time, and he would always put me on some kind of tutor for the summer: piano, traditional dance, painting—you name it. It was only my mother … who … who …”
She begins to choke on her words, and you see her visually jerk and jolt in place as she’s struggling with more than just words now. “I-I … she …”
You don’t think twice: you hold her hands and squeeze them. “Rough topic? Sorry, if I had known—.”
But she shakes her head. “No … no it’s ok … Just being … yeah, don’t worry about that. I um, I never really got to play any video games. If I could use my money, I’d maybe … maybe buy a TV.”
“You do know that’s not how you play video games, right?”
She turns her head to the side like an owl would. “But I saw my sister playing on her TV. Isn’t that where most games are now?”
She has a sister? You file that away for later.
But your hand can’t resist slapping itself across your face. A groan shortly follows. “That’s … what we call consoles. Probably a console, yeah. This nifty little gadget you plug CDs into? The CDs have the games, and the console lets you play it. On the TV. The TV itself does nothing for you.”
“So you mean to say you need a console to allow you to play a game, and you need a TV to allow you to play a console? That … sounds very complicated,” she points out. And when you hear it said out loud by someone who has never known any of this, you realize that she’s got a point. “Are they expensive?”
“Are you kidding? You’re Kim Jaehwi’s daughter. You’re flooded to the chin with cash from—.”
You stop yourself when you start to remember the debt your parents owned Jaehwi’s lowlife loansharks. You stop before the memories can come surging back from when they would arrive weekly to try and shake what little cash your family had left to make your parents pay up. You can feel the blood boiling in your veins as you remember what got you here in the first place—what brought you your misery.
But when you look at Jaehwi’s daughter and see the soft of her nose twitch out of concern for you, slowly, your frustration begins to fade. “Sorry … yeah, you’ve got money on your side. I wouldn’t be worried about that.”
“What games can you play on one? Can you … can you play Minecraft?”
Your hand flies back to your face. The daughter of Kim Jaehwi, the leader of the top syndicate in all of Korea, wants to play fucking Minecraft? She could have asked for anything else—a weeklong vacation in the Maldives, her own private jet or yacht or limousine, or even a pet peacock if she was that freaky.
But Minecraft? That’s something commoners enjoy.
Something you enjoyed.
When you stand up, you almost don’t want to leave when she crawls across her bed to follow you, but you reassure her with a smile.
After half an hour of awkward conversation with her personal maid and sifting through dusty boxes in the storage room, you return to her bedroom with an old laptop, its charger, and an extension cord.
“That’s …”
“Borrowed it for a while. It was a pain convincing Areum to let me even have it, but she said it might still have your dad’s credit card credentials on it,” you happily announce, laying it all out on the bed and plugging the laptop to the nearby outlet. “We could get you Minecraft on this.”
“You don’t have to. My father would—.”
“Probably notice?” you finish her sentence as you enter the password Areum told you. “He wouldn’t mind losing a couple thousand won. What’s that against his daughter’s happiness?”
As you connect to the internet with the laptop—something you both are surprised by—you head over to the website, purchase the game, and wait for it to install. As you’re explaining to her the general gist of the mechanics within the game, you notice in your peripheral vision that her mouth is doing that thing again. It pulls up from the corners this time, towards her ears, ever-so-slightly.
She smiles.
Shaking your head, once the all-too-familiar loading screen comes into view, you place the laptop onto her lap. “Think you’ll be fine, or do you need me to backseat you?”
She bites her lip and says, “I think I’ll be fine. So I just … press ‘singleplayer’ right?”
She was definitely not fine.
She spent the first ten minutes marveling at her new game, it’s unique block design and layout, and the cute little baby pig that approached her from the forest. But once the first ten minutes are up and nighttime falls upon her, she is immediately racing towards the nearest pile of dirt to bury herself six blocks under.
She alternates between whimpers and screams with each zombie and skeleton that chases after her poor unarmored character, struggling to even collect wood or stone without the ever-present fear of a mob jumping at her. While you’re watching this girl play what is likely her very first video game, you can’t help but feel this tightness in your chest.
It isn’t happiness. It isn’t joy. You knew what those felt like once upon a time. This is something … different. You resolve not to give it a name. Instead, you decide to see her sob into her thighs as she gets blown up by a Creeper for the seventh time in a single night, her items scattering to the winds.
You don’t even realize that you fell asleep at some point. The last thing you remember was her rocking your thigh steadily while mining for some iron in an abandoned mineshaft.
The moment you wake up, the room is dark, and the moonlight from the window is faint. It must have been hours now since you passed out. The first thoughts in your mind are the laptop and Jaehwi’s daughter, worried about what else beyond Minecraft she must have gone on with it.
Your answers, conveniently enough are right next to you—tucked into bed, back against you, the device right next to her blanketed feet, sleeping soundly like one would after a whole evening of playing Minecraft.
You pick up the laptop and unlock it, wondering what she was up to while you were out cold.
There, on the corner of the screen, was a sticky note. Written on it were the words: Made a house, too scared to mine again.
You opened the game and saw her humble little shack cobbled together with different bits of stone, wood, and spare wool. The occasional leaf blocks throughout the design tell you how desperate she was to build somewhere to live.
Cracking your knuckles, you manage a smile as you equip yourself with her nearly-broken wooden sword. “Leave the rest to me then.”
You spend the entire night lighting up a large area around her house with torches, making a little mineshaft downwards from the side of her house, and clearing the nearby zones off of any hostile mobs. You put it the dirty work—the kind of work you enjoy more back when you used to play this game with friends—so that she doesn’t have to. You’re amazed you still remember the recipe for a shield, how to pick off mobs with a bow, or even how to abuse hunger mechanics.
By the time you leash a dog to one of her fences, your eyes begin to falter, and before you know it, the early morning rays of sun threaten to blind you from the window. But the call of sleep is too strong. You hope you’ve done enough for her today. Now, it was finally time to rest in the real world.
Little did you know that the girl beside you got to wake up with a wide grin on her face as she took her new pet along with her to explore the world once more.
==
Your days with Jaehwi’s daughter look a lot like that day.
You spend your mornings doing god-knows-what trying to get your life back together again despite what’s going on around you. After a few days blow over, the heat on your back drops and you manage to return to The Requiem to take more jobs from Yujin. You clean these jobs up like usual, but you take extra pre-caution to get to your mark before four in the afternoon.
Because that was when your time with her began.
Of course, you’re keeping up an act. It wouldn’t make sense to stop following through after just a few days. It would make the Clan suspicious. It would place heat on you again.
Of course, you tell yourself that, but in actuality, spending time with his daughter was oddly enough a pleasant treat.
Whenever you come over, she’s already in the living room, hunched over her laptop, eyes wide open as the lights from her game flash all across her face. It’s almost endearing how adorable she looks when she’s taken over by the childhood wonder she’s been withheld from for years.
It’s almost endearing—until you remember you still have to kill her.
And you still try. You still try to end her life. But you know how things go—life still gets in the way.
You try attaching your ol’ reliable silencer to your pistol and convince her to enter the Nether, so you could shoot her in the back while she’s distracted by armies of Piglins. But the moment the lack of gold on her character becomes a problem, she’s throwing herself at you as if a physical escape in the real world would equate to a similar escape in the game.
You end up just hugging her trembling form and reminding her it’s just a game. The Piglins can’t hurt her in real life.
You try stabbing her in her sleep again—just like you originally planned. But Jaehwi’s daughter is one hell of a light sleeper. The moment you open the door to her room, she’s already turning towards you like she’s been expecting you. She pats the side of her bed and invites you to sit next to her, telling you all about what she did in Minecraft that day, how annoying Phantoms are, and how she might make a boat out of cherry wood and sail across the large ocean to the east.
You end up smiling through her stories of being raided by Pillagers.
You even try poisoning her food. You offered to serve her some breakfast in bed to surprise her, and Areum is immediately taken by your ‘sweetness’, naive to the notion of you sprinkling her meal with an agent so strong it would only take one bite to kill any mark. Except she doesn’t even want to take a bite of her food. She was too eager to jump back into the game again the moment she wakes up, insisting you eat the food yourself so it wouldn’t go to waste.
You end up dumping her laced breakfast into the trash, but not before kicking the can in frustration.
You regret buying her that damned game. Who would have thought it would make things more difficult than it already was.
This was unreal.
“Yeong Kyungsam—thirty-three, married with no children, head of logistics at one of Jaehwi’s construction companies, one of their fronts for money laundering.”
Bang.
“Myo Seungri—fifty-five, unmarried, retired grunt who worked for Jaehwi’s father and helped kill students during the Gwangju Uprising back in the eighties.”
Bang bang.
“Jeong Sooyun—twenty-seven, unmarried, works as a loanshark—.”
Bang bang bang.
As the blood stopped spreading across Sooyun’s carpet, you kick her lifeless face to make sure that she’s dead dead. You kick her face again just for the hell of it. Once you confirm she’s gone, you stuff your pistol in your holster and check the time on your phone.
Three-thirty-five.
Leaning against the window, you part the curtains and stare outside, weighing your options. It would take approximately half an hour to get to the mansion, but it would only take fifteen minutes to go to the nearest Subway to get a sandwich.
You go with the sandwich.
You line up, get your order taken, get your order messed up, watch as the staff apologizes and redoes your order with her manager behind her, and then finally, you get the sandwich you’ve been craving for, and take a seat somewhere near the back.
But it tastes like shit.
This is your favorite order for a sandwich and it tastes like absolute ass. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t stomach eating this alone or because you can taste the guilt of your actions with each bite. Whatever it is, it makes you check the time on your phone again.
Four-eleven.
You let out a sigh. Next to you, a high school student is eyeing you with a scared look on his face. You’re not sure if he’s scared because of your weapons or because you’ve been staring blankly at your half-eaten sandwich for minutes now. Either way, you offer him your half, and when he strangely enough accepts, you get up and begin jogging towards the Devil Cat Clan’s mansion.
“You’re late. But I still need your I.D.”
You grunt as you pretend to look for your non-existent I.D. through your different pockets. No way in hell are you giving this gorilla your actual I.D. “Can’t you let me in? I’ve been coming here for days now. Surely you recognize me.”
The guard doesn’t flinch. “You’re late, Tracksuit. She’s not happy with it.”
Those words stab into your chest. “I know, so could you just let me in?”
Before the gorilla can beat you to death, Areum pops her head out and assesses the ruckus before saying, “You’re here, young master. I thought you wouldn’t be coming today. You’re quite late.”
You exhale firmly through your nose. “I’m very aware of that. Could you help me get in?”
Sure enough, Areum waves down the guard and helps you enter the premises of the estate. She’s aware you know your way around by now, so she leaves you to confront the inevitable as she heads off to attend to some chores.
When you make it up to the third floor and open the bedroom door, a pillow smacks you right in the face before falling between your feet.
“You’re late,” she accuses you without looking up from the laptop. She’s just circling around the apps with the trackpad, pretending to be busy. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”
You shrug, picking up the pillow and placing it next to her. “I don’t have to come everyday, do I?”
That’s what makes her look away from her laptop. She clutches the pillow you picked up and hugs it tight against her chest. “I guess not …”
You glance away as you feel heat overtake your face for a brief moment. “Whatever. Is this what you’ve been up to again? You’re way too addicted to this. Maybe I should delete—.”
The pillow smacks your face again, and immediately, she recovers it with a pout. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh I would, young lady. You’re cooping up here’s gotten worse since I bought you that game,” you point out, sitting on the bed now. “Honestly, I’m surprised you even managed to play all this time with just a trackpad. Doesn’t it hurt your fingers?”
She shakes her head. “I can manage. Want to see what I built while you were gone?”
You inch closer to her and she shows you what’s new. You give her a day, and she managed to build a simple doghouse for her pet. You give her three days, and she managed to dig streets into the ground, make her own pathways with a shovel, and connect the roads in a cute little pattern. You give her a week, and she’s managed to copy the layout of this mansion as similarly as she could with the limited blocks and materials she has access to.
“Not bad, not bad,” you’re saying over her shoulder as you watch her do donuts on her boat. “I bet by the time we get married you would have already built all of Seoul in your world.”
Her mouth does it again—she smiles. But this time, she’s chuckling along with it.
But that moment is short-lived when your noses touch and you both realize how close you are to each other.
Instead of pulling herself away, she lets you stay where you are, hovering above your shoulder. Instead of withdrawing yourself, you allow yourself to stay close to her, staying by her side.
The two of you don’t say anything for a good few minutes.
What breaks the ice is one of your fingers moving towards hers, which was by the trackpad. You wiggle it around, and the field of view in the game wiggles around as well. “Maybe we should get you a mouse.”
“A mouse?”
“Yeah, for your laptop. I think we can get you a nice Logitech one that’s bluetooth too. It will help you with your building—trust me,” you explain. “And you’ve been playing on mute still? No wonder you keep getting jumped by mobs. I turned on subtitles for you already, but it helps to hear where they’re coming from too.”
“Ah, I get conscious playing with volume, especially when everyone’s already asleep.”
You chuckle. “You know, you’re technically their boss. I’m sure they wouldn’t give a damn if they heard their boss screaming after being chased by Skeletons again.”
She punches your shoulder—not a soft one, but one that packs some strength behind it. “Ya! I know how to use a shield now, you know?”
She raised her voice. That was the first time she’s ever done that. Endearingly.
When you don’t speak, she hides her face against the pillow and looks up only to paddle back to her little dock area. “I guess some earphones would help.”
Leaning back on your hands, you ask her, “What else do you want to buy? I don’t just mean for your laptop or to feed your Minecraft addiction—I mean other things. In general, you know?”
“In general …?”
You nod, glancing around the bare room within her four walls. “Things you’ve always wanted but never got to have. Things you couldn’t buy for yourself. Things you wish Jae—your dad could have gifted you but didn’t. Because he’s an asshole.”
She punches you again, this time with less power as she seems a bit more conscious. “Not clothes then. He only ever buys me clothes. Sometimes they aren’t even the right size.”
You think about the wardrobe filled with dust. You think about the first dinner you shared together and how meek she was. And you think about how, right now, you’ve heard her speak ill of her father for the first time. “You’re sure daddy won’t be mad if he heard that?”
And then, for the first time as well, you see her smirk at you. “Daddy won’t mind if I spend money again. He hasn’t given me a gift for my birthday last year anyway. This is just … making up for it.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘revenge’,” you quip, yet the word never felt sourer in your mouth. “How about we go to the mall then?”
Immediately, her expression twists and tightens. “The mall …? You mean like … outside?”
You nod, weirded out by her question. “Where else would the mall be? I know a gaming store I used to … I used to go to when I was younger. If they’re still open, maybe we could buy your gaming gear there with a discount too. Then, we can go around and see if there’s anything else you want to buy. We could even get something to eat afterwards.”
It seems she doesn’t like what you’re telling her. The moment you run your mouth about the different things you could do together at the mall, she falls silent and returns to that wilted state you first saw her in.
Dropping the topic, you reach out to her. But you stop yourself before your hand could touch her skin.
Why were you doing this? Why were you offering to go to the mall with her?
She could ask someone like Areum to go with her and buy whatever it is you listed out. She could just order them online and have them delivered the next day without any problems. Why did she have to go to the mall? And why did she have to go with you?
You’re supposed to fucking kill her—not babysit her.
Not take her out on some date.
When she comes to once again, she pushes the laptop away along with the pillow she was previously hugging. She curls up into a ball and lays down with her back towards you.
Well, shit. What did you say this time?
Rubbing your temple, you lay down next to her, share a moment of silence first, and then speak to the ceiling. “Another sore spot? Sorry about that. I still need to get used to your … triggers.”
But she shook her head. “No, it’s just … I … I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?” you say, and you fight the urge to look at her, knowing she would get too conscious—too ‘seen’. “Believe me, I’ve been called a disappointment more times than you can count. You’re the last thing I’ll think of when I think ‘disappointment’.”
Something in her springs to life. Something in her makes her sit up, and then get off the bed.
You follow her. You trail behind her like you’re her shadow. She glides out of her bedroom, down the stairs, into the courtyard, through the lavishly decorated hallways, past the Clan goons who all greet her politely, and when you’re both finally at the main entrance of the estate, she takes a deep breath and sighs.
She takes one step through the door and instantly, she’s shaking. Sweating. Like she’s sick. Like she’ll combust if she steps out into the light.
It’s only then that you recognize what was happening—a panic attack.
You lift her beneath her shoulders and bring her back inside, and without any hesitation, she’s clinging to you for dear life.
You hear her sobbing into your chest.
“I-I can’t … I can’t go out …” she whimpers, shaking her head, trying to dry her eyes against your jacket. “I-I-It feels like I need to … need to vomit. Head spinning, chest … chest hurting. I can’t … I’m sorry.”
Whatever happened to her—whoever did this to her—had a lot of explaining to do. But not her. She didn’t have to say another word. “You idiot … you didn’t have to do all this just to show me. Don’t worry about it. We’ll … we’ll find another way.”
“But that’s the thing—I don’t want to stay like this forever.”
As she trails off, back indoors, back down the first few hallways, and as you follow shortly behind her, she humors you some. “I didn’t always used to be like this. Just … just happened recently. I just … I just wish I wasn’t this helpless.”
“I just wish I wasn’t this weak.”
You know that feeling. You’re terribly familiar with it.
Feeling helpless. Feeling hopeless. Feeling weak. The world doesn’t stop for anyone or anything. It doesn’t stop for unpaid debt. It doesn’t stop for murdered parents. And it certainly doesn’t stop either for the traumatized children of syndicate leaders.
So you do the sensible thing and place your hand on the small of her back, rubbing it in arcs, before you whisper to the wind. “One step at a time, ok? Take it easy. I’ll … I’ll help you.”
You tell yourself this is part of the plan. You want to help get her out of the house so you can kidnap her, take her somewhere more isolated, and shoot her there.
Instead, you’re doing anything but that.
Because you have to deal with with two things.
First, the goons. They’re everywhere.
When you start visiting Jaehwi’s daughter earlier than four in the afternoon, you see for the first time what happens in the first half of her days.
The different thugs and lowlifes under the employ of her father visit her for some reason. They greet her, make small talk with her, ask her for ‘her blessing’ before they go around and do god-knows-what. Nothing untoward. Nothing slimy. They treat her more like an idol to be worshipped than a dainty daughter they needs to be taken care of. They tell her about their exploits, about their ventures, hoping she would support them with a few kind words. But she isn’t much for words. She just nods and thanks them for stopping by.
You worry some of them would recognize you—because oh boy, do you recognize a good amount of them. Like Eyepatch, who came to her bragging about the new businesses he contracted into the Clan’s protection scheme—you’re pretty sure you’re the reason he’s only got one eye now. Or Mohawk, who showed her the brand new watch he bought with the money he made through Clan work—you could have sworn that was a fake; you broke the real one two months ago when you broke his wrist too.
Instead of worrying, you try not to think too deeply into it and let them pass.
Second, her trauma. Or whatever this is that she’s experiencing.
You think it might be some adverse reaction to disobeying her dad’s command to stay at home. But when you hear Areum actively supporting and encouraging you to help her, you begin to wonder if it’s something else.
You start by getting her used to standing by the open door. That seems easy enough to do. But even then, she’s already clinging to the hem of your track pants every time like she’d seen a ghost.
Once she’s pinching your clothes a little less, you accompany her in taking her first few steps outside. Just on the sidewalk. She’s trembling like she’s about to collapse, but you stay by her side the entire time, reassuring her, letting her know you were right there. If she could clear Woodland Mansions by herself, surely standing on the sidewalk was no challenge for her.
Then she’s able to cross the street. Then she’s able to head down to the other end of the road. Then she’s able to head towards the bus station, and down into the subway.
One step at a time, you managed to help her conquer her fear. And she insists she is only able to do so because you held her hand the entire time. You don’t even notice you were doing that, but hey—if it helps, then it helps.
Nothing more to it than that.
Come the day you both agreed on to go to the mall together, you arrive at the estate on time this time around. But the gorilla at the gate stops you once again.
“Really? How many times are we going to do this?” you ask, stuffing your hands into your pockets. “Just let me in. I have a d—I have somewhere to be with her.”
He raises a brow at your change in tone. “Like always—I.D.. No I.D.? No entry.”
“You’re impossible.”
Half hoping Areum would show up again, you give it a few minutes. Sure enough, a head pokes out of the door to greet you.
But it isn’t Areum’s.
“H-Hi …” she meekly greets, taking one shy step after the other as she meets you outside the gate. “Sorry, I was … already waiting for you here. Do I look ok? For the mall?”
Your eyes don’t even hesitate to look her up and down. She’s wearing a lovely little frilly dress with ruffles that flowed downwards to her knees and a trench coat over it to keep her warm. You look away to avoid the eagerness in her eyes as you nod. “It looks fine. Yeah. Good enough.”
She pouts and rubs her nape. “Maybe I overdressed—.”
“No. You um, you look great. You really do,” you push out of your lips, feeling the heat rising from your chest. It didn’t help that the gorilla was eyeing you very carefully. “Although I think you should put a disguise on. Or something.”
“A disguise?” she asks, covering her lower face with one hand. “Who am I hiding from? My father?”
“No, it’s just … do you even follow the news? Your face was everywhere just two weeks ago. Even if you aren’t the talk of the town anymore, someone’s bound to recognize you,” you lie to her. You know damn well why you’re telling her to put on a ‘disguise’.
You don’t want anyone else to fawn over how beautiful she looks right now.
Pursing her lips, she looks like she wants to refute you, but caves to your request anyway. She asks Areum to give her a face mask and a cap to wear. “How about now? Is this better?”
It’s not. It’s worse. Way worse. For you, at least.
Because now that half her face was covered, all you can focus on are her eyes, on how soft and elegant they are—like a cat’s. A cat who knows how to crush your ribs and squeeze the air from your lungs with just one look. With every look. Now, they’re all you can see when you look at her, and it’s getting harder to think of anything but her damn eyes.
“Um, so …?”
It was the gorilla who answered on your behalf with a chuckle. “You look beautiful, young lady. Don’t let this dumbass tell you otherwise.”
You roll your eyes and take her hand. “Let’s go.”
To be clear, this is not a date. You’re just taking the syndicate leader’s daughter to the mall to buy gaming gear. That’s it. That’s all it has to be.
To whom you needed to clarify that with, you aren’t so sure. But it’s good to keep in mind as the day goes on.
She’s never taken the train, so you teach her everything she needs to know. You get her a card and tell her to keep it for future use. You show her how to use it, how to squeeze into a packed train, how to know when it’s your stop.
But you get the idea she’s not really paying attention because her eyes are glued on you the entire time.
You do your best to keep her from bumping into the other passengers, positioning her next to the doors, but as the train continues to fill, you’re left with no choice but to encroach on her personal space.
One arm above her head, your face hovering above hers, you wince every time some idiot bumps into your back, making you press up closer to her. But she doesn’t look away.
All she looks at is you.
When you reach your stop, you show her the directions to get to the mall from here. You hope she was at least paying attention this time, so she could get here by herself in the future. But her eyes would not meet anyone’s. She keeps her head down, hand tightly squeezing yours, as the two of you walked down the bustling city streets to get to the mall.
Once you’re there, she lightens up a little bit.
Her doe eyes widen in amusement as she’s exposed to the different sights within a mall: the different stores, the scattered stalls, the occasional advertiser, the free samples, the nonstop escalators, the oddly placed water fountain, the annoying kids—all of it. She takes it all in with a sense of wanderlust.
And you can’t help but smile.
You take her to the gaming store you used to frequent years ago. You hardly recognize the staff, so a discount was out of the question, but you do find what you promised to buy her. You’re set to pay for the black Logitech mouse and matching black earphones with your own money—the money you scrounged up after yesterday’s marks. But she’s holding this pink Hello Kitty designed mouse close to her chest, and then she’s looking at you with those eyes, and before you knew it, you’re returning what you had picked out and instead slid her pink mouse and pink earphones towards the cashier. You are not safe from a mechanical keyboard either, and when you try to reason with her saying her laptop already has a keyboard, her eyes droop just the slightest bit and it was all over for you once again.
You curse underneath your breath, but she’s next to you, holding your arm as she watches her new gear get bagged. And for some reason, seeing all that was more than enough to make it up to you.
She wasn’t sure what else she wanted to buy because she wasn’t sure what else existed in the mall. So you take her around.
She has no reason to be shoulder-to-shoulder next to you. She has no reason to lean into you whenever she was avoiding passers-by. She has no reason to still be holding your hand either since you had no intent of leaving her behind. But you let her. You let it happen. You both continue to play the role of the soon-to-be-married couple.
Because damn it, it was starting to feel … nice.
If being a couple meant you could get away with hearing her whimper and throw a tantrum whenever she loses against you at the arcade, if it meant getting an excuse to wipe the crepe filling from the corner of her lips, if it meant allowing you to press your cheek against hers at the photobooth, or sitting her on your lap when all the benches are full, or even fixing her hair when it gets messy underneath her cap, then damn it—who the hell wouldn’t cash in on this experience?
The least you can do with your predicament is enjoy it.
Once her stomach is filled, and her legs are tired, and you’re carrying more paper bags than either of you would have expected, she gives you a certain smile with her eyes that signals that she’s satisfied now, and that she’s ready to go home.
“Thank goodness we’re done. I don’t know how much I can still carry,” you tease, lifting up one hand, showing how each finger was connected to a separate bag. “You went wild with my money, didn’t you? Shopping always feels better when you’re not the one paying for it.”
She chuckles and leans into you, nuzzling her head. “You’re always going to be paying for me when I go shopping.”
“There’s going to be a next time?” you genuinely ask. A part of you dreads it, but a greater part of you is somehow looking forward to it.
“Of course. When we get married, we’re doing this every week.”
“Every week?” you repeat, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m filing for a divorce before our first anniversary then.”
She leans in to punch you, but her attention is caught by something else.
It’s about half an hour to closing time, and as you both circle around the atrium to get to your exit, you notice some sort of event ongoing.
The circular central area has been converted into a makeshift dance floor. Scattered around it, couples are locked in a slow dance, swaying to the beat of the songs that the mall speakers were playing.
You want to say something funny about their masquerade theme, but her eyes are heavily trained on the dancing couples that glided across the improvised dance floor. She watches as they pull apart, come together, twirl around, and bow before one another—all while remaining connected the entire time.
When she returns to you, her eyes fall between her feet. So you stop in your tracks.
“Let me guess—you want to dance?”
“I … I was just …”
You smile and lift her chin up. “You want to dance, don’t you? Go, I’ll hold our things.”
But she pouts and shakes her head. “I can’t dance alone. Dancing like that is for two people.”
You’re confident you can list the different ways someone could dance alone, many of which would probably end up with you sounding stupid. But as she holds your hands and tugs you towards the music and dancing, you take a deep breath and reluctantly nod.
“Ok, I guess we can dance for a song or two.”
You grew up with two left feet. Dancing was the last item on your bucket list of things to learn when growing up. You imagine she’s got no experience with it either.
But damn, does she make it feel easy.
She puts on her face mask again to try and keep to the theme. You know it’s probably a bad idea, but you pull out the crow mask you always keep tucked away behind you and put it on. She stares at you and can’t help but laugh. “You look stupid. Where were you hiding that?”
“I … let’s just say I always want to be ready to join a masquerade ball.”
Her hands move when yours can’t. They slide up your elbows, towards your shoulders, and find purchase around your nape. Clinging to you, she smiles with her eyes and pulls you closer. Meanwhile, your hands are awkwardly resting by her hips, bags swaying with every motion, fingers afraid to dig too deep into her skin.
And you dance. The two of you, in your own little spot on the dance floor, swaying each other to the rhythm of the songs. It isn’t complicated. It isn’t intense. You both just allow yourselves to feel the rhythm against your combined bodies, and hold each other as you dance.
“I had fun today,” she mutters through her mask, looking into your eyes. You can almost see the crow mask looking back at you through the reflection on her irises. “I … I always seem to have fun when I’m with you.”
“And here I thought I was the only one enjoying this arranged marriage situation of ours,” you fire back, and it earns a soft giggle from her.
“You know, it made me … it made me think,” she continues with a whisper, pulling you even closer, so that now, the tip of your crow mask was dancing around her own protected nose. “If we met under different … circumstances, would we … would we still be like this?”
Your fingers twitch against her waist. “What do you mean? Would we still be getting married?”
“Would we have really fallen in love?”
You never considered this—whatever you two were doing, whatever you two had—as love.
In fact, you have never thought about love for the past eight years. You thought every last notion of such a feeling left you the moment your parents died. Since then, nothing’s really been the same anyway. And between chasing after goons with bullets or avoiding being hunted yourself, there was never really a pause—a space—where you can breathe and think about anything other than surviving, other than revenge.
But right now, confronted by such a question, you allow yourself the space to think about it.
“I … don’t know. If I didn’t sign up to be your husband, I don’t think I would have ever done … any of this—any of what we did—with someone else. I don’t think I’d make a good partner, really. If … if only you knew …”
She reaches towards your face with one hand and plucks your mask off you, holding it by the tip of its nose. “Then show me the real you. Not the you that’s trying to just … make me happy with our situation. I want to see who you really are, and … I want to see if I can fall in love with that. Please?”
You bite your tongue and try to control your breathing. Your physique isn’t this terrible—you’re not supposed be left sweating and out of breath by just a few circles around a dance floor. But somehow, you are. You’re utterly weakened by her words, and you’re absolutely ensnared by her eyes.
Just like how she pried your mask off of you, you dig your fingers between the strings of her face mask and pull it off her too. “Then I want to see the real you too. The you you want to become outside of your dad’s shadow. The you that’s beyond the Devil Cat Clan. The you that’s been there all along, waiting to come out.”
And just like that, she blushes like a flower learning to blossom for the first time, reddening like a tomato in a heartbeat.
There are two pistols hidden inside the length of your pants, each with about sixteen bullets loaded in. You have your hwando strappedagainst your chest, underneath your jacket, waiting to be unsheathed. And you have two separate garrotes hidden inside the heels of your shoes.
But despite all that, you don’t even think about killing her—or her father—for even a second. No. All you can think about is how you can keep sharing moments like this with her.
Because god damnit—it feels great.
It feels unreal.
==
Yeah, it’s safe to say the plan has fucking changed right about now.
You’re on the third week towards your upcoming marriage with Jiwon and you have made zero progress on your little revenge plan. If you aren’t going to do anything soon, you might find yourself married instead to the very organization you swore to burn to the ground.
But somehow, that idea doesn’t bother you anymore.
Your days with Jiwon begin to change. Since your vow to each other that night at the mall, your lives start to bleed into one another.
Jiwon asks you about the your track suit get up, your crow mask, and the weapons you always bring around with you. You just tell her it’s for safety purposes, but she’s not buying it. She begs you to stop bringing them around with you. And if she hadn’t asked you of it, you never would have. So you stopped packing them—for her sake. But the track suit agenda persisted.
Jiwon introduces you to her garden. This is the first time she formally does so. She tells you each of their names, recalls which years she started taking care of them, how much to water each of them, and what songs she likes singing to them on the daily. You tell her you want to hear one of her songs, and at first, she’s rather meek about. But when she realizes you spent five hours of your day just hearing her yap adorably about her beloved plants, she believes a song wouldn’t hurt—and oh boy, does she have such an angelic voice. You’re almost envious of the plants for hearing her sing every day.
Jiwon requests you to tell her about your life outside of her, about what you do for a living, about what you do for fun. You can’t exactly tell her you kill people for money. Instead, you tell her about the distant past. About how you used to study finance in college. About the sleepovers and all-nighters you used to pull with friends. About the times you would just jog early in the morning to help clear your head. And even about the times you crushed on certain girls around campus. And she listened. Jiwon listened to every last story of yours like they’re tales about another world. For you, they very well might have been given how long ago they were now, but you found some comfort in sharing your past with her.
