Just want to start by saying that I see all the love you guys have been showing my works and I do try to reply or like and I see the asks in my inbox and I really do appreciate each and every one of you guys. That being said as this is my last semester of grad school, your girl really needs to lock in so that she can pass her upcoming exams and graduate so I’ll be taking a small hiatus until exam season is over and I can breathe again. You guys can still send messages but my responses may be late.
Summary: You meet Felix when he fills in for your usual dealer, Jisung. One look at the pretty boy with blonde hair and a voice like sin and you’re gone. What starts as customer transactions turns into heated drops where Felix uses his deep voice and ringed fingers to tease you mercilessly.
Warnings: non-idol!au,kinda drug dealer/plug!felix x f!reader, romance, minor but not very detailed smut, MDNI!, acotar/tmi books mention, kinda slow burn,strangers-fwb-lovers, idiots to lovers,jealousy, possessive Felix, His Voice™, praise kink, mutual pining,drug dealer!hanji, Wooyoung cameo, rich kids!skz it’s not explicitly mentioned but there’s signs, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 3.9k
A/N: this is the very first piece I ever wrote about Felix and it’s been sitting in my drafts for almost seven months so I’m kinda nervous to post it. I hope you guys like it. Also I suck at summaries.
Lee Felix doesn’t smoke often, but his friend Jisung does—as religiously as he deals—which is exactly how Felix ended up incorporating Jisung’s product into his baking. It started innocently enough; cookies, brownies, blondies. Then he moved on to infused butters and oils, experimenting with anything he could create in his kitchen. Pretty soon, word spread about the quality of his edibles, and Felix found himself splitting Jisung’s profits fifty-fifty. Not that either of them needed the money—it was more of a hobby than anything else, a side hustle that kept things interesting.
You met Felix on an ordinary Tuesday that becomes decidedly less ordinary the moment you slide into the black Jeep Jisung had sent you a picture of. Except it’s not Jisung waiting for you. The driver’s seat is occupied by possibly the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in your life; long blonde hair cascading past his shoulders in waves so lustrous you briefly wonder if Jisung sent his girlfriend to do the drop. He’s wearing a black and white striped sweater that somehow makes him look even more angelic and when he turns to look at you, you’re struck by delicate features that belong on a runway or in a K-drama, not in a dealer’s car.
“You must be—” he starts and then he speaks, and you swear to God you feel your soul leave your body.
His voice is deep. Impossibly, unfairly deep—like molten lava poured over gravel, like whiskey and honey and sin. It doesn’t match that pretty face at all and the cognitive dissonance is so extreme that you just sit there, frozen, while he smiles knowingly and hands you a carefully packaged bag.
“First time meeting me?” There’s amusement in those dark eyes, like he’s used to this reaction.
You manage to nod, accept the package and somehow exit the vehicle without making a complete fool of yourself, though it’s a close thing. You’re sure—absolutely certain—that you felt a heartbeat between your legs that had nothing to do with your actual pulse.
Your text to Jisung that night isn’t even about the edibles.
You: who the FUCK was that
You: your pretty friend with the voice
You: does he have a girlfriend
Hanji 🍃: lmaooo you met Felix
Hanji 🍃: no gf
Hanji 🍃: but good luck he’s picky
You: the pretty one, right? blonde hair?
You have to be specific because you’ve met Jisung’s friends Chan and Changbin before and they’re both objectively hot but Felix is something else entirely.
Hanji 🍃: yeah, that’s him
Hanji 🍃: why are you interested?
You: why do you THINK?
After that, you start seeing Felix everywhere. At your favorite café, where he’s always ordering something complicated and sweet. At bars and clubs on nights out with your friends, where he’s inevitably surrounded by his own crew—you’ve learned their names by now, apart from Chan,Changbin and Jisung there’s Minho, Hyunjin, Seungmin and Jeongin. They’re loud and chaotic and clearly close, the kind of friend group that makes other people want to be part of their orbit.
Nobody at those cafés or clubs would ever guess what Felix does in his free time. Nobody would believe that the boy with the sweet smile and the expensive sweaters is the one creating those edibles that has half the campus obsessed and they definitely wouldn’t believe what you eventually discover. That behind that baby-faced exterior is someone who fucks you silly on the regular, talking you through it in that devastating voice of his, telling you what a good girl you are while you fall apart beneath him.
But that comes later, first, there’s the slow burn.
Felix doesn’t usually do drops, that’s Jisung’s domain but ever since he met you, he’s been volunteering every single time an order comes through with your name attached. Jisung and the others tease him mercilessly about it.
“Just admit you like her,” Changbin says one night while they’re playing video games at Chan’s apartment.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix replies, not looking up from his phone, where he’s absolutely checking to see if you’ve texted.
“You literally never did drops before,” Hyunjin points out. “Now you’re doing them weekly.”
Felix just shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. If you end up with extra goodies in your orders—an additional brownie here, a free chocolate bar there—that’s nobody’s business but his.
The first time you really flirt with him—not just awkward stammering but actual, intentional flirting—he shows up to the drop with his hair in braided twists. A few pieces have escaped to frame his face, but the rest is pulled up in a bun that shows off an undercut you didn’t even know he had. It’s unfairly attractive and you tell him so.
“You look like you’re straight out of my favorite books,” you say, leaning against the Jeep’s door frame instead of immediately leaving like usual.
His eyebrows rise with interest. “Yeah? Which book?”
“A court of thorns and roses or The Mortal Instruments,haven’t decided,” you admit, then immediately feel your face heat because that sounds ridiculous out loud but Felix just grins, devastating and dangerous.
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Depends. Have you read either?”
“Not yet,” he says, and there’s a promise in those two words that makes your stomach flip.
Later, you’ll learn that he downloaded all the books that very night. That he read ACOTAR in four days and that he has opinions about Rhysand and Cassian. He definitely thinks he could pull off that Jace Wayland character too.
After that, something shifts.
Felix starts showing up in rings, thick silver bands on his fingers that catch the light. You’re pretty sure he caught you staring at his hands once and now he’s doing it on purpose. He’ll drum his fingers on the steering wheel while you count out cash or run a hand through his hair in a way that draws your attention exactly where he wants it.
He uses his voice like a weapon, dropping it even lower when he says your name, dragging out syllables until you’re practically squirming in the passenger seat.
“Enjoy these,” he’ll say, handing over your order with a knowing smirk. “I made them extra strong.”
The flirting becomes a game. You show up in his favorite color—you’ve done reconnaissance—he wears that cologne that makes you want to lean closer. You laugh at his jokes a little too enthusiastically, he lets his fingers brush yours when exchanging packages, contact lingering just a second too long.
Jisung finally gives you Felix’s number after weeks of this mutual torture.
Hanji 🍃: im sick of being the middleman
Hanji 🍃: just text him
Hanji 🍃: [Contact: Felix ☀️]
You stare at the number for three days and don’t text him. It’s a power play, maybe, or self-preservation because texting him feels like admitting something, like crossing a line from customer-dealer into something far more complicated. Felix notices, of course he does and at the next drop, he calls you out on it.
“Han said he gave you my number,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“He did.”
“But you haven’t used it.”
“Nope.”
A pause. Then that devastating smile. “Scared?”
“Of you? Please.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
You don’t have a good answer for that, so you deflect. “Maybe I like the mystery. The anticipation.”
“The anticipation,” he repeats slowly, and the way his voice wraps around those syllables should be illegal. “Interesting strategy.”
“Is it working?”
He laughs, low and rich and entirely unfair. “What do you think?”
It’s another two weeks before things finally, finally come to a head. You run into him at a club—not a planned drop, not a business transaction, just pure coincidence. You’re with your friends, he’s with his and there’s definitely enough alcohol in your system to make you brave.
You approach him at the bar.
“Felix.”
He turns, recognizes you immediately, and his whole face lights up in a way that makes your heart stutter. “Hey.”
“Fancy meeting you here.”
“Could say the same.” He’s drinking something amber-colored and there’s a slight flush to his cheeks that makes him look even more unfairly pretty. “Having fun?”
“I am now.”
It’s a terrible line but it works. Felix’s eyes darken with interest and he shifts closer—close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him.
“You’re flirting with me,” he observes.
“I’ve been flirting with you for weeks.”
“I know.” His smile is absolutely wicked. “I’ve been waiting for you to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Like text me. Like ask me out. Like stop playing games and admit you want this.”
Your breath catches. “Want what?”
“Me.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes and the confidence there—the absolute certainty—is intoxicating. “You want me.”
He’s not wrong.
“Maybe,” you breathe, and his laugh vibrates through your chest.
“Liar.”
And then he kisses you—or you kiss him, honestly, it’s hard to tell who moves first—and it’s everything you imagined and nothing like you expected. He tastes like whiskey and something sweet, and he kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“So,” Felix murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip. “About that text…”
You pull out your phone with him looking, open a new message to his number, and type: Hi
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check it, just grins. “Hi yourself.”
“Take me home,” you say and it’s not a question.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
The drive to his apartment is charged with tension. Felix keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles that make it very hard to think straight. Every time you hit a red light, he looks over at you with dark eyes and that small, knowing smile that promises everything.
His apartment is nicer than you expected; clean, modern, smelling faintly of whatever he’d been baking earlier. You barely get a chance to take it in before he’s on you, backing you against the door the moment it closes, mouth hot and insistent against yours.
“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt. “Since the first time you got in my car.”
“Liar,” you gasp as his mouth moves to your neck. “You didn’t even know me.”
“Didn’t need to.” His teeth graze your pulse point and you actually whimper. “Knew I wanted you.”
He walks you backward toward his bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in your wake. By the time the back of your knees hit his bed, you’re down to your underwear and he’s shirtless, and the sight of him—all lean muscle and golden skin—makes your mouth go dry.
“You okay?” he asks, and there’s genuine concern beneath the desire in his eyes.
“More than okay,” you assure him, reaching up to pull him down to you.
What follows is honestly transcendent. Felix is attentive and thorough, learning exactly what makes you fall apart and then exploiting that knowledge ruthlessly. And that voice, God, that voice.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs as you arch beneath him, his fingers working between your legs expertly. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
You can’t help but obey, your sounds getting progressively louder as he builds you higher and higher.
“Look at you,” he continues, voice dropping even lower. “Taking my fingers so well. Gonna take something else for me soon?”
You nod frantically, beyond words at this point.
“Use your words. Need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Lix, I need—”
“I know what you need.” He withdraws his fingers and you actually sob at the loss but then he’s positioning himself and slowly, torturously slowly, pushing inside. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and you grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
“Breathe,” he instructs, voice strained. “Just breathe, baby. You’re doing so good for me. Taking me so well.”
He sets a rhythm that has you seeing stars, and he doesn’t stop talking—praising you, telling you how incredible you feel, how perfect you are, asking what you need and then giving it to you before you can even answer.
“There you go,” he says when you finally shatter, clenching around him. “That’s my good girl. So beautiful when you come for me.”
The possessive tone in his voice combined with the praise sends aftershocks through you, and he follows shortly after with a broken groan that you file away in your memory to revisit later. After, he takes care of you; gentle and sweet, cleaning you up and pulling you against his chest. His fingers trace idle patterns on your skin.
“Stay,” he says quietly. It’s not really a question, but you answer anyway. “Okay.”
It becomes a regular thing. Not every night, but often enough that you start keeping a toothbrush at his place. Often enough that his friends start giving him knowing looks when you show up. Often enough that when you place an order through Jisung, Felix shows up with a separate bag.
“What’s this?” you ask, taking the unmarked package.
“Yours,” he says simply. “Made you your own batch.”
You blink at him. “Felix, I haven’t paid you for—”
“I know.” He cuts you off with a kiss. “You’re not going to.”
“But—”
“Not up for debate.”
Later, when Jisung finds out, he corners Felix at Chan’s apartment.
“Dude, you made her a separate batch? And you’re not charging her?”
“So?”
“So? So that’s girlfriend privileges, boyfriend behavior, Felix.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Does she know that?” Changbin chimes in from the couch. “Because you two are together, like, all the time.”
“We’re just hooking up,” Felix insists, but even he can hear how weak it sounds.
“Sure,” Hyunjin says, not looking up from his phone. “That’s why you read an entire fantasy series because she mentioned it once. Very casual.”
Felix flips him off but doesn’t deny it.
The thing is, he’s right, you’re not dating. You’ve never had the conversation, never put labels on whatever this is. You just…exist in each other’s spaces. He comes to your place; you go to his. You meet up at parties and leave together. Your friends know him, his friends know you.
Everyone assumes you’re together. You’re not.
You’re also not seeing anyone else, and neither is he but that’s semantics. It works, this arrangement. It’s easy and comfortable and the intimacy is incredible. Felix knows your body like he’s studied it—knows that you like when he pins your wrists, when he uses that voice, when he takes his time working you up until you’re begging.
“Please,” you whimper one night, writhing beneath him as he edges you for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Please what?” His voice is velvet and sin. “Use your words, sunny.”
“Please let me come. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?”
“You have,” he agrees, thumb circling but not quite hitting where you need it. “You’ve been such a good girl for me. Think you’ve earned it?”
“Yes, please, Lix, I need—”
“I know, baby, I know.” And then he finally, finally gives it to you, and you come so hard you see white.
After, while you’re both catching your breath, he pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to your temple. It’s intimate in a way that feels different from the sex—softer, more tender.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs into your hair.
You want to ask what this is, what you are to each other, but you don’t. The words stick in your throat, too heavy and too frightening.
So you just burrow closer and let it be.
Five Months In
The problem starts at a club on a Saturday night.
You’re there with your friends, Felix is there with his, and everything is normal until you come back from the bathroom and see a girl practically draped over him at the bar. She’s gorgeous—model-tall with perfect hair and a dress that should be illegal and she’s touching his arm, leaning close to say something that makes him laugh.
Your stomach drops.
You have no right to be jealous, you’re not together. You’ve never established exclusivity. For all you know, he’s been seeing other people this whole time; he hasn’t. You know he hasn’t because you’re together almost every night but logic has no place in the jealous spiral you’re currently experiencing.
One of your friends, Mina, follows your gaze and winces. “Oh, babe…”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice brittle. “We’re not dating.”
“You’re basically dating.”
“Basically, isn’t the same as actually.” You turn away, ordering a shot you don’t want and downing it anyway. Then another and another.
“Maybe you should talk to him,” your other friend suggests gently.
“And say what? ‘Hey, I know we never discussed being exclusive, but I’m irrationally jealous of that girl you’re talking to’? That’s insane.”
“It’s not insane if you have feelings for him.”
You don’t want to examine that too closely, so you do what any rational person would do, you head to the dance floor to forget about it. You lose yourself in the music, letting the bass drown out your thoughts. You’re several songs deep when someone comes up behind you, hands settling on your waist.
“Hey,” a voice says—not Felix’s voice, but nice enough. “You’re a great dancer.”
You turn to find a guy with sharp features and a playful smile. He’s attractive—not Felix-level attractive, but who is?—and more importantly, he’s interested in you and not draped over some other girl.
“Thanks,” you say, matching his energy. “You’re not bad yourself.”
His name is Wooyoung, you learn, and he’s funny and charming and keeps making you laugh. When he pulls you closer, you let him. When he suggests getting some air, you very much intend to say yes and maybe go home with him and forget all about pretty boys with deep voices and no-strings-attached arrangements.
You’re just starting to say yes when a hand wraps around your wrist.
“Sorry,” Felix’s voice cuts through the music and even though he’s addressing Wooyoung, his eyes are locked on you. “I need to borrow her.”
“Dude, we’re kind of in the middle of—” Wooyoung starts but Felix isn’t listening. He’s already pulling you away, threading through the crowd with single-minded determination. You stumble after him, anger starting to override the alcohol in your system.
“Felix, what the hell—”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking until you’re outside, the cool night air a shock after the heat of the club. He leads you all the way to the back of the parking lot where his Jeep is parked, away from everyone else. Only then does he let go of your wrist.
You wrench your arm away. “What the fuck was that?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” His voice is level, but there’s something dangerous underneath. “Who was that guy?”
“Are you serious right now?” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re jealous?”
“Yes,” he says bluntly. “I’m jealous. You were going to leave with him.”
