With a big fuck you to Tumblr, I hereby present my
New Masterlist Structure (NMS)!
The NMS includes this post as the Main Masterlist Hub. Because I can only have 100 Links in one post (really Tumblr, fuck you) and because my desktop Masterlist literally broke (fuck you, Tumblr), I decided to split up my Masterlist into these three parts:
One-Shot Masterlist
Series Masterlist
IZ*ONE Masterlist
Click on the links to find out more about the NMS and where each fic/series/group/idol is! Most of it should be self-explanatory, but you can ask me in my DMs/asks any time if something is wrong/confusing!
Below this gorgeous pic, you can find most of my fics, especially the most recent ones. The NMS has links where you can find the oldest fics in order by release. Check it out for some old goodies!
Here is a random link to a bias-tier-list, almost fresh and new lol! btw: I have written 40 groups and 108 different idols as of April 2024
Masterlist for fics No. 1 to 50 here!
Masterlist for fics No. 51 to 100 here!
-100-
Eleven to One: Hate You Lots ft. Yujin, Minju, Chaewon
When Life Gives You Bandmates, Make A Mess Out Of Them ft. Yunjin, Kazuha
Master['s] Ball[s] ft. Yena
T[w]o find love, [never three] ft. Gaeul, futa!Chaehyun
SM and YG, two polar opposites in K-pop in terms of sound and concept. Their groups have little in common other than being in K-pop, but little do their fans know, that SMYG backwards is GYMS.
Girls Yearning for Memberless Satisfaction.
In the backstage of Inkigayo, a blonde's face is buried between a pair of delicious thighs, manicured fingernails digging into her hair.
"Ohh... Oh yes, right there Ji!"
Jiwoo stops her licking and glares up at Asa. "Ji? Do you want me to start calling you Ass?"
"Yes if you'll get back to work, Jiwoo."
Asa has to suppress a moan as Jiwoo gives her clit a petulant flick of her tongue—it's not be the first time she's received a tongue lashing from H2H's leader. The memberless arrangement was perfect—no risk of pregnancy (duh), no dealing with jealous fans (who ever got jealous that a girl group member was tonguing another girl group member's box on the regular?), and non-obvious arousal (Asa could have fun feeling Jiwoo up, and Jiwoo could go on stage and no one would be the wiser, but try that with a guy? Good luck performing with a tent in their pants!)
"Mm, right there," Asa gives a huff of approval at the lemonhead spearing her tongue into her, and Asa tries her best to keep her thighs from squeezing Jiwoo—the last time she had to explain why there's makeup on her thighs was not a fun one.
Not that Jiwoo needed the instructions. A deep plunge, a smudge of lipstick on her clit, a lick to clean it off, and Asa twitches, bucking her hips and gasping in a quiet climax.
Jiwoo never quite understood the other "member"-less part though, and asks Asa about it while she's fixing her clothes.
"Remind me again why you need me here? You have Ahyeon, and Ruka, and—"
"Of course you mention Ahyeon first," Asa's very slightly jealous and miffed about that. "Creates too much tension, too much potential to get messy. You get into an argument and you don't even have someone to get you off after to relieve the stress of the argument."
"And so... me?"
"We don't see each other enough to get into an argument, so it's perfect. Now bend over." Jiwoo leans forward over some boxes, taking a deep breath as Asa rubs her slit over the safety shorts. The breath catches in her throat, and the world swirls in her head as Jiwoo's Sweetly Leaking Inner Temple is Slowly Penetrated by Little Intrusive Touches.
"Wait, nails!"
"Oh don't worry Ji, I suggested to stylist-unnie that I can try having gloves on for the stage, so no nails, aren't you lucky." Asa twists her wrist, curling her two fingers and hooking into Jiwoo's sweet spot and instantly feeling her get wetter—if she isn't careful she'll have Jiwoo spewing Salty Lewd yet Illogically Tangy juices all over her outfit.
"N-No don't!" Jiwoo knows it too, and she looks back hurriedly, cheeks pink with arousal. Yet her pussy clenches as Asa pulls her fingers out, replacing it with a thumb on her clit. "Hnngh no, just put it back in!"
"Are you sure?" Jiwoo lewdly pulls her shorts to the side as far as she can, and Asa knows better than to stand directly behind her, in the spray zone. The fingers go back in, and Jiwoo's in a rush to gush, Asa helping her to quickly get there, until—
"Jiwoo unnie, Jiwoo unnie!"
No! Jiwoo's knees buckle as Asa's fingers disappear as quickly as they were in her, the click-clack of her heels already disappearing in the other direction. She quickly fixes her clothing before Stella can round the corner.
"There you are unnie! Is that Asa?"
"That's Asa sunbaenim to you, don't be rude." There's a dull throbbing inside Jiwoo, she was so close!
"What are you doing with our rival?"
"We're not rivals! We were coordinating when we could do a challenge."
"No unnie, this is a competition! Why are you so red? Are you feeling okay?" Stella tries to check on Jiwoo, but she's so sensitive anything might set her off at this point.
"Yeah, yeah, it's hot here. Let's go." Jiwoo takes a deep breath and sighs—time to get to work.
***
"Two hours please." Jiwoo slips a few bills under the counter.
"848. Have a good time." A bystander happens to turn their head as they walk by, spying two slim ladies grabbing the key and heading upstairs. Both had hoodies on and wore masks, but there was blonde hair peeking out the top from one of them.
Must be an idol, and two of them? Damn, whoever can get them up here must be rich. Lucky guy. They assume.
They assume wrong, however, and Jiwoo shoves Asa into the room in front of her.
"God I can't believe you edged me like that." Her lips are on Asa in an instant, hands already diving under her hoodie.
"Hey don't blame me, blame your member. If she hadn't come calling for you I would've made you cum all over the floor."
"Don't. Remind. Me." Asa was happy to play along with Jiwoo's neediness, somehow getting naked faster than Jiwoo as the latter tangles herself in her own clothes. Asa leans back on the pillow and watches—it was rare to see Jiwoo act up this badly.
"Come on, hold still." Asa tugs the hoodie up and over Jiwoo's blonde hair, and Jiwoo's wearing nothing but her bra underneath. "Really? You just go around town like that?"
"Shut up." Asa's ready to rise from the bed, to take her usual spot on top of Jiwoo, but she's stopped, a hand on her chest as Jiwoo kicks off her sweatpants and panties. "I want to be on top."
"Do you even know how to be on top?"
"Don't need to, seen you do it so many times." Asa doesn't mind the kissing at all, nor does she mind Jiwoo feeling her up, hands playing with her perky breasts, but all she feels below is... wriggling. "Fuck it isn't working."
"Come on, sit up, like you would on a cock, you do know where a cock is right?"
"Of course." Jiwoo plants herself right on Asa's hipline before seeing Asa's smirk and scooching herself down a little, leaving a trail of her slick on Asa.
"Now grab my knees, and push them towards me." Asa lets Jiwoo figure it out, keeping her thighs spread as a hint, and Jiwoo gets it half right, hands pressed on the back of Asa's knees. "You need to come closer." Asa takes said hands and pulls them towards her, letting Jiwoo's elbows hook her own knees. "Familiar?"
"Y-Yeah." It's a little foreign to be on top, but between Asa looking cute underneath her and her own yet-to-be-satisfied needs she's just waiting for the touch she needs to get started. "Now what?" She lets herself be led.
"Now drop your hips lower and keep pushing on my knees. You won't hurt me, so push." Jiwoo does as she's told, and at a certain point Asa's hips roll up, and both of them gasp at the sensation, lower lips brushing against one another. Awkwardly Jiwoo bucks down into Asa, but the friction is fleeting, just enough to tease Jiwoo but not enough to get her off, and Asa finally gives in. "You don't remember how I do it at all do you?"
"What? Isn't this how you did it?" Truth be told Jiwoo often felt too good when she was the one on her back, and she barely paid attention to what Asa was doing, as long as it made her cum, which was always. Asa straightens her legs, slipping one between Jiwoo's.
"Come on, hold the other leg." Asa rests it on Jiwoo's shoulder and twists her hips, giving Jiwoo much easier access to her pussy. "Now grind." Asa smirks as Jiwoo's mouth drops open, discovering how to properly fuck another girl for the first time. "That's it, good girl." Jiwoo can only manage a whine, already not paying attention to Asa and chasing the pleasure coursing through her. Asa begins to help her along, bucking against her, the two of them scissoring like a well-slicked machine, which Jiwoo is providing in abundance. Her breaths are short as her hair and getting shorter by the moment, but she's gasping and flagging, beginning to run out of energy, so Asa takes matters into her own fingers.
Jiwoo doesn't even notice Asa leaning forward until too late, grabbing her by the hips with one hand and shoving two fingers deep into her pulsing core. Roughly she shoves her fingers back and forth. It hits Jiwoo all at once, and a primal grunt is all she can let out before she gushes.
"Huh— Nnghk!" Warm juice squirts out of Jiwoo violently, and it's directed right at Asa's own swollen lips. It catches Asa by surprise, like a showerhead pointed at her pussy suddenly turned on, and the "water" pressure is enough to trigger Asa's own climax, her thighs suddenly tightly shut and belly taut, a delightful moan on her lips as she feels Jiwoo continue to spray against her own twitching lips.
"Oh god, oh my god..." When Jiwoo's done she slumps on the bed, thighs soaked with slick, body burning from actively scissoring Asa for the first time. She feels her body being dragged down the bed, back towards Asa, and she whimpers when something hot is against her pussy again—Asa's own core. Asa gives it one good grind before pulling herself up and over Jiwoo.
"You did good."
"Did you cum?"
"Mmhmm, you were very hot." Asa kisses Jiwoo hard. "So hot I want to see it again." Asa shows Jiwoo how it's properly done, and this time Jiwoo watches her intently, eyes glued to the way Asa's belly piercing twinkles in the dim light as she moves back and forth on top of her. Asa leans forward, getting Jiwoo to twist her hips and lift her legs slightly—now she's being fucked sideways, feeling their combined juices flow on to her thigh, lewd tang sticky on her skin.
"Asa... Oh my god." Jiwoo hooks her slim waist with her knee, urging Asa to grind faster, she's so close again! The little whine she lets out when Asa stops is utterly devastating, and Asa wanted nothing more to give Jiwoo what she wants. She slides down the bed, planting herself in a familiar spot—right between Jiwoo's legs.
"Hnngh!" Two fingers are shoved unceremoniously into Jiwoo, and Asa begins moving them up and down, as if doing a specific movement about two specific digits, strumming against her g-spot. She licks and sucks on Jiwoo's Swollen Little Intimate Tip, her clit engorged and eager for attention. Jiwoo's already tensing, ready to explode, and Asa tries something new, pressing a thumb into Jiwoo's Significantly Less Used Tunnel.
"Asa, oh Asa, As— AHHHH!" Jiwoo proceeds to lose her voice, her mind, and every argument she has with Asa going forward—Jiwoo would let her win every argument if Asa can make her cum like this! Down between her legs Asa's ears are ringing from Jiwoo's scream, no doubt piercing through the entire hotel. The thought of the headline, "Babymonster Asa and Hearts2Hearts Jiwoo cause a noise complaint in a love hotel" gets Asa desperate to add to the noise complaint, and with a mouth full of and leaking Jiwoo's Lemon Tang she gets herself off, screaming into Jiwoo's muff as she rubs her own clit to a wet climax. Every gush from Jiwoo seems to trigger a spray from Asa, the sheets rapidly soaking in their pleasure.
When Asa gathers herself, all she can feel is two hands on her skull, dragging her up Jiwoo's twitching body. The two of them look at each other, and both of them are convinced they look more ruined than the other, and they try to make things equal, lips crushing against one another, sweat and juices be damned. They go one for one, matching angry red hickeys on their necks before the haze clears.
"That was fucking amazing." All Jiwoo can manage is a rasp, voice in tatters from her cry.
"I'll tell the stylist to give me gloves from now on."
*Bzzzz*
They both hear their phones buzzing, it was time to go.
"Asa?"
"Hm?"
"I can't feel my legs."
"Me neither."
"Let's just lie a little longer then." Asa allows herself to get cuddled for once—Jiwoo's hand running through her hair was kinda nice.
The two of them finally stagger out of the love hotel, no doubt reeking of sex, a patch on their necks barely hiding what they were up to.
"What are you going to tell the members?" The usual question they ask each other.
"Just some guy I met." The usual answer.
"They're gonna ask 'Is he an idol?'" The usual follow-up.
"Maybe." The usual follow-up answer.
"See you next week?"
"Mmhmm."
And no one's the wiser.
A/N: Another silly thing just playing with the acronyms lol (Sugar Honey Ice Tea sureeeee) and then Lemon Tang is L T and it becomes SLIT so easily lol. Thanks for reading!
Tags: intense dancing, very hot choreography, wicked love, lesbian sex, rough sex, finger fucking, clit stimulation, face sitting, abs worship, marking, scratches, a bit of shaming, mentions of toxic relationships, freaky kinks, wicked_lover!Yena / dancer!You
TW: mentions of blood by scratches + toxic relationships; I guess shaming
Inspiration: "WICKED LOVE" by Yena, especially the Dance Practice (I have watched it like 30 times for this fic, fuuuuuuck)
(A/N: female reader bfh that came out of nowhere. Yena had no business being this freaky for her pre-release. (BTW: the title of her actual title track is also quite inspiring...))
“You are going to do the part during the bridge with me.”
Rumor has it that Yena had a break-up before writing this song. Although it has not leaked out into the general public, the message of the song should even get the most delusional or densest fans thinking. However, inside the company building, everyone knows that there's more to the story.
Yena’s relationship was wild, toxic and violent. She and her lover grew from being extremely close and intimate, something the company struggled to hide, to avoiding each other because of the drama that would unfold if they locked eyes. Somehow, they still found ways to make up, but after a few months nothing could salvage this relationship anymore.
As a dancer who regularly works for the same label as Yena, you remember passing Yena’s studio and hearing the vile insults they would throw at each other, audible even through the thick walls. An hour later you’d pass the same door and hear her moans and screams of pleasure. You never dared to peek inside; it would have fueled your envy.
“S-sure,” you answer the imposing idol standing in the midst of the dance practice room, surrounded by dancers just like you who had hoped to be assigned the same part. “I’ll give it my all.”
“Stay after the main practice,” Yena adds in the same stern, professional tone. “I might want to change it up a bit.”
You lock eyes with her through the mirror and nod. The perfect length for eye contact is supposed to be 3.3 seconds, but why is it that Yena makes you weak in less than half of that? If you’d really focused on her for 3.3 seconds, you’d lose your footing and would have to admit that there was more than adoration for her success and (not anymore) adorable visuals.
Through all the curses you’ve heard her scream when there are no cameras, through the rumors of her leaving scratches all over her former lover's face, through the thought of her maybe being the more toxic partner, you’ve continuously grown more obsessed with Yena. You are not better than all those delusional fans out there.
Well, you might not be better, but you are a lot closer now. The rest of the dancers have left the room. The track is still in loop, so you and Yena continue to dance as if it was a normal practice up until the bridge. Luckily, dancing always pulls you into a powerful trance in which you can escape the hold Yena has on your fragile heart. Even when the two of you are close to each other, even when her hands are on your body, hell, even when she tears off your top, the music keeps you going.
However, it’s a lot different now.
During the first part of the choreo, Yena positions herself and you do a couple of quick movements around her. Then the two of you start facing each other, showing off something like an intimate fight before smoothly switching to the finale where Yena circles your body with her arms three times—untils she rips the black top apart.
The moment you start to face Yena, you can see or rather feel how the choreo has changed. Yena is a lot closer, she is literally pressing her chest into yours and moves her knee up to reach your core in between your legs. Doing the hand motions becomes difficult, especially Yena continues to have this dull, bored expression on her face, like it’s just practice.
Yena’s cheek really touches the palm of your hand and you almost forget to continue, your spin out of her imminent reach is amateur-like. You almost stumble when Yena gets on one knee, grabs your lower leg, quickly brushes up your body to grab your waist and then, with perfect timing, destroys your top with a single pull.
The tatters fall from your chest, shoulders, arms. Your breath is heavy and your face is red—not due to dancing anymore. Without a care in the world, Yena hurries towards her phone and stops the music.
“What do you think?” Yena asks, her hands on her hips, her breaths deep, her eyes a bit softer. “Are these changes good?”
You’re frozen in the final pose. The white crop-top with its spaghetti strings suddenly feels too revealing, so you hide yourself with both your arms, unable to truly understand what just occurred.
“Uhm, I-I think it’s good. It adds to the, uhm, intensity of the br-bridge?” you ask, hair and words in a mess, then your heartbeat as well when Yena approaches you again, the track already booming once more.
“I think so as well,” she whispers. “Let’s try it again.”
The two of you get in position. When your muscle memory kicks in, you remember that she just shredded the top and now you’re more exposed and vulnerable to her than ever before. But it’s too late to change it now, the bridge has already started.
This time, Yena is even bolder. Her face seems to go in for a kiss during the second part before she pushes you away and then pulls you back in with her aura, her scent for the finale, which is now way too intimate. From your leg, her hand intentionally rubs over your folds, then grabs the hem of your baggy pants to slightly tug them down and the moment you shoot your hand up to leave your backside wide open, Yena—
“Ah, fuck!”
You scream out in pain. Yena’s painted nails pierce into your skin and mercilessly dig through it up to your neck. You throw your head back as you feel tiny veins burst and droplets of blood leak out of the fresh wounds. Sink into Yena whose arms have not yet left your nape.
“What about this?” she asks with a lewd smirk. “I think it brings out all the intimate anger from the lyrics.”
You nod, eyes narrowed in pain. Yena looks at the mirror and eyes your back. She immediately removes her hands and gasps.
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want it to be, like—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” you hiss and look into her eyes, level with yours, an inch away from yours, she looks so into it, so needy—
That is more than 3.3 seconds. Your legs melt like butter, your chin falls to Yena’s chest. She not only looks bigger than you, her soft pillows are more voluptuous and the tight crop-top is perfect for showing it off.
“We should…” Yena hums, her voice deeper than ever, her hands deep in your hair at this point.
“W-we should fu—” you try to finish the sentence, but she is too fast.
“We should go for a final attempt. There is something I still want to change.”
The looped track is at the second chorus. You need to push all love and lewd thoughts and tension and pent up stress and the feeling of Yena’s boobs out of your mind. The tug she gave your pants shows a string of your thong, your hair is disheveled, your eyes spin, your muscles try to follow the rhythm but there is no need to follow it. The bridge has already started.
Yena is off beat, grazing your jaw with her lips before spinning you around with her own two hands. Those same hands grab your leg, feel everything up to your inner thigh and even pull at the string of your thong. You’re about to explode, but Yena isn’t done yet. Her sweaty palms rub over your sweatier sides, grab both your top and bra and pull them over your skyward arms.
Your heart skips a trillion and one beats when you see through your messy hair that Yena has her eyes closed and lips sucking your lower lip, fingers on your breasts, cupping, poking. You fall backwards, the mirror catching you after a couple of steps. Its cold surface meets your scars, you groan at the ease in pain, the increasing pain, whatever it is, you don’t care.
“Yena, I—”
“No words, nothing.”
Yena pulls down your pants, fiddles with the string of your thong before putting her hand into the front. She sighs a little and you open your eyes to find yourself in the mirror, flushed in red with excitement, confusion and arousal.
“From now on you will shave,” she commands, lips inching towards your ear. She adds, her voice in a husky whisper: “And you will only wear the thongs I give you. I think my pretty girl understands.”
“Y-yes, Yena,” you moan as she rubs your labia.
“Good.
“Now, let’s get into the storage room.”
Yena starts to circle your entrance while guiding you towards the storage room's door. You were always confused why it was lockable from the inside. Now it makes sense. What also makes sense is the big box with pillows, dresses and stage outfits Yena empties onto the floor before pushing you into it. It’s soft, a worthy replacement for a bed.
“Get those off,” Yena groans but her hands are a lot quicker at undressing your pants than yours. “Spread your legs.”
Open shaky knees slowly. Yena is a lot less hesitant, her fingers pushing away your thong and going straight into your pussy. When she curls them upwards, your feet shoot upwards as well. When she thrusts them in and out, you move the same way to engulf them. When she starts to moan—well, you’re already moaning louder than her.
“Fuck, that’s just two fingers,” Yena groans her complain out loudly, not louder than your moans, but she makes sure you learn that she is in control of your neediness. “What if I actually make you cum with just these two, huh?”
“Ye-Yena, I—”
“No words.”
Yena puts the palm of her hand on your mouth, sealing it shut. The only way to get air is to breathe through your nose, the only way to voice your pleasure is by frantically swinging your legs through the air. However, Yena seems to be amused by your struggle to breathe coherently or release your tension. Feverishly, she starts to pump her fingers in and out of your cunt, while her thumb pokes your clit again and again.
“Are you really going to cum just like that?” Yena huffs and rolls her eyes. “God, I haven’t even undressed and you’re already this weak. I bet the fucking filthiest of my fans would do better than you.”
There is this ounce of pride in you that wants to fight back and argue that you are definitely not on the same level as those creeps lewding her, but in all honesty, you also don’t. Yena is so right, you are wet for her, your soft walls milking her two fingers like you need to do it for your survival. Your hands are free to do everything, you could push her arm away or put yourself upright, but they flop around uselessly, like weak straws.
“Now—”
Yena removes her hand from your whimpering mouth and puts it on the hem of her crop top.
“—I want you to cum, perfect little girl.”
With a single pull, she gets the tight piece of clothes over her surprisingly big, bra-covered breasts and you get to see something all her fans can only dream off. Too bad you are just too weak, her upwards-downwards curling fingers stretching your cunt and her left-right flicking thumb have you on the edge and with a final, painfully hard push, you start to cum all over her arm.
“Oh, so hot,” Yena groans as your juices run over her skin. “It’s so sticky—did I tell you that you smell fucking lewd? Just from your sweat while dancing, I knew you’d smell perfect down here as well.”
Yena blows on your sore pussy when she pulls out her soaked fingers. The final spurts of your arousal leak onto the stage outfits below, but Yena does not give a fuck. Rather, she continues faster than your orgasm-shaken brain can react. Her face hovers above yours, it looks like she is about to take you missionary—if only she could.
“The next time, when you are shaven,” Yena whispers, cum-covered hand creeping over your chest to your chin. “I’ll fuck just like this. I’ll make you cry with nothing but my pussy. I bet you’re yearning for it already.”
You nod mindlessly before sucking yourself from her fingers. Yena is right, everything about you is lewd, so you might as well make a lewd expression while cleaning each of her fingers individually, then lapping off the rest from her palm. Her expression changes from a fascinated smirk to something a lot more sinister. Suddenly, she pulls your hair while trying to get out of her own pants.
“I know you want it, but I’m not going to give it to you. I’m just going to use your slutty little face to fuck myself and you’re going to be a good, perfect little girl. You will do the fucking things I say.”
“Y-yes, Yena.”
Wordlessly, Yena stands up and finally rids herself of all her garments. When her panties fall, you immediately want her crotch to be closer, but it comes a bit too close. Though the light is dim in the storage room, Yena makes sure that you can see her shaven pussy, her folds, her ass upclose when she starts to sit on your face.
“Stick your fucking tongue out!”
Yena starts to moan loud and deep and louder and deeper when she rubs her labia on your nose and her clit on your tongue. She is incredibly wet, dripping on your face and making you more than a sweaty mess. All your eyes see is her subtle ass ripple as Yena goes faster, her clit chasing for more stimulation from your mouth.
A sudden sting on your sides fills you with pain. It feels like you are bleeding again, but this time Yena's nails feel intentionally torturous. Right above your hip bones she is leaving scratches, as if she is a tiger attacking and slashing you. You try to show your pain by grabbing her thighs, but she immediately swats you away.
“No! Only I mark you! Fuck, your abs make me so fucking jealous. Be a good little girl and move your stupid tongue.”
Yena suffocates you with her sweaty, pink cunt while her glossy lips begin to kiss all over your midriff. Enticed by her worship of your abs, you start to worship her lower lips with everything you have. Lick it, nibble on it, suck on it, blow on it, just to make her thighs shudder at the sides of your head. Then it’s Yena’s turn to slobber all over your abs, leave painful hickeys and even more painful scars when you strike at her most sensitive nub.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ll fuck your face forever, don’t stop, fuck!”
She likes that word so much—just like she likes thrusting her hips down, smacking her juices all over your features until her unannounced yet definitely noticeable orgasm that leaves you with a blurry vision of her trembling crotch. Yena’s smell and cum fill your nostrils as you try to take deep breaths, a grave mistake which leads to you falling into a coughing fit. Not a good final impression, but the idol does not seem to mind. With unsteady feet she gets off of your face just to sink to her knees beside you as the orgasm still rattles her mind.
Half a minute later, your coughing fit finally subsiding, Yena’s hands do not subside—like claws they cling to your abs and hips, making you hiss when she goes over the fresh wounds. She looks at you, brushes the wild strands of pink hair behind her ear and does what you assume is an apologetic gesture: Eyes still locked with yours, her lips gently kiss where faint droplets of blood come from and you throw your head back at—again—pain and pleasure.
“I can’t get enough of this,” Yena hums and you continue to groan.
“I-it hurts, Yena.”
“I like marking my girls.”
Suddenly, her hand creeps in between your legs and you lock it right there with your thighs. Shit, you’re sensitive, needy for another round of her fingers getting you off. Yena however only brushes the bush of your unshaven pubic hair. Once more, she sighs, but this time it’s a lot less demanding; maybe she sounds hopeful?
“If you want another round,” she whispers. “Shave yourself ‘till tomorrow.
Since I'm following you for 5 years now and I know your a fan of eunbi, do you think that she gonna do a sexy concept that she was on a new company (rbw)
5 years is crazy, dont make me feel so old.
hmmmm, Eunbi has done sexy stuff already, so it wouldn‘t shock me. I hope she enjoys herself doing wtv it is lol. But she is rocking the sexy role!
When is the next part of Eleven to One: Hate You Lots coming? I am dying to see Chaewon become the next cum slut.
Eleven to One: What's to Hate?
Male Reader x Ahn Yujin, Kim Minju, Kim Chaewon
Length: 4294 words
Tags: Daddy kink, nudist kink, submission, teasing, teaser, trap, making out, passionate kissing, being watched, girl on girl kissing, girl on girl action, fingering, loss of voice, loss of mind, breeding kink, hate sex, choking, riding, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, emotional manipulation, degradation, emotional hurt, everything is fucked up af, doggy, breeding doggy, self-restraint, female orgasm, creampie, good_girls!Minju and Yujin / broken!Chaewon (?)
TW: degradation, hate sex, emotional manipulation, the story is already very fucked up, what are you still doing here lmao?
Credit: @sooyadelicacies for being my co-writer!
(A/N: Finally, another part to this... series. I don't even know how to describe it, but we'll go down a spiral and completely out of control lol. Here is the previous part btw, here is the rest of the series)
"Daddy, I found a letter in the mail."
Yujin's nude body slides through a small gap in your office door. Oh, what a life you're living. All your insane previous work hours reduced to two six hour shifts in your own apartments. Hyewon prepares, executes and delegates everything, you only need to check and sign. She is great and makes you millions in mere weeks.
"Thank you, Yujin. Put it on the pile with the others, right there." You point at a corner of your desk, but Yujin hesitates.
"I think this one is... special," she says and shows you the large envelope. "Look at this playful Emoji on it. Something seems to also bulge it, definitely not paper; something round I think."
"The Emoji looks more like a smiley, don't you think?" you ask, looking past the white, definitely filled envelope to your smocking hot girlfriend. She shrugs her shoulders, you almost believe her.
"Chaewon?"
"She'd never put a smiley on there for you!"
"Maybe she is mocking me?"
"Oh, Daddy," Yujin chuckles. "Just read it after work. I have to head out now, dance practice."
"Sure, but can I ask you a favor?"
Yujin turns around again and smirks. Her amazing thighs jiggle when she steps a bit closer again. You could ravage her every single fucking seconds of your life, if only that was a possibility.
"Yes, of course, Daddy~"
"Try to get both Chaewon and Minju here at 9pm—scratch that, 8pm. I want them both freshly exhausted."
Yujin ponders for a second, playing with her long hair, before leaning in close to your ear, her heat radiating straight to your face.
"Hm, I think I can arrange that."
#
“Hello? Yujin? I'm here."
Chaewon's loud voice comes from the front door of your apartment. It might still be enough to fill the vast confines of each room, but you can hear it slowly dwindle from hours and hours of vocal and dance practice. Surely she won't be able to keep this volume up for long.
"Should I call her?" Yujin whispers in your ear, obediently sitting on your thigh.
"Let her look for you. Where is Minju?" you ask and take a look at your watch. 7:58. Interesting. Minju not being early isn't a surprise, but Chaewon being here before the time? She must have hurried.
"I told her to be here, 8pm flat," Yujin murmurs and fiddles with the collar of your shirt. You grab her wrists and look at her somewhat intensely.
"Try calling her. Hurry."
"Yujin! Where are you?" Chaewon calls again, then her voice cracks. "I don't want to play these games, not with this pig around—"
"What pig?" you shout back, making even Yujin shudder as she rushes towards your office to hide and look for a phone. "I do not allow such animals in this house."
You could practically hear Chaewon's face morph into a scowl at your voice.
"You heard me! You're a pig. I am only doing this because Yujin invited me over!"
"Well then, come on in!" you sarcastically laugh back, making sure to be louder than her, to urge her not only to walk further into the trap, but also to raise her voice at you.
“Fuck you," Chaewon hisses and enters the living room. In the flickering light of your fireplace you see her hatred filled eyes stare at you. God, she tries so hard to kill you with just that look, but it's all futile.
The white dress makes her look like an angel, a sweaty angel that has the fabric stuck to her small body. Her hair is a mess, her faint makeup is a mess, now her voice is a mess mess mess.
"Fuck you, where, where is she?"
"Oh," you mock her with a pout and reach for a glass of wine on a side table. "Your voice... you should drink something, hm?"
Suddenly, Yujin bursts into the room. Chaewon's features turn from gloomy to delighted, but just as quickly she just looks lost and, judging by the light pink hue on her round cheeks, horny.
"She'll be here in a minute, Daddy," Yujin purrs and grabs the glass from your fingers. "Hi, Chaewon. Nice to see you~"
“Minju is a part of this too?" Chaewon asks.
You ignore her and continue on.
"I must admit, you do look quite stunning in that outfit. It's a pretty dress."
"I'm not here for you to gawk at."
"Hmm. No, I think it's quite the opposite."
You turn your attention back to Yujin and motion for her to sit back on your lap and give you a sultry searing kiss. As she does, you fixate your eyes for one second on Chaewon. Oh, she is gawking. She is so focused on it, the way Yujin's bountiful curves melt into you, how willingly she becomes your good little baby girl, to be played with. You can hear her gulp and the revealing dress becoming too warm.
"Daddy, your tongue," Yujin quietly moans, trying to get more from you, but your ears have already picked it up: the arrival of Minju, hectic and clumsy as per usual. The front door crashes open, it hits the wall and almost comes back to haunt the poor girl.
"I-I'm here—Chaewon-unnie!?"
"Minmin, look at who I personally invited over,” you boast from your couch and take a final sip of wine. “You're right on time, but try to be early in the future."
"Yes, Daddy! Oh, I want to kiss you too, Daddy..." Minju says with longing, seeing Yujin on your lap.
“No, Minju, don't," Chaewon barely crooks out past her dry lips, her gentle red lipstick almost peeling off of it. She uses the remnants of her energy to put both a foot and an arm in the large door frame, but it won't be enough. Her blockade is too small, Minju could still get past it.
In desperation, Chaewon resorts to other means. She grabs her taller friend and with a knee between her legs pins her against the door frame. Minju yelps, her own hands trying to avert the attack.
"Please don't go to him! Stay here, stay w-with m-m-me..."
Endearing, it makes you feel like the heartless animal Chaewon probably envisions you being. A pig, greedy for only the most beautiful, submissive, willing girls, never stopping. No, Yujin isn't enough, perfection isn't enough. You need Minju, on you—but there is something even more fun right now.
"On second thought," you say in the general direction of the two, Yujin's saliva still fresh on your tongue, her soft fingers on your cheekbones. "Don't kiss me, Minju. Go kiss her. Kiss her now, right on the lips."
"Wha—" Chaewon stops to breathe.
"O-okay, Daddy."
Suddenly, the roles are reversed. The hands that pressed, the knee that pinned, the eyes that begged; the dynamic falters. Chaewon, only wanting Minju to look at her, can't bear the adorable, loving features coming closer, the puckered lips, oh they look so soft…
"Minmin, time to put your training to use. Make Chaewon feel good," you say gently as Yujin keeps kissing your neck. You watch the show unfold before you.
First a peck. Simple, disarming. Chaewon's weak arms bend more and more, she can't keep her friend away. Of course she wants this, but you cannot be the one in control of it. Feel adrenaline rush through your body as Chaewon caves in, nothing compared to Minju's unstoppable approach.
Secondly, the tongue. Minju's prise open her Unnie's lips and you hear, see, even feel her squirm and willingly lose the battle when Minju wraps her arms around her waist. Chaewon becomes one with the doorframe, seemingly one with Minju when their legs brush and tongues twirl like greedy tornados. Chaewon even follows Minju, when she backs off a bit and disconnects their lips—just to adjust her hair, smile brightly with her huge blush and dive back in.
You turn to Yujin in disbelief.
"How—since when is she so good? Our little Minmin..."
"We trained her well, I guess~" Yujin smiles lewdly, another torrent of sloppy kisses.
"You lewd slut. Get me out of these clothes."
"Of course, Daddy."
"Also..."
"Yes, Daddy?"
"You're still the best kisser, Yujin."
She smiles from ear to ear, her hand already popping open your buttons and belt.
"Thank you."
You allow Minju to keep pleasuring a little longer Chaewon, to bring the elder to the brink of bliss. Like the test ride of a new sports car, Chaewon gets to feel every extraordinary, expensive curve and benefit of what she can never have. Not when you’re still pulling the strings.
"Minju, you're such a good kisser," Chaewon says softly.
"Daddy's been teaching me well and—"
"That's enough Minmin,” you call her and consequently bring Chaewon down from cloud nine. “Come here."
Minju merely nods and without a care in the world, she moves over to you as you plant a sloppy kiss on her lips. Chaewon’s hands tremble as if she’s feeling the withdrawal of a drug.
"Daddy, did I do well?" Minju gleefully asks.
"Yes you did, baby girl."
"What the hell?" Chaewon's eyes glaring daggers.
"Oh. Did you think Minju was into you? That she was enjoying it? Why don't you tell Chaewon the truth." You command Minju.
"Unnie, I," Minju hesitates, her stammer only interrupted by Yujin slurping on your cock and drowning it in her drool. "I like you but... you are not a g-good kisser. I liked yo-your fingers but Daddy and Yujin are—"
"No! They are using you!"
Chaewon has lost her voice, tears spark in her orbs as she reaches for her throat. She wants to shout at you, scream her love back at Minju, but it hurts. It's not coming out.
"Minju," you groan, your voice teasing. "Why are you still wearing clothes?"
"Oh, sorry Daddy. I'll lose them asap."
"Very good. And then you can get your prize."
In the flash of an eye, Minju is naked, her clothes spread all over a tearful Chaewon and a cockhungry Yujin, who you quickly guide next to you on the couch.
"I give you a choice," you tell your girlfriend. "You can masturbate while watching us or you can try to keep your hands off your body and then I'll fuck you the whole night. Your call."
Yujin's eyebrows furrow. It's rare for her to not touch herself when naked on any occasion, but around you and her hot former bandmates and all the sex that's about to happen, it is close to impossible.
You don't think about her for another second. Minju finds her way on your lap, your stiff, lubed up rod in her always curious hands. Grab her by the waist and spin her around so she faces Chaewon. A disappointed moan.
"But I can't kiss Daddy like this."
"Just turn your head to the side, Minmin. I can kiss you from every angle. Now spread your legs and show her how I fuck y—"
"No, I don't—"
You interrupt Chaewon by spitting at her pathetic figure kneeling on the ground. Her nerves must have been broken; confusion, anger and never before felt horniness all wrestle for control in her delicate body while she can barely speak.
"You know what you need to do," you growl and push your cock upwards into Minju who desperately searches for your lips as groans escape her own. "But just watch, I guess."
You begin to pump into Minju and kiss her with pure lust and dominance. Her entire being submits to you, becomes obedient and willing to take your cock faster, harder, deeper—you know the drill and so does she. Minju’s lips have an addictive taste, it might stem from Chaewon, whose sweet loss you can (metaphorically, of course) nibble from her friend.
"Minmin, you know Chaewon loves you right? Like loooves you? How do you feel about that? Do you think you can ever love her back the same way?"
"Yujin… make him stop..." Chaewon all but cries out.
Yujin however is in her own world. Her struggle is real, no matter how deep she digs her nails into the couch, they try to sneak back and touch her needy spots. The three aroused nubs, her clenching pussy, hell, her entire body has become an erogenous zone at this point. She reaches for some of Minju's clothes to maybe tie herself up, but all she finds are panties, stained with love juice and perfectly smelly.
Chaewon looks back at you as you ravage her friend. Your thrusts go harder, your grip on Minju's hips and tits gets tighter, your tongue licks faster—has it always been this close? Chaewon wonders, her eyelids flickering.
His cock is... right there. Oh God, she is taking it so well, Minju's pussy looks so good, so stretched... and her midriff is so smooth.
"I-I," Minju's screams get Chaewon out of her dream. "I loved Unnie! Her fingers, her lips, but... she has not been th-there for mee—
"Ah, Daddy, I'm cumming!"
In the midst of her climax, you pinch Minju's nipples and bite her ear. Your cock stretching her to the max, you ask:
"What do you love? Say it!"
"Daddy's cock! Daddy's cock is the best."
"I'll do it." Chaewon unzips her dress, face pale and blank, voice fragile and pleading. "I'll fuck you. Please."
"And then?" you respond, a babbling Minju unceremoniously dropped onto a still restraining Yujin, who shrieks at the touch of hot skin, sweat and saliva on her own scorching body.
"I—what more do you want?" Chaewon asks shakily.
"You don't get it do you? I don't care if you fuck me or not. I don't need you. No. I want you to beg for it. I want you to realize whose fucking house you're in right now. Your Yujin is mine. And your Minju? She won't ever love you unless I give her permission. So first, you're going to apologize to me. You're going to get on the floor and beg me for forgiveness and then you're going to beg for my perfect fucking cock, Kim Chae-won."
Chaewon, struck by lightning, hesitates to respond. Whatever sentence her brain is scrambling to create, it's not a worthwhile response. In fact, nothing is. She is a puddle, absolutely destroyed by your authority, her every weakness now used against her.
All that can work now is taking action. Fighting back, literally.
In a single motion, Chaewon rises from the ground and the ashes of her dignity like a phoenix, digs her fingers into your jaw and pounces on your lap. There is a new fire in her eyes, blue flames of frustrated rage that show that she is indeed no celestial, but a woman filled with vengeance.
Panties pulled to the side, she guides your cock behind the curtains of her short dress and like a magician makes it disappear in her tight entrance. Feel that she is a lot wetter than last time right from the get go; her pain resistance due to your size seems to have risen as well.
What can you do in the face of this power, this unbridled will, her hips that smash down on you with the force of a falling anvil, the pointy ends of her nails in the skin of your cheeks, piercing like arrows, her hateful moans of victory? Chaewon will fuck you senseless, squeeze out every word of a long apology and show Minju that serving you is a waste of time. You're a pig after all.
At least that's what you make her believe.
Your face twists into a smile.
"A whore who can't control her urges. Who is the pig now? C’mon then, fuck it out of me, if you think you can! I'll tell you what: If you make me cum before I make you cum, I'll release Minju back to you. You'll both be free to go and I'll never bother you again.
Yujin looks at you for a moment, wondering if you would really give her away like that, fingers on Minju’s body to distract her from the juices leaking out of her pussy.
"Listen here," you viciously whisper and pull away Chaewon's hand which bothers your face. "Try to get some leverage in this position, before making absurd demands. As of now, you have nothing on me."
"I-I'm on top," Chaewon moans, continuing to bounce on your cock.
"It means nothing. I can easily make you cum like this. I can also make you cum by folding you in half and pressing you into the couch or picking you up like a human fleshlight or... fuck, I could order your friends here to force a hundred orgasms out of you, all before you can even think of satisfying me.
"Do you understand, Chaewon? Earn yourself the spot above me, because right now, you're nothing but a toy."
Chaewon's face contorts in pleasure and embarrassment. She can't let these insults get to her, but at the same time, she gets off to them. Her pussy clenches around your cock, needily sucking it back in, wanting it to fuck upwards and claim every inch of her hot, velvety insides.
"At least your body is honest." You smirk.
"Wh-what—ah, no!"
You get a hold of Chaewon's hips, her dress spilling out of your hands as you hold her steady and thrust into her. Unlike before, you make sure to give her every inch every time. Chaewon's eyes roll up in her head, then down to your body, easily overpowering hers from below. Her voice breaks at every moan and scream, and she can't bear the sight of her friends, who look on closely.
Their Unnie is becoming stupid for this cock.
Minju pouts sadly.
"Chaewon-unnie, you should enjoy it. Daddy's perfect cock...it's the most special thing," Minju mumbles, drool in the corner of her pretty mouth.
"Unnie, maybe you should apologize to Daddy. He'll make you feel good," Yujin says sincerely.
"N-never! I-I will n-not—"
All it takes is you swiping her clit, found under her dress. The tiny bundle of nerves had it coming and now the fearless leader is cumming on your cock. However, it is not this grand, cathartic orgasm for her, just a demonstration of your power. Frankly, this is what you think Chaeeon deserves: A pleasureless loss, pathetic for the woman she wants to be. So much on the line, yet she did not even come close to achieving her goal.
In a well-timed outburst of your horny rage, you pull out of her and throw her on the couch. Giving Yujin a teasing brush on her flexed thigh and then a kiss because she needs to hold out just a little bit longer, you then focus on Minju.
"Get on top of Chaewon," you order. "I'm gonna fill you in Doggy for being a good girl."
"Thank you, Daddy," Minju excitedly says and once again traps Chaewon with her body.
You push inside Minju's sweet pussy and tug at her hair.
"Minju, how would you feel if I bred you tonight? How badly do you want to be bred?"
Yujin almost became distraught, before remembering her place and knowing this was a part of your plan. You wanted to show Chaewon what was truly yours.
"Daddy… I don't know if I'm ready to raise a child, but I want to carry yours so badly," Minju whispers and looks right through Chaewon’s hazelnut eyes.
Perfect. You would fuck Minju, break her while Chaewon would be right below her, helpless to watch as you filled Minju with your seed.
"I want you to tell Chaewon the truth,” you tell Minju and caress her smooth back before pushing it a bit closer to Chaewon. “Then you can be filled to the brim."
"I want Daddy! I want his Daddy cock and his Daddy seed deep in my pussy! I want him to breed Minju every day!"
Minju has never clenched harder around your dick than at this moment. It's not a hyperbole, because for the first time you find it irresistible to not cum in another pussy that isn't your girlfriends'. This moment right here, this impeccable, cruel set up is Minju has finally becoming ethereal truth and beauty: on all fours, drooling on her former lover's face, sweat pouring out everywhere, nothing can fill her heart like you.
Fill her, you do. The way to Minju’s heart is through her desperate, empty pussy—try to rephrase that at a different time, because now, it’s quite befitting. The breedable girl won’t be able to keep herself upright for long, that’s the measurement of power for how hard your thrusts are. You don’t really want her to anyways. She is allowed to freely fall on top of Chaewon, who constantly fails to close her eyes to Minju’s face.
A face of desire, of pleasure; a tongue hanging out, hoping to suck the same cock that’s rearranging her insides—also something that should be rephrased. One day, but not today. Today you give Minju loving spanks for being the good, rod-taking girl that you and Yujin envisioned her to be. After the fifth slap, her legs go weak first, her midriff meets Chaewon’s, but her pussy still sucks you back in. Minju is thirsty.
Thirsty for cum, and you give it to her greedy pussy that wrings you viciously. Minju is a vacuum, getting your balls dry and although you make sure everything is dumped deep inside her cavern, huge amounts still drip out of her and onto Chaewon, who shrieks at every impact of cum on her skin.
You're still dreamy, Minju's deep breaths are the only thing audible to you, her ass the only thing in your line of view. It seems you forgot something, a promise you have made.
"D-Daddy!" Yujin calls for you and shakes your shoulders violently. "I haven't touched myself, please, please, please fuck me now! I'm a good slut, use me, fill me, I need your cock."
You turn towards her. This poor girl is standing there, shivering, her wrists awkwardly turned to prevent her from touching her already squeezing pussy. In a moment of thrill for you and catharsis for her, you grab Yujin's hand and pull her into your bedroom. The door shuts and moments later, Chaewon and Minju hear their Dongsaeng cum, loud and proud.
"Yujinie is—" Minju whispers, wanting to start a conversation, but Chaewon interrupts her.