You eat dinners together now. You spend hours at night laying next to her in bed talking about the silliest things. You greet her ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ each day. You get her little gifts and trinkets whenever you can. You even count the time left until you have to go, and the time remaining until you can see her again.
Is this what it means to be really dating? You’re not quite sure. But the things that are bouncing around in your head, making your chest feel all sorts of different things—they feel very real to you.
“Im Kyung-Mi—forty-six, married, one of Jaehwi’s hoobae’s from his short time in university, now handles several laundering fronts for the Clan.”
“Bo Hana—twenty-nine, unmarried, operates phishing scams in six different online chatrooms, blackmails and extorts victims daily.”
“Mun Youngjae—thirty-one, married, moved from insurance fraud to loansharking, opened up a new lending business in preparation for his firstborn due in four months.”
But you let them all slide. You let those marks go for today like you have been doing for the past few days—much to Yujin’s surprise and dismay.
Why? Simply because you didn’t want to be late for your time with Jiwon.
Promising Jiwon not to bring guns around anymore changed the way you saw daily life again. For once, you don’t have to be always on your guard. For once, you don’t have to be in hiding. For once, you’re not living day to day between one chase to another. You can actually look forward to things. You can actually plan things farther than just a day at a time.
You can actually live.
So as you hand the paper bills towards the florist who helped assemble a lovely and fragrant bouquet for you, purchasing flowers for the very first time, you believe this was a better way to spend your money—better than a new pistol or a shiny new blade.
You hold the bouquet close to your chest with a smile. You feel stupid. You guess you look stupid. But right now, it hardly matters.
Because you are about to go on your very first date with Jiwon.
The two of you felt that it was only right that you both should properly have a date before getting married. So, you ended up scheduling a date today. As you walked towards the entrance of the estate with the flowers in hand, you briefly think about your impending deadline. Your impending need to resolve the shit you have in the background. But once the thought passes, you file it away and try not to think about it for now.
Everything’s going well. Why ruin that?
Before you can even greet the gorilla, and before he can even ask for your I.D. again, Jiwon’s head pokes out of the door and she greets you with the widest smile. “You’re here! You’re early.”
“And you’re already dressed,” you note, immediately noticing the black mini-dress she has on. It showcases her bare shoulders, her slender legs, and her collarbone draped with a small silver necklace. “You look amazing.”
The gorilla scoffed and turned away. “Kids these days. Just go on your bloody date already.”
Jiwon blushes and peeks inside. “Could you wait for a moment? I have company right now, but I’ll be ready to go in a few.”
“Not at all. Take your time,” you say as you follow her indoors.
She rushes away from you, and you wonder why she’s in a hurry. It’s only when you arrive at the courtyard and you see another beautiful young lady exiting Jiwon’s home that you realize what she meant.
This girl didn’t resemble Jiwon at all: jet-black hair, oval face, sharper eyes, flirty smirk, cropped top, concerningly short skirt.
Yeah, she was nothing like Jiwon.
This new girl approaches you with a grin that says she already knows what is going on. She eyes the flowers, then you, then chuckles behind a raised hand. “So you’re the man unnie’s getting married to.”
Unnie? Is this her sister?
“Yeah. Well, I guess this is me,” you raise, extending both hands to the sides. “It’s not much, but I guess it works.”
“It really does. For her,” she teases, smirking wider. “You’re all she ever talks about these days, you know? I had to come here and see for myself what you were all about. I think I can see where she’s coming from.”
You park that thought as you get all flustered holding your flowers for Jiwon. “I …”
The girl chuckles one final time before winking at you. “Take care of her, oppa. Don’t break her heart. She’s the only sister I have, so … make her happy.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you proudly announce, lifting your chin. Finally, you regain some of your confidence back.
As the girl disappears into the hallways behind you, you trudge up to Jiwon to ask what that was about.
You catch her in the middle of touching up her lipstick. She wears lipstick now, apparently. When she sees you, she immediately closes her hand mirror and hides both behind her back. “I-I … I told you to wait for me.”
You crinkle your nose, and doing so almost makes you want to die. “You look pretty enough as you are. Who was that, by the way?”
“That’s Hyunseo. She’s my half-sister. She’s … the closest sibling I have among many others,” she explains, putting her makeup all into one bag before walking towards you. “And those?”
You extend your hand forward. “These are for you. It’s normal to give girls flowers on dates, right? I uh, I wasn’t sure if this was overboard.”
She leans into you to smell the flowers, letting out a blissful exhale. “Their lovely. Thank you. I’ll have Areum-unnie place them in a nice vase for me.”
Finally, you pop the question. “So um, are you … are you ready? For our first date?”
Jiwon bites her plump and freshly reddened lips and nods. “Yeah … yeah I’m ready.”
So you extend an arm out towards her, and she takes it, and you’re both giggling like teenagers over how silly you two are at your age over a simple stupid date.
The date was anything but—simple, maybe; stupid, not at all.
Going to the mall again felt derivative, and Jiwon isn’t sure if she can handle going to a crowded place again this soon. So you had the brilliant idea to take here somewhere you have always wanted to take a date to.
A cafe.
It had an interesting name. An alliteration of sorts. But what caught your eye was the ambience.
As the bell chimed when you open the door, you’re greeted by the barista at the cashier. You hold Jiwon’s hand as you both approached him and start to order.
“New couple?” he asks, trying to make small talk as he keys in things on the monitor.
Neither you nor Jiwon can respond right away, refusing to look at each other or the barista. The man chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry if I got that wrong. I just see a lot of couples come by around this time of the day. Although … someone as cute as you, miss, would surely have no trouble finding a date around town—.”
Your hands moves before you can even think. You wrap an arm around Jiwon’s slender waist and pull her closer to you. “She’s mine. She’s my girlfriend. We’re getting married next week.”
You don’t know if the blush is from your cheeks or hers, but Jiwon leans into you and rests the back of her head against your collarbone. “Yeah … he’s my boyfriend. We’re on a date … n-not our first though! We’ve dated many times before um, before now. For sure …”
The barista swaps between looking touched to looking confused. “Ok miss … I was just teasing.”
A female barista elbows him as if to tell him off. “Don’t tease the customers like that! Sorry about him, he can get a little carried away sometimes. Drinks are on me.”
“For real?” you ask, and before the male barista can protest, the female one takes control of the situation with a nod. “Yes sir, please enjoy your stay!”
With that, you take your free drinks and sit yourselves towards the back. Jiwon looks like she wants to sit next to you instead of across from you, so you indulge her and drag your heavy chair towards her side of the table.
“Ahh~ Free drinks taste better than paid ones,” she hums between sips, knees bumping together.
“You never had to pay for any of your drinks before, what are you talking about?” you retort, taking a long sip of your iced americano.
You banter a bit before talking about other things. About her Minecraft world. About her sister. About your refusal to wear anything but tracksuits. And about makeup brands.
And it’s perfect. This is perfect. She’s perfect.
You once dreamed of something like this. You don’t remember the exact details, but the feelings are warmer. The sensation is cozier. And the girl across you is more beautiful than you ever imagined—even when she has coffee shooting out of her nostrils after you make her laugh.
She’s unreal.
And then the topic goes to marriage. Your marriage. Next weekend.
The atmosphere surrounding you both tightens to a standstill. No one wants to make the first move towards that discussion. But somehow, one of you needs to speak up.
“So it’s next week,” you raise, taking one for the team as you set your cup back onto the ring it formed on the table. “How do you feel about it?”
She hesitates for a moment, pondering her words, but when she finds the right thing to tell you, it comes out without hesitation. “I still don’t like our arrangement, but … I can still like you, right?”
Damn she is really knocking you out of the park with every little thing she says. “That … I don’t think that’s a problem at all.”
She smiles, and so do you. But it fades away the moment she sees something behind you. “Oh no … oh no that’s …”
You turn around and see a flock of six men in suits and shades entering one after the other into the cafe. They don’t give the bell a break, ringing it continuously. They don’t stop for the greetings of the baristas either. Instead, they head right for you and Jiwon.
Once they surround you like a wall, they bow to their waists. One of them speaks up and says, “Lady Jiwon, the Master has requested your presence. He wants you and your fiancé to meet him right now. He’s already at the restaurant.”
You can visibly see Jiwon’s muscles tighten and lock in place upon hearing this. “My … my father? Why now of all times? I-I’m in the middle of—.”
“It’s his request, my lady. We’re just the messengers,” he explains as if in apology. “Please don’t delay this any father. You know how Master Jaehwi can get when he’s … kept waiting. We already have a car prepared for you.”
She glances towards the henchmen, then to you, then to her unfinished drink. Standing up carefully, she nods and holds out a hand shyly towards you. “Then I don’t have a choice … Please, lead the way.”
You take her hand and walk with her towards the parking lot, where a sleek black Mercedes-Benz awaits you.
The ride to the restaurant is a short one, but the silence throughout it made it feel like forever. Jiwon says nothing to you—in explanation, in apology, in request—almost like she’s already assented to the situation. You recall how docile she was previously with Areum and the other staff. You can only imagine how pious she is towards her father.
You’re brought to a large Chinese restaurant. The signboard, carpets, and staff uniforms were all a blinding shade of red. You were never one for Chinese cuisine, but you can tell this restaurant was different—more refined, more elite, more extravagant.
You are proven right almost immediately when you are lead towards a private room on the second floor, where an all-too-familiar figure was seated at the opposite end of the round table surrounded with dishes and meals.
Kim Jaehwi.
Your hand clenches so hard around Jiwon’s hand that she winces from the pain. But you can’t help yourself. You curse your better senses for coming here without any weapons on you. Had you known you would have been in the same room with Jaehwi this afternoon, you would have ditched the pleasantries and snuck at least a small knife in with you.
He’s there. He’s just over there. And you haven’t got a single way to kill him.
So you choose to instead bow to him submissively, feeling your stomach curdle at the thought of showing deference to this wretch. Jiwon does the same but lower than yours. Once you both stand upright once more and are allowed to take a seat, you stiffly sit on the edge of your chair and keep your back straight the entire time.
Jaehwi sips from his tea cup and sighs. “So. Jiwon, this is the man you’ve chosen to marry?”
His voice is coarse. His words are grating and repulsive like a fork scratching against a chalkboard in your head. His gaze is the worst. Those yellowing eyes scan your figure as if to evaluate you, as if to judge you, and you can’t help but feel sick at the thought of allowing this man to appraise you like another business opportunity. “He seems decent. Good-looking. Well-off? That I do not understand. Why marry someone without a notable background? Is it for love? You’re not making it any easier for yourself if you don’t start thinking about what’s best for you and your future.”
Jiwon makes no attempt to tell her father otherwise.
Sighing, he uses his chopsticks to pluck up a pair of chicken feet, slurping on it like you two weren’t there. Jiwon doesn’t motion to get anything, so you hold yourself back from eating as well. Besides, you lost your appetite the moment you saw his pathetic face.
“The marriage is next week, so I want to make sure everything is in order. Including your readiness,” Jaehwi raises, gesturing to Jiwon with his chopsticks. “Are you sure about this? I do not want to deal with the aftermath of your indecision on the day of your marriage.”
He doesn’t sound like a father ensuring his daughter wouldn’t be making a mistake. He sounds more like a syndicate leader gauging whether his biological investment has finally matured—has finally been secured.
You turn to Jiwon, only able to offer your hand in support. You aren’t completely sure yourself either—especially not after seeing this bastard’s face again. But for now, an answer to placate him will do.
But Jiwon doesn’t say a thing even in the face of such a life-changing decision.
Her father shrugs once more and continues stuffing his bowl of fried rice with more steamed fish. “If you’re not going to say anything to me, then at least enjoy the food. And the wine. Help me finish it, you two. It was very expensive.”
The food is fresh and well-cooked. It’s incredibly rich and flavorful—your opinion of Chinese cuisine has changed. But the wine is too strong for your taste. Just one sip and you know you’re going to regret drinking more than one glass of this. Unfortunately, you’re made to help finish the whole bottle along with Jiwon, who already reddens at the face with just a few sips.
By the time your dinner with Jaehwi is over, you are one dead body, one decent plan, and one responsive fiancée short. As much as you curl your fingers into the arms of your chair at the sight of Kim Jaehwi fleeing your presence still alive after weeks, months, and years of striving to get to him, the only one you can think of right now is the girl next to you.
Once the door closes behind you two, Jiwon lets out an audible gasp like she’s been holding her breath like she’s held her tongue against him this entire time. “Thank god he’s gone … I don’t think I can drink wine anymore either …”
You lean to rest your forehead against hers in an act of comfort. You’re pretty buzzed yourself, so you’re not sure why you thought physical intimacy like this is a good idea. But you roll with it. “Are you ok? You weren’t saying anything the entire time. I was worried.”
Jiwon nods, rubbing her temple against yours. “That’s just … that’s just how I am with my father. I can’t say anything against him … to him … He just does what he wants to anyway.”
“Don’t think about him” you say. Whether thats to Jiwon or to yourself, you’re not entirely sure. “Let’s get you back home. You look redder than I’ve ever seen you before.”
She turns to you and giggles in an uncharacteristic manner. You chalk it up to the alcohol in your systems. “Really~? I feel … light. But also … numb? Is that a thing?”
She flicks your nose and chuckles again. “Are you going to carry me? I don’t think I can walk like this.”
As if to prove her point, Jiwon stands up and immediately loses her balance, swaying unsteadily as her hands come flying around her. You catch her by the waist and ground her before lifting her into your arms and carrying her.
She gasps and clings to your neck as you bring her down the stairs towards the car that’s been waiting for you both.
When you’re both dropped off at the estate, it’s already well past midnight. Jiwon’s humming different melodies to herself as she’s in your arms once again. It’s only when you lay her down in her bed that she calms down from her alcoholic high and turns to face you with more sincerity on her face.
Tapping the free space on the bed, she invites you to join her. You waste no time tucking yourself into bed with her again. Like you always do.
She stares up at the ceiling, and so do you. You think you might stay like this for a while until both of you fall asleep. But it’s when Jiwon asks you a question that you realize she’s not in the mood for sleep just yet.
“Can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest with me,” she starts, still talking to the ceiling. “Why are you still doing this? Why are you still … trying to get married to me?”
You shrug. “The food here’s pretty good. I get free car rides once in a while. Get to relax some and fool around. But most of all? I get to see a pretty woman each time I visit. I think that’s the real kicker to this arrangement, honestly.”
She rolls her eyes. You can tell from your peripheral. “You always call it that. An arrangement. Our predicament. Our situation. Is this all it will ever be to you?”
You never really thought of it deeper than that before.
What were you two?
Outside the upcoming marriage. Outside the awkward beginning. In between the stolen moments here and the genuine instances there. What exactly were you and Jiwon?
You don’t know at this point. You don’t fucking know at all.
“I could ask you the same thing. Why are you still tolerating me—?”
“I’m not tolerating you. I never was,” she replies sharply, turning to face you now on her side. “You’re … you’re not what I expected.”
“What exactly were you expecting from someone who’s supposed to be your future husband?”
“I … I don’t know. Someone weird? Desperate? Just … not this. Not this at all.”
You smirk, nodding at her. “I’ll take that as a compliment then. But you’re asking all the questions—let me ask you some too.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Why did you choose me?”
The question catches her off-guard as you see her staring past you in thought. “Why did you choose me that day? Your dad, Jaehwi—he had a point earlier. Why me? You could have picked someone richer or more influential to help you run this syndicate better. You could have chosen someone smarter or more capable than me to support you in the future and give you a stable life. But me? I’m … I’m just a no one. I’ve got nothing going for myself or to my name. All I can give you … all I can do for you … is this.”
You lift your hand in an arc across the air. With just that motion, you point at all the things that have been added to Jiwon’s room over the weeks that you’ve been together.
But Jiwon shakes her head in defiance to your self-deprecation. “Do you remember what I told you the last time you asked me that?”
“Sort of. Something about not being threatening enough. Something about feeling safe,” you recount, hoping it was right.
Smiling, she wiggled her way towards you and pressed her face into your chest. She waits for you to wrap an arm around her, and when you finally do, she whispers, “I chose you because you had this look in your eyes. Like you were just as lost and … broken … as I was. And it just … it just sort of clicked in my head.”
Jiwon looks up at you and asks, “Tell me … do you think broken people can ever be fixed again? Do you think … do you think we can still feel complete?”
You take a long and deep breath, let the air fill your lungs, and watch as your chest rises and falls with the exhale, before attempting to even answer that question.
“I … I used to think some of us are broken beyond repair. Some things … some people … they ruin us. Immensely. Like we’re distorted beyond recognition. Like we’re … warped beyond the point of return. And it’s not our fault. Life’s cruel like that. But lately? Lately I’ve been thinking that maybe … just maybe … we only believe we’re broken beyond repair because we can’t see the whole picture. Something or someone might walk into our lives and … remind us of who we once were. What we can still be.”
You don’t notice you’re embracing her tighter now. You can feel her struggling to catch her breath beneath you, so you loosen up a bit. But even then, she chases after your touch and nuzzles against your chest. “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard you say something almost … poetic like that.”
You chuckle, pushing away the stray strands of her hair. “Just speaking what comes to mind. Just speaking my truth.”
After sharing a few more moments together like this, Jiwon pulls away and moves towards the edge of the bed, sitting up. This scares you for a moment, and it occurs to you that you don’t like the feeling of seeing her leave like that. Instead, she takes several deep breaths before finally doing what she meant to do.
She saunters over towards the foot of her bed, kneels down, and withdraws something deep underneath the bedframe. Once she pulls out what appears to be a small wooden box, she trembles as she walks over to your side.
You sit up and join her, placing a hand on her thigh. “I … I wasn’t always like this. The me you see right now? It’s … it’s broken. It’s missing. Not that I’m lying to you or anything, but … I’ve just felt incomplete since … since my mother died.”
The weight of her words presses against your chest. “Your mom? You never talked about her.”
She nods, acknowledging it, but not without the first few tears escaping from her eyes as she recalls what she must have been keeping locked up for so long now. “My mother … my eomma, she … she was the person I loved most in the world. She used to live with me here, you know? We did everything together. She taught me everything I know—how to take care of plants, how to sing, how to … how to carry myself in front of my father. It was just … me and her. Me and her against the world. That was until … until she died.”
Jiwon opens the box on her lap and takes out a necklace that sat on top of the other trinkets inside. She holds it up towards her collarbone, and you see how it forms a matching set with the necklace still wrapped around her neck.
“This was my mother’s … We wore it together whenever w-we went out,” she pushed out between sobs. “You … You reminded me of her. She would always be the one guiding me, showing me around, taking me places … It wasn’t too often, a-and I never really paid attention, but … to me, those moments were what I treasured the most.”
Then she hunches forward and lets out a sharp whine as she takes out the remaining contents of the box. They’re pictures—pictures of a young Jiwon with her mother. Some were in full color while others still had that nostalgic paint of aged film. “These … these are all that I have left of her because … because … she died. Just … just last month.”
You feel a heavy chill drag across your spine as you stare at the woman in her photos.
“They said she was killed on the way home from the airport b-by … by an unknown attacker.”
You think back to the three bullets. The skidding car. The blood on the ground.
“She was gone for months … abroad … and I was so excited to see her come back a-a-and tell me about her trip, but … but …”
Then you think back to your final mark as they exited the vehicle, crawling, pleading, begging for mercy.
“Now … she’s dead … And I’ll never get to talk to her again …”
Like a moment frozen in time, you remember now what that woman said to you as you pressed your blade into her neck.
“Please … mer … -cy … I have a daughter … a child … let me see her again first …”
And you remember what you told her in reply.
“I had parents once too. And your godforsaken clan never gave me the chance to save them. So why should I spare you?”
Before she could even sob, your blade had already done its work.
How cruel is the world?
How cruel is fate to have made your path intertwine with Jiwon only to end up with this scathing realization? You couldn’t even think about the marriage. You couldn’t even think about comforting her in your arms. Because all you could think about right now was how wrong you had been.
How wrong you have been this entire time.
For the past eight years, you’ve been bitterly chasing after your revenge. You believed that each kill, each murder, each slaughter, was another step closer to avenge your dead parents. Did it never occur to you that these people had hopes and dreams too? That these people had families too? That these people might have also been like you—victims of the system, other cogs affixed into this bloody, relentless machine?
Did it ever occur to you that, with each life you took, you were possibly ruining another’s?
And what did you hope to gain after each kill? What did you hope to achieve after murdering every last member of the Devil Cat Clan—even Kim Jaehwi himself? Would that have made you happy?
The emptiness inside you says otherwise.
Jiwon collapses into the crook of your neck, sobbing into your shoulder, but you remove herself from you and gently push her away. She stops for a moment and glances at you. “Wh-what …?”
You shouldn’t. You know you goddamn shouldn’t. But you go against your better senses and cave towards your conscience that’s screaming blasphemies into your mind.
You should have kept quiet. You should have just let the moment pass. But you feel sick to your very core, and you can’t in good faith continue on with this—whatever this is—with Jiwon any further.
Not without telling her the truth.
“You asked about the guns … and the blade … and the weapons,” you start, staring between your feet, unable to look her in the eye anymore. “You asked me what I did outside of you … what I did in my free time … what I did for work. Jiwon, I-I … I’m a vigilante. I put justice into my own hands because the system has failed me before. I kill people for money, Jiwon … I-I-I kill people because I want my revenge. On your father. On your clan. Because they killed my parents eight years ago and left me broken like this …”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and begin to weep. “She was … just another mark to me. I didn’t care—I never cared for them. I just … wanted them gone. Wanted them all gone. Jiwon, I … I’m … I’m sorry. I’m the one who killed your mother that day.”
Silence. Nothing but silence.
Then it comes one at a time.
First came the slamming of knees to the ground. Then the shattering of a wooden box against the wall. Then hair being tugged accompanied by screams and wails of pain. Then, you hear crying. Endless, volatile, heavy crying. As Kim Jiwon comes completely undone on the floor.
You look away. But you can’t. You force yourself to look at her—at the mess you made.
At the life you ruined.
“Get … get out …”
You hold your breath and reach a hand towards her. “Jiwon, I—.”
“I said … get … OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!”
Like a ghost dragged out from your dead carcass, you float past her and through her door without a heft of weight to you. Behind you, her door slams shut as her wailing and shrieking continue to echo into the night.
Like Jiwon, you fall to your knees, slam your forehead against the floor, and continue bashing your head against the cold hard surface.
Over, and over, and over again. Not until the darkness takes you.
Not until the crying stops bleeding into your ears. Not until you have punished yourself enough.
At some point in the night, you are roused from your sleep. Whether you passed out from the fatigue or the pain, you find yourself stirred awake now and into a sit.
It was Jiwon.
You rub your eyes and blink rapidly in surprise and confusion. “Look … please, just let me—.”
She interrupts you by pushing a glass of water towards your lips. “Drink. We just had alcohol in our systems … that’s all. Nothing … nothing happened, ok? Just forget it.”
Not wanting to argue, you drink the water slowly down to the very last drop. You notice Jiwon has already drunken hers—her glass settled off to the side. As you finish your drink, you can’t help but feel an odd sense of warmth engulfing you, swallowing you, smothering you.
It’s only then that Jiwon gives you a defeated smile.
“It’s fast acting isn’t it—the poison?” she states calmly, body swaying from side to side like she’s still intoxicated. “Who knew that the kiss of death could feel this … warm?”
You start to choke and gag on instinct, feeling your veins start to swell and your lungs start to burn. “What … what did you do to me? What did you put in our drinks?”
But Jiwon shakes her head, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her eyes anymore. “We’re both broken … You thought we could still be fixed … You thought we could fix each other, but … all we did was break one another all the more … My family hurt yours, so you hurt mine … Let’s end this cycle of hatred right here.”
She reaches forward to caress your face one final time, and all you can see as your vision grew hazy is her scared and tired eyes looking back up at you. “Thank you for trying … but it’s ok now. This is it for us, so … just let it happen. Let it take you.”
You wait a minute. Then five. Then ten. But when you expect to die, you instead grow warmer by the moment. “What … what exactly did you mix into our drinks?”
Jiwon, who is completely flustered and beginning to sweat, replies, “I-I … I found a bottle in my father’s bathroom while you were asleep. I thought … I thought it was some kind of poison. It was labelled ‘aphrodisiac’—”
Your eyebrows twitch. “Jiwon that’s … that’s not a poison … that’s …”
You don’t even get the chance to laugh at her mistake. The warmth and the pressure that’s been building up from the aphrodisiac now spread downwards and made your nether region throb with need. “That’s for arousal …”
Jiwon eyes your growing need that’s straining within your pants. She can feel that growing need inside her too—you can tell from the way her breaths grow more ragged and intermittent. “I-I … I didn’t know … God, I-I-I can’t even kill myself properly … I’m such a failure …”
But her tone spoke nothing of regret. Her eyes indicate nothing of remorse. Instead, her quivering lips, and the way her tongue dances across them as she eyes you, spoke of another sensation altogether.
Desire.
She’s on you now, climbing your laying body on all fours. You try to push her away, but you knew better than to hurt her any further. Once she’s straddling your hips, unknowingly grinding circles against your crotch, she leans forward and whispers into your ear. “Let me just make one more mistake … please …”
And just like that, you’re both a maelstrom of lust and unbridled desire.
Her hands tear through your clothes, stripping you off your last remaining ounces of dignity. She stares at the chest and abdominals you’ve been hiding underneath your stupid jacket, traces your scars with a finger, then immediately, she’s running her hands all over them.
You can’t resist her yourself either. Hands flying towards her minidress to pluck the strings off her tight figure one by one. Once she’s sliding out of it, you peel her underwear off her like you’re plucking petals from a flower. When you’re both aligned in the right way, you waste no time turning into a mess of bouncing, licking, and thrusting as you consume one another.
Neither of you have been this hungry before. Neither of you would feel sated until you had gone the whole way.
And so you see it through. All. Night. Long.
Come the morning, you find yourselves naked on Jiwon’s mattress. Somehow, at some point in the night, you both managed to make it here. Both pillows were now on the floor along with the comforter that usually came above your bodies. She’s laying on her stomach next to you, eyes struggling to stay open.
You get one last glance of her bare form—not an inch of her left uncovered—before she screams at the top of her lungs.
Screaming that you had soiled her in her sleep.
==
“Chwe Yeonseok—.”
Bang.
“Han Yongjin—.”
Bang.
“Tang Jisu—.”
Bang.
“Lee Min-ah—.”
Bang.
“Chae Woojin—.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
As you drop the bloody insignias on the bar counter and shove it towards Yujin, you expect the payment for hitting your marks. That’s thrice your daily usual—just like the previous days this week. But when the wads of cash arrive, you simply flit through each bill with a soulless gaze before stuffing it into your pockets.
You should have been fine.
The Devil Cat Clan kicked you out of their property as soon as Jiwon cried wolf. It was a miracle they didn’t beat you to death then and there. The proof was undeniable with how both of you were naked. The aphrodisiac turned out to be useful somehow.
Jaehwi said nothing about your alleged assault of his daughter. He let you keep your head, so you used it to keep going and going and going.
You’re back at The Requiem again. You’re taking jobs left and right. Murdering without question. Killing without doubt. Earning paycheck after paycheck. No longer worried about goons on your back—at least, goons from the Devil Cat Clan. You told Yujin no more of those marks—not for now, at least. You no longer have to contemplate an arranged marriage either. You were finally free.
But something was missing. And Yujin points this out as she offers you another glass of whiskey.
“Rough week? What the hell happened this time? Shouldn’t you be happy you made an entire month’s checkout in just a few days?” she prods, polishing a glass she just rinsed. “What’s up with you? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“When have I ever been myself since I showed up at your place, An Yujin,” you sigh after your chug your drink, smudging the back of your hand against your dried lips. “Just let me make my money in peace.”
“But what are you doing it for?”
The question comes out of the blue, and you could have sworn you heard another voice asking you that. But when your gaze returns to Yujin, who’s now bent over the counter, she continues, “What is it even all for? I took you in here eight years ago thinking you would have sorted out your life by now if you found your purpose. But what is your purpose?”
You shrug, demanding another drink. But Yujin refuses.
“Do you know why you’re the oldest hitman here?” Yujin raises, staring at the several other lowlives gathered at The Requiem alongside you two. “That’s because everyone else who’s come before you already found their shit in life. They made peace with their inner demons. They’ve moved on. So when will you?”
Her words burn your throat more than the whiskey does.
Before you can think of a reply, you hear something on the TV. “—duled this weekend. It will be held—.”
You snatch the remote from the spectacled bloke next to you and struggle to return the channel back to the news station.
It’s a segment about Jiwon. She’s still getting married this weekend. Although, right next to her now is a picture of a familiar lion-looking fellow in a tight white suit.
“You know that guy?” Yujin asks, gesturing towards Alex. “Have you bumped into him before?”
“Could say that,” you slur, feeling the alcohol get to your head. “Met him once.”
“You’re insane. You’re absolutely insane,” she lauds, shaking her head. “That’s the son of the Golden Dragon Gang’s boss. He’s larger than you think. And now, he’s going to marry the legitimate child of the Devil Cat Clan. That smells like trouble.”
You raise a brow. “Why? Won’t that mean our marks get easier to find now that they’re merged?”
But Yujin shakes her head. “The Golden Devil Gang’s a bunch of menaces. If they merge with the Devil Cat Clan, they’ll have more goons under their control to do their dirty work. Even if the Clan’s done some terrible shit in the past, they don’t resort to violence first. But the Gang does.”
The man you stole the remote from whistles. “Bummer. Feel bad for the old man—Jaehwi? Once his daughter gets married, she’ll likely take control of the Clan. But since she’s marrying into the Gang, the Gang will likely take control on her behalf. Reshuffle staff and personnel. Relocate their bases. Might even force Jaehwi to fully retire.”
You think back to how Jiwon fits into all of this. You think of how she’ll lose the only people in her life because of this merger—because of this marriage.
You think back to her crying face. To how she punches you whenever you tease her. To the way she curls up in her sleep.
You think of all the time you spent together. Those numbered days counted against less weeks than you have fingers. You think about how you once look forward to meeting her at four in the afternoon each day—everyday. And you think about how disappointed you felt every time you had to leave.
You think of her beautiful eyes, of the scent of roses and elegance, and of her warm gentle smile.
And you watched it all vanish from view.
But then, you hear her voice in your head.
“Tell me … do you think broken people can ever be fixed again? Do you think … do you think we can ever feel complete?”
And then it hits you.
What was your life for?
That’s something you have thought a lot about now that you were alone once again. You thought it was the quiet moments when you could sleep with a comfortable mattress beneath you and a cozy blanket around you each night. You thought it was the unspoken moments when you can blast into criminals with your pistols or slice them up into bits and pieces with your hwando. You thought it was about chasing after your revenge, letting violence lead the way, until you’ve spilled every last drop of their blood against your feet, until you’ve squeezed every last ounce of your sorrow from your shallow little heart.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You clung to this path of yours like a vice. It rid you of your misgivings, but did it fill the emptiness that remained within you?
No. It left you empty still.
So what filled your life?
It was the color. The color she brought into your world.
Through the recollections of your past, through the little moments you shared, through the warmth of her cheek, through the tightness of her fingers against yours, through the echo of her laughter in your mind, and through the tightness in your chest when you are away—Kim Jiwon has not only brought glorious technicolor into your life once more.
She’s taught you how to live again. She’s taught you how to love again.
To love each day. To love yourself. And most importantly, to love her.
So when you realize all this, and you stand up to finally tell Yujin your answer, you realize what you have to do. She has given you your life back, and now, it was time for you to give back hers. “Yujin, give me rolls of hand wraps, pepper spray, a taser, and your finest suit. I’m … I’m going to need it.”
She doesn’t even question your request. She just smiles at whatever you’ve come to realize and nods. “I thought you’d never ask. I have just the right suit for you.”
And so you do it—you go chase after your purpose.