“So what if I was?” The words come out sharper than you intended, fueled by hurt and too much alcohol and three months of refusing to define whatever this is. “We’re not together, right? You can talk to whoever you want. That girl at the bar seemed really interested.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Yeji?”
“I don’t know her name—”
“She’s Changbin’s cousin. She just moved here and wanted recommendations for apartments.”
Oh.
“You’re an idiot,” he continues, stepping closer. “You know that?”
“I’m an idiot? Who stands that close and touches on you to ask for apartment recs? Plus you’re the one who dragged me out of a club—”
“Because I couldn’t stand watching some guy put his hands all over you.” He’s right in front of you now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “Because the thought of you going home with anyone else makes me want to break things.”
Your heart is pounding. “Felix,”
“I don’t want this to be casual anymore,” he says, and the vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in your chest. “I don’t want you seeing other people. I don’t want to be just hooking up.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying” He cups your face in both hands, those rings cool against your heated skin. “I want you to be my girlfriend. I’ve wanted that for a while now, but I was too chickenshit to say anything because I thought maybe you liked things the way they were.”
You let out a shaky breath. “You really are an idiot.”
And then you’re kissing him, or he’s kissing you, and it’s different from every other kiss because this one comes with the promise of more. Of labels and commitment and feelings you’ve both been too scared to name. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“So?” he asks, forehead pressed against yours. “Put me out of my misery. What do you say?”
“I say you’re lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur and his laugh warms you from the inside out.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”
His smile is blinding, boyish and sweet and so genuinely happy that you can’t help but smile back.
“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. “Because I really would have fought that guy.”
“Wooyoung didn’t deserve that. He was just dancing.”
“Don’t care. You’re mine now.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, the good kind.
“Yours,” you agree and the word feels right in a way nothing else has.
He walks you backward until you’re pressed against the Jeep, his body bracketing yours as he kisses you thoroughly. His hands slide under your skirt, relearning territory they already know by heart but somehow feels different now, more significant.
“We should go back inside,” you say without conviction as his mouth moves to your neck. “Our friends will wonder where we went.”
“Let them wonder.” He bites down hard and you gasp. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“We’re in a parking lot, Felix.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t stop his exploration. “We could be in the Jeep. Backseat’s pretty spacious.”
You should say no. You should be responsible and go back to your friends and celebrate this new development in a mature, adult way.
Instead, you hear yourself say, “Get your keys.”
His laugh is pure delight as he pulls them from his pocket.
Later—much later—when you’re both thoroughly disheveled and satisfied, he leans his forehead against yours again.
“For the record,” he says, voice rough, “it’s always been you. Since that first day. There’s never been anyone else.”
“Good,” you say, stealing another kiss. “Because I’m not sharing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sunshine.” And when you finally do make it back inside, hand in hand, the knowing looks from both your friend groups are entirely worth it.
Because he’s yours now—officially, publicly, completely.
And pretty boy Lee Felix, who nobody would ever suspect is a dealer, who fucks you silly on the regular and talks you through it in that devastating voice of his?
Summary: Drunk you has no filter and your husband has always been a weak, weak man when it comes to you. He just didn’t expect your family planning conversation to awaken the caveman part of his brain or a raging breeding kink in both of you.
Warnings: smut!MDNI, established relationship, trying to conceive, pregnancy, soft dom!cheol, domestic fluff, humor, healthy communication, breeding kink awakening, enthusiastic consent, multiple + creative locations and one very smug husband who knocked you up in paradise, married life, baby fever, hormone-induced chaos, obsessed husband!Cheol x obsessed wife!reader, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 18.1k
Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.
Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.
His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.
“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”
He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.
“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”
His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”
You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.
You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.
“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”
He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.
You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”
A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”
The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.
“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”
He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.
“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.
“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.
Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.
He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”
“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”
“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”
Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.
His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.
Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.
“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”
“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.
Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.
“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”
“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”
You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.
“I said hold still.”
“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.
“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”
You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”
“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”
“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”
“Ooh, would you—”
“No.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”
“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.
“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”
“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”
“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”
“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”
He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”
You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.
“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.
“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”
The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.
“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”
“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”
“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”
“No promises.”
He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.
“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”
“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.
“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”
“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”
Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”
“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”
“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”
He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”
“Really?” you sniffle.
“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”
You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”
A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“But am I prettier?”
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”
Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”
“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”
“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”
“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”
“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”
“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”
“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”
You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”
Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”
“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”
“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”
You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.
“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.
“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”
“We’re literally married.”
“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”
“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”
He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”
“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”
He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”
“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”
“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”
He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.
“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.
You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”
“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.
You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.
“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.
“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Cheol?” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know.”
“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”
“Woman, I swear to—”
“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.
“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”
You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.
“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”
You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.
“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”
Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.
Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.
“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”
“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.
“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.
“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”
“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”
His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.
“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”
“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”
“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”
“Third date,” he repeats faintly.
“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”
Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.
“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.
“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”
But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.
Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”
“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.
“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.
“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”
“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”
You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”
He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”
“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”
“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”
“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”
“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.”
But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.
But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.
But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.
Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.
Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—
Your eyes fly open.
“Oh no.”
The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.
“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.
He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.
“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.
“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”
“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”
His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Cheol.”
“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”
“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”
“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”
“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”
“I was a disaster.”
“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”
“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.
“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”
“Seungcheol.”
He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”
“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”
Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.
“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.
“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”
“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”
“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”
“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…
“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”
The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”
“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”
Your breath catches.
“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”
“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”
“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”
“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.
Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.
You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.
“Cheol?”
“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”
You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.
“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”
“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.
“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”
Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.
“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”
“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”
It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”
His grip tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”
You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,
“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.
“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”
“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”
He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”
You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”
You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”
This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.
His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”
You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”
“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.
“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”
You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.
“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.
“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”
“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”
Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”
“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.
“What’s not fair?”
“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”
“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”
Your breath catches. “Are we?”
“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”
“Seungcheol—”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”
You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.
“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”
“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Yes, god, yes—”
His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…
“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”
His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.
“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”
“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”
“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”
You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”
So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.
About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.
“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.
“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”
“You’re a fein.”
“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”
“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”
“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”
“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.
“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.
“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.
“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”
One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.
“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”
“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.
“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”
“Need what, baby? Use your words.”
“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”
He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.
“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.
“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”
“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.
“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.
“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.
“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.
“You really did research.”
“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”
Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”
“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”
His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”
“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.
“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”
And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.
Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.
Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.
“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”
And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.
“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”
“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”
“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”
The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.
“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.
He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.
“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”
“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”
“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”
“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”
“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”
“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.
You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“And if not?”
“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”
His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”
“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”
“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”
“And then?”
“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”
“Again?!”
“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”
You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.
“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”
“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.
After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.
The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”
“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”
“That’s not—oh—”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”
“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”
“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”
“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.
This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.
“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”
“Cheol, baby please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”
You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.
The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.
You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.
You made it halfway through your sandwich.
“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“I’m eating—”
“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”
“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.
“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”
“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.
The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.
“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, god, anywhere—”
“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”
The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.
“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”
You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.
“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.
“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.
When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.
“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”
“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.
“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”
The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.
“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”
You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.
When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.
You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.
“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.
“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”
“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”
He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”
“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”
He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”
“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”
“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”
“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”
You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”
And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?
Well.
You’d had worse problems.
“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”
“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.
Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.
You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.
“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”
“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.
What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.
You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.
The office after hours? Check.
The car in the parking garage? Check.
The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.
But this—this was a new level, even for him.
“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”
“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”
“That’s not the point—”
“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”
“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”
You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.
It was romantic. Just also obscene.
“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”
There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.
“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”
“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”
“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.
“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”
His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”
The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.
“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.
“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.
“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”
You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”
“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”
“You’re counting?”
“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.
“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”
“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.
“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”
“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”
“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”
“We literally just finished—”
“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”
It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.
“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.
“Anything.”
“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”
His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”
“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”
He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.
This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.
“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”
He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”
“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”
“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”
“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”
But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.
Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.
You didn’t make it to dinner.
Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.
“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”
“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”
“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”
“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”
“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”
His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”
“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”
“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”
“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”
“You’ve been planning this.”
“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”
And he did.
You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.
Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.
“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”
“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”
“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”
Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.
“Cheol, this is going to tip—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.
“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.
“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.
His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.
“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”
“Cheol! You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”
“Someone could see—”
“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”
“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”
His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.
“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”
You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”
You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.
“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”
You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.
The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.
“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”
“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.
“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”
“Kids, plural?”
“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”
“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”
“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”
“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”
You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.
“Morning,” you murmured.
“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”
“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”
“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”
“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”
The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”
“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”
“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.
You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.
“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.
You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”
“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.
“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”
His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”
He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?
Totally worth it.
The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.
You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.
“Did I forget something?”
You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.
“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”
“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”
“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”
His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”
Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”
His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”
“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”
“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”
“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”
“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”
“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”
“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”
“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”
Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.
Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.
“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”
“To seduce me before dinner?”
“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”
His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”
“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”
He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”
“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”
“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”
“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.
“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“We haven’t even finished dinner.”
“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”
You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.
“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
“About the baby thing.”
That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”
You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”
“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”
“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”
“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”
“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”
He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”
“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”
“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”
“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.
You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.
Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.
“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat.
And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.
Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.
Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.
“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.
“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”
The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”
“Que?”
You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.
“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”
Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…
“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”
Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.
“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”
Your own heart seems to stop entirely.
“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”
“How early were you testing?”
“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”
“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”
The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.
“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”
Your baby.
“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.
“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”
“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”
“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”
Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.
“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”
“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”
Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.
“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”
“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”
“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”
“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”
“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”
“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”
“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”
“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”
“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”
The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”
Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”
“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”
“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”
“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.
“Little bit. You?”
“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.
“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.
“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”
“So spoiled.”
“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”
“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”
“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”
“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”
“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.
“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”
“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”
“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”
“Planning what?”
“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”
You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.
“Let’s go home,” you say softly.
Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.
“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”
“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.
All those months of trying.
All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.
Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.
Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.
You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.
Best surprise ever.
You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.
Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.
“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.
“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”
You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”
“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”
“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”
“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”
“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”
“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.
“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”
Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.
His baby. The thought still makes him feral.
“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”
And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.
“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.
“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.
“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”
“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”
You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.
“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.
“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”
“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”
“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.
“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”
“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”
“You just…we literally just—”
“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.
Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.
He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.
You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.
He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”
His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.
“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”
“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.
He does.
“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.
“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”
“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.
“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”
“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.
“I look pregnant.”
“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”
You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”
“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”
“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”
Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”
“Cheol.”
“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”
“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”
“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”
“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”
“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”
“Exactly, very responsible.”
“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”
“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.
“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.
The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.
This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.
This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.
Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.
Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.
Summary: Jungkook has new piercing,one that he’s very excited to put to use except that he may have forgotten to think about the timeframe for the healing process before he got it done. Now it’s his birthday and he can’t participate in his favorite pastime but that doesn’t mean that you can’t have your fun…for now because where anne hathawill, anne hathaway and Jeon Jungkook will find a way to put his mouth on you,piercing pain be damned.
Warnings: idol!jk x poc!singer/songwriter!oc, smut! MDNI!, JK’s labret piercing, oral (f&m.rec),handjob,tit play?, oc! got her titties pierced while they were apart and didn’t tell him, jk is a simp and a munch and will die on the hill of it being his favorite pastime. jk calls her noona but it’s mainly teasing or when he wants to get his way, jk is lowkey a little menace but you love it, kinda dom/sub/switch dynamics but it’s not explicitly mentioned,light mentions of bunnies and mating, kinda domesticated, lots of playful teasing/silliness and banter/dialogue because I like it. As always, I might be missing some stuff.
W.C: 8.4k
You hadn’t seen Jungkook since you came back from the U.S. Your schedule had pulled you into sessions with your boss and longtime friend Christian and even when you got back to Korea you hadn’t been able to see him but you were determined to.It was his birthday in a few minutes and you refused to let your schedule keep you from him.
When you entered the house, it was quiet except for the soft hum of a lofi sound filtering through from one of the upper floors. You take the elevator up to where you assume he is, his head popping up as he hears the ding.
Before you can even open your mouth or step fully into view you catch his eyes and the subtle look he gives to his iPad in front of him before he casually pulls out his phone prompting you to take yours out as well.
Munch 🐰
On live, they’ll see you if you step in further
He texts referring to the mirrored reflection behind and to the side.
Simp 🐺
🥺 fine I guess birthday kisses and wishes can wait until after.
Came straight from the studio so I’m gonna go shower 😘
You send the text and look up at him only for a glint of what looks like a new piercing to hit your eyes. You point to the spot on your face and the little shit has the audacity to smirk at you.
No fucking way did he get a labret piercing and didn’t tell you.You mouth a silent oh my god at him, your hand still hovering near your own chin as you give him the most incredulous look. Jungkook’s smirk deepens, teeth sinking into his lip just enough to make you want to strangle him or kiss him senseless. Probably both.
His eyes flick back to his iPad, voice light and sweet for the fans as if he hadn’t just sucker-punched you with a brand-new piece of metal through his face. “Yeah, I’ve been working on some demos…just messing around with sounds lately since I got back.”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, typing furiously on your phone.
Simp 🐺
So you just weren’t gonna tell me? Like at all??
His phone buzzes on the couch beside him, and without missing a beat in his live, he glances at the screen. A low chuckle slips out before he reaches for it.
Munch 🐰
Wanted to surprise you. Guess it worked 😏
Your jaw drops. The audacity. The absolute nerve. You type back instantly, thumbs flying.
Simp 🐺
Surprise?? Jungkook, it’s your BIRTHDAY not mine. Why am I the one getting attacked??
He reads it, lips twitching, and then looks up—right at you—before covering it with a stretch, hiding his grin behind his arm. To anyone watching, he just looks like he’s adjusting in his seat but you know, oh, you know. When you turn to leave, determined not to give him the satisfaction of watching you melt, your phone buzzes again.
Munch 🐰
Don’t shower too fast. I want my present after 👀
You stop in your tracks at the doorway, whipping your head back to glare at him. His eyes are still glued to his screen, pretending to scroll, but the smirk tugging at his mouth is unmistakable. You send one last text before disappearing down the hall.
Simp 🐺
Careful, birthday boy. You might not survive it.
You turn his live on while you’re in the shower, amused by the fact that almost 11million people are up watching your boyfriend at this hour. Your mind returns to his piercing that seems very fresh, it hadn’t been there when you watched his last live not even two days ago so it was definitely fresh.
You chuckle wondering if your boyfriend had even realized the hell he had just unintentionally put himself in. You had your fair share of piercings so you knew for a fact that that specific one despite not having it would take at least two months to heal which subsequently meant Jungkook’s munch tendencies would be limited.
By the time you finish your shower and pad back into the living room, oversized shirt clinging to your shoulders, Jungkook’s still on live and from what you see on your phone screen he’s moved to the bar/movie room and you weren’t in the mood to go down there. There wouldn’t be anywhere for you to remain out of frame and you like the quiet world your relationship exists in at the moment. You pad back to his bedroom and get comfortable in his bed and switch to Coupang eats when he starts grumbling about being hungry.
He couldn’t have anything crunchy or spicy so you settle for something that won’t irritate the piercing or his gum when you hear him mention cleaning up and it not long after that that he ends the live. It takes a few more minutes before you hear him coming down the hall humming to himself until he spots you all soft and comfortable in his bed and his tshirt.
The moment Jungkook sees you sprawled across his bed in his shirt, curls fanned out on his pillow, he stops dead in the doorway. He leans against the frame, arms folded, piercing catching the low light of his bedroom as he smirks. “You really out here making yourself at home, huh?”
You don’t even look up from your phone, scrolling through Coupang Eats. “It’s not my fault your bed’s more comfortable than mine. Don’t act brand new.”
He chuckles, low and warm, padding closer until he’s towering over the bed. “My girl, stealing my shirts, hijacking my bed…” He clicks his tongue, feigning disapproval. “What’s mine is really yours, huh?”
You finally glance up at him, eyes narrowing on the glint in his lip. “Don’t try to distract me. You got a labret piercing and didn’t tell me?”
Jungkook grins, biting his lip to better show the jewelry. “Surprise.”
“Surprise, my ass,” you mutter, setting your phone aside. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”
He tilts his head, pretending to be confused. “Got hotter overnight?”
“You basically just put yourself on a munch ban for two months.”
The smirk slips right off his face. “Wait. What?”