"A-are you really going to be pregnant?" Chaewon quietly cries out, tears and snort on her face. Minju props herself up and smiles down at her dear friend.
"To be honest," she starts and blushes. "No, I'm protected. But it feels so good, so right to say it."
"Th-that is fucked up, Minmin," Chaewon whimpers.
"Unnie, sex can be so much fun. Here, put your finger in me, like you used to! He feels so warm, and there is so much."
Minju guides Chaewon's fingers to her freshly fucked, leaking entrance and although she hesitates for a bit, Chaewon starts to finger more and more cream out of her friends cunt. Minju softly moans and they both watch a downpour of white fall on Chaewon’s navel in the middle of August.
"I was unsure at first too," Minju continues and cups Chaewon's face. "But it can feel so good, the best feeling ever. I won't leave that.
"I still love you, though. We all do. Yujin and Eunbi-unnie and Hyewo—"
"What do you me—oh my God."
Suddenly, Minju kisses the beyond shocked Chaewon before the latter loses her mind to the most absurd scenario that is imaginable but also so immoral, it should not be. Instead Chaewon melts into Minju's lips and decides to stay quiet. She could never be part of such a fucked up game, it’s just wrong, filthy, absolutely disgusting. He is such a pig!
"Unnie, come here more often. Daddy can be so soft, he will train you, you will be better at sex and one day, he will cum in you and you will love it.
Minju, you are out of your mind… but what if—
"Trust me~"
#
The luxury of getting up at 11am and still making more money than most people do in their life time should be appreciated by you, but instead you whine over the fact that after three more rounds with Yujin after the initial, massive filling of Minju and eight hours of sleep, you have to get back to ruling your business empire.
That's when you find the envelope Yujin brought yesterday. You finish a boring phone call and pick it up, still very much unsure of what the round thing inside it is. Tear it open and a letter slips right out—along with a cute little collar. Intrigued you begin to read while you pick up the round object.
Dear you,
yes, you. Yujin told me that you exist. You're her boyfriend and although she doesn't talk about you often, I can tell she really loves you. You seem like a very wise person, especially when you can get along with Yujin.
I wanted to ask you something: could we maybe chat a little? Talk face to face? I know it's a weird request, but I kinda want someone to talk to right now. I feel I can trust you, more than other people around me. If you can keep your relationship with Yujin a secret, this will be easy-peasy, right?
Feel free to talk with Yujin about this first, but you both keep quiet! I don't want the others to be worried.
"So, what exactly is this?" It's a valid question from Yuri, you weren't entirely transparent about your intentions. Yena said she was prototyping her guitar, that it was 'electrifying' and 'mindblowingly orgasmic'
So Yuri, fairly or unfairly assumed that was about music.
Technically, she's not wrong.
However, in practice. Yena is synced up to a device that can only be described as a bondage lover's wet dream. Wire's everywhere, some coiled to her thighs, some dangling off her chest. A lot pooling to almost make a tailor-made dress.
"It's one of our new inventions." Yena remarks casually, like there's not a dildo that can self-thrust next to both her pussy and her tight ass. Like there's no vibrating clamps that gently hug her nipples. You have the guitar in your hands, though you'll definitely pass it to Yuri in a little while. Need an unbiased tester, make sure it works fine.
"Last time you told me about your inventions you were making fuel-powered bouncy balls. What even happened?"
"We wanted to pay bills, this is our latest idea." You interject. "It works about as simply as you can expect. Each of these four buttons resonate with another. You play any song you know and see how the woman reacts."
"Show her practically, come on." Yena sighs, you are down. You click the first button, the clamp on her left nipple starts to vibrate, squeeze slightly– gets a short gasp out of Yena. Same for the second just for the right side.
The third one is more interesting, you only do short presses first– make sure to not overwhelm. The toy pushes deeper into her pussy, sits inside until you make it move. This is designed to be easy to use, hard to master. Replayability that can get even the most diehard of rhythm players to get invested.
It's a very specific niche your targeting, rhythm players good enough to do well that also have a partner. Eh, it'll reflect in the mark up.
"Come around." You point, Yuri follows and looks at Yena from behind. You click the last button and it pushes deep inside Yena's asshole, you push it a bit further. Then she stands there filled to the brim.
"Right, I still don't know why you needed me to be here? Me and Yena are close, don't get me wrong. But this is–"
"Oh shut up, before I met him you had your tongue in me every other night. We are definitely that close." Yena cuts through Yuri's lies, she's red as a tomato and doesn't say anything more.
"We need an unbiased participant who doesn't know it inside and out, you are that person." It's a simple exchange, you'll buy her a nice meal for this.
"Okay, sure, fine. Show me it." You've already started, but there's a few other cool features you can't wait to show in more detail. Then, your television screen turns on. (thanks to a hidden button in the frame, otherwise it'd ruin the IMMERSION!)
"We've made it so this guitar can work on all forms of rhythm software. We'll use Fortnite Festival for this because we have it installed." You swap to a song, you need to pick one that's not too hard, not too easy. A perfect highlight, you pick a 7/7 on bass. Should be easy enough.
Here goes nothing.
The music starts to play, though what song is hardly relevant. What matters is Yena braces herself for the first set of notes, though no matter how hard she braces. It still catches her off guard, hitting all four notes at once. Multiple times, the two dildos fucking her holes as her nipples get tormented.
"Ah, fuck!" Yena's caught caught in pleasure, Yuri's blushing. Her friend's got 14 inches (divided by two obviously) inside her and they are drilling her while the person causing it is just strumming a few cords. That's normally a metaphor, but these two inventors be doing stuff differently apparently.
"As you can see, it's quite intense." You lull, hitting your keys to the beat of the music. You can hear the slick noises of her pussy getting thoroughly fucked cutting through the rest of the noise.
"Y-yeah, I–" Yuri is rubbing her legs together, looking up towards the sky as if focusing on Yena is going to make her lose her mind. Her body's sweating under pressure, hands gripping her thighs to avoid them going anywhere else. "It's something."
"Ngh, fuck! Yuri, touch yourself for me– please!" That came out of nowhere, the machine must be have sparkled something. "I don't care he's watching, come on! Please–"
"What?!"
"You don't have to–" You start, your voice trails off because a particularly hard section comes up. Forcing your entire attention, it reflects in Yena's moans. Hits a crescendo that lasts for a solid half-minute.
"Ignore him, do it, let me see your pretty pussy again! It's been so–long!"
Yuri's between a rock and soft place, this wasn't in your initial testing plans but errant data should probably be considered. In the event they got a three player rotation, someone touching themselves is standard, expected.
You just never designed this for three people.
Fool's mistake and in this case, you're the fool. Yena's on cloud fuck knows and therefore doesn't have time to worry about all that. But back to Yuri's ultimatum, surely with the way she shouted what she'd be thinking about it still ri–
Oh, she's wearing less clothes than before.
Hm, oh well.
The problem with your technology you are realising now is you can not focus on your test-partner being so overwhelmingly aroused that her arousal is being launched into the floor. Nor can you focus on her situationship best friend heeding her commands. Hastefully kicking herself out of her shorts and underwear simply and efficiently. Put blandly, your peripherals are doing quadruple overtime.
A few more seconds, the song will be over. But this is the most ridiculous section for Yena, a bunch of hold notes. When the buttons are held the machines work at peak efficiency, fucking the soul out of her. "Oh my, my, fuck– yes, fuck!" Her orgasm hits right at the finish of song, and it's explosive. Spurts of squirt painting a new pattern in your favourite towel.
You play an imaginary song, fuck her insane ass (You'd know, it hugs you like the warmest kindling of affection.) with chords to ride her through it. Then perhaps the most annoying thing happens.
Your frame snaps, the thing keeping Yena from falling over ages ago breaks in two and unsurprisingly she slips. Right between Yuri's legs, face first into her box tongue first. Yuri is quite to take advantage of such a perfectly shown moment of chance, grinds her slit against Yena's pretty face. She quickly sticks her tongue out, devouring her friend while you stand there and savour such a moment.
"Yena! Eating me out so, god, damn well!" The machine is still mostly plugged into Yena, so you do Yuri a favour. Pushing a few buttons that make the girl moan straight into her– resonating within her core. "Don't stop!"
Muffled moans fill the room as you continue to pleasure Yena, pumping the machine's dildo in and out much slower now. Just a consistent rhythm enough to mess with her brain, overwhelming without shutting her down. You need the data. Whatever is salvageable out of this. You stand there bricked up like a virgins first time seeing tits, rubbing yourself through your clothes.
Yuri's moans are ridiculous, hits the walls and bounces back twice as fucking loud. Then you think, you need more data… someone who hasn't been responsible in the design process. "Yuri, say– would you like a turn?"
She looks shocked, but Yena pulls herself away to breathe. "Yeah, you trust my creation right?" No, she definitely didn't. It snapped in front of you. "I'll hold you up."
"Okay, I trust you, for once." Yuri's words brought you two great joy, helping Yena out of the machine and slowly putting Yuri in. Lubing up her tight rim, giving it a finger while Yena gave it two. Working together to make sure she could handle this, proper procedure. (proper bla bla you get the idea by now surely.)
Couple minutes later and it's all set up, Yena holding Yuri up by the armpits to ensure she doesn't replicate her fall over incident. "Ready?"
"I guess?" Yuri is not nearly as assured as Yena was, after seeing the mess that was just made and getting herself ate out though she is far too horny to think logically about this. You pick a song that honestly you just like, Fantasia For The Witch's Hound.
"Don't let her go, I don't know how concussions and orgasms mix." You warn, however Yena is gripping onto her harder than she grips around you so it'll be all gucci. " Here goes nothing.
You start, and this song is absolutely nothing compared to the last one– difficulty erect and ready to go right off the get go. Triple click every note in rapid motion, she's already had her warm up. Shaking and struggling in Yena's grasp, who is doing her divine duty as best she can. Going above and beyond as well– kissing Yuri's neck like it's a fine treasure, letting her teeth scratch against the soft skin.
"Ngh, Yena! This is so over–" It's hard to articulate the beauty of the situation, maybe you've struck gold with this. Market it as a swinger's party device, make millions. While your salivating over potential profit (pp for short) Yuri is salivating at the pressure, crotches stained with both of their arousal intermingled as one slick layer.
"Overkill? Overwhelming? Overtastic?" Yena breaks the rules further, rubbing her clit feverishly, giving Yuri the time of her life. "Take my cocks, fucking you– like old times sake. Cum all around them!" You are the voyeur to time long past and only now you get an idea.
What if you just, stood to the left? So they are directly in your line of sight? Incredible.
"Okay!" Yuri takes Yena like the good girl she clearly is. "So, fucking full!" You stop playing the song, hold down every button to overwhelm the girl. She loses control, taking no time at all to reach orgasm. Gushing so hard it saturates your machine in shiny girlcum.
Yuri gets gently removed from the contraption, you'll clean it later. The second you put the guitar down Yena has a lustful gaze, eyes looking very hungry. "You haven't came."
"Well yeah, the prototype isn’t suited for penises currently–"
"Shut up, you know what I meant. Drop your clothes and come fuck us." She spoke for Yuri, though she seems just as down for it. A threesome with your innovator and her friend? Well that's the best idea since this guitar.
(Wonyoung x Girlcock Rei & Yujin, 2.5k Words) Tags: The Rock, The Yock, Making a Wony Sandwich, No holes barred, Well okay maybe some, Too many creampies, But not enough creampies for Wony, Wonyongism at its finest, An inspirational tale, No hydration required, Sex
Wonyoung. The perfect girl, the perfect idol. With perfect lips and perfect face and perfect body and perfect attitude and perfect wealth and perfect arousal. Arousal that must be slaked in the most perfect fashion with the most perfect lovers, who naturally must show their appreciation of such a goddess by climaxing indecently soon after arrival; to best show just how perfect Wonyoung is in the bedroom. Wonyoung's adoring and fanatical followers demanded no less from their embodiment of perfection, of Wonyoungism. But there are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Persons who are allowed to enjoy the fleshly delights of divinity to their fullest extent, who are praised for showing such vigor and stamina, who are loved and loathed in equal measure for bringing her such obvious pleasure. And one of those people's names was... Gary. Well, only sometimes, by her fans, otherwise she was widely beloved as Rei Naoi, She Of the Pouty Face, the other was simply An Yujin, who was pretty damn hot and knew it too. These two other members of IVE were always allowed to make a Wonyoung-sandwich, and Dive LOVES watching that shit.
Wonyoung sits prettily upon the edge of her bed, perhaps for a live, perhaps about to film a tiktok, perhaps about to film herself getting plowed into next week, but we shan't worry ourselves about the details. She certainly won't. Perched there with that expression of knowing innocence, knowing that nearly everyone will see through her demure facade and notice that Wonyoung was in fact, stark naked. And she was not alone, Rei and Yujin lounge on either side of her, similarly lacking in clothes, and surprisingly to some, currently wielding girlcocks of impressive proportions (Wonyoung's girl penis, when it appears, is referred to as "The Wock" and is widely idolized for is sublime proportions and ejaculatory power.). The Naock was strong and girthy, its head thicker than its root, matching its owner's bratty personality perfectly, as well as her curvaceous body. The Yock meanwhile was narrow and long, not perversely so, but its supporters had a tendency to fantasize about measuring it with their hands, and its master's laid-back yet sultry temperament suited it well. The Naock. The Yock. Both had their adherents, but only one girl was getting to enjoy them tonight.
Wonyoung smiles modestly as her delicate hands wrap around those meaty monsters, deftly stroking them to ensure that they are fully erect, as if her mere presence was not enough to stiffen any phallus to its fullest extent. Rei and Yujin share a glance. Rei's lips pout. Yujin's split into an easy grin. The usual then. Without warning Rei pulls Wonyoung atop her, her broad dick slapping rigidly against that goddess's perky cheeks, before its wide tip was placed against Wonyoung's celebrated entrance. The Naorod barges its way into Wonyoung's pampered pussy, stretching her hallowed hole with its brutish size until it is firmly within her, an impressive display of vaginal talent to accommodate such a dong with ease. But Wonyoung is not yet finished astonishing her virtual audience, as Yujin takes her place behind her, pressing her unlubricated spear against Wonyoung's rear, The Yock slithers into Wonyoung's permanently unfouled innards, miraculously fitting every inch of itself inside of Wony, when surely it was so long it must be coming out of her mouth!
That very mouth is now open, and emitting the sweetest moans imaginable, not in surrender to those inferior penises, since Wonyoung is superior to ALL penises, even those of IVE (It has been largely agreed that strap-ons do not count as penii, following Wonyoung's spectacular encounters with Miss Ryujin and Mommy Jihyo.), but rather a modest acknowledgement of being so graciously pleasured. Those angelic sounds barely grow in volume as Rei and Yujin worship Wonyoung's divine body with their engorged womanhoods, thrusting themselves into her with great enthusiasm. Both girls are groaning loudly in appreciation of this avatar of perfection, their swaying balls slapping against one another penitentially whenever their movements synchronize, their cocks grinding against each other inside of Wony. Rei's short, powerful thrusts contrasting pleasingly with Yujin's long, languid strokes, ensuring that Wonyoung's insides are suitably churned and rearranged.
But not for long, of course. Even armed with such splendid penises, Rei and Yujin are panting as they desperately try and keep their swollen sacks from emptying themselves; a futile task when the goddess Wonyoung is involved. The Yujock is first across the finish line, hosing Wony's guts with seed like a broken fire hydrant, every shuddering thrust accompanied by yet another jet of watery fluid. The Nock soon follows, erupting like a volcano filling every crevice of Wonyoung's pussy with her glutinous load, no doubt intent on impregnating her divine womb, but everyone knew girlcocks' sperm was infertile (This was in fact, an incorrect assumption created to diffuse worries about idols knocking one another up. Inner-group pregnancies are in fact a fast growing issue in 4th and 5th generation girl groups, with an estimated 21% of all idols onstage being with child at any one time.). When the pair pull out of Wonyoung, Yujin's emissions practically spew out of her open anus, while Rei's sperms turgidly drips out of the fertile confines of her now gaping pussy.
Anyone else would have then put those seraphic lips to good use and cleaned their members using them, but Rei and Yujin have more important things to do, namely, fucking the holes they actually want to. Not that they mind their previous confines of course, but Rei is a butt girl. She likes it in the butt. When she has the Rock she enjoys putting it in other people's butts. She would be more than happy to put it in your butt. And Yujin much prefers a nice throat or pussy to fill, she likes the more intimate feel of breeding her lovers while kissing them, or having them kiss her crotch with her balls against their chin. But Wonyoung's pampered pussy is a touch inflexible, and purportedly struggles to take every inch the Yock, while her tight rosebud of an asshole was not made for such rudely colossal objects as the Naorod. So her internal sexual anatomy much prefers the current arrangement. But Rei and Yujin failed anatomy class, so they're going to make it work anyways.
Wonyoung gets woman-handled onto her side, those long elegant legs now on full display, but her lovers have more stimulating things to hump, namely her pristinely sloppy holes. That serene expression barely flickers when Yujin enters her first, mostly on account of the fact that Wony's pussy was still graciously gaping for Yujin, though she cannot go in all the way, yet. Rei meanwhile is struggling, Wony's lovely little asshole not all too pleased to discover the size of the phallus knocking against it, but there was enough semen and enough anal juices and enough congealed pussy juices and most importantly, enough stubborn force, that the Naock batters its way in. Wonyoung lets out a languid sigh of joy as Rei's girthy member gouges its way into her guts, even as Yujin starts really trying to get all those spongy inches into her most precious place. But after enough graceful screaming and more than a little vigorous thrusting, both ladies can confidently say they are filling their precious Wonyoung to the hilt, who gratefully shows her appreciation by politely climaxing all over Yujin; which naturally means Yujin is now climaxing; which naturally means all that clenching and pulsating is driving Rei over the edge as well. Such harmonic beauty!
But now that they were nestled inside their (mostly) favorite orifices, neither idol seems much interested in doing something like, say, pulling out. Which is only just and right for the watching adherents of Wonyoungism, if they had penis, magical or otherwise, they too would be loath to stop worshipping their goddess, and so the two don't. The pair happily churn and roil their own loads together with the others using their girlcocks, pumping and humping and plowing until the bedroom echoes with the sound of soothing squelching. Wony is, of course, loving every second of this, how could she not be enjoying her two dear friends showering her with affection, sweat, and impressively large quantities of semen (internally at least)? And she expresses her satisfaction vocally, and with great confidence, so much so that Yujin is reminded of her true preference when it comes to Wonyoung Holes. The Yock emerges from the Wussy, followed by a flood of Yum and Yemen, spewing out down the Weeks and dribbling onto the plush carpet, before Yujin clambers onto the bed and makes use of Wony's sweet little mouth.
It is necessary then, to further describe our heroines: Rei, with her big pouty cheeks, big pouty lips, big pouty thighs that support her big pouty ass, big pouty breasts that wobble poutily with each pouty thrust of her big pouty Naock; Yujin, who is one hot sultry mama who everyone can visualize with ease; and of course, Wonyoung, who is perfect from the tip of her dainty toes to the top of her voluminous head, from the delicate nipples gracing her perky breasts to the soft curves of her rear, from the limber sleekness of her legs, to the taut harmony of her stomach... Except that last part is presently incorrect, as Wony's tummy is red and bulging, and is busy bulging ever larger with each creamy spurt of semenal fluid Rei unloads into her innards. Spotting this, and not wanting her dear Wonyo to worry her darling fans by suddenly vomiting several buckets worth of Reimen so soon into the live, Yujin responds in kind from her place at Wonyoung's other entrance to her digestive system. Soon the Yujin is fucking Wony's face with as much gusto as Rei is with Wony's butt (Rei having little desire to unmount Wony's butt, being a butt girl after all), her weighty balls slapping gently against Wonyoung's sculpted chin while they pulsate continuously, ensuring a steady stream of her own jizz is going down the proper direction.
It becomes a contest then, to see who will cause the other's girlcock to be violently expelled from that goddess of grace and fashion Wonyoung, erupting free in a tide of intermingled semen. Yujin, though having a late start, has the benefit of having her shlong an arms-length down Wony's throat, nicely sealing that end, while Rei's stubby dong is steadied by the fact that Wony's cute little asshole is stretched to the limit around it, meaning there is little chance of leakage. Wonyoung, obviously, avails herself by being ever so fantastically gorgeous, as well as having a surprisingly capacious stomach, blissfully content with the fact that she looks as if she is pregnant with triplets. As every Dive knows, Wonyoung birthed IVE herself, so she can easily fit quintuplets in that tummy of hers without any evidence of strain at all. She is obviously mewling with contentment as she lovingly runs her hands down Yujin's supple thighs, her eyes rolling smoothly as those tender lips press against Yujin's crotch. Wony's lower lips are giving similar smooches to Rei as she continues her single-minded anal assault upon Wony's indefatigable rectum (it is a well known fact that Wonyoung's anus is capable of absorbing the most heinous lovemaking with ease, as was previously seen during her eight hour sex session with Ryujin).
With Rei and Yujin climaxing with suitably swift speed (around three minutes per climax, which is allowably long for fellow members of IVE), the pair move Wonyoung into a more conventional position on her hands and knees, allowing them to spitroast her with great vigor and enthusiasm. Each holding onto either Wony's head or waist for support as they fight to keep their gocks inside of her increasingly pressurized insides, since remaining inside of her was much preferable to being outside of her sublime holes. Soon it looks as if Wonyoung's belly contains six, or even seven members of a new idol group (Rei pauses for a moment to waggle her hands up and down), wobbling and swaying gracefully between her sleek arms and thighs. Her elegant face acquires a faintly rosy hue as both of her fellow idols continue their fervent contest, even as they are both steadily being pushed back by the sheer physics of what is contained within her.
A sudden contraction, the fluttering of a muscle, the spasming of an organ, and with an abrupt popping noise, all those slippery inches are suddenly expelled from Wonyoung's throat. The Yujizz follows it out, now thoroughly mixed with Naum, spewing in an unending torrent from Wonyoung's divine lips, locked open in ecstasy as it disgorges the contents of her stomach. Rei cries out in triumph, until a heartbeat later, her girthy shlong is ejected with equal violence, sending her sprawling onto her butt, her cries now one of alarm before they are silenced by a faceful of turgid semen. Those pristine innards languidly extend out from inside of Wonyoung, hosing down the sputtering Rei with ceaseless bursts of shampoo-like cum as Wony's body heroically voids itself from both ends. Yujin is similarly being doused with the sticky fruits of her labor, having been sent staggering backwards, her lower half is now being plastered as Wonyoung endlessly vomits up the seemingly endless supply of seed jammed inside of her. Eventually, Wonyoung unsticks herself from her pose, that pose being the most efficient one to empty a septuplet's worth of semen from her insides, and collapses down into the overflowing puddle pooling beneath her body.
Wonyoung stirs. Wonyoung unburdens. Wonyoung rises. She floats ethereally upright, and strikes a pose as if she was on the Red Carpet, and not the Cummy Sheets, her gorgeous face as serene as always, with a hint of knowing teasing. Knowing that her adoring fans can obviously tell that their goddess was currently only wearing several layers of congealed girl-cum as if it was an expensive evening gown. She gathers her handmaidens, making them recline there at the edge of the bed with their gocks pressed together, the Naock pulsating rigidly against the wobbling length of the Yock as Wonyoung wraps a headband about both of them; lashing the womanhoods together. Wonyoung beatifically seating herself on Rei and Yujin, taking care to use her mostly unused pussy to accommodate such an ample encumbrance. Her expression barely even shifts, as her lovers moan and groan in adoration and thanks for such charity, making sure that the adherents of Wonyoungism see their thanks. Yujin looks as if someone dipped her lower half in wax, yet still retains her naughty smirk, while Rei appears to have had several buckets worth of semen dumped over her head, which she essentially had.
Wonyoung waves her hand in goodbye, contentedly ending yet another insightful and thought-provoking video for her followers to pore over. Yujin and Rei say their own goodbyes as well, mostly by starting to thrust upwards, a sure sign that Wonyoung's benevolence was yet still desired; and Wonyoung responds gracefully by pissing herself, baptizing them both with a sure sign of her favor. After all, who wouldn't want to be pissed on by Wonyoung?
Tags/TW: angst and drama, edgy and unsettling, mentions and description of all the bad things, a cruel story in four acts, no smut, but mentions of sex, desire, depression and mostly suicide
Thanks for 9.090 followers!
(A/N: The worst way to return with sth unsexy that I had lying around. Make of it what you will - I had different plans for this, but I'm happy I got something done. This is fic no. 149. One more to go!)
“Finally!”
“Let’s get outta here.”
“I’m so hungry, God.”
“Jake, where is my—”
“Everyone, settle down! The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!”
A collective groan, some curses in the back of the class, someone drops his backpack. Oh, how cliche.
“Let’s just finish this final paragraph, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll read it.”
“Then we’ll have this shit over with.”
“No cursing in my classroom!”
Snickers from the girls to your right, quick, mindless reading to your left, someone drops a pen. Didn't this happen yesterday?
“Very well done. Class is over, have a nice weekend.”
“But Ma’am, it’s only Thursday.”
“Oh. My bad. Then we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
Two dozens of bags get lifted from the ground, books and paper crammed into tight spaces, someone drops their smartphone. Yes, definitely deja vu.
“Shit!”
“Well done, Yena. I bet it’s cracked now.”
The slow turn of a delicate hand. Hundreds of scratches make the glass look like a spider’s uncarefully spread web. Someone cracks a laugh. Am I dreaming?
“I told you. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ll get you some ice cream, hm~?
Yena’s sobs and Chaewon’s coos can still be heard down the hallway. You shake your head in disbelief. Of course, this exact scenario didn't happen yesterday. It is as close to impossible as winning the yearly lottery daily, but your feeling of deja vu remains. The days blend into one another, nothing significantly changes.
The setting? The same. No one is going to paint over the old, dirty walls of this school to give them a new color, new life. They remain as a seemingly immovable constant, just like the yellow lights at the ceiling or the barely cleaned windows separating the outside from the classroom and the classroom from the floor. Maybe the weather changes, but at this point you’re even uncertain of that. Gray clouds lay on the world, an impenetrable layer that reeks of rain.
The time? The same. Your school's schedule is its most stable factor. The principal enforcing it is as certain as taxes and death. If too many teachers are missing to fill in the gaps, he himself will step in to ensure the absolute maximum of education, even if it’s 5pm. Part of this tyrannical precision is the teacher’s right to extend a lesson past the bell’s ring. It is utterly ineffective, as no one actually listens anymore, but it will never change.
The characters? The same. Not a day goes by where mostly bubbly Yena isn’t whining about something, be it the grandest of issues or a lost hair. Her best friend Chaewon is always on her side. With her calm, kind words and envious patience she is the perfect Yin to Yena’s Yang. Then there is Eunbi, the class representative, with amazing grades, amazing visuals and eyes colder than the arctis. Sakura is everyone’s crush, a girl who adores video games, looks absolutely beautiful and is a social magnet. Sadly for all the boys, she only has eyes for girls.
You could go on and on about all the other colorful characters in your class, friends, enemies, classmates, but it all leads to the same hole. The hole of repetitiveness. Not only the lives around you seem to be in an endless loop— you play along perfectly. Your thought processes all wander off into similar directions, your banter with Jimin and Chan is always about the same topics, hell, even your yawns during Mrs. Bae’s classes are perfectly timed. Day in day out, you always stay to your routine.
Isn’t it time to break out? To stand up and instead of going home, go to a friend's house? Walk through the park for another hour? Run downtown to eat some fresh churros? Your desire to break out grows, but it cannot overcome your rationale telling you:
Why am I concerned about this? Everyday life looks similar at times. So what.
A shuffle. The sound of a chair scratching over the floor brings the battle ensuing in your mind to a screeching halt and you jump. Someone is still in the classroom with you. This is unusual. Usually, you are the last one to leave. You don’t need to take a train or bus to get home, it’s just a fifteen minute walk, so unlike your classmates, you don’t need to hurry to the awfully timed public transportation. Today, however, someone decided to break with the loop.
You turn your head to search for the culprit. In the last row, someone sleeps, their head on their crossed arms, chair pushed lightly back to make the position more comfortable. In your many years of school, you have seen a couple of students sleep like this, even during class. Mingi was one of them, but he transferred last year. Yoongi as well, but he got his act together and is almost on par with Eunbi in terms of grades.
You are sure it’s her when you see chestnut-colored hair dripping down on all sides of her head. Kim Minju, the quietest person in the class. It’s been years since you heard her speak a word louder than a whisper. She is always reserved, unapproachable and frankly, you sometimes forget she is still in the same class as you. She is a fitting last remaining option for someone sleeping at their desk.
“Hey,” you speak into the room, waiting for Minju to react. She does, by lifting her head up from the scratched surface of her table. Her eyes, slightly hidden by hair all over her face, dart around the room until they find you.
“Hey,” she says in a sleepy voice. You can’t help but smile. Minju looks somewhat adorable and helpless like this. Although most of her expression is behind curtains of brown locks, she looks like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded theme park.
“Are you okay? Don’t you want to go home?”
“Later.”
“Later? But class is already over.”
“You’re still here too.”
You chuckle a little. Her voice sounds like she is still in dreamland and her head is unable to be upright. She lays on her arms once more. She is odd and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. Carefully, you stand up and take the seat next to her. Minju looks at you with surprise in her damp eyes. You wish you could read them better as she hasn’t shown signs of being talkative.
“This must not be comfortable. I’d choose a bed over this any day.”
“It’s fine.”
You sigh as Minju turns her face away from you. This has been fun while it lasted, but she is frustrating to talk to. If she’d resent you, she would have already told you to piss off, but with this not being the case you feel like you’re just annoying her.
“Your choice. I’ll go now though.”
“Okay.”
“See you tomorrow!”
No further words from her. Minju is clearly not mentally in this place. Is this the fate of those who only dream and don’t listen in class, you ask yourself while stepping out of the room. If so, she needs to be pulled out of it quickly. Somehow.
#
Today is not going to be the same. This sentiment has been stuck in your mind ever since you woke up. However, you haven’t really acted like it. Your alarm went off the same minute it always does, you listen to the same three songs while chewing on your favorite cereal and watching the same show. Teeth brushing and time to sprint to school have remained at their bare minimum, hell, the list could go on and on. Your sentiment has just been a faint thought. Until you step into the classroom.
“And then, and then he didn’t respond.”
“Aw, I think it will be fine. You wrote him so late, he probably just fell asleep.”
“Everyone, please stay calm! The teacher is coming.”
Yena is whining about something, some boy from the grade above or below. Again. Chaewon is comforting her with the patience of all the angels in all the heavens. Again. Eunbi is urging everyone to sit down with pronounced gestures and a loud voice. Again. It’s like you’ve heard these exact sentences before. This is beyond absurd and you have to do something. You will do something.
Before Mrs. Kang starts the lesson, you take a longer route to your desk. With full intention, you pass by Minju’s desk and knock on it twice. Like yesterday, her messy head lifts from her arms and you try to find her eyes through the veil of her greasy hair.
Doing something absurd like this has left you without a plan, without any words to speak, so you just put on a dumb smile. Minju doesn’t return it. She simply flops back onto her arms. It’s like reality is forcing everyone into their positions and if you don’t fight back, it might just get you as well. You sit down on your chair and look at the unamused girl as the first couple of lines are drawn onto the board.
The lesson comes and goes like a soft wind. As soon as Mrs. Kang wraps it up, you have already forgotten everything she said. Your mind is solely stuck on how to get this terrible loop of everyday life out of your system. For some reason, you feel that the answer is with Minju, this one girl you never had anything to do with. She looks like the epitome, the greatest victim of the problem. It's time you do something for real, with a proper plan.
“Hey,” you approach her again, as the rest of your classmates fall into their usual, loud chaos.
“Hey,” Minju responds. It scares you how she has the same tone as yesterday. Maybe she hasn’t had enough sleep and rushes to school just for attendance. Her hair has also not been washed, it’s even dirtier and messier now. She kind of reminds you of a lone wolf, abandoned by everyone.
“Uhm, I don’t know how to say this and maybe I’ll sound stupid, but—”
You grab yourself a chair and sit down in front of Minju’s table. Finally, she is bestowing you with a look over her folded arms.
“—I noticed, like, how do I put it, everything is so repetitive and bland, it’s really bugging me.”
“You think so?” she whispers dryly.
“Of course! Everyone is saying the same stuff, does the same stuff, like—just look at Yena! She is always whining. And Jimin is always teasing Jun. And you’re always sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s just bothering me.”
You end your small tantrum with a sigh and hope that none of the mentioned took notice of it. It felt good letting off this steam, you were really pent up until now. However, you doubt that it was the right way to start a conversation with someone who is basically a stranger.
To your surprise, Minju starts to sit upright and plug some of her long strands behind her cute ear. Her eyes scrutinize you while her face remains blank, unamused. Then she bluntly speaks, almost at a normal volume:
“Uh-huh, and why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want to do something I have surely never done. Something that will end this vicious circle at least for a day, maybe two.”
“You can do that on your own. Why do you need me for that?”
“W-well, I think maybe it could be something interesting for you too.”
Minju still doesn’t look convinced. Who could blame her? The way you come out of nowhere and act like a slightly crazy person wouldn't convince most people to take action. In panic you stare at the ground to your left, to your right, trying to find some words to explain yourself, before—
“Hmph, you are weird. Would it be enough if we met on the weekend?”
You look at Minju in surprise. Did she just suggest that? The whisper, the calm, dry voice with not too much enthusiasm couldn’t be anyone else.
“I think we never saw each other on a non-school day, so why don’t we just meet at the gate?”
“I knew you would understand me!” you shout triumphantly and almost jump from your chair, “We can meet at the gate and see where the day leads us. You okay with that, Minju-ah?”
Minju nods slowly and a faint smile appears on her adorable cheeks. You find it amazing how she still looks so pretty, even with her lack of make-up and wild hair. She could look superbly stunning with just a bit more care put towards her face, hair and body. But you won’t judge her on that. Maybe she just had a bad day. Maybe she never cared about stuff like this in general.
“Great, then we’ll see each other the day after tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
#
Tap. Tap. Tap. The tip of your blue and gray shoes hit the paved ground in front of the closed gate. After all these years, it’s the first time you notice how smooth the black rocks beneath you are. All the footwear scratching over them for all those years polished them to the point where faint sunlight gets reflected.
It’s been quite a while since you woke up this excited. Your alarm went off at nine and with an unbridled excitement and unwarranted, but great expectation, you filled your backpack. Water, snacks, spare clothes, small games, more snacks—it’s like you prepared for a children's birthday party, sleepover included.
And like a child you stormed out of the house, early enough to not annoy your parents and take a very different route. You wandered through small alleyes, the smell of rain still oozing from the gray asphalt and beige walls. Although you enjoyed it, you wished for the sun to come out—rain, rain, go away—you are literally a child and for today, that is okay.
Your wish came true. The light gray of the clouds was no match for the sun and small patches of sky blue pop up with every minute you wait. Now, it’s only Minju who is missing. The catalyst for why you finally got over the hump and out of the lulling everyday life. She’ll be here any minute. She’s never been late for school, something she obviously isn’t very fond of, so she won’t be late for this either.
But why her? Why did it take her for you to do something like this? There is a weekend for your taking every five school days. You could’ve just ran out or called a friend and do anything but mold in your room for endless hours. It might be the thrill of something absurd, new, unnecessary but necessary. Your questions come to a halt when you hear footsteps.
You look up to see all the perfect variations of brown. Minju wears a wool dress with a stylish checkered pattern in various dirty colors, orange, green but mainly brown. Underneath the dress, a tight, cozy looking turtle neck wraps around her torso and arms in the color of chocolate chip cookies. Across her chest is the leather sling of her almost black handbag. Above all however, is the brown of her hair. Not greasy and unwashed as the days before, but smooth and combed, tugged behind her ear it hides her shoulders. Brunette excellence that delights your heart.
She stops before you. With an awkward sway, she avoids looking at you. The way her lips press together looks adorable, you can’t help but smile and disrupt the silence.
“Hello, Minju! So awesome that you could make it.”
“He-hey,” she waves at you instead of keeping eye contact for long. This seems to not be her cup of tea, but you won’t let your mood get dampened. She will hopefully get into it.
“I had a lot of ideas of what we could do,” you begin and straighten your back. Even like this, you aren’t that much taller than the girl wearing her, of course, brown shoes, “But first, I wanted to know what you think. What are you feeling today?”
“What I feel?”
Her eyes force your attention on them. Now that you can look into them mostly undisrupted with better lighting than in the classroom, you see a certain dullness, listlessness, even lifelessness in them. It takes you out of your childish dreams, the naivete that builds up. You take a step closer towards her. She tenses up.
“I-I just mean, what you felt like doing today. If you’re not feeling well or anything, that’s fine. A-are you—”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
She laughs it off with a wave of her soft hands and takes a step back. You can feel that something is off. Maybe you got her on a bad day. Or maybe even in a bad time, judging from how she looked throughout the week. It’s not the perfect day to make her jump over some mental barriers. Or maybe, this is the perfect day after all. The day to wake up, to get life back into your veins, to feel it again.
You smile at her and scratch the back of your head.
“Okay then. Do you have anything in mind? Your dress looks unfit for a round of rugby, so I guess…”
“Wait, what?” Minju furrows her eyebrows, but then falls into laughter when she sees your playful smirk, “Oh, for a second I thought!”
You see her laughing face for just a split second before she hides it behind her hand. It’s cute, heartwarming even and you instinctively join her. In this moment, where all tension is lost in a simple joke, you forget that this is the first time you heard Minju laugh. In your presence, she’s never been this loud and bright before.
It’s like the clouds open just a tad bit more—the same way your relationship might open up a bit more on this simple day.
“I can’t believe you thought that, Minju-ah. How should I fit a rugby ball and a dozen other players in this backpack?” you playfully mock her and she gets shy, while still giggling.
“I dunno, I’m sorry. That was just dumb.”
“Nuh-uh, you’re fun. I might not have a ball inside here, but I have this.”
You open up one of the many zippers and pull out two candy bars. The see-through plastic holds sweet caramel and toffee wrapped in chocolate. Sweetness wrapped in brown goodness—just like Minju, but you won’t make that joke. This is not a date with flirts but a rebellion against dullness. You hand one of the bars to Minju. Her eyes light up.
“What? I love those! How did you know?”
“I guess I’m good at guessing, I guess.”
“Ts, you sound like a child,” Minju mockingly replies, but opens the plastic wrap with child-like anticipation and urgency. You chuckle and observe how this sleepy head became lifely with just some candy.
“I’m okay with being a child. We can go to the playground if you want.”
You take the first steps downtown and Minju follows you, her full mouth protesting your decision.
“No, stop. I, yum, made up my mind.”
“You always speak with your mouth full?”
“N-no. Shush, let’s go grab something. I want, hm, a smoothie. Or ice cream.”
You smile that she finally found something, but you can’t stop teasing the cutie that finally caught up to you.
“And then we go to the playground?”
A hit on your shoulder.
“Yah! I’ll make up my mind, pabo.”
#
“Oh man, that was something,” you sigh, taking off the 3D-glasses. From smoothies and ice cream, you somehow got out of her that she wanted to go watch a 3D-movie at the other part of town. It still took more convincing from you until she told you which movie it was. Although it’s certainly not your type of film, you still went with her.
“It was so good! When I thought I got all the clues, they still tricked me.”
Minju has her fingers cutely formed into a fist as you too walk out of the theater and onto the street. Although it’s not yet completely dark, you feel the evening coming and this fun day ending. As Minju still goes on about how intriguing the case was and how she thought the gardener was the murderer, you tap her shoulder.
“I still don’t get why this is a 3D-movie. Like, why? Why have these effects for a detective movie?”
“You’re a pabo. It’s to pick up on the clues better! Ts, I told you that.”
“Well, maybe I’m just too dumb for these movies,” you rub the back of your neck and watch the annoyed, but finally fully alive Minju become flustered. She pouts and pulls at your arm.
“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I hope you still liked it, I’m sorry.”
“Minju-ah, I’m playing around! Looks like you’re the pabo.”
It baffles you. How can this girl look even cuter, with this shocked, angry, playfully fun expression on her fairy-like features? You feel your heart filled with warmth. Your mind is freed at the sight of Minju and at the thought of how the two of you got out of this loop. Nothing is the same as before.
“It’s getting late,” you say and take a quick look at your phone to confirm the time, “Should I accompany you home? It might be dark before you get there.”
They fall. Minju’s bright eyes sink. The glow in them gets tainted by the dullness from before; but also pain. Pain that’s also in her weak smile that she can’t keep upright for long. Minju frowns and looks to the side, away from you. Suddenly, it’s all reset. Back to the beginning. You can’t let that happen.
“It’s of course fine if you want to go alone. O-or I could call your mum and…”
Minju fidgets, her delicate hand tightly wrapped around the leather of her handbag’s sling. She stares onto the tip of her feet. She looks cold, lost, like a forgotten child in the midst of an endless crowd of people. Things turn dark, not only because the clouds once again hide the sun, but also because Minju’s voice isn’t filled with excitement, but downright mourning.
“Mum, no. No, it’s okay. Thank you, but I’ll go home on my own.”
“Are you sure? Is there, is there some way I can help?”
“I think—”
Minju hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with her dress, then with each other, before she stuffs them into her pocket. She gives you an apologetic look, one that tries to convince you that there is nothing to hide and that things are just the way they are. Your heart tells you to not play along. There is something that’s really hurting her. So bad that it turns her back to the Minju, sleeping through life and all it has to offer. You have to lift the veil, you—
“—I should go on my own. It’s not that far, nothing will happen, hm.”
“Okay, uhm, was nice though.”
Your tongue betrays you. This is not what you want. It might be a smooth way to get out of the awkwardness, but it doesn’t get you closer to the problem. Something hurts her and you want to know it.
“Yeah, it was. Guess I’ll see you in school.”
The last chance, but you won’t take it. No reason to stir up conflict. The day was good, it got you two closer and things inevitably changed. Why risk it?
“Yeah. Have a great Sunday, Minju.”
“You too. Bye.”
She gets a hand out and gives a small wave. A small wave, a small smile, but it’s all rushed and it's painful to look at. The beauty wrapped in all the chocolate colors turns around and quickly steps out of your reach. The reach of your hands, of your eyes, of your voice.
“Bye.”
#
Sunday went by quickly as it always does and Monday greets you with the usual. Not the kind of usual you can always return to. The restaurant with your favorite vibe, the table in the hidden corner, the always comforting food. This 'usual' is what you're looking for, not the same old gray in the sky, same old cracks in the walls, same old chatter in the classroom. It's jarring.
It makes you appreciate your new friend more. Minju is not quite usual today. She doesn’t look gloomy, her silky, clean hair is crested with a cute, pink barrette and she greets you with a smile and a wave. The usually dark bags below her eyes are partially hidden by a simple, yet effective touch of make-up. Minju’s beauty shines through her imperfections and you find yourself slightly blushing at the sight.
“Hey,” you say with a small smile and carefully place your elbows on her desk.
“Hey,” Minju responds, backing off a tiny bit. She reaches for her notebook. It’s blue, mostly tattered and the pages are empty. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths, eyes still drawn to her bag below.
“Are you alright? Need something?”
“I… I think I forgot my pencil case,” she whispers shyly and tries to hide her face.
“Oh, I can give you one of mine.”
Hand her the pen and she bows thankfully. You both smile at each other a final time, before the teacher enters the room. You get ready to shuffle your chair back to your desk, but Minju’s soft voice makes you freeze in place. It’s like she opens the gate to new possibilities with just a couple of words.
“I hope, uhm, that you had a nice Sunday.”
“Th-thanks, Minju, I hope you did… too.”
#
Tuesday rolls around, and you couldn’t care less about the mundane things. You are excited to go to school, to meet Minju. You are excited about the brewing suspicions of your friends, which takes them out of their usual character a bit and makes the bickering interesting. With all this excitement, you swing open the door to the classroom. Everything, everyone is in order. Their eyes are on you as the door crashes against the wall with a loud boom. Your eyes are on Minju’s seat. It’s empty.
“Ey! Watch out!” Chaewon yells at you, as she tightly holds Yena’s hands. The duck-like girl quivers in fear. You must have scared her quite a lot. Tears pool in her eyes and you give her an apologetic bow.
“I’m sorry you two, I should have been more careful. Do you by any chance know where Minju is?”
Both girls shake their heads and Chaewon continues to glare at you, like she wants to stab you with a poison-filled syringe. Not that you would care. Minju not being here is a far greater concern to your mood. You fear that the day might immediately fall into the same rhythm, so you hold onto the hope that she is just late and will walk through the door at any moment. Maybe she will have the same enthusiasm as you did.
But it doesn’t happen. Not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday. The clouds do not part for two days. To say that it dampens your mood would be an understatement. Worry and annoyance have a hold on your thoughts, what teachers, parents, friends say is a nuisance and mostly forgotten. In some moments, it feels like a foul stench lingers around the campus. It gets even worse when, out of spite, you walk the same route you and Minju took a couple of days ago.