You chase after her.
Tugging on your tightened tie, dressed from head to toe in this sleek secondhand suit Yujin lent you—which she claims was from some renowned assassin, John Something-or-Other—you beat your wrapped up fists together to bolster yourself before you crossed the road and head towards La Luce Wedding Hall at Myeongdeong.
The entrance is crawling with goons from both the Devil Cat Clan and the Golden Dragon Gang alike. But you don’t care. You’re not here for them. You’re not here for any of them at all. You’re only here for one person and one person alone.
Kim Jiwon.
No bullets. No lethal weapons. Just carrying enough with you to get past some trouble.
You take a deep breath, put the crow mask back on, and charge right in.
Of course you’re stopped before you even get to the front steps.
The Clan henchmen are the first to recognize you. They wouldn’t miss your mask even with their eyes closed. They chase after you, pin you down, and start beating you up, eager to grab a piece of you as they threaten to rip you apart.
But you resist. You break free from their grasp and start sacking them in their pathetic faces. Throwing punches left and right with your wrapped up fists. Knocking them out cold but not dead.
This strategy of yours quickly falls apart the moment the Gang goons join in to stop you. So you whip out your pepper spray and taser and go ham on them. Leaving behind an ocean of tearing and paralyzed fully-grown men in your wake.
By the time you pushed into the lobby, you were out of spray and charges, so the moment the goons with blades and brass knuckles lounging around on standby spot your intrusion, you begin to panic.
Well, shit. This could get bloody. Now you’re starting to wish you had your pistols with you.
Boom.
Like a stampede that cascades past your vision, you see a hulking figure tackle all of them out of the way, clearing your path forward. This same burly figure sacks some of the Gang goons and grapples some of the resistant Clan thugs who are looking at him in shock.
You’re in shock yourself too when you realize who this is.
“Gorilla,” you mutter as you see the familiar bodyguard wrestle a dozen other Clan and Gang lackeys, keeping them in place. “You—.”
“Enough about me! I won’t ask for your goddamn I.D. again,” he quips even while his face is being beaten in. “You came. So do what you have to do. Go to her!”
You nod and waste no time taking advantage of this opportunity.
You check each and every function room just to make sure, but after crashing more than a handful of parties and celebrations with a roundhouse kick to the door each time, you’re certain that the wedding you’re looking for was down the corridor—at the grand hall.
You should have known from the way the guards stationed outside of the hall were holding guns this time.
One of them presses a finger into his earpiece and receives some sort of missive. When he sees you, he beckons to his comrades and they take aim towards you.
Well, shit. This isn’t good.
But just before your life could flash before your eyes, a circular object imposes itself before you, interposing between you and certain death.
“Young master, so you really did return,” Areum grunts, smiling down at you as she holds up her tray like she’s Captain fucking America, deflecting their bullets and holding them at bay. “Lady Jiwon is just up ahead. The ceremony is already under way but you still have time. Don’t waste it!”
When the rain of bullets stops and the men begin to reload, you give Areum a solid nod before darting towards them.
They try to reach for you with their empty weapons, trying to tackle you, trying to pin you down or smack you with their guns, but you’re too fast for them. You’re zigzagging through the traffic until you manage to burst through the doors of the grand hall.
You’re a mess.
Your mask is askew on your face. Your bandages are bloody and tattered. Your suit is anything but straightened. But here you were. You finally made it.
And immediately knives are being thrown your way.
You duck behind guests, shamelessly using them as meat shields, but they’re smart and immediately flee your vicinity. You curse under your breath as you have to kick over tables and chairs to protect yourself from the mixture of blades and bullets. You’re left wondering if this was the end of the line. If this is as far as you’ll get.
It isn’t until you see a princess in a lilac dress duck next to you behind your table that you see a spark of hope. “Hyunseo?”
“You promised to take care of my sister, didn’t you?” she recalls, loading up the gun she’s holding before shoving it towards you. “Then prove it. Don’t let that bloody Golden Dragon Gang’s son take my unnie away. Aim for the ones in white!”
You nod, and when you hear the clicks and clacks of reloading guns, you grab the opportunity to get back up and start firing at them one by one.
Bang. Between the shoulder and clavicle.
Bang. Right to the solar plexus.
Bang. Against the ankle.
You fired your gun only at the members of the Golden Dragon Gang who were dressed in white—and you didn’t shoot to kill. The moment the Devil Cat Clan noticed this, they ceased their assault towards you and watched as you cleaned up the last of the Gang men with weapons, rendering them all immobile.
And now, it was finally time.
Unaware of where the ceremony’s already at, you come bursting onto the aisle and lean forward on your knees to catch your breath. When you glance back up, you see Jiwon holding hands with Alex the Lion, wearing the most beautiful pure-white dress you have ever seen, her veil already pulled back to reveal her face.
You came just in time to stop the kiss.
Guests on either side of the aisle stand up in a mix of awe, surprise, and condemnation. Some try to boo you away from getting any further. Others murmur and gasp at your insolence for intruding. But you don’t worry about them. They’re either potbellied pigs who have fattened themselves up from crime money or senile veterans who showed up just for the ceremony of it all. They weren’t capable of harming you at all.
Towards the front, you see Kim Jaehwi standing now, watching you, not interfering whatsoever. You see Alex the Lion staring you down like a predator would another who dared to interrupt his hunt. Then, you see Jiwon glancing at you with those eyes that you’ve seen before—the look she has on her when she’s asking you to buy something or to get her something or to take her somewhere.
This is it. Everything has lead to this moment.
You undo your bandages and reveal your swelling fists. You take your hwando blade from behind your back and unsheathe it, making the blade shine underneath the yellow hall light. Tossing the casing aside, you do the unthinkable before the crowd.
You kneel before Kim Jaehwi—your sworn goddamn enemy—press your forehead between his polished shoes, and offer up your own weapon towards him.
“What is the meaning of this? What the fuck are you doing in MY WEDDING?” Alex growled from the altar, threatening you with nothing but words. “If you want to make a fool out of yourself, do it else—.”
“Ceremonial eviction.”
With those two words alone, you command the entire room in an instant as the grand hall falls silent to listen to you. “Ceremonial eviction. I read about it—about your Clan. When someone decides to quit without any good reason or is forced to leave due to misconduct, you perform a ceremonial eviction. You cut off a finger. Or a toe. Sometimes you even cut off an ear if it’s that bad. To make up for their insolence. To leave a mark on their bodies—a mark they can never forget.”
You raise your blade up higher. “I’ve used this weapon to kill hundreds … thousands of your Clan. I used this same weapon to … to kill your main wife, So Gowon. So I offer it to you, Kim Jaehwi. Use it to end my life, but just … just promise me that in exchange for doing so—for getting rid of the largest thorn in your side—you set her free. You let Jiwon go and allow her to live a proper life outside of this syndicate bullshit. That’s all I ask.”
You can’t see Jaehwi properly, but you don’t need to to envision the face he makes as he picks up your hwando. “You have the guts to murder my men, my people, and even my own wife … you even pretended to be interested in my daughter, then assault her, and then now … you have the gall to come waltzing back in here begging for her freedom? You sure make a lot of demands for a pathetic little wretch.”
With a deep breath, Jaehwi wastes no time. “Die. Die knowing your sacrifice will mean nothing in the end.”
Slink.
When you expect the blade to sink and tear through the skin of your neck, you instead feel the tickle of cloth and lace against your cheek along with the smell of roses.
You glance up and see Jiwon kneeling in front of you, interposing between you and her father—arms stretching out to the side, face drowning in tears, trembling in body but unwavering in spirit. “Stop, father … please don’t hurt him … If you want to let your frustrations out on someone, then … then let it be me. But not him. Not him. He’s already gone through so much in his life … more than I could ever hope to bear alone. He just … he just wanted to get revenge on the people who hurt him … on us … like you want revenge on the person who killed eomma … on him … Let me—let me take his punishment instead …”
Jaehwi spends a moment to take it all in, to take in the sight of his eldest daughter willingly throwing his life over a nobody like you instead of being wed to someone as well-off as Alex the Lion.
With a chuckle, he stabs the blade into the wooden pew and crashes back onto it. “Who the fuck are you, huh? Who the fuck are you to my daughter that she comes bursting out of her shell to confront me just for you? You … you’re one lucky man—having such a fine young woman stand up for you so boldly like this,” he says, turning to his daughter now. “And you—I asked you once before, and I’ll ask you again: are you sure about this man?”
Jiwon helps you up to your feet and holds your wrists tightly. She doesn’t look anywhere else but right into your eyes as she asks you, “Did you … did you mean what you said to me that night? After we got drunk and got home? You said … you said broken people like us could still be fixed—could still feel whole—with other people. In other people. Because … because, god—I’ve had this hole inside of me ever since I could remember. Even before my mother. Even before her death … So please, tell me, did you mean it? Do you really mean it? Because … because you’ve managed to fill this aching hole of mine bit by bit ever since I met you, and now, I don’t know what else to fill it with—who else to fill it with—other than you.”
You take a step forward, and then another, and then a final one before you press your forehead against Jiwon’s and nuzzle into her. “Kim Jiwon, I meant every single word I said to you that night because you do the same for me. You made me … think of a future. You made me look forward to waking up again. And … you helped me find a purpose. Even if it meant just protecting you. Even if it just meant being with you and keeping you safe. Even if it just meant making a beautiful woman like you happy for the rest of her days. It brought me joy—a joy so overwhelming it’s filled more than just the hole in my heart.”
“Kim Jiwon, you gave me my life back … and I can’t thank you enough for it. With you, I feel complete. I feel whole. I feel … like me again. So please … let me help give you your life back too.”
Jaehwi seems satisfied with this. He takes out his pistol from his pocket and aims at Alex. “Get out of there, boy. This wedding’s continuing, but not with you.”
Flabbergasted, he strokes his mane back in place and glares at the old man. “Oh no, that isn’t happening, Jaehwi. My father and I struck a deal with you—.”
Bang. Jaehwi shoots him right in the knee, sending him crumpling forward and howling in pain. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that now. Someone get him off the bloody altar.”
In mere moments, a mix of Clan and Gang thugs help escort Alex off the altar and into the front pews to lay him down and stop his knee from bleeding out.
Jaehwi turns to the both of you now, smiling. “Go, sweetheart. Get married to him like you were supposed to. And, son—don’t fuck it up this time.”
So you hold Jiwon’s hand, and she holds yours. You walk her down what little stretch of aisle is left until the altar. You both giggle when you realize that’s what father’s do with their daughters—not what future husbands do for their future wives.
You pull her veil down, only to pull it back up. When your eyes meet again for the first time in what feels like ages, you can’t help but get lost in them. The priest, who is absolutely still in shock over everything that just happened, asks you. “Do you accept this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
You think back to the time you two danced slowly, holding each other, masks off, just staring genuinely into each other’s eyes.
“Yes. I-I mean, I do. I do.”
As Jiwon chuckles, she gets asked the same thing. “And do you, in turn, accept this man to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forward, to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honor, and cherish him for as long as you both shall live?”
“Even if I have to die all over again and be reborn the next day, even if I have to find him through different biomes and different versions of reality—I will find him. And I will love him. I do. I really do.”
“Hey, wait, did you just make a Minecraft—.”
Before the priest can tell you to kiss the bride, your bride kisses you first. She drags you in with a need that’s more than passion or lust, and you respond in kind by pressing her lips against hers and holding her oh-so-close.
And as the organ begins to play the song of victory, and as the guests gathered here today cheer nonetheless for a successful wedding—some way, somehow—you dip Jiwon forward as you continue to kiss each other. Only when you break away to chuckle and nuzzle your noses together does that thought ever come to you.
“After all that’s happened to me, after all that we’ve been through, I still … can not believe that this is happening right now. This is absolutely unreal.”
Jiwon chuckles into your lips as she steals another kiss from you. “You know, we’re supposed to have our first kiss before we have sex for the first time. You got the order all wrong.”
You just shake your head against the teasing girl. “You’re unreal.”
But Jiwon shakes her head in reply as well. “No—we’re real now, my love.”
A/N: Welcome to the beginning of Bro Kazuha's second set! Expect the next one to be a bit further out this year, as I have a few other things in the queue.
Enjoy.
Okay, picture this.
Another one of Kazuha’s friends is underneath you, legs up in the air, body pressed against yours, writhing under the pleasure of getting her cunt fucked until you fill her up with your load. Kazuha, the sweet, wholesome bro of a girlfriend that she is, lay panting right next to the both of you, watching you fuck like animals while her fingers play around with the cum dripping down her folds.
All because of a simple misunderstanding.
“So how's the job hunt going?” you asked, trapping your phone in between your shoulder and your cheek. Hands preoccupied with cooking dinner for the both of you.
“Spent the entire day looking for openings. And this is the last one before I head home,” Kazuha answered, the faint noise of the background bleeding through. “Is this how hard it is to get a job nowadays?”
“Hey, you did say that there aren't many bakeries around the area.” You turn the heat down, and with a free hand you place the phone down and put it on speaker. “Why bakeries, by the way?”
“Ask Minju,” she sighed, the noise around her getting louder. “Chae said that she used to be a pantler, and since I knew one of the owners that I buy pastries from they thought I could help her out.” The words started getting harder to understand, the noise around her getting louder. “I even took a day off for this.”
“Look at you, being a good samaritan,” you joked, making Kazuha let out a chuckle. “Oh yeah, you think you could get some salt bread over there?”
“What?” she asked, and you’re not sure whether that was because she couldn’t hear you over the increasingly loud crowd over where she’s at or if she was offended at the thought of free food. And you’re pretty sure she would never turn down free food.
“I asked if you can get some salt bread,” you repeated, a little louder for good measure. “You know, for us? And for Minju too, actually.”
A few seconds passed by before the call ends, which made you glance at the screen where a few pings from Kazuha’s messages popped up on your notifs.
Zuzu:
Sorry had to drop
Way too loud here
But are you sure?
Didn’t expect you that from you
Not that I mind
You wiped your hands of any leftover mess from your cooking and picked up the phone.
You:
yeah, y?
thought itd be a good snack after dinner
no worries if u cant we can make do with something else
You didn't hear back from her for a while after that. Probably too caught up with Minju or whatever the hell was happening over where she is (you find out that there was some celebrity passing by that caused a commotion). Only a few more talks scattered throughout the next half hour.
Zuzu:
Minju got the job!
Said she'll be starting next week
You really sure about earlier?
I can invite her for dinner
You:
yeah im sure
food almost ready
have enough for 3
and tell her I said congrats
Zuzu:
Thank u!!!!
That was Minju
We'll be there in thirty, hopefully
Traffic is starting to pick up
You:
cool
stay safe
Zuzu:
Will do
And you are assertive today
I like it
You had to wonder what was so assertive about asking her for bread of all things. You brushed it off instead, thought you were overthinking things and returned to your cooking.
Letting time run its course and have the moonlight take up the sunset's position in the sky, you busied yourself with the table and the food, getting a few more messages from Kazuha, until the doorknob rattled and swung open.
“We're home!” Kazuha announced just as you closed the cupboard, a few glasses in hand.
“Hey, hey,” you called out, walking back to the table, where Kazuha stopped by to give you a kiss on the cheek before she sprawled out on the couch while Minju's over by the hallway, taking her shoes off. “How was the trip?”
“Killer,” Kazuha groaned, sitting up properly. “That celeb got everyone buying at the bakery Minju got hired at. Almost thought that she'd have to start today.”
“Good thing they didn't,” Minju added in, waving shyly at you as she took a seat next to Kazuha. “I don't even know how to make the specials.”
“I'm sure you'll learn how to make it eventually.” You poured water into the cups and handed each to the both of them. “Again, congrats on the job, Minju.”
“Thank you,” Minju replied, taking a sip from the glass. “Good to know I have two customers already with you guys.”
“With the way Zuha over here inhales salt bread, you'd get baker of the month quick,” you joked, while Kazuha almost hits you with a throw pillow in the face. You smacked it away, letting it hit the ground before picking it up and giving it a few hits to get rid of any dust. “Speaking of, did you guys get salt bread?”
Kazuha furrowed her eyebrows. “You never asked for salt bread.”
“Uh-” You tilted your head. “Pretty sure I did. You know, before you dropped the call?”
“I thought you–” Kazuha stoped, looked up in thought, to the side where Minju is staring at her, then back to you where stood up and pulled you to the kitchen—while you threw the throw pillow back to the couch—where Minju can't hear. “I thought you said you wanted someone bred?”
“What?” Your head recoiled the slightest bit back. “I was asking you to get us some salt bread.”
The staring contest was almost one for the history books. Neither side budging, unblinking—you almost thought that Minju took another sip of her glass to hide the smile that had started forming in her features.
Until Kazuha blinked, and groaned. “Oh my god,” she muttered, a hand on her forehead. “I brought Minju here cause I thought you said you wanted to breed a girl.”
Your mouth opened, not a single sound coming out of your lips before they closed. You opened them again. “Was that why you said I was being assertive?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “Because you never ask for threesomes!”
“Why would I ask for them?” Now you're the one confused. Where the hell was she going with this? “Those aren't exactly a make or break for me, dude. I'm happy with you.”
“I just–” Kazuha tried to stutter out a response. “I think it’s pretty hot, okay? When we mess around with my friends. Gets me wet as fuck just thinking about it.”
Oh.
“But I thought you said you didn't want this to happen anymore.” You made finger quotes. “‘This is the last time’, remember?”
“I've said that way too many times for it to matter now.” She had a point with that one. With the amount of times she's gotten you roped into having sex with women not named Kazuha, you're still getting surprised that it keeps on happening.
“Unless you want to stop?”
Your hand rested on her hips, another coming to loop your fingers with hers. “Hey, if you're happy, I'm happy.”
Kazuha rolled her eyes, leaning into your touch. “You just wanna fuck girls other than me.”
“Girl, you just said you get turned on when we fuck other girls. I'm putting all the blame on you.”
“Asshole.” She scoffed, smiling up at you. Her eyes darted to Minju for a moment before she smirked. “You still up to do it though?”
“If we can get salt bread tomorrow, sure.” You received a punch in the arm. “Ow–”
“Bro, I swear you weren't asking for salt bread,” she insisted, and you heard Minju giggle at what must have looked like a couple's fight and makeup all in five minutes.
“You probably need a better phone then,” you joked, which caused a playful laugh to emerge from Kazuha.
“I blame that fucking celeb,” she snapped back, rubbing the spot where her fist met your flesh and giving you a peck on the lips. “Come on, let's go eat before the food gets cold.”
Kazuha started walking to the table, taking a seat and gestured for Minju to take one herself, the food all prepped on the table.
“You two okay?” Minju asked, sitting down on the chair.
“Yeah, needed to clear something up with him,” Kazuha answered, knowing looks on both their faces as you poured yourself a glass of water.
Minju nodded. “And everything's fine?”
“More than fine.” Kazuha glanced at you with that same look.
You smiled as you took a seat of your own. “Told her that I'll be getting some salt bread tomorrow.”
“Oh, is that your favorite?” Minju brightened up at the topic. “I know how to make them, and if the bakery sells them I can get you guys some.”
“Her favorite,” you corrected. “But I’ve grown to like it when she doesn't force feed it on me.”
“Hey–” Kazuha pointed a fork at you. “I don’t force you to eat it.”
“Mhmm.” You took a good swig of water as she continued to refute the claim.
Minju giggled at your antics, watching the both of you continue arguing, making comments here and there, optimistically telling you two that you’ll be getting discounts at the bakery when she gets started and catching up with each other as you ate dinner.
By the end of it, Minju dropped a bombshell of a question just as you finish your glass of water and Kazuha takes her last bite.
“So do I get the first load or do you?”
You almost choked on mineral water.
Kazuha snapped her head to look at Minju, dropping her fork and making it clang on her plate.
Minju only smiled innocently, like she didn't ask about who's getting your cum fucked into them like it was a regular old Tuesday.
Kazuha placed the utensil down slowly, lets out a chuckle at the situation you all have found yourselves in, and looks at you.
“Well, bro? Who gets it first?”
—
“Oh, fuck–” Kazuha sighs as you pull out of her, a hand on her asscheek to spread her pussy folds. Letting your load slowly leak out, dripping down the sheets and staining her thighs. You indulge yourself in the sight, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
There's a humming sound next to you; an observant one, almost content in its cadence. Letting your satisfaction in filling Kazuha with your seed be known. “That's a thick load,” Minju chimes, pressing up against your back, arms looping around you. Coming down to wrap around your cock, giving you gentle, slow tugs while her other is toying with your nipples. “I wonder if that's how much I'll get too.”
Her actions cause a groan to rip off your lips, your body tensing up with what Minju is trying to do. Not allowing you a moment's rest as she moves, sitting on the edge of the bed, right next to Kazuha, her mind still scattered in a haze of pleasure.
“Minju–” Your hand lets go of Kazuha, and she collapses onto the bed, chest heaving, body turning, watching as Minju settles right next to her, spreading her legs wide. Fingers coming to play with her clit, pleading eyes staring up at you.
“What's wrong?” Minju asks demurely, tongue swiping her lips. “You don't wanna?” She's playing you so well, eyeing your twitching cock so hungrily, looking so eager to take you.
Her body is all but inviting you in, and you're falling right into her, settling between her thighs. When you let your palms rest by the sides of her head, and her eyes start to widen, pupils dilating. You'd think she would start vibrating from the excitement that's oozing out of her.
“Let a guy rest for a sec, Minju,” you answer, and she starts pouting at you, fingers coming down to cup your length, smearing you with her juices.
“But I want it,” Minju breathes out, that free hand she has looping around your neck to pull you closer. Her lips inches away from yours as she starts talking, begging you to start fucking her; along the lines of her uncaring of how rough you are, all she wants is your cum inside her cunt. Add a pretty please in the end to finish it off, and you're not sure when you had thrusted your dick in when she was coaxing you to fill her, to breed her—but here you are.
Balls deep in Minju, feeling her clench at every pound of your hips. Already mewling at how fast a pace you’ve set, airy broken gasps at each thrust. It’s gibberish, what she’s trying to say. Impossible to understand, and as much as you would love to get a proper syllable of what’s leaving her lips, Kazuha reminds you that she’s still here when she turns Minju towards her.
“You’re too close to him,” Kazuha mutters, before claiming Minju’s lips with hers. Slow and hesitant, so different from those that came before. Not battling for who gets to be on top or who chooses to get theirs first, only a soft lip lock that allows them to explore one another, tasting each other as you continue hammering down on Minju.
“You jealous?” Minju grins into the kiss, leaning further into it. Letting Kazuha take the lead, her tongue slipping inside Minju’s, and it melts her. Silences her gasps into pleasured hums for a moment before Kazuha pulls away, and her moans come back to fill the room.
Kazuha chuckles. “Not really,” she says, and all three of you know that’s a lie. “Fuck him all you want, but his lips are mine.” And she comes back in, hand tangling in Minju’s hair as they sink back into each other’s arms.
Leaves you with an amazing view, too. Gripping Minju’s hips as you rut harder into her, her breasts bouncing each time you drive deep. Relishing in the fact that each time you do so her walls get tighter on your cock, her arms gripping tighter on Kazuha’s own or on the sheets, those cute whimpers she lets out getting muffled by Kazuha’s lips.
But envy spikes, seeing the uncertainty in their kisses leave as they get more familiar with each other. Getting more heated, hungrier at each press of their lips, each swipe of their tongues. It becomes your fuel, pounding her deeper, your hold on Minju getting rougher; you’re almost worried about leaving marks on her waist after this if not for the fact that she loves how you take her, use her for your own end.
Her hips moving to try and meet your thrusts, but her rhythm stutters along yours. Kazuha breaking the kiss and coming down to play with Minju’s breasts. Looking straight at you as Kazuha takes a nipple into her mouth, fingers coming to play with the other. It makes Minju cry out, her back arching, offering her all to the both of you.
You let out a curse, thrusting unceasing, her pussy unwilling to let you go every time you bottom out. And you’re allowing yourself to lose all sense of reason, the longer this whole thing goes. Your earlier round with Kazuha has gotten your stamina shot, already so close to spilling everything inside her. So close to letting Minju get what she wants.
Kazuha knows it. Sees all your tell-tale signs; the erratic movements, heaving grunts. It makes her smile, mouth popping off of the nub she’s enjoying, making Minju whine at the momentary loss of pleasure. “Close?”
“Yeah,” you grunt out, a hand leaving its hold on Minju’s waist to squeeze Kazuha’s thighs, enjoying the thick flesh before your fingers come in between her legs, circling her clit and causing a gasp to come out of Kazuha’s lips. Parted lips curl into a grin, and she’s grabbing your hand and pulling it towards her, tongue twirling around your finger before guiding it to cup one of Minju’s breasts, groping the soft flesh, the nub hard against your palm.
“In me,” Minju gasps, whimpers, sobs as you chase your release. Starts blabbering about having it all inside her, her legs locking behind the small of your back. Wants it all in her cunt, and she’s pleading with you; begging you to cum. Tears start to water her eyes, desperation painted across her face. The thought that you’re close, that you’re about to let your entire load flood her cunt, to paint her walls white with your seed, to fucking breed her like she oh so wants to be—it causes her to shake, spasms rocking her frame as the pleasure start to crash over her body. Clenching your cock like a vise, and you realize:
She’s cumming on your cock, and Kazuha’s making sure it lasts as long as possible.
Her hand on Minju’s clit, circling that spot eagerly, making Minju wail, Kazuha’s name and yours spilling out of Minju’s lips, please coming out in droves. Eyes damn near rolling back as she slumps back, intoxicated in the rapture you’re both providing. Kazuha smiles, giving Minju a kiss, anchoring her in reality while her eyes turn to you, a wink being thrown your way.
And that’s all you needed to see to keep going. Fuck Minju past her climax, take in her moans that Kazuha’s soft lips mute, feel her trembling walls take your shaft, trying to milk you.
Doesn’t take too long for her to succeed, really. A few more thrusts, and you can only let out a groan as you fill her to the brim with your cum. Each pulse of your cock sending a fresh batch of spunk inside her. Kazuha, the sweet, diabolical bro of a girlfriend that she is, is kind enough to let Minju go. Closing her eyes as she moans at the spurts, her hands coming to caress her stomach, sighing as you spill the last of your load—larger than what you gave Kazuha almost—into Minju.
“That’s it,” Kazuha encourages, resting her head besides Minju’s, licking her lips at the sight. Her words are more for Minju than it was for you, but it still manages to make you twitch inside her. “Love getting the cum fucked into you like that? Getting to be our little breeding bitch for the night?” She cups Minju’s cheeks, thumb brushing aside the strands of hair sticking to her skin. “Bet your thinking about how fucking potent that load he just dumped inside you, aren’t you?”
That sends you straight back down to earth.
“We’re not actually trying to get her pregnant, right?” you ask them both. While you know Kazuha’s on birth control, you’re not entirely sure about Minju. Especially with how she was acting earlier.
Minju opens her eyes, letting out a chuckle at your question. “I’m on the pill.” That immediately causes you to sigh in relief.
“It’s all in good fun, dude,” Kazuha adds, pushing herself up and getting closer to you to leave a wet kiss on your cheek. “Safe sex is great sex and all that fancy shit.”
“Right,” you sigh, attempting to pull out of Minju. Key word, attempt, because both her and Kazuha are stopping you from doing so. “Uh, guys?”
“Don’t wanna keep going?” Kazuha asks, a smirk on her face as she pushes you back into Minju. It makes you hiss, the mixture of pleasure and pain from the stimulation fatiguing you. “We need to make sure Minju gets properly bred, bro.”
“Seriously, I need a break–”
“Please?” Minju pleads, arms coming to grip your hips, pulling you in with the same rhythm as Kazuha’s pushing. “Just one more?”
You can’t help but think this night might not bode well for you.
BRO PUBLISH SECOND PART OF WONYOUNG PSYCHO STORY I NEED IT
SWEET BUT A PSYCHO - PART 2
IVE Wonyoung X Male Reader
11K WORDS COUNTED
—
Friday came fast.
The week in between dragged and blurred at the same time. Work. Email. Meetings. Sleep beside Wonyoung. Her arm over your waist each night. Her face near yours in the dark.
You had talked more. Set some rules. No work influence without telling you first. No hiding interventions. She agreed. She even wrote them on a notepad and stuck it on the fridge.
HOUSE RULES
NO SECRET "CORRECTIONS"
FULL DISCLOSURE ON WORK-RELATED ACTIONS THAT AFFECT YOU
ASK BEFORE INVOLVEMENT
She added a fourth line under it later.
IF I SCARE YOU, TELL ME.
You saw it every time you grabbed milk. Every time you reached for a beer and put it back.
Friday afternoon, your coworker Park leaned over your cubicle wall.
“Drinks tonight?” he said. “Boss is paying. End of quarter thing.”
You hesitated.
“What bar,” you said.
“Same as always,” he said. He named the place Yujin had marked.
Your stomach clenched.
“I’ll come for one,” you said. “Then I gotta head home.”
“Tell your scary hot wife we’ll send you back in one piece,” Park said.
“Don’t call her scary,” you said without thinking.
He laughed.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “She gives off that ‘I can file a complaint and ruin your life’ vibe. Super nice, but like, don’t fuck with her.”
You didn’t answer.
He clapped the wall and walked off.
You looked at your phone. A text from Wonyoung sat unread.
GOOD LUCK WITH PRESENTATION
EAT SOMETHING BEFORE DRINKS
You typed back.
ONE BEER THEN HOME. PROMISE.
Three dots appeared. Then her reply.
OKAY
SEND ME PIC WITH PARK SO I KNOW YOU'RE THERE
You smiled despite the knot in your gut.
OKAY BOSS, you wrote.
YOU'RE THE BOSS, she sent back. A second later, another text.
BE SAFE. IF YOU FEEL OFF, CALL ME.
You pocketed the phone and forced yourself to focus on the last hour of work.
The bar was already loud when you walked in. Music thumped. Glasses clinked. People shouted over each other. Same sticky floor. Same dim lights.
Park waved you over. The team had pushed two tables together. Bottles and glasses scattered.
You slid in on the edge. Ordered one beer. Held it like a prop more than a drink.
“Presentation killed,” Park said, raising his glass. “To Y/n, our spreadsheet god.”
You clinked with him. Took a sip. Foam stuck to your lip.
Someone snapped a photo. Group shot. Park grabbed you by the neck and pulled you in.
“Send that to my wife,” you said. “Proof of life.”
Park laughed and did.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket a minute later. You checked.
ADORABLE, she wrote. PARK LOOKS DRUNK ALREADY.
HE ALWAYS DOES, you sent.
You were typing another line when a hand touched your shoulder.
“Y/n?”
Your fingers froze.
You turned.
Yujin stood there. Jeans. Low top. Leather jacket. Hair loose. Eyes lined. She looked like a memory pulled forward ten years.
You swallowed.
“Hey,” you said.
She smiled. It looked easy. Too easy.
“Didn’t know you came here,” she said. “I thought I’d grab a drink after work.”
You stared at her.
“You knew,” you said.
She widened her eyes a little.
“Relax,” she said. “I live near here. It’s a bar. People go to bars.”
Park leaned around you.
“Friend of yours?” he said.
“Old friend,” Yujin said, hand out. “Yujin.”
“I’m Park,” he said. “Coworker. We’re celebrating. You want to join?”
You opened your mouth, ready to shut it down.
“Just for a bit,” Yujin said. “If that’s okay.”
She looked at you as she said it.
You felt eyes on you from the table. If you said no too hard, you’d look like an asshole. If you said yes, you opened the door.
“Sure,” you said. “For one.”
She slid into the empty seat on your other side.
You could smell her perfume. Sharp. Warm. Familiar from years ago. It pulled up old nights without your consent.
“What are you drinking,” she asked you.
“Beer,” you said. You lifted your half full glass.
She flagged the server.