You fold your arms, savoring the moment. “Healing time, birthday boy. You can’t have anything pulling or irritating the area. Which means no spicy food, no rough kissing, and definitely no—” you wave your hand vaguely toward your lap, “—munching.”
His jaw drops, scandalized. “Noona, you’re lying.”
You give him a pitying little shrug. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”
He immediately grabs his phone from his pocket, typing furiously. A beat later, his shoulders slump. “Two to three months?!” He looks back at you, betrayed. “Baby, that’s my thing!”
You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “You really didn’t think this through at all, did you?”
He groans, flopping dramatically onto the bed beside you, face buried in your stomach. His voice comes out muffled. “Worst. Birthday. Ever.”
You card your fingers through his hair, still grinning. “You’ll live. Besides, I’m sure we can find other ways to celebrate.”
He peeks up at you with wide, puppy eyes, his new piercing glinting under the lamp. “…Like what?”
You lean down, brushing your lips over his; gentle, careful. “Guess you’ll just have to survive long enough to find out.”
He groans again, rolling onto his back like the world’s most dramatic man. “I should’ve gotten another tattoo instead.”
You snort, settling into his side. “You probably would’ve run out of skin eventually anyway.”
“Not before I run out of ideas,” he mutters, already pulling you into his chest, sulking but clingy and despite his whining, you can feel his smile pressing into your hair.
“Just because you can’t munch doesn’t mean I can’t have my fun.” You tease him.
You feel him freeze next to you and mumble something you don’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
His head dips lower, hair falling into his face as if it might hide him from you. His voice is quieter this time, rougher, like he’s embarrassed to even say it again.
“I said…it’s torture.”
You blink, caught between laughing and shoving him off the bed. “Torture?”
His eyes flick up at you, wide and unguarded, before narrowing with the faintest pout. “Yeah. You’re over here looking like that—” his hand waves vaguely at your oversized shirt, your damp hair, your bare legs tucked under the blanket— “and I can’t do anything. Not properly.”
The grin creeps across your face before you can stop it. “Oh, so you admit it. Munch privileges revoked.”
“Yah,” he groans, throwing himself back dramatically against the pillows, one arm slung over his eyes. “This is the worst birthday ever.”
You snort, climbing over him until you’re straddling his hips, the blanket pooling around you both. His arm slips from his face, his gaze locking onto you instantly, dark and sharp despite the playful pout still tugging at his mouth.
“Don’t worry, birthday boy,” you murmur, leaning close enough for your breath to brush his lips, “I’ll make sure you forget all about the torture part.”
His throat bobs as he swallows, fingers already finding your hips like he can’t help himself. “You better,” he whispers, and this time you’re the one smirking.
His grip on your hips tightens just enough to let you feel the heat of it, but not enough to hold you down. You’re still in charge—he lets you be, especially on nights like this.
“I can’t believe 11 million people saw this before me.” you tease, brushing your nose against his.“Shouldn’t I have girlfriend privileges?”
His laugh is low, breathy, more nerves than humor. “Baby…” His voice dips into that dangerous whine you know too well. “Don’t tease me.”
“Oh, but it’s your birthday,” you murmur, rocking your hips just slightly against him, enough to make his jaw clench. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a plea, his head tipping back against the pillows. “God, you’re evil.”
“Evil?” you echo, feigning innocence as you let your lips trail along his throat, slow and deliberate, stopping just below his ear. “I thought you liked me like this?”
His fingers flex against your skin like he’s trying so hard not to flip the whole script on you. “More than I care to admit,” he admits, voice breaking just a little. “Doesn’t mean you’re not evil.
You laugh softly, biting his earlobe just enough to make him jerk. “Best of both worlds, huh?”
“Best,” he says without hesitation, breathless and wrecked already; and you haven’t even given him his gift yet. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and glassy, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look right now—smug, dangerous, so completely in control of him it’s unfair. His chest rises fast under you, every exhale brushing warm against your lips when you lean close again.
“You really want your gift?” you ask, voice a teasing whisper, even though you already know the answer.
“Yes.” It’s desperate, immediate, and so unlike his usual composure that it makes your smirk widen.
“Then be patient,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, feeling the shiver that ripples through him. “Good boys wait.”
He groans, throwing his head back, but his hips twitch up against yours anyway betraying him.
“Not fair,” he mutters, half whine, half growl.
You tilt your head, lips brushing just barely over his jawline. “Since when has fair ever been part of the deal?”
His hands finally tighten properly on your hips, like he’s two seconds from losing the restraint he’s been clinging to. His voice drops, ragged and low.
“Love, if this is how you’re giving me my birthday present, I don’t think I’m gonna survive it.”
The wicked grin that spreads across your face tells him he’s right and he wouldn’t want it any other way. Just to tease him a bit more you get off of him and make your way over to your bag and pull out the jewelry box that had been hidden inside before making your way back to him.
Jungkook didn’t wear much jewelry regularly apart from his piercings but he’d worn that necklace you’d gotten him three birthdays ago until it got stolen or lost, you can’t really remember but you do remember him being all pouty about it so you had gotten him an upgrade this year with a bracelet to match.
He whines when you take too long to come back to him. You pause just a second longer than necessary, enjoying the way his eyes follow every move you make, his pout growing more dramatic the closer you get to the bed.
“Patience, Jungkookie,” you hum, dangling the small box just out of his reach as you climb back onto the mattress.
He shifts, trying to grab for it, and you pull it away with a sly grin. “Nuh-uh. Gifts are for good boys.”
His cheeks flush, and you can see the way he clenches his jaw, equal parts turned on and frustrated. “You’re cruel,” he mutters, voice pitched low but threaded with a whine.
“You’ll live,” you tease, finally flicking open the box to reveal the sleek necklace and bracelet gleaming against the velvet. His breath actually catches, the irritation melting instantly into wide-eyed surprise.
“Baby…” His voice cracks, soft and reverent now as he looks up at you instead of the jewelry. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” you interrupt, settling between his legs again, holding the bracelet out toward him. “Now, do I get to put it on you or are you still being bratty?”
That earns you a small laugh, sheepish and warm, and he finally holds out his wrist, eyes shining. And just as you lean in to clasp it, he grumbles under his breath, barely audible—
“Still evil though.”
You glance up at him through your lashes, lips twitching. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, biting the inside of his cheek like he can swallow the words back down but the faint pink staining his ears gives him away.
“Oh, no, no,” you murmur, fastening the bracelet snugly around his wrist. “I heard you.” You hold his hand up, admiring how the metal gleams against his skin. “Evil and thoughtful. You really do have the best of both worlds.”
He ducks his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. His thumb brushes lightly over the chain, and you catch the way his chest tightens like he’s fighting not to get emotional.
“Looks good on you,” you say softly, your teasing tone mellowing just for a moment. “Better than I even pictured.”
His gaze lifts, warm and intent, all traces of his earlier pout fading into something that makes your stomach flip. “You know I’m never taking this off, right?”
You grin, leaning in close until your nose brushes his. “Good. That was the point.”
And just when he’s about to kiss you—when you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves—you pull back with a mischievous smirk. “Now, about that necklace…”
His groan is instant and theatrical, head falling back against the pillows. “Noona, you’re actually trying to kill me.”
“Not kill,” you correct, fingers toying with the chain. “Just…ruin a little.”
You slip the chain from the box, holding it just above his collarbones, watching the way his throat bobs as he swallows. “And no mouth kissing, remember?” you remind him sweetly, tone light but edged with mischief.
He groans, covering his face with one hand like he regrets ever agreeing to your rule for the night. “You’re killing me.”
You laugh softly, brushing his hair back as you clasp the necklace behind his neck, letting your fingers linger against his skin. “Relax, Kookie. I never said anything about other kinds of kissing.”
That makes him peek at you through his fingers, eyes going dark with both suspicion and anticipation. “You’re dangerous.”
“You love it,” you say with a grin, leaning down just enough to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the hollow of his throat. “We’ve established this already.”
His breath hitches so sharply you feel it against your lips, his hand dropping from his face to clutch at your waist like he needs something to anchor him. The little pulse beneath your mouth stutters, and the sound he makes—half groan, half plea—shoots straight through you.
“Fuck, baby…” His voice is rough now, shaky, and it only eggs you on.
You drag your lips lazily across his skin, leaving featherlight kisses up the column of his throat, pausing at the spot just under his jaw where you know he’s sensitive. You don’t bite, don’t mark—just let your mouth linger, warm and slow, until he’s trembling under you.
When you finally pull back to look at him, his pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. The new necklace glints at his collarbone, framed perfectly by the trail of your affection.
“See?” you whisper, smirking as you smooth your thumb over his jaw. “Rules can be fun if you let me play with them a little.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s gathering himself, then opens them again—glassier now, hungrier. “You’re not gonna let me survive the night, are you?”
You laugh, leaning in to brush your lips just shy of his ear. “Depends…are you gonna be a good boy for me?”
“When aren’t I?”
You raise an eyebrow at him before telling him to get comfortable while you shuffle down between his legs.
His smirk lingers as he leans back against the pillows, arms spread out like he’s trying to play it cool but the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast gives him away. His eyes track you the whole time, sharp and dark, but there’s a flicker of nervous excitement in them that makes your lips twitch.
“You talk big, Kookie,” you murmur, settling between his thighs, hands gliding up the insides just to watch him shiver. “Guess I’ll see if you can back it up.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and tips his head back against the headboard. “You’re gonna kill me tonight,” he says, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays just how much he’s looking forward to it.
Your eyebrow arches again, playful. “That a complaint?”
His gaze snaps back to you, intense now, no hesitation. “Never.”
Your palms smooth along his thighs, deliberate and slow, until your nails dig just enough to make his muscles twitch under your touch. Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath, head falling back, throat bared for you like he knows exactly what game you’re playing.
“Comfortable?” you ask, voice dripping with mock sweetness.
He huffs out a laugh that dissolves into a groan when you press a kiss just above his waistband. “You know I’m not,” he rasps, hips jerking despite himself.
“Good,” you murmur against his skin, hands curling around his thighs to hold him steady as your mouth trails lower, teasing, never giving him enough. His fingers twitch against the sheets, then ball into fists when you deliberately skip over where he wants you most.
“Please,” he finally breathes out, broken and needy, the word torn from him like it costs him everything to say it.
You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes, wide and dark and desperate. A wicked smile curves your lips as you ask, “Please what, birthday boy?”
The way his jaw works, like he’s fighting pride and surrender at the same time, has your pulse racing.
Jungkook couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that you told him to “get comfortable.” Because he wasn’t. At all. His back sank into the pillows, hands flexing uselessly at his sides as you slid down between his legs, and every muscle in his body felt strung too tight.
His chest rose and fell too fast. The new chain sat cool against his collarbones, a sharp contrast to the heat crawling down his skin where your mouth had just been. He swore he could feel the press of your lips there even now, taunting him, making him want more.
When your fingers brushed along the waistband of his sweats, his hips jumped before he could stop them. “Noona…” he groaned, hating how desperate it sounded, hating how badly he wanted to beg when he’d promised himself he wouldn’t.
The truth was, you had him undone already. No kissing on the mouth, that stupid rule was unraveling him worse than anything else, because it meant he couldn’t ground himself in you. He had to take everything you gave, every kiss lower than his lips, every brush of your hand, and it left him aching, twitching under your control.
And then you tugged his sweats down just enough, and Jungkook swore his vision blurred. His cock slapped up against his stomach, heavy, flushed, and so hard it hurt.
“Fuck,” he whispered, dragging a hand over his face. He could feel his own pulse in it, leaking already, shameless. And you hadn’t even touched him yet.
When you finally leaned down, your breath ghosting over the tip, his whole body jerked. “Baby, please—” The plea broke out before he could choke it back, raw and unguarded. His fingers fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, every nerve screaming for relief.
And when your lips wrapped around him—slow, deliberate, like you had all the time in the world—Jungkook’s head fell back against the pillows with a strangled cry.
God, he thought, she’s really going to kill me tonight.
The first drag of your mouth down his cock nearly stole the breath from his lungs. Heat, wet, suction—he’d had it a thousand times, but never like this, never when he wasn’t allowed to kiss you back, wasn’t allowed to ground himself in your mouth in the way he craved most.
“F-fuck,” he stuttered, hips twitching up before he forced them down again, digging his heels into the mattress so he wouldn’t lose it too fast. He needed to last. He needed you to take your time, even if it killed him.
Your tongue curled around the head, flicking at the slit, lapping up the precum spilling freely now. Every touch made his cock throb violently, his stomach tightening like a knot being pulled tighter and tighter. When you slid down farther, hollowing your cheeks, he groaned so loud he swore his neighbors must’ve heard.
His hand shot down, instinctive, tangling in your hair but he didn’t push. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was because he respected your pace or because he was terrified he’d shove too hard, spill down your throat too fast, and ruin it before you decided he deserved to come.
“Shit,baby,” he rasped, head lolling back against the pillow. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his temples. You were taking him so deep, his tip brushing the back of your throat, and the gag of it made his cock twitch violently. He was seconds from losing it. “I-I can’t—”
But then you pulled back with a slick pop, smirking up at him with his cock glistening, spit shining along your chin.
He thought he might actually cry.
“You’re…you’re evil,” he panted, voice breaking. His thighs were trembling, his cock leaking all over his abs now, untouched for the moment and aching so bad it almost hurt.
When your hand wrapped around the base and started stroking slow, twisting, pumping him while your mouth sank back down over the head—Jungkook’s vision went white at the edges. His toes curled, his abs clenched, his whole body bowed up off the bed.
“Noona, please,” he begged shamelessly now, any last shred of control ripped away. “Please, let me—fuckkkk, let me come. Please.”
The steady twist of your wrist paired with the wet slide of your mouth was too much,his body was wound so tight it felt like every nerve ending was wired to your tongue. Jungkook’s moans had gone ragged, each one higher, sharper, closer to a cry. His thighs shook uncontrollably, muscles straining as if he could hold back the inevitable, but his body betrayed him.
“F-fuck! oh my god, noona—” His head thrashed against the pillow, black hair sticking to his forehead, chest slick with sweat. His cock throbbed violently in your hand, every vein rigid, his balls drawn tight. He could feel it coming, deep in his spine, rushing forward like a wave too powerful to fight.
“Gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come…please,” he gasped, hips jerking despite himself, driving deeper into your throat. The sight of you taking it, the sound of you gagging just slightly and humming around him, it broke him.
With a hoarse, choked cry, he came. Hot, thick ropes of cum spilled down your throat, his entire body arching up as though he could disappear inside you. His stomach clenched, muscles spasming with every pulse of release, cock twitching helplessly as you swallowed around him.
It went on and on—longer than he thought he could even last—until he collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, body boneless. His hand was still tangled in your hair, trembling as he stroked weakly through it, pulling you gently off him when the oversensitivity made him flinch.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked, almost broken. His throat was raw from moaning, from begging. He looked down at you with glassy eyes, lips parted, completely undone.
And when you licked your lips, his cum shining on them, then leaned up to kiss his jaw—carefully avoiding his mouth, still obeying the rule—he thought he might die on the spot.
“You’re…insane,” he breathed, smiling weakly, dazed. “And perfect. God, baby…I don’t even have words.”
“I do and they’re you’re not done yet.” You whisper in his ear.
His whole body stiffens at your words, the heat of your breath against his ear sending another shiver racing down his spine. He’s still trembling from the orgasm, muscles weak, but the second your whisper lands, his cock twitches against his stomach, already starting to stir back to life.
Jungkook turns his head, eyes blown wide and dark, disbelieving and needy all at once. “Noona…” His voice cracks, half-plea, half-worship, like he’s not sure if he’s begging you to stop or to ruin him even more.
You nip at the shell of his ear, slow and deliberate. “Birthday boy doesn’t get to tap out after one.”
His hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air. “You’re—fuck, you’re serious?”
You smile against his skin, your hand sliding down his stomach, deliberately brushing the base of his cock that’s already starting to harden again. His hips jerk helplessly.
“Dead serious,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “And this time…no hands on me. You just lie there and take it.”
The broken sound that leaves him is pure desperation, his head falling back into the pillows. “You’re gonna kill me,” he gasps, though the way his body arches into your touch betrays how badly he wants it.