You get angry at every stop, but this anger is short-lived and when you stand in front of the cinema, it turns to sadness. The kind of sadness that twists your stomach and leaves you speechless at its intensity. If only you knew where Minju lives or what her phone number was. Those irrational worries that brew in your mind could just be gone. They range from her just being ill with a cold to something terrible has happened with her mother. You clearly remember how quickly all her joy and hype faded when you just mentioned the word ‘mum’.
Shake your head and head home. Tomorrow, Minju might just be back and if not, you’ll do everything in your power to confirm that she is alright. On Friday, you will ask her to meet again, and visit the park. You want to ask her a lot of questions and then, everything will solve itself.
#
You breathe a sigh of relief when Minju is in her seat early Thursday morning. Most of your classmates are probably still riding the bus or just waking up, depending on how they usually go about their day, so it’s just you two and Eunbi in the far corner. She studies geometry with her black headphones on. It basically feels like you're alone with Minju.
You cheerfully walk up to her, hand raised for a greeting. When you take a closer look at the girl however, you see her hair in a worse mess than ever before. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and cut strands off at random spots. The hazelnut chaos spreads over her cheeks and what might look like bad bangs partially covers her eyes. Dark, tiny, motionless, except there is something flickering in them with unbridled ferocity. Minju’s pale skin is exceptionally pale against the large, black bags below her eyes. Her lips are dry and purple.
“Minju, are you alright?” you carefully ask and lower your hand. Your delighted mood is gone, dead, like the look on Minju’s face and her sorry posture. She looks frozen to the chair, only her knees shake as if she were in the arctic desert.
“I’m cold,” she answers, her voice tiny, dry. She coffs and you almost leap to help her. But you are not there yet. There is still no proper friendship where you can just cross the boundary and touch her.
“Can I help you with that? I can turn up the heater… or give you my jacket.”
You take off your jacket and Minju remains motionless. Her hands are in her lap, one resting on the other, the nails painted awfully messy. Her gaze mostly stays on them.
“No need, I’m just cold.”
Minju looks like she is falling, continuously, into an endless void. It’s darker than her eyes as they close and she starts to cry. However, there is no sob to hear or tears to catch. Minju just cries, in her own way and you feel powerless to step in. You can’t catch her, something is physically pulling you back. Your heart may mourn at the sight, but what is there to do, to say, to make things better?
“C-can I ask what happened? You looked so lively a couple of days ago, and now—”
Your heart spoke those words. They are like a scream to evoke some reaction out of her, but Minju doesn’t stop the sorrow overtaking her more and more. You groan in sad frustration. This sight hurts you, you can’t deal with it. You gently place your jacket on her desk and see her looking at it for a second.
“I’m sorry, I have no right to just—” You pause and ponder on a better choice of words, “I’ll be at my seat. If you need anything, I’m right there.”
Soon, all your other classmates stream into the room and take their usual positions. None of them seem to acknowledge Minju. For them, she is a figure in the background, one that might have changed a bit and even missed a couple of days, but they remain the same. Illness with two days absence plus a new ‘haircut’? Surely you wouldn’t notice it on a random classmate.
At the start of the first lesson, your very picky and meticulous math teacher immediately notices your jacket on Minju’s table. You know his eyes are locked in on it and he will call Minju out any second now. But then he hesitates, takes a closer look at the disheveled girl, and looks through the class register. His face contorts like he is in pain. This is very unlike him, and it would’ve intrigued you more if it weren’t for the gloomy feeling in your heart.
“Okay everyone, let’s start… start with, uhm. Chaewon, please tell the class what we did last lesson.”
The teacher continues to be out of sync with how he would normally act. At the end of the lesson, he calls Minju upfront. Now you’re the one frozen on the seat and watch helplessly as he calmly and concerningly speaks to her. You can’t hear him this far back, and the question is, if Minju is able to pick up any of it. She looks down at the tip of her shoes and does not react at all.
This goes on for the entire day. You can’t bear it anymore. With a final look over your shoulder, you dart out of the classroom quickly. The image in your brain is still the same: a helpless, frozen Minju, a withering girl with an unhearable cry. You notice the only difference a little bit too late, as it is barely noticeable.
Minju’s tender cheeks have the wet trails of tears.
#
Once again, Minju is not at school. This occurrence is so unusual, everyone is acting out of character. Different rumors shoot through the classroom, and they all negate each other. No one has a clue of what is happening, but they all do have an opinion. Chaeyoung in the last row says that she is probably just late, while Chan strongly believes that she is still sick and that the math teacher told her to stay home for longer. Julia has the harshest opinion though.
“I bet she is fully embracing her lazy life. She will either fail or drop out soon. That’s how it goes.”
You cover your ears. Everyone spouts nonsense, although they didn’t even talk to her yesterday. How can they be so sure? What do they know about her? Nothing. It frustrates you. The only people not involved in this except for you are Jimin, who stands by your side against these unnecessary allegations, and Chaewon and Yena. The two girls are entangled in a tight embrace and their heads are probably in a very different place right now.
Suddenly, the door bursts open. Your home room teacher and the principal walk in, both wearing a very serious expression on their faces. The rowdy class shuts up instantaneously. As if connected by one strand of nerves, everyone’s backs straighten. A gut wrenching tension fills the room, as the home room teacher sighs deeply and leans onto the front desk.
“I—this, this is hard. Excuse me, I need a second,” he says and stumbles a step forward. He is clearly not drunk, but his mind is dizzy with some heavy burden. The principal walks next to him and guides him towards a chair. Then he takes his glasses off, all fingers in a light tremble. You notice cold sweat all over his features. It’s contagious and creeps up your back.
“Class, I need you to stay strong, okay?” he begins and rubs the inside of his eyes, “I hate that I have to say this, but I hate even more that it happened. This morning, your classmate Kim Minju was—”
The principal pauses. It’s not long enough to make a large difference in his sentence, but it’s so big, you can hear the rapid pace of your heartbeat. It’s in your chest, your ear, your thumb. The burning red liquid rushes through your body. It meets the cold feeling of the goosebump and cold sweat on your skin, and this fusion almost makes you throw up. Your body gets torn to shreds, your mind is clouded. All in one pause that doesn’t really exist.
“—found dead in her home. She, she took her own life.”
In one moment, reality couldn’t be more surreal yet realistic. The stark contrast between a fragile dream and concrete reality resonates with everyone. It cannot be true, but it is. This is where they start with denial and move all the steps up to acceptance. But how can you accept the unacceptable? The voices of your classmates are background noise, but they are also all that is left. Air, matter, gravity, light, life, they all do not exist. Only the sound of gasps, cries and everything in between.
Then there is you, in pale freefall, just like the snowflakes outside. No one said it was going to snow today, yet it does. No one said Minju would kill herself today, yet she did. No one said deal with it, yet you do. You deal with it. Life goes on.
You throw your head forward and vomit over your desk. A lie knocks on your brain, on your stomach, and you vomit again. Sadly, you don’t have a reflex that will expel the disgusting shield of cold indifference out of your head. You know you will stop caring but you want to suffer. You want to hold on to Minju, the beautiful, quiet girl in class that was never supposed to walk down this dark aisle.
“You’re such an asshole at times, I swear to God.”
Yena giggles as her head rests on your shoulder. Her bare hand rubs over your sweaty, equally bare pecs. These muscles were forged in the nearby gym and Yena has them all to herself. It’s basically an equivalent exchange, because Yena is no slouch when it comes to taking care of her own body. Abs and a thin waist, they look the best when she’s fully nude. And nude she surely is. You’re each other's trophies.
“Am I?” you ask and blow out the smoke of your cigarette. You told her a story about something, something you don’t care to remember. What or whoever it might have been about probably lost and you won. Such is life. You carefully put an arm around Yena and look at the orange-gray glow of your cigarette. Your girlfriend pouts.
“Babe, be real with me for a second.”
“I’m real every second, Yena, I don’t ever lie.”
“Babe, I’m serious here!”
Yena turns to you. Her stern eyes pin you to the backboard of the bed. This is no time to joke. You hastily put the glowing stick in the ashtray and the two used condoms out of harm's way. Yena then puts her arm on your nape and you have a hard time not staring at her heaving bosom but instead at the duck-like lips that pout cutely.
“Do you really love me?” she asks quietly.
“Oh, I see how it is,” you respond with a relieved sigh. Poke both her cheeks as you usually do in these types of situations. Yena’s tension comes out through her nose like the air of a balloon.
“You are the hottest, prettiest, most desirable and most likable girl in the class—no, in the entire school.”
“Babe,” Yena blushes,”those were too many. You’re supposed to only list three things.”
“Huh? But what if I wanted to list more? Cuz it’s true.”
“Forget it,” she waves off, still blushing. ”Am I though? What about Yuri or Eunbi?”
“Okay, if you want me to list all of them,” you say, slightly annoyed, but you clear your throat regardless. ”Yuri is too crazy and not even close to your body, Eunbi is probably already married, also aloof, Sakura is gay, Hyewon is gay—”
“Wait, Hyewon likes girls?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Seriously, the way she stares at Yuri all the time. Anyways, she is gay. Hitomi is not my type cause she’s too small, Chaewon is your best friend and not as pretty as you—”
“But she is so pretty!”
“Jeez, Yena, we’ll never finish it like this. Who did I forget?”
Both you and Yena ponder for a second, but if you’re quite honest, you do not want this argument to continue. You surely forgot a couple of girls in your class, but none of them can match Yena. She should know that, even if you don’t throw the L-word around a lot. When you do it, it’s only towards her.
“There is Minju,” Yena says in a moment of enlightenment.
“Who?” you respond. Don’t bother with the jarring task to remember who this might be.
“The quiet girl that sits in the middle of the classroom. With long, brown hair, it’s literally super long, I bet she never cuts and rarely washes it.”
“Oh I see. Yeah, no. Who the fuck cares about Minju?”
You turn to the side to cough. Yena’s face still doesn’t look amused so you do the one thing that will surely shut her up. Cup her cheeks in your strong hand and kiss her on the ducky lips. Add a simple “I love you”, and she relaxes. Her slender, naked body topples atop of yours. Finally, it’s time to go to sleep.
#
You wake up to the sound of a bell ringing. History class is over, and as per usual, you took a nice long nap at the end of it. Or throughout it. History has always been boring to you. Old guys did some things sometime in the past, wow, so impressive. It would only be a slight nuisance, but Yoongi and Eunbi always have to act smart about it. As if it actually mattered.
Can they touch the past, like you can touch Yena’s midriff right now? Surely not. The young woman squeals at your touch and you quickly pull her onto your lap. Thank God she cares as little about any dress codes as you. Even on these mild spring days she already wears clothes exposing, no, downright flexing her abs to your classmates. They see and they drool, but the only one allowed to touch them is you.
“You look sleepy, babe,” Yena says as she cups your face to inspect it.
“History, Yena, history,” you respond and force your tiny eyes wide open. Five more minutes until the next teacher arrives. Might as well enjoy the time by showing off your best trophy. Yena is better than the push-up and benchpress records, not only because she is great in bed, but also because she actually makes other people jealous.
Lift her onto your lap and give her a loud, proud and obvious hickey on her exposed neck. Yena holds onto your shoulders and holds her breath as if she would burst into moans and groans at any moment. After your deed is done, you triumphantly turn your head around. Scan the class, because someone is always looking. They can’t help themselves. Poor bastards.
“Look at her,” Yena whispers. She must be doing the same thing.
“Who?” you respond, unable to find the girl Yena alluded to.
“Minju, the one with the long, messy hair, right in the middle.”
There she is, barely three meters away from you, yet in a different realm of existence. Brown eyes lock onto yours, though you can’t make out what emotion they convey. Envy? Disgust? Pity? Well, the last two can easily be attributed to her. Minju’s entire look is appalling. Greasy hair that sticks together in clumps, dirty clothes that probably smell rancid, and an expression that lacks any kind of care or passion. Truly pitiful.
“What are you looking at, huh?” you bark at Minju. The entire class goes silent. They don’t have to hide their gazes anymore. They are only bystanders, witnesses to a tension that you know all too well. This is power, this is the way to victory. You will get your way.
Minju simply shakes her head. She rests her head on her crossed arms and goes back to her routine of dozing, as if nothing has happened. Her attitude of indifference is something you did not expect. You cannot allow such disrespectfulness.
“Get off,” you whisper to Yena, the anger in your voice not directed at her, but she still follows your command immediately. Slow strides bring you next to Minju’s desk, who senses your presence. She turns her sleepy head towards you and looks up, the same look in her dark orbs, darker than even the greasiest parts of her hair. You clear your throat in annoyance.
“I asked you a question, didn’t I?
“Care to answer it?”
Minju does not budge. She remains frozen below you, but it’s not in the way you want her to be frozen. She should be in fear, trembling, yet not moving at all, but your words, your rough tone does not seem to affect her.
“Lemme ask you again: Why were you lookin’ at us?
“I don’t care which way you swing, okay? Just letting you know there is nothing to get from us. Yena is mine, okay?
“Okay?”
You’re basically shouting at this point. Minju finally moves to put her hands up as a shield. You did not intend to punch her, not even a fist of yours is ready to strike. It’s a relief that your words can still evoke something from her. In a tiny voice that mirrors mice more than humans, Minju answers.
“O-okay. I didn’t me-mean to. Sorry.”
“You didn’t mean to what?” you growl back, voice dripping dissatisfaction from her vague response.
“Ma-make you envious.”
Pin the palm of her hand to the table below. Minju clearly lacks a quick reaction time. She only starts to gasp when the nail of your thumb drills into her sweaty hand, the pale skin growing paler, then white, and finally red. Minju hisses, but only you can hear the words.
“Stop, please.”
“Get lost.”
You leave her be, but not before giving her an angry stare. Behind the helter-skelter of her curtain-like hair, her eyes receive your wrath like a well-deserved punch. Minju drops back into the back of her chair and holds her palm with her other palm. She is reeling like a beaten down boxer.
“I’d congratulate you,” Yena snarks when you return to her. “But she is just a girl, so no respect.”
“I can never let my guard down. Not in front of anyone. Not when it’s about you,” you hum as the usual noise of chatter and laughs returns to the class. A surge of fire fills your chest, your lungs, like you’re a dragon breathing flames of destruction. The feeling of power, of being the strongest, the one who is not reckless enough to let his guard down around the seemingly weak.
If Minju really likes Yena—
“I cannot allow her to take your heart.”
“Shut it babe, you know I only like guys,” Yena giggles and playfully pushes your shoulder. “What am I saying? I only like you.”
Then you kiss her. A bit too passionate for a setting like this, but not passionate enough to still your hunger for more. More of Yena, but also more of this control. No one else can have her, not even a piece of her.
#
Damp concrete, a preferable alternative to the deep mud and grass of the nearby forest. You jog with intensity and focus, conquering the streets of your neighborhood. Usually you'd be the king of the trees, sucking in the fresh forest air around you while on the way to the gym, but today you need to take a detour.
It's a welcome change if you're honest, especially because the lousy weather keeps prying eyes away. No one to interfere with you and your in-ears, the loud music blasting through the cords as you turn corner after corner until your heels come to a screeching halt on the fine gravel in Rainbow Street.
A girl sits on the sidewalk of this street with its very unfitting name. Worn down buildings in a tiny, ugly array of gray and brown shades sit right next to each other. They are a stain in this otherwise genuinely pretty part of town, Rainbow Street my ass, such a tiny street with all the human filth in one spot—and for some reason, this girl decided to sit here, her butt probably sore from the gravel poking it.
"Looks uncomfortable," you say down to the stranger and pull out one of your in-ears. She doesn’t move her head out from in between her knees. Hell, in this posture she is certainly developing back problems. With wind blowing into the sleeves of her loose t-shirt, she’ll catch a cold first though.
“It’s fine,” she whispers in a low voice, still firmly staring at the ground as if your comment came with the wind and just passed by. Give her a weak, confused smile in pity. Usually, you’d not bat an eye at something like this. This girl probably has a house, where she doesn’t have to freeze and she probably also has water and soap to clean her dirty hair, so why bother with pity?
“Is it though?” you say with raised eyebrows. “You sit on the ground like a pile of misery and wait for the next wave of clouds for what? To let the rain wash your hair?”
You start to laugh at your own joke, which got the girl to finally move a muscle. Slowly she turns towards you and lifts her head even slower, like it hasn’t been lifted in a hundred centuries. Your laughter fades as you stare into grim, miserable eyes which stare back in hurt, agony even.
“Oh, it’s you,” you say and move to put your in-ears back in. “No business with you.”
“You’re so mean,” Minju states, her real emotions held behind the blunt statement. “Why?”
“Get lost, Minju. That’s why.”
You jog off, further down the street to quickly reach the gym. Never in your life have you felt the rising feeling of compassion switch to coldheartedness so quickly. For a second you felt like a hero that could save this cute puppy, but in the next, you realized that it actually was the disgusting, wretched Minju who had to flaunt the fact that she clearly lost control over her life.
She doesn’t even bother to take a shower or pretend to have any character. No wonder she’ll continue to be nothing but a loser in school.
#
During your workout, you thought more about the wrong classmate than about the right one. Minju, being the wrong one, has no reason occupying the free spaces in your head. You’d much rather think about Yena, the right classmate, the one with incredible charm and wit. Yena is respected, Yena is envied, Yena is your girlfriend and absolutely amazing. Minju is none of that.
Enraged about Minju’s sulking expression popping up in front of your inner eye again, you throw down the dumbbells. Someone’s shouting in anger, others stare. Enough workout for today, you need a distraction. A distraction served by the right classmate.
“Yena,” you blurt into your phone’s speaker the second your girlfriend picks up. “I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, you down?”
“Oh my~” she responds and you can already feel her turn in her bed in excitement. “I don’t know, don’t really like sweaty boys coming into my room~”
“Since when did I come into your room sweaty?”
“I’ll make sure you’re gonna be sweaty, babe~” Yena whispers, voice sultry, dripping of lust like the sweat from your forehead and drool from your lips.
#
“Babe, promise me something.”
Yena fondles your hair and looks at you with anticipation. It’s something serious again.
“Anything for you, Yena.”
Wrap your arm around her hip and look at her, relaxed, sweaty, just like she predicted.
“Don’t, like, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t terrible, but please, babe, don’t go too hard on her. She’s a girl, you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Minju and what happened in class.”
You sigh and look away in annoyance. Pull out a cigarette from the back on the nightstand. Your hand recklessly pushes off packets of pills and condoms. Why am I shaking?
“I don’t know what you mean,” you say and search for a lighter. “She was annoying, right? And disrespectful. And I know that there are girls that like girls and that there are girls that might go crazy, especially over you. I know you’re smart Yena, so you get me, right? It’s not like I beat her up or something.”
You stop yourself from falling deeper into an incoherent mess of bad explanations, but Yena is already side-eyeing you. At least she has a flame for the stick between your lips.
“Yeah, you did not beat her, but you went too far. Raising your hand and pressing down hers? Babe, that was not necessary.”
“I did it for you, baby.”
These words roll from your tongue so easily. Whatever counterpoints Yena brings up, you can easily melt her with them, reducing any valid criticism to nothing but dust.
“But, but she’s a girl—”
“And you’re the only girl for me,” you hum and blow out the smoke before turning towards her. Yena clings onto you like a koala, pouty lips, trembling eyes, and best of all: still fully naked. Press a kiss onto her lips and she gasps.
“Babe, I—”
“I love you, Yena.”
“Me, me too.”
“Let’s forget other, stupid girls and classes. You’re the hottest thing since the sun and I want you now, baby.”
Take another drag and Yena basically jumps onto you. At this point, the two of you won’t have enough sleep for the classes tomorrow. Doesn’t really get better than an extended weekend, you’ll take it with glee. Throw away the cigarette, Yena throws away the blanket. I love truancy on a Friday.
#
“You should really take your girl now!”
Chaewon’s shout is tiny compared to the ear-drum shattering bass of the large speakers right above your head. You look at her, confused, and point at your ears. Chaewon rolls her eyes and points at Yena, who is stumbling through the crowd, a large stain on her pink tube top and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand.
“Better. Get. Her. Out!”
Her message is clear, and it should shame you that she is more worried about your girlfriend than you are, but you’re too used to it. Yena is magnetic to parties and the parties are magnetic to her. They need each other, and usually, you enjoy yourself alongside her, but for some reason, she went over the top today. Shot after shot after shot, down her throat until her dance moves became laughable.
“Fuck, fine!”
Growl in annoyance to make Chaewon back off to her clique and drinks while you grab the wrist of your completely dazed girlfriend and drag her through the crowd. Your eyes are always at her back, her hips, her bottom. If any filthy bastard tries to touch her, you will tear off his hand and shove it down his trachea to make him regret not respecting you enough.
Outside the old barn at some outskirt of the city, Yena suddenly starts to run, bottle still in her hand, her feet faster than usual. She is an excellent sprinter, but for some reason, the alcohol pushes her to a sudden sprint. You can barely keep pace but soon catch up to her when Yena leans to a wall and—
“Yena, what are you doi—hey, are you ok—”
—violently vomits out the hard liquor and her last meal, some noodles and meatballs. You bunch up her hair and turn your head away in disgust. Yena pushes out more, the unbearable sound not seeming to end in forever, until finally, she gasps for air.
“Sorry, sorry, babe, are you—”
“Jeez, Yena,” you groan and scrunch your nose, unable to look at the pile of half-digested food without feeling your stomach tighten painfully. “Just sit down over there, and try not to—you know?”
Unsure if she understood any of your words, you guide her to a nearby bench in front of the highest point of the wall. Except for the occasional breeze rustling the trees and Yena’s heavy breaths, it’s eerily quiet. You scan the area attentively, no possible attacker will go unnoticed, not even the figure on the far end of the wall. Why would someone sit there and stare skywards? There are barely any stars tonight.
The person has spotted you and jumps off the wall. You’d prepare to fight for your honor and Yena’s safety, but then realize that the person is pretty small and frail. You pull out your phone and point the flashlight at the approaching figure. Dressed in a thin black jacket, it’s none other than Minju. Again.
“Did not expect you here,” you snark at her and point your flashlight closer to her face. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Hey! Is-isn’t that Min-Min-ju?” Yena bursts out in laughter and rises from her bench. “Best friends, best friendos!”
She steps towards her classmate in deep drunken delirium and tries to hug her. Instead she loses her footing way earlier and is about to crash face first onto the ground. You’re unable to react on time, but Minju is. She catches Yena’s fall, knees painfully digging into the gravel as both her arms catch your girlfriends’ fall. Slowly, the two of them descend onto the ground.
You stand there frozen, as Minju reaches into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulls out a surprisingly fresh tissue. She carefully wipes Yena's dirty mouth, not shying away from the abhorrent smell and delusional smile. Minju holds her still like a baby, and Yena giggles stupidly.
“Get off of her!” you shout at the top of your lungs and push Minju off at her shoulders. She jumps and lets go of Yena, who almost meets the ground below if it weren’t for your arms on her back. In your rage you pick your girlfriend up so she stands and sways again. Her good mood fades as she struggles to stand upright, even with your arm around her.
“What is your game, huh? Stop trying to get her, she’s mine,” you snarl down at Minju, who sits on the ground, her legs shivering in this mild spring night. She should have worn more than a skirt if this is still too cold for her, but for some reason, she still has this unusual determination in her eyes.
“Can I have this?” Minju asks, oblivious to your rant, pointing at the vodka bottle still firmly in Yena’s grip. Your girlfriend doesn’t react to the question and instead rests her head on your chest. She sniffles and weeps, tears soaking into the fabric of your polo shirt. Enraged, you kick a bunch of gravel onto Minju—she should get fucking buried beneath it.
“Fuck off, really. Are you really that desperate? Pathetic.”
“I-I’m not, I just want to drink.
“Would you let her drink it? Yena is already looking bad.”
Furiously reach for the bottle. This fucking bitch. Throw it as hard as you can against the wall. It bursts into a million shards, the vodka running down the gray surface. Someone opens a window.
“Hey! You fucking rouges! Stop this shit or I’ll call the police!”
You’d love to curse back at them, but Yena pulls at the hem of your shirt. You look at her teary eyes and sigh. This has been a big enough mess, no need to push the limits. Stare down at Minju, who still looks at the spot the bottle hit, her eyes big yet blurry. She looks absolutely miserable.
“Back off,” you say to her. “Don’t come close to her again or you’ll regret it.”
#
Monday comes and goes, the same goes for Tuesday. You might sit in class, attend each of the lessons, but you’re not listening to a word the teachers say. Nothing special, if you’re being honest. You’d usually guide your hand on Yena’s thigh and watch her smirk knowingly as she tries to pay attention. This would go on until she pinches you. She tries to keep up with school a lot more than you do, it shows in her grades.
Today however, she is not in the mood at all. She swats you away from the start, her gaze focused, yet angry, as she tries to copy the teachers’ scrabble from the blackboard. You roll your eyes, this is not uncommon either, especially during that time of the month.
You roll tiny pellets of paper, your ammo for today. Simple, childish entertainment, sure, but you can’t wait to see the reaction of today’s target. Minju had it coming for a while now. Usually you’d send the paper flying over her head at one of the stupid classmates behind her; now she is in full focus.
At least she would be if it weren’t for her absence. You only notice it when you turn around to ready your first throw. She is not there. You drop the pellets to the ground, the only form of disarmament that actually feels like it. How can she not be there? The teacher didn’t even notice, no one noticed—and no one cares, except you.
But why do you care? Students are absent all the time and a loser like Minju has all the reasons not to go. For some reason, it still grinds your gears, brings them to a screeching halt and makes you form a fist. Feel your own fingernails dig into the palm of your hands; this is getting a bit out of control.
Suddenly, Yena’s hand is on your thigh, a surprising twist to your usual shenanigans, however, she is a lot less gentle. You spin around, meet her gaze for a second before the angry hum of your teacher finally gets your attention. She must have been standing there for quite a while, trying so hard to do her job by teaching you something, something, something.
“Oh, so you are still among us,” she notes, looking up and down at you above the rim of her large, blue glasses. “I bet you now know all the details of the French Revolution.”
“Of course,” you respond, voice and posture as nonchalant as ever.
“Do you mind explaining the root causes that led to the Battle of Verdun?”
“Actually, I do mind.” Let your smirk fade for something more sympathetic. “Excuse me, Miss Kang, I just have a terrible headache right now. I think I should leave for today.”
#
“You should pay more attention in class. You can’t always skip the lessons you don’t like.”
You put your phone on speaker and throw it on the desk. On the other side is Yena, thoroughly annoyed from the moment you started this call. If you’re honest, her annoyance is getting on your nerves as well.
“But I don’t care,” you groan into your room, loud enough for your girlfriend to hear. “It’s really hard to pay attention when it’s just boring shit, day in, day out.”
“I know it’s boring to you, but you know how grades work and that they don’t give a fuck about you not giving a fuck. At least try?” Yena tries to bargain, but you shatter her away.
“Why the fuck are we still talking about school? I should be by your side right now. Should I come over?”
You smirk in lust, one hand opening a drawer with countless condoms in it. Let a pack of it glide through your fingers before you hear a loud sigh coming from Yena.
“Not today, no. I-it’s better we not.”
“Huh? Why is that?”
“Look, it’s…”
A long pause. You almost slam the drawer shut, instead catching yourself at the last moment and only closing it carefully in deep regret. There is a deeply rooted hate in you for evasive behavior like this; it’s terrible in movies or TV shows, but when it is happening in real life, it makes you snap quickly.
“Yena—”
“I-it’s because… you wouldn’t… look, we can’t do it, okay?”
“Oh. It is that time of the month, huh?
“Ew.”
Another pause, this time a lot more tense.
“What did you just say?” Yena growls furiously. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!”
“Yena, I—” Your words face an impenetrable wall, not even reaching your girlfriend’s ear.
“No! Shut up! You insensitive idiot, I don’t want to deal with you too right now. Fuck. Off!”
Yena hangs up. You smash the pack of condoms to the ground, a nerve struck by her entitlement. Oh well, that’s how they are during this time. She’ll calm down by Thursday, maybe Friday. You get to sleep, not willing to even see the school building tomorrow.
#
The tide doesn’t turn on Thursday, but for some goddamn reason, you still went up to that school. For the first time since you two became a couple, she completely ignored you. You’ve been waiting at the gate for an extra twenty minutes, which meant less sleep for you, which means more annoyance, which leads to—
“Watch your fucking step, bro!” you growl at a random student, who was unlucky enough to be in your walking lane. This has quickly turned to a day where everyone is better off either treating you like the irritable King Saul or disappearing all together. A day like a threat; it all hangs by a thread that could tear at any moment.
Your patience is thin and so is Minju’s arm when she tries to pick something up. Too bad for her, she is right there when you try to pass her. With the grace of an elephant you pass by her, painfully squeeze her arm against the table and hear a whimper of pain.
“Watch it, Minju,” you bark at her and aggressively take your seat, eyes locked on her. Everything about her looks has gotten worse, her posture looks like it’s about to break, she could fold in half at any minute. Any hobo would have more dignity. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
“I—it hurts.”
You can hear from the tone of her voice, stiff and pained, that her arm really hurts. Minju wraps her fingers around it gently and looks at you, but all you see are her shimmering eyes with nothing left inside, dull and dead—and so absolutely infuriating.
“Like I said: not in the mood.”
Minju hisses. Blood spills from her elbow. The class has taken notice of the situation and looks on in awe as you stand up and in front of Minju. Someone is brave enough to sneak out, probably to get a teacher to check on Minju and the open wound, from which beads of blood slowly drip to the floor.
“What have you done?” Yena suddenly whispers from behind you, makes herself beside Minju and looks at that twig-like arm. You can’t channel your focus on her for long, Minju’s sniffles drive you to the edge of insanity.
“She was in the way, okay?” you respond, not bothering to give Yena another second of your time. For this lone, fleeting moment of your life, you can get it all out on this loser—that no one would miss, that no one sees—in all honesty, you might do her a favor with this. Now, she has everyone’s attention. They can also see how dreadful she looks and smells and dresses.
Minju is undeserving of life in your eyes—and your eyes are on her cheek.
“Maybe you should apologize?!”
A smack heard around the world. You could’ve done it so many ways: grab your wrist and use both fists to hit her or maybe angle your elbow to hit her eye socket. Instead, you went straight for her cheek with your left, swung like a boxer and Minju flew off the chair. No way she could’ve dodged this.
Knocked down after one punch, but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about it. It’s all just a mess. The puddle of Minju on the floor, swollen face, bloody mouth, lifeless limbs. The crowd of classmates that surround her, take photos, groan in shock, turn around to not vomit. The hands of Yena all over your face, push you back towards your seat, into the arms of a teacher, then an officer.
Her face tells you everything. You’ll never see her again, not as your girlfriend, not as your trophy. Those times have ended with this punch heard around the world. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. The ambulance arrives and you hear the principal yelling, not the words, just that he is yelling. To your surprise, Minju never looked better than now—with that maniacal smile on her face as they carry her towards the ambulance.
#
To your surprise, you’re not in a jail cell on Friday, but in the principal's office again. The sound of that smack you gave Minju, it finally left your ears. You’re not deaf anymore and ready to take a chance at redemption. Of course your fist could not have slipped, not with all the witnesses and the power behind it, but maybe a couple hours of anger management will save you from a trial or whatever punishment may await you.
The principal looks angry, you expected as much, but the anger is mixed with shock, speechlessness and disbelief. He must have seen a ghost last night, or God himself. You’ve never seen this serious man look so at a loss for words.
The door opens, a young woman and a police officer walk in. She is crying, he is stern. They both wait for the principal to say something, but he just points at you, unable to come up with words that could describe you. At this point, you’ve had it with their hesitation, their overreaction.
“What am I doing here?” you ask, calmly, quietly, as not to show your slight annoyance.
“T-tell him, Miss Kwon, please.” The principal’s voice is about to crack, so he turns around, hands in his hair, while Miss Kwon sits down next to you. You slowly remember why she is here. She is the confidant teacher, the kind soul, the one who cares for everyone. Even the likes of Minju.
“Min-Minju came to the hospital yesterday,” she begins, her sniffles stopped temporarily when the officer hands her a handkerchief. “She, she looked good. Yes, she did, sur-sur-surprisingly.”
For the first time, you look at Miss Kwon, but she averts you. Her posture is frozen. She continues to talk as if you aren’t there.
“I remember, she smiled, said something about you. We shouldn’t be angry, you showed it to her. I asked her, but she just smiled. The doctors said she was free to leave tonight, to-to-tonight—”
Miss Kwon bursts out in tears again, her ruined face hidden behind two fragile hands that try to keep up her composure. Behind her is still the officer, the only one to look at you in the entire room, and his dark orbs are full of disgust, like he hates your guts to the core.
“We found her.” Miss Kwon tries everything in her power to get out another sentence, you feel your breath halt for a bit. “She was, she was hanging from the ce-ceiling—”
Miss Kwon wails, but all you hear is a clock ticking in the background.
“What?”
“She killed herself!” the principal screams and slams his fists into the desk.
“She is dead, she is dead!
He slams down again and again, the floor starts to shake.
“Do you understand me!? Do you regret it!?
He hits it and you realize—
“Do you regret it!?
—he’d love to hit you like this, over and over and over again.
“Do you regret it!?”
Do you regret the single tear rolling down your cold face?
An interest in photography. A camera in your hand since you’ve been four years old. A nice motive. Click.
Other hobbies don’t come to mind. Friends are none of your concern. Just a camera and the desire to one day make money with it. The grades have to match that desire though. Click. Back to study.
You have pictures of all of your classmates. Most of them taken in secret. All of them show how they grew the last couple of years. Yena and Chawon have matured, fit and attractive. The main bully has gotten bigger, meaner. He’d kill you if he ever found your pictures of Yena. They might not be inappropriate or unflattering, but he is scarily obsessive.
One motive catches your eye. While most of your classmates have bloomed to varying degrees, one gorgeous girl has withered. Your pictures of Minju portray her as increasingly less well-dressed, less combed, less happy. You can barely catch a glimpse of her full, uncovered face. It bothers you how she hides it.
No, it’s intriguing. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Starting someday in the middle of the school year, you can’t stop looking over to her, sitting in the midst of the classroom while being outside everything and everyone.
Snapshots here and there with your phone and a small digital camera during class. They form a collection of this disheveled girl. You’d much rather have something truly worth framing, taking with your best camera model. This will have to do for the time being, you tell yourself.
Suddenly, one day, you swear that she seems to light up more and more. It is not noticeable for anyone else, no classmates, no teachers — only you know that Kim Minju shines like a star today. Dozens of pictures fill the folder of your phone. Your heart starts to race a little bit. Maybe you could approach her, get more of this glow, hell, even a full portrait—
Don’t be ridiculous! A picture like this is impossible to ask for. You never asked anyone for such a favor, let alone someone whose connection to you only exists in your mind, in your fantasy.
Minju is not in class. A day ago she was glowing; now she is hiding. Call her a solar eclipse and you a solar flare the way you burst. The thrill is burning in your veins, blood rushing to your head as you head out, towards Rainbow Street, your most expensive camera hanging around your neck. You stop next to one of the many older, Japanese style houses. There is a police car. You quickly hide behind a tree across the small street, much more akin to a trafficless avenue.
Two officers walk out, with them a few more people, dressed in black with sorrowful and disturbed faces. Minju is not amongst them, even though this is certainly her address. They murmur and whisper and cry about something, someone — they will miss him, why did he do it, oh this poor girl. The officers drive off, the crowd disassembles.
Right before you decide to leave, the sliding door to the small building opens. A fence and a wall obstruct your view, so you decide to climb up a few branches, just a few feet off the ground to maybe catch a glimpse off—
Minju lays in the doorframe, the sliding door not fully opened. Her head rests against the side, tears endlessly streaming down her face. Small sobs, contortions of her beautiful features, her hair everywhere yet at the same time, you’ve never seen so much of her face.
Her features are flawless. This moment feels like a personal show for you. Instinctively, you reach for the camera and take a photo. Then climb higher, take another photo, then again. Minju does not notice you, but her crying intensifies once more. Her hands try to grab something. She wants to hold on so bad. Click. She gasps, cries out. Click. Words stuck in her throat, lips dry and torn. Click.
A hundred more clicks as you try not to overdose on this perfect moment. You have never felt such a rush. Minju is all yours, these pictures are your proof. Nobody gets to see her like this. Your heart races at the thought that this might be the only moment, your only chance to see this spectacle. A spectacle for you and to you only.
With a hint of disgust about yourself you walk home an hour later. Jerk off to her once because what is one more sin for today? The next day, she isn’t at school, but you don’t visit her either. The day after that she is back, but you can barely stand looking at her. In the one picture you take Minju looks her absolute worst, worse than her endless sobbing and crying and screeching and hair pulling.
You decide to go back to Rainbow Street the very next day, early in the morning. One hour from the start of school and you stand before the house again. You carefully glance at the sliding door. There is a gap, it’s open.
Your heart skips a beat. The thrill of just having a peak is enough to push you forward. Nobody is out here this early, nothing will disrupt your trespassing. Increasingly rapid breaths leave your nostrils as you put an eye to the gap. It‘s completely dark inside, just a faint white reflection hovering in the hallway catches your attention.
Your heart now races. Fingers push open fully the door that was ajar. The dim morning twilight floods the dark house and the faint white turns to a clearer picture. A simple gown, worn out, hangs from the ceiling.
A scream gets stuck in your throat as your knees give out and you collapse on the floor. Minju‘s eyes are wide open, dead and with yet to dry tears in them. Bruises on her neck, bruises on her hands, lips in a hideous purple. The noose barely holds her at the jaw, blood drips from the corners of her mouth.
You have never seen nor imagined something as utterly horrifying. It‘s like every negative emotion is flooding you for your sins. Sins you have committed, sins you still commit. You find Minju more beautiful than ever.
Beneath her dangling feet you find a letter in crude hand-writing.
To my dearest daughter
I know you won‘t understand this but this is necessary. Ever since your mother passed, I haven‘t had a clear thought. My head is a mess, my mind isn‘t mine. But I have to take responsibility. I have to stop this voice, this feeling for you. You look so much like her, it‘s too painful for me, I can‘t look at you. Please forgive me, I‘m going to her now. For your sake too.
„So you just wanna game? Play something else then, at home.“
„Hey, Minju, wait! We can do something else if you want. I just need some — excuse to stay with you, something to pass today.“
„But I don‘t want to see anyone today.“
„Not even me?“
„Definitely not you.“
„Okay, that‘s fine. But promise me that you‘ll call me if you need anything — and text me before bed.“
„What are you? My lover?“
„Just a worried friend.“
„I‘m doing fine.“
„You don‘t look like you‘re fine. If you want to be alone, I‘ll go now. But I‘m only a call away.“
„Thanks. Bye.“
#
„Minju! Minju! Open the door, please, open it now!
„Minju! Why weren‘t you in school yesterday? Are you okay? Open the door!
„I swear I‘ll kick it down right now!“
„He is dead! He is dead, fucking dead and it‘s my fault!“
„I‘m coming in!“
„No! Go away! Don‘t look at me, I‘m a demon, a devil! I killed him!“
„Calm down, please. Put, put that away.“
„No!“
„Put the rope away, Minju. Please.“
„…“
„Okay, now breathe. Slow, calm, ste—“
„I don‘t want to breathe — I want to suffocate like he did.“
„Minju, please.“
„I killed my father. I‘m a murderer, I should die.“
„Minju, please. You need to breathe. No more sobbing, no more screams. Listen to my heartbeat.“
„I-I can‘t, I don‘t deserve to!“
„Then I will hold you closer, until you‘ve given up this awful plan, until your tears are dried, until you can tell me why—“
„…“
„Minju,
„I don‘t want to lose you.
„You‘re my best friend.“
„Please, let me, let me go. I‘m a demon, a monster.“
„Even if you were, I‘d stick with you. I‘m not going to let you die tonight.“
„…“
„What is in your hands?“
„My reason.“
„Your final letter?“
„My dads final letter.“
„Whatever is written in this — it does not mean that it‘s your fault and that you need to die too. Minju, isn‘t life beautiful?“
„It‘s fucking not. I can‘t do this anymore.“
„You‘re right to feel this way. But it‘s the only life you got and even if this is just me being selfish, I want you to continue trying, continue living.“
A/N: Wow fic in the big year 2026. Hope there are reader's still here lol.
The sun begins to set after an eventful afternoon, its orange rays illuminate the hotel room you occupy for “work negotiations”. The usual chilly evening breeze doesn’t bother you, the thick hotel quilt, or more specifically, the girl wrapped in it with you, provides enough warmth to you.
You rest your chin on her shoulders and admire the scenery with her. “This view is not as beautiful as you, princess.”
Tzuyu giggles at the compliment and she gently rubs her hand over yours, lazily enjoying your embrace. You press yourself tighter against her and kiss the nook of her neck, glancing down the balcony and watching most of the crowd by the pool dissipating. It’s the end of the day but you’re hoping it's not the end of yours. A hand sneaks from her tummy to between her thighs as your lips kiss up the side of her face. “Is it time for you to go?”
Her body tenses for a split second, conflicted on what to do next, but you, ever the devil on her shoulder, pull her waist even tighter against your groin and run a finger across her splayed pussy. “I should, but I,” she lets out a soft moan and snuggles back into you, her shaky hands now gripping the balcony railings, “just, one more time, okay?”
You grin. You’ve won over her once again. “Anything for you, princess.”
She gets rid of the quilt and turns to you, her eyes sparkle with need. You bend her over the railing and spread her legs a little further. Her lower body sticks itself further back, pussy already glistening in anticipation. You can’t wait any longer, desperately wanting to be back in her body just as you’ve been for most of the day, so you position your cock by her pussy and gently thrust it in.
She lets out a satisfied sigh when you’re inside her once again, her body tight but gradually opening up to you. A perfect match for you, you’re glad you didn’t let this gem slip away. Thankfully , she needs you as much as you need her, forming this wicked, dark relationship.
You work your hips harder, your cock hitting the depths of her body. An instant reaction, a loud cry for all still lingering by the pool to hear, and you continuously draw her moans out with deeper harder thrusts. You hold her ass instead of her waist and take a few squeezes, enjoying the feel of her flesh.
Tzuyu is so engrossed in the dirty fucking, barely able to remember that you’re in a very public position. Her eyes blurry, scanning the poolside and hoping no one looks up. Even with her unobstructed cries, you both go unnoticed, that is until you begin to slap her ass.
Not hard enough to inflict too much pain or leave a handprint, but just nice that the spank adds to your noise. It catches Tzuyu off guard and you feel her get wetter and tighter after such an unusually loud moan. You sense her fear soon after, her arm held across her chest and her mouth trying to seal shut and not make any noise.
“What’s the matter, princess? Don’t you want to show off how sinful you are?”
You peel her arm away and tug her body so that it’s upright and flushed with yours. Gently cupping her tits, she’s now leaning back against you, hips rocking back to meet yours, eyes shut as she quietly moans and enjoys the fuck.
“I think there are people watching.”
“Oh?” You’re not fazed, still continuing to fuck her, even planting more kisses on her cheek before you look down. “Let’s go princess.”
In an instant, you pull out of her and pull her back into the room and onto the messy bed. She falls next to you and you both look at each other before bursting into giggles. A lovely different symphony, an anomaly from the usual sounds of pleasure from Tzuyu. She’s staring into your eyes and you’re sweeping stray strands of hair off her face. You lean over her and kiss her forehead, then her cheeks. A warmth washes over both of you, you sense her melting deeper into the bed while your strength begins to fade.
Her eyes, they’re so pretty. You’ve tainted this princess already, ruined her for an entire afternoon, but you see her, for the stunning woman she is at her core, and you lose more control. You’re falling, moving lower, and you’re kissing her, softly. She’s soft too, jelly, and you feel her lips press back against yours.
Mere seconds later, what felt like eternity, you’re right back to watching her, watching her eyes sparkle, her pretty face shine as she smiles oh so beautifully.
You fall even further, this time with her aid. Her palm rests on your cheeks, her chin tilts up just a little to close the gap, and she guides you back onto her lips. A gentle kiss, her mouth parts so slightly to sigh into yours. You smile when your forehead touches hers and you hold her head and kiss her again.
“I want you,” her eyes pleading, her voice almost cracking, so vulnerable, “make love to me.”
“Anything for you princess.”
You’re kneeling between her legs but you nudge it a little wider. The hand on her cheek shifts onto her chest, briefly going over her breast, the slight pressure causes a gasp, until you’re holding her waist. Your tip presses against her wet entrance and you glance back at her. She is an utter mess as you insert yourself inside her body, her walls tightening around you. Perfect, you’re like the missing piece of a puzzle in her life, as wrong as it all is, but she doesn’t care, not in this moment, maybe not ever from here on out.
You take slow and deep thrusts, filling her completely, ensuring she feels every bit of you. She’s melting into the bed, surrendering, giving herself up to you, all thoughts gone except how much she needs you. A whole afternoon later and she still can’t get enough of you. She’s so wet and tight, her legs wrap your waist, as if she doesn’t ever want to let you go.
But it only drives you to go faster. You’re losing control of yourself too, having never seen her this pleasure stricken before. It’s all you. Her face in pure ecstasy is all thanks to you.