“Two shots,” she said. “Tequila.”
You shook your head.
“I’m good,” you said.
“One for me, one for you to stare at and refuse,” she said. “Old times.”
The shots came. She knocked hers back in one move. Set the glass down hard.
“Fuck, that burns,” she said, shuddering.
Park laughed.
“Respect,” he said.
She grinned at him, then turned back to you.
“How’s work,” she said.
“You saw the suit and guessed?” you said.
“You always look like that before a big thing,” she said. “Jaw tight. Shoulders up.”
You rolled your shoulders down on reflex.
“Presentation went fine,” you said. “Boss didn’t yell. That’s a win.”
She smiled.
“I’m happy for you,” she said. “Really.”
Your phone buzzed against your thigh.
You checked under the table.
WONYOUNG: PICTURE RECEIVED
HAVE FUN
DON'T LET PARK MAKE YOU DO SHOTS
You glanced at the untouched tequila in front of you.
“Speak of the devil,” Yujin said, noticing your look. “Wife checking in?”
“She’s not a devil,” you said.
“I didn’t say she was,” Yujin said. “Relax.”
You put the phone down face down.
“Sorry about earlier this week,” Yujin said. Louder now, enough for Park to hear snatches. “I came in too hard. Old habits. I dumped my shit on you.”
You eyed her.
“I shouldn’t have unloaded on your wife either,” she said. “I was jealous. I saw you happy and I panicked. That’s on me.”
Park raised his brows.
“Drama,” he whispered, amused.
You shot him a look. He held up his hands and turned back to his beer.
You lowered your voice.
“What are you doing,” you said.
“I’m apologizing,” Yujin said. “You wanted me to, right.”
“You called her dangerous,” you said. “Now you flip?”
“I still think she’s… intense,” Yujin said. “But I thought about it. She loves you. That much is obvious. I’m not in your life anymore. It’s not my business how she shows it. I crossed the line.”
You watched her face for tells. Her eyes stayed on you. Open. Lips relaxed. If she lied, she did it well.
“You told me to dig through her shit,” you said. “To watch my back.”
“I was scared,” she said. “She got in my head. I let it grow. It felt good to have a story where I’m the hero saving you from the big bad shrink.”
She smiled weakly.
“I’m not the hero,” she said. “I’m the idiot who nuked us and then five years later tried to rewrite the narrative. That’s… gross.”
You didn’t respond.
“If she’s good to you, that’s what matters,” Yujin said. “I see the way you talk about her. It’s… not the way you talked about me. In a good way.”
You blinked.
“In a good way,” you said.
“You’re calmer,” she said. “More grounded. Less co-dependent. Less ready to throw hands at every slight. She made you… grow up, I guess.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
She shrugged.
“You’re happy,” she said. “That’s enough. I don’t want to fuck that.”
You studied her.
“Why the bar then,” you said. “Why show up.”
She took a sip of water someone had left. Pushed the empty shot glass aside.
“One selfish thing,” she said. “I wanted to see you like this. In your world. To close the file in my head. To know you didn’t become some miserable office drone married to a cold trophy wife.”
“You were ready to believe that,” you said.
“Because it made me feel better about leaving,” she said. “If your life sucked, then my bad behavior had company.”
Your chest hurt at that. It sounded too honest to be a line.
“You can go now,” you said gently. “You saw me. File closed.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I can,” she said. “I just… I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to say this without her breathing down my neck.”
You glanced at your phone. No new messages. You looked around the bar. No tall figure watching from the corner.
“Say what,” you said.
“I’m sorry I made you feel small,” she said. “Back then. I used your soft spots for leverage. I cheated because I wanted chaos and you were… stable. I hated that about you. That you were good. So I broke you to prove I still had power.”
Her eyes shone a little.
“I was wrong,” she said. “You were the only thing holding my shit together and I broke that on purpose. That’s on me. Not you. I’m sorry. For real. No ‘buts.’ Just… I fucked up. You didn’t deserve it.”
Your throat tightened.
You had waited years for that version of that sentence. It slotted somewhere deep.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
She nodded.
“You can tell your wife I said it,” she said. “You can even tell her I’m a crazy bitch and she was right about me. I won’t argue.”
You shook your head.
“She already thinks that,” you said. “She doesn’t need help.”
Yujin huffed.
“She is right where I’m concerned,” Yujin said. “I am crazy. Just a different flavor than her.”
“She’s not crazy,” you said. Reflex.
Yujin’s eyes flicked to yours.
“She threatened me with a hospital bed,” she said in a low tone. “That doesn’t evaporate because she cried in front of you once.”
You stiffened.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I’m not saying it to turn you,” she said. “I’m saying it so you don’t forget. She can love you and still do fucked up shit. Those things can coexist.”
Park slapped the table.
“Shots!” he yelled again, as someone refilled.
You waved him off.
“No more for me,” you said.
He shrugged and turned to the rest of the group.
Yujin leaned closer.
“I’m not trying to steal you,” she said. “I swear. I get it now. That time is gone. I just… don’t want you to turn off your brain because she loves you. That’s how people stay in bad stuff.”
“Are you really over us,” you said. “Or is this a new angle.”
She met your gaze.
“I still think about you when I’m drunk,” she said. “When I’m lonely. When I fuck up a relationship. That’s not going to vanish because I apologized. But I’m not here to blow up your life. I had my chance. I wasted it.”
You swallowed.
“So what do you want me to do,” you said. “Today. Right now.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just… watch. Notice. If she isolates you. If you stop seeing friends. If work stuff starts getting weird for people around you again. If you feel like you can’t breathe around her. Those are signs. If those hit, call me. I’ll help you run.”
She said it flat, like logistics.
You stared.
“You really think she’s that bad,” you said.
Yujin looked away.
“I think she cries when it works,” Yujin said. “I think she knows exactly what strings to pull and when. You told her your worst fears. She catalogued them. She uses them. That’s power. People like that don’t just stop because you ask nicely.”
You heard your own words from earlier in the week. You’re not a cartoon villain. You’re my freak.
The conflict in your chest flared again. You took a long drink of beer. It went down rough.
“I asked her to stop,” you said. “She said she would. We set rules.”
“That’s good,” Yujin said. “It’s something. Just… don’t drop your guard because you put ink on a fridge note. People like her don’t change. They adapt.”
Your phone buzzed again.
WONYOUNG: HOW'S IT GOING?
SEND ME YOUR DRUNK FACE
You took a quick selfie, neutral, raised the beer. Sent it. Added:
NOT DRUNK. ONE BEER. PARK IS WASTED THO.
She replied fast.
GOOD
COME HOME WHEN YOU'RE READY
I'M MAKING PASTA
You stared at the words. Something simple twisted in your chest. Warm. Clean.
“See,” you said, holding the phone up for Yujin. “She’s not plotting. She’s making fucking pasta.”
Yujin scanned the screen.
“She’s also stamping herself on your night,” Yujin said. “So this place never exists without her in it.”
“You’re reading too much,” you said.
“I do that,” she said. “Ask anyone I’ve dated.”
You rubbed your face.
“Why can’t this just be straight,” you said. “Why can’t I just have… one non-fucked-up thing.”
“Because people are fucked up,” Yujin said. “Including you. You attract it. You marry it. You used to date it.”
You let out a humorless laugh.
“Thanks,” you said.
She nudged your arm with her elbow.
“I mean it as comfort,” she said. “At least you’re not boring.”
You shook your head.
“I don’t want drama,” you said. “I want to go home, eat pasta, watch some trash show with my wife, sleep. That’s it. That’s my dream now.”
Yujin studied your face.
“You look happy when you say that,” she said.
“I am,” you said. “When I’m with her. It’s everything outside that gets loud.”
“Then hold onto that,” she said. “Whatever else I say, I’m not going to tell you to walk away from something that makes you look like that.”
She finished her drink. Stood.
“I should go,” she said. “Before I say something that fucks this more.”
You stood too.
“You’re not staying?” Park asked.
“Nah,” she said. “Early shift tomorrow. Thanks for the drink.”
She looked back at you.
“You’ll be okay?” she said.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’ll be okay.”
“If she hurts you,” she said. “Call me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning.”
“I know,” you said.
She hesitated, then stepped in and hugged you. Quick. Hard. Her arms around your shoulders. Her face near your neck.
The smell of her hit like a memory punch. Your body reacted before your head. Muscles tense, then softening. Old reflex.
She pulled back fast, like she felt it too.
“Sorry,” she said. “Old habit.”
“It’s fine,” you said. “Go home, Yujin.”
She nodded and left. Pushed through the bar crowd. Vanished.
You sat down again. Chugged the rest of your beer. Park slid you another. You pushed it back.
“Heading out,” you said.
“Already?” Park said. “Come on, it’s Friday.”
“I promised,” you said. “Wife’s cooking.”
He whistled.
“Whipped,” he said.
“Happy,” you said. “Big difference.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Tell Dr. J I said hi,” he said.
You left the bar.
Outside, the air felt cool. Street lights washed the pavement in weak yellow. You walked toward the station. Your phone buzzed.
WONYOUNG: HOME?
You typed.
ON MY WAY. R U OK?
She replied.
YES
PASTA READY
I MISSED YOU
You smiled at the screen. The knot in your gut eased.
Then another text came, a second later.
ALSO
WHY DID YOUR HEART RATE SPIKE 20 MINUTES AGO?
You stopped walking.
You stared at the text.
HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT, you wrote.
There was a pause. Then:
SMARTWATCH APP
CONNECTED TO MY PHONE
YOU LET ME SET IT UP REMEMBER?
You thought of the day she gave you the watch. “It tracks your sleep,” she had said. “Helps with your health.” You had shrugged and let her pair it with her phone because you didn’t care about data.
YOU WERE STRESSED? she wrote.
You stared at the screen. At the blinking cursor.
JUST BAR NOISE, you sent.
ON TRAIN NOW.
OKAY, she replied.
COME STRAIGHT HOME
You slid the phone into your pocket.
You had told her not to monitor without telling you. You had not even realized the watch counted.
You got on the train.
—
At home, the apartment smelled like garlic and tomato.
Wonyoung met you at the door. Bare feet. Sweatpants. Old t-shirt from some hospital charity run. Hair tied up. No trace of the clinic persona.
She reached for your shoulders as you bent to take off your shoes.
“Hi,” she said.
Her hands slid down your arms. She checked your pupils. Your breath. The way you stood.
“You drank,” she said.
“One beer,” you said. “Maybe half a second one. That’s it.”
She sniffed your breath. Nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Pasta is on low. Come sit.”
You dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down. She sat next to you, thigh pressed to yours.
“Park looked hammered in the photo,” she said.
“He was,” you said. “He’ll regret it tomorrow.”
She watched your face.
“What,” you said.
“Your heart rate,” she said. “It jumped. Was that when she hugged you.”
You froze.
“How do you know she hugged me,” you said.
“I don’t,” she said. “I extrapolated. You left at eight. Spike at eight-oh-seven. Calm again by eight-ten. That is pattern for physical contact then separation or panic then safety. Either fight, or… something else.”
You rubbed your eyes.
“She showed up,” you said. “At the bar. ‘Coincidentally.’ Sat next to me.”
Wonyoung’s mouth pressed into a line.
“Did you expect that,” she said.
“No,” you said. “I figured she might try something, but… I didn’t expect her there. It’s a public place.”
“What did she do,” Wonyoung said.
“Apologized,” you said. “For back then. For this week. Said she overreacted. Said she doesn’t want to fuck up my happiness.”
Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed.
“Did you believe her,” she said.
“I don’t know,” you said. “It sounded… real. She said all the shit I wanted to hear years ago. That she was wrong. That I didn’t deserve it.”
“And then?” Wonyoung said.
“She told me not to turn off my brain just because you love me,” you said. “Said people like you don’t change. That you adapt. That if you ever hurt me, I should call her.”
Wonyoung leaned back against the couch. Her jaw worked once.
“She is trying to move in as safety net,” she said. “She wants you to go to her when you feel unsafe with me. She thinks if she holds that space, she will get you when you crack.”
You stared at her.
“That’s exactly what she said,” you said.
“It is basic,” Wonyoung said. “She is not subtle. She is using your fear of repeating old patterns. She assumes I am same as men who use ‘I love you’ to excuse harm. She misreads my data set. That is good for us.”
You frowned.
“Us,” you said.
“You and me,” she said. “Our marriage. I am not including her in that set.”
“You sound calm,” you said.
“I am not,” she said. “Calm would be flat. I feel something else. Tension. It sits in my chest. It makes my fingers want to shake. I want to rip her pattern out. But I promised I would not act without you.”
You reached for her hand.
“You don’t have to rip anything,” you said. “She’s not in my life. She’s just… orbiting. For now.”
“For now,” Wonyoung repeated.
“You trust me, right,” you said. “That I’m not going to run off with her or something.”
“Yes,” she said. No pause. “I do not think you will cheat. That is not your flaw. Your flaw is guilt. You feel responsible for other people’s feelings even when they created the mess.”
You gave a weak laugh.
“Harsh,” you said.
“True,” she said.
You sighed.
“I did feel bad,” you said. “When she apologized. Like I had to… forgive. Let her in a little. She cried at the bar once. Years ago. I always folded when she cried.”
“She used crying as lever,” Wonyoung said.
“So did you,” you said quietly.
She flinched.
“Yes,” she said. “Today. I did not intend. It came. But it still worked as lever. That complicates this.”
You squeezed her fingers.
“I didn’t stay because you cried,” you said. “I stayed because when you finally shut up with the logic and showed me your ugly, it matched what I already felt. That you care in your way. That you love me.”
She watched your face.
“I needed to hear that,” she said.
“I know,” you said. “And I need you to hear this. I’m not going to call Yujin if we fight. I’m not going to run to her every time you scare me. If I’m scared, I’m telling you. That’s the rule.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “I accept that rule.”
You let out a breath.
“But she got in my head,” you admitted. “She made me see the things you do in the worst light. Again. I’m… tired of feeling like I’m the idiot in the middle. Like everyone’s running circles around me.”
Her grip tightened.
“You are not idiot,” she said. “You are honest. Predators like that.”
“You’re calling yourself a predator now,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “I see patterns. I exploit them. That is predation. The difference is target. I target people who touch you. She targets you.”
The blunt split cut through some fog in your brain.
“She hurts you then calls it love,” Wonyoung said. “I help you then call it control. Both of those can be true. But one leaves you alone in bed. The other keeps you warm.”
Your eyes stung.
“Why does it feel like I’m choosing which way to get fucked up,” you said.
“Because you are,” she said. “No path is clean. The question is where you want to stand when the damage settles.”
You let that sit.
“I want to stand with you,” you said finally. “Even if it’s fucked. Even if it’s hard. I’m not thirteen. I don’t need the mess Yujin thinks she can give me.”
Wonyoung’s shoulders lowered a fraction.
“Then we protect that,” she said.
“How,” you said.
“We cut points of access,” she said. “She got into your bar. Your messages. Your past. We close those doors. With your consent.”
“You want me to block her again,” you said.
“I want you to decide if contact with her gives you net positive or net harm,” she said. “Not nostalgia. Not guilt. Actual data. You met her twice. How do you feel.”
You thought.
“Drained,” you said. “Confused. A little lighter because of the apology. But mostly… pulled. Like I’m stretched between two magnets.”
“Then it is harm,” Wonyoung said. “Even if parts feel good.”
You nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll block her. Phone. Social. Everything. If she shows up in person, I’ll walk away. I won’t sit and entertain it.”
Relief flickered across Wonyoung’s features. Quick. Hard.
“Thank you,” she said.
“But,” you said. “If she really goes off. If she does something dangerous. We deal with it clean. No secret hospital shit. No quiet removals. We call cops. Or lawyers. Or both. No using your job as a personal hammer.”
Her mouth tightened, but she nodded.
“Agreed,” she said. “If she escalates, we use public systems first. I will not write a single note about her without you in the room.”
You blinked.
“You’d let me in on that,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “If it involves you, you see it. I will not hide one line.”
You leaned back.
“That’s… huge,” you said.
“It is necessary,” she said. “If I keep secrets, she will win. Not by taking you. By rotting trust.”
You touched her knee.
“I hate this,” you said. “I hate that she’s in our house even when she’s not here.”
“She is sitting in your hippocampus,” Wonyoung said. “She has a room there. We cannot evict her. We can only change how often you visit.”
You snorted.
“Nice image,” you said.
“You told me no metaphors,” she said.
“That’s more like brain science,” you said.
She gave a small smile.
“I am glad I still sound like myself to you,” she said.
You reached for your phone.
Blocked Yujin’s number. Blocked her on socials. The little profile icon faded.
You stared at the blank.
“It feels final,” you said.
“It should,” Wonyoung said. “Grieve if you need. Then eat.”
You set the phone face down.
“Come here,” you said.
She leaned in. You pulled her into your chest again. Her body molded against yours. Familiar.
You closed your eyes. For a second, you pictured Yujin’s hug. Quick. Hot. Then you forced your mind back to the weight in your arms now. The steady breathing. The small sound she made when you rubbed her back.
“I choose this,” you said into her hair. “Remember that next time she tries to spin some story about you stealing me.”
“I will,” she said. “I will also remind you, if you forget.”
You held her tighter.
You felt tired. Worn. But under it there was something solid. A choice you had made with clear eyes. Not perfect. But yours.
—
Across town, Yujin sat in her dark living room. The TV played some old movie with the sound off. Light flickered across her face.
She stared at her phone. The message she had tried to send you sat undelivered.
HEY. JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU GOT HOME SAFE.
Under it, in red letters:
NOT DELIVERED.
She tapped your name. The contact info popped up.
BLOCKED
She laughed once. Ugly. Dry.
“Of course,” she said to the empty room. “Of course she got to you fast.”
She tossed the phone on the couch and stood. Paced.
“You really cut me,” she said. “Just like that.”
She wiped at her eyes. Her fingers came away wet. She stared at the moisture, irritated.
“Stop,” she told herself. “He doesn’t owe you shit.”
She grabbed the beer bottle from the table. It was warm now. She drank anyway.
On the TV, two actors argued in a kitchen. Their mouths moved. No sound.
“She cried,” Yujin said. “I bet she fucking cried.”
She slammed the bottle down. Liquid sloshed.
“She showed you her sad little robot tears and you folded,” she said. “You always fold when someone looks at you like you’re their whole world.”
She yanked open a drawer. Rifled through junk. Old chargers. Pens. Crumpled receipts. A bent pack of cigarettes she thought she had thrown away months ago.
She pulled one out. Lit it with shaky hands. Took a drag. Coughed.
“I’m over you,” she muttered between coughs. “This isn’t about you. This is about her.”
She blew smoke toward the ceiling.
“She thinks she won,” Yujin said. “She thinks because you blocked me, I’m out of the game. She doesn’t know me at all.”
She grabbed her phone again. Opened social.
Scrolled to Wonyoung’s profile.
Photo after photo. Conference shots. Hospital events. Carefully cropped domestic glimpses. A mug on a table. Two sets of slippers by the door. Your hand in hers.
Yujin zoomed in on your hand. The ring. The small scar on your knuckle from the bar fight years ago.
“She put a ring on you like a leash,” Yujin said. “But you still have that mark. That was me.”
She took another drag. Flicked ash into an empty mug.
“She blocks, I pivot,” Yujin said. “She protects physically. I go through the cracks she can’t touch. Memory. Regret. Fantasy.”
She opened the note app again.
NEW PLAN.
She typed.
NO DIRECT CONTACT
HE BLOCKED ME
SO
MAKE HIM THINK ABOUT ME WITHOUT ME THERE
She chewed her lip.
“How,” she said aloud.
She thought of your coworkers. Your family. Your hobbies. Places you went where Wonyoung never stepped.
She thought of your mother. The way she had once looked at Yujin at a dinner. Warm. Calling her “dear.” The old photos on her mantel.
Yujin’s stomach churned.
“No,” she said to herself. “That’s low. Even for you.”
She paced.
Work. Family. Friends. Online.
Online.
A slow grin spread.
She opened a new browser tab. Searched the bar’s name. Clicked on photos. Scrolled through the recent ones people tagged.
There. Group shot from tonight. Posted already by some office guy. You in the corner. Yujin cropped out. Wonyoung’s black heart comment under Park’s upload of the same picture.
Yujin clicked your profile. It showed limited info. Posts only from public stuff. She couldn’t comment directly. Block in place.
She backed out. Found Park’s profile again. Followed. He had open DMs.
She wrote.
hey. random. saw u at [bar name] tonight. i think we met? i'm y/n's friend from way back.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
A minute later, the typing bubble appeared.
oh yeah lol, Park replied. you were the ex right?
She snorted.
word travels fast, she wrote.
He sent a laughing emoji.
he's a good dude, Park wrote. glad u guys are cool. his wife is intense tho lol
Yujin’s fingers stilled.
yeah, she wrote. she's... something.
She let the dots blink. Then:
nice to know he's got someone watching his back at work too, she added.
She hit send.
He replied with a thumbs up.
She leaned back.
“Friends,” she said. “Start with the fringes. People who talk near him. People who post about him. She can't track every conversation in his orbit.”
She flipped to another app. Created a burner account. Different name. Different photo.
She followed Wonyoung’s profile. Liked three old posts. Enough to register. Not enough to flag.
“She watches metrics,” Yujin muttered. “She’ll notice a new follower. Not important enough to stalk. But enough to know someone’s looking.”
She took another drag. Smoke burned her throat.
“You think he’s safe now,” she said to the empty room. “You think because he blocked me, he sleeps sound.”
She stubbed the cigarette out hard.
“You can’t block what’s inside his head,” she said. “You can’t block the way his body remembers. The way his hands moved when he touched me. The way his heart kicked when I hugged him tonight. I felt it. So did he.”
She walked to the bathroom. Turned on the light. Faced the mirror.
Her eyes were red. Hair messy. Jacket creased.
“You look like shit,” she told her reflection. “Perfect.”
She splashed water on her face. Patted it dry with a towel.
“War of attrition,” she said. “She has resources. I have history. See who runs out first.”
She turned off the light and walked back into the dark living room.
Her phone buzzed once more. Park had posted a story of the bar night. Group shot. Text overlay:
FRIYAY WITH THE CREW
Yujin stared at your blurred smiling face in the corner of the screen.
“Smile now,” she said quietly. “Let’s see what face you make when you start wondering which parts of your life she edited. And which parts you gave away without reading the fine print.”
—
Saturday you woke up to the smell of coffee and something sweet.
You opened your eyes. Wonyoung sat cross legged at the foot of the bed with your laptop open, screen glow on her face. Her hair was a mess. She wore your old t shirt, sleeves rolled.
She noticed you looking and snapped the laptop shut.
“Don’t check email,” she said. “It’s Saturday.”
You rubbed your eyes.
“What were you doing on my laptop then,” you said.
“Netflix,” she said. “I was picking something for tonight.”
“Already planning tonight?” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “We have today and tonight. I booked both.”
“Booked,” you said. “Who gave you that authority.”
“You did,” she said. “At the altar.”
You snorted.
“You’re annoying,” you said.
“You like it,” she said.
She crawled up the bed and dropped onto your chest, stretched out along you. Her weight settled. She felt warm. Real.
“You’re heavy,” you said.
“You’re weak,” she said.
She braced her chin on your sternum and looked down at you.
“I want date,” she said.
“Now,” you said.
“Today,” she said. “Whole thing. Outside. Not Netflix date. You put on real pants.”
You groaned.
“Why,” you said.
“Because I want to be with you where people can see you are mine,” she said. “And I want to eat something I didn’t cook at a table I don’t clean.”
You looked at the ceiling.
“You know that means crowds,” you said.
“I will block them,” she said. “Human shield mode.”
You laughed.
“Fine,” you said. “Where.”
“Gallery downtown,” she said. “Small one. Not famous. No tours. You like drawings.”
“You hate crowds,” you said.
“This one has timed entry,” she said. “I called.”
“You already planned this,” you said.
“Since Wednesday,” she said.
You stared up at her.
“You were that sure I’d stay,” you said.
“I was that sure I would ask,” she said. “And if you said no, I would ask again next week.”
You reached up and pushed her hair back from her face.
“Okay,” you said. “Gallery. Then food. Then we come home and you bully me into watching some depressing documentary.”
“No documentary,” she said. “Romantic movie.”
“You,” you said. “Romantic.”
“I can watch it as case study,” she said. “And as wife.”
You pulled her down and kissed her.
She kissed back immediately. No hesitation. Her mouth soft, familiar. Her fingers curled into your shirt.
You rolled her onto her back and hovered over her. She looked up at you, eyes half lidded. No act. Just open.
“You’re in a good mood,” you said.
“You’re here,” she said. “And not packing a bag.”
“Low bar,” you said.
“It’s enough,” she said.
You kissed her again. Slower. She took your bottom lip between her teeth for a second, then let go.
“Coffee is getting cold,” she said against your mouth.
“Let it,” you said.
She smiled, small and real.
“You will complain later,” she said.
“Probably,” you said.
You kissed her once more, then rolled off and sat up.
“Fine,” you said. “Date. Let’s go remind the world I’m not a spreadsheet goblin.”
She sat up too.
“You are my goblin,” she said.
“That’s worse,” you said.
Two hours later, you walked down a quiet street toward the gallery. Weather mild. People out but not packed. Small shops. Cafes. A flower stand on the corner.
Wonyoung walked beside you. She wore a simple dress and a light jacket. Nothing flashy. Her hand in yours. She swung your joined hands once in a while, small motion.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you said.
“Doing what,” she said.
“The hand thing,” you said. “Like we’re in a teen drama.”
“It makes me feel like we are not old,” she said.
You snorted.
“You’re twenty six,” you said.
“Old,” she said.
You squeezed her hand.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“You like it,” she said again.
You passed the flower stand. She glanced at it, then kept walking.
You pulled her back gently.
“What,” she said.
“You looked at it,” you said.
“I always look,” she said. “It’s color.”
“You want some,” you said.
She shrugged.
“They die,” she said. “It’s waste.”
“That’s the point,” you said. “It’s pretty then gone.”
“That is inefficient,” she said.
You rolled your eyes and stepped toward the stand anyway.
The vendor looked up.
“Bouquet for the lady?” he said.
Wonyoung stood a step back, brow furrowed.
“Pick,” you said.
She shook her head.
“You pick,” you said. “Doctor.”
Her eyes moved over the buckets. Roses, tulips, lilies, random mixed bunches.
She reached out and pointed at simple white ones. Cheap. No ribbon.
“These,” she said.
“Why,” you said.
“They smell clean,” she said. “Not like perfume.”
“Okay,” you said.
You bought the small bouquet and handed it to her.
She held it awkwardly with one hand, like a test object.
“You’re supposed to look happy,” you said. “That’s the social script.”
“I am happy,” she said. “My face is unused to it.”
You laughed.
“You’re so weird,” you said.
She lifted the flowers to her nose. Inhaled.
Her eyes softened a little.
“It is nice,” she said.
“See,” you said. “Not everything efficient. Some things just nice.”
You reached out and tapped the end of one stem against her cheek. She scrunched her nose.
“Stop,” she said.
“You look cute,” you said.
“Stop using that word,” she said.
“Cute,” you repeated.
She gave you a flat look that did not match the faint pink at her ears.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ll miss our slot.”
The gallery was small. White walls. Quiet. Soft footfalls on polished floor. A bored person at the desk checked your names and waved you in.
You moved from piece to piece. Drawings. Sketches. Some abstract. Some clean.
Wonyoung walked close, reading the little cards next to each frame. She tilted her head at some. Moved on from others quickly.
At one, she stopped longer.
It was a simple black and white sketch. A person asleep in a chair. Head back. Mouth open. Blanket half fallen. One lamp on in the corner.
You looked at her.
“What,” you said.
“It is like you,” she said. “When you fall asleep on the couch and pretend you didn’t.”
“You’re not supposed to compare me to random art,” you said.
“Why not,” she said.
You glanced at the card. No title. Just “Untitled, Study #4”.
“Artist didn’t even name it,” you said.
“Then I can,” she said. “Y/n on Sunday.”
You shook your head.
“You’re insufferable,” you said.
She stepped a little closer to the sketch, arms folded.
“I like this,” she said.
“Why,” you said.
“It shows someone unguarded,” she said. “Still. No performance.”
“You have those in your office every day,” you said.
“They are usually drooling,” she said. “This is cleaner.”
You laughed quietly.
She looked over at you.
“You are relaxed here,” she said. “Your shoulders are down.”
“I like quiet,” you said. “No one asking for reports. No family screaming. No residents begging for signatures.”
“You do not scream at work,” she said. “You just send long emails.”
“You read my work emails?” you said.
“No,” she said. “You complain about them. I generalize.”
You walked to the next piece. Bright colors. Sharp angles. It hurt your eyes a bit.
She stood behind you. Her hand rested at the small of your back. Not pushing. Just there.
“You keep touching me,” you said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why,” you said.
“To remind myself you are here,” she said. “And not inside your head with her.”
You turned.
Her face stayed even, but her eyes had a slight tension.
“You think I’m thinking about Yujin right now,” you said.
“Less,” she said. “But she sits in edges.”
You stepped closer. Her hand slid around your waist.
“You’re not wrong,” you said. “She pops in. Then I push her out. It’s work.”
“I can help,” she said.
“How,” you said.
“Create competing patterns,” she said. “New memories. Stronger. With me. When you think of bar, I want you to think of my hand. Not hers. When you think of crying, I want you to think of my stupid tears in our kitchen. Not hers in some alley.”
You stared at her.
“That’s… kind of fucked,” you said. “But I get it.”
“I am not erasing,” she said. “I am overwriting.”
“That sounds like erasing with extra steps,” you said.
She gave the smallest smile.
“You are difficult,” she said.
“You like it,” you said.
She leaned in and kissed you. Soft. Public. Not long.
You pulled back, scanning the room.
“No one cares,” she said. “Look.”
An older couple studied a piece across the room. A kid scrolled a phone on a bench. No one looked.
“You’re trying to desensitize me,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to kiss you anywhere and you not tense.”
You slid your hand up her back, under the edge of her jacket. Warm skin under thin fabric.
“I’ll get used to it,” you said. “If you keep ambushing me.”
“I will,” she said.
You spent another half hour wandering. She pointed out small details. You caught yourself smiling more than you expected.
At one abstract mess of lines, she squinted.
“This looks like my residents’ notes,” she said.
You laughed.
“Don’t say that too loud,” you said.
She stepped closer to you, shoulder against yours.
“I like being out with you,” she said quietly. “I forgot what it feels like. Not clinic. Not couch. Outside.”
“We can do it more,” you said. “It doesn’t have to be trauma bonding at home all the time.”
“You don’t like when I schedule,” she said.
“I like when you schedule dates,” you said. “I don’t like when you schedule my bowel movements.”
She nodded.
“Noted,” she said.
After the gallery, you walked to a small noodle place she had picked. Narrow. Steamed up windows. Two people inside.
You sat by the window. Shared a bowl. She insisted.
“You eat faster,” she said. “If we share, you can’t leave me the onions.”
“You hate onions,” you said.
“I can learn,” she said.
You watched her struggle through the onion slices with the noodles. Her face made slight discomfort shapes, but she kept going.
“You really trying to impress me with onion tolerance?” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “Wives do sacrifices.”
“You’re an idiot,” you said.
“You married idiot,” she said.
You reached across the table and wiped a bit of broth from her chin with your thumb.
She blinked, surprised.
“You’re cute,” you said.
She rolled her eyes.
“Stop,” she said. “Or I will leave.”
“You won’t,” you said.
“I won’t,” she admitted.
You leaned across the table and kissed her quick. Her eyes softened.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I’m allowed,” you said. “I paid for the view with a ring.”
She snorted.
“You’re getting bold,” she said.
“Spending a week thinking I might lose you will do that,” you said.
Her face shifted. The light in her eyes changed. Something deep there.