You don’t move right away after whispering in his ear. Instead, you let the words hang there, your breath hot against his skin. His chest rises and falls rapidly, still trying to calm from the first round, and you relish the way he’s already trembling under you.
“Not done yet,” you murmur again, dragging your mouth along the line of his jaw, careful to keep away from his lips. Your tongue flicks against his earlobe before you bite down gently. He shivers.
“Baby…” It’s half a whine, half a plea. His hands twitch at your sides like he wants to grab, wants to pull you down, but he doesn’t—not after last time—not when he knows better now.
You smirk and slide lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his chest, pausing to suck lightly on one nipple until he groans, then moving to the other, fingers dancing across the taut muscles of his stomach. Every brush of your mouth is too light to satisfy him, and the way his abs clench beneath you makes you slow down even more.
When you finally settle between his thighs, he’s already half-hard again, sensitive and aching. You drag your nails gently up the inside of his leg, stopping just shy of where he wants you. His hips buck involuntarily, but you press his thighs down with your palms, keeping him pinned.
“Patience, Jungkookie,” you hum, echoing your earlier tease.
He curses under his breath, head thrown back against the pillow, one arm covering his eyes like he can’t stand to watch you torture him this way.
You wrap one hand loosely around him, not moving yet, just holding, letting him throb against your palm. Then you lean down, tongue darting out to tease the underside of his length, a single stripe from base to tip. He gasps, thighs trembling, but when you pull back again without taking more, he growls in frustration.
“Cruel,” he mutters, echoing himself from earlier, voice ragged.
“You’ll live,” you purr, before taking him slowly into your mouth.
The sound he makes is wrecked, desperate. His fingers clutch at the sheets as you sink down inch by inch, stopping to hollow your cheeks, to swirl your tongue around the tip, to pull back almost entirely before sliding down again. You don’t give him rhythm—just waves of sensation, unpredictable, dragging him higher only to ease off and start again.
By the time you let him hit the back of your throat, he’s shaking, sweat dampening his hair, moaning without shame. “Fuck…baby, please—”
You pull off with a wet pop, stroking him lazily while you lick your lips, eyes locked on his. “What’s that? Please what?”
His voice cracks when he answers. “Please let me…let me come.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. Not yet.”
He actually whimpers, biting down on his fist. You laugh softly, leaning forward to kiss just above his navel before swallowing him down again, faster this time, deeper, until his thighs are trembling and his hand flies to your hair before jerking back like he remembers he’s not allowed.
Only when he’s right on the edge again, toes curling, voice breaking around your name, do you finally let him go, your hand working him in fast, tight strokes while you keep your mouth on him, sucking him through until he unravels hard, spilling with a broken cry.
You don’t pull away until he’s twitching, oversensitive and whining, his hips trying weakly to get away from your mouth. When you finally let up, you kiss his thigh sweetly, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.
“You lasted,” you tease, voice low. “Good boy.”
His chest is heaving, face flushed, eyes dazed and shining as he stares at you like you’ve just undone him completely. “You’re evil,” he pants, but the way his lips curl into a lazy grin gives him away.
“And you,” you murmur, climbing back up his body to settle against him, “love it.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to bask in the aftermath of wrecking him. The second you settle against his chest, smug and satisfied, Jungkook rolls, flipping your positions so you’re on your back beneath him, breath catching at the sudden shift.
“Think you’re the only one who can drag things out?” he smirks, voice still hoarse but thick with determination. His mouth dips to your throat before you can answer, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin there. He lingers at your collarbone, sucking just enough to leave you tingling, before dragging his lips lower.
You know his piercing means he has to be careful, that he can’t risk irritation with too much direct mouth-to-mouth, but Jungkook makes up for it by kissing everywhere else—your jaw, your throat, your shoulders, the tops of your breasts. Each press of his lips is careful but searing, like he’s staking a claim on every inch of skin.
When his hands slip under your shirt and push it up, his mouth follows the reveal, inch by inch, until the fabric bunches beneath your arms. Then he freezes.
The soft intake of breath tells you he’s just noticed—the glint of metal where your nipples are pierced, barbells catching the low light. His eyes darken instantly, pupils blown wide as he stares like he’s never wanted anything more.
“You didn’t tell me about these,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. His thumb brushes across one barbell, sending a sharp jolt of sensation through you. You shiver, biting back a moan.
“Surprise,” you whisper, teasing, but your voice is already shaky.
His grin is wicked. “Surprise indeed and given that they look all nice and healed, you been hiding them for awhile.”
Before you can retort, his mouth is on you—hot, wet, careful but relentless. He doesn’t suck hard at first, mindful of the piercings, but he drags his tongue slowly around one nipple, deliberately catching the barbell just enough to make you gasp. Then he does the same to the other, alternating back and forth until you’re writhing under him, hands clutching his hair.
Every graze of his teeth, every flick of his tongue around the metal, sends sparks through you—sharper, more intense than you expected, amplified by the piercings you’d almost forgotten to warn him about.
“Fuck, Jungkook—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, voice muffled but smug. “Let me hear it.”
And when he finally closes his lips around one nipple and sucks properly, the pressure tugging against the piercing, your back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling out before you can stop it. He hums in approval, the vibration making it worse—better—until you’re clawing at his shoulders, begging without words.
When he pulls back, lips slick and eyes blazing, he looks like he could devour you whole. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he says simply, before ducking back down to claim the other breast with equal intensity, determined to make you fall apart the way you just did to him.
He drags his hand down your stomach, slow enough to make you whimper, before slipping into your waistband. He doesn’t rush—fingers teasing along the edges, grazing you just enough to make your hips lift off the bed in frustration.
“You want it?” he asks, hovering cruelly close.
“Yes. fuck, yes, please,” you pant.
That’s all he needs. His fingers slide through your wetness, parting you, circling your clit with maddening precision. His mouth returns to your chest, tongue flicking and teeth grazing carefully around the metal as his hand works between your thighs. The double assault is devastating,every nerve lit, every drag of his fingers sending you higher.
He slips one finger inside, then two, curling them just right, his palm grinding against your clit in steady rhythm. Your cries fill the room, back arching, legs trembling.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, relentless. “So fucking gorgeous when you break for me.”
You’re gone, chasing the edge with every stroke, every graze of his teeth and tongue against your piercings. When he finally presses harder, faster, curling his fingers deep inside, your orgasm slams into you—sharp, consuming, leaving you clawing at him and sobbing his name.
But Jungkook doesn’t stop. He draws it out, fingers still working, pace unyielding even as you shudder and beg for mercy. “Not done yet,” he whispers, voice rough and intent. “I’m gonna take you again…and again…until you can’t think of anything but me.”
His fingers finally slow, sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your cheeks burn, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He licks them clean—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring you—before hooking his hands under your thighs and dragging you down the bed until your hips are flush with his.
“Round two,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel and honey all at once. “And this time I set the pace.”
You barely manage a nod before he’s tugging your shorts down and off, tossing them aside. He pushes your legs open, wide enough that the stretch burns, then settles between them with his cock hard and heavy against your slick entrance. He doesn’t thrust in right away—he grinds slow, deliberate, smearing himself through your folds, letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit until you’re trembling.
“Jungkook—please,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He smirks, leaning down to kiss you deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he finally pushes forward. The stretch steals your breath, hot and overwhelming, and you feel every inch as he sinks into you with a groan that vibrates in your chest.
“Fuck,” he growls against your lips. “Tight,so fucking tight even after all the times I’ve been here.”
He gives you a second to adjust, chest pressed to yours brushing your nipple as he shifts. Then he pulls back slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in hard enough to make the headboard crack against the wall. You cry out, body arching into him, and he sets a rhythm—slow, punishing thrusts that drag out every nerve-ending scream of pleasure.
“You think you can handle me dragging it out?” His words are broken by his own groans, hips snapping into you harder. “You’re gonna take every second of this, baby. Every. Fucking. Inch.”
He braces one hand beside your head, the other sliding down to hook under your knee and press it up, opening you even wider. The new angle makes you choke on a moan as he hits deeper, relentless, each thrust grazing that spot that makes your vision blur.
Your nails rake down his back, your body caught between begging for mercy and begging for more. Jungkook doesn’t let up—his mouth is everywhere,sucking your neck, dragging his tongue across your piercings again, biting your shoulder when you clench too hard around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, eyes locked on yours as sweat drips down his temple. “Already falling apart, and we’re not even close to done.”
The pressure builds fast, unbearable, your body tightening around him. You’re babbling his name, incoherent pleas spilling from your lips as he pistons into you harder, faster, his grunts turning ragged.
And when you finally break, the orgasm rips through you violent and sharp, your body convulsing beneath him. Jungkook doesn’t stop—he fucks you through it, dragging out every spasm, every desperate cry, until you’re shaking, clawing at him like you’ll fall apart without him holding you together.
Only then does he finally let himself go, thrusting deep one last time as he groans your name, his release spilling hot inside you. He stays there, buried deep, chest heaving against yours, sweat-slick skin sticking together as if he can’t bear to pull away.
When he finally lifts his head, his grin is wicked, satisfied. “Round two,” he says, voice wrecked. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your lips, still lingering. “And we’re still not done.”
You don’t get to say or do anything before his phone rings. He groans loudly before reaching over to the bedside table to grab it before he answers. Your fingers rake through his hair while he talks before he hangs up and looks at you.
“You ordered food?”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.” You laugh lightly.“You kept grumbling about being hungry while you were live and then you came in here and distracted me.”
Jungkook tosses his phone back on the nightstand with a groan, then drops his forehead against your chest. “You’re lucky I’m starving or I’d keep you pinned here until morning.”
You laugh, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Please, you’d pass out before I did.”
He lifts his head just enough to give you that incredulous look, like you’ve just challenged him to the most important competition of his life. “You wanna test that theory later?”
The ring of the doorbell cuts through the room, sharp and intrusive. Jungkook groans like it’s a personal attack, reluctantly pulling out of you and grabbing a pair of sweats from the floor.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, pointing at you like you’re a flight risk, though his grin ruins the stern act.
You tug the blanket over yourself, giggling as you watch him pad barefoot out the bedroom door, hair damp with sweat, skin still flushed. The delivery guy doesn’t even blink—just hands him the bags and bows before disappearing down the hall. Jungkook shuts the door with his hip, muttering, “Saved by food. You’re lucky.”
He sets everything on the coffee table, then comes back to drag you out of bed despite your protests. “Come on. Movie. Food. Then…” His smirk is wicked, but his hands are gentle as he wraps you in his tshirt before steering you out of the bedroom to the couch where he was live just an hour ago.
The two of you settle in, legs tangled together, cartons of food spread out in front of you. He insists on feeding you the first bite, holding the chopsticks to your lips with that boyish grin that always makes your chest ache. You feed him back, and the banter is easy—complaints about how hungry you are, him teasing that you moaned louder for him than you ever would for food.
A movie plays in the background, neither of you paying it much attention except for the occasional comment. His arm rests around your shoulders, thumb absentmindedly stroking your skin, and between bites he presses soft kisses against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. It’s quiet, warm, the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand anything but presence.
By the time the food is gone, your stomach is full but your heart feels fuller. Jungkook shifts down on the couch, head pillowed in your lap as he watches the screen with heavy-lidded eyes. His hand rests over your thigh, fingers twitching like he can’t not touch you.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” you tease, running your fingers through his damp hair.
His lips curl into a sleepy smile. “Too late. You’re stuck with me like this.” And for a while, you are; just the two of you, the remnants of food on the table, the low hum of the movie filling the space.
Jungkook’s lashes flutter once, twice, before his breathing steadies, the weight of his head warm and heavy against your thigh. You pause, fingers tangled in his hair, and just watch him. The curve of his nose, the soft part of his mouth, the way his chest rises and falls. He looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way you don’t often get to see. The world knows him as untouchable, magnetic, but here he’s just your boy—sweat-damp hair and a faint soy sauce stain on the corner of his lip.
You brush it away with your thumb, and he makes a little noise in his sleep, lips parting just slightly. Your heart squeezes at the sound. You think, not for the first time, that you could live in this moment forever; just him, heavy and warm, trusting you enough to let his guard down completely.
But then his hand twitches against your thigh, fingers flexing higher, until his thumb brushes the hem of the shirt he made you wear. His lashes lift, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re no longer hazy with sleep. They’re sharp, dark, mischievous.
“Were you watching me sleep?” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe,” you admit, tugging lightly at his hair. “You looked cute.”
He hums, a sound that sends a shiver straight through you. “Cute, huh?” He shifts suddenly, rolling so he’s half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the couch cushions. “Guess I should fix that.”
The movie continues to play, forgotten, as his mouth drags lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, down the neckline of his own shirt you’re drowning in. His grin is wicked against your skin. “Round three,” he whispers, already working his way lower.
Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it, light and teasing. “You really behave like a bunny, y’know.”
Jungkook pauses just long enough to lift his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes. His smirk deepens, slow and dangerous. “A bunny, huh?” He noses at your jaw, voice muffled and low. “Cute on the outside…but you’ve seen how rabbits really are.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip, a promise disguised as a joke. His teeth graze your throat, playful but edging on hungry, and the warmth of his hands slides higher beneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt.
“Jungkook,” your voice catches when his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts, teasing at the piercings like he can’t resist.
He hums like he’s heard exactly what he wanted, the sound reverberating through your chest. “You shouldn’t have said that, noona. Now I’ve got an excuse.”
The movie hums on in the background, forgotten. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging when he nips at your skin just enough to sting. He chuckles against you, wicked satisfaction laced in the sound.
“You started it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone. “Now you’ve gotta take responsibility.”
His hand drags slowly down your stomach, deliberate, until his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt and pins your hips with his free hand, smirk lazy and sharp.
“You’re mine for the rest of the night,” he says simply, voice hoarse but steady. “And I’m not letting you sleep until I’ve proven it.”
“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, thrusts deep and deliberate, “and you’re still gonna beg me for more.”
you believe him.
Jungkook’s mouth is everywhere, slow but insistent, as if he’s determined to taste every inch of you under the dim flicker of the forgotten movie. His teeth graze the swell of your breast, his tongue circling your piercing just enough to make your toes curl. You’re already slick again, the ache between your thighs building with every drag of his mouth, every careful press of his fingers.
“Still calling me a bunny?” he asks against your skin, voice low and dangerous. His hand slips lower, sliding between your legs, fingers finding you already wet. He groans softly, almost reverent. “Fuck…look at you. So ready. I don’t even need to prep you, do I?”
You shake your head, biting your lip. “No…just—just fuck me, Kook.”
That’s all the permission he needs. He hooks your thighs over his shoulders, dragging you down the couch until your hips are at the edge, legs spread wide. You gasp as he presses the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never go all the way in.
“Beg for it,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “If I’m a bunny, then you’re my mate and mates beg.”
Your face burns, but the need outweighs your pride. “Please,baby. Please fuck me.”
His answering groan is guttural, torn from deep in his chest. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching you until you’re gasping, fingers clawing at the couch cushions. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush with yours, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.
“God,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking perfect. Every time.”
He starts to move, slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot, deep enough that you swear you can feel him in your throat. It’s not the punishing pace from before. This is different,intimate. He wants you to feel every inch, every stroke, every second of being filled by him.
Your nails rake down his back, your moans spilling free as he rolls his hips, grinding against your clit with every thrust. He kisses you—soft, careful not to brush your mouth too much because of his piercing, but he makes up for it with kisses everywhere else. Your neck. Your jaw. The shell of your ear. Each one grounding you even as he fucks you higher and higher.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice breaking as your walls tighten around him. “Taking me so good. Fuck, you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you gasp, arching into him, legs trembling where they rest on his shoulders. “Always yours.”
That’s all it takes. His rhythm sharpens, hips snapping harder, faster, chasing both your release and his. The wet slap of skin fills the room, mixing with your cries and his groans, the movie long forgotten.
Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, stealing your breath as your whole body seizes around him. You cry out his name, vision blurring, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Jungkook fucks you through it, relentless, until he’s shaking above you, spilling hot and deep inside as he groans your name like a prayer.
For a long moment, neither of you move. He stays buried in you, chest pressed tight to yours, his sweat-slick skin sticking to you like he never wants to let go. His breathing evens out slowly, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your thigh.