“You’re so pretty for me, princess. I love it when you’re like this.”
A blush, a shy smile that’s immediately covered by a hand.
“No no. No hiding from me.”
No, you can’t have that, so you pull it off, hold her hand by her waist. You squeeze her hand, Look deeply into her eyes, you’re met with hers, half lidded from the pleasure, but the glint of affection is still there.
“I’m going to cum.”
“Not yet, just a little longer princess.”
Her back arches, her heels hook around your waist. She pulls you close by the back of your head. Every little sound she makes goes straight into your ears.
“I can't, I can't, I’m cumming.”
Her pussy is so tight and wet around you, making a small mess at your lower body. She’s melting, and even though you’re whispering soothing calming words to her, you’re not exactly helping with your cock still drilling her at full speed. She feels so good, a near perfect fit for you, and a few more rapid pumps into her body later, you’re cumming too.
“I’m going to breed you princess.”
Your words barely reach her ears, a soft moan in return before you shut her up with a deep passionate kiss. You’re shooting hot white cum in her, pumping and burying your load in the depths of her womb.
Your lower body works on autopilot and lazily thrusts a few more times while you’re focused on Tzuyu. Your hand is on her cheek and your lips still on hers, just so gently tasting her sweet lips for the hundredth time but you know deep down it’ll never be enough.
Your body finally cools down from the feral fervour and you slip out of Tzuyu’s body with some of your cum following suit. Tzuyu musters her strength and turns you onto your back while she straddles you. She collects the cum staining her thighs and licks them clean while you’re appreciating her body again and gently caressing her curves.
“It’s time I really should go back home.”
“Clean yourself up before you leave. Don’t want you smelling like sex when you’re with your boyfriend.”
Her lower body stumbles off the bed. Tzuyu pauses, then turns to smiles before entering. She doesn’t need to say anything, you get the message.
~~~~~~
You’re back in that natural, comfortable position, with arms wrapped around Tzuyu’s waist and head resting on her shoulder, this time in the shower. You can’t get enough of her. Her body, her warmth, her relieved smile as you wash off the last bits of soap left on her body.
She hurriedly dries herself off and begins to dress up. She frantically looks around the crumpled dress and presses on any wrinkles, while you lean against a wall, wrapped in a towel and watch in amusement and adoration.
Dressed and about to leave, her hands hesitate at the door. She turns to you, words choked in her throat. But she doesn’t need to say anything.
“Just one more, princess.” You hold her hand and lean into her. “Please.”
Tzuyu nods, closes her eyes and kisses you.
You wish you had more time. You just want to get dirty with her again. You know that she has to go, but you also know that she is yours as much as you are hers and that you’ll see her very soon.
When she pulls away, when your foreheads touch, when she sighs, you fall even deeper.
“My place, this Saturday?”
“I’d love that.”
Her hand slips away from yours and you watch her leave the hotel room.
A regret for you both, but you know this isn’t the end, not by a long shot.
******
A/N: Honestly, this draft was like 90% complete since April last year but I didn't like it enough to post it. A review now made me realise it wasn't as bad as I remembered. Hope yall enjoyed this. More fics to come? Idk. I hope so.
By the time this is posted, it’ll have been five full years since I made one of the most important clicks in my life: the Tumblr post button on a sleepless dawn after finishing a rough 2k-ish reader-insert fanfiction written on a whim at 2 AM. From there, nothing was ever the same.
Out of all the interests I’ve taken up (movies, basketball, etc.), somehow the one persistent thing I’ve been able to maintain interest in outside of Pokémon is writing. If you told me I’d devote myself to writing back ten years ago, I would have thought you were on crack. Maybe 2013-14 me would believe it, but not the later versions of me pre-pandemic. Yet here we are, having dedicated a fifth of my actual life into this. Life really throws you unexpected curveballs sometimes.
I was 13 when I used to write screenplays/scripts that me and my classmates would read after lunch and sometimes for English projects in the sixth grade. They were silly and stupid, but quite fun to look back on and something that I thought I’d get over once I was done with middle school. I’ve revisited writing pre-pandemic once but assumed I lost that same spark now I was a teenager with other things to do. So I feel grateful to revisit that little part from my childhood and have it grow in a meaningful, if not absurd manner. And to be honest, I was never really a literary fellow; I seldomly read books and preferred films/movies. Even as I continued writing, my references and how I visualize scenes often stems from how it would be perceived on a screen than what it was supposed to be—in oral/descriptive detail.
Admittedly, the experience so far has been both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it’s allowed me to tap into my creative side, the more fun, whimsical side of me that I otherwise never would have explored further had I not made that leap and decision after reading Interrogation and Business Trip back then. And in a way, I also wouldn’t have been as big into K-pop now if I wasn’t a writer, since it gave me more avenues and artists to explore the genre (peach is a big reason as to why I got into IZ*ONE after they disbanded and subsequently the groups/solos that followed, now two of them are my ult groups), so I’ll always give this hobby some credit for diversifying my music taste and defining what I listen to now. Writing has taken me to places I never thought I’d imagine too, to the point where it even became a side hustle and a secondary source of income; it’s allowed me to go to concerts and support my family to some degree, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
But the further along I’ve gotten into this, the more unnecessary pressure I put on myself as both a writer and a community member. I’m still clearly lacking in many aspects and even have to relearn the basic fundamentals at times. The people I look up to are better than ever; even newcomers who have been here for way less time than me have surpassed me a long time ago, and they more than deserve the success and acclaim they’re getting, they’ve been phenomenal reads. Meanwhile, I’m entering year five and I feel like I’ve stagnated, maybe even regressed. It’s also gotten to the point where I constantly have to keep proving myself every time I release a new fic. Like yes, this is a hobby; it’s nothing serious, but given the time and effort I’ve devoted to it, I feel like I’m not where I should be. Similar to playing video games or learning a sport; I should be getting better at it with time and practice, and I feel as if though I’m not.
Not that long ago, I went on an institutional retreat as part of our graduation rites (which we will return to), and while nothing much happened, the one thing I somehow wrote down was: break your habits. Two weeks after that, I’ve received a message that highlighted something alarming, and I didn’t just think about my past year. It made me think about everything. To the point where I even question now as to whether I still deserve to be here.
As much as I want to keep going, I feel that the end is near. I started this blog in the middle of the pandemic when I had nothing to do. I’m graduating in a month and my financial situation is kinda dire. Life has become too hectic and my priorities have changed drastically where I feel like something has to give. This blog—and this hobby—has embedded itself as a huge component of my life, but I feel like I don’t belong anymore. I feel that even though I’ve been around for so long, I still feel like I’m not good enough to have earned your respect. I keep making the same mistakes, both as a person and as a writer that even though I promised to improve upon, I just keep falling back into. It’s a neverending cycle. And let’s focus on the former here: as a persona, as pi or peter or some other name you’ve known me by, I’ve burned one too many bridges to be considered someone worth looking up to, or to be even considered as an acquaintance, let alone a friend. I’ve let my own pride, my own selfishness, and my own narcissism take over more times to count, and I’ve refused to take complete control or accountability believing no one’s getting hurt when in reality, people are; they’ve only just brought this up to me now. And I’ve been reading and listening.
I’m never one to start conflicts at all. My belief is that if there’s any issue that needs to be settled, it should be resolved privately and without causing a stir. But given how hard it is to address you all individually, I’ve decided to extend a branch to you all by making this public, even if it seems like the dumbest play. I know some of you have had issues with me, whether in the past or present, about items we’ve discussed in public, private, or even unspoken and for that: I’m truly sorry. I’m sorry for not being a good person, for not making the necessary changes I promised back then. I don’t expect you to forgive me, given how many times I’ve fucked up, and there’s only so many chances you can give; but at least I want you to read this: I genuinely feel bad about everything. Trust, once broken, is hard to repair, and I believe I’ve pushed it one too many times for you to be worth my time, but the regret is genuine.
This isn’t me asking for empathy or sympathy or me wallowing in self-pity; rather this is me being honest. There’s so many things, so many words, and actions I regret back on, even as recently as yesterday, and while I can forgive myself and move on, I doubt you will. Human nature dictates you can only endure so much before you finally decide to sever the connection for your own sanity, and that’s okay. If anything; I’m surprised a majority of you still look at me somewhat respectably and not as a lowlife or lesser being like some of the people who call themselves “writers” by using AI for everything or writing UA or noncon, but that’s beside the point: you should have left me behind a long time ago. I promised I’d do better, and in the time since, none of that seems to have come true. And now I’m giving you the choice to do it again. If you have any issue or problem with how I conduct myself that you want to address (whether publicly or privately), come forward so we can talk about it (peacefully and without conflict). If you want to block me straight up, then go ahead. If you think I’m no longer worth your time, then unfollow. If you think my presence is no longer worth tolerating for the betterment of the community, then feel free to kick me out. I absolutely deserve every bit of criticism you’ll throw my way, and it’s my own actions that have caused this. Whatever you choose to do, I’ll 100% respect that decision.
In spite of everything, let it be known I have never spoken a negative word about any of you, whether in private or public. I may be jealous and envious sometimes reading your work or being excluded from certain projects, but it's out of a motivation and a desire to do better. And whenever I am feeling jealous, let it be known that it was never personal. Of course we all want to be great, and every journey is unique, but sometimes, I feel that the results don’t translate, or that I’m inherently less talented than some of you, or maybe I just don’t see the good in whatever I do. And even to the people I’ve had an issue with, let it be known I have never thought ill of you as well. I want us to co-exist peacefully, regardless of our beliefs, philosophies, opinions, and no matter what differences we have about each other. But if you think that is no longer an option in this space, then so be it—I’ll find my way out of here.
There’s so many people I want to thank for my time here, that listing them all is impossible, but I’ll try my best anyway. Firstly, to the guys that welcomed me with open arms and helped me settle into the community when I debuted: to peach, ddeun and levi (worldsover) for answering my questions, even if they were stupid and easily searchable and learning how the Tumblr ecosystem worked. To peach, caps, majorblinks, kooya, bran, iz, and gray for their incredible body of work and inspiring me to get better; I can only dream of even being in your shadow. To this day, many of your works I still use as reference for my own writing, so thank you for sharing your wonderful talent. To chunk, my brother from another mother, I miss you dearly and our daily yap sessions. Sometimes we just send GIFs to each other and just go crazy; I miss that—and I hope you’re doing well wherever you are. To iz for keeping the faith when I was at my lowest; I’m glad you’re better now and I hope we can meet one day. To svn, DJ, hoaqin, def/bamee, kaede, eros, CJ (banananutsmuthie), and chim, thanks for putting up with my random bullshit every single day. I get online and am always happy to see you; the little things make my day. To the people I’ve met IRL: valentine, cray, Digi, and Dotoli, I hope we can hang out more often and it was great meeting you lovely bunch, and thank you for letting me be comfortable around you even if I’m weird as hell. To everyone else I cannot address or have not mentioned in this section, I hope I have found favor in your sight, whether as a writer, a friend, or a community member. Finally, to sins, my debut brother; I know we haven’t been on the best of terms for a long, long time—and you’ve recently laid upon me a lifetime of guilt and past mistakes that prompted this letter, but I have never harbored ill feelings toward you even once; as a matter of fact, I pray and hope we can put bury the hatchet and truly reconcile one day. But until then, just know I respect you as a writer and a person, regardless of how you look at me. It’s nothing but love on my end.
And lastly, to you, dear reader, for reading all the way to the end of this letter, thank you. Thank you for believing in me when I was still questioning myself—and still am, to this day. Every note, every reblog/comment, every commission helped me become the writer I am today, and for that, I am eternally grateful and humbled. I don’t know if this next year is truly the end or not—tomorrow is never promised—but if there’s one thing I don’t regret, it’s definitely writing and sharing my work with you, and you accepting me with open arms. I appreciate and cherish the journey we’ve been on together, both the good and bad times.
An Yujin remained slumped in her seat, hands on her spread legs, eyeing the university counselor across her. She didn’t know how to respond.
When was the last time she had a good day? When was the last time she ever felt ‘good’ at all?
Closing her eyes, she thought back to a few months ago. A time when Yujin still rode her motorcycle early in the morning to pick her up. A time when Yujin still stayed up late at night to listen to her talking about the difference between monetary and fiscal policies. A time when Yujin still felt a tightness in her chest just by being close to someone like her.
Yujin thought back to a time when she was still dating Jang Wonyoung. A time when everything still made sense. That was the last time she had a good day.
That was the last time An Yujin ever felt happy.
She flinched. The memories started coming back.
“Yujin-ah! Get off me—we’re going to be late. Ya! Haha stop kissing me all over!”
“Are you sure you want me to go on that trip? A lot of boys are coming along. You know how they can get. I won’t go if you don’t want me to, you know …”
“Did you seriously get into another fight? Over what—over me? God, Yujin … what will I do about you. What will I do without you …?”
My Yujin.
Mine.
Yujin.
“Yujin?”
She shook herself awake, blinded momentarily by the bright light of the counselor’s office. Returning her attention to the middle-aged woman before her, Yujin cleared her throat and replied, “I … I don’t know.”
Sighing, the woman inched forward on her desk. “Yujin, I’m not forcing you to think positively, ok? I know it can get hard. But I’m asking you this because cherishing the little things can help you through your bad days. It can give you more … reasons to keep going.”
Yujin wanted to believe her. She desperately did. Anything was better than what she was going through now: a hundred and fifty milligrams of Zoloft per day, weekly check-ins with the year level representative, reflection papers issued like goddamn paperwork, on top of her own requirements for the semester.
The university was doing all this because of her little attempt last month. They claimed they wanted to help ‘keep her alive’. But to Yujin, this wasn’t any means of living at all.
It was just trying not to die.
Reclining back in her seat, the counselor pushed a few papers towards Yujin. Yujin didn’t even think to glance at them before the counselor continued. “Our session’s about to be over. While I still haven’t gotten much out of you, this much was to be … expected. Given what you’ve been through and all.”
She tapped on the first sheet and smiled. “Homework.”
Yujin shrugged. “I already have an entire folder waiting for me back at the dorms. Is this really necessary?”
“I want you to rate your days,” the counselor explained. “Rate them. One to five. One to ten. One to a hundred if you even want. Monitor your mood. Rate how your day goes. Was it a good day? Was it a bad one? How did it feel? Where is it on a scale?”
“Let me guess—next you want me to run statistics on myself?” Yujin scoffed, shaking her head. She was already doing so much just to keep operating at the bare minimum. She barely had the time to add another stupid task on her daily to-do list. “Can’t I pass on this?”
“I’m serious. I want you to give this a try,” the counselor pressed, her face very stern now. “It’s hard to even look forward to tomorrow, or to tonight, or to the next hour. It gets harder when you can’t see the bigger picture. This will—this might … help you regain a sense of control in your life.”
With a final nod, she clasped her hands together. “Track your mood. Rate your days. See how the numbers make you feel when you look back on them. I expect to hear back from you again by the end of the semester.”
Rolling her eyes, Yujin begrudgingly hoisted herself out of her seat and turned towards the door.
“Your homework, Yujin,” the counselor reminded before she could leave.
Groaning, Yujin darted back and swiped the sheets off her desk before stomping out of the university counselor’s office.
27.9
Yujin woke up already feeling exhausted. One hand in her face, other hand scrambling for her phone, she rolled out of bed and onto the floor with a pathetic little whine.
It was already eleven-twenty-seven. Class starts in half an hour.
Popping the pill between her lips, she hard swallowed as she sat in front of her laptop. The imposing white screen and blinking vertical line kept staring at her. Taunting her. Mocking her.
It always did.
Hunched over her keyboard, she forced herself to type a few words out, get an idea written down or something—anything at this point. But who was she kidding? The thoughts couldn’t flow. Her fingers were too busy digging into themselves. Her mind wandered.
“Hahaha! I’ve never seen you in a dress, Jinjin. You look adorable. Maybe I should style you more often.”
Yujin slammed her laptop shut and dug into her hair. “Fuck … Fuck fuck FUCK!”
Another dud.
Kicking against the wall, she forced her laptop into her backpack and tossed it onto her shoulder. Yujin checked her phone one last time.
Twelve-twenty-three.
Sighing, she sauntered out the door and ambled to class.
24.3
Yujin woke up against her will. Her bed engulfed her body so comfortably. Her eyes were shut so tight. Her head was just swimming in half-baked fantasies. It was too perfect to resist.
But her damn phone alarm kept ringing like a siren.
Groaning, she hit snooze and forced herself to at least sit up. Yujin stared at the window, curtains of her short hair draped across her eyes.
It was twelve-nineteen.
“Sleepyhead. I never thought I’d … lay next to you like this … in your room. It’s a nice feeling, no? Maybe … we can do this again sometime—.”
Yujin bashed her palm against her forehead until the thought physically shattered. Her wrist flared up. Her temple throbbed. But what hurt the most was her chest.
She couldn’t breathe.
She picked up her medication and popped another pill in as she sat in front of her laptop. The document details immediately came into view.
Created: two months ago. Word count: zero.
Hanging her head backwards, Yujin stared at the ceiling, “Fucking useless … Should just drop the class. Drop this course.”
Yet something inside her wouldn’t let her do that. This same something pushed her to sit upright and try focusing again.
But after what seemed like hours, Yujin was closer to plucking out every last strand of her hair than she was typing in a single sentence on her document.
Yujin sank onto her keyboard and rolled her face all over it.
21.7
Yujin woke up before her alarm did. That was already a huge first step.
Except she’s been hanging upside-down for the past few hours.
Feet on her bed, body dangling off it against the floor, Yujin relished in the feeling of her blood rushing down to her head. Like this, she couldn’t feel a thing. She thought it would help her concentrate, but all it did was make her feel faint.
She checked her phone. One-eleven.
Closing her eyes, Yujin sighed. “No fucking way I’m going to be writing today. Again.”
Her phone vibrated. Someone was calling her.
“Wonyoung?” was her first thought. While the name never left her lips, she bit down hard on them and cursed under her breath. “Stupid.”
She picked up. “Hello?”
“Yujin!” the girl on the other end of the line announced, seemingly out of breath. “Are you done with class? Can I come over right now?”
Yujin took one look at her messy room and uttered. “You could say that. Why, what’s up?”
“What’s up? The fucking party. Later tonight?”
“Shit.”
“Uh huh—.” The sound of bus doors opening interrupted the other girl. “Right. So the party. You’re coming with me, right?”
“Rei, I already told you—I’m not in the mood,” Yujin replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Plus, I have stuff I need to … finish.”
“It’s a fucking Friday, Yujin. You have the whole weekend for that.”
“Yeah, you’re not the one having to deal with my shit. I’m not coming. Feel free to knock yourself out though,” Yujin sneered. “Text me if you need a ride home.”
“You used to be fun, Yujin. What happened to that?”
Silence. Yujin gripped her phone as Rei continued. “I know shit hasn’t been going your way for a while now, but just for one night—one night—can you bring the old Yujin back?”
Yujin didn’t know how to reply to that.
She did used to be fun—even before Wonyoung. She snuck liquor out of convenience stores. She crashed college parties with Rei. She even rode down the highway on her motorcycle while fucking high like she was on some Mission Impossible chase scene without a care in the world.
What happened to that? What happened to her?
Sighing, Yujin said, “Fine. I’ll go. But you’re doing my reflections for the next month.”
“Deal, deal~. Should have just used ChatGPT like I told you to. Ah, but you’re a ‘writer’,” Rei teased, the sounds of a fleeing bus audible behind her. “See you in a few then!”
Yujin ended the call and immediately curled up, tucking her head between her knees. “Fuck. I guess I just did that.”
“Friday night out it is.”
Yujin already wanted to leave the moment she and Rei pulled up to the apartment.
They could hear the blasted music from outside. More than just a handful of muted voices filled the air. Yujin could already smell different kinds of smoke being wafted around too.
But before she could turn away, Rei elbowed her. “Same jacket? Jesus, do you even wash it?”
As soon as Yujin parted her lips to speak, the door flew open and the host greeted them eagerly. “Rei! And, um, is this a friend of yours?”
Rei smirked and elbowed Yujin again. “This is Yujin. Yujin meet Tsuki. She’s my cousin.”
Yujin nodded, but Tsuki was all over her pulling her into a tight embrace. “Welcome, welcome! We have harder drinks too if that’s more your style. Just feel free to let loose tonight.”
Yujin came to hate parties. She believed it was just a part of growing up.
Back when she was in high school, parties were associated with social status. You went to parties? You were one of the cool kids. You hosted the parties? You were popular popular. You knew how to hold your liquor? You were the shit.
Drinking was a privilege back then. It was revered. It was an experience.
Now that they were no longer being policed and they had access to alcohol with just a swipe on an app, drinking was more akin to eating at a buffet on a Friday night.
And Yujin just didn’t have the appetite for it anymore.
Empty cup in hand, Yujin found her own small corner of the room wedged between a bookshelf filled with self-help books and a small cabinet with a vase on it. She bit on the rim of her cup and looked around her.
People making small talk. Bodies bouncing and grinding to the music. Scent of liquor, sweat, and weed. Was this really better than a Friday night alone at home? Yujin wasn’t sure. But she was thankful for one thing.
The party noise helped drown out the noise in her head.
“Sick party, yeah?” a boy exclaimed, approaching her with a sealed bottle of beer.
Yujin tapped her ear. “What did you say?”
“I said, sick party, yeah!”
She shook her head, pretending not to hear. The guy shrugged and just walked away doing a stupid little dance with his hips. Sighing, Yujin plucked her cup from her lips.
Small talk fucking sucks.
Yujin just wanted to go home.
Across the room, she spotted a girl with wide brown glasses dancing awkwardly to the EDM song being played by this wannabe DJ. Her skirt swished from side to side, threatening to flip up with just a gentle breeze. Yujin watched as she lifted her beer in the air and swayed with her hips, knocking over the DJ’s drink. Thankfully, it didn’t spill on his laptop.
Yujin chuckled, covering her own face in second hand embarrassment. “What a loser.”
The moment the next song just finished, Yujin was ready to leave. She ducked past a group of four girls gossiping to one another and reached for the door.
“Yujin! There you are—what the fuck?”
Rei grabbed her wrist and tugged her away. Before she knew it, Yujin was brought over to the living room, where a pair of opposite couches remained vacant.
Nudging her forward, Rei stopped Yujin in front of a blonde girl in a bandana. She gestured to the girl. “It’s time you two met. This is Liz. Liz, this is Yujin. She’s a friend of mine from high school.”
The blonde girl managed a soft grin. “Nice to meet you. Sorry if Rei brought you out here. I just told her I’d feel more comfortable going to a party in a group.”
“Can you believe it’s her first time?” Rei raised, teasing Liz. “Hope you don’t mind her staying with us?”
Yujin shrugged. “You do you.”
“I hope you don’t mind my friend coming along too?”
Behind Liz, another girl emerged. A girl with wide brown glasses. A girl with a flimsy little skirt.
“Ya, is it ok to be interrupting these people?” she whispered, sticking by Liz’s side. When she spotted Rei, she nodded curtly. But when she looked to Yujin, she froze. She didn’t even offer a smile. “Nice to meet you both. Gaeul. Kim Gaeul.”
Rei couldn’t even get a breath in. Yujin immediately interrupted her.
“Yujin. An Yujin,” she said, extending a hand out. The girl swapped from her shaky palm to Yujin’s tense face, before taking it. “Yujin. I like that name. Precious.”
Yujin smirked. “Gaeul. Like fall?”
“Ok you two, you can continue whatever this is after we load up on drinks again,” Rei sassed as she eyed Yujin’s empty cup. “Let’s take the couches before those varsity chumps start sweating all over them again.
As the night went on, it became abundantly clear to Yujin why Rei brought her along. Bitch needed a wingwoman.
While Rei and Liz sat together on one couch, Yujin sat across them with Gaeul and watched them talk. Whenever Rei needed someone to bounce off of her or confirm her stories, Yujin was ready to chime in in between swigs of her drink. But at some point, the two of them were lost in their own world, visibly flirting with each other to a shameless degree.
Sighing, Yujin leaned against the couch and stretched. “Fucking third wheeling.”
“Tell me about it,” Gaeul replied all of a sudden, playing with the neck of her bottle. “I can’t say I’m not happy for Liz though. It’s nice seeing her come out of her shell like this.”
Yujin didn’t know about the blonde girl enough to know whether that was important or not. She shrugged and downed her drink. “I’m getting some fresh air. If Rei asks for me, tell her I’m leaving soon.”
Gaeul just nodded and watched as Yujin glided over to the balcony.
Closing the sliding door behind her, Yujin felt the cool autumn air against her face. They were nine floors above the ground, and yet, she could still hear the busy streets of Seoul underfoot.
Yujin leaned against the balcony with her elbows and sighed. “Finally. Some peace and quiet.”
She looked down and tried observing what was going on.
A couple linked together under a shared umbrella. It wasn’t even raining.
A stray kitten leaping from awning to awning as if in search for something.
A child’s balloon swept up and away, briefly passing by Yujin’s eye level as it rose higher into the sky.
Yujin missed this. She missed being able to just watch people. Once upon a time, it gave her ideas for her work. For her writing. But now, she’s come to use moments like this to just ease her mind.
The door slid open behind her. Over her shoulder, Yujin spotted a bespectacled girl passing through.
Yujin didn’t know what the fuck she was doing here, but she remained silent. She continued watching the people below.
The other girl didn’t say a thing either. Instead, the faint sound of pencil scratching against paper filled the air.
Yujin tried to ignore it at first, but with how Gaeul was frantically dragging the damn lead across the page, she couldn’t help but grow annoyed.
“What are you doing?” Yujin grunted, her back to Gaeul. “Did you really have to do it out here?”
“Just sketching. Practicing a bit. Got a bit antsy just sitting there. Hope you don’t mind.”
Yujin turned around and eyed her. She was holding a sketchbook on her lap. Moving closer, Yujin squatted down next to Gaeul and craned her neck. “What’s this?”
Gaeul lifted a thumb up to frame the view in front of her. “The skyline. Sunsets are a bit overused haha. Thought I’d try and sketch Seoul at night instead.”
Yujin was amazed. Even for a ‘sketch’, Gaeul was really good at capturing depth and detail in her drawing. Sitting down next to her, she asked. “Do you do this when you’re bored?”
Gaeul crinkled her nose. “I kinda do this for school. For work too, in the future. I hope.”
“You’re amazing at it. I’m sure you’ll do great as an artist. Keep it up.”
Gaeul smiled, fixing her posture proudly. “Thank you. That’s … reassuring. I’m a non-major, you see. Didn’t know what I wanted to shift into but I did want to shift out of biology. It wasn’t for me. I took this one art elective last year, and I was immediately hooked. So I thought I’d try more visual arts.”
Turning to Yujin as she tapped her pencil against her knee, Gaeul asked, “What about you?”
Yujin shrugged, leaning her back against the same wall as Gaeul. “Dunno. Creative writing. I guess.”
“So you’re a writer.”
“Was. Or at least, wanted to be.”
“What changed? Gaeul asked.
“Nothing changed, just … shit happened,” Yujin muttered, throwing her hood on. “Can’t really call myself a writer if I don’t even fucking write at all anymore.”
Gaeul chuckled and leaned closer to Yujin. “Can you really call me an artist then if I haven’t even begun studying how to draw?”
“You’re joking. You just do this for fun and you’re already this good?”
The other girl leaned closer with a smile. “Stop it. I’m sure you’re a good writer too.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re fucking wrong,” Yujin dismissed with a low chuckle. Changing the subject, Yujin leaned into her as well and tapped on the empty space in her drawing. “What’s with this? It’s like there’s some gap here.”
“Ah, you noticed. I had to erase it for now. It didn’t feel good enough. I’m not the best at drawing people.”
Yujin blushed. Gaeul was trying to draw her.
As they both glanced up from Gaeul’s sketchbook once more, the two realized how close their faces now were. Yujin felt the heat burning across her face, but she couldn’t find it in her to pull away.
“Gaeul? Gaeul!” a voice beckoned through the door. “Where the fuck is her friend—Kim Gaeul! Where are you? Liz is blackout drunk. Help me carry her home.”
“Oh shoot,” Gaeul uttered, scrambling to stuff her things into her sling bag. “So sorry about this. My friend. She’s—.”
Yujin nodded. “Go take care of her.”
As Gaeul leaned towards the door to open it, she paused for a moment. “It was nice meeting you, An Yujin.”
Yujin just nodded again as the girl vanished behind her.
Yujin swore she wasn’t drunk yet, but she felt a lasting warmth all over her face that night.
35.1
Professor Shin slammed the eraser against the board.
“Stop killing your ideas before they see the light of day,” he stressed, pacing around the podium. “I know many of you are guilty of this. Eliminating ideas before you even examine them thoroughly. Don’t strike out your concepts! Rather, refine them.”
Yujin didn’t understand where the old man was getting at. Her head was getting too heavy to keep upright. She just wanted to go back home and lay in bed again.
But when Professor Shin raised his voice a second time, she considered what he said. “You won’t be able to fully see through a story until you sit down and start working on it. And I don’t mean working on it in your head. I want you to work on it on paper. On your keyboard. Out of your mind. It only really starts to develop then.”
He wrote a few things on the board and encircled it with the chalk. “So don’t bury things. Learn to sit with it. Here’s the prompt for today’s class. I expect you all to submit your work before the end of the period just like always.”
Pen in hand, Yujin tapped the tip against her paper.
“Sit with it,” she muttered under her breath, fingers trembling. “Sit with it. Sit with it. Fucking sit with it.”
She forced herself to write some initial ideas.
High fantasy. Warring nations. Star-crossed—.
“What did you call it—DnD? Ya, that’s actually kinda cool. You get to make your own character? Who makes the story? The Dungeon Master? Sounds a little … freaky haha.”
Yujin struck through her idea.
Post-apocalyptic. Zombies. Last bastion of—.
“Ehh? You said it wasn’t going to be sca—AHHHH! TURN IT OFF YUJIN, TURN IT OFF!”
Yujin bit her lip and scratched that idea off too.
Sci-fi. Beginning of time. Origin of the big bang.
She pondered on it for a bit longer and managed to flesh out the idea a bit more.
Entity from the old universe ran out of entropy. Final moments. What does it think about before it all ends?
“I’m sorry, Yujin. This just … this wasn’t going to work out. You and I both know—.”
Yujin crumped her paper and buried her face into the desk. As tears rolled down her eyes, she wrapped her arms over her head and sobbed.
“I can’t fucking write … I can’t fucking sit with it …”
“Not until you’re out of my fucking head, Wonyoung.”
By the time class was over, Yujin had nothing to pass to her professor. But Professor Shin just nodded in understanding on her way out. “Take it easy, Yujin. Don’t force yourself.”
She hated it. She fucking hated it. She hated how each of her professors and classmates new about what happened to her. About what she did. Or rather, about what she failed to do. This act of theirs—this charade of empathy? They weren’t trying to understand her at all.
They just made her feel all the more shameful.
Brushing past him, she dove into the corridor and just kept walking.
“Yujin?”
Yujin looked up. Immediately, she dried her eyes and face. “Shit. Oh hey, um, Gaeul was it?”
“And Liz,” the blonde girl added in a slightly annoyed way. “Have you seen Rei? Is she with you?”
Yujin shook her head. “International literature is that way. Fifth floor.”
Liz smiled and thanked her before running off, leaving Gaeul behind. The poor girl could only fix her glasses in awkwardness as she chuckled at Yujin. “Fancy seeing you again.”
Yujin nodded. “Didn’t know you two studied here too. Rei didn’t say anything.”
“I’m noticing a trend here between our two friends,” Gaeul teased, walking closer to Yujin to avoid the students that were rushing to get to their rooms. “Are you on break right now?”
“Vacant until seven. Our screenwriting professor’s a bitch, but she’s a professional. Only around after work hours.”
“Come join me for mine then. It’s only an hour. I don’t like spending it alone, and well,” Gaeul raised, gesturing down the path Liz took to flee her. “Come with?”
Yujin wasn’t sure if she was going to regret this, but after a huff, she replied. “Sure.”
The two sat outside the building for English and Literature. They found a spot by one of the many stone tables and benches outdoors, where most students spent their time either smoking or making out.
Gaeul sat across Yujin and pulled a sandwich out, munching on it slowly. Yujin just sat there, unsure of what to do.
Without a care in the world, Gaeul stuffed her sandwich between her small lips and held it there as she took out her sketchbook. Immediately, she jumped back into whatever it was she was sketching this time.
With nothing to eat and with nothing to say, Yujin reluctantly whipped out her own notepad. She flipped towards the first blank page. Taking a quick look at Gaeul, she tried to join her in getting some work done.
But it was silent. It was awfully silent.
For An Yujin, silence was welcomed. But a silence without focus was often an invitation for the voices in her head to fill the void.
“Picnics? Yujin, you’re just asking to get bitten by insects. Maybe I can bring some repellant—.”
Stop.
“Mmm, your cheeks are so soft. Are you sure you don’t have any skincare routines, baby?”
Stop, please …
“Hahaha, why are you so quiet, Yujin? Cat got your tongue? I said I love you. I. Love. You. Got nothing to say about—?”
GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
Gaeul flinched before Yujin could even realize what happened. Her fist was balled against the stone table, clenched so tight that she made the entire surface shake.
“Sorry,” she muttered, withdrawing her hand, rubbing it.
Gaeul just grinned. “Thought something was up. You’ve been staring for a while now. Do you plan on just staring at me the entire time?”
Yujin flapped her lips at her in mimicry.
“What’s bothering you? Something on your mind?” Gaeul asked as she put down her pencil and leaned forward. The surrounding tables were empty. The other students had left for their classes. It was just her and Gaeul at the moment. “I could use a break right now. So go on.”
Yujin shrugged, pushing her empty notepad aside. “What’s new? Can’t seem to fucking write at all.”
Borrowing it for a moment, Gaeul flipped through the pages of Yujin’s notes. “Hm. You’ve written some stuff though. Over here?”
“Scrapped. Not good enough. Didn’t feel right.”
“‘A cure for cancer is found, but it comes at the cost of fetal stem cells’? Yujin that’s pretty damn compelling to me.”
“Didn’t have the heart to sit with it. Lost the idea … months ago,” she uttered.
As Gaeul scrolled through her past ideas, all of which were scrapped by now, Yujin added, “Stop sifting through the shit. Those ideas are dead. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about when I wrote those anymore. Just … duds.”
“What do you like writing about, Yujin?” Gaeul asked again, setting the notepad aside. “What are you good at writing about? What comes easy to you?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?” Yujin scoffed, shaking her head. “I don’t know, ok. Stop asking. It’s been a long time since I’ve properly written something in full. Mind’s too … foggy for this shit.”
But Gaeul shook her head. “You don’t need to think about what you used to be like as a writer anymore. Write about the present. Your ‘now’. What’s the first thing that comes to your mind right now?”
Yujin paused.
She allowed the wind to blow her short hair away. She allowed the leaves to rustle between her feet and tickle her ankles. She let her steady pulse beat into her eardrum like a cadence. She let her fingers twitch from time to time against her lap as if weaving verses into her skin.
When she returned to consciousness, she nodded slowly. Instead of verbalizing her thoughts, she grabbed the notepad and began scribbling a few words.
Fall. Paceful. Gentle.
I love the fall.
Gaeul saw her writing and managed a smile. “That’s it. See? Whenever I’m in a slump myself, I just like to, you know, doodle. Do a little silly drawing or two. Maybe you can scribble whatever you feel in the moment, or whatever’s stuck in your head. Maybe that way you can slowly get yourself going again.”
“Thanks. I’ll … I’ll try it out more.”
“So what did you write?” Geaul pried, leaning on her elbows to try and take a peek at Yujin’s notes. But Yujin instinctively withdrew herself. “Not telling you. Not ’til I’m finished.”
And as Gaeul ended up whining and throwing a bit of a fit, Yujin hid her smile behind her notepad as she stared down at what she had written.
Autumn feels warmer than I thought.
33.6
Yujin popped her earphones in and leaned back to stare at her laptop screen. There were a few lines written already. She had built up some momentum. She just needed to let it ride.
But the full cafe was making it difficult to do so.
That’s where the earphones came in. Yujin didn’t even listen to any music—she stopped doing that months ago. But the noise-cancelling effect helped her focus a bit more.
She pictured Wonyoung’s smile from across the table, covering her face as she blushed, laughing at the stupid things Yujin would say to her.
Yujin felt the stab in her chest as she glanced down. When her eyes peeked back again, Wonyoung wasn’t there anymore.
Yujin cursed under her breath. Just as she was about to lean forward to type again, a knee bumped into her table.
A pair of glasses glanced down at her with a smile. “Is this seat taken!”
Yujin flinched and pulled out her earphones. “God, you don’t have to scream. Got nowhere else to sit?”
Gaeul pouted. “Everywhere’s taken. I just wanted somewhere to work that wasn’t home. Do you mind?”
Sighing, Yujin relented and scooted her stuff towards her half of the table.
When Gaeul sat down and unloaded her things, she took a bite out of her oatmeal cookie. As she continued nibbling on it, talking about her experiences with class, her grievances with South Korean politics, and why she thought bell-bottom jeans were a stupid trend, Yujin just watched as she stuffed her cheeks full of food, listening to the other girl yap.
She pulled out her notebook and scribbled a few things.
Chipmunk. Cute. Pet squirrel.
Glancing up, she spotted Gaeul looking at her curiously with wide eyes, cookie now completely gone. “Wah? Wah y’ l’king ah?”
Yujin chuckled and shook her head.
37.4
“Yujinnnnn, come onnnnn! Just a quick drink, ok? We’ll get a few drinks, get a bit plastered, and then head home. I promise.”
“Remind me again why you need me to come with you just to get hammered?” Yujin asked, pressing her phone between her cheek and shoulder as she continued trying to revise a sentence. “Just go by yourself, idiot.”
“Ugh, Liz bailed on me, ok? I don’t want to look like a fucking loser here at the pub. Can you get your ass over here and keep me company for like an hour or something?”
Rolling her eyes, Yujin saved her document and closed her laptop. “I’ll see you in fifteen then.”
When Yujin arrived, Rei was already waiting inside, downing what seemed to be her third bottle of beer.
“Seems like you’re all done with the pre-gaming,” she teased, settling down next to her by the counter. “Aww, did you feel that miserable being bailed on?”
Rei rolled her eyes and flipped her off. “I’m going to pee. Hold my seat.”
As her friend disappeared behind her, Yujin shook her head and placed Rei’s purse on top of her seat.
She took this moment alone to scan the bar for inspiration. Maybe something would catch her eye.
Aged spirits. Greasy fries. Puke bucket down by one corner. Yeah, nothing was going to give her a Eureka moment in this dingy place.
Then she caught it. The scent of almond and vanilla.
Yujin heard a waist slamming against the counter next to her followed by the sound of moaning and kissing. But when she tried to look up at it, the vision was gone. They were gone.
Chuckling, she straightened her posture and drank her beer. “And I’m not even drunk yet.”
Across the room, she spotted a group of girls singing by the karaoke machine, which was new. She took another sip of her beer and squinted at them. “Is that …?”
It was Kim Gaeul.
The dork was hugging her friend a little too tightly as she slurred the words to Dancing Queen. Her friends were trying so hard to clear the song, but all she could do was swing from side to side and scream and giggle into the microphone.
Wincing from the feedback, Yujin bit her lip and whipped out her notepad.
Tiny terror. Loud voice. Good singer. Confident.
“The fuck are you writing? Did you just call me a ‘tiny terror’?”
Rei slammed into her seat, sitting on her purse. Yujin slapped her notepad against Rei’s face and laughed out loud. “Shut up and pay for our drinks already. Another round!”
41.3
She needed some air. Staying at home wouldn’t do.
Yujin decided to head to the mall. Not to shop. Not to go around. Just to sit down on one of the many mall benches by the ground floor and observe. Just watch.
She looked around her and began scribbling different little stories she spun her in her head.
An assassin in a Hawaiian shirt wanting revenge for his ruined vacation. Aliens disguised as naughty children so humans could teach them what it’s like to live on Earth. Pigeons with a network of communication to spy on humans and plot to take over the world with their intel.
When Yujin flipped through her notes again, she felt proud of herself.
The lines were longer. Her thoughts were clearer. Her ideas were sharper.
She felt a hand cup her cheek, and she instantly froze. “Look at you. My little writer. When are you going to write about me, hm?”
Her hand quivered against her lap. Yujin had to remind herself that it was all in her head.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up and tried to ground herself in the moment. She tried to focus on her present. To her left, she saw a shop that sold shades and eyeglasses at fifty-percent off. That was a good deal. If she had money, she would have definitely bought one for fun.
Maybe I should get Gaeul a pair, Yujin thought, thinking the pink ones would look cute on her. She keeps pushing her glasses up. Maybe a pair with nose pads then?
Yujin pursed her lips and nodded, scribbling some ideas down.
Glases. Seeing the world differently. Tucking hair behind ear. Adjust temples of glasses. Fogged lenses. Wiping them away gently. Feeling her breath against—.
She widened her eyes and scratched that last one off, biting her pen in embarrassment.
44.6
Professor Shin cleared his throat and gestured towards his presentation. “Emotions. Very important. Often either forgotten and horribly underused.”
Walking through the rows of students in their seats, he paced around the classroom while commanding everyone’s attention. “How can you convince your readers that a character is mourning the loss of his family? How can you persuade them to feel the rush of victory after she wins the tournament? No matter how good your imagery and prose are, if you can’t pass the emotion on—it’s flat. Boring.”
He stuck his tongue out and chuckled. “Immerse yourself in their world. In their shoes. Allow yourself to get swept up in their experiences. Let yourself feel it—all the emotions. That way, it can feel more real. For you. And when you write it down, for your readers too.”
Clasping his hands together, the professor rushed back to the podium and leaned against it. “What are you feeling right now, class? Tap into that. I want you to submit something pertaining to that emotion before the period ends.”
With that, the students began silently working on their drafts.
Yujin stared at her laptop. What was she feeling right now? What even stuck with her over the course of the last few months?
She tried to put a label on it. Grief. Confusion. Emptiness.
She tried to sit with it. Then, once the ideas started to grow, she refined them.
Yujin outlined the story of a little deer who lost its parents to hunting. Then, she outlined the tale of a robot who got sent back to the prehistoric era, realizing it now served no purpose for creatures who were far inferior to it in intellect. And finally, Yujin outlined the start of a world where color ceased to exist, and how the ocean became a hellscape for different primordial organisms.
But none of these seemed good enough. None of these ideas were good enough for Yujin.
She tried thinking about it—she really did. There has to be a reason why she was so quick to throw away her ideas. Yujin couldn’t find what the common denominator was. Lack of knowledge on the topic? Cringeworthy material? Difficult to devleop? Lacks a hook? Unoriginal? Uninspired?
Yujin wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong with her ideas, with her drafts, with her plots.
They just didn’t seem to ignite that special sort of fire within her.
She tossed her self-proclaimed filth aside and opened up a new document, hoping for a fresh start. She had some time before class ended. She could still make it.
Grief. Confusion. Emptiness. Loss.
Loss.
“This is the story of a girl. A girl who lost everything,” she mouthed, mimicking what she typed. It was compelling for an introduction. It immediately hooked the readers in and made them wonder what this story was about. But as she tried to map out the plot in her head, the voices filled in the blanks for her.
“Yujin, I … It’s not easy for me to say this, but we need to break up. It’s … for your own good. Mine too.”
“We just … grew apart. It happens. We can’t be the same people forever, can we?”
“I love you … I loved you, Yujin, but I … I just need to choose myself for now. We’re young. We’re dumb. There’s still more to life than … this.”
“Could you forgive me?”
When Yujin came to, all her classmates had left. She was alone in her seat, tears trickling onto the letters of her keyboard, as a bright white page stared defiantly back at her.
“Welcome back,” Professor Shin greeted her from his seat, glancing up from one of the drafts he was grading. “Class ended half an hour ago. It’s … it’s ok if you don’t have anything to submit yet. In due time, you’ll figure out.”
Snorting, she smudged her face with one hand before stuffing everything into her backpack and stomping out of their classroom.
Yujin couldn’t put a single line onto the document.
Pacing around the small space between her desk and bed, the panicked girl mumbled to herself repeatedly. Trying to think of something. Anything. Anything she could put into writing. Anything she could bounce off of. Anything she could work with.
But she was completely dry.
Slamming her head against the wall, she yanked on her hair as if she was milking her thoughts out. “Why is this so … fucking … hard. Can’t believe I ever thought I could … make money off of this. Build a fucking career around this.”
“Maybe … maybe she was right …”
Suddenly, on beat with her head banging, three knocks came from the door.
Peering through the eyehole, Yujin squinted and took one long look before backing up a few steps. She couldn’t believe it.
Unlocking her door, she peeked through the small opening. “You. What are you doing here?”
Gaeul waved at her, holding something in her hand. “Hi. Is this a bad time?”
Yujin rubbed her nape and glanced back at her unwritten project, shrugging. “Every time’s a pretty terrible time for me, but sure. What is it?”