“You will not,” she said.
You reached for her hand under the table. Laced your fingers with hers.
“I know,” you said. “Because I’m not letting go.”
On the walk home, the sky dimmed. Street lights came on. You held her hand. She held the wilted flowers in the other.
“You didn’t throw them,” you said.
“They are still alive,” she said. “When they die, I will throw them.”
“Cold,” you said.
“Realistic,” she said.
You crossed at a light. A group of teenagers laughed near the corner. One of them bumped your shoulder hard. No apology.
You jerked a little. Old reflex. Yujin’s voice in your head: You used to throw hands for less.
Wonyoung’s hand tightened on yours. Her other arm slid slightly in front of you. Not big. Just enough.
You let the teens pass.
“You okay,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” you said. “Old reflex.”
Her thumb rubbed over your knuckles.
“You did not swing,” she said. “Progress.”
You exhaled.
“I’m not that guy anymore,” you said.
“You are all versions,” she said. “They just take turns.”
You nodded.
“You’re stuck with all of them,” you said.
“I am prepared,” she said.
Near your building, you stopped at the small park. She tugged your hand.
“Sit,” she said.
You both sat on a bench. The air felt cooler. The city around you hummed.
She leaned her head on your shoulder. You leaned your cheek on her hair.
For a moment, everything felt still. No hospital. No bar. No ex. Just the weight of her against you, the quiet, the rhythm of her breathing.
“You look calm,” she said.
“I feel calm,” you said.
“File that,” she said. “Use later. When things get loud.”
You nodded.
“I will,” you said.
She shifted and looked up at you.
“Kiss,” she said.
“You’re demanding,” you said.
“Yes,” she said.
You turned and kissed her. Slow, steady. No rush. The kind of kiss that sank. Her hand came up to your jaw. Her thumb traced your cheekbone.
You pulled back slightly and kissed the corner of her mouth. Then the other corner. She closed her eyes. You kissed each eyelid. She made a small sound, almost a laugh.
“That tickles,” she said.
“You like it,” you said.
“Yes,” she said.
She opened her eyes. Looked right at you.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know,” you said. “I love you too.”
Her shoulders dropped a little. Like the words slid something heavy off.
You sat together in silence for another minute. Her fingers played with the hem of your sleeve.
“Let’s go home,” she said finally. “Before it gets cold.”
You stood. She looped her arm through yours this time, flowers in her other hand.
As you walked away from the bench, across the small park, you did not see the figure across the street.
—
Yujin leaned against a lamppost half a block away. Hood up. Hands in pockets. A cigarette hung from her lips, burned down to the filter.
She watched you and Wonyoung. Watched your joined hands. Watched your easy steps and low talk.
Smoke curled around her face. Her eyes stayed sharp. No tears now.
She saw Wonyoung bump your shoulder gently. Saw you laugh. Saw you tilt your head down to listen to something she said.
Yujin’s jaw flexed.
“Well,” she murmured. “Look at that. Domestic bliss.”
She flicked the dead cigarette into the gutter. Her lips pulled into a slow, thin smirk.
“Enjoy it,” she said under her breath. “Every second. Makes the crack hit harder when it comes.”
She pushed off the lamppost and melted into the moving crowd, eyes never leaving your backs as you and Wonyoung turned the corner toward home.
—
You woke up with a splitting headache and dry mouth.
Concrete under your cheek. Rope around your wrists. Plastic zip ties bit into your skin. A dusty, damp smell filled your nose. Faint bleach. Old wood. Something metallic.
You tried to move. Your shoulders screamed. Your arms were pulled behind a chair. Ankles tied to the legs.
A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Dim. Swinging a little.
Basement.
You blinked hard, trying to clear your vision.
Pieces came back. Grocery bags in your hands. Stairs in your building. A voice behind you.
“Hey, can you hold the door,” someone had said.
You had turned. Elevator. Familiar face. Yujin. Smile too wide.
Then a sharp sting in your neck. Heat. Dark.
You pulled against the bonds. The chair scraped.
“Don’t,” Yujin’s voice said from your left. “You’ll just skin your wrists for fun.”
You turned your head.
She sat on a crate a few feet away. Hoodie. Jeans. Socks. No shoes. Hair pulled back in a messy knot. A bruise on her wrist. Bottle of water in her hand.
Her eyes had dark circles. Her leg bounced.
“Where are we,” you said. Your tongue felt thick.
“My place,” she said. “Basement. Technically shared storage, but no one else uses it. They’re all scared of cobwebs.”
“You drugged me,” you said.
“I sedated you,” she said. “Difference. You woke up fine.”
“You kidnapped me,” you said.
“That word has weight,” she said. “You’re here. Tied. I won’t pretend it’s normal. But I didn’t hurt you. Yet.”
You stared at her.
“Untie me,” you said. “Now.”
She shook her head.
“Can’t,” she said. “If I do, you leave. Then this is just another conversation she wins.”
“Yujin,” you said. “This is insane. Whatever point you think you’re making, this kills it.”
She looked at you. Her eyes were bright. Not drunk. Sober. Too sober.
“I tried talking,” she said. “I warned you. I backed off. You blocked me. You chose her. I get it. That’s your right. But she doesn’t get to walk away thinking she owns reality.”
“You think this will change that,” you said.
“She thinks she controls every variable,” Yujin said. “Work. Home. Your fucking heart rate. I want to show her there’s one thing she can’t script. Me.”
You pulled against the ties again. The rope cut deeper.
“She’s going to find me,” you said. “You know that, right.”
“That’s the point,” Yujin said. “I called her already.”
Your blood ran cold.
“What did you say,” you said.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket. Showed you the last outgoing call. WONYOUNG.
“Voicemail,” she said. “I told her I had you. Gave the address. Told her to come alone.”
“You gave her your address,” you said. “You might as well paint a target on your face.”
“I want her here,” Yujin said. “In my space. Not on her turf. No nurses. No sedatives. Just us.”
“You’re going to get killed,” you said flatly.
She smiled. Tight.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“You think you can take her,” you said. “In a fight.”
“In a fight,” Yujin said. “Maybe not. In a room where the rules are gone, we’ll see.”
“You’re still stuck on some high school idea of us,” you said. “This isn’t a movie. She’s not a cartoon. She’ll break you.”
Yujin’s jaw tightened.
“Let her try,” she said.
You closed your eyes for a second.
“You think this proves she’s bad,” you said. “All it proves is that you are.”
“I know I’m bad,” she said. “I’m not doing this to get your love. That ship sank. I told you. This is about showing her she’s not fucking god.”
“She already knows that,” you said. “She thinks she’s my wife.”
“That’s worse,” Yujin said. “God has rules. Wives can do whatever the fuck they want behind closed doors and call it care.”
You stared at her.
“You’re going to hurt her,” you said.
“I’m going to show her she can’t make you disappear into some ward and write the narrative,” Yujin said. “I want her angry. Full. Not that calm creepy thing. I want to see what she really is.”
“Why,” you said.
“Because you won’t believe me until you see,” she said. “And you won’t see until she breaks.”
A car door slammed above. Faint. Muffled through floorboards.
A door at the top of the basement stairs opened. Light streaked down. A silhouette stood there.
“Y/n,” Wonyoung’s voice called. Calm. Too calm. “Are you hurt.”
“I’m fine,” you shouted. “Don’t come down.”
“You told her not to,” Yujin muttered. “Cute.”
Wonyoung stepped down. One slow step at a time. She wore jeans, a plain shirt, sneakers. No bag. No coat. Her hair tied back.
Her eyes swept the basement as she descended. Corners. Shelves. The window. Finally you. Then Yujin.
She hit the concrete floor. Closed the door behind her. You heard the lock click.
You stared.
“You locked yourself in,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “She can’t run now without passing me.”
Yujin slid off the crate. Stood. Shoulders square.
“Hi, doctor,” she said.
“Yujin,” Wonyoung said. Voice flat.
Her gaze drifted to your wrists. Took in the rope. The marks. A small flare lit behind her eyes.
“Untie him,” she said.
“Or what,” Yujin said.
“Or I walk over there and do it,” Wonyoung said.
Yujin spread her hands.
“You can try,” she said.
Wonyoung moved.
No preamble. No more words.
She crossed the space in quick, direct steps. Yujin braced.
Wonyoung swung first. Not wild. A straight shot toward Yujin’s throat. Fast.
Yujin jerked back. The punch glanced her collarbone instead of her windpipe. She grunted.
“Fuck,” Yujin spat. “You go for the kill, huh.”
“Yes,” Wonyoung said. “You touched him.”
Yujin lashed out with her foot. Low kick toward Wonyoung’s knee. It connected. Wonyoung’s leg buckled. She dropped onto one knee, hand catching the floor.
Yujin stepped in, grabbed for her hair.
Wonyoung twisted. Her hand shot up, caught Yujin’s wrist mid grab, and yanked. Hard.
Yujin stumbled forward. Wonyoung rose with the movement, driving her other fist into Yujin’s stomach.
Air whooshed out of Yujin. She folded, coughing.
“You’re not supposed to know how to fight,” Yujin wheezed.
“I know anatomy,” Wonyoung said. “And leverage.”
She shoved Yujin away. Yujin staggered back, hit a support post.
You yanked on the rope again. It burned your skin. Blood slicked under the ties.
“Stop,” you yelled. “Both of you. This is insane.”
Neither looked at you.
Yujin wiped spit from her mouth with the back of her hand. Laughed once.
“You hit hard for someone who types for a living,” she said.
“I restrain people twice your size daily,” Wonyoung said. “You are not special.”
Yujin lunged.
She aimed higher this time. Fingers out, nails toward Wonyoung’s eyes.
Wonyoung didn’t flinch. She stepped into the attack, bumped Yujin’s arm aside with her forearm, and drove her palm into Yujin’s jaw.
Bone cracked against bone. Yujin’s head snapped sideways. Blood smeared at the corner of her lip.
She blinked, dazed, then swung wild. Her fist caught Wonyoung’s cheek. A dull thud. Wonyoung’s head turned a fraction. No sound.
Her eyes went flat. Rage clicked into focus.
She grabbed Yujin’s shirt and slammed her into the support post. Wood vibrated.
Yujin groaned.
“You drugged him,” Wonyoung said. Her voice stayed low. “You moved his body. You tied his wrists. You decided he is prop in your show.”
She punctuated each sentence with a shove, shoulder into chest. Yujin’s head knocked the post again.
“You’ve been doing that for years,” Yujin spat. “I just borrowed your method.”
Wonyoung’s hand shot to Yujin’s throat. Fingers closed. Thumb pressed against the soft spot under the jaw.
Yujin choked. Her hands clawed at Wonyoung’s wrist.
Your stomach lurched.
“Wonyoung,” you shouted. “Stop.”
She did not look back.
“You think you are savior,” Wonyoung said to Yujin. “You think you dragged him here to open his eyes. You are just repeating the same pattern. Hurting him to prove a point.”
Her grip tightened. Yujin’s face reddened. Eyes bulged.
“You left him broken once,” Wonyoung said. “Now you put him in a chair like an animal. You call me monster.”
Her expression did not change. Only her knuckles whitened.
Yujin thrashed. Kicked. Her heel caught Wonyoung’s shin. No reaction.
Your own breath came faster. Panic sliced through the fog.
“Wonyoung, look at me,” you said. “Please.”
She finally glanced over her shoulder. Just a flick.
Your eyes met.
“Don’t kill her,” you said. “Don’t do something you can’t undo.”
Her jaw flexed.
“She will keep coming,” Wonyoung said. “As long as she breathes, she will circle. She will text. Call. Lurk. She will drag you into rooms like this. She will not stop.”
“Then we deal with it,” you said. “Together. Not like this. Not with your hands around her throat. You promised.”
Her fingers trembled. Slight. The first crack.
“I promised to not act without you,” she said.
“I’m asking you,” you said. “Let go.”
She looked back at Yujin. Yujin’s eyes rolled. Her grip on Wonyoung’s wrist weakened.
“You see what she did,” Wonyoung said. “You see what she was ready to do. If I release, she will twist this. Tell police I attacked. Tell courts I am unstable. She will make me the thing she already calls me.”
“I’ll testify,” you said. “I’ll tell them everything. I’ll stand in front of any judge and say you came to get me. You didn’t come to kill.”
Her gaze locked on yours again.
“You trust me that much,” she said.
“Yes,” you said. “I trust you more than I trust the part of you that wants to crush her throat right now. Let her breathe. Then we do this clean.”
Her fingers loosened. Slowly.
Yujin sagged. Air sucked loud into her lungs as Wonyoung pulled her hand back.
Yujin dropped to her knees, coughing, hand at her neck.
“You’re… you’re fucked,” Yujin gasped at Wonyoung. “You know that. That felt good to you.”
“Yes,” Wonyoung said. “It did.”
She did not hide it. She did not pretend.
“But I stopped,” she added. “Because he told me to. You never did.”
Yujin laughed, then choked on it.
“You think that makes you better,” she said. “You still wanted it.”
“Yes,” Wonyoung said. “The want is there. The act is not. That is difference.”
She turned to you.
Her cheek had started to swell where Yujin’s fist hit. A bruise already forming. Her hair had come loose. Strands stuck to her face.
She looked at your wrists.
“Hold still,” she said.
She moved behind the chair. You felt her fingers on the rope. Quick, efficient. The knots loosened. Blood smeared on the fibers.
Your hands came free. Pain shot through your arms as circulation returned. Needles under the skin.
She unbound your ankles next. You stood slowly. Legs shaky.
She stepped in front of you.
“Any pain,” she said. Hands hovered near your ribs. “Neck. Head. Did she hit you.”
“No,” you said. “Just injection. Headache. Sore.”
She looked at your pupils. Scanned your face. Then her hand slid to your neck. Thumb over your pulse.
“Fast,” she said. “Expected.”
You grabbed her wrist. Not to push her away. To ground yourself.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Behind her, Yujin dragged herself up using the post. She clutched her throat. Red marks lined her skin where Wonyoung’s fingers had pressed.
She looked at you. Eyes wet. Not just from lack of air now.
“You’re really going with her,” Yujin said hoarsely. “After this. After she almost…”
She gestured at her own neck.
“She stopped,” you said. “Because I asked. You tied me to a chair.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I did it to save you,” she said. “To show you. To make you see what she is.”
“You showed me what you are,” you said. “Again.”
Her face crumpled.
“I love you,” she said. The words tore out. “You know that, right. You have to know. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t fucking do this if I didn’t.”
Your chest twisted. The old hurt. The old comfort. The same pattern.
“I know you think you do,” you said. “But your love always looks like this. Pain. Fear. Cages. You call it saving me while you cut at me.”
“You think hers doesn’t,” she shot back. “You think she won’t put you in a bed and strap you down when you don’t fit her plan.”
“I trusted her not to,” you said. “I tested that trust just now. She passed. You didn’t.”
Yujin shook her head, tears streaming.
“She’s going to erase this,” she said. “She’ll write notes. She’ll spin it. She’ll make it like I’m just crazy ex who snapped. She’ll never admit what she did.”
“I will,” Wonyoung said behind you. “In court, if needed. Under oath.”
Yujin laughed through tears.
“Of course you will,” she said. “You’ll turn it into a neat story where you’re the rational psychopath and I’m the emotional mess.”
She took a step toward you. Wobbly.
“You’re leaving,” she said. “Right now. With her.”
“Yes,” you said. “We’re going to a police station.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Please. If you do, that’s it. I’m done. Record. Lockup. My life’s over.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
“You should have thought about that before you stuck a needle in my neck,” you said.
She flinched like you hit her.
“I panicked,” she said. “I… I wanted to talk and I knew if I just called you wouldn’t come. I knew she’d stop it. I just… I needed time with you. Without her watching. Without her voice in your ear.”
“You had time,” you said. “You had years. You used them to break me.”
She cried harder.
“I know,” she said. “Fuck. I know. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m asking you not to end me.”
“You could’ve killed me,” you said. “If the dose was wrong. If I hit my head. If anything went off.”
“I measured,” she said weakly. “I checked. I did math.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Wonyoung said sharply.
“You made him your experiment,” Yujin shot back. “Sit the fuck down, doctor.”
She looked back at you.
“I fucked up,” she said. “Again. Surprise.”
She took another step closer. She stood a few feet away now. Close enough to see every line on her face.
“I will spend the rest of my life paying for what I did to you the first time,” she said. “I accepted that. I didn’t plan to add new shit. I just… I couldn’t watch you walk into that tidy little hell without at least trying to pull you out.”
Her shoulders shook.
“I failed,” she said. “Okay. I failed. You chose her. You love her. I see it. I hate it. But I see it.”
She lifted a hand toward you, then let it drop.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t walk out of here and hand me to her systems. You know what they do. You’ve heard her. You think jail is bad. Try her ward.”
You swallowed. Your throat hurt.
You thought of cops. Reports. Court. You thought of Wonyoung on a stand, clinical and clear. You thought of Yujin in a hospital gown, wrists tied, eyes wild.
You thought of the rope marks on your skin. The bruise forming on Wonyoung’s cheek. The way your head still spun.
You thought of all the chances you had given Yujin before. How many lines she crossed. How many times you took her back, in small ways.
You looked at Wonyoung.
Her eyes were on you. Waiting. Not pushing. Just ready.
“This is your call,” she said quietly. “I will follow.”
You looked back at Yujin.
“I loved you,” you said. “Once. Part of me always will. You were my whole world for a while. That’s real. That doesn’t vanish.”
Her face crumpled more.
“But that love is past tense,” you said. “The person I loved is gone. She died when you walked out. What’s left keeps hurting me and calling it saving.”
She shook her head, sobbing.
“I can change,” she said. “I can… I’ll leave you alone. I swear. I’ll move. New city. New number. You’ll never see me again. Just… don’t let her take this and wear it like a fucking badge.”
You moved closer. Wonyoung did not stop you.
You stood in front of Yujin. Her eyes searched yours, desperate.
“Do you remember what you told me when you left,” you said.
She blinked through tears.
“I said a lot of shit,” she said.
“You said, ‘I have to do what’s right for me. You’ll survive,’” you said. “You walked out. Closed the door. Didn’t look back.”
She winced like the words hit.
“I survived,” you said. “You were right. I did. Now I have to do what’s right for me. That means walking out of this basement with my wife and telling the truth.”
She grabbed your forearm. Fingers digging in.
“Please,” she said. “Y/n. Look at me. Look at me. Don’t do this. Don’t let her write me off as some crazy ex in a file. I know I fucked up. I know. Just… give me a chance to fix it without…”
Her words dissolved into sobs.
You gently pried her fingers off.
Her hands slid off your arm.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “But my life isn’t about fixing you anymore.”
Her knees gave. She sank back down. Palms hit the concrete. She crouched there, crying.
You turned to Wonyoung.
“Let’s go,” you said.
She stepped to your side. Put her hand at the small of your back. Steady. There.
You both moved toward the stairs.
Behind you, Yujin’s voice cracked.
“Y/n,” she cried. “Please. Don’t leave me here. Don’t walk away like this. Not you. Anyone but you.”
You stopped at the bottom of the stairs for half a second.
You didn’t turn.
“I already left,” you said. “Years ago. I just didn’t admit it until now.”
Her sob hit your back like a wave.
You kept climbing.
Wonyoung opened the door at the top. Light from outside spilled down. She held it for you.
You stepped through first.
She followed. Closed the door behind you.
The lock clicked.
—
You sat on the couch, kids asleep on you. Cartoon hummed. Toys scattered.
Door opened.
“I’m home,” Wonyoung said.
She dropped her things, leaned over, kissed you quick, then deep.
“Missed you,” she whispered, kissing your jaw, neck.
“It's only eight hours,” you said.
“Too long.”
She slid beside you, pulled your daughter onto her lap. Both kids now between you.
“You’re a magnet,” she said.
“You’re the glue.”
She kissed you again, soft. Your daughter woke. “Mommy, kiss Daddy again.”
Wonyoung gave you a loud mwah. Giggles. More kisses followed. Cheek, nose, forehead. Your son reached. She held him too. Small kisses whenever they stirred.
“This is good,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” She kissed you over them. Daughter: “Ew, kissy.”
Wonyoung kissed her cheek. Squeals. Son copied.
She shifted so she could press all three of you closer. Your shoulder under her chin. Her lips brushed your jaw. Your kids tucked safe between you.
She rubbed her nose against your cheek.
“Say it,” she said.
“I’m yours,” you said. “Forever.”
You reached for the remote with your free hand and turned the TV off. The room went quiet except for the small sounds of kids and Wonyoung’s slow breathing. She looked at you.
“Happy?” she asked. “Yeah,” you said. “I am.”
She nodded once, satisfied, and gave you one more kiss, soft and sure, before leaning her head on your shoulder, arms locked around her whole world.
Wonyoung is devoted wife who is madly in love with her husband and a renowned psychiatrist but unknown to him she’s a psychopath
SWEET BUT A PSYCHO
IVE Wonyoung X Male Reader
11K WORDS COUNTED
—
The knife rocked against the cutting board. Onion pieces stuck to your fingers. The kitchen smelled like garlic and soy.
Wonyoung stood beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushed your arm every time you moved. She held a small bowl and kept dropping chopped green onion into it.
“You’re cutting it weird,” she said.
“How?”
“You’re doing cubes. You said stir fry. You want strips.”
She reached for your hand. Her fingers pressed your knuckles. She turned your wrist, adjusted the angle of the blade, then let go.
“Like this,” she said.
“You’re the doctor, not the chef.”
“Doctors eat,” she said. “Keep cutting.”
You kept going. Knife. Board. The vent hood hummed. Oil warmed in the pan. Her phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting.
She ignored it.
You wiped your hand on a towel and nudged her hip with yours.
“Your phone.”
“It’s a spam text,” she said. “I checked.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I know the vibration pattern,” she said. “Spam is short. You are longer.”
She said it without any smile. Just matter of fact. She tipped the bowl of green onion into the pan. It hissed.
You laughed.
“You memorize my text length now? That’s a weird hobby.”
“I work with patterns,” she said. “You’re my favorite one.”
You bumped her again. She finally looked at you, the corner of her mouth pulling up. She reached up and fixed your collar. Your tie hung loose after work. You had not bothered to straighten it when you came in.
“Sit,” she said. “You look tired.”
“I can help.”
“You are helping. Standing there.”
“I’m literally the one cooking.”
“You’re the one cutting. Cutting is prep. Cooking is system. I handle system.”
She moved with quick, small motions. Oil. Vegetables. Meat. Soy. She did not waste gestures. Every reach looked rehearsed.
Your phone buzzed on the table behind you.
You turned. Glanced at the screen.
AN UNKNOWN NUMBER
You frowned.
Wonyoung looked at the pan. Not at you. The muscle at her jaw jumped once.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Unknown,” you said. “Probably some telemarketer.”
She stirred the pan. The smell of meat filled the room. She reached for salt without looking at it.
“You can answer,” she said.
You wiped your hands and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
Silence for a second. Then a familiar voice.
“Hey. It’s me.”
You froze.
“Yujin?”
Wonyoung’s hand stopped in the pan. The spoon hung in mid air.
You turned away from her on instinct, back to the sink.
“Why do you have this number,” you said.
“You changed,” Yujin said. “Took some effort. I got it.”
“I’m hanging up,” you said.
“Wait. Just listen. I’m back in the city. I want to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You blocked every account,” she said. “I get it. I was shit. I know that. I want to say it to your face, not shout at your Instagram story like an idiot.”
“You already did that.”
“I know. I sobered up. I’ve been in therapy. I’m not trying to fuck your life. I just… I miss you, okay?”
You stared at the blank wall. The white plaster had knife marks near the outlet from when you tried to open a stuck jar with a screwdriver.
“Yujin,” you said. “I’m married.”
“I know,” she said. Her voice dropped. “To her.”
You did not like the way she said it. You turned your head. Wonyoung still stood at the stove, spoon in the pan. No movement. Oil popped around her hand.
“She’s my wife,” you said. “Don’t say it like that.”
“She’s not right,” Yujin said. “I looked her up. The way people talk about her at that hospital. The shit that happens around you since you met her. Promotions. Accidents. People just vanish. It’s weird, Y/n.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“You stalking my LinkedIn now?”
“Yeah. Kind of,” she said. “Look. I just want to talk in person. Old cafe near the subway, same street as your old place. Tomorrow. Lunch. One hour. You let me say what I need to say, you walk out, I don’t bother you again.”
You rubbed your forehead. Oil crackled behind you.
“I’m not sneaking around my wife to meet my ex.”
“Then tell her you’re meeting me.”
“That’s worse.”
“So you agree it looks bad,” she said.
You closed your eyes.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Then show up,” she said. “One hour. If I’m full of shit, you get to tell me to fuck off to my face instead of over the phone. If I’m not, you can do something about it.”
Silence stretched. Wonyoung did not speak. Did not move.
You swallowed.
“I’ll think about it,” you said.
“You’ll come,” Yujin said. “You always did. Same place. Noon.”
She hung up.
You lowered the phone. The kitchen light hummed.
You felt Wonyoung before you saw her. The soft press of her chest against your back. Her arms slid around your waist, fingers interlaced at your stomach. Her chin rested between your shoulder blades.
“Yujin?” she asked.
You stiffened.
“You heard that?”
“I heard her name,” she said. “And your tone.”
“My tone?”
“You went quiet in your throat,” she said. “You use that voice when you feel guilty.”
You let out a short breath.
“She called out of nowhere.”
“She tracked your number,” Wonyoung said. “That takes steps.”
“She wants to talk. Says she’s sorry.”
Wonyoung’s grip tightened once, then stayed.
“Do you think she is sorry,” she said.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Do you want to talk to her.”
“Not really.”
“That’s not no,” Wonyoung said.
You turned in her arms. Her face tilted up. Bare skin. Hair tied back in a low knot. No makeup. A faint red mark sat near her wrist where a watch had rubbed.
“I don’t want her back,” you said. “I have you.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she said. “I asked if you want to talk to her.”
“I want her to stop popping up,” you said. “If meeting her makes her fuck off, maybe it’s worth one coffee.”
Her eyes stayed on yours. There was no warmth in them in that second. Just a flat, steady look, like she listened to a patient.
“Will you tell me if you go,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Don’t lie,” she said. “You are bad at it.”
You raised a hand and rubbed her shoulder.
“I’m not going behind your back. Okay.”
Her jaw eased. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to your chest.
“Okay,” she said.
The pan behind her smoked.
“Shit,” you said.
You grabbed a towel and moved around her. She stepped aside. You killed the burner and stirred. It was not burned, but some bits stuck to the bottom.
“We almost ruined dinner,” you said.
“We can order in,” she said.
“No way. You bought that beef. I’m eating it.”
She watched you stir. Her hand rubbed a small circle at the center of her arm.
“I’ll meet her,” you said. “Public place. Daytime. I’ll stay for thirty minutes. Then I come home and complain about her to you.”
“You sound very sure,” she said.
“If it helps end it, I’ll do it,” you said.
She watched your profile.
“Okay,” she said.
You plated the food. You both sat at the table. She ate in small bites. You shoveled.
“Clinic was busy?” you asked.
“Three new intakes,” she said. “One fake suicidal attempt for attention. One actual psychotic break. One drug seeker. Usual spread.”
“You say that like you’re reading a grocery list.”
“It is a list,” she said. “I fix their patterns or I write referrals. It’s work.”
“How’s the staff treating you?”
“As if I can end their career with one sentence,” she said.
“You kind of can.”
“That is why it works,” she said.
You shook your head.
“You like that too much.”
She looked at your hand instead of your face.
“I like you,” she said. “Work is tool.”
She finished first. She set down her chopsticks and watched you eat. Elbows on the table. Chin in her palm. You tried not to feel self conscious under the stare.
“What,” you said with your mouth full.
“You chew slower when you think,” she said.
“I’m chewing like a normal human.”
“You are thinking about her,” she said.
“I’m thinking about work,” you said. “Park screwed up the report again. I have to fix it before the meeting.”
“Liar,” she said.
You swallowed.
“I’m thinking about both,” you said.
She nodded once. No change in her expression.
“You can think about both,” she said. “You can talk to her. You can listen. Then you come home.”
“That simple, huh.”
“It is if you remember something,” she said.
“What.”
She reached over and tapped the ring on your finger.
“This,” she said.
You grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“I remember,” you said.
Her phone buzzed this time. You both looked. The screen showed:
DR. LEESEO
She picked up.
“Yes,” she said.
You listened to clipped hospital speak. Words like restraint protocol, transfer form, incident report. Her tone did not change once.
“I’ll review it in the morning,” she said. “Send me the files now.”
She hung up. Looked back at you.
“Sorry,” she said. “One of my residents forgot to chart a fall. It makes insurance nervous.”
“You’re the boss. You get those calls.”
“I get those calls because they know I notice,” she said. “If they thought I was blind, they would hide more.”
You scraped your plate clean, stood, and carried both dishes to the sink.
“I’ll wash,” you said.
She stood and stepped behind you again, hands sliding around your waist, cheek against your back. Same spot as before.
“You’re clingy tonight,” you said.
“I am always like this,” she said.
“You usually pretend you’re not.”
“I’m tired,” she said. “I don’t want to pretend.”
Water ran. You rinsed plates. Her grip stayed. Her breathing stayed slow and even against your spine.
“You’re not worried, right,” you said. “About me meeting her.”
“I am aware,” she said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I do not like wasted motion,” she said. “If I worry, it must change something. This does not. You will go. You will listen. Then you will come back. So I do not waste energy.”
You smiled to yourself at the sink.
“You trust me that much,” you said.
Her thumb traced over the bone of your hip through your shirt.
“I know you,” she said. “You do not like chaos. She is chaos. You left it once.”
You stacked wet dishes on the rack.
“You saying you’re not chaos.”
“I am structure,” she said. “You like structure.”
“You’re a lot of things,” you said.
She did not respond. She just held you.
—
The cafe near the subway looked smaller than you remembered. Same chipped tiles. Same metal chairs. Same coffee machine that sounded like it wanted to die.
You walked in and scanned the room. Noon crowd. Office workers. Students. A stroller in the corner.
Yujin sat at a table near the back. Hoodie. Baseball cap pulled low. Large iced coffee with the straw crushed at the tip from biting.
She looked up. Her eyes widened a little when she saw you.
You sat across from her without saying anything.
“You came,” she said.
“Clock’s running,” you said. “What do you want.”
She snorted.
“Straight to it,” she said. “You got old.”
“I’m thirty,” you said.
“You look like you file taxes on time now.”
“I do.”
She sipped her drink. Her hand shook a bit. Condensation from the plastic cup dripped on her knuckles. She wiped it on her jeans.
“You look good,” she said. “Marriage suits you, I guess.”
“You didn’t call me here to compliment me,” you said.
She leaned back. The chair creaked.
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t fuck you up,” she said. “I cheated. I lied. I left you by text like a coward.”
“Yeah,” you said.
“I was on shit,” she said. “I won’t excuse it. I was stupid. I thought I had time to grow out of it. Then I blinked and you were gone and dating some fancy doctor.”
“Married,” you said. “Not dating.”
“Married,” she said. “Right.”
A kid at the next table dropped a fork. Metal hit tile. Both of you glanced, then looked back.
She lowered her voice.
“I started seeing your name pop up,” she said. “Work newsletter. Friends mentioning you. Office gossip. And her.”
You clenched your jaw.
“Say her name,” you said.
Wonyoung had said that once. In bed. She always asked you to say her name out loud.
“A lot of shit lines up,” Yujin said. “Your boss who used to breathe down your neck. Vehicle accident. Gone. That coworker who harassed you. Sudden HR complaint about him. Fired. That girl at your last office who kept flirting. Quit after some ‘personal crisis.’ All after she had contact with your wife. You never noticed the pattern?”
“People get fired,” you said. “People crash their cars. It’s a city.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And most guys don’t have a wife who’s head of psychiatry at the hospital those people get sent to.”