When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his grin is soft, boyish, so different from the wrecked intensity of just a moment ago. “Round three,” he whispers, kissing your temple gently. “But I think…” He trails off with a chuckle. “I’ve got at least one more in me.”
You laugh weakly, pushing at his chest. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he admits, settling against you again, his cock still heavy and warm inside you. “But I’m yours though so you’re stuck with me.”
And in that moment, with his heartbeat thudding against yours and the quiet hum of the TV filling the room, you wouldn’t want it any other way.
Summary: After returning from Japan, you’re greeted by Jungkook who’s waiting for you—just as promised—but safely in his car, away from prying eyes. exhaustion quickly turns to intimacy, with slow mornings and teasing, domestic moments that highlight your deep connection. Jungkook’s playful, insatiable nature keeps you both on edge, yet the warmth, care, and desire between you is undeniable. Between stolen kisses, breakfast, and flirty texts, your bond is messy, passionate, and unashamedly yours even as life and schedules threaten to pull you apart.
Warnings: idol!jk x poc!singer/songwriter!oc, smut! MDNI!, oral (f.rec),mentions of road head, jk is a simp and a munch with no shame about it, jk calls her noona but it’s mainly teasing or when he wants to get his way, jk is lowkey a little menace but you love it, kinda dom/sub/switch dynamics but it’s not explicitly mentioned, kinda domesticated, lots of silliness and banter through text dialogue. There’s some song lyrics in there, overall they just both two little tsundere simps 🤷🏽♀️, As usual I might be missing something. This picks up where the first part left off but I think it can be read as a stand alone.
W.C: 13.5k not including the song lyrics I used. Would be less if I had just used a text app 😂
Happy Kookie Day to my fellow Virgo!
AG1
Just as he said he would Jungkook’s waiting in his car when you land. He’d wanted to be at the gate but you had managed to get him to stay in the car. You were pretty sure that even if he was covered from head to toe he would still get recognized and you wanted to enjoy your relationship before you got outed to the world.
The moment you step out of the arrivals gate and into the humid buzz of Incheon’s summer night, your phone lights up with a text:
Munch 🐰
Black Benz, lane 3. Don’t keep me waiting, noona 😏
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself as you adjust the strap of your carry-on and head toward the curb. There he is, exactly where he said he’d be parked in lane 3, engine running, windows tinted so dark no one can see a thing, but you’d recognize that car anywhere. You climb in fast after putting your luggage in the trunk and shut the door behind you with a quiet thunk. The moment you’re inside, your mask is off, his hat pushed back, and he’s grinning at you like you’re the sunrise itself.
“Hey, stranger,” he murmurs, reaching across the console to twist a loose curl around his finger. “Miss me?”
You snort, tossing your bag into the back. “You called me every night and fell asleep on FaceTime. Be serious.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you,” he shrugs, leaning over to press a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. “Missed this. Missed you in my car, smelling like me.”
You roll your eyes again, but your heart flutters at the softness in his tone.
“Missed you too,” you say, and it’s quieter than you meant it to be.
He hums, eyes scanning your face like he’s making sure you’re really here, really okay. “You tired?”
You nod. “Exhausted.”
“Hungry?”
You pause, considering. “I could eat.”
Jungkook grins. “Good, I stocked the fridge. Got your milk tea and that stupidly expensive snack mix you like.”
Your chest tightens. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs, starting the car like it’s no big deal. “I remember everything.”
The ride is quiet at first, comfortable. His hand finds yours on the console halfway through, fingers lacing like it’s second nature, thumb tracing circles on your knuckles.
“Your place or mine?” he asks at a red light.
“Yours,” you say automatically, head already lolling to the side as the exhaustion starts to drag you down. “Yours is closer and has better pillows.”
He chuckles, squeezing your hand. “And you.”
By the time you pull into his garage, you’re dozing in the passenger seat. He doesn’t wake you up, just sits there for a moment, watching you with that soft look he only ever wears when you’re too tired to catch it before he gets out of the car.
Then, as gentle as ever, he unbuckles you, lifts you into his arms, and carries you inside knowing you’d give him an earful about lifting you if you were awake. There’s no cameras, no flashing lights. Just you, and him, and the quiet little world you’ve built in the shadows. And if he falls asleep with you still wrapped in his arms that night, your airport-scented hair in his face and a smile on his lips?
That’s between you, him, and the sheets he definitely won’t be changing anytime soon.
You wake the next morning to warm light filtering in through Jungkook’s blackout curtains—he never fully shuts them, claiming he likes the way the sun finds its way in anyway. But really, you suspect it’s because he likes seeing you in soft morning light, likes pretending the day can start slow, even when his schedule never does.
You’re still tucked against him, your face pressed into the curve of his neck, your legs tangled together like they’ve always belonged there and his arm tightens around you the second you shift. “Mmm. No running away,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, words barely formed.
You smile against his throat. “I wasn’t.”
“You were wiggling.”
“I was breathing.”
“Suspicious.”
You laugh quietly, brushing your nose against his collarbone. “I have to pee, you menace.”
He sighs dramatically but lets go. “Fine but you better come back.”
You slide out of bed on shaky legs, still sore in all the right places from before your flight, and pad into the bathroom. When you come back out, Jungkook’s half-asleep again, shirtless, hair a beautiful mess against his pillow, one hand resting on your empty side like he’s waiting for you to fill it. You slip back in without a word, curling into him again, and his arm immediately wraps around your waist.
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.
“You sure you don’t wanna just move in?”
You blink. “What?”
He keeps his eyes closed, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re always here. My house smells like your lotion and your favorite coffee.My laundry has your socks. My fridge has that elderberry juice you like…just move in.”
You snort. “Is this your version of a proposal?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
You lean back to look at him, brows raised. “Are you being serious?”
He opens his eyes then, and they’re clear, warm and honest in the soft morning light.
“I want you here,” he says simply. “More than just sleepovers and sneaking around. I want to wake up like this all the time. With you in my bed, hogging my pillows, leaving your earrings on every surface.”
You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. “Jungkook…”
“You don’t have to say yes right now,” he adds quickly, brushing your cheek. “I know this isn’t simple but I’m serious about you, about us and I don’t want to pretend like this is temporary anymore.”
Your heart thuds loud in your chest, but not from fear, from something much softer, deeper.
You trace your fingers over the line of his jaw. “Let me think about it?
He nods, but he’s smiling. “Take all the time you need.”
You kiss him then, slow and full of things you’re not ready to say out loud yet but he hears them anyway. And maybe you won’t say yes today but the extra toothbrush in his bathroom, the robe hanging on the back of his door, the fact that he always buys two of everything—that says plenty.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?” He hums, voice still full of sleep.
“I’m hungry.” You say just as your stomach grumbles.
Jungkook cracks one eye open, his lips twitching in amusement as your stomach makes a second, louder protest.
“You sure that wasn’t an earthquake?” he teases, voice gravelly and way too attractive for someone who’s barely awake.
You nudge his chest with a half-hearted glare. “Don’t bully me.”
“I’m not” he says with a grin, dragging you closer again like you’re not already tucked beneath him.
You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best wide-eyed pout. “You definitely are.”
He groans, clearly weak for the expression. “Don’t do that. You know I’m helpless when you look at me like that.”
“Then feed me,” you say sweetly, punctuating it with a kiss to the center of his chest.
Jungkook laughs, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright, alright. I did say I stocked up.”
You roll out of bed again, this time a little less wobbly, stealing one of his oversized shirts from the floor as you go. He watches you pull it on, biting back a smile when it swallows you whole despite your full figure.
“God, you look too good like that,” he mutters, finally dragging himself upright.
You smirk over your shoulder. “Don’t get distracted, chef. I want food, not your morning wood.”
He grabs a pair of sweats and follows you down the hall anyway. “We can multitask.”
“Jeon Jungkook.”
“Yes, noona?” he singsongs, opening the fridge and pulling out your favorite milk tea with a wink.
You catch it mid-air when he tosses it to you. “Menace.”
“Yours.”
You settle onto one of the kitchen stools, watching him move around like he owns the space—well, he does, but something about seeing him like this, shirtless, domestic, half-awake and still trying to impress you, makes your heart swell.
“What do you want?” he asks, rummaging in the freezer. “Eggs? Toast? That overpriced cereal you made me buy?”
You shrug. “Surprise me.”
Jungkook grins over his shoulder. “Dangerous game, baby.”
“Yeah, well,” you sip your tea, legs swinging lazily under the counter. “You’re the only kind of danger I don’t mind running toward.”
And just like that, he’s blushing again, just a little but you see it and you love it.
God help you, you’re so in love with this man.
Jungkook doesn’t answer right away not with words, at least. Instead, he turns back to the stove, shaking his head with a crooked grin like you’ve just said something utterly ridiculous and utterly you. You catch the way his ears turn pink, the way his shoulders relax just a little more. That’s the thing about Jungkook, he’s good at taking care of people, but he’s not always used to being taken care of back and he definitely isn’t used to being told he’s the kind of danger someone would run toward.
“Stop staring,” he mutters under his breath, cracking eggs into a hot pan before popping bread into the toaster.
“I’m not,” you lie, chin propped in your palm as you keep watching him anyway. “I’m admiring, totally different.”
He side-eyes you, but there’s no heat in it. “You’re gonna make me burn your eggs.”
You hum. “Worth it.”
He snorts, flipping the eggs effortlessly with one hand and reaching for bacon with the other. “One of these days I’m gonna stop letting you be cute and get away with it.”
“You love when I get away with it.”
He doesn’t deny it, just slides the finished eggs and bacon onto a plate, adds buttered toast, and sprinkles something on top that you’re pretty sure is from the tiny jar of fancy sea salt he once insisted he didn’t need and now swears by.
He sets the plate in front of you with a little flourish, then leans over the counter, arms folded, watching for your reaction like he’s Gordon Ramsay and you’re the only critic he cares about.
You take one bite—perfectly seasoned, eggs just the right amount of soft—and moan dramatically. “Oh my god. Jeon Gordon-Ramsay.”
He grins, all dimples and messy hair, leaning in a little closer. “Yeah?”
You nod, mouth full. “Marry me.”
Jungkook blinks.
You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth.
“…Too much?” you ask, cheeks heating up instantly, thankful for your darker complexion so he couldn’t have more ammo to tease you.
He doesn’t say anything—just reaches over, gently takes the fork from your hand, and replaces it with his fingers laced through yours. His voice is low, warm, impossibly sincere, “Ask me again when you’re not chewing.”
You stare at him, heart thudding stupidly loud in your chest.
“…Okay,” you whisper, smiling slowly. “Deal.”
And just like that, your dangerous boy—barefoot, sleep-mussed, feeding you eggs and calling you noona like it’s sacred—is suddenly everything you never saw coming and everything you never want to lose.
“You’re staring” you mumble as you bite into some bacon.
Jungkook doesn’t even pretend to look away.He just leans on the counter across from you, chin resting in one hand, eyes glued to your face like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I am.”
You chew a little slower, narrowing your eyes at him as you reach for your milk tea. “You’re making it weird.”
“You’re weird,” he counters, voice teasing but still soft, like the quiet morning’s left a haze he doesn’t want to break. “You come back from Japan looking like that, wearing my shirt, stealing my bacon, and then act surprised when I stare?”
You snort into your drink. “You made the bacon for me, Jeon.”
“And now I regret it,” he says, but the smile tugging at his lips says otherwise.
You hum around another bite. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” he admits, eyes dropping to the way you lick a bit of grease from your thumb. “I really, really don’t.”
You glance up at him, catching that look—that soft, hungry, slightly-lovesick look—and raise a brow. “Do you want more bacon, or do you want me?”
He shrugs one shoulder, playing it cool, but his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his fingers twitch against the counter like they’re itching to touch you again. “Why not both?”
You laugh, low and warm, setting your fork down and leaning closer. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’m yours,” he says, without hesitation, voice quiet and deadly sincere.
The moment hangs there for a beat—long enough for your breath to catch, long enough to feel the weight of it settle between your ribs—and then he grins, reaching over to steal a piece of bacon off your plate. “And I still want your bacon.”
You smack his hand half-heartedly, but your smile is already giving you away. He makes his way over to where you’re sitting and spins the stool you’re on.
“Yah, I wasn’t finished eating.” You playfully complain.
“And, I haven’t eaten yet.” He retorts and before you can tell him to get himself some food he drops to his knees in front of you. Your breath hitches before you can even form a response, your fingers frozen around your fork as Jungkook settles between your legs like he belongs there—he absolutely does—but not while you’re still chewing on bacon.
“Jungkook,” you warn, though there’s little heat behind it, more disbelief than anything else. “I swear to God—”
“I’m hungry,” he says, voice all faux innocence, lips already brushing against the inside of your thigh as he tugs the oversized shirt—his shirt—up just enough to bare more skin. “And you said surprise you, right?”
You blink. “That was about breakfast, food breakfast.”
He grins up at you, and it’s the kind of grin that’s equal parts holy and devastating. “And I’m full of surprises.”
You open your mouth to protest—try to protest—but his hands are warm on your thighs, and his eyes are anything but playful now. Focused. Intense. Like he’s already committed to ruining you all over again before the sun’s even fully up.
“You’re insatiable,” you whisper, breath catching as his fingers trail just under the hem of your shorts.
He hums, mouth ghosting along your skin. “Only for you.”
And then his lips part—pressing slow, teasing kisses up your inner thigh—and your hands fly back to grip the edge of the counter behind you like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
“You’re actually a insane,” you gasp, legs instinctively widening when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts.
He just chuckles, looking up at you with stars in his eyes and chaos in his smile. “Noona,” he murmurs, voice thick and dripping with intent, “let me have my breakfast.” And as your head falls back, the half-eaten bacon forgotten on the plate behind you, you realize two very important things:
One, you’re probably not making it to lunch with your friends.
And two, Jungkook’s mouth? Definitely still your favorite kind of danger.
“You’re so fucking spoiled and a munch.” Jungkook grins against your skin, completely unbothered by the accusation, thriving on it, if anything.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful as he presses another kiss higher up your thigh. “I am spoiled but whose fault is that, huh?”
Your breath stutters as he drags his lips slowly along your skin, eyes flicking up to meet yours—smug, dark, and stupidly pretty even on his knees.
“You let me ruin you every time,” he says, nipping at the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “You wear my clothes. You sit in my kitchen all pretty and soft, begging to be tasted without saying a damn word.”
“I didn’t say—” you start, only for your words to dissolve into a gasp as his hands tug your shorts down in one smooth motion.
“You didn’t have to,” he grins, tossing them aside. “Your thighs were already open for me. You’re the spoiled one, baby. I’m just playing my role.”
You groan, head falling back as he kisses the crease where your leg meets your hip, warm breath fanning over your already-sensitive skin. “You’re insufferable.”
“And hungry,” he counters, licking a slow stripe up your center before groaning like it’s the first real meal he’s had in weeks. “Fuck, I missed this.”
You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging gently as your legs threaten to close around his head. “You’re such a munch.”
He laughs—moans, really—and presses a kiss right where it makes you twitch.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, tongue teasing, voice wrecked. “Say it while I make you scream.”
The worst part? You do scream because he is your spoiled, insatiable, annoyingly good with his mouth munch and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
“You’re a munch…” you moan as he grips your thighs and holds them over his shoulders.
Jungkook groans at your words, like being called out only spurs him on more, like he lives for the title.
“Damn right I am,” he growls against you, voice muffled by the way his mouth is already back on you, eating you like he’s been starving for days. “I could live here.”
His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging in just enough to ground you as he pushes them further apart over his shoulders, anchoring you to him like you might float away otherwise. His tongue works you over with practiced, almost worshipful precision, and every time you twitch, he just moans against you like it’s a reward.
“You taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, barely breaking contact. “You say it like an insult, but you don’t want me to stop.”
Your head falls back as another wave rolls through you, your fingers tangled in his hair now, tugging without mercy. “Kook, fuck, I—”
He hums low, the vibration sending shockwaves up your spine. “Say it again.”
You barely manage it, voice catching in your throat. “You’re such a fucking munch, baby—fuck—”
He smirks into you, and you feel it. “I know,” he breathes, eyes flicking up to meet yours, dark and desperate and so gone in the act of devouring you. “And I’m not stopping till you come all over my face.”
With the way he’s working you—possessive and greedy and utterly in love with your pleasure—you know he’s not bluffing. He never is when it comes to you.