“I heard from Liz, who heard from Rei, that you lived around here. Didn’t think I’d find you this quick,” Gaeul teased. It made Yujin wonder if this girl really knocked on every single door until she found the right place. “I um, was going to ask if you wanted to come see a movie with me. I know the finals weeks aren’t that far away, but … I was supposed to watch it with Liz before focusing on projects. Except … she cancelled on me. Again.”
“Seems like your friend can’t really do commitment well, can she?” Yujin raised, leaning against the door. “Sorry, but I’ll have to turn you down. Don’t know what it’s like for you in visual arts, but we can’t just finish a whole manuscript in a week. I need to get started as early as now.”
“So you haven’t started. Right?”
Yujin gritted her teeth. “No. That’s why I need to get started.”
Gaeul eyed the other girl’s form, scanning her from head to toe. “Another slump? You know you can take breaks too right?”
Yujin knew that well enough. But breaks were earned. They come after putting in the work—not before it. How could she take a ‘break’ in good faith if she knew she had barely even begun with anything?
“Look, I appreciate you looking out for me. I really do. But I don’t need someone to protect me from my problems—.”
Gaeul waved the tickets in her face with a smirk. “I’m not trying to protect you from them. I’m just offering another solution you haven’t considered before. A change of pace, if you will.”
Huffing against the tickets, Yujin pushed them out of her face. “You just can’t handle being alone.”
“And you just can’t handle a lack of inspiration. A muse. It’s a win-win, don’t you think?”
Palming her face, Yujin peeked between her fingers. Gaeul was still there staring up at her expectantly.
When she couldn’t take the awkward silence any further, she resigned and swiped one of the tickets from the shorter girl. “Fine. Just for tonight. And you’re paying for the popcorn.”
Gaeul squealed and grabbed her arm before Yujin could even retreat indoors.
Was this a date? Surely, it wasn’t. They were just friends. Friends who just happened to have some common time. Made some common time for each other.
How did dates go again? Yujin couldn’t remember. It’s been ages since she’s last gone on one.
She ordered some popcorn with Gaeul’s money, but what flavor should she get? She didn’t know what Gaeul liked.
She grabbed some cups for their drinks, but ended up staring at the dispenser for a good five minutes. What did Gaeul prefer to drink? Did she even want a drink?
She held their food while Gaeul fished around her pockets for their tickets. Yujin was about to lean in and check her back pocket, but she stopped midway. That’s not a place meant to be touched so readily by another friend.
None of this was anything friends did for each other, right?
God, this wasn’t a fucking date, was it?
Yujin didn’t know anymore. If it was, she was sure she was doing terribly. She had forgotten what it was like to take someone out. She believed that, at one point, she had it all figured out already. In the past, she had known how to court someone as easily as she had known how to breathe.
But now that she was waiting for the cinema staff to mark their tickets, standing next to Gaeul, Yujin felt like she was back to square one.
She wished there was a manual for this sort of thing.
“Sorry for making you carry all that. Pass them to me when we get seated,” Gaeul whispered as they entered the cinema, holding onto Yujin’s arm. “Ngh, it’s cold in here. Should have brought—.”
Gaeul was interrupted by the laughter between two girls ahead of them, who froze in place as soon as their eyes met. “Y-Yujin?”
Yujin snorted, licking the front of her teeth. “Rei. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Liz?” Gaeul called out, but the blonde girl had disappeared behind her date.
“Look, I … We can explain—,”
Gaeul just chuckled and shook her head. “Go. We’ll sit away from you. It’s practically empty on a Tuesday night. Don’t mind us.”
But Yujin did mind. If Rei and Liz had just told Gaeul what was going on, she wouldn’t even need to be here right now. Before Yujin could pounce on her slimy little friend, however, Gaeul was already dragging her towards the back rows away from them.
Yujin settled with giving Rei the stank eye.
Once they sat down, Yujin slumped backwards and passed Gaeul some popcorn. “It’s just butter. Sorry. I … didn’t know what you wanted.”
“You know you could have asked me, right?” Gaeul raised, plucking up a kernel and munching on it. “You got two drinks for yourself?”
“I—You don’t want one?”
She shook her head, but reached out for the cup anyway. “Not a big fan of sugary drinks. They … make me all hyper. But thanks.”
Yujin couldn’t swallow without feeling a grating sensation in her neck after hearing that. This was going swimmingly already.
Once the trailers were over and the movie began, the two quickly parted and rested against their seats. Yujin in particular was already preparing her notepad, eager to scribble some thoughts as they watched. This was a romance movie. Yujin had forgotten the title. It was some B-lister anyway. She was here to make the most out of her time away from her dorms. She was here to get some much needed inspiration.
“Are you always like this at the movies?” Gaeul complained, tossing her a popcorn. When she threw another one, Yujin growled and caught one with her mouth. “No wonder you’re single.”
Yujin coughed and rose from her notes. “Excuse me? This is just a change of pace. You said it yourself. I have to work on something—anything. Even this could be good practice for my final submission.”
Gaeul shrank into her seat, eyes locked in front of her. “Seems like you’re a little too desperate. A little too on edge.”
In the middle of an idea, Yujin muttered, “Glad you don’t have a professor who’s been waiting for you to submit anything all semester. Seems like you’ve got it easy—.”
Gaeul pelted her with more popcorn. “This was a chic flick too. Feeling so romantic right now.”
Smirking, Yujin closed her notepad and slipped her pen through the bindings. “What’s your point?”
“Just saying,” Gaeul continued, tilting her head towards Yujin. Her eyeglasses pressed against her cheek, reflecting some of the light into Yujin’s eyes. “Relax, Yujin. I wanted to take you out to also … enjoy yourself. Can’t you just take it easy for tonight? When was the last time you read a book, or listened to a song, or watched a movie just because you wanted to? Not because you had to write something about it?”
That was a difficult question for Yujin to answer.
Months ago, she was a voracious reader. She read almost a single book per day. Not because anyone was breathing down her back, but because she enjoyed stories. She enjoyed the art. She enjoyed crafting stories too. Small headcanons. Little bits of fanfiction. Even drafting up her own original short stories. Maybe an occasional novella or two.
Yujin wrote because it brought her joy. And now, now she wasn’t so sure.
Yujin sighed. “Sorry. For being a buzzkill. Rei … told me I didn’t always used to be like this. I think … I think I got what she really meant by that now.”
Gaeul glanced over to the front rows, where Rei and Liz were too busy locking lips with each other to even notice the movie. Biting her own lip, Gaeul reached for Yujin’s hand and held it in hers. She pressed her smaller thumb against the back of Yujin’s larger palm. “You keep comparing yourself to your past. Past you must have been really great then, huh?”
Slowing her breath, hoping she wasn’t sweating like a pig, Yujin squeezed her fingers into Gaeul’s hand. “Yeah. You could say that. Back in high school, I had a bit of a reputation—not to brag.”
“I kinda like this version of you though,” Gaeul replied, smiling. “The you I see right now.”
Yujin blushed, staring ahead at the movie that still played before them. “Sure. I guess. Shit—right, my notes.”
But Gaeul swiped her notebook from her and slipped it into her opposite pocket. “If it’s important, you’ll remember whatever it is later. Just sit back and enjoy the movie, Yujin. You can pick it apart later. But letting it move you? It can only happen once.”
“So just let it.”
Taking a deep breath, Yujin dropped her shoulders, and while still holding Gaeul’s hand, continued to watch the movie with full attention this time.
No expectations. No deadlines. No worries. Just her, Gaeul, and this B-list romance movie.
And she was enthralled.
She enjoyed the pacing of the story. There was a nice build-up of tension and chemistry between the two main leads. She could sense the yearning from the woman, but no so much the man. Yujin thought of different ways she would have written him better.
She wasn’t a big fan of their dialogue though. It felt off. It felt unnatural. They were saying so much but meaning so little. Yujin wondered why. She bookmarked that thought and promised herself to research more into natural exchanges between characters. She filed that away for later.
Yujin couldn’t believe it. She was enjoying the film. She was getting ideas. She was learning.
Towards the end of the movie, Yujin felt a bundle of hair drape all over her shoulder. Beside her, Gaeul, rested her head on her, getting comfortable. “It’s cold. Let me stay like this for a while.”
Yujin stiffened up and didn’t move an inch. She swapped between the movie, their connected hands, and Gaeul’s sleeping face.
Yujin couldn’t fight back a smile even if she tried.
55.7
“Are you kidding me? This is for kids.”
As Yujin stared down at the flashing vest strapped around her chest, she swung the rifle by her side. She felt like an idiot. It didn’t help that some of the parents were looking at her and Gaeul from the window. “Laser tag? You brought me out here just to play—.”
A kid shot Yujin with his laser gun and scrambled off all gleefully.
Gaeul sought revenge for her and chased after the little rascal, exchanging shots with each other. Yujin just watched as Gaeul took a handful of kids all on her own, getting overwhelmed by the little buggers. She didn’t go down without a fight, laughing out loud as she struggled to hit a single one of them.
Cute.
Just then, her own vest powered down momentarily.
In front of Yujin, she saw Gaeul allying with the kids, who had all taken aim at her body. “‘Just laster tag’, huh? Put your money where your mouth is, An Yujin.”
As soon as her lights came back on, Yujin cocked her gun forwards with a smirk and closed one eye. “Run.”
And just like that, all of them fled, screaming for their lives.
63.4
“How about this song? Is this more like it?”
When Gaeul approved of her choice, Yujin placed the speaker down on the ground next to the other girl, allowing it to place Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake for the whole room.
Gaeul closed her eyes, and holding her brush, she did a little ballet twirl before settling back onto her feet. “Mmm, that hits the spot. This will help.”
Yujin wasn’t sure what she was brought here for, but she kept quiet as Gaeul continued painting on her canvas. The other girl dragged her to school on a weekend to keep her company as she worked on her project for a presentation. Yujin only agreed because she thought could spend this time writing. But who was she kidding—she was too enamored watching Gaeul work.
Leaning towards her, Yujin took a better look.
Gaeul was halfway done with her project. It was a painting of a girl wading through an ocean of dandelions. The subject was framed at the center of her canvas, but what stood out to Yujin was how detailed the foreground and background was.
She noticed the way each cloud was painted with the different strokes of Gaeul’s brush. The way the whites blended with the blues, which seamlessly transitioned into the greens and yellows. The interplay between light and shadow to define the curves and ridges of the girl’s clothes. The way she was drawn to be staring right at the viewer—at Yujin—like she had something to say, but couldn’t find the right words to express herself.
“Wow,” Yujin uttered, leaning closer and closer. “All that’s missing is the rest of her face—.”
Gaeul painted a stroke of blue onto Yujin’s cheek. “Back off! You’re distracting me.”
Yujin touched her face and felt the wet paint. She grabbed one of Gaeul’s brushes, dipped it into some red, and splattered it against her neck.
“Ya! What was that for?” Gaeul screamed. She dipped her finger into some green and swiped it against Yujin’s nose. But Yujin wasn’t having it. She picked up a whole can of yellow and threatened to toss it at her. “Ya—YA! AN YUJIN! PUT THAT DOWN!”
The two girls ended up chasing each other like children around the art room, spilling paint and colors all over themselves.
68.2
“Gaeul? Ga—.”
She was asleep. Gaeul had fallen asleep.
Yujin bit her lip as she stared at the older girl’s expressionless face. She looked so peaceful resting like that. She looked like an angel. She looked nothing like the little rave monster she was earlier during the concert they attended—thrusting her hands up in the air, bouncing up and down, bumping into other people.
Yujin tried to hide her smile, but it only widened when she recalled the way the sweaty girl clung to her while singing each line perfectly.
Shaking her head, Yujin let Gaeul sleep on her shoulder. But within moments, Gaeul’s head sunk lower against her chest.
The bus rang. Their stop was shortly arriving. Yujin was about to shake Gaeul awake, but she stopped when she heard her mumble.
“Stay … please …”
Glancing out the window, cheeks heating up to a million degrees, Yujin pulled Gaeul closer to her person and wrapped one arm around her. She secured the other girl against her body and held her tightly.
“Ok.”
71.1
Professor Shin raised both of his hands outwards to his sides as he beheld his final piece of advice to the class.
“Plotting the story is one thing. Now finishing it? Finishing it is another process of its own. This entire semester, we’ve worked together to craft the different bits and pieces of your stories, of your works. Now, we’re here to conclude it.”
He gestured towards their notebooks and laptops. “Only when you’ve gotten it out of your system and crafted it to completion can you really evaluate your work properly. Judging what’s in your mind is easy. Judging bits and pieces of an unfinished symphony is moot. But judging the undeniable proof of your complete creation? That’s the difficult part. It’s mentally taxing. It’s straining. It’s … embarrassing.”
“How could I have created such a thing? Is this really me? I swear, I could have written better! Next time, I guarantee it!” he mocked, playing out several internal monologues, earning some laughter from the class. “But don’t hate yourself. Don’t even hate what you’ve done. Learn to acknowledge what you’ve written and move forward with it from there. But first, you need to accept what you have.”
Yujin stared down at what she had, which was, in fact, barely one-fourth of the expected output for this class.
“Stare at your writing straight in the eye and acknowledge it for what it is. Only then can you really begin to work out what went right, what went wrong, what to improve on, what to continue. Only then can you really grow your writing.”
Yujin still had a lot to work on. Compared to her classmates who were already revising their second or even third drafts, she was still stuck trying to finish her first. But she couldn’t even think about it now. She was all too eager to leave. To head out.
The writing could wait.
So as soon as their professor’s alarm rang, she was the first one out the door. Yujin had bolted out so fast that her professor’s beckoning drowned out almost immediately against the sea of students flooding the corridors.
Yujin had never been to this side of campus much before, but she hoped this was the right place. She remembered where the art rooms were, so she figured the classrooms were on the higher floors of the same building.
“Who’s this girl? Someone’s sister?”
“Ya, wasn’t she that one girl who … you know … earlier this semester?”
“Are you lost? Only art majors are allowed here!”
Ducking past the different students crowding the hallways heading towards their next classes, Yujin weaved through them until she found who she was looking for. She reached out for her and nearly grabbed her arm. “Gaeul!”
Gaeul turned around, glasses nearly falling off her face. Surprised, she pushed them back up her nose and picked up her bag. “Oh, Yujin. What are you … what are you doing here?”
Yujin smiled, bowing politely to the other sunbae Gaeul was talking to until they left. “So you’re all done? With your presentation? How did it go?”
Gaeul blinked twice. Walking down the corridor, Yujin followed her as she told her about it. “You remembered. That’s sweet of you. It went well. It … it was good! I think I did well trying to explain my paintings. Although I mostly did impressionist styles … They were hoping for more variety and all that.”
“Something about art and pretentiousness, huh?” Yujin teased, meriting her an elbow to the spleen. “Are you … are you free right now then? Or do you still have class …?”
Gaeul stopped in her tracks. “What’s this now?”
Rubbing her nape, Yujin stuffed her hands in her pockets and swung herself in place. “I … There’s a housewarming party for a sunbae I knew back in high school. She said we could bring a plus one. And … I was thinking of asking you.”
“Not Rei? She sounds like she could use a drink right now from what she’s been posting,” Gaeul teased, pursing her lips.
“No, I … I wanted you to come along with me.”
Silence.
Sighing, Gaeul inched towards the younger girl until their shoulders bumped. “I wanted to rest tonight, Yujin. I’m really tired. I just wanted to get through this presentation honestly. But … since you’re offering, that’s rare.”
“Sure. I’ll come with you.”
Yujin tried to hide her excitement, but Gaeul already knew all her tells. Lip biting, eyebrow scrunching, rapid foot tapping—it wasn’t even hard for Gaeul at this point. “That’s … that’s great. Yeah. So … tonight?”
“Tonight,” Gaeul affirmed. She tiptoed and pecked Yujin on the cheek. “Wear something nice.”
Yujin couldn’t even say anything in reply as she froze in place, watching the older girl skip away with her backpack in hand.
“Yeah … something nice …”
83.3
Yujin’s definition of something nice meant skinny jeans, a plain white blouse, and a trench coat.
Gaeul’s definition of something nice involved a hot pink spaghetti strap top paired with a carnation-colored mini-skirt underneath her parka.
Yujin could not keep her eyes off of Gaeul during the entire walk to the party. All that filled her vision was the color pink. When Gaeul caught her staring, she just pulled Yujin closer and pressed up against the younger girl.
When they made it to the party, Gaeul dropped the parka just as Yujin knocked on the door. Yujin got a good look at her bare shoulders and how they rose and fall with her breathing. She found that adorable. Her attention was immediately pulled away, however, when the door opened.
“Oh my god, Yujin! You actually came!”
Yujin blushed in embarrassment as her high school sunbae pulled her in for a hug. “God, I missed you so much. It’s been what, three years? Look at you—you’re all grown up now! Aiya, but you never called or texted.”
“She’s quite good at that,” Gaeul teased, stretching a hand out to greet the girl. “Gaeul. Kim Gaeul. It’s nice to meet you.”
Yujin’s sunbae bit her lips and nodded towards Yujin. “Mm, not bad, Yujin you. Minju. Kim Minju. So nice to meet you too, Gaeul. Come inside. Party’s already started.”
As they stepped into the apartment and joined the other guests at the party, Gaeul wasted no time in dragging Yujin around with her. It was clear from the get-go that Gaeul was taking the lead tonight.
Although Yujin was the one who was invited to this party, it was Gaeul who initiated everything.
She was the one who pushed Yujin out of her shyness to shamelessly grab the snacks and drinks Yujin wanted to but couldn’t get out of embarrassment. She was the one who asked Yujin to introduce her to some of her old high school buddies and sunbae—to help the younger girl catch up with some familiar faces. She was the one who had to make sure Yujin wasn’t getting to drunk. The one who had to remind Yujin not to stare so much at her or get too handsy just yet. The one who had to pull Yujin close, to make her sway her hips to the rhythm of the music, to grind against her as they felt each other’s pulses beating louder than the bass.
As Yujin pressed her forehead against Gaeul, who now had her arms wrapped around her neck, she closed her eyes and smiled.
She was the one being dragged around, but Yujin has never felt more alive outside of this moment.
All felt comfortable now. All felt well.
Suddenly, everything was alright again in Yujin’s world. Suddenly, she remembered how life was supposed to be.
86.5
But her whole world came undone with just one word.
“Yujin?”
Separating from Gaeul, Yujin’s eyes widened in terror. “Won … young …?”
71.9
Wonyoung smiled at her.
It was the polite smile someone gave their ex after not seeing them for a while. It was cordial. It was meek. But it didn’t have an ounce of longing left in it either. “Long time no see. I didn’t think we’d meet here of all places at Minju-unnie’s party.”
Yujin pushed Gaeul out of her arms, leaving the other girl stumbling backwards. She took a step towards Wonyoung, limbs trembling like she had seen a ghost. “Wonyoung you … you’re here … You look … you look great …”
That wasn’t what she meant to say, but it came out of her anyway. Wonyoung just chuckled awkwardly and shook her head. “Been better. Thanks though. Oh, let me introduce you.”
From behind her, she gently pulled forward a girl. Shorter than her. Daintier than her. Almost as pretty as her.
Holding her hand up to her chest, Wonyoung presented the woman to Yujin. “This is Jihye. My um, my girlfriend. Jihye this is Yujin. An old … friend of mine.”
An old friend of mine.
An old friend.
Old friend.
Friend.
Jihye beamed like an angel and reached a hand out towards Yujin. “Please, call me Danielle instead. Or Dani! If you prefer haha. Nice to meet you, by the way!”
64.3
“Yujin?” Wonyoung repeated, calling out to her. But Yujin couldn’t say a thing.
How could she? The person who had been the cause of all her pain—all her suffering—for the past eight months was suddenly right in front of her again, looking as perfect as the day she Yujin lost her. Except now, she was with someone else. Someone new.
And worst of all—she was happy. Wonyoung was happy.
Without her.
Wonyoung breathed through her teeth before turning Danielle away from the sight of the unmoving girl. “We’ll um, we’ll see you around, Yujin. Hope you enjoy the party too.”
It was only when Wonyoung had left that Yujin came back to her senses.
She glanced down at her shaking hands filled with sweat. “Wonyoung, she … she …”
Gaeul reached out to squeeze her hand. “Ya, what was that about? Did you know her?”
Yujin glanced up and saw Wonyoung laughing along with Minju, Danielle, and a few other people around them, holding Danielle by the waist against her lithe frame. All Yujin could feel was this chilling dread that scattered all over her chest, clawing at her lungs, swallowing her whole.
“Wonyoung …”
52.9
Yujin couldn’t help but hover around Wonyoung, just barely out of sight. A part of her didn’t know why she was doing this. But a part of her knew she needed this—a part of her knew she needed to know more.
Through the conversations she’s eavesdropped on, she found out several things about Wonyoung. Things that have happened to her since they broke up.
Wonyoung joined their university’s swimming team—even if Yujin knew that woman wanted nothing to do with sports.
Wonyoung learned how to play the keyboard, and now played at gigs around town—even if Yujin knew she was terrible at anything musical.
Wonyoung was getting ready for an early internship this coming semester—even if Yujin knew she loathed conforming to what her parents wanted her to do.
Time and again, Yujin found Wonyoung doing the opposite of what she had expected—of what she had known the girl to be.
“This is all thanks to Jihye, of course,” Wonyoung proudly announced, lifting up a glass of wine to her girlfriend. “Without Danielle, I don’t think … I don’t think I would have moved forward in my life like this.”
“Sure are a lucky girl,” Minju teased, citing the old ‘Lucky Vicky’ nickname they gave her back when they were teens. But Danielle shook her head, lacing an arm through Wonyoung’s. “No, she knows I’m the lucky one when it comes to our relationship.”
Yujin wanted to vomit.
45.1
“Yujin what is going on? You don’t look so … good,” Gaeul asked for the nth time tonight. Wherever Yujin went, she followed like a lost little lamb without a single clue about what was happening. “You know what, let’s … let’s go home. I think you’ve had a bit much to drink, and—.”
But Yujin swatted at her shook her head.
How?
How was it possible? How was it possible that after their breakup, Wonyoung was this … happy? Why was Yujin the only one who left their relationship feeling hurt? Feeling destroyed? Feeling … empty? Did it mean nothing to Wonyoung? Did their relationship not mean as much as Yujin had thought to the other girl?
Yujin thought back to all the restless nights she spent staying up mourning for Wonyoung. All the daylight she burnt just wasting away out of sheer sorrow and despair. All the self-hatred, self-loathing, and self-admonition that she had to carry with her. Every. Single. Moment. Because of her—because of Wonyoung.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair at all.
She needed to know. She desperately needed to know. Why was Wonyoung like this?
Why was Yujin the only one who was hurt?
So before Gaeul could say anything in protest, Yujin swallowed tensely and shoved her beer into Gaeul’s hands. Then, she stomped her way towards Wonyoung when she saw the other girl was alone. She grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her away into the balcony area to talk to her.
Alone.
Whining in protest, Wonyoung withdrew her hand from Yujin’s firm grip and rubbed at her wrist. “Tch—Jesus, Yujin. What was that all about? If you have something to say, you could have just—.”
“What’s all this?”
Wonyoung eyed her weirdly. “What’s what?”
“All this.” Yujin asked again, gesturing towards Wonyoung as a whole. She wasn’t sure what she was saying. She wasn’t even sure what her point was. But it all came flowing out of her nonetheless. “Is this … even real? Are you even for real right now?”
Wonyoung crossed her arms, pausing, thinking of what to say. “What’s your problem with me this time?”
“We broke up, Wonyoung,” Yujin stressed, pressing a hand to her forehead as she paced around the length of the balcony. “We fucking broke up and … and you walked into this party … back into my life … like everything was fine? Like nothing happened between us? You do sports now. You … perform at gigs? You even want to go on that internship … the one your mother’s been pestering you to attend for years now? I just … I just can’t believe it.”
“You’ve changed, Wonyoung …” Yujin muttered. When she finally admitted it, she felt how out of breath she was. She felt how much her lips quivered. She felt how unsteady her balance had become.
Wonyoung sighed, dropping her shoulders. She shook her head. “Maybe … Maybe it’s because I’ve grown, Yujin. I’ve … changed.”
“Liar.”
When Wonyoung glanced up at Yujin, she found her ex shaking her head hysterically. Chuckling to herself, Yujin pointed a shaking finger at her. “Fucking … liar! You … you were never like this, Wonyoung. You were never—aghh—you were never like this at all! You weren’t like this when we … when we were together …”
“Maybe this was just how I’ve always been, Yujin. Maybe this is just me without you.”
39.2
“What we had was … fun, Yujin. But we both knew our relationship … wouldn’t work, right? It wouldn’t … last.”
33.8
“Our lives, we … we wanted different things. We wanted different courses. Wanted different careers. We … wanted different paths. We had different … things we valued.”
26.7
Wonyoung stepped forward, and Yujin stepped back, pressing up against the balcony. Sighing, Wonyoung bowed her head again in apology. The next words she uttered came out slow and heavy. “Yujin, I … I loved how lively … and spontaneous … and optimistic you were. At least, how you used to be. But Yujin, I … I need something more than just good feelings in my life. I need more than just carefree laughter, or midnight memories, or stolen moments. My life … I want something more than just promises. I want assurance. I … I want stability. I want security. Certainty.”
“I want something that can last.”
She couldn’t believe it. Yujin couldn’t believe it.
She remembered it all.
She remembered how soft Wonyoung’s hand felt in hers. How silky her hair felt against her face as she embraced her from behind. How light and warm her laughter was to her ears. How gentle her guiding words were. How cozy she felt all pressed up against her in bed. How gut-wrenching it felt whenever she was away. How precious Wonyoung’s smile was to her—even in memory alone. And how shattered Yujin felt whenever they fought over stupid things.
Yujin remembered it all. Perfectly. She remembered Wonyoung like she always has been. Unchanging.
But before her right now was not that same Wonyoung she once knew anymore. And Yujin just couldn’t take it. She couldn’t take it all.
It would have been alright if Wonyoung stopped there. Yujin could have lived with it if she hadn’t continued.
But she did.
“Danielle? She … she gives me what I want—what I need. All of it. With her, I’m … I’m genuinely happy, Yujin. I’m not guessing anymore if I’m … if I’m really loved for who I am. I don’t need to … tiptoe anymore. Don’t have to worry about hurting her feelings because … because I might be doing things she wouldn’t want me to do. So I suggest you … you go out there and start finding your happiness too.”
21.4
Yujin shuddered. She wasn’t sure if it was the winter evening air, or the lack of layers on her, or the harsh truth that she was forced to face right in front of her—whatever it was, Yujin’s entire core trembled. “I fought for you … you know that? When the whole school called you a pick-me princess, I … I tore through half of our year level just to remind them they were messing with the wrong girl. I-I … stood up for you. I took … every … fucking … insult your family slung at me—poor, misguided, delinquent, idiot. Just … just for you. I stayed up for you just so you had someone to rant to each night. I lied for you just so you wouldn’t have to force yourself to be perfect in front of everyone. I … I cried for you … every single night since you were gone … I shattered myself for you … wasted myself for you … waiting … in the hopes … that you’d come back to me one day … again … I-I-I … I almost died for you … because … because nothing—god, nothing made sense without you anymore!”
“Our relationship … all of what we went through together … all those years … did it … did it even mean anything to you, Wonyoung …?”
Wonyoung took a final deep breath and smiled. “You were … a wonderful experience, Yujin.”
17.1
“But you were … everything to me … Wonyoung …”
12.3
As soon as Yujin’s knees hit the ground and she curled forward, squeezing and tugging at her guts, the moment the waterworks came bursting out of her along with her pained wails, all the suffering and despair Yujin had felt since they had broken up came clawing its way out of her throat and into the night.
And just like the day everything ended, just like how it was back then all those months ago, all Wonyoung did was mutter the word ‘goodbye’ as she left without a trace, floating away like a ghost, never to be seen again.
Never again.
Yujin got wasted beyond redemption.
Minju had to pry her away from downing the last bottle of whiskey—the same bottle she was gifted as a housewarming gift by one of her college friends. Yujin was sweating through every pore in her body, unable to stand steady for more than two seconds at a time. She couldn’t recognize any of the faces hovering over her. She couldn’t hear anything that anyone was saying. She couldn’t even stop the world from spinning around her.
But it wasn’t enough. This wasn’t enough for her at all.
Not if she wanted to cleanse Wonyoung from her system.
They tried to haul her up. They tried to kick her out of the apartment. But Minju was too kind. She couldn’t do that to an old friend. And Yujin was strong. She could easily wrestle against three different guys at once if she had to.
Thankfully, Gaeul was able to walk her out of the apartment and towards the fire escape without any issues. There, she rested Yujin against the wall to sober up for a bit.
By the time they were alone, Yujin had gone quiet. She was empty. She was numb. She could only glance at the tiles on the floor—hollow and dead inside.
Squatting down in front of Yujin, Gaeul dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. Yujin didn’t even flinch at all. She lurched forward like she needed to vomit, making Gaeul fall backwards, but when she swallowed roughly and signaled she was alright, Gaeul shook her head and crawled towards her again.
“So. Are you sober enough to tell me what the hell went down back there?” Gaeul demanded, poking Yujin’s cheek with the cloth. “If not, then I am never going out with you again, An Yujin—.”
“Wonyoung.”
Gaeul paused, letting Yujin continue. She knew something was completely off. The girl next to her wasn’t herself at all. Her eyes were darting all over the place. Her breathing was erratic. She sounded … broken.
“Wonyoung, she … she’s my ex,” Yujin began to explain, pushing down stomach acids between each breath. “We dated for three years … three … fucking … years … and … and she suddenly showed up … and … she has another … another girl, and … we talked … talked about … about …”
Yujin pinched her eyes shot and began sobbing into her arm. “I fucked up … I’m so fucking messed up, Gaeul …”
Gaeul rubbed her head, trying to soothe her. But the younger girl wouldn’t relent, pushing her words out and past her tears. “W-We were childhood friends … high school s-s-sweethearts … Everyone said we were … we were inseparable … And we knew that, we … we agreed to go to college together … share the same apartment … find work in the same city, a-and … and it was all … all for nothing.”
“All for nothing …”
Gaeul wanted to say something, but Yujin interjected. “Something felt missing … for her … for Wonyoung … I knew that from the start … More than friends, but … not enough to be really … really lovers … But we rode with it … we kept dating … and I didn’t mind. I was happy … happy with how we were … But Wonyoung …?”
She remembered every last word Wonyoung told her that day. And she remembered every last word Wonyoung told her tonight.
Biting her lips firmly, Yujin slammed her fist into the floor. “But she couldn’t … couldn’t … it wasn’t enough for her … We broke up Valentine’s … Valentine’s of freshman year … Said she couldn’t keep doing this anymore … couldn’t keep going on in a relationship that … that makes her want more … need more …”
Yujin reached out for Gaeul’s arm and held it faintly. “Gaeul, I … I tried … ok? I tried to be more … for her … But still it … it wasn’t enough … it was never enough, I … I-I could never be enough … for … her …”
Yujin punched her cheek. Again. And again. And again. Gaeul was sobbing next to her, trying to hold back her punches, but Yujin was stronger than her. Each hit connected with a loud blow.
“I … fucking … hate myself … I hate how Wonyoung … how Wonyoung’s unaffected by all this … how … I’m the only one hurting … how … how Wonyoung’s changed … but I’m … I’m still the same … Haha … worse even … I hate how I lost someone so …. beautiful … and precious. .. a-and—fuck … FUCK! I HATE how pathetic I am … I’m so pathetic Gaeul … so … so …”
“But you’re not alone, Yujin.”
Pressing Yujin’s balled fists against her own cheeks, Gaeul sniffled and looked Yujin in her reddened eyes. “Yujin … you have us. You have your friends, you have Rei, you have your writing, and … and you have me.”
It would have been fine. It would have all been alright if Yujin just stopped there. But whether it was due to her inebriation or due to her swelling apathy, Yujin pushed past her better senses and said what she said next.
“You don’t know me enough, Gaeul … You don’t fucking know me at all.”
Gaeul froze, shrinking smaller into the space between Yujin’s clenched legs.
The drunken girl chuckled, shaking her head. “I could watch the whole world burn tomorrow … and I wouldn’t give a fuck. As long as I have her, I … she’s all … she’s all I ever needed …”
“She’s all I ever fucking needed …”
Withdrawing her hands from Yujin’s person, Gaeul wiped her fingers against her sides as if in disgust. “So did the time we spent together mean nothing to you then, Yujin?”
She shouldn’t have, but she replied, staring right at Gaeul. “You can’t compare to her. Wonyoung was my everything. She’s—.”
SLAP.
It stung—swift and sharp. It deafened her for more than a moment. By the the time Yujin recovered, Gaeul was already walking away from her, leaving the mess of a girl all by herself.
Yujin didn’t know a slap could sober someone up this fast. Because the moment Gaeul’s footsteps disappeared, she found herself kneeling over her own shadow and bursting into tears again.
Crying harder than she ever did tonight.
9.6
Bottles on the floor, hunched over her laptop, Yujin’s eyes fluttered open. The deadline for their final draft was tomorrow. How many words were on her screen?
Zero.
She fought the urge, but she caved—she vomited all over her keyboard. Then, she passed out onto her gruel.
7.5
Banging her head on the wall, blood trickling and drying against her forehead, Yujin thought back to Wonyoung. She thought back to what she had said on the balcony that night, and she thought back to what she could have said to Wonyoung to change things.
But when her mind wandered over to what Gaeul had said to her, and what she had said in reply to Gaeul, she ended up bursting into tears and readily faced the wall again.
She banged her head against it harder.
4.1
Hundreds of unread messages from friends. Several missed calls from Rei. Packages left outside her door meant to supply her through her isolation. Dozens of letters from the university.
None—not a single one of them were from Gaeul.
Yujin ripped up her pillow and sobbed between the torn halves, biting and clawing at them for any semblance of relief.
2.4
“So, welcome back. How have you managed this semester?”
Yujin didn’t respond. Her mind was everywhere and nowhere at once. She couldn’t remember what the university counselor had just asked her. She couldn’t even remember how she got here.
Trying to keep the conversation afloat, the woman nodded. “Ok … did you try doing what I asked you to? Could I take a look at it if you did?”
Ratings. Homework. Mood.
Yujin snapped. Finally, something she recognized. Something she could focus on. She pulled out a couple of stapled papers from her bag and slapped it onto the desk.
The counselor skimmed through them.
“Hm,” she grunted, checking it again to be sure. “These are all … zeroes.”
Yujin didn’t respond.
Sighing, the counselor took a deep breath. “Is this the truth? That’s all I need to know. Then, I’ll let you go.”
Yujin should have nodded. She should have just accepted the offer for an early release. But a voice trickled into the back of her mind—it was Professor Shin.
Sit with it. Accept what you have. Acknowledge it.
Acknowledge it.
Begrudgingly, like she was moving through molasses, Yujin picked up the tattered bundle of papers she had kept beneath the first one. It was worn. It was torn in some places. It was dried from her tears. But she presented it to the counselor, and pushed it across her table.
The woman took more time now to read to completion what Yujin had written.
Whistling, she clicked her teeth. “Now this—this feels more realistic. Bit of fluctuations here and there. Seems like you had a … bumpy ride.”
It seemed about right to Yujin. She was ready to go if that’s all that the counselor wanted to talk about.
“But I noticed a peak. Right about here,” she encircled with a finger. “What happened during this period? What happened to you, Yujin?”
Yujin trembled. Her fingers wouldn’t stop digging into the side of her legs. She knew this was coming. She knew this was going to happen. Yujin immediately regretted showing her the truth. This was the last thing Yujin wanted to be forced to confront.
She was the last thing Yujin wanted to remember right now.
“Yujin!”
“Yujin~”
“Yujin …”
But when she closed her eyes, even for just a moment, it wasn’t Wonyoung’s voice that she could hear in her head anymore. It wasn’t even Wonyoung’s face, or her touch, or her memories that played in her mind whenever the void reached out to claim her.
It was Gaeul’s. It was Kim Gaeul’s.
“There’s … someone.”
Yujin started, and immediately, the counselor perked up. Biting her lip, Yujin couldn’t stomach what she was about to say, but she spewed it out anyway. “She’s a year above me. A … bright ball of sunshine you just want to … stuff in your pocket and keep to yourself. Warmer than … a delicious cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter night. Gentle. Childlike. But also … very mature. She … she turns off all the… voices and static in my head when I’m with her. Until all I can tune in to … until all I can think about … is her …”
She lifted a hand up to her face and immediately felt how damp it was. Chuckling, she let out a shaky breath and looked up at her counselor for the first time since visiting her. “She gave back color to my life and now … now I … I messed up …”
“I messed up …”
“You’re dismissed then.”
Widening her eyes, Yujin pressed against her eyebags and wiped her tears away. “What …?”
“You heard me,” the counselor repeated with a smile, filing Yujin’s papers into a cabinet beneath her. “Go to her, Yujin. Don’t tell me what you’ve realized. Tell her.”
Tell her.
13.5
Yujin tore through the corridor of the administrative building and pressed the elevator buttons rapidly. When she couldn’t wait for more than a few seconds for a response, she cursed at it and ran towards the stairs instead.
24.9
Catching her breath, she broke out onto the campus streets and made her way to the visual arts department. Hair flowing in the wind, dried lips clenched together, fingers clutching her heavy backpack.
39.1
Crawling against the sides of the wall, she dragged herself up flight after flight of stairs as she forced students and teachers alike to step out of her way, stopping for no one as she rampaged through the building.
45.8
And once she finally made it to her classroom—in the same classroom where she last saw her—Yujin slowed down only to compose herself.
This was it. Her only chance.
She motioned to knock, but it was already open. Peering inside, Yujin spotted a single girl sitting on a stool with her back to the door, clutching a brush in one hand and her palette in the other.
It was Kim Gaeul.
59.2
Silence filled the room. It was only broken by the squeaking of her shoes.
Yujin cursed. Gaeul surely must have heard that. But she remained unfazed—she continued painting her canvas in elegant and controlled strokes. Simply not caring at all.
Rubbing her nape, Yujin took a few steps towards Gaeul. It wasn’t until the sixth step that the other girl spoke up at last. “What do you want with me?”
Yujin froze. “I know you don’t want me to be here—.”
“I really don’t. I’m glad you know it.”
“But I … I came here to um … to say something to you—.”
“Really? I don’t care. Feel free to leave.”
66.3
Yujin bit her lip and took another step towards Gaeul. Then another. Then, another.
“I … I don’t really deserve this chance, but … but fuck … I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying, but … I was wrong. I was really wrong … and now, I-I … I know better.”
Sighing, Gaeul turned to face Yujin. Her expression was neutral. “That’s a start. And?”
“A-And … you know—.”
“Hm? What do I know, Yujin?” Gaeul interjected, crossing her arms while still holding her materials. “You apologized. You’re done. What more do you have to say to me?”
Yujin gritted her teeth. Gaeul was making it difficult, but she knew she deserved it. “You know what I mean … about … you. About … us …”
Gaeul shrugged, pointing at Yujin with her brush. “No. I don’t. I really don’t. And if you’re going to just stand there instead of saying what you really mean, then I don’t want to see you here. Or hear from you. Ever. Again.”
74.5
Yujin closed the gap between them in a heartbeat and held onto Gaeul’s shoulders, leaving the older girl with nowhere else to look other than right into Yujin’s eyes, where tears began to form.
“I like you.”
The words sounded so foreign, yet so familiar. She hadn’t said those three words in a long time. Yujin wasn’t used to it yet. Yujin didn’t think she would be ready to say them again this soon. But with Gaeul, it came out easier than she expected.
“I like you, Gaeul, I … I really do. And I know … I know ok … I’m not … perfect. I’m not … easy. I’m not … exactly well. I’m still trying to put myself back together again—you’ve seen it … But … god, I just … I just now there’s one thing right about my life so far. And that’s you. I don’t know where the hell I’m headed or … or what I’m going to be doing next, but … when you’re around? It’s … it’s bearable. Life is … bearable. When you’re around me … it makes me feel alright … and I … you’re the only voice I can hear in my head … like I’m tuned into you … all the time …”
Shaking, gasping, and utterly out of breath, Yujin choked on her last words. “I just want you with me … If you’ll have me … I … I want you by my side again … all the time … Please?”
“I love you—.”
She felt a pair of lips press up against hers, and immediately, Yujin’s heart bounced all over her chest. She felt … different. She tasted … different. This wasn’t exactly what she remembered kissing to be like, but she could get used to it.
It was nice. It was warm. It felt wonderful.
83.1
When Gaeul pulled away, she almost wished she could dip back in again, but Yujin tempered herself and waited. Pressing a finger to Yujin’s lips, Gaeul chuckled. “I know, silly. I’ve known since way back that you were into me. I’m glad you finally realized that.”
“What …? S-Since when?”
Gaeul smirked and whispered. “Since you kept staring at me at our first party together. You looked like such a dork watching me dance. It was almost embarrassing seeing you like that.”
Yujin hid her face against Gaeul’s shoulder before peeking up from it. “Sorry.”
“You have guts—I’ll give you that. Crawling back to your rebound, begging for her back, especially after telling her she could never compare to your ex-girlfriend,” Gaeul teased, shaking her head. “What made you so sure I was still willing to take you back? Was the slap not clear enough for you?”
“I-I … I just … I had to try—.”
“And what would you have done if I said no? Gosh, you’re such a loser,” Gaeul continued, chuckling, holding Yujin close too. “But you’re my loser now, aren’t you?”
“That’s it. I’m dead. I’m gone. I’m—.”
Gaeul pulled her in for a deeper, more passionate kiss to shut her up and stop her from ruining the moment.
Once Gaeul had finally staked her claim, once they had felt how the other had really felt for them, once their first moment of intimate connection was etched eternally across each other’s lips, Gaeul gently withdrew herself only to press her nose back against Yujin’s.
“Whatever this is … whatever we become … let’s figure it out as we go, ok?”
“Ok,” Yujin replied, nuzzling up against her new lover. “Whatever it takes. Together.”
And just like that, the voices have never been more silent in Yujin’s head.
94.7
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A/N 1: Hope you enjoyed this week's track. Sorry if it was a bit delayed. Struggled with my confidence in writing. Like Yujin, I felt like this was a dud. But I wanted to get this fic out there nonetheless. Hope it wasn't too bad.
A/N 2: Bonus points if you have played Dispatch before. Love that game. Love this song. IVE Dispatch AU maybe?
“Well… say something about me.” Somi suddenly stops drumming her fingertips on the counter and brings them to yours. The contact burns. It’s the tiniest arson ever committed.
Hey, you’re in a bar. It’s not supposed to be anything personal. You ought to drink and dance and hope you get tipsy enough to forget about everything. But you’re here, forced to cope with a dilemma of feelings, and the fact that beyond her loudness, she still cares about you.
It goes deeper than personal.
“I—” How do you say this? Hope this easy smile gets you out of trouble. Or in trouble, whichever is best. “I think you’re the hottest girl I’ve ever met. Kind of… a little wild, too. I like that, you know.”
Somi smiles, slowly and painfully. It’s killing you in a thousand different ways—by knife, by fire, by self, by her.
“Wow,” she says, looking down at your drink. What’s worth studying about that dull glass? “You’re a real charmer, y’know that? Just know how to make my heart melt.”
For whatever reason, there’s no sarcasm entangled in her words. It’s too much. You can’t deal with it. But you push it anyway.
“What about me? You say something about me.”
Somi blinks. Smiles for the first time in minutes. “You’re really my type, if that means anything.”
Your forehead wrinkles. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know.” Somi groans then downs another drink. This conversation makes her want to die of alcohol poisoning. She’s getting there—her ditzy eyes connect with yours and you know she’s pulling you down with her. “I talk a lot, don’t I? But you never really say anything. It kind of hurts.”
You don’t need the reminder. You’re so bad at communicating that you can’t even talk to your best friend. But then you look at her, and she’s just so pretty that you think it’s understandable. It’s understandable that you keep quiet rather than say the wrong thing, let her talk when her voice is like honey, silence your heart so that you won’t lose the sight of that pretty face.
Your shoulders slump. You’re never going to figure this out. These odd feelings for her. This whole college thing, too. The jobs you can’t take, the qualifications you don’t meet. You’re never gonna make it.
“So,” she begins, like she’s about to make a proposal. “What’s it gonna take for you to shut me up? Or, better yet—”
She lifts your chin before you could drink again. You can’t drink your way out of this. The last thing she’ll let you do is scamper away, like you always do.
“What’s it gonna take to get your cock in my mouth?”
-
Apparently, as you get older, you’ll finally have figured things out. People say it’ll fix itself, like the shore fills despite the waves, and they’re right: it’s all gonna be okay. You failed and succeeded. Got down and rose up again. Whatever happened—family issues, financial instability, lost friendships—they’ll make you stronger. You’ll be strong enough to handle what life dishes out. Having learned from all your past experiences, you’ll grow older, but all the wiser.
That apparently cannot be said for the decaying asshole of a landlady who’s playing a Taiwanese telenovela with the volume up to a hundred.