“You sound paranoid,” you said.
“Yeah,” she said. “It sounds paranoid when you say it out loud. That’s what makes it good, right.”
She took out her phone. Scrolled. Turned the screen to you.
Photos. Screenshots. Names. Dates.
“That guy from your first job after college,” she said. “The one who spread rumors you stole his idea. He had a breakdown in your office lobby. Security called an ambulance. He got sent to Westside General. Know who signed his intake psych eval?”
The blurry image of a scanned document filled the screen. You read the signature.
JANG WONYOUNG, M.D.
Your stomach cramped.
“Hospital has a lot of doctors,” you said. “She sees tons of patients.”
Yujin scrolled again. Another form. Another signature. Another name you recognized from old complaints, old stories you had told Wonyoung late at night half asleep.
“She listened,” Yujin said. “Really listened.”
You swallowed.
“These could be coincidences,” you said.
“Maybe one,” she said. “Not this many.”
A group laughed near the counter. Someone called a name for pickup. The milk steamer shrieked.
“I had a thing with a nurse at that hospital last year,” Yujin said. “Casual. Hookups. We talked. Your wife’s name came up. Every time someone caused trouble for her or ended up in her psych wing, they either shut up or disappeared. Transfers. Family moved them. Shit like that.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves she has reach,” Yujin said. “And she protects her image like religion. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t leave marks. That’s what scared me. She doesn’t get sloppy.”
You stared at the table.
“She threatened me,” Yujin said.
Your head snapped up.
“When.”
“Two nights ago,” she said. “Outside my gym. I came out, she leaned against my car.”
“What did she do,” you said.
“Nothing,” Yujin said. “That’s the point. She just talked. Told me your full schedule. My full schedule. My apartment layout. My mom’s health issues. My credit score. She laid it all out cold like she read a label on a jar.”
Your hands tightened on your knees under the table.
“She said if I came near you again, she’d put me in a bed in her ward so deep no one would see me,” Yujin said. “Then she smiled and wished me a safe drive.”
“You’re dramatic,” you said. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Did you tell her I was coming today,” Yujin said.
You hesitated.
“I told her you called,” you said. “That you wanted to talk. I said I might come.”
Yujin nodded.
“Check your phone,” she said.
You pulled it out. One unread message from Wonyoung.
HONEY, MEETING GOING OKAY?
Your mouth went dry.
“That’s normal,” you said. “I told her lunch.”
“Scroll,” Yujin said.
Another message came in while you watched.
I HOPE SHE IS NOT STRESSING YOU
A small photo attached. Selfie. Wonyoung in her office. White coat over blouse. Hair tied back. Neutral face, small smile. Behind her, a white board. On the bottom corner, in faint marker, you saw numbers.
The street number of this cafe.
Your back went rigid.
“Coincidence,” you said. The word sounded weak in your own ears.
Yujin watched your face.
“I’m not telling you she doesn’t love you,” Yujin said. “That’s the worst part. I think she does. In whatever way her brain does that. And that makes her more fucking dangerous, not less.”
“She takes care of me,” you said. “She’s been there for everything.”
“I know,” Yujin said. “She cleaned up your mess. My mess. Everyone’s mess. That’s her thing. She fixes. So nothing touches you. You don’t think that’s sick when you line it all up.”
You rubbed your temple.
“You’re not exactly a neutral source here,” you said. “You want me to see you as the sane one.”
She laughed. Short. Harsh.
“I’m not sane,” she said. “I know myself. I drink when I shouldn’t. I pick fights. I blow things up. I’m selfish. I broke you. I’m not here to get you back, Y/n. I’m here because if she’s this far in your life, you won’t see her until something snaps and somebody dies.”
“You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” you said. “You never gave a shit about that before.”
She looked you in the eye.
“She scared me,” she said. “I have dealt with assholes, stalkers, cokeheads, cheaters. I know that type. She is not that type. She looked at me like a lab rat. Like she already cut me open in her head and put the pieces in labeled jars.”
Your skin crawled at the phrasing. It sounded like something Wonyoung would say about a case file.
Yujin leaned forward. Elbows on table.
“Go home,” she said. “Look at her stuff. Office. Laptop. Notes. If I’m wrong, you find nothing and you can block me again and call me crazy. If I’m right, you figure out how deep this goes before you end up in one of her beds with a nice little label on your chart.”
You stared at the coffee ring on the table between you.
A shadow passed over the table. Someone walked behind you.
You smelled perfume you recognized.
Clean. Clinical. Mild chemical under a floral top note.
Your shoulders tensed.
“Found you,” Wonyoung said behind you.
You did not turn right away.
Your fingers closed around the edge of the table. Your knuckles pressed white.
Yujin’s eyes flicked past your shoulder. Her mouth opened a little.
“Fuck,” she said under her breath.
You turned.
Wonyoung stood behind you. Street clothes. Dark slacks. Simple shirt. No coat. Hair tied back. No bag in her hands.
Her gaze rested on you first. Quick sweep. Face. Shoulders. Hands. She checked you like she checked patients after restraint.
Then her eyes moved to Yujin.
“Hi,” Wonyoung said. “I’m early.”
Yujin stared.
“You weren’t invited,” Yujin said.
Wonyoung looked at your half empty water glass.
“You came,” she said to you. “Good.”
She grabbed a chair from the next table. The chair scraped the floor. A guy at the neighboring table glanced over, then went back to his laptop.
Wonyoung set the chair at the end of the small table. Not next to you, not next to Yujin. At the point of the triangle.
She sat. Folded her hands on the table. No bag. No phone. No visible weapons. Her wrists looked bare and light.
“I had a lunch cancellation,” she said. “I thought I would take my husband for dessert.”
She said husband in a flat tone, like job title.
“You followed me?” you said.
She raised one shoulder.
“You share your calendar on your phone,” she said. “You wrote ‘lunch near old station.’ This cafe is the only one you used to come to by that stop. You are predictable.”
Yujin huffed.
“That sounds like stalking,” Yujin said.
“You tracked his number through three mutual contacts,” Wonyoung said. “Then called him after years. I walked across a street.”
Yujin’s jaw clenched.
“I told him to come here alone,” Yujin said.
“You don’t decide that,” Wonyoung said. “He wears my ring.”
Your palm itched. You closed it over your knee instead.
“Sit,” Wonyoung said to you, as if you had stood. You realized you had half pushed your chair back.
You lowered yourself again.
“Why are you here,” you said.
She watched your face.
“Because you are,” she said.
Yujin shifted her cup. Ice clinked against plastic.
“This is exactly what I mean,” Yujin said. “You see this, right. This is control.”
Wonyoung glanced at Yujin.
“You wanted to talk,” Wonyoung said. “We are talking.”
“I didn’t invite you into this,” Yujin said.
“You talk about him,” Wonyoung said. “You talk to me.”
Her tone did not carry heat. Just simple logic.
A barista called out a name. Steam hissed. A kid babbled near the window.
You cleared your throat.
“Let’s not do this here,” you said.
Wonyoung looked around the room. People at tables. No one paid real attention.
“We are already doing it,” she said.
Yujin leaned forward.
“I told him what you did to my car,” Yujin said.
You blinked.
“What car,” you said.
Yujin held up fingers.
“One. She had a printout of my driving record. Two. She listed my unpaid parking tickets. Three. She told me my mother’s prescription list. I never told you where my mom fills scripts.”
“I checked public records,” Wonyoung said. “And one shared pharmacy database.”
“You expect him to believe that’s normal,” Yujin said.
“I expect him to know I use tools available to me,” Wonyoung said. “You came near him. I did due diligence.”
“You threatened to lock me up,” Yujin said.
“I explained outcomes,” Wonyoung said. “If you keep harassing him, you will escalate. If you escalate, you will cross legal or psychiatric lines. Then I will use my position. That is not threat. That is outline.”
Yujin looked at you.
“You’re hearing this, right,” she said. “She’s not even trying to deny it.”
You stared at Wonyoung.
“You didn’t tell me you met her,” you said.
“You had long day,” she said. “I filtered noise.”
“I’m not noise,” Yujin said.
“To him, you are,” Wonyoung said.
Yujin laughed once. It came out rough.
“This is fucking unreal,” she said.
Wonyoung shifted her gaze back to you.
“What did she tell you,” she said. “Be exact.”
You swallowed.
“She showed me some things,” you said. “Documents. Forms. Your name on a lot of people’s charts. People I complained about once.”
“You think I don’t take work home,” Wonyoung said. “You talk. I listen. You mention names. Then I see them at work. The world is small.”
“She doesn’t just see them,” Yujin said. “They end up under her thumb. Or gone.”
“That implies I caused causality,” Wonyoung said. “Correlation is not causation.”
“You’re quoting statistics to cover body count,” Yujin said.
Wonyoung’s eye flickered for the first time. A quick tic near the corner.
“Use clean terms,” she said. “Body count implies murder. I have never killed anyone.”
Yujin leaned in.
“You ever signed a paper that got someone strapped down and pumped full of shit till they forgot their own last name,” she said. “Feels like killing to me.”
“I followed protocol,” Wonyoung said. “And no, we do not erase names. We stabilize.”
“You fucking enjoy it,” Yujin said.
Wonyoung looked at her for a long time.
“I enjoy order,” she said. “People who hurt him create disorder. I correct it.”
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t get to just ‘correct’ people,” you said.
She turned back to you. Her eyes softened a fraction.
“You felt powerless,” she said quietly. “Before. At jobs. With friends. With her.”
She nodded at Yujin.
“You told me that. You hated that nothing ever happened to people who stepped on you. You wanted someone in your corner. You have that now.”
“I didn’t ask you to ruin lives,” you said.
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “You came home and put your head in my lap and told me who hurt you. I don’t ignore that.”
You stared at the table.
“You think I’ll be grateful,” you said.
“I don’t think,” she said. “I observe. You sleep better. You eat on schedule. You stopped grinding your teeth. Your work improved. We fuck more. You smile more. Since I started cleaning. Grateful or not, your numbers changed.”
The blunt language made your face heat.
Yujin smacked the table with her palm.
“You hear how she talks about you,” she said. “Like a goddamn lab report. You’re not a person to her. You’re a dataset.”
“He is my main case,” Wonyoung said. “I care about his outcome.”
“You don’t care about anyone else’s,” Yujin said.
Wonyoung did not argue.
You looked at her.
“Is she right,” you said.
“About what,” Wonyoung said.
“That you don’t give a shit about anyone else.”
She held your gaze.
“They are variables,” she said. “You are constant. I build around constant.”
Your tongue felt thick.
“So if someone gets in the way of that,” you said. “You just move them.”
“Yes,” she said.
No pause. No hesitation.
Yujin cursed under her breath.
“Listen to yourself,” Yujin said. “You’re fucking saying this in public.”
Wonyoung did a small scan of the room. Heads lowered. Phones out. People in their own worlds.
“No one hears us,” she said. “And if they did, they would think we discuss theory. They see my face, they assume I talk about research or tough patients. Not personal content. That is how projection works.”
She looked back at you.
“You can walk away now,” she said. “If you think I am monster. But you will walk into the same world as before. Same bosses. Same exes. Same petty coworkers. No one on your side with reach.”
Yujin scoffed.
“He didn’t ask for reach,” she said. “He asked for a wife.”
“He has one,” Wonyoung said. “I cook. I clean. I fuck him. I track his health. I cover his paperwork. I remove stressors. That is wife.”
“You track his health,” Yujin repeated. “What does that mean.”
“Blood work,” Wonyoung said. “Sleep. Diet. Brown bottle counts in recycling. I check patterns. He trusts me. I honor that.”
Your breath caught.
“Blood work,” you said. “You order tests on me.”
“Annual,” she said. “Sometimes biannual. You sign forms. You never read them. You say ‘handle it’ and go back to your phone.”
“I thought that was insurance stuff,” you said.
“It is,” she said. “Plus labs. I keep records. You get benefit.”
Yujin shook her head.
“This is beyond,” Yujin said. “She’s got your veins mapped and you’re sitting here arguing semantics.”
She pulled her phone out again, hand less steady now.
“You want proof she crossed lines,” Yujin said. “Look at this.”
She searched something, thumb moving fast. Turned the screen again.
A blurry security photo. Hospital hallway. A man in restraints on a gurney. Date stamp from two years ago.
“This guy harassed you at the bar once after work,” Yujin said. “Remember. Grabbed your shoulder. Called you slur. I punched him.”
You remembered knuckles against bone. Your hand swelling. Your breath reeking of beer.
“He got arrested that night,” Yujin said. “Public intoxication. Resisting. Sent to Westside. Look who signed his psych hold extension.”
She zoomed in. Same name. Same script.
JANG WONYOUNG, M.D.
You licked your dry lips.
“You told me about that bar night,” Wonyoung said. “It upset you. You closed your eyes when you remembered his hand on you. You asked why men like that never learn.”
“I was venting,” you said.
“I learned his name from the arrest record,” she said. “It was public. When I saw his file, I made sure he got longer hold. He had risk factors. I did not fabricate.”
“You still pulled strings,” Yujin said. “Because he touched him once.”
You pressed your thumb into the table edge until the skin hurt.
“Did you ever…,” you started, then stopped.
Wonyoung waited.
“Did you ever hurt anyone just because you wanted to,” you said. “Not because of me. Just because.”
She tilted her head.
“I removed one resident from program because he bored me,” she said. “But his chart did justify it. Slow work. Poor notes. Patient complaints. I did not invent.”
“That’s not an answer,” you said.
“I do not feel urge to hurt,” she said. “I feel urge to correct. If someone intersects you, they become subject for correction. If they do not, they stay background. I don’t see them.”
Yujin rubbed her face with both hands.
“Jesus,” Yujin said. “She’s textbook.”
“You studied psychology now,” Wonyoung said.
“I lived with addicts for five years,” Yujin said. “I know patterns.”
The barista called another drink. Someone’s phone rang. The noise of the cafe felt far.
You looked at Wonyoung.
“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this,” you said. “You know how this sounds.”
She met your stare.
“Would you have dated me if I said on first night ‘I will restructure your life to protect you from all perceived threats’,” she said.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“It is accurate,” she said. “You do not like this language. But you like the outcome.”
“Stop telling me what I like,” you said. Your voice rose. Heads turned. You forced it lower. “Stop deciding for me.”
Her eyes narrowed not in anger, but in focus, like she examined something under bright light.
“You want autonomy,” she said. “Then use it. Decide. Do you want me to step back. Stop using my tools. Stop touching your world.”
The thought of her stepping back lit a cold pit in your stomach. No more late night pickups when you stayed at work. No more surprise dinners ready when you forgot to shop. No more quiet body beside you in bed every night, arm across your waist, firm and solid.
She watched your face read itself.
“You can’t even picture it,” Yujin said. “She’s wrapped you that tight.”
You glared at Yujin.
“You don’t get to talk about tight when you’re the one who blew my shit up,” you said.
“I know,” she said. “I said that. I’m not claiming some moral high ground. I used you. She uses you. We’re just different flavors.”
“She is not using him,” Wonyoung said. “She abandoned him. I built with him.”
Yujin pointed at her.
“You hear that,” Yujin said. “You’re a project.”
“He is home,” Wonyoung said.
She said it quick. No pause first. It sounded almost like a slip.
You looked at her.
Her fingers twitched once on the table, then went still.
Yujin blew out air.
“There it is,” Yujin said. “The one real thing she said.”
Wonyoung’s gaze flicked to her.
“You think I don’t feel,” Wonyoung said quietly. “You confuse lack of guilt with lack of attachment. I do not feel for you. I feel for him. That difference matters.”
“It doesn’t if people end up in your ward,” Yujin said. “Or dead.”
“No one is dead,” Wonyoung said. “You keep inflating.”
She turned back to you.
“You can ask for proof,” she said. “Check my files. My emails. My call logs. I do not hide. You live in my house. There is no locked door to you.”
Yujin laughed.
“Of course she wants you to snoop through her shit,” Yujin said. “She’ll have it curated.”
“He already knows my patterns,” Wonyoung said.
“Do I?,” you said.
She looked at your hand. At your ring.
“You know I wake before you,” she said. “You know I check your breathing. You know I text you every day at lunch. You know I call you if you are late by more than thirty minutes. You know I read your face before you talk. These are patterns.”
“That’s surveillance,” Yujin said.
“That is care,” Wonyoung said.
They stared over your head like you were furniture.
You stood.
The chair scraped.
“Enough,” you said.
Both of them looked at you.
“I’m not a client,” you said to Wonyoung. “And I’m not a rehab project,” you said to Yujin. “You’re both talking about me like I’m a piece of equipment.”
Yujin opened her mouth, then closed it.
Wonyoung’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
You grabbed your phone off the table.
“I need air,” you said.
You moved toward the door.
Wonyoung’s chair legs scraped as she stood.
“Y/n,” she said.
You kept walking.
The door opened with a soft squeak. You stepped out onto the sidewalk. Cold air hit your face. Traffic noise filled your ears. Exhaust and street food smells mixed in your nose.
You stood near the wall. Hands on your hips. You looked at the passing cars without seeing them.
Your phone vibrated. Once. Twice.
You glanced.
[WONYOUNG]
COME HOME WITH ME
A second message.
WE CAN TALK THERE
You typed.
I’M JUST OUTSIDE
You deleted it.
You typed again.
I NEED A MINUTE
You hit send.
Another vibration.
[WONYOUNG]
OKAY
I AM AT THE TABLE
You leaned back against the brick. The wall felt cold through your shirt.
Someone bumped your shoulder in the crowd and muttered sorry.
You thought about your small apartment before marriage. Dishes in the sink. Laundry on the chair. Late nights at the office. Cheap convenience store dinners. Fights with Yujin over texts, over calls, over nothing. The emptiness after she left.
Then you thought about your current place. Clean counters. Stocked fridge. Calenders synced. Someone waiting at home every time you opened the door.
You realized your hands shook.
The cafe door opened. Yujin stepped out. Hoodie still on. No cap now. Hair pushed back with her fingers.
She squinted in the light.
“You just abandoned her in there,” you said.
“She’s fine,” Yujin said. “She probably already analyzed every person in that room and their family trees while you were breathing.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“You don’t know her like I do,” you said.
“I know her type,” Yujin said. “And I know what she did to me.”
You dropped your hand.
“What did she do that night,” you said. “Exact.”
Yujin shifted her weight.
“She waited by my car,” Yujin said. “Said your full name, your work building, our old address, my mom’s name. She listed my exes. She listed my shit credit. She looked relaxed. Like she ran through a checklist. Then she walked closer. Too close.”
Your jaw clenched.
“What did she say,” you said.
“She said I was noise,” Yujin said. “She said you used to talk about me in your sleep. Then stopped after you moved in with her. She said she was proud of that. Like she trained it out of you.”
Your stomach tightened.
“She said if I texted you again, she had grounds to file a harassment report and recommend observation,” Yujin said. “She said in her ward, no one would believe a thing I said about her because she wrote the notes. Then she asked if my mother still lived alone.”
Heat flared in your chest.
“She didn’t threaten your mother,” you said.
“She didn’t have to,” Yujin said. “She just said she hoped my mom stayed healthy. Very polite. Very fucking clear.”
You looked through the glass door. You could see Wonyoung’s profile at the table. Still. Straight spine. Hands on the surface. She stared at the condensation ring from Yujin’s cup.
“You told me you sobered up,” you said to Yujin.
“I did,” she said. “Mostly. Not perfect.”
“You’re sure you didn’t read into it,” you said. “See ghosts where there aren’t any.”
She looked at you.
“You’re scared,” she said. “You’re looking for a way to make this my fault again so you don’t have to face her.”
You licked your lips.
“I’m trying to not blow up my marriage on hearsay,” you said.
“You just heard her admit half this inside,” Yujin said.
“She didn’t admit what you claim,” you said. “She admitted other shit.”
“That other shit is enough,” Yujin said.
You looked back at Wonyoung through the glass again.
Her head had turned slightly. She stared at the door now. At you.
You held her gaze across the glass.
She raised her hand. Two fingers. Small motion. A simple come here.
Your pulse kicked.
Yujin followed your line of sight.
“Don’t,” Yujin said. “Not like this. Not when she’s watching you like a dog she trained.”
“She is my wife,” you said.
“And I was the girl you told you’d marry when we were twenty,” Yujin said. “That didn’t stop me from wrecking you. Titles don’t protect you.”
You closed your eyes for a second. Opened them.
“I need to talk to her alone,” you said.
Yujin exhaled.
“She’ll twist this,” she said.
“Maybe,” you said. “But I have to hear her without you in the middle. Or I’ll just keep hearing both your voices in my head.”
Yujin pressed her tongue against her teeth. Jaw working.
“She won’t let me walk away clean,” Yujin said. “You get that, right.”
You looked at her.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t touch you,” you said.
Yujin laughed. The sound held no humor.
“You can’t promise that,” she said. “You don’t know what she is.”
You stared at her.
“Then let me find out,” you said.
She held your eyes for a long second. Then she looked away, toward the street.
“Fine,” she said. “But if shit goes dark, if you feel like you’re losing time or forgetting things or waking up hooked to some drip, remember this conversation. Remember I told you. And remember my number.”
She rattled off her new number. You repeated it in your head. You did not type it. You did not ask her to send it.
“If she sees my name in your phone, she’ll flip,” Yujin said. “Just keep it in your head.”
“I’m not great with numbers,” you said.
“You remembered mine for three years,” she said. “You can handle ten digits.”
She stepped back, hands in hoodie pocket.
“She’s watching,” Yujin said. “If she asks what I said, tell her I begged you to run away with me. Let her think I’m still messy and selfish. She understands that file. She doesn’t understand someone doing something for nothing.”
“You’re not doing this for nothing,” you said.
“No,” she said. “I’m doing this because if something happens to you and I just watched it, I’ll have to live with that. And I already live with enough shit.”
She turned. Walked down the sidewalk. No glance back.
You watched until the crowd swallowed her.
Then you took a breath, pushed the door, and walked back into the cafe.
The bell jingled above your head.
Wonyoung’s eyes tracked you. She had not moved. The chair at the triangle point sat in the exact same place.
You sat across from her again. Yujin’s empty seat to your right.
“Where is she,” Wonyoung asked.
“Gone,” you said.
“Did you promise her anything,” she said.
“I promised to listen,” you said. “Same thing I promised you.”
She studied your face.
“You look pale,” she said.
“I feel fine,” you said.
“You’re lying again,” she said. “You get tight under your eyes when you lie.”
You rubbed your face.
“You scared her,” you said.
“She scares easily,” Wonyoung said.
“She called you a monster,” you said.
“People who lose access to you will see me like that,” she said. “Because I am the thing between them and you now.”
“She said you threatened to lock her up,” you said.
“I described predictable outcomes,” she said. “And she understood me. That is all.”
“And my coworkers,” you said. “And my old bosses. And the guy from the bar. Those are predictable outcomes too.”
“Yes,” she said.
You leaned forward.
“Look me in the eye and answer this,” you said. “If I told you I wanted you to stop. No more… corrections. No more using your job on my behalf. Would you do it.”
She did not look away.
“Yes,” she said.
The answer came quick. No pause.
You frowned.
“Just like that,” you said.
“Just like that,” she said. “I am not addicted to this. I am efficient. If my main variable demands new protocol, I adjust. It might cause discomfort. But I can.”
“You wouldn’t… resent me,” you said.
“I do not operate on resentment,” she said. “I operate on inputs. You say stop. I stop.”
“And if someone hurts me,” you said. “After that.”
Her lids lowered a fraction.
“Then you decide how we respond,” she said. “You can call police. HR. Lawyer. Pastor. Oracle. I will sit and hold your hand.”
“You won’t intervene,” you said.
“I will not act without your instruction,” she said. “If you want that. But you need to mean it. Not say it to sound moral then expect outcomes to stay same.”
You sat back.
Silence sat between you. The noise of the cafe filled the space.
“What if I said I hate what you’ve done,” you said. “All of it. Even the shit that helped me. What then.”
She watched you.
“I would log it,” she said. “Then I would ask if you want divorce.”
The word hung.
Your chest felt hollow.
“Do you want one,” she asked.
“No,” you said. The answer came faster than you expected.
She nodded once.
“Then we are not done,” she said.
“You can’t just… logic this,” you said.
“I am not,” she said. “I am asking you to tell me what you want. Not what she wants. Not what some invisible rulebook wants. You. What do you want me to do.”
Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.
You thought of Yujin’s face when she said Wonyoung scared her. You thought of the guy on the gurney in the blurry picture. You thought of your boss’s totaled car on social media with the caption bless the airbags. You thought of Wonyoung’s hand on your chest in the dark every night, checking your breathing.
You met her eyes.
“I want you to tell me the whole truth,” you said. “Everything you’ve done around me. Every time you pulled strings. No filters. No angles. If I’m going to stay, I need to know what I’m staying with.”
She watched you for a long heartbeat.
“That will take time,” she said.
“I’m not going anywhere today,” you said.
She looked around you once more. Then she stood.
“Not here,” she said. “Too many interruptions. We go home. We talk.”
You hesitated.
“If we go home,” you said. “You’re not going to… dose me. Or spin it. Or… whatever you do at work.”
She blinked once.
“I have never medicated you without your consent,” she said. “I have never altered your memory. I swear on my license. On my mother’s grave. On my own life. Choose which means anything to you.”
You searched her face.
“Your license,” you said.
She nodded.
“On my license,” she said. “I will not drug you. I will not lie about facts. I will answer what you ask to the best of my recall.”
You exhaled.
“Okay,” you said.
She picked up her chair, set it back at the empty table it came from. Straightened it. Small neat motion.
She walked to the counter, bought a takeout coffee. Black. No sugar. She waited while they poured it, then took it in one hand.
She came back to you.
“Come,” she said.
You stood.
As you followed her out of the cafe, your phone vibrated again. You glanced down.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
REMEMBER WHAT I SAID
You did not open the thread.
You slid the phone into your pocket and walked at Wonyoung’s side toward the station entrance.
—
The train ride home passed without much talk.
You held the pole. Wonyoung stood close. Her shoulder pressed your arm each time the car swayed. She held the takeout cup in both hands. She had not drunk from it.
She looked straight ahead. Neutral face. Commuter mask. You only saw the small things. The way her fingers held the cup a little too tight. The faint whiteness at her nails.
“Your stop,” she said when the recorded voice announced it.
You both got off. The crowd pushed. She stepped half a pace behind you, like she always did when it was busy, so you took most of the body hits.
Outside, the air felt cooler. You walked in silence to the apartment.
Inside, shoes off. Keys in bowl.
Wonyoung locked the door. Top lock. Bottom lock. Chain.
She set the coffee on the counter. Still untouched. She slid her ring off her finger and placed it next to the mug.
You frowned.
“Why are you taking that off?” you said.
She looked down at it.
“So you don’t feel trapped,” she said. “If you choose to go, you won’t think of a metal circle as cage.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“I didn’t say I’m leaving,” you said.
“You might,” she said. “If I answer right.”
“That’s if you answer wrong,” you said.
She looked up at you.
“Sit,” she said.
You sat at the small table by the window. Same spot you ate breakfast every day. She sat across from you. No clipboard. No files. Just her.
She rested her forearms on the table. Hands clasped.
“What do you want to know first,” she said.
You rubbed your temples.
“Start with the bar guy,” you said. “The one in the photo. What exactly did you do.”
She looked at a spot over your shoulder, like she replayed something.
“He came in on a Friday night,” she said. “Brought in from ER. Drunk. Combative. The resident on call asked for psych eval. I took it.”
“You knew already who he was,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “You told me story week before. You still had bruise on your knuckle. You had trouble sleeping that week. You apologized to me three times for ‘overreacting’ at the bar. I disagreed with that.”
“So you saw him,” you said.
She nodded.
“He remembered your face,” she said. “He did not remember your name. But he remembered you hit him. He bragged about bar fights in general. He had prior charges. Assault. Domestic. Public disturbance. Alcohol abuse.”
“What did you write,” you said.
“I wrote that he had poor impulse control, substance dependence, history of violence, limited insight,” she said. “Which was true. I recommended hold for observation. Which was within my scope.”
“And after that,” you said.
“He stayed for five days,” she said. “Detox. Group sessions. He tried to grope one of the nurses. I added that to his chart. He refused to sign safety contract. I extended hold another three days. Then insurance balked. We discharged with referral.”
“Did you… make sure his life got ruined after,” you said.
She shook her head once.
“No,” she said. “His record was already ruined. He did that alone. I only stretched time he lost in hospital by three days. That is all.”
You stared at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” you said. “You knew who he was. To me.”
“You were already calling yourself a monster for hitting him,” she said. “You hated that you lost control. If I told you I saw him and did not pity him, you would feel worse then. You feel bad about your anger. You feel bad about anyone who makes you use it.”
“That’s bullshit,” you said. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”
She flinched. A small jerk at her shoulders.
“I am sorry,” she said.
The words came quick. No defense after.
You blinked.
“What,” you said.
“I am sorry,” she said again. “I made that choice without you. I thought I was protecting you. I see now I did not respect your capacity to hold unpleasant information.”
She forced a shallow breath out through her nose.
“That was wrong,” she said. “I am saying that with no conditions.”
You watched her chest rise. Fall. She had controlled breath at work. Here it skipped.
“Okay,” you said softly. “What about my coworker. The one who kept making comments.”
“The one who said you only got clients because you smiled nice,” she said.
“Yeah,” you said.
“I checked his HR file,” she said. “He had two prior warnings. Sexual comments. One incident with a temp. HR had no clear trigger to terminate. I gave them one.”
“How,” you said.
“I called the temp,” she said. “The one who left. I asked her to file formal complaint. She was afraid before. I told her if she filed now, she would not have to face him. That he would not know details. That I would coach HR to protect her. She filed. HR pulled the trigger they already had.”
“You coached HR,” you said.
She nodded once.
“I reminded them of liability,” she said. “Cited cases. They listened.”
“You told me he got fired for ‘unrelated reasons,’” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “I lied. I am not going to phrase that soft. I lied. I did not want you to feel guilty that you started the process by telling me his name.”
Your throat hurt.
“You keep saying you’re protecting me from guilt,” you said. “But it just means I find out later and feel worse.”
“I see that now,” she said. “At the time, my priority was to remove him fast. I did not study best disclosure method.”
Her hands tightened. Her fingers dug into each other.
“I’m still practicing this,” she said quietly. “The part where I tell you things that might make you leave. I am not good at it yet.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
You looked up, startled.
Her eyes had gone glassy. No tears yet, but close.
You had seen her with families who cried. With patients who screamed. With staff who panicked. She always stayed dry eyed. Flat tone. You had never seen her eyes look like this.
“Hey,” you said. “You don’t… you don’t have to force emotion for my sake.”
She let out a short breath that shook.
“I am not forcing,” she said. “That is problem. It is coming out on its own and I do not have script for it.”
A tear rolled down from the corner of her eye. Straight line down her cheek. She blinked. More followed.
You pushed your chair back and moved around the table. You crouched beside her.
“Wonyoung,” you said. “Look at me.”
She did.
Her face stayed mostly still. Just wet now. Tears hung on her chin and dropped onto her shirt.
“I don’t know how to do this part,” she said. Her voice got small. “I know how to move people. I know how to pull charts. I know how to threaten. I don’t know how to prove to you that I’m not lying when I say you’re the only thing I care about.”
You swallowed hard.
“You don’t have to prove it,” you said. “I… I’ve seen it. For years.”
“Then why do you look at me like that,” she said. “Like you’re afraid of me.”
The words hit like a punch.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
She wiped at her face with the heel of her hand. The motion came rough and fast, like she wanted to scrub the evidence off.
“I am not afraid of dying,” she said. “I am not afraid of prison. I am not afraid of losing my job. I am afraid that you will decide I disgust you and you will leave.”
Her shoulders hitched once.