“I need to be able to use my legs you…oh fuck!”
Jungkook laughs—low, wrecked, and absolutely feral—right against your core, the sound vibrating through you as he locks his arms tighter around your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“You were saying?” he murmurs, lips brushing your slick skin like he’s kissing reverence into every inch of you.
“I need to—fuck, Jungkook—I have things to do today,” you gasp, voice already breaking as your fingers curl helplessly in his hair. “You’re gonna make me forget how to walk.”
“That’s the plan, baby,” he says, and there’s zero remorse in his tone. “You think I waited four days while you were in Japan just to behave when I got you back in my bed?”
“This isn’t your bed—o meu deus—this is the kitchen!”
“And it’ll be the living room next if you keep whining,” he growls, tongue flicking against your clit just right as his grip shifts, one hand sliding up to palm your breast through the shirt you stole. “You’re wearing my shirt, sitting half-naked at my kitchen counter, moaning my name and you expect me to act civilized?”
Your breath stutters, another moan spilling from your lips as your hips buck against his face, instinctive and desperate. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, like he wants you to lose control, like your unraveling is his personal mission from the heavens.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lapping you up like it’s the last meal he’ll ever get. “C’mon, baby. Give it to me. Let me make those pretty legs useless for a little while.”
You try to respond—really try—but the words melt into nothing as the pressure coiling in your gut snaps all at once, your whole body trembling as you cry out his name. Through it all, Jungkook doesn’t let up—not until you’re twitching, breathless, and clinging to the counter like it’s the only thing holding you to earth. When he finally pulls back, lips shiny, hair a mess from your hands, he smirks up at you with the most insufferably smug expression you’ve ever seen.
“Told you I was hungry.”
Honestly? You might hate him a little but you love him even more.
“Fuck, no more you brat.” You moan trying to close your legs but he uses his shoulders to keep them apart.
“ ‘m not done yet, still hungry.” Jungkook lets out a low, obscene moan at your words—half turned on, half thrilled by your attempt to resist him.
“Oh, baby,” he breathes against your overstimulated core, lips brushing sensitive skin as he pushes your thighs open wider with his shoulders, locking you in place like you belong there. “You don’t get to call me a brat and think I’m gonna stop.”
You try to squirm, your whole body twitching with every flick of his tongue, but he’s relentless—hands gripping your hips, holding you steady while his mouth drives you right back over the edge.
“I just—fuck—I just came,” you gasp, thighs trembling on either side of his face.
He hums, completely unbothered. “I know and you’re gonna come again.” You whimper, hips jerking up helplessly, but he flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks slow and purposeful until your fingers are digging into the edge of the counter and your vision goes blurry.
“You said I was a munch,” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked and soaked in heat. “So let me eat, baby.”
“Jungkook…fuck, I—”
He grins up at you, lips slick, pupils blown wide. “You can cry later. Right now, be a good girl and come in my mouth again.”
And with the way his tongue moves—devoted, greedy, absolutely shameless—you know there’s no stopping it.He’s got you, and you’re not walking anywhere today.Not until he’s satisfied and definitely not until he’s had his fill.
You had no idea when you passed out but the next time your eyes open you’re back in his bed with him fast asleep between your legs. You peep the time on his bedside table and realize that you have just under two hours until you have to meet your friends for lunch before heading to the studio to meet Dabin.
Your body aches in that delicious, heavy way that only Jungkook can leave you with—thighs sore, lips kiss-swollen, skin still tingling from being worshipped like a five-course meal. You shift slightly, and he makes a soft sound in his sleep, nuzzling deeper into the inside of your thigh like it’s his personal pillow.
“Unreal,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through his hair gently.
You’re not even mad, not really, just… wrecked and dangerously close to letting him keep you here for the rest of the day. The clock however, glares at you, reminding you that in under two hours, you’re supposed to be at table surrounded by your girls before going in a sound booth and pretending like your legs aren’t jelly and your voice isn’t hoarse from moaning his name.
You sigh and glance down at him again. “Kook,” you whisper softly, nudging his shoulder.He hums in protest, brows scrunching, face still buried between your legs.
“Jeon Jungkook,” you try again, firmer this time, tapping his arm.
“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head lazily. “Warm. Comfortable. Mine.”
Your heart flips even as your eyes roll. “You are clingy in the mornings.”
He peeks one eye open at you, lashes fluttering. “Only when I fall asleep between heaven’s thighs.”
You groan, pushing at his forehead. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re delicious,” he counters with a sleepy grin, voice low and gravelly, like sin in audio form. “I regret nothing.”
“Well, I’m gonna regret it when I show up to the studio sounding like I gargled gravel and walking like I rode a horse bareback.”
He chuckles, finally sitting up, hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised, and looking far too proud of himself. “You say that like it’s my fault.”
“It is your fault,” you shoot back, dragging the covers up to your chest.
He just grins, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your cheek. “Need help getting ready?”
“I need an IV drip and a wheelchair,” you mumble, already trying to plan how to disguise the limp you’re definitely going to have. Jungkook only laughs harder, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
“Fine. I’ll get you coffee and one of those chocolate covered croissants you pretend to hate but secretly like when I pick you up from lunch.”
You eye him suspiciously. “And what’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he shrugs. “I just really, really like seeing you fucked out and fed.”
You toss a pillow at his head which he catches one-handed, still grinning. You love this menace even if he’s going to be the very reason you have to warm up your vocals for an extra thirty minutes today.
Simp🐺
My legs are so fucking sore 😩🙃
A reply comes back almost immediately—because of course it does.
Munch🐰
You’re welcome 😏😘
You groan aloud, flopping onto your studio couch and resisting the urge to scream into the throw pillow beside you.Before you can fire off a snarky comeback, your phone buzzes again.
Munch🐰
Need me to kiss them better? Both of them? Real slow? With tongue? 😇
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.
Simp🐺
You’re not even sorry.
Munch🐰
Not even a little. In fact, I’d like to formally apologize to your legs later… preferably while they’re over my shoulders again 😌
You stifle a laugh, glancing around the studio to make sure no one can see the absolute problem that is Jeon Jungkook lighting up your phone.
Simp🐺
You’re a menace and I’m not letting you near me again unless I’ve cleared 48 hours of recovery time first.
Munch🐰
So Friday night then? 😉 I’ll bring electrolytes this time and a neck pillow. I’m thoughtful like that.
You sigh, fighting the stupid smile on your face.He’s impossible and insufferable but he’s yours and you’d let him ruin your legs all over again.
Simp🐺
Nope, not happening. Sending you to Namjoon.
Jungkook’s typing bubble appears immediately.
Munch🐰
You think Namjoon can handle me? 😂 Mans gets stressed if his protein powder runs low.
Also?? You’d really just give me away like that? After all we’ve been through? After I folded you like laundry last night and this morning?? 😭
You snort, covering your mouth as your manager walks by the studio door. No way you’re getting caught smiling at your phone like an idiot.
Simp 🐺
Exactly BECAUSE you folded me like laundry.
My hamstrings need a break, you Olympic-level menace.
Munch🐰
Y’know what they say, an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away.
Just so yk I’m offended. You wouldn’t survive a day without me.
I make sure you’re hydrated, fed, stretched out in all the right ways…
Simp🐺
That’s not a flex, it’s a threat to my wellbeing💀
Munch🐰
Then consider me your favorite threat 😏
There’s a beat before another message comes through, and this one makes your heart stutter.
Munch🐰
For real though… take it easy today, okay? Studio can wait. You can’t, I’ll bring dinner soon.
And just like that, you melt a little. Again.
Simp🐺
Fine but only if it’s real food and not another box of chocolate Peppero and a banana.
Munch🐰
It was a balanced meal!!
Simp🐺
Jungkook.
Munch 🐰
Okay okay 😭 You’ll get proper food and maybe… a massage.
You roll your eyes but the warmth blooming in your chest is impossible to ignore.You’re in too deep but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Simp🐺
I want meat (not yours 🙃)
Jungkook’s typing bubble pops up so fast you know he was waiting for you to say something like that.
Munch🐰
😤 Rude.
Mine’s organic, always available, and high in protein but fine. Meat that’s not mine, I guess.
Fried chicken? Galbi? Or should I bring you bossam so you don’t have to move your sore little legs?
You can practically hear the smug smirk in his voice through the screen.
Simp🐺
Bossam sounds good but make sure you get that special spicy sauce from the restaurant. My pride hurts more than my legs rn.
Munch🐰
Spicy bossam. Got it.
And maybe something sweet to remind you who’s really in charge 🖤
You take a breath and stare at your phone, willing yourself not to text something reckless. You fail.
Simp🐺
I’m in charge of who gets to sleep between my thighs tonight, remember that.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then reappear.
Munch🐰
😳
You win.
I’ll be there at 7 with bossam, drinks, and a sincere apology to your lower body.
You smirk.
Simp🐺
You can start by kissing my calves.
Munch🐰
I’m bringing whipped cream.
Simp🐺
No you’re not. You are not defiling my studio
Munch🐰
I didn’t say I’d use it in the studio but now that you’ve brought it up… 👀
You groan, already regretting your life choices.
Simp🐺
You are not turning my soundproof booth into your personal sex dungeon.
Munch🐰
Not my fault it’s already the perfect size for bending you over a mixing desk.
Simp🐺
Jungkook.
Munch🐰
I’ll bring snacks and behave.
Scout’s honor.
Okay, I was never a scout but my tongue deserves a badge at this point.
You cover your face with your hands, torn between texting back and launching your phone into the nearest trash can.
Simp🐺
If you even look at the booth funny, I’m calling Yoongi to come supervise dinner.
Munch🐰
Okay okay 😭 I’ll behave.…until dessert.
You sigh, heart fluttering in that infuriating way it always does with him.
Simp🐺
Dinner. Bossam. 7 PM. Not a minute later and don’t you dare show up with that whipped cream.
Munch🐰
You act like I don’t have a can stashed at your place already 😉
You stare at the message. Then at the ceiling. Then at the imaginary camera like you’re on an episode of The Office. You’re in so much trouble and you just let it happen.
Simp🐺
I want a refund. What did they do to you in the military?
Jungkook’s typing bubble pops up instantly.
Munch🐰
Lmao NO REFUNDS 😎
This version is upgraded. New stamina. Enhanced precision. Government-issued discipline…still a munch 😌
You groan, thumbs flying over the screen before you can stop yourself.
Simp🐺
Enhanced stamina my ass, I can’t feel my legs and I’m walking like a baby deer in front of producers.
Munch🐰
Sounds like a you problem. Maybe next time you won’t call me a brat mid-ride 😤
Simp🐺
You are a brat. An elite-trained, sleep-deprived, walking thirst trap of a brat.
Munch🐰
And you’re the reason I almost missed my morning workout cause I was still recovering from round three.
Simp🐺
Oh please. You chose round three. I begged for mercy.
Munch🐰
You begged for more. Don’t lie.
You pause…You did beg for more.
Simp🐺
Still want that refund tho
Munch🐰
Denied.
You re-enlisted the second you let me back between your legs.
You choke on your iced coffee.
Munch🐰
I have your food,be there soon.
Try not to act like the simp you are
You fling your phone onto the couch.You hate him (you don’t).You hate how good he is at this and that he’s right about you being a simp for him. And you especially hate that your legs are already twitching at the sound of the door buzzer.
No refund, no escape. Just Jeon Jungkook and every sinful thing he learned while serving his country.
You don’t move to open the door because you know he knows how to get in but you’re also feeling a bit mean. You settle back onto the couch, legs tucked under you, sipping the rest of your iced coffee like you’re not actively plotting war crimes. The buzzer goes off again, persistent but not impatient. You glance at the door, then at the clock and then back at the door again.
He has the code. He always had the code but you’re feeling a little spiteful. A little sore and a little too aware of the fact that you can’t bend over without whimpering like you just ran a triathlon in heels so you text him instead.
Simp🐺
Figure it out, soldier. I’m on R&R.
A second passes.
Munch🐰
wow…not the military lingo 😭
Another pause before the lock beeps and the door creaks open slowly.There’s silence for a beat too long before he speaks.
“…You left me in the hallway. With bossam. Like a peasant.”
You hum. “I was emotionally recovering from your mouth, Jeon. I needed time.”
He shuts the door and toes off his shoes. “Emotionally recovering or plotting revenge?”
“A little column A, a little column B.”
Jungkook appears in your peripheral vision, two plastic bags in one hand and that infuriating smirk on his face. “So this is what betrayal feels like.”
“You’ll live,” you say dryly. “You have the stamina of a demonic golden retriever. You’ll survive a little door delay.”
He drops the bags on the little coffee table, walks over to you, and leans down until his face is barely an inch from yours. “I should leave with the food and eat it in my car.”
You blink up at him innocently. “But then who would I let kiss my sore thighs later?” His jaw clenches. You see it…feel the air between you shift.
“You’re evil,” he whispers.
“And you’re addicted,” you whisper back.
He straightens up, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tries—and fails—not to grin. “I hate how much I like you like this.”
You shrug. “Then feed me, soldier. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”
He heads back to unpack the food, muttering something about whipped cream and karma under his breath. You smile to yourself.
Checkmate.
“I still want my kiss or you’re not eating.” He mumbles as he unpacks the food on your little studio coffee table. You arch a brow, watching him from your perch on the couch like he’s a particularly bratty raccoon rifling through your snack stash.
“You’re the one who brought the food,” you point out, folding your arms. “Seems like I’ve already won here.”
Jungkook doesn’t even look up as he carefully peels the lid off the bossam container, steam rising into the air. “You haven’t won anything until I decide you can have rice.”
You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would.” He glances up then, smug and unbothered, chopsticks in hand. “No kiss, no kimchi. It’s simple math.”
“You’re seriously holding my meal hostage for a kiss?”
“A kiss,” he says, placing extra emphasis on the a. “Not a wild request considering I let you suffocate me with your thighs less than twenty-four hours ago.”
You throw a crumpled napkin at him. He dodges it easily, grinning like the absolute menace he is.
You groan, dragging yourself off the couch with the kind of dramatics reserved for musical theater majors and overworked idols. You step around the table, lean down slowly, dramatically, until your face is just inches from his.
“Fine,” you mutter, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
But Jungkook? Jungkook doesn’t do quick.
Before you can pull away, his hand comes up to the back of your neck, guiding you in as he turns his head and kisses you properly—deep and slow and way too intimate for someone who’s threatening your dinner.
You pull back with a breathless laugh. “That was not part of the agreement.”
“Sure it was,” he says, licking his lips and handing you a lettuce wrap like it’s a peace offering. “Fine print: one kiss. My terms.”
You flop back onto the couch, grabbing the wrap from his hand.
“You’re exhausting.”
“You love it.”
“…Unfortunately.”
He grins like he’s just won a trophy, popping a piece of bossam into his own mouth. “That’s what I thought.”
And just like that, the tension melts away—replaced by warm food, low laughter, and the soft shuffle of feet brushing under the table like you’re two kids playing house.
Except this?
This is very, very real and so is the grin he gives you between bites—like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“Joon said that you guys are going to America soon to work on the next album.”
Jungkook hums, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Yeah, probably end of next month. Nothing’s set in stone yet, but that’s the plan.”
You nod, fingers idly tearing a piece of lettuce before wrapping another bite. “You excited?”
He glances over at you, eyes softening. “Yeah… I mean, it’s always fun working out there. New energy, new sound. But…” He trails off, biting his lip.
You raise an eyebrow. “But?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little more focused on rearranging the food on his plate than looking at you. “Just sucks, y’know. Every time we go, it feels longer and I just got you back.”
You pause mid-bite, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but loaded. He finally looks up at you, eyes steady.
“Don’t like the idea of being that far from you again.”
You chew slowly, then swallow. “It’s not forever, Koo.”
“I know.” He leans back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “But after being gone so long for enlistment, and then finally getting here with you—it’s different now. I don’t want distance between us unless it’s your turn to go do something amazing.”
You smile, lips quirking. “So no long-distance clause in our fake NDA?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p and pointing at your mouth. “And especially not if you’re gonna be pouting into your bossam like that while I’m a few time zones away.”
You roll your eyes. “I do not pout.”
“You do,” he says seriously. “It’s adorable and totally weaponized. I’m afraid of it.”
You throw a piece of radish at him. He dodges it with a grin.