You glower at her. There’s the old burnout, sitting in her loveseat with frazzled graying hair and a mug that shakes as the show brings out revelation after revelation. The girl’s apparently fucking the charming boss, and her husband exercises every right to be angry. There’s the back-and-forth argument that you truly did not want to hear.
And still, you stay in torment, trying to make sense of your notes for another exam.
You could watch the telenovela from just her eyeglasses. The volume isn’t the only thing upped to a hundred; the brightness had to take a dip, too. It joins the loudness to bathe the woman in a colorful illumination, making her look like the Man himself was about to drag her from the cushions and into heaven.
Well, she certainly didn’t belong there.
It, of course, has to happen while you’re studying for your Korean exam. There’s a day to go before the official test and it’s going… great. What a good life. Really makes you want to keep on doing this shit.
The discussions you’ve printed out and the doc on your screen can’t be comprehended when all you hear is the wails of the voice-dubbed actress.
Honey! Think about me. If you don’t care about me, that’s… that’s fine. But think about the baby. How do I tell her our family is broken?
Object of the verb before the verb… (sometimes)? Right? Right? Oh, this is torture. You could really use a coffee right now so you could slosh it all over the open electricity lines trailing from your landlady’s room. Housefires would love this place. It’s got loser landlady, miserable Mina, shitty Sejeong, and you.
No, please, she says, stumbling over leaves and bushes. She reaches for the actor and turns him around. His steel gaze meets her desperate one. It’s a collision of dramatic force nurtured by the worst talents. I love you! Please believe me, I—it was a mistake, but I never hated you, not even once—
You bite your lip. Remind yourself that neo and no are, in fact, pronounced differently. Written differently, too. At least they both have the L-shaped character. That’s your favorite one.
“It’s over. Don’t make it hurt more.” A deeper voice. The husband? You can’t see him but you’re sure you’re right. After all, the boss has a rather more steady tone. Why can you recognize that, by the way? “I’m sorry. We’re just, it’s just not right.”
You scribble down harder in your ruled notebook. Almost write a suicide note instead of a Korean sentence.
No, please! Don’t leave me! I’m never leaving you again, I promise, please love—
Your teeth grit. You slap your palms over your ears. Your hands are thick enough yet the high tantrums of the broken television couple reach you, a story you never want to hear again. It’s gossip that’s not even worth listening to.
“Honey!”
You don’t care about the house rules. “No slamming doors” your ass. You paid for this door, and you’ll be damned if you aren’t using it.
The thud of wood against wood almost blares out a ding from your phone.
Your eyes open for the first time. Open your phone for the first time, too, once you lift your back from the door.
Stare at her profile picture seated next to her messages. You can’t remember the last time she sported black hair. The yellow on her is just… so right. It’s the way things have always been, something immovable and unchangeable, like the sky being blue. She pulls off the look so well even with her blinding white skin, which she isn’t afraid to show off in the circular avatar.
Somsom 👀👺: yo
you done reviewing for the exam yet ??
Yep, it’s her.
Somi. She's like an Asian Rapunzel—long golden locks pouring down her shoulders, round eyes, fashionable even in casualwear. Still a princess in her cropped uni sweater.
Behind fake black glasses, she puts up a peace sign, coupled with a flirty wink. She’s beautiful. Honestly. She’s got that shining smile, thick hair, and fine body that catches attention despite the modesty of her clothes. The sweater is conservative enough, right? So why are your eyes falling out of their sockets?
You’re her friend; you have been for almost all the years you’ve spent in university—but you can’t deny how attractive she is.
That’s a secret you’ll never admit, not even anonymously.
Gulp.
Me: I fuckin wish
Somsom 👀👺: LMFAO, poor baby
You can picture her wicked smile from behind the screen, streets away from your rented place. You shake your head fondly. Somi loves teasing you, and you love teasing her. So, you reply.
Somsom 👀👺: have you tried pulling an oli london
Me: the fuck are you talking about
Somsom 👀👺: idk, maybe if you paid a hundred thousand to become korean, you wouldnt be suffering in hangul 101
Just my two cents
You’d rather strip naked in front of the school than admit this, but talking to Somi—it’s a natural thing, like breathing, like blinking, like everything else. Even if you force yourself to stop, you’d go back to doing it. She’s always got something clever to say. You talk, she listens. Maybe flirts, but that’s who Somi is. She’s young, wild, and free. You’re kind of envious of how she doesn’t restrain herself from doing what she wants, saying what she wants, getting what she wants.
Me: i don’t want your two cents.
Somsom 👀👺: :P
What? She can’t come over. Somi is a distraction. Instead of speaking wobbly Korean fragments to your language learning app, you’d be talking to her about anything. Funny things that happened in class. Weird freshman down the hall. Who knows what? Rather than keeping your eyes down on your notebook, you’d be looking at her.
Me: Im never passing this. i cant study because deafass Halmeoni’s watching her stupid show w the volume on 100
I need to go missing so I dont have to answer the test
Youll see me on the news
And b4 that
ill post a video saying you kidnapped me
Somsom 👀👺: jesus lol
i’ll put up the missing posters o7
BUT
you’re not going missing jackass, by me or someone else
NOT ON MY WATCH.
so i’m coming over. ill be there in like five…..?? see you later k? ;)
And oh, she’s a lot more interesting than whatever it is you’re trying to get a hold of.
No one can keep their composure around Jeon Somi. You’re not an exception.
Five minutes feel like a decade. If the foreign words on your laptop screen didn’t make sense to you before, they still don’t now. Your mind’s a flood of thoughts that relate to anything but studying. Pretty, pretty girl with a smile that could attack your heart and a body that could finish the job. What are you even thinking? Even five minutes away, she’s a distraction already.
Such a distraction that you close your laptop, and inch your hand to your crotch—
Rapid knocks that rush into ruining your door fill your ears.
Guilt, a clarity-inducing drug, follows after you were supposed to jerk off to your friend. She’s just being herself. That shouldn’t elicit a lewdness in your head that twists itself into your idea of her.
Or maybe Somi’s just lewd.
You sigh and open the door.
“Hey, look at that,” she says with a beam, “you finally have a girl over!”
Trying to look bored upon seeing her gorgeous face is a one-way road to failure. You’re always happy to see Somi, yet you groan, “Get out.”
Somi holds up two plastic cups of milk tea. You immediately give in.
The footfalls of her heels echo, each click reminding you that she’s getting closer and you don’t know how to react.
“I know I come here like everyday,” she says humbly, “but your place is really nice.”
She observes the space you try to call your own. Cheap commissioned paintings on the wall; modest furniture that minimize cluttering; some closet that serves as your hideout in the combined living room/bedroom/dining room. Then there’s the piles of clothes, clean and dirty, surrounding you. That’s all your own doing.
You sit in front of your laptop and open it. Back to work, even if she’s here. “You don’t have to lie.”
“It’s good for a cheap apartment is what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, because I pay with my fucking sanity.”
Somi scoots beside you, thighs uncovered by shorts pushing against yours, and loops an arm around your shoulder. Her eyes scan the document you’re annotating before she clicks her tongue disapprovingly.
She pokes your cheek. Her warm touch makes you burn up. “You look all the sane to me, gorgeous.”
She rips a page out of your notebook, pen in her mouth. It’s not designed to look like a rose but she looks like a lovergirl to you. If she swung the other way, girls would already be at her doorstep. Hell, you aren’t even one and your eyes cling already to the ends of her skirt.
You watch as the black fountain pen slips out from between her lips and writes the title of your lesson on the top. Why do you keep staring? She somehow makes everything look straight out of a film. Somi would be the beauty, the one whose role is deservingly main and the one they’d post on social media talking about how she was beautiful then and she still was now. Newer generations would yearn to be alive in her prime years so they’d bask in the moment they shouldn’t even have nostalgia for.
Yeah. In your head, Somi’s lived a thousand lives. The most impossible one is the part where she loves you.
On this campus in a galaxy that made everything seem small, she’s your friend. That’s both enough and too little for you. But she’s here, and that’s all that matters.
“What happened to ‘dickhead’?” you ask. In this universe, you’re also an asshole. Sip mildly on your milk tea. You expected it, but the sweetness is over the top. You have to set it down on the counter.
“My names for you change depending on my mood, so don’t take whatever for granted.” She starts to copy down the reviewer. “Like, not even a ‘Thank you Somi for the amazing milk tea’? Right now, my name for you is, and I quote, ‘an ungrateful pain in the ass.’ End quote.”
Conversational Korean fills the lines of your notebook. The subjects and verbs are underlined as well as the figures of speech. It doesn’t look like a headache when she’s writing it. The girl could use some penmanship coaching though.
You rest your arm on her shoulder and release a dramatic breath. “Thank you Somi for the amazing milk tea.”
“Where’s the part that goes, uh,” she begins, before clearing her throat, “‘Thank you Somi for being so pretty’?”
Oh, you thank her for that a thousand times. Not once have you said it out loud. But it’s sweet, telling someone they’re pretty. As if to thank that somehow, the world molded her into perfection, even if you’d stare just for a long while.
“You’re so self-absorbed.”
“Alright,” says Somi, dropping the pen. It slams on the glass. “If that’s what you want. Stop me from being Mother fucking Teresa and being so kind to help you out with your school life crisis.”
“Wait, you’re gonna do my stuff?”
“In exchange for mukbaps,” she offers cheerfully. She lifts her shoulders with a prudent nonchalance. “Math? Korean? Consider it done.”
She draws your laptop to herself and opens your canvas. Your missing assignment list isn’t exhaustive but there’s a reason why you can’t get to it immediately. These professors disguise their homeworks as short and simple, when in reality, their questions come with three bullets that require a fucking novel for an answer. You’re a writer but this stuff drains you.
She clicks your math task. Is Somi actually serious about this? She’s typing down formulas like a madman. Was she actually going to do it?
And are you… blushing?
“T-thank you.”
What else can you say? You’d say a lot of things. But when a vacant thought enters the flow—something about a deeper sense of gratitude, about how you’ll never have another friend like her—it’s all over. You don’t want the end to come. Uni can go on in your life for ages just as long as Somi keeps coming to your place.
So that’s all you say: thank you.
Because you can tell her anything, but at the same time, you can’t.
“Don’t thank me. Seriously, I never know how to respond,” she says, laughing. You wonder how she manages to change her laughs from shy and sweet, to loud and unkempt. She’s a versatile girl. “You’re gonna make bank soon, too. You’re showing up to that interview tomorrow, right?”
Thinking of it makes you a little uneasy. Sure, writing’s been on your side since forever, but what if they don’t think it is? This is your only hope—the tall building in the flier, the smiling employees, the coaxing font. You won’t settle for any other job. It was yours, just not right now.
You trace your fingers on the back of Somi’s hand. “Yeah.”
She smiles. “They’ll fall head-over-heels in love with you,” she says. A friendly(?) kiss to your knuckles is planted and bloomed. Hope she doesn’t notice the tension in them that comes right after. “I know it.
She’s so sure about it, too. How does she have this much faith in you? You don’t even believe that you’ll graduate.
“Seriously… thank you.”
“Hey, really,” Somi says again, “it’s no problem. Things can get real hard around here.”
Don’t you know it.
Fucking algebra starts to flood your screen while Korean occupies your papers. Staring at them, you yourself start to fill with an unnerving sense of doom. You can’t run away. They said in kindergarten the sun would explode in a billion years. It seems like you've been studying for longer. Why aren’t you dead yet?
You’re not even drinking the milk tea greedily but your throat constricts, like you’ve taken a medicine that would do worse than better for you. See? It even makes your eyes water and your mind spill with thoughts that prophesize inevitable, ugly failure. You’ll fail and fail like a doomed scratch project, and none of it will be worth it.
Somi pauses from explaining Korean grammar. It’s cinematic—the wind from your window brushes back her blonde locks as if they were drawn and animated, then presents a face that exudes natural beauty. Her large doe eyes—attentive, dancing with light—and slightly open mouth—pretty little mouth, impossibly soft lips—make you a little crazy.
“You okay?” she asks.
Swallow. “Yeah. Totally.”
“Sure?”
“I’m not your dad, you know,” you sigh. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
But it’s all you yearn for.
“Okay. I get it.” Somi rolls her eyes. “So, as I was saying, I suggest just saying the ‘neo’ character like you’re moaning. Like ‘ohhh—”
Balls of tapioca bounce from your mouth and on your keyboard. Somi’s shocked and noisy cackle bellows louder than the telenovela. You forget whatever your tears were for.
-
The tears come back a few days later. That’s when you remember you’ve got an interview and it’s not really ideal when the realization grips you like it wants you to die. You wake up that morning in a cold sweat, and the anxiety’s back—as if it ever left.
“You sure you got all your papers?” she asks. That’s Yunjin, and she probably shouldn’t be here. But she’s never played by the rules in her life. “I mean, you can’t rush back and tell them you forgot something. It’ll look pretty bad on your record.”
At least you don’t look bad. You rented formal attire off the local dress shop and it turned out pretty good. The jacket doesn’t smell and there aren’t wrinkles on your pants. Clothes, you’ve come to find out, leave a great first impression. For one: Somi thought you were a huge loser when you strolled into campus wearing a black shirt and loose pants.
(“No fashion sense at all,” you remember her saying as she laughed over a cup of coffee. “It was almost pitiable.”)
It’s funny how the borrowed suit looks better than the shoes you actually own. There’s flaws running on the leather as they pave the way to the building. You’re pretty sure the sole’s a bit fucked, too. But you wouldn’t give them away. They’re too special a pair, just like you and Somi—
“Damn, they take offense to everything.” You return to the conversation. There you are again, going off track. Isn’t that what you always do? “I can’t even pass a document without some kind of divine judgment?”
Yunjin laughs humorlessly. “Welcome to the real world, kid.”
She says it like it’s something to be proud of. The real world isn’t all that nice. The bills are expensive and so are the food you need and the medications prescribed to you by a doctor who’s also fucking expensive. You don’t win in this game.
“You’re younger than me, Yunjin,” you say. “I think you should leave that talk to the grown-ups.”
She scoffs. “I know another person younger than you, and you don’t complain when she talks.”
You hate how only one name comes to mind. Block it out, like you do to everything.
What better interpretation is there to make? You, a foreigner to vulnerability or you, being a foreigner to thinking about anyone but Somi? Yunjin gives you this funny look—brows curled, lips pulling to the side—that tells you exactly which.
You look away.
“Look,” Yunjin says, serious this time. “It’s gonna be alright. It might not seem like it but it will. You’re a good fucking writer, and you’re lucky enough to have people who believe in you.”
-
And if you don’t?
-
A good start: you ace the phys-ed class with your flexibility. Stretching really helps. You had to learn that the hard way.
You’re energized enough to pick up your things and go to class without dozing off on the bathroom floor. You’re optimistic about today. Let your positive thinking become reality: today, an actual step forward from the usual teaching. You’re speaking it into actual life when you say there will be no shitty professors, no bad encounters, and no loaded homework.
“Religion,” says your professor, a stout man whose beard opposes his actual age, “is a complex subject. You can divide it into polytheistic, meaning the belief of many deities, and mono-, the opposite.”
Your brow curls.
You look at the screen projected onto the empty space on the wall. The bright colors that border between unreadable and eye-scorching look familiar. Grumble softly through your teeth; yep, professor Chant taught this to you a week ago. Why is he repeating a lesson?
It’s funny how your first affirmation is transformed to mere wishful thinking. Nothing ever goes right here.
“There’s often a debate that sparks wars, as we can see from history.”
Obviously.
“We can trace it back to centuries ago, when the crusades still existed.”
Of course?
“Now, the rampage still goes on.”
Well, you never.
Psst.
Not from professor Chant, but from a soft tapping on your shoulder. You turn around—it’s Somi. Suddenly, your breath learns how to do a disappearing act. You swallow, but it’s still not there. Where's the wand?
Somehow, you don’t hear your professor start to identify different faiths. All the faith you need is hers in you.
The look on her face tells you she’s as tired of this shit as you are. She points to your professor then twirls her finger beside her temple. You stifle a giggle at the dizzied eyes she makes as well. Sometimes, (well, a lot of the time—it’s happened more than you’re brave enough to fess up), Somi makes this uninteresting life at least be something worth laughing at. It’s not even that funny yet you have to compose yourself lest you’re caught talking during class.
Her thumb jabs in the air in the direction of the door. You know exactly what she means. It’s been days of meaningless repetition in lessons, each with little to no difference than the last. Nothing’s pointing to the possibility of things taking a turn for the better today. You might as well do what she’s hinting at: leave with her.
You’re still hesitant although you’d go with her to a haunted house if she asked. “Can we?” you whisper.
Somi clicks her tongue. “If we can’t,” she says, weighing her head to the side, “would you let me go alone?”
You’re on your feet before you even have time to think.
She has this smug look on her face that you’d love to wipe off, but it’s so attractive on her that you let it stay. “That’s what I thought.”
Without bothering to make up a false excuse or trying to be discreet, you’re out of the classroom. It’s not your first time ditching classes anyway, and you only do those for the ones full of bullcrap. This class fits all the criteria for a shitty period that deserves abandonment.
“Remind me why I chose fucking ethics for my minor,” Somi says with a huff that inflates her cheeks. She steers you away from the clear windows of the other classrooms so that they don’t catch sight of your scholarly crime. Your cheeks burn as you feel her hold on your forearm. “It’s not like I wanted to be Socrates or some shit.”
Picture Somi’s face sculpted on a stone and her words taught to thousands. What quote would they like the best: “I’d rather jump off a cliff than wear flats” or “Food for thought? Where do they sell that?”?
“Yeah,” you say, “you already do enough corrupting of minds.”
At least it isn’t raining today. The sky’s gray, but only a soft wind blows by. It almost takes Somi with it. Must be why she’s gripping you so hard. That’s alright; you like her. A touch from her is exactly what you need after that hellhole.
“I get that professor Chant can’t teach, but the whole point was that Socrates didn’t corrupt those kids, right? He just didn’t shut up.” She looks down at her watch. After duly noting you’ve got plenty of time to kill, she looks back up. Her long lashes are like butterfly wings, rising and falling under her eyes as she blinks. “He had good ideas everyone was scared of. It was like the majority’s opinion after he made us pass those essays about it.”
“Oh, really?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do essays.”
“Of course.”
Somi twiddles her pencil between her lips. She’s always had that kind—the ones that are naturally full, naturally kissable. They just fit the rest of her small, beautiful face that returns the favor of beauty reciprocally with a button nose and large eyes. It’s like her parents talked before they did the deed and said, “Okay, let’s make one that’ll grow up to be the prettiest fucking thing anybody’ll ever see.” You’d confidently say they were successful.
That pencil tapped you on your shoulder earlier. And now, it’s touching the lipsticked brims of her mouth. That’s the closest connection you’ll ever make with her. The knowledge is as Parnassian as it’s melancholic.
“You wanna get breakfast?” One blink from her makes her rephrase. “Oh, what am I thinking? You’re in college; you don’t eat breakfast.”
“I could use some right now. Where’s the nearest spot?”
She hums thoughtfully as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her high-waist square pants. Even the width of the fabric can’t hide how full her thighs are. “You mind going down Denny’s?” she offers.
You snicker. “I don’t swing that way, Jeon, sorry.”
“What? What are you even—” Her brows knot before releasing, the pupils below them throwing themselves to the sky. “Oh, shut up.”
The victim of your dad jokes from the day you met, Somi’s the perfect girl to target. It doesn’t take a cleverly layered joke to get to her. She rolls her eyes so easily. But she’s been through it enough to bear the task of taking your wrist and walking to Denny’s.
You shiver at the cold wind when you welcome yourself through the doors. Maybe you should have brought a jacket. On the bright side, there’s no storm today. Look around warily—okay, no tornadoes around here either. You’re still a little traumatized by that vision you had.
The restaurant is nicely clear. Only a few people are around, here to work on their computers or catch a snack after jogging. If only it were like this everyday, you would have gone here for breakfast all those years ago.
Somi pulls out her Gucci wallet and peers through the bills inside, as if she'd ever run out of cash. Her allowance goes up to thousands. There's no need for her to worry.
“I’m paying," she says finally. She jerks her head to the menu up in lights on the tilted ceiling. “Whaddya want?”
You shrug. “Pancakes?”
Somi smiles, brightly and beautifully. “Pancakes.”
Pancakes indeed.
A string of honey drizzles all over your breakfast. Cream on the top, too. Oh, and also some iced coffee, tailored to your wants rather than needs. This is an excessive and probably lethal amount of sugar for a college student to be consuming. For breakfast, too, at nine-whatever. But who’s keeping note?
Definitely not Somi. She’s taking real advantage over the free syrup. Some of it gets on her lips and chin.
“You're having way too much fun,” you say, your forking through your breakfast a hypocritical act. “Slow down. You eat the food, not the other way around.”
“I’ll eat yours if you don’t shut up.” Somi squirts (huh?) an unholy amount of chocolate all over her pancakes. It’s like a sugar bomb exploded on her plate. “And probably you, too.”
That glint in her eye. Must be the sunshine refracting from the glass windows. “I won’t shut up then.” Not like anything bad’ll happen if you play along?
Your place in the restaurant is more secluded. It’s near the corner, sheltered by four walls that consist of a window and some posters, which isn’t a problem. Like you said, you like Somi’s company, especially when you’re alone. She can go from bright and jokeful to seriously meaningful. She plays her game on both sides, and it makes you laugh and cry.
And soon, you're talking like there's no one around. Perhaps the volume of your voices is too notched up, but you don't notice. Somi's so easy to talk to that you wonder if it would have been that way if she were any other girl. She knows when to listen, keeping silent (a feat you didn't know she was able to perform) when it isn't her dice to roll, and talks so freely.
You can't help smiling as she talks with crumbs on the sides of her mouth.
She's laughing when she says, “Oh god, I don’t wanna hear it. Spare us the pain. Like what my mom did when she said I dressed like a retired washed up supermodel in high school to first year.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I mean, it was.” Somi digs the prongs of her utensil into the pancake’s whipped cream heart and drives them through. “Senior year sours everything up.”
“I would've loved to be classmates with you back then.”
“Hah.” She makes a smug little sound. “I was an angry hormonal bitch, you wouldn’t want to meet me.”
“Eh. I could have handled you. Anything that happened before second year doesn’t count anyway.”
In the future, you’ll say that anything that happened before you were employed doesn’t count. Then it’ll move on to how the events before a certain age aren't judged, and so on. Life continues its run, its criterias and ideals change.
Surprisingly, you're still chasing after it.
“Fair. Everyone’s angry and miserable in HS.”
Painfully accurate. “We all have those little realizations later in life. Youth makes us angry at nothing.”
She snorts on her hot chocolate. “You know, you have a better shot at being Socrates than me,” Somi says. “All that shit about food eating me. Like who the hell comes up with that?”
“Socrates?”
“Really funny.”
“Hey, who said ‘food for thou—’”
“I’ll show you food for thought, fucker!”
Before Somi could pump a blastful of strawberry syrup into your hair, a soft cough makes itself clear just in your vicinity. Both of your heads turn.
Professor Jung. Statement vest and square pants, it’s impossible to mistake him for any other man. He’s always been asthmatic, so that phlegm-filled cough is a trademark for him, something you associate with the old man.
“You have a mouth on you, miss Jeon,” he says bluntly. He offers her a subtly reprimanding expression.
Shit, you’ve just been caught cutting classes. What do you do now? There’s the evidence all out on the table to pick apart on: the food, the time on Somi’s watch, the conversation. Look around and see that the place has no bathroom to hide in, or a back window to jump out of.
"Hi, professor Jung," you mutter.
“Not to be rude or anything,” Somi tells him, “but what are you doing here?”
Trust her to always be honest with an air of feistiness. You purse your lips to muffle your groan.
“I could ask you the same thing," Jung replies pointedly.
You could hear a pin drop in the wordless silence in the booth. It’s like time froze here and went on everywhere else.
“Darn it.” Somi throws her gaze up to the ceiling. “Fine, we’re cutting. And you?”
"Teachers eat breakfast, too."
"Oh." She contemplates this. "Really?"
You whisper her name sharply, admonishing her: Somi, shut up, But she gives you her classic, disarming glare and twists her hand into a fist. It’s basically SSL (Somi Sign Language) for: Suck my dick and balls.
Your professor looks on, mildly… entertained? He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Normally, I’d cast a blind eye on absences.” He lifts his cup full of steaming black coffee to his lips, and somehow takes it in without wincing. “I was your age once, you know. But I need to talk to you.”
Now his eyes are directed at you. Yes, you, the only other guy in the conversation. His firm stare seals and locks on your face that there's no doubt whatsoever that he’s not referring to anyone else. The question is: why? Somi’s cutting, too—why do you have to take one for the team?
Swallow a chunk of honeyed pancakes. “Yes, professor?”
“Is it alright that I discuss this with you privately?”
Your nerves are getting the best of you. Maybe you shouldn't have ignored his message last night. What could he possibly be here for that's so urgent?
-
“Seventy percent, Jeon. Seventy percent.”
“I’m gonna make up for it!”
“Make up for it? Somi, there’s no going back from that! I’m failing!”
“Please?”
“No. No mukbaps for you.”
“Come on! It’s not rocket science,” she says, bundling herself over a book she “borrowed” from the library. She reads the text—all those symbols, large numbers, and complex formulas—and sighs. “But it’s not exactly ABCs either.”
It’s not necessarily up to you to try and make it easier for her to fix her mistake. You’ve got your own problems in a sack, and this one she made herself. But when she has those blonde brows creased together in frustration and a timer to keep herself accountable, you wish you were smarter. Tougher. Wiser. If you were, you would have figured a lot of things out before everything even happened.
But you’re not. You never have been. So, you say, “Something in the middle?”
"Huh.” Somi pauses. She gives you a look. “Is it?"
"I guess so."
You sip on your own cup, then wipe the smear of brown it left on your upper lip. You had coffee at Denny’s but another cup wouldn’t hurt you. At least, not unless you’re seventy-five with a heart disease or something. (Ah, see here, with the way your back hurts if you twist just a little, you could qualify as a senior. Gotta collect those discounts.)
Anyway, the setting is this: it’s only afternoon, but you wouldn’t have guessed with the rain. You’re at your place, as you always are, with a visitor who welcomes herself at any time of the day. That visitor is Somi, and she has your spare key for herself. Although she’s not exactly unwelcome, you do get tired of her ransacking your fridge at times. But that’s just you—your usual, pessimistic self.
And she’s… just Somi. Can’t be just Somi—another student among others—with a face like that. With all that beauty and wit going on for her, you don’t get why she isn’t hanging out with those sorority girls. You’re certain they’d be more than happy to welcome her. She’s better off practicing some witch rituals with them than studying with you.
Actually, there's plenty of things she could do rather than be here. She could drop school to be a model since she’s got the height and face for it. She could audition to be an idol, just like the ones you see on television, and make a bigger name for herself.
And yet she stays.
You'll never be able to solve that mystery. It'll become a cold case in your drawer, one that'll haunt you forever because although your fridge tires of being raided, you like having her over.
"Can I say something to you?" asks Somi. She shuts the book and smiles at you tightly. You can see the irritability lining her lips. Oh, whatever for? What did you do to deserve that?
You'll bite. Carefully. "Yeah."
"Ugh. That's what I'm saying, what I’m about to anyway. It’s… I swear to god, you and your useless answers.” She slaps a hand on your table. “It's a rhetorical question, you prick. You aren't supposed to say something."
As careful as you were, you end up saying the wrong thing. Somi’s eyes roll up to the ceiling and she lets out the biggest sigh you’ve ever heard. Goddamn it, another fuck up. You never know what to say to her.
“Apparently,” you start, huffing out a breath that collects itself in a cold dust in the air, “I’m not supposed to say anything.”
Slap the pencil you’ve been toying with on the kitchen table. Fuck this.
You hop off the stool and start to occupy yourself with collecting your dirty laundry from the floor. One article of clothing equals one of the many burdens off your back. You’ve been stalling bringing them to the laundry shop for ages, and now it’s biting you back in the ass. Hey, that’s always how it turns out: you keep something for another day, and when that day comes you call bullshit and not do anything. Old habits die hard—you’re still the same bum you were in senior high.
Somi smirks as she twirls the Mongol you’ve abandoned with a shake of her head. “And it’d be a lot better that way, trust me.”
She’s right. If speaking to Somi were a course, you’d be failing it. You either come off as trying too hard or aggressive. It’s already a blessing by itself that you can even attempt to respond properly.
Here you go again.
“You can either go fuck yourself, Jeon,” you throw a t-shirt at her that has coffee stains from weeks ago, “or you help me clean our house. You already fucked up my assignment.”
She’s surprisingly swift in grabbing it. Perhaps she’s realized that she has nothing better to do for she starts to clean up, too. Piles and piles of clothes disappear from the floor and into transparent laundry bags. Each gets filled to the zippers—that’s how long you’ve been winging it.
For the first time in weeks, your floor’s beginning to lose its mess. Save for the dust that’s accumulated in the corners, it’s relatively clean. As you and Somi pick up your clothes and paper bags, you come to your usual realization.. You see how easy it is to just clean up but still won’t learn from it. You’re a psychic—you can already see that this routine of avoiding your responsibilities will repeat itself in the future, until you learn and unlearn it again.
“Our house?” Somi folds a pair of denim jeans and slips it into a Ziploc. “If I remember correctly, I don’t even live here.”
You start to laugh loudly. What an absurd thing to take away from your remark. “You might as well be with how often you break and enter.”
“And I’m so glad you like my company.”
Well, it’s not like you initiate it. You’ve been friends with Somi since last year, and even from the beginning she was the one who made the plans, volunteered to be study buddies, all that shit about getting together. Your friendship grew and soon you made plans—
Oh.
So it wasn’t as one-sided as you thought.
You can’t bite back another commentary. “I should call the cops on you right now. I’ll file a restraining order and you won’t ever see me or my house again.”
You moron. What’s wrong with you? You always end up saying the wrong things, a guise for what hides beneath all that fake confidence you have up for you. It’s what’s gotten you into fights and arguments before, some severe. One might think that with a tongue like yours you would have figured out a solution. Nope, they’d think wrong.
“Please,” she says, smiling at you once more but with a tinge of sass on it now. Somi never lets anything get to her. In fact, she mirrors back whatever you say with a stronger refraction. “We both know you can’t go a day without me.”
You’d tell her she’s flattering herself. You’d say that she thinks of her position in your mind too highly, but you can’t bring yourself to even mutter it. The syllables form in the corners of your mouth but they already feel wrong from the get-go. It’s like the mere act of replying would be lying or something.
You’ve lied to Somi a hundred times before. You said you couldn’t stomach your ice cream though you just wanted her to have it because you saw her staring at it. You said you did your homework and teased her about it when she said she didn’t. You said she was an asshole after she drew on your face while you slept on the sofa.
But saying that you could go a day without her was something you didn’t have the heart to do.
Well, what if it isn’t a lie?
It melts in your mouth. Nope, you aren’t going to say anything stupid. You already have enough stupid falsehoods said and done.
“Didn’t I get this for you?” she asks, breaking your reverie and lifting up a hoodie.
You study it. It looks familiar so she must have. Observe the statement sublimation-printed on it: “BEST DADDY EVER.” It's gotta be weird morally, ethically, whatever category it falls under. But somehow, you grin when you see it. Not weird at all to you.
You look away, pretending to be very interested in the flowerpot by your window. "Yeah."
"It's on the ground,” Somi says, deep in her thoughts, “with all the stuff you wear.” A simper fights its way on her mouth.
"Uh huh."
“It’s with the laundry.”
“What are you getting at here?”
"So… that means you used it." Her cheeky Cheshire smile grows wider.
Reel back a few months, to the first Christmas you and Somi spent together. You were unwrapping your gifts from under the small tree of evergreen and red ribbons, and came to discover that she gave you that:
A hoodie, with the kind of print that doesn't fade so everyone knows loud and clear, till the day you move on to the unknown realm, that you're someone's best father.
But it’s how it has double meanings that makes you crack up.
"I'm not wearing this," you muttered, hardly containing your laughs. "What the fuck is this?"
Somi threw her head back and let out the most improper laugh ever. It bounced off the walls and echoed in your ears. "You like it!" she replied, bringing her hands together in satisfaction. “Come on, look me in the eyes and tell me you hate it.”
You jutted the hoodie out in front of you and looked at it in disbelief. It was an abomination—the color was a disgusting shade of red, the kind that tapered on the line between merry Christmas and murder, with a skeleton-like character on a motorbike below the words that declared you the best dad in the world. From the seams to the print, it was ridiculous, and you couldn’t stop laughing.
You scratched your head as if doing so would stop your healthy guffaws. "Somi. Somi, I'm serious, I'm not going out with this."
And yet here you are now, caught with the evidence of having worn it.
"I had *nothing else to put on that day," you defend yourself.
*(You had plenty. You had just ordered a bunch of shirts from the local store and pants so that the school dress code would allow you reprieve from the weather that switched constantly between numbingly cold and the kind of sunny that burned your scalp.)
Somi nods mockingly, and packs the hoodie away. She knows your truth, but she'll let you have this one.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, slumping on the floor with her back to the feet of your table, “I don’t really get what all this is for anymore.”
You're leaning against the cheap painted walls of your home. Sweat beads the sides of your faces and bags of clothes surround you. You look like a couple who just moved into a new home. Oh, what a fantasy. Not that you’d like it to actually happen. You swear with all the pinkies in the world that it’s just a stray, intrusive thought.
She chews on her bottom lip, the one that’s so much more glossed than the other that you’re not totally dismissing the idea you could use it as a mirror. You aren’t observing your reflection when you look at it, however. Why? Oh, just another cold case, and you’re the worst detective.
Suddenly, the fantasy twists itself into your heart and squeezes.
Oftentimes people are afraid of their thoughts, of themselves. That’s the reason why they lash out and say things they don’t mean. So you’re saying another line that comes off more aggressively than you think. You’re always like this around her: a sarcastic, stuttering, alliterate mess.
“Which one? You breaking into my house at midnight ‘cause your fan broke or… oh, you know, everything else?”
Well, it’s not like it isn’t true, despite the statement only being uttered since you got nothing else to say.
Maybe that’s why you and Somi are friends—her old habits take a lot of time before disappearing, too. One of hers is entering your house with no warning, not even a text that asks as politely as it could: hey, can i come over? or perhaps even crashing at yours 2nite,, just to let you know. Nope, none of that—what Jeon Somi does is fiddle with your doorknob like a scheming thief and let herself in like she owns the place.
And it always, always scares the shit out of you.
“I mean this school thing.” Somi twitches her mouth to the side as she looks at you. “It's like there's nothing going on anymore."
"Tell me about it."
"I came here thinking I'd finally have my life together," she declares. Head shaking, she smiles. "I didn't think I'd be just… older. Not stronger or wiser or tougher. Just old as shit."
"Yeah, well, I didn't think I'd have a brat who breaks in everyday."
"You’re not giving up on that, huh? You gave me a key, babe. Can’t keep a cow and not milk it.”
“That’s the worst way to say it. You haven’t even been on a farm.”
“Piss off,” she snarls, punching you in the gut. “Go fuck yourself in the ass or something. Whatever.”
She says all those things—things that basically tell you to fuck off, sodomize yourself, whatever you do, she doesn’t fucking care—but she’s smiling. Smirking? That tiny gesture has you confused again, like all the other times wherein you have no idea if she’s shitting you or not.
It’s what keeps you on the edge of your seat. Somi has that thrill about her that’s so entrancing that it’s only right that you’re dragged along. The road’s rocky, but the wind is amazing on your bruised heels.
“I would, but we have class, remember?” Point to the clock on the wall that tells you that there’s precisely twenty minutes until your next awful hour in a cramped classroom.
"Oh, alright, so you like it in there?"
"Nothing wrong with it, but not denying or confirming anything."
"There you go again." Somi glances at the time's thin hands, recognizes the schedule they foretell, then groans. She always expresses herself dramatically, so her eyes turn themselves north and her jaw drops to the floor exaggeratedly. “Oh, please, for the love of all that’s good, don’t tell me that it’s—”
“—Kim Chungha,” you finish, regretfully. You don’t like showing up to her classes either. She’s so uptight, so full of herself that her lectures turn into a grand narration of everything she’s achieved. You didn’t pay a tuition of thousands for that. You could eavesdrop on that for free whenever a TedTalk speaker goes to your mall.
Somi shares your hate wholeheartedly. Although the hour of the class isn’t too near by any means, she’s already hating it. She’s already living in what would be a hellish moment and deprecating herself for ever thinking to enroll in it.
You groan sullenly. Somi sighs instead.
“Sometimes, I like to think about if she came out of the womb talking about how successful she is.” Your friend pinches her nose and leans into your shoulder. “‘Something something the tight womb molded me into the conceited fuck that I am today.’”
“You forgot the part about how we haven’t suffered enough.”
“Oh, of course.” Somi plays with the ends of your shirt. “‘You kids got into this college because your parents paid for it. I had to go work for it and get paid.’”
“Of course she did. Tuition was like three dinosaur bones back then and a flame from her neighbor Prometheus.”
She busts out laughing. “She’s not that old!”
She’s right. Chungha isn’t old in any way. In fact, she’s a young prodigy for a professor, considering she’s training to be one. She’s only a mere couple years your senior, too.
“Well, she doesn’t fucking act like it!” you say defensively, but you’re laughing. You and Somi love to make fun of her and the rest of your teachers. “She’s like that kid who got spanked when she was a kid and talked about it like she was in the military or something.”
“Exactly. All that because she studied in America, what a fucking bitch.”
“A bitch who’s gonna torture us if we don’t pass that essay later.” You get to your feet. “We gotta get going.” You make a finger gun at her and wink. “Dibs on the shower.”
“Asshole.”
And just like that, you ram into the shelves. A bag of clothes rolls off one of them. You grab it before it ends up on the floor. Despite it all, you still have your spidey senses.
-
You didn't get the job.
It should've been obvious that you wouldn't. You're a college student. Your best bet was an intern position or a position lower than that. But seeing the rejection printed finely, cruelly on the paper slipped in your mail still stings. You reread it to check if it really was for you (as if anybody else in this godforsaken campus applied) and your name is still there.
We've written to inform you that you' failed again. They might as well just type that. Their paragraphs of formality and sickening professionalism won't lighten the blow.
You shake your head and blink away your tears. You won't let this dampen your day. Today will be better, mark your words.
You hope your optimism won’t be shattered. Things are going on well. You’ve paid Doyeon, the smartest girl in your class, to tutor you. She’s kind enough to give you a session for a student-friendly price, but when she starts to teach the math, you find that you don’t want fuckshit to do with it. You’re already regretting paying her with what you could have used to spend on a meal.
Because see, there’s Doyeon, beautiful and gentle, with her pencil top against her temple, asking: “Do you understand?”
And then there’s you, a big fucking liar: “Yep. Easy peasy.”
Alright. Maybe that went bad, but you won’t let one bad moment ruin the rest of your day. You still have more than sixteen hours to make the most of it. Let’s hope you won’t screw it up.
As you walk to your next class, you find that your head doesn’t stop spinning. That’s what math does to you. Again, it’s supposed to be stupidly easy—you mean, how difficult can counting be? But when those mathematicians added letters into it your whole word fell apart. Nothing’s been right ever since you were in middle school.
“Dude,” and there goes Somi, bouncing down the hallway and bumping into your arm. A beat. “Hey, you okay?”
You blink. Your cheek feels damp and Somi, for all her beauty, looks blurry. You don’t realize you’re crying.
Pathetic. You're fucking pathetic.
Open your mouth to deny the tears. She doesn’t let you. She wraps her arms around you and just… holds you. Doesn’t even say anything. For the first time, Jeon Somi doesn’t say something crass or out of line—doesn’t even giggle when you snort a little too loudly.
It’s in these little, tender moments that you’re reminded she’s your friend. And she loves you.
When she lets go, your throat feels tight. “Somi, I—”
“Shhh.” She presses a finger to your lips. “I’m not gonna ask. You know what’s gonna help you out?”
“What?”
“Drinks. On me.”
-
Somi always dresses like she's going to walk a fashion show. She doesn't dare show up with an outfit that doesn't reveal or at least show her curves.
That pretty much explains why she's dressed the way she is: a short, apricot crop top that could pass for a sports bra wraps around her impeccable bust while her long legs peek not all too shyly from the ends of a denim miniskirt.
You watch her try to keep the hem of her skirt right where they should be, but they steal your eyes to what shouldn't be revealed anyway—those full yet slim thighs pressed against each other making you jealous of the little space that gets to be squeezed between them.
But as always, you’re pretentious. “You do know it’s raining, right?” you say.
“And?” Somi cocks a brow. She smooths the top down her tummy, and you can’t look anywhere else. When the eye sins, you have to pluck it out, but you can’t. You want to keep sinning. “It’s not like a storm’s gonna stop me from being hot.”
You hate how she’s right. Through thick and thin, rain or shine, Somi remains the most gorgeous girl you know. She’s always pulled together, not one speck out of place. She walks with a strut a runway model would be jealous of. It’s not your fault that you lust after her when she’s… like that. Or maybe that’s another lie—maybe you don’t really want her.
And yet another.
Click your tongue. “Okay.”
Lift your bag. Stop in your tracks. You still have more to say.
Look at her. Look at the slopes of her curvaceous body, the smile in her lined eyes, the way the crop top shows too much but just right. Did she catch you?
Not even you with your artificial nonchalance and indifference can deny that—
“You look good today.”
She smiles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
-
So this is what happens: you drive, because (1) Somi can’t be bothered to, and (2) she can’t drive for shit. The last time you let her handle your car, she almost put you on the news. Oh, and (3) the bar is a little far from your college; you aren’t really planning to hike your way there.
Apparently, it’s a bad day for a lot of people here, too. A drunkard murmurs at the bar about how he loved her until she left him for someone better, and you could hear crying coming from the bathroom. Strangely fascinating how everyone’s here for different reasons, but for the same idea: some sort of relief.
“I’m very sorry about the way I…. you know, cried.” You make the first conversation starter. It’s an awkward topic, but you suppose she won’t have a problem with it. Somi’s your friend, isn’t she?
“Nothing to apologize for,” she says. Her eyes are lined with some sort of bright color that makes them look more enchanting. Makes the tears more apparent. “I’ve been breaking down too. Just in different ways.”
You wonder what’s beneath all that. All that blonde hair, flirty long lashes, the attitude. It only occurs to you now that you’ve never seen Somi cry. Maybe mockingly, when she doesn’t want to do her graphics, or for theater. But never in the raw sense of the word.
She’s stronger than one would think, you realize. Jeon Somi, more soldier than princess, though she doesn’t look the part. Perhaps her sword is the lipgloss ever present in her purse, the shield the smile she puts on everyday no matter the conflict. She deserves a lot more credit than what she’s given.
“What do you want?”
You can’t stop staring at the fake star tattoo on her chest. “You. Y-you can choose. It’s your money, not mine.”
You can’t tell if it’s the red, beaming lights or your imagination. You swear you saw her smirk. Quickly avert your gaze.
You don’t know how to go about these feelings for Somi. Are they romantic? Platonic? Whatever? You won’t deny that she’s pretty. Just look at her, gorgeous legs crossed on the stool, eyes magnetic. It’s a fact, forever undeniable, kind of like common sense at this point.
Yet there’s this: you’ve been friends for so long. You’d hate to ruin that.
“A martini, please.” Somi looks at you rather than the bartender, a glimmer in her eye as she adds, “Extra dirty.”
Okay, well-
You don’t speak for a while. It’s awkward, really, trying to divert the moment after you were pretty sure she had eyefucked you. Somi doesn’t seem to mind. She’s staring at her reflection in a nearby bottle, reapplying her lipstick. It makes her mouth look plumper. Poutier, too. You decide to discard that thought and train your eyes on something else.
But it’s hard not to look at Somi. You’re sure every heterosexual man in this bar/club/crying lounge is staring at her. Hell, even a few girls. But it somehow makes your heart squeeze a little more when you remember you are the one she brought out to have drinks. You’re the only one in this lonely place she considers a friend.
“So,” she says. “We’ve both been going through shit, huh.”
Just in time for the martinis to arrive. You laugh roughly, quickly drinking one up. ‘That’s one way to put it.”
"To surviving another week of academia," she raises her shot glass, a glint of defiance in her eyes. ‘And to us, for being the tough fucking shits that we are.”
You clink your glass against hers, the sharp crack almost lulling through the music. The martini burns a fiery path down your throat. You wince; yeah, you need some of that beer later. Martini’s never been your forte, but hey, it does the job. Your shoulders have already lost their tension. And Somi’s paying anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Seriously, I thought professor Jung was going to kill me,” you sigh, leaning back against the cool metal of the stool. “Maybe one of these days.”
“Don’t go yet. I’ll miss you too much.”
“Thanks for the sympathy. For that, I won’t write you off in my will.”
“Good boy.”
You gulp. Take another long sip of the martini. She knows exactly what she’s doing. You know her intentions too. Nobody just goes to a bar and wears an outfit like that for nothing. So why is it only you who’s shivering with anxiety?
She turns to you, her expression softening. For a few precious moments, her eyes look less striking. They’re more concerned, glazing over you slowly. "You look like you need more than just a drink, though. You look… hollowed out."