“I can’t fix that,” she said. “I can’t threaten that away. I can’t sign that into a ward.”
You stared at her.
Guilt dragged in your gut. Heavy. Slow.
You thought about how you had looked at her at the cafe. At the hospital stories. At the signatures on forms. You had let Yujin’s tone color everything. You had let years of your own fear shape how you saw her in one afternoon.
You reached up and cupped the back of her neck.
Her skin felt warm. Damp at the hairline.
“I don’t think you disgust me,” you said. “I think I got hit with a lot at once and I freaked out. I’m… I’m sorry.”
She blinked at you.
“You are sorry,” she repeated, like she tested the word.
“I came at you like you’re some cartoon villain,” you said. “I didn’t even stop to remember that every time I fell apart for the last three years, you were just… there. No questions. No judgment. Just… handling shit.”
“I judged,” she said. “In my head.”
“I never saw it,” you said. “What I saw was you making sure I ate when I forgot. You picking me up when I worked late. You sitting through my family dinners when my uncle said racist shit. You holding my hand under the table so I didn’t say something that would blow everything up.”
Tears kept sliding down her face. She made no move now to wipe them.
“I like taking care of you,” she said. “It gives my brain something to stay on. When you are okay, things feel… organized. When you are not okay, everything goes loud and wrong.”
She took a shaky breath.
“You think I do this because I like power,” she said. “I do not feel power. I feel… panic, when something can hurt you. The easiest way to quiet it is to remove the thing. So I do. It looks extreme to you. It feels like necessary to me.”
You slid your thumb along the side of her neck. Felt her pulse thud steady.
“I should have trusted that,” you said. “At least more than I trusted someone who hurt me and now shows up out of nowhere telling me how to feel.”
Her brow pinched.
“I didn’t want to say that,” she said. “Because I knew you would feel guilty. I don’t want you to cut her off because I told you to. I want you to cut her off if you decide she is noise.”
“You’ve been calling her noise this whole time,” you said.
“Inside my head,” she said. “Not out loud to you, until today. I tried to stay out of your past. I focused on your present.”
You exhaled through your teeth.
“You tried,” you said. “And I… I just accused you of every sick thing Yujin could imagine.”
You slid your free hand under her chin, tilted her face up.
Her eyes locked on yours.
“You didn’t kill anyone,” you said. “You didn’t drug me. You didn’t erase my head. You just… used what you had to make the world less shitty for me, even if it meant other people got the sharp end. That’s… not clean. But I know you. I know you didn’t do it for fucking sport.”
“I liked some of it,” she said quietly. “When that coworker cried in HR. When your boss begged for his job. It satisfied something. I can’t pretend it didn’t. I’m not pure.”
“I’m not asking you to be pure,” you said. “I’m asking if you did it because you wanted me safe and happy, or because you wanted to see people suffer.”
She swallowed.
“If you never met me,” you said. “Do you think you would still do this stuff.”
She thought.
“I would still cut residents who bore me,” she said. “I would still bend protocol sometimes when it suited my career. I would not spend nights reading bar arrest logs. I would not track your exes. I would not know the names of your bosses. Those pieces came from you.”
You let go of her neck and sat back on your heels.
“It’s fucked up,” you said. “But it’s… it’s my fucked up. I married into it.”
“It is ours,” she said. “If you want it.”
You looked at the ring sitting on the counter. The metal caught light.
“You took yours off,” you said. “You think I’m about to give mine back.”
“I thought it might make it easier, if you chose that,” she said. “I didn’t want to beg. That feels pathetic.”
You snorted.
“You’re allowed to beg,” you said. “You’re my wife, not my therapist.”
“You hate it when patients beg,” she said.
“You’re not my patient,” you said. “You’re the one thing in my life I actually chose with my eyes open.”
She stared at you, breathing shallow.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you things. I’m sorry I used your secrets like tools. I won’t use your words against you again unless you say I can.”
You stood. Your knees cracked. You pulled her up with you.
She rose, light, hands still damp against yours.
You lifted her hand. Slid her ring off the counter. Pressed it back into her palm.
“Put it on,” you said.
Her fingers shook as she slipped it back on. Metal clicked against her knuckle.
“You’re sure,” she said. “Don’t say it just because I cry. Crying is cheap. I tell patients that.”
“I’ve never seen you cry,” you said. “That’s not cheap. That’s like… fuck, I don’t know. Solar eclipse level.”
“You said no metaphors,” she said automatically.
“You’re rubbing off on me,” you said.
A small, broken sound left her throat. Half laugh, half sob.
You pulled her into your chest.
She resisted for a second, then sagged against you. Her arms wrapped tight around your back. Fingers grabbing fistfuls of your shirt like she expected you to slip through her hands.
You felt her ribs move with each breath. Fast. Uneven.
“You’re not a monster to me,” you said into her hair. “You’re a freak, yeah. But you’re my freak. And I’m… happy. With you. I have been for a long time. I forgot that for a minute because someone whispered the right scary words in my ear.”
Her voice came muffled against your chest.
“I don’t want you to feel trapped,” she said. “If you stay, I want it to be choice, not because you think I will hurt someone if you don’t.”
“If I thought you’d hurt me to keep me, I’d be gone already,” you said.
She went still.
“You thought I might,” she said.
“I thought you might hurt other people,” you said. “To keep me. And… you kinda proved that’s true. But you told me you’d stop if I told you to. You swore on your license. That’s your god.”
She huffed against you.
“Licensing board is not god,” she said. “But I understand the analogy.”
“You swore,” you said. “If I ever feel like you crossed a line, I’ll remind you of that. We’ll set lines together. Not just in your head.”
Her grip eased a fraction. Still firm. Less frantic.
“I want rules,” she said. “Clear ones. I can follow rules. I am better at written rules than fuzzy feelings.”
“We can write some,” you said. “No using work to fuck with people in my life without asking me first. No hiding big shit you do on my behalf. No… surprise psych holds.”
She nodded against your chest.
“That is reasonable,” she said. “I accept those terms.”
“It’s not a contract,” you said.
“It is to me,” she said.
You kissed the top of her head.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“I am aware,” she said.
You held her for a while. Her breathing slowed. Your own heart rate came down.
After a bit, she pulled back enough to look up at you.
Her cheeks were streaked. Eyes red. Nose running a little. She sniffed.
“You look like shit,” you said.
She gave a short laugh that came out wet.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel… strange.”
“In a bad way,” you said.
“In a new way,” she said. “Like I took off something heavy I thought was my skin.”
“You can put some of it back on outside,” you said. “Just not with me.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She did not care about the mess on her sleeve.
“Okay,” she said. “No mask with you.”
You brushed a thumb under her eye.
“Do you love me,” you said.
She looked offended.
“Yes,” she said. “You know that.”
“Say it,” you said.
She held your stare.
“I love you,” she said. No hesitation. No stumble.
“How,” you said.
She frowned.
“How,” she repeated.
“Explain it in your terms,” you said. “What does that mean in your head. To you.”
She looked off to the side for a second, then back at you.
“It means my brain patterns adapt around your presence,” she said. “It means when I plan, you are the center node. It means your safety is first variable in any equation I run. It means when you are gone, the room feels unfinished. When you are in pain, my body reacts even when my mind stays calm. My chest gets tight. My hands get hot. I want to remove the source.”
She took a breath.
“It means I think about what you will eat, how you will sleep, who will talk to you, before I think about those things for myself,” she said. “It means the idea of you choosing someone else makes my stomach twist and my vision blur and I want to break whatever did that. It means I would do twenty years in prison if it meant you got to walk free.”
Her voice dropped.
“It means when you say my name in your sleep, in any tone, I feel something I do not have words for,” she said. “Something that is not simple hunger or control. It is… raw. Exposed. I hate it and I need it.”
Your throat closed.
“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. That… counts.”
“You still want to stay,” she said. “Knowing that.”
“Yes,” you said. “I’m not exactly a saint either. I like that you push back at shit for me. Maybe too much. We’ll… figure it out. Together.”
She blinked a few times, more tears threatening.
“I will try very hard not to misuse you,” she said.
“You already tried,” you said. “You just… overshot. We’ll calibrate.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said again. Softer this time.
Your stomach growled.
She looked down, surprised.
“You didn’t finish lunch,” she said.
“Kind of got hijacked,” you said.
She stepped back, wiped her face with her sleeve again.
“I will reheat food,” she said. “You sit. Or shower. Or both.”
“You don’t have to,” you said.
“I want to,” she said. “That part is simple.”
You watched her move to the kitchen. She wiped her cheeks with a paper towel. Turned on the stove. Took out leftover stir fry. Her movements steadied. The small domestic motions seemed to ground her.
You sat at the table, watching her.
You thought about the cafe. About Yujin’s face. About Wonyoung’s tears. You thought about how, under all the control and calculation, everything she did around you traced back to two simple lines: keep you, protect you.
You felt shame for how fast you had believed the worst version of her. Shame, and relief that she had not shut down on you for it.
“Y/n,” she said without turning.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you,” she said. “For not walking out that door.”
You swallowed.
“I didn’t want to,” you said.
She stirred the pan.
“Even if you did,” she said. “You came back. That is what matters.”
—
Across town, Yujin dropped her keys on her counter and kicked off her shoes hard enough that one bounced into the wall.
Her small place smelled like stale takeout and fabric softener. Clothes piled on a chair. Couch with three empty beer bottles on the floor in front of it.
She walked straight to the fridge. Opened it.
Half a pizza box. A jar of pickles. Three beers. Old takeout sauce packets.
She grabbed a beer. Popped the cap on the counter edge. Foam spilled over her fingers. She licked it off without thinking.
She paced the narrow living room, bottle in hand.
“He went back,” she muttered. “Of course he fucking went back.”
She set the beer on the coffee table, grabbed her phone, and dropped onto the couch.
She opened a notes app.
Title: PLAN
She stared at the blank page.
“She’s too fucking strong,” she said to herself. “You can’t just fight her head on. She’ll bury you.”
Her leg bounced. Her mind ran.
“You can’t save him from her,” she said. “Fine. Then you take him from her.”
Her fingers started to move.
Step 1: Find weak point.
Step 2: Make him remember.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. Typed more.
He still looked at her like he used to. Not the same. Softer. But the bones were there. If she got close enough. If she hit the right nerve.
She flipped to her gallery. Scrolled past memes and random screenshots until she hit the folder with old photos.
You and her. Younger. Messier. At parties. On a cheap couch. In a shitty kitchen. Your arm around her. Your hand in her hair. Your mouth on her neck in a bathroom mirror selfie.
She stared at one where you lay asleep on her lap, mouth slightly open, hair a mess. Her fingers had traced circles on your chest. She remembered that night. The heat. The fights. The make up.
She brought the phone close to her face, like closing the distance.
“She can’t give you this,” Yujin muttered. “Not the same way. She’s too fucking controlled. You used to like chaos. You liked being bad.”
She switched apps. Searched your name. Clicked your profile. Most posts now had Wonyoung’s tag somewhere. Dinner photos. Vacation photos. Neat, careful shots.
She squinted at one where you stood on a beach. Sunglasses. Smile. Wonyoung’s hand visible at the edge of the frame, holding yours.
“You look… tidy,” she said. “Like someone ironed your soul.”
She set the phone down, rubbed her face.
“Tidy is safe,” she said. “But boring. People get bored. People cheat. People leave. I should know.”
She grabbed the beer, took a long pull.
“You’re not a cheater,” she told the empty room. “But you’re human. Humans crack.”
She picked up the phone again. Opened a new search. Typed:
HOW TO INDUCE DOUBT IN HAPPY RELATIONSHIP
She snorted at her own search. Deleted it.
“You don’t need Google for this,” she said. “You’ve done it without thinking before.”
She opened messages. No thread with you. She hovered over the compose icon. Stopped.
“If I text him now, she’ll be glued to his phone,” she said. “Need in person. Need him alone. Need… leverage.”
Her eyes drifted to the framed photo on the shelf. Her and you at twenty two. Drunk at some festival. Your shirt half off. Her lipstick smeared on your neck. Middle fingers up toward the camera.
She grabbed the photo. Sat back down. Held it in her lap.
“You remember this,” she said softly. “How we fucked in that gross tent after. How you said you never felt more alive. She’s never taken you to a place where you felt scared and happy at the same time. She probably schedules sex in her calendar.”
The thought made her grin.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the angle.”
She pulled the note app back up.
ANGLE: SHOW HIM WHAT HE'S MISSING.
REMIND HIM HE ISN'T JUST HUSBAND. HE'S STILL ME.
She frowned. Crossed out the last word. Typed again.
HE'S STILL Y/N. BEFORE HER.
She chewed the tip of her thumb.
“Need contact point,” she said. “Somewhere she can’t watch everything he does.”
She thought of your work building. The gym nearby. The bar where you used to go with colleagues.
Her eyes lit.
“Work drinks,” she said. “He still does those. She can’t sit on his shoulder in front of his boss.”
She opened social media. Found one of your coworkers. The one who posted too much. Scrolled. Saw a story from last week:
FRIDAY DRINKS WITH THE TEAM
The bar name tagged.
“Got you,” she said.
She typed the bar name into maps. Checked the route from her apartment. Not far.
She added to the note.
STEP 3: "COINCIDENTALLY" RUN INTO HIM AT FRIDAY BAR.
LOOK HOT. LOOK SAD. LOOK LIKE PAST.
MAKE HIM LAUGH. MAKE HIM DRINK. MAKE HIM REMEMBER.
Her leg bounced faster.
“He won’t cheat,” she told herself. “He’s not that guy. So you don’t go for the obvious. You go for the crack. You make him feel guilty for how he treated you. Then you make him feel guilty for how he treated her. Then you’re the only one he can talk to about both.”
She smiled. It did not reach her eyes.
“You spin it,” she said. “You tell him you overreacted about his wife. That you’re happy he’s happy. You be the supportive ex. The safe one. He spills. She doesn’t see that coming. She thinks you’re stuck at crazy ex level. You move sideways.”
She put the phone down. Stood. Walked to her closet.
She pulled clothes out. Tossed them on the bed. Slim jeans. Low top. Old leather jacket he once said looked good on her.
She held the jacket up. Pressed it to her face. It smelled like dust and old smoke.
“She dresses like a surgeon,” Yujin said. “You dress like mistake.”
She slipped the jacket on over her hoodie. Checked the mirror.
“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “You fucked him up once. You can do it again. This time for a cause.”
She laughed at that line. Took the hoodie off under the jacket. Threw it on the floor.
Her phone buzzed on the bed.
Notification: new post from WONYOUNG_M.D
She picked it up.
A photo. Your hand on a table. A bowl of reheated stir fry. Caption:
LUNCH ROUND 2 WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON 🖤
No faces. Just hands and food. Domestic.
Yujin stared at the black heart emoji.
“She’s already smoothing it,” Yujin said. “Already pulling him tighter.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Fine,” she said. “Then I pull too.”
She opened a new contact. Typed a fake name.
JIN
She put her own number in. Saved.
She stared at the empty thread. Not yet. Not text. Text left traces.
She locked the phone and threw it on the bed.
Friday felt close and far at once.
She lay back on the mattress, jacket still on, eyes on the ceiling.
In her head she ran through lines, expressions, the exact weight of her hand on your arm as she leaned in. Different paths. Different reactions. If you pulled away. If you stayed. If you told her off. If you didn’t.
One way or another, she decided, you were not going to stay in that neat little glass cage without remembering what it felt like when the walls shook.
Can I ask for a fluffy fic, I like a long and well-developed plot, thank you!
BlackPink x Male Reader
Title: Daughter’s friends
Summary:
A single dad who used to be a fuck boy, he fucked around and found out the hard way. When he accidentally got a woman, the one who he truly loved and cared for, pregnant, she knew his past story, she hated him for that.
He knew and he tried to change, strive to be better, and took the responsibility. She knew he had changed, but the scars he gave her were too deep. She still care for their daughter, co-raising her, but didn’t marry.
Until things changed when YN’s daughters bring her friends to her house (YN’s house).
YN gave the four girls life lessons, he’s there with them with they’re in tough spots, hard to decide on something, etc.
DAUGHTER'S FRIENDS
BLACKPINK X Male Reader
9K WORDS COUNTED
—
The house on the hill in Hannam-dong still smelled faintly of jasmine some nights.
Not the sharp, artificial kind from air fresheners, but the real thing, Min-ji’s jasmine vines that used to climb the trellis outside the master bedroom window. YN had kept them alive after she was gone. Every spring he pruned them carefully, every summer he watered them at dusk like ritual. The scent drifted through the open sliding doors now, carried on the late February breeze, mixing with the smell of garlic sizzling in the wok downstairs.
He was forty-seven. Still broad across the shoulders from years of gym discipline he’d forced on himself after the baby came, still dark-haired with only the faintest threads of silver at the temples if you looked close. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they used to be, not from laughing, though there had been plenty of that once but from the nights he’d spent staring at the ceiling wondering how a man could fuck up so spectacularly and still be allowed to wake up every morning next to the one good thing he’d ever made.
Soo-ah.
She was twenty-two now. Taller than her mother had been, with Min-ji’s high cheekbones and his stubborn jaw. She moved through the house like she owned every inch of it, which she practically did. University kept her in Itaewon most weeks, but on weekends she came home—laundry bag in one hand, iced Americano in the other, already yelling up the stairs before the front door even closed.
“Appa! I’m starving and I brought invaders!”
That was how she announced company these days.
YN wiped his hands on the faded black apron Min-ji used to tease him about—“You look like a sexy line cook from a drama, but you burn toast”—and stepped out of the kitchen just as the entryway exploded with voices.
Four girls spilled in behind Soo-ah like colorful smoke.
Jisoo first—elegant even in an oversized hoodie and baseball cap pulled low, carrying herself like someone who’d spent too many years being watched. She gave him the smallest, politest bow, then immediately softened when he smiled.
“Hi, Uncle YN.”
Jennie next, designer sunglasses still on even though it was overcast outside, phone already in hand. She kicked off her chunky sneakers without looking and shot him a smirk. “Smells like you’re actually cooking tonight. Progress.”
Rosé followed, arms full of tote bags that clinked with what sounded like soju bottles and snack packages. Her honey-blonde hair was loose, cheeks already pink from the cold. “I brought Australian Tim Tams. Don’t judge if I eat them all before dinner.”
And Lisa—Lisa bounded in last, phone blasting something bass-heavy through one earbud, ponytail swinging. She threw both arms around YN in a quick, fierce hug before he could protest. “Appa YN! Missed you! Soo-ah said you made galbi last time and I’ve been dreaming about it.”
He laughed—low, warm, the sound he hadn’t used much before these girls started showing up—and ruffled the top of her head like she was still seventeen instead of twenty-nine going on thirty.
“Shoes off, trouble. And lower the volume before the neighbors call the police again.”
They scattered through the living room like they’d lived here for years. Bags dropped. Coats shed. Jisoo knelt to line everyone’s shoes neatly by the door while Jennie claimed the biggest couch corner and immediately started scrolling. Rosé headed straight for the kitchen island, already opening cabinets like she knew where the snacks were hidden. Lisa flopped dramatically onto the rug and started stretching like she was about to do a full floor routine.
Soo-ah leaned against the doorway, watching her dad watch them, a small proud smile tugging at her mouth.
“They’re staying the whole weekend,” she said quietly. “Group project. And… I figured the house could use some noise.”
YN met her eyes. The unspoken hung between them gentle as smoke.
After Min-ji, the house had gone quiet in stages. First the absence of her singing off-key while she folded laundry. Then the missing clink of her rings against the teacup. Then Soo-ah leaving for university and the silence becoming something solid, something he had to walk through every morning like fog.
He’d learned to live with it. Learned to fill it with work, with gym sessions at dawn, with late-night emails and the occasional whiskey glass he never quite finished. But quiet had a weight. These girls—loud, chaotic, beautiful in the careless way only people in their twenties could be—were slowly lifting it.
He cleared his throat.
“Dinner at twenty. Galbi, kimchi jjigae, japchae, the works. If anyone wants to help, there’s aprons in the drawer. If not, stay out of my way so I don’t burn the house down.”
Jennie snorted from the couch. “You say that like we haven’t seen you panic-flip a pancake before.”
“Exactly,” he shot back. “You don’t want that to happen again. Now move your asses if you want seconds.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Rosé was already beside him at the island, rolling up her sleeves. “I’ll do the banchan. I’m good with tiny bowls.”
Lisa vaulted over the back of the couch and landed beside them. “I’ll grill! I’m excellent at burning things artistically.”
Jisoo drifted over last, quiet, but she picked up the cutting board without being asked and started slicing scallions into perfect matchsticks.
Soo-ah stayed in the doorway a moment longer, arms crossed, watching the five of them move around the kitchen like they belonged there.
She caught her dad’s eye again.
He gave her the smallest nod.
Yeah.
The house didn’t feel empty tonight.
And maybe, just maybe, it never would again.
He turned back to the stove, flipped the short ribs, felt the heat lick up his forearms.
Behind him, four voices overlapped in easy chaos.
Jennie complaining about her latest brand meeting.
Lisa trying to teach Rosé some ridiculous TikTok dance moves while holding tongs.
Jisoo humming softly under her breath, the same melody Min-ji used to sing when she was happy.
Soo-ah finally pushed off the doorway and joined them, slipping between Lisa and Rosé to steal a piece of marinated beef straight from the bowl.
YN didn’t scold her.
He just smiled into the steam.
—
The kitchen filled fast with the kind of noise that used to feel foreign in this house.
Plates clinked. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings. Lisa, probably had already connected her phone to the living-room speakers and queued up a playlist that jumped shamelessly from old BigBang to Rosé’s latest solo leak to something Thai and bass-heavy that made the floor vibrate just enough to feel alive.
YN kept his back to them for a minute longer than necessary, letting the heat from the grill soak into his skin while he arranged the short ribs in neat rows. The marinade hissed and popped, sending up thin threads of smoke that curled toward the range hood. He could feel their eyes on him. Not staring, exactly, but aware. Curious. The way young women look at a man who’s no longer trying to impress them but still somehow does.
Rosé bumped his elbow lightly as she reached past him for the sesame oil. Her sleeve brushed his forearm with soft wool, the faintest trace of vanilla and something floral clinging to it.
“Do you always cook like this?” she asked, voice quiet enough that it stayed mostly between them. “Like you’re feeding an army.”
“Habit,” he said without turning. “Min-ji used to say I only knew how to make enough food for twelve. I guess it stuck.”
Rosé paused, bottle halfway tilted. She didn’t push. Just nodded once, small and understanding, then drizzled the oil over the platter of mushrooms she’d arranged like a tiny still-life.
Across the island, Jisoo was still working on the scallions—methodical, precise, the knife moving in the same slow rhythm she probably used when she practiced lines or lyrics. Every few cuts she glanced up at him, quick and soft, like she was checking if he was okay. He caught one of those looks and gave her the corner of his mouth. She smiled back—small, private, gone in a blink.
Jennie had migrated to the fridge like she owned it, pulling out a bottle of soju that had been chilling since last Chuseok. She cracked the cap with her teeth—because of course she did—and poured four shot glasses without asking if anyone wanted one.
“Appa YN,” she called, voice carrying that signature drawl, “you drinking with us tonight or are you still on that ‘responsible adult’ bullshit?”
He snorted, finally turning from the grill with the first batch of galbi plated and glistening. “I’ll have one. But if I start singing trot at 2 a.m., you’re all sleeping outside.”
Lisa whooped from the floor where she was still doing some kind of hybrid yoga-dance stretch. “Challenge accepted. I’ve got blackmail material already—Soo-ah, showed me the baby pictures.”
Soo-ah groaned, throwing a dish towel at her. “Fuck you, traitor.”
The towel missed. Lisa caught it mid-air, twirled it like a lasso, then used it to snap playfully at Rosé’s thigh. Rosé yelped, laughed, swatted back. The kitchen dissolved into thirty seconds of controlled chaos—shrieks, dodging, someone’s elbow knocking a spoon off the counter.
YN just watched, arms crossed, apron still tied around his waist like armor. He didn’t step in to stop it. Didn’t need to. This was the sound of life re-entering rooms that had gone too long without it.
When the food finally hit the table—long wooden thing that could seat ten if you squeezed—they arranged themselves the way they always did: Soo-ah at his right hand like she’d claimed the spot the day she turned thirteen, Lisa across from her already stealing japchae before grace was said, Rosé and Jisoo side by side on the left, Jennie at the foot like she was holding court.
They ate like they hadn’t in days.
Chopsticks clicked. Sounds of appreciation. Jennie closed her eyes around the first bite of galbi and let out a low, indecent sound that made Lisa choke on her rice.
“Jennie-yah,” Jisoo scolded, but her own mouth was full and she was smiling.
“What? It’s good.” Jennie pointed her chopsticks at YN. “You should open a restaurant. Call it ‘Hot Single Dad Does Korean Comfort Food.’ Instant Michelin.”
He rolled his eyes. “Pass. I like my weekends.”
“Speaking of weekends,” Soo-ah said, leaning forward, “we’re all staying till Sunday night. Group project deadline Monday. Appa said we could take over the basement studio if we’re quiet.”
“Quiet,” Lisa echoed, deadpan. “Sure.”
Rosé nudged her. “We’ll be angels. Promise.”
YN took a slow sip of soju. It was cold, clean, burning just enough. He watched them over the rim of the glass. Four faces lit gold by the pendant lights, laughing at something Jennie had muttered. Soo-ah’s hand resting casually on his forearm like it belonged there.
He felt it then. Not the old grief exactly, but its echo, softer now. Min-ji would have loved this. She would have sat at the head of the table in that silk cardigan she wore when she was happy, hair loose, teasing him about burning the rice again. She would have pulled these girls into her orbit the way she pulled everyone warm, sharp, fearless.
Instead they were here with him. Filling the chairs she used to fill. Making the house remember how to breathe.
After dinner they migrated. The plates cleared, dishwasher humming, soju bottles multiplying like rabbits. The living room became base camp: blankets dragged from the linen closet, pillows piled, someone dimmed the lights until it felt like a sleepover instead of a house full of adults.
Lisa sprawled on the rug with her head in Rosé’s lap, scrolling through dance covers on her phone. Jisoo curled in the armchair with a book she wasn’t really reading. Jennie and Soo-ah took the big sectional, legs tangled, whispering about some industry gossip that made them both cackle.
YN sat on the ottoman, back against the couch, knees drawn up like he was twenty-five again. He didn’t say much. Just listened. Let the conversation wash over him.
At some point Rosé slid down to sit beside him on the floor. Not touching, but close enough that he could smell the vanilla again, mixed with the faint char of grilled meat still clinging to her sweater.
She leaned her head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling.
“Do you ever get tired of us invading?” she asked softly.
He thought about it. “No.”
She turned her face toward him. Profile soft in the low light. “Good. Because I think we’re gonna keep coming back.”
He met her gaze. Held it a second longer than he should have.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think you will.”
Across the room, Lisa suddenly sat up. “Okay but real talk. Uncle YN, rate us. Who’s the best cook?”
Jennie didn’t miss a beat. “Rosé. Obviously.”
Rosé flushed. “I just follow recipes.”
“Bullshit,” Soo-ah said. “You made that pavlova last time and it looked like a magazine.”
Lisa pouted. “I can make pad thai. That counts.”
Jisoo closed her book with a soft snap. “I think we should let him judge. Blind taste test next weekend.”
They all looked at him then. Five pairs of eyes, expectant, playful, warm.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up under his collar.
“Fine,” he said. “But if I have to eat Lisa’s experimental ramen again, I’m suing you guys.”
Laughter erupted again, bright, easy, filling every corner.
—
The night stretched lazy and warm after the plates were cleared. The soju had gone down easy, too easy and now the living room felt smaller, softer, the edges blurred by low lamplight and the faint buzz still humming in everyone’s veins.
They’d migrated to the big sectional eventually, bodies piled in a comfortable tangle of limbs and blankets. Soo-ah was curled against her dad’s side like she used to when she was ten and scared of thunderstorms. Lisa had claimed the floor again, head pillowed on Rosé’s thigh. Jisoo sat cross-legged at the far end, knees drawn up, nursing the last of her glass. Jennie, always the one who pretended she didn’t need closeness, was sprawled lengthwise with her feet in Soo-ah’s lap, scrolling absently, but her eyes kept flicking toward the man at the center of the couch.
YN leaned his head back against the cushion, one arm draped loosely around Soo-ah’s shoulders. The conversation had drifted from gossip to music to the kind of half-drunken truths that only come out after midnight.
Someone, Rosé, voice soft and curious, asked the question that had been floating unspoken for weeks.
“Uncle YN… what were you like? Before. When you were… you know. Young. Wild.”
The room went still. Not tense, exactly. Just attentive.
He exhaled through his nose, slow. Looked at the ceiling like the answer was written there.
“You really want the unfiltered version?” he asked, voice low, gravel-rough from the soju and the hour.
Soo-ah squeezed his hand once. “We already know the headlines, Appa. Tell the rest.”
He nodded once. Took another sip, more for courage than thirst, then started.
“I was twenty-three when it started getting bad. Fresh out of military service, stupid money from early producing gigs, face that opened doors I didn’t deserve. Clubs every night. Different girl every weekend. Sometimes two. I didn’t think about the consequences. Didn’t think about feelings. Just chased the high, new pussy, new mouth, new pair of legs wrapped around me in some hotel suite while the city lights bled through the curtains.”
Lisa let out a quiet whistle. Jennie’s thumb froze on her phone screen.
“I fucked around like it was oxygen,” he continued. “Bragged about it. I had a little black book, actual paper back then with names, numbers, notes like ‘loves it rough’ or ‘squirts if you angle right.’ I treated women like collectibles. Disposable. And I was good at it. Too good. They kept coming back even when I didn’t call. Even when I ghosted. Because I knew exactly how to make them feel like the center of the universe for six hours, then nothing the next morning.”
Rosé’s fingers had stilled in Lisa’s hair. Jisoo’s glass hovered halfway to her lips.
“Then Min-ji happened.”
His voice dropped softer.
“She was different. Smart. Sharp. Saw through the bullshit from the first night. I chased her anyway—hard. Thought I could charm her into bed and out again like the rest. But she made me wait. Made me work. Made me feel something real under all the noise. When she finally let me in… fuck. It wasn’t just sex. It was everything. I fell stupid in love. Told myself I’d changed overnight.”
He laughed once, bitter and short.
“Didn’t last. Old habits. One night, one stupid fight, one girl who wasn’t her. She found out. Confronted me in our apartment with tears and rage and this look like I’d ripped something vital out of her chest. I begged. Cried like a child. Promised the world. She stayed long enough to find out she was pregnant. Long enough to give me a chance to prove I could be better.”
He looked down at Soo-ah then. Really looked.
“She never forgave me completely. Never trusted me again the way she should have. But she let me stay. Let me be your dad. Let me try every single day to be the man she deserved from the start. I stopped drinking heavily. Stopped clubbing. Stopped looking at anyone else. Built this house for the three of us. Cooked her breakfast every morning even when she barely spoke to me. Held her when the morning sickness was brutal. Changed diapers at 3 a.m. without complaint. Went to every ultrasound, every doctor’s appointment. I was terrified I’d fuck that up too.”
Soo-ah’s head was resting heavier against his shoulder now. Her fingers laced tight through his.
“When you were born,” he said to her, voice cracking just a fraction, “I looked at you and swore I’d never be that guy again. And I haven’t. Not once. But I still carry it. Every time I look in the mirror I see the asshole who hurt the woman I loved most. The one who almost lost the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Silence hung thick.
Then Soo-ah lifted her head. Eyes shining but steady.
“Appa.”
He met her gaze.
“You apologized to me when I was fifteen,” she said quietly. “Sat me down on this exact couch and told me everything. Every ugly detail. You cried then too. Said you were sorry for being a bad guy before I was born. Said you’d spend the rest of your life making sure I never dated someone like that.”