“But hey,” he continues, voice softer now, “if I go… will you come visit?”
You blink. “Like, in America?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost shy. “I mean, if your schedule allows. We’ll have a rental house, maybe near a beach. I can cook for you, and we can just be…you and me.”
Your chest tightens again. Stupidly. Warmly.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter than before. “I’d like that.”
He grins, and this time it’s softer, sweeter. Like you just promised him the whole damn world.
“Then it’s a date,” he says.
And just like that—again—you’re reminded that no matter where the two of you are in the world…
You’re still in the same orbit.
Jungkook nudges your knee with his. “Don’t make that face.”
You blink. “What face?”
“That ‘I’m pretending this isn’t making me feel fifty different things at once’ face.”
You scoff, even as your lips twitch with the truth. “I’m literally just eating bossam.”
He grins. “You’re emotionally eating bossam. Different.”
You glance at him—really glance—and suddenly it’s all hitting a little harder than it should. The domesticity of this moment. His sock covered feet tucked under him. The crease between his brows that only appears when he’s holding back something sincere. The fact that he just casually offered a beach house getaway like it wasn’t the most romantic thing you’ve heard in months.
You clear your throat. “What if I can’t come? What if I get swamped with work or the timing doesn’t line up?”
He shrugs, but it’s not careless. “Then we’ll figure it out. I’ll fly you out. I’ll fly back. We’ll schedule sleepovers over FaceTime like teenagers. I don’t care how we do it. I just care that we keep choosing to.”
Your mouth goes dry at that because it’s not just what he’s saying—it’s how he’s saying it. No dramatics. No grand declarations.
Just simple, steady devotion. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to work around time zones and security risks and industry pressure—because the alternative is not having each other, and that’s not even on the table.
You whisper, “You’re really not scared of this, huh?”
Jungkook’s quiet for a second and then he reaches for your hand.
“I was,” he admits. “Before. When I didn’t know what I wanted. When I thought maybe we were just some blurred line I didn’t know how to define.”
He laces his fingers through yours.
“But now? No. I know what I want. And it’s this. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated. Even if I’ve gotta bribe your manager with concert tickets to steal you away for a weekend.”
You laugh softly, trying not to let your eyes sting.
“And besides,” he says, grinning again, “who else is gonna use the microwave or match my socks for me?”
You smirk, squeezing his hand. “You’d be lost without me.”
“Exactly,” he says without hesitation. “So don’t go getting any ideas about returning me for that refund, okay?”
You nudge his leg. “Fine. I’ll keep you.”
He leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in a long time, you believe him. Completely but you still tease him anyways.
“I mean technically, you are.”
Jungkook pauses mid-sip of his drink, eyes lifting to meet yours with a playful squint.
“Wow,” he says slowly. “Way to ruin a moment.”
You grin, shrugging as you pop another piece of bossam into your mouth. “Just saying. You are going somewhere. Like… across the globe. Again.”
He sets his cup down with exaggerated care, like he’s offended on behalf of every dramatic K-drama monologue ever uttered. “I bare my soul to you, give you soft domestic vibes, offer you a beach house—and you hit me with technically?”
You laugh, unapologetic. “Technically keeps us grounded, Kook. Someone’s gotta remind you of the realities.”
“Oh, I’m very aware of the realities,” he says, sliding a little closer. “I’m very aware that I’ve got a limited number of nights left to spend with you before I’m stuck in a rental house full of loud men who eat my snacks and don’t look nearly as good in my clothes.”
You roll your eyes, though your smile betrays you. “Please. Tae definitely looks good in your hoodie.”
“Okay, rude.” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “But not as good as you.”
You shiver, rolling your eyes harder, even as your face flushes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re mine,” he whispers, pulling back to look you in the eyes. “Even if I am technically going halfway across the world.”
You glance at him, warmth blooming again in your chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods, firm and certain. “You’ll be here. I’ll be there. But we’ll still be us. That’s not changing.”
You stare at him for a beat, then slowly hold out your pinky.
“No refunds,” you say softly. “Even if you forget the timezone difference and call me at 3 a.m.”
Jungkook links his pinky with yours, smile turning gentle. “Even if you send me passive-aggressive selfies from my empty bed…still no refunds.” He kisses your knuckle. “You’re stuck with me.”
You’re okay with that.
Technically, emotionally, completely—you’re okay with that.
“Can I at least keep Bam in the event of divorce?”
Jungkook gasps—actually gasps—like you just suggested kicking his drum set off a cliff.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Divorce? We’re not even fake-married yet and you’re already planning the custody battle?”
You snort, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “It’s called being proactive, Jeon. I’m just saying, if things go south—hypothetically—I want partial custody of Bam.”
“You want custody of my dog?”
“Our emotional support dog,” you correct, stabbing a piece of meat with your chopsticks. “Let’s not pretend he didn’t choose me that one time I was crying over your dumb ass.”
“That was one time!”
“And it was pivotal. We bonded.”
Jungkook narrows his eyes, leaning forward until you’re nose to nose. “You can’t just use a single moment of canine weakness to claim my son.”
“Your son?” you scoff. “I raised him while you were off in the army, soldier boy.”
“He stayed with my parents!”
“Emotionally, I raised him,” you say with a smirk, and Jungkook groans like you’ve just sucker-punched him with facts.
He slumps back against the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. “This is betrayal. Full betrayal. This is how it starts. First the bossam, then Bam, then I’m kicked out of my own apartment with nothing but a pair of mismatched socks and a toothbrush.”
You pat his knee sympathetically. “You can keep the socks. I’m not heartless.”
He peeks out from under his arm, grinning now despite himself. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“And you’re lucky I haven’t drawn up the prenup.”
“I will fight you for Bam.”
“Bring it on, Jeon. May the best parent win.”
“…We’re getting joint custody, aren’t we?”
“Obviously,” you say, like it was never a question. “We’ll alternate weekends and holidays. Bam deserves stability.”
Jungkook just shakes his head, laughter bubbling up as he pulls you into his side. “God, I hate how much sense that makes.”
“Guess you better keep me, then.”
He kisses your forehead, warm and lingering. “Wasn’t planning on letting go anyway.”
“Okay, now back to work I go, thanks for the food Bun,” you press a kiss to his lips and move to get up.
Jungkook catches your wrist before you can fully stand, fingers gentle but firm.
“Wait,” he says, tugging you back just enough to make you stumble into his lap. He wraps his arms around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder with the weight of someone who really doesn’t want to let go. “Five more minutes.”
You laugh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “Kook, if I give you five, you’ll ask for ten. Then twenty. Then suddenly I’ve missed my studio session and you’ve convinced me to take a nap I didn’t plan for.”
He hums, completely unashamed. “I love when you nap here. You look peaceful… and I get to hold you.”
“You do know how dangerous it is when you say stuff like that right before I need to be productive?” you mumble, already melting a little in his arms.
“Danger’s my middle name, noona,” he teases, placing a kiss just under your jaw. “You knew that when you signed the fake contract.”
You grin. “Is that what we’re calling this now? A legally binding emotional entanglement?”
“With addendums,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “No long-distance. No refunds. Full joint custody of Bam. Unlimited kisses before studio time.”
You tilt your head to look at him, arching a brow. “And what do I get in return?”
“My eternal devotion,” he says dramatically, then drops his voice to a whisper. “Also back rubs. Food deliveries. And… I’ll stop teasing you about that weird thing you do when you eat pineapple.”
You gasp. “You promised never to bring that up again!”
“I lied,” he says sweetly, smiling into your skin.
You groan, pushing at his face. “Okay, now I’m leaving.”
“Fine,” he sighs, releasing you with great ceremony after stealing a few more kisses. “Go make magic, superstar.”
You get to your feet—not without him swatting your ass first—and ruffle his hair as you pass, heading toward your desk. “You gonna behave while I work?”
“No,” he says simply, sprawling out across the couch like he’s got all the time in the world. “But I’ll be quiet while I misbehave.”
You turn around just long enough to shoot him a warning look. “Define quiet, Jeon.”
He smirks, one arm tucked behind his head, the other reaching lazily for the last piece of kimchi. “No loud slurping. No aggressive pouting. Only subtle distractions.”
You narrow your eyes. “Kook—”
“I’ll only stretch a little too dramatically,” he continues with a glint in his eye. “Maybe yawn and accidentally flash some abs. Completely innocent.”
You blink at him. “You are such a menace.”
“And yet,” he says, mouth full of rice now, “you love me.”
You point a chopstick at him like a sword. “This love is conditional.”
“Sure it is,” he mumbles, already scrolling through his phone like he didn’t just derail your entire concentration. “Conditional on whether or not I buy you black sugar boba tea after your session.”
You pause.
“…You remembered?”
“Of course I did.” He looks up, eyes soft and sure. “I remember everything about you.”
Your heart stutters in your chest, just for a moment.
And then, in your most even tone, “You’re still not getting a kiss if you distract me.”
He grins. “That’s what you think.”
You glare.
He winks.
You sigh, turning back to your desk with all the willpower of someone pretending their insides aren’t melting.
Behind you, the soft tap of his phone keys and the hum of a lo-fi playlist fill the room.And despite his earlier declaration…
He’s quiet.
He behaves.
Sort of.
But you still catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re too focused to notice.
And somehow, knowing he’s there—lounging in your studio, half-watching you work, half-daydreaming about breakfast tomorrow—feels like the safest kind of chaos.
The kind you’d never trade for anything.
“Koo?”
Jungkook looks up immediately, eyes alert and soft all at once, like he’s been waiting for you to say his name.
“Yeah, baby?”
You hesitate, pen still in your hand, screen still glowing in front of you, but your thoughts have drifted somewhere he can’t quite see.
He sits up straighter, resting his forearms on his knees now. “What’s up?”
“Can you run your vocals on this for me please? Tryna see something.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into something warmer—something proud.
“Yeah?” he asks, already rising from the couch. “You want me to lay something down?”
You nod, twirling the pen between your fingers. “Just temp vocals. I want to hear how it sounds with a male voice. I feel like it’s not meant to be a solo.”
He crosses the room in three strides, already scanning the open session on your screen. “You could’ve asked me earlier, y’know. Would’ve skipped the flirting and fed you straight from the mic.”
You snort. “That’s a lie. You’d still flirt, probably into the mic.”
“Can’t help that I’m multitalented,” he says with a wink, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of your head before settling at your recording setup.
He slips the headphones on, adjusts the mic slightly, and gives you a small nod to cue him in before focusing on the lyric sheet in front of him.
You press play. The instrumental kicks in, your layered harmonies floating under the bridge—delicate, but a little too clean. And then Jungkook starts to sing.
Lately, I have tears clouding up my eyes
Comes out of nowhere, middle of a conversation
Rain pouring out of clear skies (clear skies)
I'm underwater
Wonder if it's all because of you
Are you close to giving up?
Somehow, it's all because of you
It's funny when it comes to us, oh
Whenever you're cold, I'm shivering
Whenever you're stoned,I'm hovering
It's like, whenever you're gone, I'm losing it
Like, baby, I go where you go
Whenever you fall, I fall behind
Oh, whenever you're stuck, I see red lights
It's like, whenever you're gone, I'm not alright'
Cause, baby, I go where you go (I go where you go)
He asks for your input on pronunciation but Jungkook sings it like it was written for him and lowkey…it pisses you off a little. Not in a bad way,more like in the “how dare he casually rip my heart out and serve it back with reverb and perfect pitch” kind of way.
Because this was your song, your draft, your melody.Yet somehow, the moment his voice slips into it—velvety, raw, textured in all the places you’d only imagined—it becomes something else entirely.
You blink at the playback monitor, arms folded over your chest like that might somehow protect you from the sudden emotional whiplash. “Kook.”
He glances at you from behind the mic, brows raised, lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head slowly. “Too perfect.”
He grins now, pulling off the headphones and walking back toward you, his tone casual, but his eyes burning with a kind of quiet satisfaction. “So I’m hired?”
“You weren’t even auditioning,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair to hide the way your heart’s doing somersaults. “But yeah…the track’s yours.”
Jungkook pauses at that, just for a second and then “Feels kinda like you just asked me to be your musical soulmate.”
You give him a look. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I’m serious.” He leans down until his face is level with yours, voice dipping into something softer. “You write lyrics like you’re bleeding them. Letting me sing them feels like—like you’re letting me carry some of it.”
You blink.
He shrugs. “Just don’t want to take it lightly. I know what this means to you.”
You look at him for a moment, stunned silent by how effortlessly he always sees you—even in the things you don’t say.
Then, finally, with a small smile: “I didn’t ask you to carry it. I asked you to sing it.”
“Same thing,” he whispers, and you hate—hate—how your throat tightens at that.
He reaches down and laces your fingers with his. “You sure you want me on the record?”
You nod.
Because yes,this is your song but, his voice?
His voice made it feel like your story became a story you both lived through and somehow, that’s even better.
“Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Let’s make something unforgettable, yeah?”
And just like that, you’re back at your desk—headphones on, session armed, trying not to fall even more in love with the boy who just made your song sound like home.
“Your turn,”
“What? No, I already recorded the whole thing. I’ll just edit and mix both.”
“C’mon, please?”
Jungkook gives you that look—wide-eyed, bottom lip poked out just enough to be lethal. “C’mon, please?” he repeats, voice soft and way too dangerous for this tiny-ass studio space.
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t weaponize the bunny face.”
“I’m not,” he lies, sitting back in the chair like a puppy who definitely knocked over the trash can and still wants a treat. “I just wanna hear what it sounds like when we sing it together. Just once.”
You sigh, setting your tablet down with the weight of someone about to cave completely. “You know you’re insufferable, right?”
He beams. “And yet, you’re still in love with me.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Then prove it,” he says, dragging another mic into place. “Sing with me.”
You huff dramatically, but you’re already moving. Adjusting the levels, setting up your headphones, pulling the lyrics back up even though you wrote the damn thing.
“I swear, if you start harmonizing with me mid-line just to flex—”
“No promises,” he grins.
The track starts. The intro filters in, you take a breath and you sing.
At first it’s hesitant,light and measured but then he joins you, slipping under your vocals like a second skin, smooth and steady, and just like that…
You remember why you write songs at all.
Not for the charts.
Not for the producers.
Not even for the fans.
But for moments like this—where your voice and someone else’s meet in the middle and make something that feels like the truth.You pick up where he left off.
I can't get out of bed in the morning
Now if you don't (ah-ah), mmm
I can't smile, I don't see no more good in me now if you don't
'Cause lately, I have tears clouding up my eyes
Comes out of nowhere, middle of a conversation
Rain pouring out of clear skies (clear skies)
I'm underwater
Then he falls back in with you.
Whenever you're cold, I'm shivering
Whenever you're stoned, I'm hovering (yeah, yeah)
It's like, whenever you're gone, I'm losing it
Like, baby, I go where you go
Whenever you fall, I fall behind
Whenever you're stuck, I see red lights (middle of a conversation)
Whenever you're gone, I'm not alright (whenever you're gone)
'Cause, baby, I go where you go (wherever you go, you go)
Now, baby, I'll go where you go
Now, baby, I'll go where you go
Now, I'll go where you go
Now baby, I'll go where you go (ooh, whoa)
Now, baby, I'll go where you go
Now, baby, I'll go where you go, mmm
And I go where you go (go where you go)now, baby, I go where you go
Now, baby, I'll go where you go, mmm
The last line fades out—“‘Now,baby, I go where you go”—and the silence that follows is deafening. You pull off your headphones slowly, heart pounding a little too fast.
Jungkook doesn’t say anything at first.He just sits there across from you, headphones half-off, chest rising a little quicker than normal as if he’s trying to process it all the same way you are. Like the air in the studio’s gotten too heavy, too real.
Then he exhales—long and low—and his voice comes out quiet, a little raw.
“…Damn.”
You blink, still not looking at him, eyes focused somewhere around the waveform slowly fading on the screen. “Yeah.”
Another second passes, maybe two and then you hear him speak. “That didn’t sound like a demo,” he says, almost stunned.
You finally look at him but he’s watching you like you just cracked open the sky.
“That sounded like—” he swallows, “—us.”
The words hit a little too deep.
You shift in your seat, tugging the headphones completely off and dropping them on the desk. “You’re gonna make me cry and I don’t have time to be emotional.”