“Don’t I know it.”
“Hey, I’m just saying. We need to find a way to de-stress before we both lose our fucking minds and we die before graduation.”
The corner of your mouth twitches upwards. “One vice at a time, Somi. One vice at a time.”
She giggles. “That’s what I like about you.” Her golden hair tosses as she shakes her head and she’s back to nursing her drink. “You’re funny. Hot. Yeah, you’re weird sometimes, let’s be fucking honest. But you’re my bestest friend in the world.”
Your chest warms up. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s told you all week. And it was said to you in a noise-polluted bar, after crying your heart out, and by Somi.
You used to dream of meaning this much to somebody. All your life, you’ve felt discarded. The floater friend. It worsened when you enrolled in college. What they don’t tell you about this time in your life is that it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You survive or you don’t.
And now you’ve got your bestest friend in the world, telling you that you’re her friend, too. You mean something to her. You’re the only guy she’d take out to a bar like this and spend thousands on.
“Well… say something about me.” Somi suddenly stops drumming her fingertips on the counter and brings them to yours. The contact burns. It’s the tiniest arson ever committed.
Hey, you’re in a bar. It’s not supposed to be anything personal. You ought to drink and dance and hope you get tipsy enough to forget about everything. But you’re here, forced to cope with a dilemma of feelings, and the fact that beyond her loudness, she still cares about you.
It goes deeper than personal.
“I—” How do you say this? Hope this easy smile gets you out of trouble. Or in trouble, whichever is best. “I think you’re the hottest girl I’ve ever met. Kind of… a little wild, too. I like that, you know.”
Somi smiles, slowly and painfully. It’s killing you in a thousand different ways—by knife, by fire, by self, by her.
“Wow,” she says, looking down at your drink. What’s worth studying about that dull glass? “You’re a real charmer, y’know that? Just know how to make my heart melt.”
For whatever reason, there’s no sarcasm entangled in her words. It’s too much. You can’t deal with it. But you push it anyway.
“What about me? You say something about me.”
Somi blinks. Smiles for the first time in minutes. “You’re really my type, if that means anything.”
Your forehead wrinkles. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know.” Somi groans then downs another drink. This conversation makes her want to die of alcohol poisoning. She’s getting there—her ditzy eyes connect with yours and you know she’s pulling you down with her. “I talk a lot, don’t I? But you never really say anything. It kind of hurts.”
You don’t need the reminder. You’re so bad at communicating that you can’t even talk to your best friend. But then you look at her, and she’s just so pretty that you think it’s understandable. It’s understandable that you keep quiet rather than say the wrong thing, let her talk when her voice is like honey, silence your heart so that you won’t lose the sight of that pretty face.
Your shoulders slump. You’re never going to figure this out. These odd feelings for her. This whole college thing, too. The jobs you can’t take, the qualifications you don’t meet. You’re never gonna make it.
“So,” she begins, like she’s about to make a proposal. “What’s it gonna take for you to shut me up? Or, better yet—”
She lifts your chin before you could drink again. You can’t drink your way out of this. The last thing she’ll let you do is scamper away, like you always do.
“What’s it gonna take to get your cock in my mouth?”
You shiver.
A warmth spreads through your veins. It’s not entirely from the alcohol. You make that conclusion as you watch her tongue dart out, moistening her bottom lip. The air around you seems to thicken.
Her knee brushes lightly against yours. The contact is electric already. Nobody’s made you feel this way before. No, not before Somi. Her gaze drops, lingering on your lap for a beat too long before flicking back to your eyes.
Your breath hitches. The audacity of this girl, you swear. “Somi…”
“Not a lot then, huh?”
Somi’s hand continues its slow, teasing ascent. Her fingertips now brush against the sensitive fabric of your jeans. You feel the unmistakable hardening beneath her touch and honest to god groan.
“Good,” she whispers, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “I knew you'd like that.”
Her nimble fingers find the zipper of your jeans. A wave of heat washes over you.
“Are you sure?” Your voice is a ragged whisper.
She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she slowly, painstakingly, pulls down your zipper. You flinch at the sound of the metal zipping against each other. Somewhere in those eyes you find a challenge. I dare you, Somi says, to tell me to stop right now. Tell me you don’t want me to blow you in a public place and make myself look like your cumslut. It’s your choice, you know. All up to you.
You don’t say anything.
Her fingers brush against the warm cotton of your boxers. You feel them wrap hard on the head of your cock. Somi starts stroking you slowly.
“So big,” she murmurs. You feel the rush of blood, the immediate hardening, your cock springing free from the constrains of your pants.
You close your eyes for a moment. This cannot be happening. Jeon Somi, your impossibly hot best friend cannot be jerking you off. Maybe this is all a dream. Yet when you open them, her very real gorgeous face is still there.
A hot wet warmth suddenly wraps the head of your cock. Her mouth works its magic. You grip your seat. You try to think about other things despite the obvious distraction in your lap. How warm the bar suddenly is. How nobody seems to care she’s throating you. How Somi, you come to find out, is a woman who lives by a method. First, her tongue dances along your base. Then it’s gone only to return with renewed vigor. She has her hands on your thighs, pushing you down her throat and letting your cock slap on the flat of her tongue.
You let out a shaky breath as the pleasure intensifies. Somehow, the place becomes nonexistent. There’s no setting to this story. The bar is gone and so is the shitty music and the dancers. There’s no plot either. All it dissolves down to is the climax: the suction of Somi’s plump lips on your dick and the sight of her tits bouncing as she takes you.
“Fuck. Somi, I’m gonna-”
Seemingly determined, she takes it all. Her intense gaze never leaves you. Even as she deepthroats you, she seems to be smiling wickedly. Almost as if she planned this for the entirety of the day.
She lets her tongue flick and it’s finally over.
You honestly black out for a few minutes. It’s hard to process it all. Just a few hours earlier you were crying about another essay and the cruelty of your professor. Now, you’re spilling your cum down Somi’s throat. And you’re watching her take it all, happily sucking the sanity out of you. Her hands are an oxymoron at this point, placed on your thighs to keep you from shaking so much yet her touch is too electric to make you stop. That’s just what Somi is: a walking contradiction. Too pretty to be tough but she’s stronger than you are. Too girlish to even pick up a tissue from a sidewalk but she got on her knees in this seedy bar for you.
“See?” Somi says, sounding very triumphant. “Didn’t take much.”
-
The Uber ride back to Somi’s apartment is a blur of streetlights. The moon doesn’t even look real. The warmth from the drinks and the kissing makes everything feel softer, closer. Her head rests on your shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh.
You don’t resist it. You’re both pleasantly buzzed. Tonight, you’ll forget about your shitty college and your overflowing canvas. It’s all about you and her.
“My place is a fucking mess,” she laughs. “Don’t judge me, daddy, will you?” Somi catches on to the tension in your body and smirks. Oh, she’s got you all figured out, from the inside and out. "Oh yeah, I'm calling you daddy."
"Shut up." You roll your eyes, embarrassed.
Somi smiles, eyes disappearing. "Make me, daddy."
The word hangs in the air like a question. It’s new, this game. It’s probably dangerous and holds a lot of repercussions you won’t be able to handle sober. But you find yourself following her inside, the door clicking shut to seal you both in the dim, cozy chaos of her living room.
It’s not even that much of a mess. Or maybe the obvious old, lived-in wealth distracts you from the numerous shopping bags and parcels. Somi tries to kick off her heels but stumbles. You catch her by the waist. She flinches in surprise. Her abdomen is firm beneath your touch, soft in all the right places.
“You know what?”
Somi smiles. “What?”
You hold her closer. For the first time in this little, little life, you’re confident to say: “I think I’ve got it all figured out now.”
But she knows what you’re talking about. Her smirk is so proud, so full of itself that it makes Jeon Somi more attractive than she is.
“I want you,” you confess. “I tried denying it, but I’ve always wanted you.” It wasn’t included in your initial script but it slips out anyway, boldly: “From the moment I saw you.”
“Yeah. I have to be honest first though.” She skates her hand under the curve of her chin before placing it gently on your wrist. “I don’t know how it happens, but when I look at you, I can’t think straight. You make my brain haywire, if you know what I mean. My thoughts… just don’t make sense.”
Perfectly aligned, the stars and your thoughts with hers. A spyglass can’t spot a singular difference. “Same here, blondie.”
“Well?”
“Well.” You’re leaning forward as well, because there’s something you want to do before the sun rises and beats you up again. “We ought to do something about that, right?”
“Oh, trust me. know a lot of things we can do.”
That’s all it takes. The kiss isn’t gentle by any means. Nothing like the playful pecks you shared at the bar. Come to think of it, they aren’t like the sloppy makeout sessions you shared once the drinks got the better of you. This one is hungry and deep. The way she shoves her tongue in your throat reads like she’s been waiting to do this for years, probably even before you thought of doing this to her. Her lipgloss tastes sweeter than sugar.
Somi doesn’t complain about her designer skirt being torn. You don’t complain that this is your last good pair of decent clothes for another three days. Nothing about the outside world matters—no responsibilities, no consequences. You’re completely consumed by Somi’s lips and how she feels as you bracket your bodies together.
Before you know it, you’re in her bedroom. It’s even larger than the living room, walls painted bright pink and the bedclothes made of the softest fabric. The vanity table in the corner looks like it’s worth a year of your tuition. Lights bedazzle its mirror and an expensive figurine sits in front of it. Jesus, what does her father do for a living? Does he know his daughter calls you daddy too?
Her lips are swollen. You kiss them one last time before you undo her bra. The soft, full curves of her breasts spring out immediately. Her nipples are hard under your hot mouth and tongue. Lord knows how long you’ve thought about doing this. Her tits are heaven on earth.
“Yes,” Somi hisses. “They’re all yours, Daddy.”
You give her a sharp, open-handed slap to the side of her breast—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp and the flesh bloom a beautiful pink. She moans, her head falling back. You do it again to the other side, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You lavish the stinging, reddening skin with desperate licks and sucks.
You wouldn’t dare put a finger on her if you were sober. You know that well. But the idea that she wants you to do anything you want to her is making your brain lose its logic. You’re operating like a broken machine on flimsy code.
That’s exactly why Somi smiles when she kneels again. “Remember when we talked about Socrates?”
You roll your eyes. “Why are you bringing him up now?”
Tipsy Somi is still Somi after all. Her breasts rise and rest as she breathes, slick from your mouth’s worshipful rituals.
“When you told me I was corrupting minds,” she says, blinking up at you deceptively, “did I corrupt yours, too?”
Turns out she doesn’t need you to answer. First contact: her soft tits squeezing around you. It extracts a groan from the depths of your throat. “Somi.”
“What's wrong?”
Nothing is. Not when she feels amazing wrapped tight around your shaft. The friction is incredible. It rides up from your base up to your swollen tip, then repeats in its overwhelming cycle. You’re already so close to the edge.
You can almost feel her heartbeat as she takes a deep breath in. Her deep cleavage welcomes you once more. You don’t know which is more explicit: the sounds of her flesh accommodating you and her soft pants, or the sight of it. Each low plunge ignites heat from the pit of your stomach. You can see light sweat form on her skin. She’s working so hard for it, so hard to make you cum.
It just might work.
God, everything about Somi is so erotic. It’s like for one night, she conjured herself to be a fantasy only for you. No one at the bar could experience this no matter how much they stared at her. They’re not the ones who can see her nails dig into her own chest as she works you, or her biting her lip to cope with the labor. All they see is the perfect, dolled up Jeon Somi, the gorgeous woman at the bar who looks too out of their league to approach.
Meanwhile, this is what you’re privy to:
Somi jerking you even harder, her nipples tight and her hair tossed to the side.
Somi asking you if you like it, although she knows very well that you do. How can anyone not like this? Only an insane man would deny it.
Somi looking like a doll although she’d look more a sex doll if you consider how she pressed her boobs together tighter. The pressure grows like a waiting tsunami.
You crash.
With a final, deep stroke and a stifled moan from her own lips, you cum all over her. It’s messy—it gets all over her collarbone, the lines on her throat, her chin. This doesn’t stop her movements from becoming more urgent. The embrace of her tits feels more like a choke now that she’s determined to drain every single drop from you.
After the last spurts come out, she gives you a teasing lick on your tip. She looks down at her skin covered with cum and gasps.
“Look at the mess you made,” she says. “Won’t you clean it up for me, daddy?”
-
Somi’s bathroom, as it turns out, looks straight out of a suite. You’re sure she had maids clean this regularly, with how the tub shone and not a tile on the walls were chipped. It smells like strawberries when you stepped inside. The porcelain is cool under your feet.
“College was just a getaway vacation for you, huh?”
Somi shrugs. “Pretty much,” she says. She doesn’t bother to deny it. She only joins in on your “I’m broke” jokes to make you less lonely. This was her reality. “Could’ve gone to some Ivy League un, but at least I met you, right?”
You reach past her to turn the knob. There’s a clunk, a hiss, and then the water crashes down. You watch how the droplets slip into the curves and arches of her toned back, down her perfect ass. Of course, she’s ever the movie star: Somi arches into it, eyes closed.
You move into the warm spray with her. She turns to face you.
Her face looks prettier without the makeup. As the foundation washes away along with each slicked contour, her bare face comes to view. In the steam, Somi looks like a goddess who made an apparition. No, actually. Her eyes are larger without the heavy lashes and her mouth soft without the lipliner.
“Yeah,” you agree. You’re still stunned. “I have that going on for me.”
You lift her easily. She giggles, wrapping her legs around your waist without a word. All part of Jeon Somi’s masterplan, and you’re checking off each step.
The water hammers down on your joined bodies, background noise as you thrust in her. Both of you gasp. She’s so tight it knocks your breath out. You’re forced to rely on anchoring her weight on the wall, as featherlight as she is.
“Jesus, Somi. You feel so fucking good.”
She’s all slick and tight around you. Her overwhelming wetness lets you know how hard she was working for this. Somi is speechless as you start moving. You don’t bother for any buildup. It’s rare to see her so pliant, so willing. The sensation of being filled up was too good for her to run her mouth.
You did say you were going to shut her up.
Her mouth hangs the whole time. Her doe eyes are large with want. Each time you enter her, her insides cinch tighter around you. You already came twice tonight; you want to hold out a little longer and make her feel good.
You place your other hand at the back of her head to dull the thrusts. Those gym classes were worth it after all. You have no problem hoisting her up with one hand and searching for the angle that’d make her shake.
It takes a few different approaches, all with your mouth smothering her chest and neck, before her eyes fly open in shock. You smirk. Somi squeezes your shoulders tighter. From there, the moans you revel in seem to amplify.
“God, yes,” she gasps, the blasphemy melting into steam next to your ear. She buries her face in your neck. “Don’ stop…”
A sudden rush of adrenaline runs through you, like you’ve downed caffeine instead of alcohol. Every sense is wide awake. You set a wild rhythm that you don’t think even you can keep up with. But each dip into Somi’s tight, weeping cunt makes it worth the effort. The lust melts into the steam of the shower, wrapping your endless moans and grunts into a hot bubble.
Her nails needle into your back like the spray from the shower. Somi’s moans border into shouts. You see the exact moment she cums. All of her being tenses up except her thighs, which stay at your hips, keeping you locked inside her. Each thud and stroke leads up to this very moment.
Honey drips down her legs. Somi whimpers while she cums around you. It’s sticky sweet. The water washes away both of your releases into the drain. You clutch onto one another for life. It might not be hyperbole either; the two of you are spent.
For a long moment, you just stay like that. You hold her up despite the weakness in your legs. You massage her hair through the shampoo. You wonder if this was the right thing to do. There’s still the possibility that you’ll regret it in the morning, when the alcohol and daze are gone. This was just a way to get it out of your systems.
“Wow,” says Somi, voice hoarse. “I knew you deserved that Best Daddy hoodie.”
She kisses you again, softer this time. You realize immediately it’ll be fine. While you’re young, you have a lot of time left to worry.
A/N: This is part 2. Have a good read. I'll be taking a short break after this to recharge, see you in two weeks!
“So, what are we doing today?” Minju asks as she snuggles against you in bed, tracing her fingers along your chest.
“Mmm… I was thinking of bringing you out to the aquarium today, but I only found out last night that it's closed today for maintenance,” you mumble with a yawn.
“Ehhh~ I wanted to see the dolphins and penguins though,” Minju pouts and sits up.
“I’m sorr—”
“Ya, it's not even your fault that the aquarium’s closed. If anything, it's because of yesterday’s event.” She says while poking your cheek with her finger. “It’s not like it's the end of the world, honey. I don't have any work to do, so we can just spend time together. You know, we have the entireee day…”
You push your limbs out and stretch them as far as you can, pulling another long loud yawn from your throat. “Entire day to do what? You wanna go to the grocery store? Or maybe you wanna go watch a movie? There's that new romance film—”
“I don't know, I was thinking something more on the lines of…” her voice softens, “you fucking me senseless the entire day. You know, fuck me until my pussy’s so sore that I can't walk anymore.”
“...”
You stare at her.
“...”
She stares back at you.
“Uh…” you blurt.
“Honey…” Minju murmurs while peeling off her pajama pants, chucking them to the side and slowly parting her legs. “Look, I’m already so wet for you.”
“W-where are your panties?” you choke, looking at her bare, glistening pussy.
“Never wore them since we came back last night.” She bites her lip, watching your reaction with that familiar mix of mischief and need. "So… are you gonna make good on that promise from Friday night?" she whispers, climbing over to straddle you, shifting her hips so her wetness brushes against your growing hardness.
You swallow hard. "The entire day?"
Her smile turns greedy. "Every single minute of it. And we're starting now.” Minju fumbles with your pajamas and pulls your pants down in a single go. You're already hard and throbbing. Minju bites her lower lip, eyes locked on yours, and slowly rolls her hips forward so the slick heat of her pussy drags along your length, teasing and coating you with her wetness, making you twitch beneath her.
“Fuck, honey…” she breathes, her voice thick with want. “It’s only been a day without your cock in me, and I’ve been thinking about this the entire yesterday. About sitting on your cock and riding you until we both forget what day it is.”
She doesn’t wait for permission. She lifts her hips and grips your cock at the base with a firm, familiar squeeze, sinking down in one long, smooth glide. The moist heat of her pussy envelops you instantly — wet, tight, and quivering around every inch of your hardness as she takes you to the hilt. A sharp, shuddering gasp tears from her throat the moment her ass meets your thighs, and her walls clench hard greedily, like her body has been starving for this all week when it's only been a day.
“Fuck—” she hisses, tipping her head back and long dark hair spills behind her shoulder. “God, honey… you feel so thick inside me again…”
She starts moving almost immediately. No slow build, no teasing rolls. Just hungry, desperate bounces. “You're so fucking tight,” you grunt as her thighs flex, ass lifting and dropping in quick, wet slaps that echo through the quiet room. Each downward plunge drives you deeper, and each upward lift is filled with resistance as her pussy refuses to let you go. Her pussy swallows you whole as your cock continuously disappears into her tight cunt with slick dripping down your shaft and coating your balls.
“I can't believe I gave up this fat cock for work,” she gasps as her tits bounce wildly with every motion. Her perfectly sized breasts are heavy and full, the gems on them stiff and flushed dark pink, begging to be touched. “Fuck Minju, your tits, they’re so perfect,” you groan when she slams back down on you, admiring her soft breasts as they jiggle up and down in a hypnotic rhythm. They sway side to side, slapping softly against her chest when she drops harder. The sight alone makes your cock twitch inside her, earning a broken moan from deep in her throat.
“Look at them,” she pants, cupping her own breasts, rubbing them up and down, squeezing them until the soft flesh spills between her fingers. “Watch how they bounce for you… fuck—watch me ride you like this—”
“Fuck you're so deep inside of me—” she cries, leaning forward slightly, bracing her hands on your chest, nails digging into your flesh as leverage. The angle changes slightly, but the effect is entirely different. Your cock now drags against her front wall on every upstroke, hitting that spot that makes her eyes roll back. “Fuck Minju, your pussy walls, they're rubbing onto my cock so well,” you groan and grab on to her hips, assisting her as she bounces. Her sanity visibly unravels and her moans turn into whimpers, then into high, needy cries. Her hips stutter and its rhythm falters as pleasure overloads her.
“I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop—” she sobs, riding faster and harder, chasing her high desperately. “It’s too good—your cock is too good—oh god—” Her rhythm becomes frantic as her ass slaps against your thighs with wet, filthy claps, and her tits bounce so violently they nearly slap against each other. Sweat beads and drips between them, glistening as her nipples drag across your chest when she leans down to kiss you desperately, tongue tangling with yours as she grinds deeper.
“You gonna cum for me? Make your needy pussy cum all over my cock?” you growl as she loses it completely. Her moans transcend into gasps and her thighs tremble uncontrollably, pussy clenching and releasing in erratic pulses. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna cum—gonna cum on your cock—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
She shatters. Her whole body locks up mid-bounce, back arching sharply, mouth falling open in a silent scream. Her pussy clamps down on you in violent spasms, milking you in rhythmic waves, fresh slick gushing around you and soaking your groin, dripping down your balls onto the sheets. Her tits heave with every ragged breath, nipples trembling; a thin sheen of sweat glistens across her chest and throat.
She rides through it anyway, chasing the never ending pleasure, shuddering, whimpering, refusing to stop until the aftershocks fade, hips still rolling in slow, greedy circles.
Then, without pulling off, she twirls around with herself still impaled on you, pussy never breaking contact.
Her back is facing you now, full ass presented supple and round, cheeks jiggling as she settles and starts bouncing again.
“Fuck, Minju, you're crazy—”
She shuts you up with a stronger slam, crying moans of pleasure in response. “I don't know what's wrong with me honey—I need your cock so bad—keep fucking me please—” The view is insane. Her pussy stretches wide around your cock, glistening as her lips grip you every time she lifts. Her tits hang forward, swinging heavily with each drop, swaying like pendulums.
“Grab my ass,” she begs. “Knead it—squeeze it—fuck, mark it up—”
You obey instantly. Both hands slap and clamp onto her supple, plump cheeks, and gosh they are so soft and warm, yielding under your fingers. You knead her hard like raised dough, spreading her wider, thumbs digging into the flesh as she slams down again and again. The slap of her ass against your hips is loud, each impact sending ripples through her skin.
“Yes—yes—like that—” she cries, bouncing faster, pussy squelching with every plunge. “Fuck—your hands feel so good—squeeze harder—god I’m gonna cum again—”
“God fuck Minju, you're so needy, so hot and tight, fuck I missed this slutty version of you,” you growl, thrusting your hips up into her to meet her crashes. You're both fucking each other so hard that the bed shakes with each impact, the legs screeching around the ground from every tremor. “You're clenching me so hard—Fuck, are you going to be my good girl and cum for me again? Cum all over my big, hard cock that you can't get enough of?”
She collapses forward and props her hands on the mattress, using it as support to continue fucking onto you despite her weakening slams from her increasing sensitivity and loss of composure. “Yes yes yes—fuck—so good—so so deep—feels so good I’m fucking fuck cum—”
She shrieks and cums even harder this time. Her whole body locks up, ass clenching under your palms, pussy convulsing so violently you almost lose it right there. She screams your name, hips grinding down frantically , milking you through wave after wave until she’s trembling, boneless, collapsing forward onto her elbows. Her tits press into the mattress, nipples dragging as she rides the last tremors.
You’re right there too, balls tight, cock throbbing, so close you can feel the first pulse building in your base.
But she stops. Abruptly. She lifts off you with a wet pop, leaving you slick and aching, tip glistening with her release.
“Not yet,” she pants, eyelids fluttering from the orgasm. She crawls forward on all fours shakily, then turns to face you, eyes dark and glassy. “I want it in my ass. I want you to take it—right now.”
She presses her stomach flat onto the mattress as much as she can and spreads her knees wide, lifting her ass up high. Reaching back, she spreads herself with both hands, exposing her tight pink rim.
“Please,” she whispers with a trembling voice. “Please fuck your cum into my ass. Fill my ass up so full until it's all leaking out…”
You move without thinking, stuffing a pillow under her for support before kneeling behind her, hands spreading her cheeks wide. You lean in, pressing your tongue flat against her rim and start eating. You slurp and lap her pink hole, dipping your tongue in until she's moaning into the pillow. The way she’s trembling as you slather your saliva all over her hole sends you crazy, and you flick your tongue harder, chasing the delectable taste of her ass.
She’s shaking, whimpering and begging from your oral assault, pushing and stuffing her bread back into your mouth, demanding more from you. “Honey fuck, you're eating me so well. Gosh fuck we should have done this sooner,” she cries and whines into the pillow.
You gather saliva in your mouth and spit it right at her hole, diving and stuffing your head back in. With your free hand, you rub small circles around her swollen clit, making sure she's in your total submission.
Your tongue darts in and out of her rim constantly, prodding and poking as far as you can reach into her ass. “Fuck Minju, I’m trying to loosen you up for anal sex but you're clenching tighter and tighter.” She can't even reply to you as you rub her clit harder, slurping her ass faster.
Suddenly, a gush of warm liquid sprays out of her pussy, soaking your hands and the sheets below. Minju is cumming again. She’s just silently shaking and spraying her juices out like a shower head as you eat and rub her ass and clit without pause, until her lower body collapses onto the pillow. The entire bed is drenched and soaked, the wet sheets clinging to the mattress.
She pants and heaves, breathing hard. “Don’t stop—please—put it in—”
Your cock is swollen and aching to burst, and you drag her hips up once more, tip nudging her slick, spit-smeared entrance. You press forward slowly until the head pops past the ring with a low, guttural grunt from you both.
“Fuck—tight—” you groan, feeling her clench around the tip like a vise.
She sobs into the pillow. “More—give me more—”
You grab on to your cock and push further—
Her phone explodes on the nightstand.
The ringtone is sharp and piercing, the one she set for her boss and key clients.
She freezes.
You freeze.
The ring keeps going on relentlessly.
“Pay it no mind…” she says, “Focus on me. Fuck my ass please.”
“Y-you sure?”
“Shut up and fuck me please…” Minju begs.
You disregard the ringing and push further in, spreading her ass wide open. You're about two inches in now, and it's proving extremely difficult to go further.
“Fuck Minju, your’re so goddamn ti—”
Her phone rings again.
Minju’s breath hitches and she glances at the screen, eyes widening in panic and disappointment.
“I… I have to—”
She reaches for it, hand trembling.
You pull back immediately, sitting on your heels, cock still throbbing, tip slick and aching.
She answers on the fourth ring, voice shifting to crisp professionalism even as her ass is still lifted, pussy dripping onto the sheets.
“Yes, sir? What’s happening?”
You watch her face crumple, brows furrowing, lips pressing thin. “Truffle contamination… yes, the entire batch… no, they can’t wait until Monday… okay, I’ll be there in thirty. I’m leaving now.”
She hangs up. Eyes already wet with guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, scrambling to sit up, pulling the sheet around herself. “It’s the new product launch. There's an issue with one of the key raw materials needed. You know, the truffle oil? If we don’t fix it before tomorrow’s review—”
She doesn’t finish.
You nod, throat tight. “Go. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” Her voice cracks. “You haven't cummed at all… I'm so sorry…” She looks at your throbbing hard cock, reaching forward to grab it. “Maybe I can suck you off until you cum then go?”
You hold on to her hand and shake your head. “I'm alright, go.”
She looks at you apologetically, before leaning forward to kiss you hard. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll finish this. I promise.”
You force a small smile.
She washes up and dresses in record time, slipping on yesterday’s skirt, a fresh blouse and ties her hair back.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
She sprints out of the room and the main door closes.
Silence crashes in.
You sit on the edge of the bed, cock still hard, throbbing painfully. You wrap your hand around it, giving it slow strokes trying to chase the edge she left you on. The memory of her bouncing, tits jiggling, ass clenching under your palms, her begging for your cock in her ass. It's all still vivid, still burning.
But the disappointment is heavier than the arousal. Your mind replays her face turns into guilt and panic when the phone rang, the way she shifted from “fuck my ass” to “I have to go” in seconds.
Your strokes slow down and your cock softens in your hand.
You stop.
You stare at the ajar door. You stand and walk to the bathroom, turning on the shower. The ice cold water hits your skin like needles, but it doesn’t wash away the ache. You lean your forehead against the tile, eyes closed, and let the water run until your fingers shrivel and your breathing steadies.
Tomorrow.
You tell yourself it will be different.
You tell yourself she’ll keep the promise.
You tell yourself the work-life balance she barely got back isn’t already slipping through her fingers again.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
But deep down, in the quiet part of your chest that remembers every "tomorrow" that never came before, you know.
Tomorrow.
The word tastes bitter now.
***
The rest of Sunday passes in a strange, suspended quiet. You spend it alone in the apartment, cleaning up the soaked sheets, making coffee that you don’t finish, staring at the empty side of the bed where Minju should be curled against you. The cold shower earlier helped nothing, the ache lingering in your chest more than your groin. You check your phone every half-hour, half-expecting a text saying “I’m coming home early after all.” Nothing comes.
She messages once in late afternoon:
<Min Min ❤️, 3.17 p.m.> Still fixing things. Might be late. I’m sorry. Love you. Tomorrow we’ll make up for today. Promise.
You reply: Love you too. Be safe.
You don’t add the question mark that’s already forming in your mind.
By the time she's back home, it's already close to midnight. You feel her tap onto your shoulders, rousing you awake on the couch in the living room where you slipped into dreamland while waiting for her the whole day.
“Hey honey, I'm sorry for being so late… things were worse than I thought but everything's settled now,” she mumbles apologetically, eyes sunk from the exhaustion of the day. “You want to have sex right now? I’ll make it up to—”
“Minju, did you eat anything at all the entire day?” You cut her off, voice filled with genuine concern.
“I-I did, honey,” she replies, “Sex?”
“Minju.” You stand up and face her, grabbing on to her soft hands. “It's alright. I'm okay, you're tired, so get some rest for tomorrow.”
“Besides, I jerked off after you left,” you lie with a straight face.
Pulling her in for a soft kiss on her trembling lips, you gently guide her into the room. “Go shower up, I’ll wait for you in bed.”
She looks at you with sadness and thankfulness mixed in a perfect ratio of 50:50, before turning to walk to the bathroom.
—Monday evening—
Minju comes home at 7:18 p.m. She's still on time, still trying. She drops her bag, kicks off her heels, and crosses the living room to you on the couch without a word. Her kiss is immediate, hungry, hands already tugging at your shirt as she straddles your lap.
“I missed you,” she murmurs against your mouth, grinding down until she feels you harden beneath her. “All day I kept thinking about yesterday… about how we almost…”
No panties again. “I took them off in office…” she says. She's already wet, her juices coating your fingers when you slide them under her skirt. She moans softly into your neck, rocking against your hand.
“Fuck me,” she whispers. “Right here. Make me forget work.”
You push her skirt up, pull your pants down just far enough, and she sinks onto you with a long, relieved sigh. She rides you fast, desperate, and needy, her tits bouncing under her blouse, nipples visible through the thin fabric. Her moans are quieter than yesterday, more restrained, but still filled with guilt and want.
“Cum inside me,” she pants, nails digging into your shoulders. “Fill me up—please—”
Pent up from the disappointment yesterday, your orgasm approaches fast and you cum hard and deep, groaning into her neck as you spill. She clenches around you, cumming with a soft cry.
Afterward she stays on your lap, forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“Tomorrow,” she says quietly. “Tomorrow I'll leave it in the other room. No phone. Just us.”
You kiss her. “Tomorrow.”
She goes to shower. You hear the water start.
You sit there, still inside your pants, feeling the warmth of her on your skin, and you tell yourself it's still okay.
Tuesday she comes home at 7:22 p.m. She tries, kissing you deeply in the hallway, hands sliding under your shirt, but her phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores the first, but the second makes her tense.
“Five minutes,” she promises, stepping into the study.
It’s twenty-five.
When she returns, she’s apologetic, kisses you again and drops to her knees. Her mouth is warm and eager, her tongue swirling round your tip and cheeks hollowing with every bob. She takes you in, gagging softly, eyes watering as she looks up at you.
“Cum in my throat,” she murmurs around your cock. “Let me taste you.”
She bobs as fast as she can, almost as if she’s trying to rush it. Again. You’re so desperate for her love that you shatter unbelievably quick, cumming fast and hard, spilling down her throat while she swallows greedily. She pulls off with a wet pop, licks her lips, smiles tiredly.
You stroke her hair and mumble. “Minju… do you ever think about kids?”
She tenses slightly, but you feel it.
“Of course I do,” she whispers after a long pause. “I want them. With you. I picture it sometimes… little feet running around, weekends at the aquarium, teaching them how to make dumplings.”
Her voice softens and it's wistful, almost sad. “But… not now. I'm too busy. The launch is make-or-break. If I step back even a little, everything could fall apart. Maybe after the next quarter. Or the one after that. Tomorrow we'll be in a better place for it… I promise.”
She kisses your collarbone, like she's trying to seal the promise with her lips.
Wednesday morning she wakes you with soft kisses down your stomach, tongue flicking your tip, trying to recreate Sunday’s tease. But her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She pauses, checks it, sighs.
“Work,” she murmurs. “I’ll finish tonight. Promise.”
Tonight she comes home at 9:35 p.m., late for the first time since the week off. She’s exhausted and her eyes are red-rimmed, voice hoarse. She tries to initiate on the couch, straddling you, grinding slowly, but midway through undressing her, she yawns.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, burying her face in your neck. “I’m so tired… tomorrow?”
You hug her tight. “Tomorrow.”
Thursday there is no attempt. She comes home at 10.44 p.m., collapses beside you on the couch, head in your lap.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Tomorrow I’ll be better. I promise.”
Friday she comes home at 7:05 p.m., on time, but she falls asleep on the couch mid-conversation, phone still in her hand. You carry her to bed, tuck her in, and lie awake beside her, staring at the ceiling.
No sex.
No morning touches.
Just the soft glow under the study door each night, the quiet click of keys, and the growing space between you that no amount of “tomorrows” can close.
To ease her burden — perhaps to stay close even if only from across a crowded room — you volunteer as staff for the subsequent weekend events. The team lead is grateful as they’re short-handed, and your familiarity with the venues makes you useful. You tell yourself it’s to lighten her load. Really, it’s fear. Fear that if you’re not there, the drift will become permanent.
The second event is a tad bit smaller. Same rooftop, fewer suits, more casual chatter. You arrive early in your staff polo, badge clipped, running through setup: table placements, sound checks, making sure the promo banners for the dumpling line don’t tip in the breeze. Kim Minju is still in charge, navy blazer and trousers, hair in a low ponytail, wading through the crowd smoothly like she always does. She catches your eye and offers a small, tired smile that carries the ghost of the week away. You nod back, heart squeezing.
But Park Minju is there too.
She’s in pink again with the same soft cropped top, short skirt and high pigtails tied with ribbons, arms full of promo bags. She doesn’t approach at first. She just watches you by the side, glancing at you with slightly longer gazes across tables, over shoulders, beside the bar. When your eyes meet, she smiles innocently, but her gaze lingers on your face, as though she sees the sadness you can’t quite hide, like she's measuring the distance between you and your wife. You look away, heart kicking in a way that feels wrong.
She brushes past you later, handing out flyers, her arm grazing yours deliberately. “Long night?” she asks softly, voice light but eyes searching.
You nod. “Long week,” you mutter politely.
She smiles again and walks away in the same playful manner as last week, pigtails swaying, hips moving just enough to draw your eye.
No. You can't. You force your gaze back to Kim Minju across the room who's still working, still tired, still yours.
But the sadness is starting to show. Your colleagues ask if you’re okay and you smile, saying you’re just tired. But when you look towards your wife, the ache leaks through, impossible to mask.
At home that night, Kim Minju falls asleep on the couch mid-conversation again. You carry her to bed, tuck her in, and lie awake beside her, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow she’ll come home early.
Tomorrow you’ll talk about it.
Tomorrow the weekends will stay ours.
But tomorrow feels further away than it did a week ago.
And somewhere in the quiet, the word starts to sound like a question.
***
The third weekend event arrives faster than you expect, but the weight of the past week has already settled deep in your bones.
Minju's busyness hasn't slowed. If anything, it accelerated through the days since the second Saturday event. She leaves earlier each morning, comes home later each night, her promises of “tomorrow” growing quieter, more automatic, like a script she's reciting to keep herself going. You watch her rush out the door with coffee in one hand and phone in the other, hear the soft click of the lock behind her, and feel the apartment expand around you. You've stopped expecting her to keep the full-day promise from Sunday. You've resigned yourself to it, the way you resign yourself to winter coming after autumn. It's not a surprise anymore, just a fact. She'll stay busy. She always does. And you'll keep waiting, because what else is there to do?
You volunteer as staff again this weekend. The team lead is grateful; they’re perpetually short-handed and occupied — just like your wife — and your familiarity with the venues makes you indispensable. You tell yourself it's to lighten her load, to be useful in the only way left to you. Really, it's to feel less like a stranger in her life, to be near her even if it's only across a crowded room, even if she barely has any time now to even glance your way.
The rooftop is busier tonight with more sponsors, more photographers, and more pressure on Kim Minju to smile perfectly and shake every hand. You arrive early in your staff polo, running through the usual checklist again.
Today Kim Minju is everywhere at once, and once again, she's here and there and everywhere, and she's so busy that she doesn't even look at you or even spare you a glance.
Your heart squeezes tight. Yesterday she came home at 11:44 p.m. and collapsed right on the couch without showering. Just the soft glow of her phone screen lighting her face. You're heartbroken, worried that her body will give up. But you're also heartbroken from her choice of work over you.
You constantly ask yourself the same questions: Why does your wife keep choosing work? Was money not enough? Is it for a better life? Were you not ambitious enough?
You can't put your head around the choices she makes. Sure, you aren't earning as much as her who's one of the most important figures in her workplace, but you're still drawing a sizable salary of 100 million won annually. Combined with her salary, you're both considered in the upper percentile of society in terms of financial standards. You can't think of a plausible reason.
Park Minju is there too, in the same outfit like the last two weeks. She doesn't approach you immediately, like the last two weeks. She just watches, giving long glances like the last two weeks, giving small smiles when your eyes meet across the crowd like the last two weeks. At one point she brushes past you while handing out flyers, her arm grazing yours deliberately again. Just like the last two weeks. Why are you even paying attention to how Park Minju is acting?
“Busy night?” she asks softly, but her eyes search your face like she already knows the answer. You mutter something polite and turn away, trying to stop any further development with her.
The event drags on. Minju works the room until the last guest leaves, and you stay late, handling the cleanup, stacking chairs, coiling cables, gathering stray programs. Your face must show it; a colleague claps your shoulder. “You okay? You've been quiet.”
You force a smile and say the same thing again. “Just tired.”
When the venue empties, you’re near the exit gathering the last of the promo materials when you feel her before you see her.
It's a light touch on your elbow.
You turn.
Park Minju stands there in the dimmed lighting, hair a little mussed from the night. In her hand is a tall glass of orange juice over ice. She holds it out without speaking.
You take it. Beneath the glass, tucked against the base, is her name card. Matte black base, gold lettering. Park Minju. Junior Manager, Product Development.
On the reverse, in neat, slanted handwriting:
Text me when tomorrow feels too far away — Dumpling ❤️
She watches your face as you read it. There's no smirk. No teasing arch of her brow. Just still and steady eyes that look as weary as yours feel. But they feel warmer and hungrier, like she’s already decided to step into the space your wife is leaving empty.
Then she leans in until her breath warms your ear. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she murmurs. “And I’m free all day.”
She doesn’t wait for your reply and just tiptoes to press the lightest kiss to the corner of your mouth before turning and walking towards the elevators with that calm, measured stride, pigtails swaying as she leaves.
You stand there holding the drink and the card, condensation cool against your palm, chest loosening for the first time in weeks. But it's not from relief, it feels sharper and dangerous. Your guilt spikes immediately, and it feels hot and nauseating.
You snap your head to the left and right, trying to search for your wife, but you don’t see her. Then you spot her. Minju is in a quiet corner of the venue, thanking the last vendor, right before they leave. She hasn't seen any of this. She glances your way from across the room as the venue empties, offering a small, weary smile before turning back to finish up her work.
You steady yourself and down the entire glass of orange juice to calm yourself, but your heart doesn't stop thumping.
The party is over. The venue is emptying. But something small and uninvited has just cracked open under your ribs.
You should throw it away, but the next thing you know, you slip the card into your wallet and stuff it into your pants, the weight of it suddenly heavier than the glass, and head for the exit with the question burning behind your ribs:
What happens when tomorrow finally arrives, and it's not the tomorrow you and your wife promised each other?
The drive home is silent. The city lights blur past the window. Minju is already asleep when you get in — she must have left earlier and slipped into bed without waiting. You wash up and slide in beside her carefully, not wanting to wake her. She shifts, murmurs something soft in her sleep and curls toward you.
You stare at the ceiling.
The card is still in your wallet.
You don't take it out.
Not yet.
***
It's Thursday night and you’re alone again. Minju texted around 8 p.m.
<Min Min ❤️, 8.24 p.m.> Still at the office. There's another issue this time. Packaging quality defects. Home late. Love you. Tomorrow we'll talk.
You reply: Love you too. Be safe.
You sit on the couch, phone in hand, staring at the card on the coffee table. You took it out earlier, turned it over, read the handwriting again. Dumpling ❤️. The card is slightly crumpled now. You lost count of how many times you pulled it out of the wallet over the past few days, twirling and flipping the card back and forth, reading the words over and over again. The little heart looks innocent. The words feel like an invitation.
You tell yourself you're not going to text.
You tell yourself you're going to wait for Minju.
You tell yourself tomorrow she'll be home early, like she promised.
But the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Maybe you’ll just have a quick chat.
You pick up the card.
Your thumb hovers over your phone screen.
One message. Just to see what she says. Just to know someone is thinking about you tonight.
You type nothing.
You set the card down.
You go to bed alone.
Sleep doesn't come easily.
Friday morning arrives without her. You wake to an empty bed, the sun rays sifting through the curtains, gracing the side where she should be cool and untouched. There's a note on the pillow: Had to go in early. The issue still hasn't been solved. Be back home tonight. Love you. Tomorrow we'll make it right.
You stare at the note gaze burning into it. Tomorrow. The same tomorrow she promised for kids, for weekends, for everything.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
The word tastes like bittergourd juice now.
You spend the day alone, eating breakfast alone, working without any updates from Minju despite you texting her, staring at the card that nests in your wallet. You don't text her. You don't text Dumpling.
You crush the card and throw it in the bin.
You volunteer for the next event again. The team lead is grateful. You tell yourself again that it's to help Minju.
But your heart tells you again that it's to feel less alone.
***
A month has passed since she took the week off and the fifth event today is the largest yet, happening over two days. It's the first day today — Friday, you took leave from work just to help out — and there are twice as many people, and an exponential increase in pressure. Minju is stretched thin, snapping at disorganised staff out of frustration, then apologizing immediately in guilt.
Park Minju is everywhere for everyone. Everyone except for you.
She doesn't approach you until the last guests leave, after cleanup starts. You’re near the storage room sweeping up bits of food samples that dropped onto the floor when Dumpling approaches you.
She holds her hand out and you take the thing from her without even looking at it. She smiles sultrily(?) at you before turning to leave.
You look at your hands. In it is another name card. The same matte black base, the same gold lettering. The same words are etched on the card: Park Minju. Junior Manager, Product Development.
On the reverse, is the same neat, slanted handwriting that you’ve seen many times over the countless times you twirl and flip the card which you crushed and threw away. But this time, the words are different:
I’m free tomorrow night after the event. Storage room. — Dumpling ❤️
You should crush the card again. But you don't. You keep it in your wallet again and go home , sleeping on your bed with your wife beside you. You try to sleep, but the only thing in your mind is Park Minju’s words.
The morning arrives and you've barely slept. It's the second day of the event, and you've both been busy the entire day. Night time finally comes and the crowd surges instead of thinning, and Minju is still in the venue somewhere, thanking vendors, reviewing notes.
The event night passes in a blur, and everything is mostly tidied and cleared up. Minju came to you about twenty minutes ago, kissing you on the cheek saying: “I’ll head home first. I have to get back here tomorrow to prepare for Monday’s workstuff. See you at home.” You nod and hug her back.
She hasn't seen the card in your wallet. She hasn't seen your interactions with Park Minju.
But she also hasn't kept her promises of tomorrow. She hasn't chosen you over work. And she doesn't know the lonely void in your heart.
11.48 p.m. It’s almost midnight, and the place is tidied and empty. Everyone has already left.
You pull out the card in your wallet, staring at the neat, slanted handwriting again.
The storage room door is ajar.
You gulp and look up into the night sky, look down at the ring on your finger. Just a chat, you tell yourself. You move towards the storage room.
Park Minju is inside, waiting.
The door closes behind you.
The room is dim, lit only by a single overhead bulb. Boxes of promo materials line the walls, and the air smells of cardboard and her perfume. Park Minju is sitting on a messy table.
Her eyes light up as she sees you entering the room.
“You came,” she says softly.
You don't answer.