She smiled, small, watery, real.
“I never blamed you. Not once. Because the man who raised me? He’s the opposite of that guy. You’re the one who taught me what real love looks like. The kind that stays. The kind that fixes what it broke.”
She leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick, fierce.
“I love you. And I’m proud of you. Every day.”
YN swallowed hard. Closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, the room was watching him, not with judgment, but with something softer. Something like respect.
Jennie was the first to move.
She sat up slowly, feet sliding off Soo-ah’s lap. Her eyes were locked on YN, dark and unreadable.
Two months ago, late November, she’d been walking home alone after a late studio session in Gangnam. Hood up, mask on, trying to disappear into the night like she always did when the weight got too heavy.
The guy came out of nowhere. Knife glinting under a streetlamp. Demanded her bag, her phone, her watch. She’d frozen just for a second but it was enough.
Then headlights swept the alley.
A black SUV screeched to a stop.
YN.
He’d been driving back from a late mastering session, recognized her silhouette even in the dark. Didn’t hesitate. Got out, voice calm but steel-edged, told the guy to walk away. When the idiot lunged instead, YN moved like he’d done it before he disarmed him in three seconds flat, knee to the ribs, arm twisted until the knife clattered to the pavement. Called the police while pinning the guy down with one hand like it was nothing.
Afterward, he’d driven her home. Didn’t lecture. Didn’t ask questions. Just made sure she got inside safe, then waited in the car until her lights came on upstairs.
She hadn’t told Soo-ah.
Hadn’t told anyone.
But every time she looked at him now, her pulse kicked hard. Heat low in her belly. Something possessive and hungry she didn’t know how to name yet.
She wanted to crawl into his lap right there, bury her face in his neck, whisper thank you and I want you and please don’t ever leave. Wanted to feel those big hands on her skin, steady and sure, the way they’d been when he held her shoulders that night and said, “You’re safe now, Jennie-yah.”
But Soo-ah was right there. Her best friend. Her sister in every way that mattered.
So Jennie stayed quiet. Bit the inside of her cheek. Let the ache sit.
Across the room, Lisa had shifted. Her head was no longer on Rosé’s lap. She was sitting up now, knees drawn to her chest, staring at YN with wide, unguarded eyes. She’d always been the touchy one, the hugger, but lately every time his hand brushed hers passing a plate, or when he laughed that low rumble, something twisted sweet and hot between her legs. She imagined climbing him, wrapping her thighs around his waist, feeling that solid body hold her up while he fucked her slow and deep against the kitchen counter.
Rosé felt it too, quieter, deeper. She pictured late nights in the basement studio, him behind her at the mixing board, chest to her back, breath on her neck while his fingers guided hers on the faders. Then those same fingers sliding under her shirt, pinching her nipples until she whimpered, bending her over the console and taking her from behind while the speakers hummed with unfinished melodies.
Jisoo was the last to let herself admit it. She’d always been the careful one, the observer. But watching him tonight with raw, honest, vulnerable, she felt the pull. Wanted to kneel between his thighs on this very couch, look up at him with soft eyes, take his cock in her mouth slowly and worshipfully until he forgot every regret he’d ever carried.
None of them spoke it.
Not yet.
But the air had changed. Thicker. Warmer. Charged.
YN felt it too. Four pairs of eyes on him, heavy with something new. He didn’t acknowledge it. Just squeezed Soo-ah’s shoulder once more, then stood.
“Alright, heathens. Bedtime before someone pukes soju on my rug.”
Groans. Whines. But they moved. Slow, reluctant, brushing past him on their way to the guest rooms and the basement pullout.
Jennie lingered last.
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something expensive and dark.
“Thanks for dinner,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Anytime.”
She hesitated. Then, so quiet only he could hear:
“For everything.”
Her fingers grazed his wrist just a second before she turned and disappeared down the hall.
YN stood there alone for a long minute.
The house was quiet again.
But not empty.
Never empty anymore.
He touched his wrist where her fingers had been.
Felt the ghost of heat.
And wondered how long he could pretend he didn’t notice the way they looked at him now.
—
The next morning came soft and slow, sunlight slipping through the half-drawn blinds in long golden stripes across the hardwood floors.
YN woke first. Habit from years of early calls and even earlier regrets he’d learned to outrun with routine. He lay there for a minute, listening to the house breathe: the faint hum of the fridge downstairs, the distant chirp of birds in the jasmine vines, the soft rustle of bodies shifting in sleep from the guest rooms and basement.
No alarms. No schedules. Just Saturday.
He slipped out of bed, pulled on worn gray sweatpants and a faded black tee that had once belonged to Min-ji (she’d stolen it from him years ago and never given it back), and padded barefoot down the stairs. The kitchen still smelled faintly of last night’s galbi. Smoky, sweet, comforting.
He started coffee first. The good stuff, dark roast from that small roaster in Jeju he’d discovered on a rare solo trip after the funeral. Ground beans hissed into the filter. Water bubbled. The machine gurgled like an old friend.
While it brewed, he moved to the fridge, pulling out eggs, spinach, kimchi, leftover japchae that had somehow survived the night. Breakfast prep was meditative, crack eggs one-handed, whisk with the other, heat the pan just right so the edges crisped without burning. He hummed under his breath, some old trot song Min-ji used to mock him for loving.
The first intruder appeared at 8:47.
Lisa.
She shuffled in wearing one of Soo-ah’s oversized hoodies (swallowed her whole) and mismatched socks, one bright pink, one black with little cat faces. Hair a wild tangle, eyes still half-shut.
“Smells like heaven,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. She didn’t ask and just drifted straight to him, wrapped both arms around his waist from behind, and pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades.
Morning hugs from Lisa were a thing now. Had been since the third time she’d slept over. No preamble, no awkwardness. Just pure, unfiltered affection.
“Morning, trouble,” he said, not moving to dislodge her. He kept whisking eggs one-handed. “Sleep okay?”
“Mmm. I dreamed you were teaching me how to make the perfect omelette. Then we were on a beach. You were shirtless. Very realistic.”
He snorted. “Flattery will get you extra cheese.”
She squeezed tighter for a second, then let go and hopped up to sit on the counter beside the stove. Legs swinging, watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the world.
Next came Rosé.
She appeared in the doorway wearing tiny sleep shorts and one of his old band tees she’d “borrowed” last month (it hit mid-thigh on her, loose and soft). Hair in a messy topknot, no makeup, cheeks still pillow-creased.
She didn’t speak at first and just crossed the room, slid onto the stool at the island, and rested her chin in her hands, watching him flip the omelette with that quiet intensity she always had in the mornings.
“You’re up early,” she said finally, voice still husky from sleep.
“Someone has to feed the zoo.”
She smiled small, sleepy, devastating. “Can I help?”
He slid a cutting board and knife toward her. “Avocado. Thin slices. No pressure.”
She hopped down, moved beside him, close enough that their arms brushed every time she reached for the fruit. The kitchen filled with the soft scrape of knife on board, the sizzle of eggs, her occasional hum of contentment.
Jisoo drifted in next, poised even half-asleep, wearing silk pajama pants and a cropped tank that showed a sliver of toned midriff. She didn’t announce herself; just leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with soft eyes.
“Morning,” she said quietly.
“Coffee’s ready,” YN answered without turning. “Black, two sugars, right?”
She blinked, surprised he remembered, then nodded. “You’re scary good at that.”
He poured her mug, handed it over. Their fingers brushed. She didn’t pull away fast.
Soo-ah stumbled down last, rubbing her eyes, still in the ratty sleep shirt she’d had since high school. She took one look at the kitchen. Lisa on the counter stealing bites of avocado from Rosé’s board, Jisoo sipping coffee like a queen, YN at the stove like it was his natural habitat and grinned.
“Domestic bliss achieved,” she declared, sliding onto a stool. “Appa, marry me. Wait, no, don’t answer that.”
Laughter rippled, light, easy.
They ate at the island instead of the big table. Plates balanced on knees, forks clinking, shoulders bumping. Lisa fed Rosé a piece of omelette straight from her fork; Rosé retaliated by smearing a tiny dot of kimchi on Lisa’s nose. Jisoo wiped it off with her thumb, gentle, almost absentminded. Soo-ah leaned her head on YN’s shoulder while she ate, content in a way that made his chest ache sweetly.
After breakfast, no one rushed.
The sun climbed higher. Dishes got done slowly. Everyone pitched in without being asked. Lisa dried while Rosé washed, hips bumping, giggling over soap suds. Jisoo wiped counters with quiet focus. Soo-ah and YN loaded the dishwasher side by side, elbows knocking.
Then the living room claimed them.
Blankets dragged out again. Pillows piled. Someone turned on the TV, low volume, some mindless K-drama no one really watched. They sprawled in a loose circle on the rug and couches.
Lisa ended up with her head in YN’s lap because of course she did, legs stretched across Rosé’s thighs. Rosé played idly with Lisa’s hair, braiding tiny sections then undoing them. Jisoo sat cross-legged beside YN, shoulder pressed to his arm, reading a script on her phone but glancing up every few minutes to smile at whatever dumb thing was happening on screen.
Soo-ah curled on the other side, knees tucked, hand resting casually on her dad’s knee.
Jennie was last to join.
She’d disappeared upstairs after breakfast, said something about a quick FaceTime but now she came down in leggings and one of his hoodies (another “borrowed” item, black and soft, sleeves rolled up past her elbows). She paused in the doorway, took in the scene, five bodies tangled in lazy affection and something flickered across her face. Soft. Hungry. Guarded.
She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room and dropped onto the floor between YN’s knees, back against the couch, head tipping back to rest against his thigh.
He froze for half a second.
Then relaxed.
His hand, big, warm, steady, settled on the top of her head. Not petting. Just resting. Fingers threading lightly through her hair.
Jennie closed her eyes. Exhaled slowly.
No one commented. No one made it weird.
The room stayed like that for hours.
Sun moved across the floor.
Lisa dozed off first, soft snores, face smushed against Rosé’s leg.
Rosé hummed a melody under her breath, fingers still in Lisa’s hair.
Jisoo eventually set her phone aside, leaned her head on YN’s shoulder. He didn’t move. Just let her.
Soo-ah traced lazy patterns on his knee with her fingertip, circles, hearts, nonsense.
Jennie stayed exactly where she was. Breathing slow. Safe.
YN sat in the middle of it all, forty-seven, scarred, redeemed and felt something loosen in his chest he hadn’t realized was still knotted.
The house was full.
Warm.
—
The afternoon melted into evening without anyone noticing the clock.
After the lazy sprawl on the living-room floor, the energy shifted—not frantic, just purposeful. The girls had scattered for a bit: showers, quick calls home, changing into comfortable clothes that still somehow looked expensive even when they were trying to be casual. By dusk, they reconvened in the basement studio—YN’s pride and joy, the soundproofed room he’d built himself after Min-ji passed, half therapy project, half escape.
The space was warm: exposed brick, soft recessed lighting, a massive mixing console that had seen better days but still sounded like silk, leather couches worn soft from years of use, a mini-fridge stocked with water, beer, and the occasional bottle of makgeolli. Acoustic panels on the walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling because Soo-ah had insisted they made it “less like a cave and more like a vibe.”
They were all down there now.
Lisa sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the low coffee table, laptop open, staring at an email chain that had her chewing her bottom lip raw. Rosé perched on the arm of the couch, guitar in lap but fingers idle. Jisoo leaned against the console, arms folded, eyes distant. Jennie sat on the floor with her back to the wall, knees up, phone face-down beside her like it had personally offended her.
Soo-ah had gone upstairs to grab snacks, leaving YN alone with the four of them for the first time since the late-night confession.
He didn’t push. Just settled into the big chair behind the console, legs stretched out, hands linked over his stomach.
Lisa broke first.
“I got offered a solo tour,” she said quietly. “Asia leg, then maybe Europe. Six months. Management wants an answer by Monday.”
The room stayed quiet. No one jumped in with congratulations or warnings. They waited.
YN tilted his head. “What’s the gut saying?”
She looked up at him, really looked. Eyes glassy.
“I want it. Bad. But… I’ve been away from home so much already. My mom keeps asking when I’m coming back for longer than a weekend. And I keep thinking, what if I burn out again? What if I’m not the same Lisa when I come back? What if everyone forgets me?”
He nodded slowly. No rush.
“Six months is a long time when you’re twenty-nine and the world moves fast,” he said. “But it’s also not forever. You’ve got people who love you, real ones, not the ones who scream your name from the barricade. They’ll still be here when you land. And if you burn out… you come home. You crash on that couch upstairs. You eat my shitty jjigae until you remember how to breathe. No one’s keeping score.”
Lisa exhaled shaky. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not. But you’re tougher than you think. You’ve survived worse than a tour schedule.”
She gave a small, crooked smile. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Rosé’s fingers finally moved on the strings, soft, aimless chords.
“I’m stuck on a song,” she admitted. “Been stuck for weeks. The label wants something upbeat, radio-friendly. But everything coming out of me lately is… sad. Quiet. About missing people who aren’t gone yet. About being scared to leave.”
She looked at him then. Vulnerable in a way she rarely let show.
“I don’t want to disappoint them. But I also don’t want to lie with my music.”
YN leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Write the sad one,” he said simply. “Even if it’s not what they ordered. The best shit always comes from the place that hurts a little. You don’t have to explain it to the label right away. Finish it for you first. Then decide if the world gets to hear it.”
Rosé’s eyes shimmered. “What if they hate it?”
“Then they hate it. You’ll still be the girl who wrote something honest. That’s rarer than any chart position.”
She nodded once, slow, like she was letting the words settle deep.
Jisoo spoke next. Voice so quiet it almost got lost in the hum of the air-con.
“My contract’s up in eight months. Everyone expects me to re-sign. Bigger group projects, more acting, more… everything. But I keep thinking about just… stopping. Going somewhere quiet. Learning how to be a person again, not a product.”
She swallowed.
“I’m terrified they’ll think I’m ungrateful. Or weak.”
YN met her gaze steady.
“You’re not weak for wanting peace. You’ve given a decade of your life to a machine that doesn’t sleep. If you need to step back, that’s strength. Not everyone has the courage to say ‘enough.’ And if the people who matter love you, they’ll wait. If they don’t… then they were never your people.”
Jisoo’s shoulders dropped a fraction like she’d been holding her breath for years.
Jennie hadn’t moved. Still staring at her phone like it might bite her.
He waited.
Finally, she spoke, voice low, almost angry.
“There’s this guy. Producer. We’ve been… talking. More than talking. He’s older. Successful. Knows the industry inside out. Makes me feel seen. But he’s married. Separated, he says. Still wears the ring sometimes.”
The room went dead silent.
Jennie kept going, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I know it’s stupid. I know I deserve better. But when he touches me… fuck. It’s like the noise in my head finally quiets. And I hate myself for wanting it anyway.”
YN didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. Just let the words land.
After a long beat:
“You already know the answer, Jennie-yah. Deep down. You’re asking because you want someone to tell you it’s okay to walk away.”
She looked up then, eyes wet, furious, scared.
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “It is. Because the second you accept less than you’re worth, you start forgetting what you’re worth. You’re not a side piece. You’re not a secret. You’re Kim fucking Jennie. And anyone who can’t give you the whole spotlight doesn’t deserve even a corner of it.”
Jennie’s breath hitched.
She crawled forward, slow, deliberate until she was kneeling between his legs. Not sexual. Just needing closeness. She pressed her forehead to his knee, shoulders shaking once, twice.
He rested a hand on the back of her head, big palm warm, steady.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “We’ve all got you.”
The others moved in without a word.
Lisa slid over, wrapped arms around Jennie’s waist from behind.
Rosé set the guitar aside, knelt too, cheek against Jennie’s shoulder.
Jisoo came last, quiet grace, sat beside them, hand on Jennie’s back in slow circles.
They stayed like that.
A knot of bodies on the studio floor.
No one spoke for a long time.
When Soo-ah finally came down the stairs carrying a tray of ramyeon cups and fruit, she froze in the doorway.
Then smiled—soft, knowing.
“Group therapy session?” she asked lightly.
Jennie lifted her head just enough to flash a watery grin. “Your dad’s better than any therapist.”
Soo-ah set the tray down, joined the pile without hesitation—squeezing in beside her dad, arm looped through his.
YN looked around at them—all five faces turned toward him in different shades of trust, gratitude, something deeper starting to bloom.
He cleared his throat.
“Alright. Enough heavy shit for one night. Who wants to hear me butcher ‘Lovesick Girls’ on karaoke?”
Groans. Laughter. Protests.
But they all stayed close.
And when the music started—off-key, ridiculous, joyful—the basement filled with sound again.
Not just songs.
But healing.
One messy, beautiful heartbeat at a time.
—
The weekend stretched one more lazy day—Sunday—before the inevitable pull of schedules dragged everyone back to reality.
They spent it slow and sweet: late brunch turned into an all-afternoon picnic in the backyard under the jasmine trellis, blankets spread on the grass, plates of leftover japchae and fresh fruit, cold beer sweating in the shade. Lisa taught YN how to do the latest TikTok dance (he was terrible, hilariously stiff, but tried anyway until they were all doubled over laughing). Rosé strummed lazy chords on the acoustic while the others sang off-key harmonies. Jisoo read aloud from a poetry book she’d brought, voice soft and melodic, making even the silliest lines sound profound. Jennie stayed glued to YN’s side most of the afternoon—head on his shoulder, fingers occasionally brushing his thigh under the blanket when no one was looking, stealing glances at him like she was memorizing every line of his face.
Soo-ah watched it all with a quiet smile, content in the middle of the chaos she’d helped create.
By evening the energy shifted again—packing, last-minute showers, calls to drivers and managers. The house slowly emptied of their noise: suitcases zipped, shoes lined up by the door, the faint scent of their perfumes lingering on the couch cushions.
They gathered in the foyer for goodbyes.
YN stood at the open front door, arms crossed, trying to look casual even though his chest felt strangely tight.
Lisa launched herself at him first—full-body hug, legs wrapping around his waist for a second before she slid down. “Don’t miss me too much, Appa YN. I’ll text you dance videos at 3 a.m. to keep you company.”
He laughed, ruffled her hair. “Try not to break the internet again.”
Rosé next—gentler, arms around his neck, cheek pressed to his for a long beat. “Thank you,” she whispered against his ear. “For everything.”
He squeezed her waist once. “Anytime, Rosie.”
Jisoo stepped up last of the four—elegant even in departure. She took his hands in hers, held them a moment longer than necessary. “You’re a good man,” she said quietly. “Don’t forget that.”
He swallowed. “Drive safe.”
Jennie hung back until the others were already stepping toward the waiting vans. Then she moved—quick, deliberate—pressed herself against him in a hug that felt different. Tighter. Her lips brushed his jaw, just barely, when she whispered:
“I’m not done with you yet.”
She pulled back before he could respond, flashed a small, dangerous smile, and followed the others.
Soo-ah lingered on the porch steps, waving until the taillights disappeared down the curving drive.
YN watched from the doorway until the street was quiet again.
Then he closed the door.
The house exhaled—suddenly too big, too silent.
He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the ghost of Jennie’s lips, Lisa’s hug, Rosé’s whisper, Jisoo’s hands.
Fuck.
He was in trouble.
Outside, the two black vans idled at the curb, drivers discreetly checking phones.
The five girls piled into the bigger one—Soo-ah sliding into the middle row between Rosé and Lisa, Jisoo and Jennie taking the back.
The doors shut.
For the first thirty seconds, it was just the hum of the engine and the soft thump of bass from someone’s playlist.
Then Lisa broke the quiet.
“Okay, I can’t anymore,” she blurted. “I have to say it or I’m gonna explode.”
Everyone turned.
“I like him,” Lisa said, eyes wide, cheeks pink. “Like… really like him. Uncle YN. Appa YN. Whatever. He’s hot, he’s kind, he listens like no one else ever has, and every time he hugs me I want to climb him like a fucking tree and ride him until we both forget our names.”
Rosé choked on air.
Soo-ah’s mouth dropped open.
Jisoo’s hand flew to her lips.
Jennie just stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
Lisa kept going, words tumbling. “I know he’s old enough to be our dad—well, mine at least—but fuck age gaps, right? He’s solid. Safe. Makes me feel small in the best way. And last night when he talked about his past? I just wanted to crawl into his lap and let him hold me while he fucked the sadness out of me slow and deep.”
Rosé let out a strangled laugh. “Lisa-yah…”
“No, wait—your turn,” Lisa shot back, pointing. “I saw the way you looked at him when he was cooking. You were practically drooling.”
Rosé flushed crimson but didn’t deny it. “Fine. Yes. I like him too. A lot. More than like. I think about him when I’m alone—his hands on the guitar strings, how steady his voice gets when he’s giving advice. I want him to pin me against the studio wall and fuck me while the mics are still hot. I want him to call me good girl while he’s buried inside me. I want… all of it.”
Soo-ah made a strangled noise.
Jisoo cleared her throat—quiet, composed, but her voice shook just a little. “Me too,” she admitted. “I’ve never felt this safe with anyone. He looks at me like I’m a person, not a brand. I imagine kneeling for him. Taking him in my mouth slow, looking up while he strokes my hair and tells me how perfect I am. I want him to tie me up with one of his old ties and edge me until I’m crying for it.”
The van went dead silent.
Jennie finally turned—eyes blazing.
“You’re all fucking kidding me,” she said, voice low and rough.
They stared.
Jennie laughed—short, disbelieving. “I’ve been losing my mind over him since November. Since he saved my ass from that knife-waving asshole in Gangnam. He didn’t hesitate. Just… handled it. Held me after like I was breakable and unbreakable at the same time. I’ve been wet for him every single time he’s in the same room since then. I want him to fuck me raw on that big couch upstairs—bend me over the arm, spank me red, fill me up until it drips down my thighs. I want him to claim me. I want to be his dirty little secret and his everything at once.”
Soo-ah’s face had gone from shock to something like stunned comprehension.
She looked around at them—all four faces flushed, eyes bright, breaths coming faster.
“You’re all… in love with my dad?” she whispered.
“Not love,” Lisa said quickly. “Not yet. But… fuck. Yeah. Maybe heading there.”
Rosé nodded slowly. “He makes me feel things I forgot I could feel.”
Jisoo: “He sees me. Really sees me.”
Jennie: “He’s the only man who’s ever made me feel safe enough to want to be ruined.”
Soo-ah pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Holy shit.”
The van rolled on through the Hannam-dong streets, streetlights sliding across their faces.
No one spoke for a long minute.
Then Soo-ah exhaled—shaky laugh bubbling up.
“Okay. Okay. Processing. My dad—who used to be a certified fuckboy, who raised me solo after Mom died, who just spent three days being the world’s hottest supportive uncle—is apparently the collective wet dream of my four best friends.”
Lisa grinned sheepishly. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be sorry,” Soo-ah said, voice cracking into another laugh. “It’s just… insane. And kind of hot? Wait—no. Weird. Hot and weird.”
Jennie leaned forward, eyes locked on Soo-ah. “You mad?”
Soo-ah looked at each of them—really looked.
“No,” she said finally. “Shocked as fuck. But… no. If anyone deserves someone who looks at them the way you all look at him? It’s Appa. He’s spent years punishing himself for shit he did twenty years ago. If you make him happy—if any of you, or… all of you?—then I’m not gonna stand in the way.”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “All of us?”
Soo-ah shrugged, half-hysterical. “I mean… why not? You’re already basically a family. And he’s got a big bed.”
Jennie snorted. “You’re unhinged.”
“Says the girl who wants to be spanked by my dad.”
Laughter exploded—relieved, wild, edged with nervous heat.
Rosé wiped her eyes. “We’re fucked up.”
“The best kind,” Lisa said.
They fell quiet again as the van merged onto the highway.
Jennie reached over, squeezed Soo-ah’s hand.
“We won’t do anything without talking to you first,” she said seriously. “Promise.”
Soo-ah squeezed back.
“I know.”
Then, quieter:
“But… maybe don’t wait too long. He’s been alone long enough.”
The city lights blurred past the windows.
Four hearts racing in sync.
One question hanging unspoken between them:
Who would make the first move?
And how the hell were they going to share him without tearing each other—or him—apart?
—
The weeks that followed blurred into a strange, sweet rhythm.
Soo-ah didn’t bring it up immediately. She let the confession hang between them like smoke—thick, fragrant, impossible to ignore—but she watched. Watched how her dad’s phone lit up more often with group chat notifications that made him smile in that quiet, surprised way. Watched how Lisa sent him dance practice clips at odd hours with captions like “watch this and tell me I’m not a goddess.” Watched Rosé drop voice notes of half-finished melodies tagged just for him. Watched Jisoo send photos of sunsets from film sets with simple captions: “Wish you were here to see it properly.” Watched Jennie—fiercest of all—start texting him late-night memes that slowly turned into longer messages, then voice notes, then late-afternoon calls where her laugh sounded lighter than it had in years.
Soo-ah waited until a quiet Thursday evening in mid-March.
She came home unannounced—bag slung over her shoulder, takeout containers in hand—and found YN in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables for whatever comfort dish he was making that night.
“Appa,” she said, setting the bags down.
He looked up. Wiped his hands on a towel. “Hey, kid. Didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
She crossed the room, hopped onto the counter beside him like she was still sixteen.
“I need to talk to you.”
His brow furrowed—old protective instinct kicking in. “Everything okay?”
She took a breath.
“The girls… they told me. In the van. After they left last time.”
He froze. Knife hovering over the carrot.
“Told you what?”
“That they’re into you. All four of them. Like… really into you. The kind of into you that involves imagining you naked and calling them good girl while you rail them into next week.”
YN’s face went from confusion to something like slow-motion horror. The knife clattered to the cutting board.
“Soo-ah—”
She held up a hand.
“I’m not mad. I’m not weirded out. Okay, maybe a little weirded out at first. But mostly… I’m happy for you.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head.
“Happy?”
“Yeah.” She swung her legs. “You’ve spent years being the perfect dad. The perfect widower. The perfect reformed fuckboy who never looked at another woman after Mom. You deserve to be wanted again. And not just wanted—you deserve to be fucking worshipped. By four gorgeous, talented, kind women who already treat you like you hung the moon.”
He rubbed his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ.”
“They’re not kids, Appa. They’re grown. They know what they want. And right now, they want you. Bad. Like, bend-me-over-the-kitchen-island bad. Spank-me-red-and-call-me-princess bad. Fill-me-up-until-I’m-dripping-your-cum-down-my-thighs bad.”
“Soo-ah!” His voice cracked between laugh and mortification.
She grinned—wicked, loving.
“I’m just saying. If you feel even a fraction of what they feel… don’t hold back because of me. Or age. Or whatever bullshit excuse you’re cooking up in that noble head of yours. I support it. All of it. Even if it means my dad becomes the luckiest bastard in Seoul with four girlfriends who’ll probably fight over who gets to suck his dick first on his birthday.”
He groaned, but there was laughter underneath it now.
“You’re evil.”
“I’m your daughter. I learned from the best.”
He pulled her into a hug—tight, fierce, the way he used to when she was small and the world felt too big.
“I love you, kid.”
“Love you more.” She kissed his cheek. “Now call them. Tell them to come over this weekend. No group project excuse this time. Just… come.”
He did.
They came.
Saturday evening, the house filled again—laughter, takeout boxes, soju bottles, the jasmine scent stronger now that spring was really here.
They ate on the back patio under string lights Soo-ah had insisted on hanging last summer. Conversation flowed easy at first—work, music, dumb gossip—until the soju loosened tongues and the night turned softer.
Soo-ah stood up midway through dessert.
“Okay,” she said, clapping once. “Ground rules. I’m gonna say this once, then I’m going upstairs to pretend I’m not eavesdropping.”
Everyone went still.
She looked at her dad, then at each girl.
“I know. About all of you. And I’m okay with it. More than okay. I want my dad to be happy. And if that happiness comes with four ridiculously hot women who look at him like he’s the last piece of cake on earth… then go for it. Date him. Kiss him. Fuck him sideways if you want—I don’t need details, but I also won’t clutch pearls. Just… be good to him. And maybe take turns so he doesn’t die of exhaustion before he turns fifty.”
Laughter—shocked, relieved, delighted—exploded around the table.
Lisa wiped tears of mirth. “You’re the best wingwoman ever.”
Jennie raised her glass. “To Soo-ah. The only daughter who’d greenlight her dad getting railed by her four best friends.”
Soo-ah bowed dramatically. “Thank you, thank you. Now I’m out. Have fun. Don’t break the furniture. Or his hips.”
She disappeared inside.
The patio went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then Rosé moved first.
She stood, walked around the table slow, hips swaying just enough to make YN’s throat go dry. She stopped in front of him, slid onto his lap sideways—legs draped over the arm of his chair—arms looping around his neck.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he rasped back.
She leaned in. Kissed him—slow, sweet at first, then deeper. Tongue teasing the seam of his lips until he opened for her. She tasted like soju and strawberries and want. When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you made me avocado toast,” she murmured.
He laughed—low, wrecked. “Noted.”
Lisa was next—bouncing up, straddling his thighs while Rosé stayed perched on one side. Lisa cupped his face with both hands, kissed him hard and hungry, all teeth and tongue and little whimpers. She bit his bottom lip just enough to sting.
“Fuck, you kiss like you mean it,” she breathed against his mouth. “I’m gonna dream about this for weeks.”
Jisoo approached quieter—graceful, deliberate. She knelt between his spread legs on the cool patio stones, hands resting on his thighs. Looked up at him with those dark, steady eyes.
“May I?” she asked softly.
He nodded—speechless.
She rose just enough to kiss him—gentle at first, reverent, then parting her lips to let him taste her. Slow slides of tongue, soft sighs. When she broke away, she rested her forehead against his.
“You make me feel safe enough to want everything,” she whispered.
Jennie went last.
She waited until the others had shifted aside—Rosé and Lisa on either side of him now, Jisoo still kneeling close. Jennie stepped between his knees, cupped his jaw, tilted his face up.
“I’ve been wet for you since the night you pinned that fucker to the ground,” she said, voice rough. “Every time you call me Jennie-yah in that low voice, I clench. Every time your hand brushes mine, I imagine it around my throat while you fuck me stupid.”
His breath hitched.
She kissed him then—filthy, possessive. Tongue deep, claiming. One hand fisted in his hair, the other sliding down his chest to rest just above his belt buckle—close enough to feel how hard he already was.
When she pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark:
“I’m not sharing you nicely,” she purred. “But I’ll share you dirty. And you’re gonna love every fucking second.”
The four of them stayed close—hands on him, lips brushing his neck, his jaw, his ears—teasing whispers and soft laughter.
“You gonna survive us, old man?” Lisa teased, nipping his earlobe.
“Gonna need stamina training,” Rosé added, tracing a finger down his sternum. “We’re insatiable.”
Jisoo smiled against his throat. “We’ll take turns riding you until you beg for mercy.”
Jennie’s hand drifted lower—palming him through his jeans just enough to make him groan. “Or we won’t. Maybe we’ll tie you down and use that thick cock until you’re crying our names.”
YN laughed—breathless, happy, completely fucked in the best way.
“I’m in trouble,” he said.
“The best kind,” Jennie answered.
They didn’t go further that night—not yet.
Just kisses. Touches. Promises.
But the house glowed with it—warm, alive, full of laughter and heat and the kind of love that didn’t need to rush.
Months later—summer blooming hot and jasmine-thick—the five of them (plus Soo-ah, who still lived there half the time and pretended to complain about the noise) turned the house into something new.
A home.
Not perfect. Not traditional.
But theirs.
And every night, when the lights dimmed and the girls piled onto the big bed upstairs (or dragged him to the basement couch, or the backyard under the stars), YN felt the last pieces of his old guilt dissolve.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
He was loved.
Wanted.
Cherished.
And yeah—teased mercilessly about how many times he could come before sunrise.