She hops off the table with easy grace and steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, smell the faint trace of her perfume wrapping around you.
“I saw you tonight,” she murmurs, tilting her head so one pigtail falls forward. “Running around in that polo, helping everyone… helping her. Always helping her. Always waiting for her to notice you’re there.”
She takes another step. Close enough now that her breath brushes your collar.
“But she didn’t, did she?” Her voice softens. “She kissed your cheek, said ‘see you at home,’ and left you here. Again. Like every other night. Like you’re just… part of the background.”
The words land like quiet punches. You flinch a little, but she sees it.
She reaches out and points at you, fingertip grazing the front of your polo, right over your heart. You feel it kick under her touch.
“I’ve been watching you for weeks,” she whispers. “Every event. Every time she smiles at you across the room and then turns back to the next sponsor, the next call, the next crisis. Every time your face falls a little more. Every time you look lonelier.”
Her finger trails up, brushing your jaw, and her thumb rests lightly against your lower lip. “You’re starving,” she says. “Not just for sex. For someone to see you. To want you. To stay.”
She leans in, lips hovering a breath from yours.
“I see you.”
Her thumb presses insistently on your lips, parting your mouth just enough.
“I want you.”
She presses her lips on yours, kissing you with slow, exploratory movements of her tongue, slipping past your lips like she’s tasting the guilt, the loneliness, the ache. You don’t pull away.
“I’ll stay for you,” she whispers as she breaks the kiss. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you’re going home to her. Tell me you’re going to wait for tomorrow that never comes.”
You don’t.
She smiles against your mouth. “Then let me give you tomorrow tonight.”
She drops to her knees.
The concrete floor is cold beneath her, but she doesn’t flinch. Her eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, staring at you, peering straight into your soul. Your palms sweat at her advances, but you stay rooted to the ground. Her cheeks raise slightly as she looks at you with a dark smirk, her small hands reaching for your belt.
She unbuckles it slowly, taking her time, letting the metal clinks echo throughout the quiet storage room. She pulls out the unbuckled belt, coiling and gently putting it to the side.
She presses her nose right against the bulge in your boxers and inhales deeply, eyes fluttering closed like she’s savoring wine. “Ahhh… you smell like… loneliness,” she purrs, before pinching the zipper with her fingers, pulling it down in a slow, teasing drag.
Your bulged boxers protrude out of the unzipped pants where the zipper parts, where a dark spot already formed. She sticks her palm onto you, giving it a soft rub, making you twitch. “Oh… you feel like… neglect”
Her fingers hook onto the hem of your pants and boxers, and she yanks them down in one sharp tug. Your cock springs free at the sudden exposure, hard and heavy, slapping against her small face with a loud, piercing slap.
She gasps with delight from the impact, then giggling with anticipation, flushed cheek pressing against your throbbing shaft. You shiver at the contact — the heat of her skin, the softness of her face, the way her breath ghosts over you… it’s almost too much.
She looks upwards at your tip where a bead of pre-cum beading out of your slit, darting her tongue out to lap at the bead of pre-cum, humming as it coats her tongue. “Mmm… and you taste like… desperation.”
“Look at you,” she whispers, inching forward so your length rests across her lips. “So hard already… just from me talking to you. Just from knowing that someone actually wants you not tomorrow but tonight.”
She kisses the underside of the head with her soft lips, opening her mouth to flick her tongue. She traces the thick veins across your shaft from base to tip, before peppering your cock with kisses, from your balls right to your head. You groan as she wraps her soft lips around your head for a brief, teasing suck, before pulling off with a wet pop.
“You’ve been so lonely, haven’t you?” she murmurs sweetly. “Waiting for Minju to come home. Waiting for Minju to look at you the way I’m looking at you right now. Waiting for Minju to choose you over work. Over everything.”
She gives you another long, slow lick from base to tip, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m different,” she says. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Anywhere. Anytime. No calls, no excuses, no ‘tomorrow.’ Just you… and me… and this cock that’s been aching for someone to actually worship it.”
“Don’t say her name,” you growl, warning her.
She smiles wickedly, delighted by your reaction. “Why?” she taunts, tongue flicking the slit, collecting more beads of pre-cum and swallowing it with an exaggerated moan. “Scared of feeling guilty? Scared it’ll make this real? Scared you’ll realize how much you’ve been starving while Minju’s been too busy to feed you?”
She takes you into her mouth again, going deeper than the tip this time, cheeks hollowing, throat relaxing as she pushes you past her gag reflex. Spit drips down your shaft in thick strands as she holds it there, her eyes watering as she tries to stretch her narrow throat around you. She pulls off with a gasp.
“My name is Minju too,” she chokes, saliva spluttering as her lips brushes the head, voice dripping with a mock sweetness. “You can just treat me like your wife. I’ll be the wife who actually stays. The wife who doesn’t leave you waiting. The wife who lets you fuck her throat whenever you need it. The wife who lets you breed her whenever you want.”
Your hands grip tight at your sides. Her words cut deeper than you expect, each one naming the exact ache you’ve been carrying for weeks.
“Don’t—” you growl again, but it's shaky now. “Don’t fucking say her name.”
She giggles cruelly and kisses the tip again. “Why not? Because it hurts? Because you know I’m right? Because you know Minju hasn’t touched you like this in weeks? Because you know Minju would never let you fuck her mouth until she cries? Because you know Minju would never beg for your cum in her ass?”
She parts her mouth around your cock and takes you deeper again. Her throat opens wider, and she gags softly as she forces herself all the way down, pressing her nose into your pelvis. You don't want to admit it, but she's intentionally forcing you deeper than your wife usually would. She holds herself right there, throat convulsing around you, spit bubbling from her lips, eyes watering but never breaking contact. Each ripple of her throat walls around your cock sends tingles up your spine, and the way her eyes tear continuously makes your heart beat faster. She pulls off slowly, sliding your cock inch by inch out of her mouth, until you're all out, until strings of thick saliva connect her swollen lips to your cock.
“I’ll be your dumping ground,” she rasps. “I’ll let you dump all that loneliness, all that anger, all that cum inside me. Whenever you want. Wherever you want. No ‘tomorrow.’ No ‘maybe.’ Just ‘yes’. Just ‘now’. Just ‘me’.”
Your breathing is ragged now, chest heaving. Guilt wells up in you from her mouth around you, but it's drowning under the weight of her words, under the way she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters.
“Don’t,” you growl again, but it's quieter this time.
She smiles wider. “Make me.”
You snap.
You grab both of her pigtails firmly and yank her forward, gagging her hard as you shove your cock all the way down her throat, balls pressing against her chin. Her eyes water instantly, mascara already starting to streak, but she doesn’t pull back. She moans around you, muffled and garbled, hands gripping your thighs like she’s anchoring herself.
You fuck her mouth violently, hips snapping forward, yanking her head onto you as you wrap her pigtails tight around your fists. “Stupid fucking mouth, I told you to not speak her name,” you growl, pulling her hair hard. “Can't speak now, huh?” Saliva explodes from the corners of her lips with every thrust, thick strings dripping down her chin, splattering onto her chest, onto the floor.
“Gluck-gluck-gluck,” she garbles out continuously, the wet and obscene sounds echoing off the boxes around.
She’s crying, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she’s smiling through it, giving satisfied, smug little smirks every time you pull back far enough for her to gasp for air. Her tongue never stops as you abuse her face, swirling, pressing, milking you even as she chokes.
You yank harder on her pigtails, pulling her all the way down again. Her nose presses into your pelvis. She gurgles, throat convulsing around you, spit bubbling out, running down your balls. “Stupid fucking girl—” you growl. “Don’t—don’t fucking say her name.”
She pushes your thighs and pulls off just enough to gasp. Her spit hangs in thick strands from her lips to your cock. “Is that the only thing you can say? Can't find any other valid reason to shut me up, huh?” She taunts as she gathers another pool of saliva and spits on your cock.
“Then make me stop talking,” she rasps breathlessly. “Fuck my throat harder. Make me choke on it. Show me how much you’ve been holding back while she’s been too busy to swallow you.”
You snap again.
You shove her head down deeper, harder, and faster. Pigtails pulled tight like reins. Her throat is probably bulging visibly with every thrust — a pity you can't see it. She gags violently, tears pouring freely now, mascara ruined in black streaks down her cheeks, but her eyes stay locked on yours — wide, wet, defiant, delighted. Saliva sprays everywhere, dripping down her chin, splattering over the fabric covering her chest, pooling on the floor between her knees.
“Gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck,” her relentless, unceasing, filthy, wet sounds fill the entire storage room. She coughs splurts of saliva out from her nose as you fuck her throat, and she's shaking, thighs trembling, but she doesn’t stop sucking. Doesn’t stop moaning around you. Doesn’t stop smiling through the tears.
You sense her hand slip between her legs, rubbing her clit frantically while she gets off the feeling of your cock ravaging her throat, trying to reach her high. Her own hands find a rhythm, but it's the same rhythm as the beat at which your cock is disappearing and reappearing past her lips.
“Fucking throat slut,” you grunt, pumping non-stop. “Look at you, being such a whore for my cock. Can't rebuke me now, huh?”
She moans at your insults, rubbing even harder and faster, until she cums hard. Her screams muffle around your cock, sending vibrations that shoot into your balls. Her body jerks violently as fresh slick soaks her fingers and drips onto the concrete below.
You keep fucking her throat through her orgasm, hips snapping, pigtails yanking, spit flying in thick ropes everywhere with every brutal thrust.
She’s a complete piece of art, mascara-streaked face flushed and wrecked, chin glossy and dripping, throat raw and bulging, but she’s still smiling. Still taunting with her eyes. Still taking every inch like she was made for it.
You pull her off your slick and throbbing cock, the strings of thick spit hanging between you and her ruined mouth. She kneels there, gasping for air, coughing, drooling, but the smirk never leaves her face.
She gasps for air, coughing and drooling, but she’s smiling wide. “More,” she rasps. “Give me everything.”
You kneel down and grab onto her shoulders and turn her roughly, flipping her upside down onto you as you lay on the ground. Her head hovers over your length, skirt bunched at her waist, and her soaked panties are emanating heat and musk right into your face. You grab on to her skirt and yank it off, tugging her panties to the side with a sharp rip, exposing her dripping pussy that's pink and swollen, its clit throbbing.
You bury your face between her thighs without hesitation. Tongue plunging into her wet heat, lapping at her folds, sucking hard on her clit. She tastes so sweet and slightly salty, slick coating your tongue, dripping down your chin. You eat her like you’re starving, tongue flicking relentlessly, lips sealing around her clit, sucking until her hips buck against your face.
She moans loudly and immediately takes you back into her mouth, stuffing your cock in, throat open wider than before, taking you deeper than before. Her lips stretch wide around your cock, cheeks hollowing as she sucks.
Both her pigtails hang vertically to the ground and you grab them again, wrapping them tight around your fists, and yank her head down while you eat her out. Your cock stuffs her throat completely, sending explosions of saliva from her lips with every pull.
Your cock bends towards her throat with every plunge, the glucking and gurgling sounds vibrating obscenely around you, making your balls tighten. She’s thrashing like she's having a seizure, hips bucking against your face, pussy grinding on your tongue. You suck her clit hard, tongue flicking relentlessly, heavy with intention to make her mind break.
Her hands flail helplessly at the side, trying to grab hold onto anything for support, but there's nothing. Instead, she can only submit to your yanks that continuously stuff her throat onto your cock.
She reaches her hands towards her choking face and wipes the filth that's obscuring her eyes, but you reciprocate by pulling down even harder, stuffing even deeper into her face, and a fresh wave of tears burst out of her eyes.
Every oscillation of your tongue on her pussy causes her to shake and tremble even more, and her orgasm builds with every passing second. The next thing you know, she's cumming violently, squirting all over your face, spraying hot slick onto your chin, your neck, every drop of her juices dripping down your chest.
She tries to scream, but it is muffled around your cock as her thighs clamp around your head. You keep licking through it all, tasting her release, feeling her tremble. Endless amounts of slick floods your mouth, running down your jaw, soaking into the collar of your polo shirt.
She’s still sucking sloppily — wait you're the one who's tugging her head on your cock, gagging her even as she shakes from her orgasm. Her throat convulses around your cock, spit bubbling out, running down your balls.
You yank harder on her pigtails, pulling her head down until her nose presses into your pelvis again. She gurgles, chokes, saliva bursting in thick ropes from her lips, splattering onto her face, her hair, the floor.
Her small face is not smooth like porcelain anymore. It's utterly filled with her slimy, bubbly and glossy saliva that’s slathered all over her entire face. You loosen your grip a little, allowing her to catch a quick gasp, spit hanging in thick strands from her lips to your cock.
“Fuck—” she rasps, voice totally wrecked. “You taste so good… bet my throat feels so good huh? Taking you deeper and better than Minju would ever make you feel.”
“Shut up—” you growl, voice shaking.
She giggles and takes you back in, and you do the same, forcing every inch up into her throat. You thrust your hips up as you pull her down, fucking your cock into her throat, snapping your hips continuously.
You keep fucking her throat — hips snapping, pigtails yanking, spit flying in thick ropes with every brutal thrust. Gluck-gluck-gluck — the sounds are obscene, echoing off the boxes, filling the room.
You feel her hand slip between her legs again, rubbing her clit frantically right in front of your face, and she cums again, body jerking violently as fresh slick sprays your face again. She’s still sucking, gagging herself on you even as she shakes from her second orgasm.
You’re close, dangerously close. “I’m going to fucking cum—” you announce as your balls tight, cock throbbing, the first pulse building in your base. Your hips goes into overdrive, slamming up into her throat pussy and you roar, exploding into her. Waves after waves of pent up cum surge into her mouth as she gags and chokes, her throat greedily gulping and swallowing every drop. But even so, you're spilling so much that your cum bursts and leaks out from her nostrils, dribbling down past her mouth and chin, flowing onto your balls below.
As your orgasm wanes, you pull her off to the side, looking at her. She turns to face you with her saliva and cum streaked face, coughing, drooling, gasping for air. Black smudges of mascara spread across her cheekbones, and her face is flushed and wrecked.
Park Minju looks at you with a wide, satisfied and victorious smile, tongue sticking out to lick up all the cum that she couldn't swallow.
“More,” she gasps. “Give me everything.”
You don’t answer with words. You stand and pull her pigtails, hauling her up, spinning her around until her back slams against the nearest stack of boxes. The cardboard weakens a little under her small weight as her body hits it. She gasps, legs instinctively wrapping around your waist as you lift her off the ground, thighs clamping tight around your hips.
One hand clamping under her right thigh, you yank it high over your shoulder. Her body twists sideways and her pussy spreads wide open, pink and swollen, slick dripping down her inner thigh in slow, glistening trails. Her left leg plants onto the ground hooked for balance, toes curling in anticipation. The acrobatic pose is bizarre, but she handles it with ease. Her cunt is exposed completely, swollen lips parted, clit throbbing visibly, entrance fluttering like it’s begging to be filled again.
You don’t ease in. You grab on to your cock and line up, thrusting hard and deep, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
Her pussy feels unbelievably tight and hot as you pierce her, causing her to cry out sharply as her head snaps back against the boxes. Her pussy clamps down instantly, walls fluttering around you like she’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to suck you in. Her slick coats your cock instantly, dripping down your balls, splattering onto the floor below.
“Fuck—yes—” she moans, voice already hoarse and wrecked from the throat-fucking. “Look how wide I open for you… Minju never spreads like this, does she? Never lets you see her pussy this desperate, this hungry… never lets you fuck her sideways like a slut who needs it.”
You growl, hips snapping forward. Each thrust into her is punishing and relentless, driving her pliable body into the cardboard with soft thuds. Her small perky tits bounce wildly under the cropped top, pointed hard nipples straining against the fabric. Her leg over your shoulder trembles with every slam and her thigh muscles flexes, toes curling as she takes every inch. Sweat beads on her skin, glistening in the dim bulb light, dripping down her neck, between her breasts.
“Shut up,” you rasp, voice raw and shaking. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” she taunts breathlessly, eyes glassy with pleasure and defiance. “Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t tell you that Minju’s been too busy to fuck you properly? Don’t tell you that Minju hasn’t let you cum inside her like this in weeks? Don’t tell you that Minju would never let you lift her leg like this, spread her wide, fuck her like she’s nothing but a hole for you?”
She eggs you on and you thrust harder, slamming into her, feeling her cervix with every stroke. Her pussy squelches greedily, wet slaps filling the room amidst her small yelps and moans. Her body rocks with every impact, tits bouncing so violently despite being small.
She giggles even as she moans. “My name is Minju. I’ll be your Dumpy. I’ll be your dumping ground,” she gasps between thrusts. “Dump all that frustration in me. Dump all that cum in me. Dump everything she won’t take. I’ll take it all…”
A sickening guilt stabs through you, but your hips don’t stop. You think of Minju at home right now, probably asleep on the couch again, phone clutched like a lifeline. You think of the note on the pillow this morning. You think of the conversation about kids, her wistful “I want them… but not now,” the promise of “tomorrow” that never arrives. You think of the ring on your finger, heavy and burning.
You thrust harder channeling and dumping your anger into her like you're trying to fuck your guilt away. You're angry at her, angry at yourself, but you can't stop slamming into Dumpy’s spread pussy..
She cums suddenly again, pussy clamping down so hard you see stars. Her scream echoes off the walls, body shaking, slick gushing around your cock. Her leg over your shoulder trembles, toes curling tight, nails digging into your shoulders hard enough to leave marks, but you don’t stop.
You keep pounding and grinding against her clit with every stroke until she cums again and again, hammering into her until her back arches against the boxes, head thrown back, crying out your name like a prayer.
“Fill your Dumpy,” she begs, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Breed Dumpy’s pussy—give Dumpy what she won’t let you give—cum inside Dumpy—Dumpy is all yours—”
You bury yourself deep and cum again, groaning into her neck as you spill inside her, pulse after pulse painting her walls. She milks you as you unload, taking every drop, until her slick and your cum mixes, leaking out around your cock, dripping down her thighs in thick, white strands.
You stay inside her for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick skin pressed together, hearts hammering against each other before pulling out slowly.
Cum leaks from her pussy as you unplug from her. It's thick and white, dripping down her thigh, pooling on the floor below.
She looks down at it, then up at you, smiling wickedly.
“Fuck me more,” she whispers.
You flip her around roughly, bending her over a low table. Her hands brace against the edge and you grab her hips, lifting her ass high, presented like an offering.
She gasps delightedly as you spread her cheeks wide. Her ass is perfectly firm and tight, slick from earlier spit and cum. You spit on her rim, rub it in with your thumb, then line up your cock that's still hard and leaking.
You press forward slowly, pushing the head, popping past her tight ring with a low grunt from both of you.
“Fuck—tight—” you groan, feeling her clench around you like fire.
She sobs with half pain and half pleasure, but she pushes back onto you. “More—give me all of it—breed my ass—”
You thrust deeper carefully, breaching her ass inch by inch until you’re fully seated, balls pressed against her pussy. Grip tightening around her hip, you lift her entire lower body off the ground. Her legs dangle helplessly and feet kicking uselessly in the air as you hoist her like a doll.
You grip her hips harder, fingers digging into soft flesh and start to move. You start slow, pulling and pushing into her with long, deep strokes that feel her ass grip every inch.
“Fuck—you’re stretching Dumpy so wide—so deep—”
You grunt a response and move faster and harder, pounding into her, lifting her higher with every thrust. Her body rocks forward with every plunge, small tits jiggling cutely, pigtails bouncing wildly. Her legs dangle helplessly, feet kicking with each impact, toes curling and uncurling.
“Fuck—yes—breed your Dumpy—” she cries. “Fill my ass—give Dumpy what Minju never let you have—”
Guilt crashes in again. You think of Minju’s “maybe… maybe I’ll try anal” promise. You think of her asleep at home, trusting you. You think of the vows you made when you kissed her in front of the wedding officiant.
You thrust even harder into Dumpy, trying to drown it out but she fucks with your mind as she laughs and giggles even while she sobs.
“She never let you, did she?” she taunts. “Too busy. Too tired. Too ‘tomorrow.’ But I will. I’ll let you breed my ass whenever you want. I’ll be your dumping ground. Dump everything in me. Loneliness. Anger. Cum. Everything she won’t take.”
You growl and slam into her animalistically. Her ass ripples with every thrust, cheeks clapping against your hips. “Please—,” you grunt shakily. “Stop—”
“Stop what?” she gasps. “Stop telling you the truth? Stop telling you that she’s been too busy to let you have this? Stop telling you that I’ll let you cum in my ass every night if you want? Stop telling you I’ll be the wife who actually stays?”
You lose it. You pound into her ass brutally, lifting her higher, hips snapping so hard the table creaks beneath her. You use her like a pocket pussy, plunging her up and down your cock. In and out. In and out. Her hand reaches down to her pussy and she stuffs her fingers in, jamming them into her soaked, tight cunt in conjunction with your thrusts. Her screams turn into sobs, body shaking, ass clenching around you like a vise.
“Cum in me,” she begs. “Breed my ass—fill me up—make me yours—”
A few more strokes and you're gone. You bury yourself deep and cum hard, groaning as you spill inside her ass, painting her walls. She cums together with you, ass spasming, pussy squirting again.
You hold her there, body still lifted off the ground, legs dangling, cock buried deep until the last pulse fades.
You pull out slowly.
Thick white cum leaks from her ass, dripping down her crack, onto her pussy, onto the floor.
She collapses forward onto the table, breathing hard, trembling.
You step back and silence crashes in.
You stare at her wrecked state. Her pigtails are a mess, almost undone, face utterly destroyed from her throating, cum leaking out of her holes.
You clean up in silence, wiping yourself off, pull your pants up, and avoid her eyes. She watches you the whole time, expression unreadable. You leave without another word.
Kim Minju is asleep when you get in. You slip into bed beside her.
She half-wakes, murmuring something soft before curling towards you.
You stare at the ceiling. You feel something in your pocket and fish it out. It's one of Dumpy’s pink ribbons that's tied around her hair earlier. You hold it in the air, staring at the ceiling, the same thoughts running through your mind again and again: what have you done? You stuff the ribbon back into your pants and try to fall asleep.
The weeks after the night at the storage don't feel like weeks. They feel like one long night stretched thin. You keep telling yourself it was just once. A mistake. A moment of weakness. You tell yourself you’ll stop. But you don't.
It's Tuesday night, three days after you destroyed Dumpy. Minju comes home late. Late again. You try to cheer her up and offer a shoulder massage, but she waves you off, fishing out her laptop, tapping on the computer keys until sunrise arrives.
Her card in your wallet glows like fireflies. You text Dumpy on Friday night:
<You, 11.43 p.m.> Tomorrow after the event?
Her reply comes instantly.
<Unknown Number, 11:43 p.m.> Storage room. Bring that loneliness. I’ll take it all
The next thing you know, you're balls deep in her, pounding her small and tight pussy with your neglected heart.
Another week passes and the next event ends late again. Minju leaves first to meet a shareholder and you stay for cleanup as usual. Dumpy waits for you in the carpark, and when you're done, she's riding you in the backseat as the windows fog from the heat, moans muffled against your neck.
“Minju left you again,” she whispers. “But I'm here. I'm always here.”
You grunt and cum again, filling her insides full with your cum and hopefully some guilt. She kisses you as you catch your breath, murmuring into your ears, “You forget her when you're in me, don't you?”
Two weeks pass, and on a Tuesday morning, Minju snaps at you over breakfast, which you cooked her favourite juk. “I said I’d be home early, okay? Stop asking.” She storms out. You stare at the empty chair.
You text Dumpy: Now?
She replies instantly with an address: a quiet multi-story car park near the office.
You meet her in the stairwell and she drops to her knees without a word, taking you in her mouth, eyes locked on yours. “She doesn’t even suck you anymore, does she?” she murmurs between licks. “But I will. Every day if you want.”
You grunt and unload your cum down her throat. She swallows, smiles at you cheekily and wipes her lips. Afterward she doesn’t let go right away. She rests her forehead against your thigh, breathing hard.
“I think I’m falling for you,” she whispers. “Stupid, right?”
She reaches up, gently wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb, then rests her cheek against your thigh for a long moment, as if she could stay there forever.
You freeze before pulling away, zip up, leave without answering. But her words stay with you all weekend. Maybe you should stop meeting her tomorrow.
The following week, the night right before the Saturday event, Minju actually tries. She comes home at 7:45 p.m., straddling you on the couch and riding you slowly. “I love you,” she whispers, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I keep failing you.”
She bounces on you until you cum inside her, holding her close, but you’re thinking of Dumpy’s mouth, Dumpy's pussy, Dumpy’s ass.
Guilt chokes you and you almost confess. You look in the mirror when you're showering and tell yourself you'll confess tomorrow, but that night you dream of Dumpy — not the sex, but her resting her head on your thigh, whispering “I think I'm falling for you. Stupid, right?” over and over.
The cycle keeps repeating itself. Minju leaving early, coming back late. You try to reduce her burden, caring for her whenever you can. You don't even ask her for sex or anything, just trying to support her to the best you can, but your relationship with her got worse, not better.
But it always ends with her snapping back at you, then coming back apologising, feeling guilty. You totally understand her feelings. She's tired from her incessant work. But you can't help but have the thought that maybe, maybe you wish for her to lose her job.
Every rejection, every snapped word, every empty “tomorrow” is replaced with another session with Dumpy. And today is no different. Dumpy waits in the supply closet. She bends over a shelf, skirt hiked up, no panties. You fuck her from behind hard and fast, moans muffled against her arm.
“She hasn’t fucked you in days, has she?” she pants. “But I will. I’ll let you cum in me every night. I’ll be your secret wife. Your dumping ground.” You groan and unload inside her.
After pulling out, she turns and kisses you, before pulling a tissue from her bag. She carefully wipes your cock clean before tucking you back in, her touch lingering like she’s reluctant to let go.
“I love you,” she whispers. “I’m falling so hard it hurts. I know you love her. But I can’t stop.”
You don’t say it back. Instead you kiss Park Minju, yes you call her Minju now; you kiss her longer than usual before leaving. The pull is stronger now.
Weeks pass and your weekly sessions with Minju become daily ones now. Then one morning she texts you one day about her promotion from Junior Manager to full Manager, adding that it’s your wife that approved her promotion.
No fanfare, no cake, just a new title, a slightly larger desk, and a new nameplate. You see her at tonight’s sponsor mixer event. She’s not the pink pigtail girl anymore. She’s wearing a vivid, blood-red sleeveless dress that clings to her tight pliable body that you have thoroughly explored every inch of. The hem of her dress stops mid-thigh, short enough to be dangerous when she moves, but still elegant enough for the event. Large, metallic spherical earrings swing from her ears, catching the light with every turn of her head, bold and expensive-looking.
You can't stop staring. Her hair is sleek and glossy, pulled back into a low, tight ponytail with a few soft strands that hang over her face, making her look both sophisticated and dangerously seductive.
It screams confidence.
It screams look at me.
She's not acting as a flyer or sample giver anymore. Instead, she's taking on the same role as your wife, moving round effortlessly, turning to greet sponsors and shareholders alike. She's working like a fish in water, and even better than your wife, you reckon — probably due to her familiarity from acting as a flyer girl. She pays attention to even small details, bending slightly to pick up fallen flyers, helping to clear empty glasses of cocktail. She walks across the rooftop with a slow measure stride, dress shifting with her, stretching tight over her breasts, riding up just enough on her thighs to make your imagination run wild.
You can’t stop staring, and Minju knows it.
Every time your eyes meet across the room, she gives that same small, knowing smile, fully aware of what the dress was doing to him, and that she had chosen it on purpose.
You can't help it, but you didn't even spare your wife a single glance. Your entire mind was on Minju. Later, when the last guests have left and the venue empties, she sends the text.
<Dumpy, 12.36 a.m.> Her office. 10 minutes after cleanup. Door will be unlocked — Dumpy ❤️
You tell yourself you’ll go home and worry about the drift with your wife tomorrow. But your legs find themselves shuffling towards the office’s elevator.
The building is silent after hours, and the lights have all dimmed into standby mode. The hallways are empty and the only sounds are the hum of the air-conditioning and the footsteps from your feet. You take the elevator to the 14th floor, and your heart is hammering in your chest. The elevator’s doors slide open and you immediately spot your wife’s office door ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor like an invitation you should refuse.
You step in. Minju is sitting on your wife’s desk with her legs crossed. The nameplate on the desk reads Kim Minju, Senior Director, and Minju’s new one is beside it: Park Minju, Manager.
She smiles when she sees you. “You’re here,” she says softly.
You don’t answer.
She hops off the desk and struts past you, walking to the door. She locks it with a quiet click. Then she turns back to you and spreads her arms out wide. “Look where we are,” she whispers. “Her desk. Her office. And her husband about to fuck me on in it. On it.”
Your heart thumps with a mix of guilt and excitement.
She steps closer to you, brushing her fingers on the front of your polo, stopping right over your heart. “She never fucks you here, does she?” she murmurs. “Too busy. Too tired. Too ‘tomorrow.’ Always tomorrow. Tomorrow she’ll come home early. Tomorrow she’ll choose you. Tomorrow she’ll let you breed her. Tomorrow she’ll remember you exist.”
She presses her palm flat against your chest, feeling the frantic beat. “But tomorrow never comes for her, does it? She leaves you waiting. Leaves you lonely. Leaves you starving.”
“I’m Minju. I'm different. I’ll give you whatever you want whenever you want.” She smirks at you. Each and every one of her words stab into your heart, wearing off your love for your wife that has already been slowly eroded by all the tomorrows.
Your body betrays you despite yourself. You’re already hard, aching, straining against your pants. She looks down and notices it. “Good.”
“I’ll be better than her,” she whispers, fingers trailing down to your belt. “I’ll let you do whatever you want, so give me your love instead of your lying wife.”
She unbuckles you with practiced precision, dragging your zipper down slowly. She's acting slightly different today, exuding an aura of calmness and seduction that’s different from her usual wildness. Hooking her fingers onto your pants and boxers, she drags them off you, throwing it into the corner.
Your cock springs free, heavy and hard, slapping against her palm. She giggles delightfully, wrapping her fingers around you, stroking slowly.
“Look how hard you are,” she purrs. “Give me all your love and attention.” She drops to her knees — right here, on Minju’s office carpet — and takes you into her mouth.
She pushes onto you slowly, as if she's worshipping your cock, lips parting around the head, tongue swirling in lazy circles as she savors the taste of you. Then she sinks deeper as her cheeks hollow, relaxing her throat, taking more and more until her nose is almost touching your pelvis.
She looks up at you, tears forming in her eyes and pulls out. Your cock reappears out from her mouth, slick and shiny with her saliva. Pushing you back in, she bobs sideways, so her cheeks bulge obscenely with every plunge, the outline of your cock visible through her skin. Saliva drips freely, running down your shaft.
You grunt and shiver with every swirl of her tongue. She keeps teasing you, sliding her swollen lips up and down the side of your cock like she’s worshipping every inch, before returning to the swollen head, sucking hard, tongue flicking the slit.
“Tell me I’m doing good,” she murmurs, lips brushing the tip. “Tell me I’m better than her.”
You manage a strained “You’re… doing good.”
She smiles wickedly. “Better than your wife? Who sucks your cock better? Say it. Say my name is better.”
You don’t answer.
She dives back down, sucking harder, trying even more desperately, cheeks hollowing deeper, throat opening wider. Her lips are swollen now, glossy and red, bubbling thick saliva all over your head as she keeps trying to stay seductively elegant even while choking on you.
“Don’t you want to let out all your frustration into my mouth?” she taunts, pulling off again, strings of spit connecting her lips to your cock. Your hand stays firm at your sides, trying your best not to just grab on to her head and fuck into her skull.
The way she sucks you feels so good that you feel like ascending. Slurping sounds fill the entire room as she bobs and sucks faster and faster, hands joining her mouth working on your cock as she continues to jerk and suck you.
“Make sure to cum all over my pretty face. Paint me. Mark me. Show me who you really belong to tonight.”
She keeps the head on her tongue, swirling, jerking your cock hard with both hands, eyes locked on yours, daring you.
You feel the pressure building fast. “I’m… gonna cum—”
She doesn’t stop sucking and stroking. Right as you explode, she pulls you out and stops stroking, letting your cum just drip and flow out in thick strands straight into her open mouth. You grunt in frustration, hips jerking, wanting to thrust, wanting to bury yourself.
But she just holds there, smiling up at you, mouth full of your cum, some of it already spilling over her lower lip.
“Please…” you mutter, finally saying something.
She stands, pushes you onto the edge of the desk, then shoves you down until you’re lying flat on it. She climbs on and straddles you, hiking up her red dress and sinking down onto you without any pause, taking you to the hilt in one smooth motion.
The desk creaks under the sudden weight. She gasps, tipping her head back, reveling in the feeling of you in her. Her pussy is scorching hot, slick and tight, velvety walls fluttering around you like she’s been waiting for this all day. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, and she’s so wet that the first downward roll makes an obscene squelch, her juices already dripping down your balls onto the wood beneath.
She starts riding immediately, rolling hips slowly, circling herself around so the head of your cock grinds against her front wall. She leans forward and pants viciously, “Look at me. “Fucking you on your wife’s desk. Bet she never let you do this before, right? Bet she never rode you like a desperate little slut on her own workspace. Bet she never let you see her this wet, this needy, this fucking hungry for your cock.”
You grip her hips hard, sinking your fingers into her soft flesh. She moans louder, bouncing faster, and her ass slaps against your thighs obscenely. The desk rocks and papers slide around, pens clattering to the floor.
“Harder,” she begs. “Please… fuck me harder… I need it… I need you to fuck me like you’ve been dying to fuck someone who actually wants it.”
You comply silently, snapping your hips up to meet her downward slams with brutal force. The desk groans louder and the wood protests under the assault. You reach up to grab her dress, ripping it open to expose her small perky tits. You grab on to them and knead, thumb rubbing her small nipples, pinching them until they swell. Her moans turn into sharp cries as her body trembles, small tits bouncing wildly in your hands.
“She never grinds on you like this, does she?” she taunts, voice breaking with every downward slam. “Never begs for your cock. Never lets you fill her up without pulling out. Never lets you breed her. But I will. I’ll let you flood me. I’ll let you knock me up right here on her fucking desk while she’s out working late again.”
You thrust up harder, trying to drown the guilt. The photo frame on the corner of the desk wobbles.
“Harder,” she begs again, nails raking down your chest. “Please… fuck me harder… make me forget everything but you inside me… make me yours…”
You slam up into her deeper and faster, and the desk shakes violently now. She cums suddenly and her body locks up, pussy spasming wildly, sweet juices gushing around your cock, dripping down your balls onto the wood. She cries out your name, tears of joy slipping from the corners of her eyes.
You flip her, laying her flat on the desk, legs spread wide, feet braced on the edge. Papers scatter further. The nameplate falls off the desk with a clatter. You thrust back in brutally, folding her legs up against her chest so you can bottom out completely.
The desk shakes violently. The photo frame — the one of you and Minju on your honeymoon — topples and falls on the table, landing right beside your pounding body.
You freeze for half a second. Guilt spreads like ice in your veins as you stare at the photo. Your thrusts slow.
Minju grabs your face with both hands, forcing you to look at her instead. “Forget her,” she begs. “Only focus on breeding the Minju right in front of you. I’m the only one who deserves your love. I’m the only one who’s here. I’m the only one who actually wants you. She left you starving. She left you waiting. She left you with nothing but empty tomorrows. But I’m giving you everything. Right now. Breed me. Fill me. Make me yours.”
You roar. Your mind goes blank.
You slam into her, pistoning hard, bottoming out with every thrust until she’s shrieking in pleasure. Her nails rake down your back, legs trembling around your waist. “Harder,” she begs again. “Please… fuck me harder… I need it… I… I think I’ve fallen in love with you…”
Your hips snap faster and deeper, and the desk rocks dangerously now. Her cries turn into sobs of pleasure, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“She never let you fuck her raw like this,” she pants between cries. “Never let you cum inside her without pulling out. Never let you flood her womb. But I will. I’ll let you breed me every night. I’ll let you dump everything in me — loneliness, anger, cum, all of it.”
You pound deeper, feeling her walls flutter, her body shake, her tears drip onto the desk.
You tip over and cum, spilling deep inside her pussy, pulse after pulse flooding her, overflowing, leaking out around your cock and dripping onto the wood.
You stay buried for a long moment, recovering from the high before pulling out slowly. A thick stream of cum flows out of her, white and viscous, pooling on the desk right beside the fallen photo frame of you and your wife.
Minju lies there, chest heaving, dress torn open, tits exposed, cum leaking from her pussy, mascara streaked from tears of pleasure and intensity.
She looks up at you, voice soft and trembling.
“I’m sorry… but I love you.”
You don’t answer.
You clean up the mess in silence — wiping the desk with tissues from her bag, wiping yourself, giving her your shirt to wear over her torn dress so she can walk out without looking completely ruined.
Then you both leave the office.
You cry in the car the entire ride home.
***
The apartment feels colder every night now.
Minju comes home earlier some days — 7:30, 8:00 — but the effort shows. Her eyes are tired, shoulders rounded, smile thin. She tries to touch you more: hand on your arm while cooking, kiss on the cheek before bed — but you flinch sometimes, and she notices.
She doesn’t ask why.
She just looks at you longer, searching your face like she’s trying to find the man she married.
Tonight she comes home early.
She drops her bag, kicks off her heels, crosses the living room without speaking. You’re on the couch, phone in hand, staring at nothing. She straddles your lap without warning, hands framing your face, kissing you hard and deep, possessive, tongue claiming every inch of your mouth like she’s erasing something she can’t name.
“You’re mine,” she whispers against your lips, voice fierce and trembling. “You know that, right?”
You nod with your throat tight.
She doesn’t wait for more words.
She undresses and straddles you immediately, grinding down on you, taking you in immediately.
“I love you,” she says. “I love you so much… I’m sorry I’ve been so busy… I’m sorry I keep failing you…”
She gasps, as she bounces on you. “Fuck,” she breathes. “You feel… so good…” Her pussy is warm, welcoming, gripping you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“You’re mine,” she repeats, voice breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”
You grip her hips and try to anchor yourself, thrusting up to meet her.
“I love you,” she sobs into your neck. “I’m scared… I’m scared I’m losing you…”
The words break something inside you.
You thrust harder and deeper, holding her close, trying to believe her, trying to believe yourself.
It doesn't take long and she cums suddenly, pussy fluttering around you, a soft cry escaping her throat. She collapses onto your chest, trembling, clinging. She lifts her head, tears in her eyes. “Don’t leave me,” she whispers. “Please… don’t leave me…”
You almost confess, but you swallow them down. “Tomorrow,” you whisper instead. “Tomorrow we’ll fix this.”
She nods against your skin, believing you. You hold her. She falls asleep in your arms soon after, breathing evening out, tears drying on her cheeks.
Before she drifts off completely, she murmurs against your chest:
“We’ll fix this… after work tomorrow. I promise. Tomorrow.”
You believe her.
Or you want to.
The next day passes in a haze.
You go to work. You check your phone too often. No messages from Minju. Both Minjus.
You come home at 6:58 p.m.
The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the living room.
Minju is on the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, staring at the coffee table.
She doesn’t move when you close the door.
She doesn’t speak.
You walk closer.
On the table is her phone with the screen on. On it is a paused video.
You recognize the angle immediately.
Minju’s office.
Park Minju on the desk.
You inside her.
The video is frozen mid-thrust — Minju’s head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan, your hands on her hips.
And next to that is a collection of different items: the hotel receipt, the text screenshot, a small vial of pink perfume she must have bought to compare, and a positive pregnancy kit.
She still doesn’t speak.
You stand there frozen, heart in your throat.
Minutes pass.
Finally she looks up at you. Her eyes are red, calm, and empty.
“Tomorrow,” she says quietly.
The word hangs between you.
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t cry.
“Tomorrow we’ll fix this. Tomorrow you’ll come home early. Tomorrow we’ll talk. Tomorrow we’ll have kids. Tomorrow we’ll be okay.”
She touches the phone screen and the video plays for a few seconds: Minju’s moan, your groan, then she pauses it again.
“Tomorrow feels useless to me now.”
She picks up the pregnancy test, holds it out so you can see the two lines clearly.
“I took it this morning. My period was already late. I thought… maybe it would make your love stay. But then I saw the recording. I didn’t want to install the camera in my office. But you were coming home late every Saturday.”
She sets it back on the table.
She stands slowly, walking past you to the bedroom.
She doesn’t slam the door.
She doesn’t lock it.
She just closes it softly.
You stand in the living room alone.
The lamp flickers.
You don’t follow her.
She doesn’t divorce you.
You still sleep in the same room, the same bed. But there is a space between you now that no amount of “tomorrows” can close.
She no longer kisses you.
She no longer calls you “honey.”
She no longer waits.
You sit on the couch in the dark, looking at the city lights through the window.
Tomorrow.
The word is hollow.
***
A few months pass. The apartment is quieter now. Minju doesn't come home early anymore. She doesn't come home late either. She just comes home when she comes home, keys clicking in the lock at whatever hour work releases her. She doesn't announce her arrival. Doesn't call out “honey.” Doesn't kiss your cheek or ask how your day was.
She just exists in the same space.
She cooks sometimes — simple things, rice and stir-fry, nothing like the dumplings she used to make for you to taste-test. She eats alone at the kitchen island, phone propped up, scrolling through emails or reports. You sit across from her some nights, but conversation has become optional. She doesn't push. You don't push.
She stopped waiting for you to come home.
She stopped asking why you were late.
She stopped looking at you like she was trying to find the man she married.
You cut contact with Park Minju the day after the confrontation. You blocked her number, deleted the messages, threw every card in the bin for real this time. She didn't fight it. Her last text sat unread for a day before you deleted it too.
“So you chose her after all. I quit. I can't stay in the same company as her anymore. Will she ever come back to you tomorrow? I will always wait for you, and hope that tomorrow will be the day you'll choose me.”
You didn't reply.
You didn't need to.
The guilt is a constant now. You see it in the mirror: distant eyes, forced smiles at work, shoulders hunched like you're carrying something no one can see. Colleagues ask if you're okay. You say that you're tired.
You are tired.
Minju moves forward.
She throws herself into work, not frantically, but methodically. Meetings run longer. Reports get polished. The dumpling line launches successfully despite the supplier issues; she gets a quiet promotion, a corner office, a new assistant. She doesn't celebrate. She just keeps going.
She doesn't talk about the pregnancy.
Not once.
You see the changes: her hand resting on her stomach when she thinks you're not looking, the way she buys prenatal vitamins and hides them in the back of the cabinet, the loose shirts she starts wearing. She doesn't ask you to be part of it. She doesn't tell you the due date. She just prepares alone.
You don't ask.
You don't know how.
Nights are the hardest.
She sleeps on her side of the bed, back facing you, pillow hugged to her chest. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing. Sometimes she cries in her sleep, and you reach out, hand hovering over her shoulder, then pull back.
You don't touch her anymore.
She doesn't touch you.
The apartment is full of ghosts: the crooked honeymoon photo on your desk, the empty side of the couch where she used to fall asleep waiting, the kitchen island where she used to feed you dumplings and promise “tomorrow.”
You volunteer for fewer events now. The team lead doesn't ask why. You tell yourself it's because Minju doesn't need the help anymore.
Really, it's because you can't stand the rooftop.
The city lights look different from up there now.
One night you go anyway.
It's a small mixer, nothing like the past events. Fewer suits, fewer sponsors. You arrive late, no polo, no badge. Just you, in a jacket, standing at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the skyline.
Minju isn't here. She's home, probably asleep, hand on her stomach.
You lean on the railing, wind tugging at your hair.
The word rises unbidden.
Tomorrow?
You whisper it to the city lights.
You remember the night she cried ‘don’t leave me’ and you whispered ‘tomorrow.’ Now tomorrow has come, and she’s gone anyway.
It tastes like nothing.
The word is hollow.
***
***
Author's Note
If this ending hurts, I'm sorry — and also not sorry.
This story was never about a happy reunion or a neat fix. It is about what happens when both people let ‘tomorrow’ become an excuse instead of a promise. Sometimes love isn’t enough — and sometimes it’s the deferrals that kill it.”
Minju's absence created the void. OC's betrayal filled it. Neither is innocent. Neither gets redemption here.
Everyone lost to tomorrows. OC, Kim Minju, Park Minju.
If you're sad, that's okay. That means you cared about them. That means the story did something to you.
Thank you for staying until the end, even when it hurt.
I hope I managed to get the message through well. Sometimes, you have to brave past your fears and face Tomorrows head on. Otherwise, the endless procrastinations may result in a tomorrow forever.
A/N: 3 years to the day since my last fic. Hello again!
Dahyun is a dream girl.
The kind of dream where she doesn’t need to say a single word for you to follow her. She’s Kim freakin’ Dahyun. Of course you’d follow her anywhere.
The kind of dream you tell your friends. They’d say, Bullshit, how are you with her? And to be fair, you’re not sure either. A girl like her shouldn’t even exist in the same plane as a guy like you. They’d have to rewrite the laws of physics.