Jungkook laughs, but it’s soft and full of something achingly tender. “You’re seriously unbelievable.”
“So are you,” you say before you can stop yourself, and it comes out more vulnerable than intended.
He doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t flirt.He just looks at you like he’s seeing the whole universe in your expression.
“You know this is gonna be big, right?” he says. “The song. Us.”
You bite your lip, not answering because you do know.This isn’t just a track anymore, not just a collab and definitely not just a love song with clean harmonies and emotional lyrics.
It’s a timestamp.A snapshot of you and him in the middle of becoming something real.
“…We should finish it,” you say, barely above a whisper.
Jungkook smiles, slow and soft. “We just did.”
You breathe out a quiet laugh, hand reaching toward the mouse to save the session.
“You want to name it now or later?”
He grins. “‘Where You Go.’ Feels right.”
You nod. “Yeah… it really does.”
And as he leans over to press a kiss to your temple—gentle, reverent, sure—you realize something else,
You didn’t just find your voice in that recording.
You found your person, too.
“I never intended to keep it… but now,” you murmur, turning slightly in your chair to face Jungkook, your lips curling into the faintest of smirks, “I might be convinced.”
His brow arches, amused. “Convinced to keep the song?”
You hum noncommittally, eyes flicking to the waveform still glowing on the screen. “The song…the moment… maybe even the man behind the bunny pout.”
Jungkook’s grin turns boyish and a little smug as he leans in, arms braced on either side of your chair, caging you in without touching. “Oh? That sounds dangerously close to commitment.”
You pretend to consider. “Well, you did feed me, sing with me, and offer me full custody of Bam in the event of a breakup.”
“Joint custody,” he corrects with a grin. “And that was before you admitted you maybe love me.”
You scoff. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p with glee. “Because you love me, and now you’re keeping our song.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just warmth, familiarity and that steady, annoying, addictive feeling that comes with him.
“…maybe I’ll keep both.”
He blinks, caught off guard for a second. Then the smile that spreads across his face is pure sunshine. “You better.”
And when he kisses you, soft and slow and so full of certainty, you realize you were never just keeping the song.
You were always keeping him.
“Another one for the folder of personals that won’t be released,” you sigh, dragging the project file into your aptly named ‘Emotional Baggage / Private Collection’ folder.
Jungkook, still close, still watching you with that frustratingly observant gaze, tilts his head. “Baby… why do you hide your voice?”
You pause, hand hovering over the trackpad.
He doesn’t sound accusing. Just…curious. Quiet. Almost careful, like he’s asking about something fragile.
You stare at the screen a moment longer before answering. “Because sometimes it feels too real when I hear it.”
Jungkook’s brow furrows gently, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“It’s like…” You wet your lips, searching for the right words. “Singing’s always been the safest place for me to put feelings I didn’t know how to say out loud. Once it’s a song, I don’t have to explain it…I just let it go and let the artist make it theirs. But hearing my own voice say those things out loud?” You shake your head slowly. “That’s different. That’s… exposing.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “You feel like it’s telling on you.”
You look up, startled by how easily he named it.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Exactly.”
Jungkook walks over to your side of the desk and crouches beside your chair, resting his arm on your knee like he’s grounding you.
“I think your voice is the most honest thing in the room,” he says, soft but sure. “Even when you’re scared, even when you’re angry, even when you don’t want anyone to know what you’re feeling… it comes through anyway. And it’s beautiful.”
You smile, tired and touched. “You’re biased.”
“Obviously,” he grins, squeezing your leg. “But I’m also right.”
You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. “That doesn’t mean I want to release songs that sound like diary entries.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “You don’t have to but I hope you never stop recording them. Even if they stay in this folder forever.”
You glance at the screen again. At the waveform still pulsing with the echo of your voice and his.
“Why?” you ask, genuinely.
“Because,” he says, eyes on yours. “Even if the world never hears them, I want you to have a place where your heart’s allowed to speak.”
And damn him for always saying the exact thing that makes you want to keep him a little longer.
So you nod, just once, then whisper, “Wanna do another take with me?”
He smiles like you just said I love you again.
“Yeah. Always.”
You’re running adlibs when you feel Jungkook’s hands on your waist.
“Bun, you said you’d behave.”
He hums against your neck, completely unapologetic as his fingers splay over your waist. “I am behaving,” he says, voice low and laced with amusement. “Just… multitasking.”
You don’t even turn around, still focused on the mic and the playback in your headphones, but your voice comes out half-laugh, half-sigh. “You have a very loose definition of behaving.”
His thumbs rub slow, deliberate circles into your sides. “You sound so good,” he murmurs, leaning in a little closer, lips just brushing your ear now. “Kinda hard to sit still when you’re out here singing like that.”
“You said you were gonna be quiet,” you point out, trying to ignore the way goosebumps bloom along your skin.
“I lied,” he says, grinning. “You’re used to that by now.”
You finally turn, one brow raised in mock disapproval. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Jeon.”
He lifts both hands like he’s surrendering but he’s smiling that smug, I’d-risk-it-all-again smile. “Just appreciating the view.”
“Appreciate from over there,” you say, gesturing toward the couch with your pen.
He doesn’t move.
In fact, he steps closer.
“Can’t,” Jungkook says, voice dropping half an octave as his fingers dip just under the hem of your top.“Appreciation requires proximity.”
You narrow your eyes. “So does getting dropkicked.”
He laughs, low and delighted, like you just flirted back instead of threatened bodily harm. “See? This is why I missed you. Always threatening me while looking like the cutest problem I’ve ever had.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, turning back to your mic and trying—not very successfully—to ignore the way your heart stutters when he presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder.
“And you’re irresistible,” he fires back easily, lips dragging along your top collar before he pulls away just enough to let you breathe again.
“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat and hitting record like you haven’t just been manhandled into a flustered puddle. “Adlibs. We’re focusing. No distractions.”
“Yes ma’am,” Jungkook says behind you, finally retreating to the couch like a good boy with zero good intentions.
And just as you’re halfway through your first run, you hear it, soft and smug through your headphones, “Still sound like sex.”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Out. Out.”
He’s already laughing, kicking his feet up, arms folded behind his head like he’s never been more pleased with himself.
“I’ll be quiet now,” he promises.
You glare. “That’s what you said last time.”
And still—still—you’re smiling.
“If you promise to be quiet and let me finish this…road head.”
Jungkook freezes mid-laugh, eyes snapping to yours with a look that’s half-shocked, half-starved.
“…What?”
You tilt your head innocently, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your grin in check. “You heard me.”
He blinks. “Road head? Like… in exchange for silence?”
You nod. “Finish the adlibs, finish the mix, and if you sit there like a good boy for the next twenty minutes without interrupting me once—” you pause, letting your voice dip just a touch, “—you get a reward.”
There’s a beat of loaded silence before he drags a hand down his face, muttering something in that sounds suspiciously like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“You’re evil,” he finally says, looking at you like you just offered him the keys to heaven and hell.
You shrug, deadpan. “Motivation works better than threats.”
“Do not test me right now,” he growls, flopping backward onto the couch like he’s already being tortured. “Twenty minutes. I can do twenty minutes.”
“Without touching me.”
He whines. “You’re literally wearing my shirt.”
“And if you behave,” you say sweetly, already turning back to your work, “you can wear me instead.”
A strangled sound escapes him.
And for the next twenty minutes, Jungkook is the quietest he’s ever been—eyes glued to the timer on your screen, lips pressed together like if he so much as breathes wrong, you’ll take it all back.
You don’t even need to check to know that he moment you hit save on the final mix, he’s already reaching for the car keys.
“Time to pay up.” He mumbles grabbing your bag.
“Yahh, lemme at least shut the equipment down.” You complain when he swivels your chair around.
Jungkook’s eyes are practically glowing with anticipation, his grip on your studio chair firm as he grins down at you—smug, boyish, and completely unhinged.
“You’ll live,” he says, snatching your headphones off gently and tossing them onto the desk like your whole studio setup isn’t worth more than his car. “Priorities, noona.”
“My priorities,” you huff, reaching behind you for the mouse, “involve not accidentally frying a five million won interface.”
But it’s too late, he’s already pulling you to your feet and grabbing your bag with one hand while the other tugs you toward the door like a man possessed.
“Multitask later,” he mumbles, swinging the strap of your bag over his shoulder. “You gave your word and you know what that means.”
You narrow your eyes. “I gave you a conditional deal. The agreement was no interruptions, and—”
“And I didn’t say a single word after that last warning,” he cuts in smugly. “Not one. I even muted my phone. You don’t know how hard it was not to breathe too loud.”
You squint at him. “You also stared at me like I was a snack for twenty straight minutes.”
“That wasn’t in the terms,” he shrugs, lips twitching. “Besides, you didn’t say I couldn’t be turned on.”
You groan, letting your head fall back as he opens the studio door and gently herds you out into the hallway.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You glare. “I should.”
He stops in front of the elevator, turns to face you, and leans in until his nose is brushing yours, voice soft but full of mischief. “But you’re gonna give me road head anyway.”
You open your mouth to argue—but the elevator dings, and the second the doors open, he ushers you in like a man on a mission.
“Car’s already running,” he adds as you both step inside, grinning like the devil himself. “Seat reclined. Playlist set. Tinted windows. Let’s ride.”
You don’t know whether to slap him or climb into his lap right there in the elevator.
Either way, this man? Will certainly be the death of you.
Credits to the rightful owner of the pictures used above @jung-koook, I hope I have it correct.
Summary: The last thing you expected after coming back from Brazil was finding Jungkook in your kitchen like nothing had ever happened. Fresh out of the military, he’s determined to prove he’s changed and that he wants more than a situationship this time. You swore you wouldn’t let him back in after the silence he left you with, but when he asks for a second chance, the walls around your heart start to crack.He’s doing everything to win you over again, and you’re starting to realize resisting him—especially when he smiles and looks at you like that—might be impossible.
Warnings: idol!jk x poc!singer/songwriter!oc, smut! MDNI!, oral (f.rec), unprotected sex, jk is a simp and a munch with no shame about it, jk calls her noona but it’s mainly teasing or when he wants to get his way, jk is lowkey a little menace but you love it, kinda dom/sub/switch dynamics but it’s not explicitly mentioned, aftercare, more to come in the other parts but let me know if I missed anything.
W.C: 11.6k
The last thing you expected to see when you returned home from your trip to Brazil was your ex-situationship in your kitchen like it was a normal thing. Jungkook had been discharged from the military almost a month ago and one of the first persons he wanted to see was you. You’d gone silent on him and he understood why but he needed you to know that you were both on the same track. He just lagged a bit and it gave you the wrong impression.
“Yahh, Jeon Jungkook!! What the fuck are you doing?”
Jungkook doesn’t even flinch at your outburst. He turns from where he’s comfortably leaned against your kitchen counter, a glass of iced water in his hand like he owns the place or like he used to.
“Nice to see you too,” he says with a casual smile, like your heart hadn’t once split open over the silence he left you in.
You drop your duffel a little too hard on the floor, the thud echoing in the apartment. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“I still had the code,” he says simply, lifting his glass in a mock toast before taking a sip. “You never changed it.”
You blink, stunned. The audacity of this man. “So you thought that was an invitation? Jungkook, are you insane?”
Jungkook shrugs, setting the glass down like this is a conversation he’s had a hundred times in his head and always won. “No. I thought it meant there was still a chance.”
His voice is soft, but firm. Honest in that maddening, Jungkook way that used to make you feel like the whole world stopped when he looked at you like that. Like this.
You cross your arms, jaw clenched so tight it’s a miracle your teeth haven’t cracked. “You ghosted me, Jungkook. You disappeared without a word after everything we—”
“I didn’t ghost you.” He steps closer, cautiously, like you’re a frightened animal he doesn’t want to spook. “I’ll admit I lagged a bit and freaked out but ghosting wasn’t my intention.”
“Same difference whether it was intentional or not.”
That shuts him up.
For a moment, the silence is heavier than your suitcase. He stares at you, something flickering in his eyes guilt, maybe, or regret. Maybe even love, but you’re not stupid enough to let that sway you. Not again.
“I didn’t know how to say what I wanted without screwing everything up,” he finally says. “But I see now that going quiet just did that anyway.”
You scoff. “Took you two months and a break in to figure that out?”
“I didn’t break in,” he mutters, almost pouting. “And I called and texted you multiple times before and once I got discharged. You just never answered.”
Your heart lurches because you did get the calls and the texts and you never responded because you were hurt.
You hadn’t known what to do with them. Didn’t want to know if they were full of promises or apologies or some convoluted explanation that would only reopen wounds you’d spent the past two months learning how to live with.
“Why are you really here?” you ask, quieter now. “What do you want from me?”
He looks at you then, not past you, not through you, but at you. Like you’re still the person he used to call at 2 a.m. just to hear your voice. Like he still knows you.
“I want a second chance,” Jungkook says. “No situationship, let me be your boyfriend.”
You stare at him like he’d grown another head because that isn’t what you expected to hear.
You laugh sharp and disbelieving. “Boyfriend? Now you want to be my boyfriend?”
Jungkook doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“After two months of silence and one rogue visit to my apartment?” You shake your head, pressing your palms into your temples. “You seriously think that’s how this works?”
“No,” he says quietly. “But I’m hoping you’ll let me try anyway.”
The room is still. The air feels heavier now, the kind of weight that’s not just emotional but lived-in—like the ghost of your shared past decided to sit on your couch and watch this all play out. You look at him again, really look at him, and it’s both painfully familiar and impossibly foreign.
His hair is a little longer than before. He’s filled out a little, posture more grounded, more deliberate. But it’s his eyes—still soft, still maddeningly earnest—that threaten to undo the carefully stacked bricks you’ve built around your heart.
“You don’t get to just show up here like no time has passed and pick up where we left off.”
“I know,” he nods, stepping closer again, slow enough to let you stop him if you want. “And I’m not asking you to forget what happened. I’m asking you to give me a chance to show you that I mean it this time.”
You fold your arms tighter around yourself. “And what exactly changed that makes this time different?”
“I did,” he says. “The military gave me a lot of time to think and for the first time in my life, I stopped running from things that scared me.”
“And I was one of those things?” you ask, voice low.
“You were everything,” he says simply. “And that terrified me.”
The silence stretches again, this time not sharp, but uncertain.
You should kick him out. You want to kick him out. But instead, you say, “You’ve got five minutes to explain everything. No bullshit. No vague excuses.”
Jungkook straightens, hopeful, like five minutes is more time than he thought he’d get. “Deal.”
And for some reason, despite every hurt, despite the voice in your head screaming at you to shut the door on him and never look back—you sit down. Not because he deserves it yet but because maybe, just maybe,you want to believe he could.
“You better not make me regret this Jeon.”
“I won’t, promise.” He says as you leave your bags in the hallway and move towards your living room.
“First things first, how’d you know to be here at this exact time?” You question.
“Gyu told me you were coming back today and I calculated everything else on my own.”
“You’re actually insane.”
“You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts, I got desperate okay?!”
“I tell you I like you and you ghost me…”you pause for a moment.“…then you break into my apartment like we’re in some shitty romcom,” you finish with a bitter laugh, collapsing onto the edge of your couch.
Jungkook follows, hovering by the armrest like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit yet. “I didn’t break in,” he says again, more sheepishly this time. “And it’s not like I forgot what you said.”
“You sure about that?” you snap. “Because the night I told you how I felt, you looked me in the eyes, kissed me like it meant something and then disappeared.”
He winces. “I know. I know how bad that was.”
“Do you?” You glare at him. “Because while you were off in the mountains or wherever, trying to ‘find yourself,’ I was here thinking I’d made everything up in my head. That I’d read too much into it. That I scared you off.”
“You didn’t scare me,” he says softly, finally sitting down. “You made me realize how real it all was and yeah, maybe that did freak me out. But not because I didn’t want it.”
“Then why leave me hanging?”
“Because I didn’t know how to handle someone who actually saw me. Who wanted me. Not just Jungkook the idol, not the guy everyone thinks they know. Me.” He swallows, looking down at his hands. “You were the first person who made me feel like I could be that version of myself and still be loved.”
The room quiets again. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
He glances at you then, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t ready before. But I am now. And if you still want me—”
“You’re lucky I even let you talk,” you interrupt, but your voice has lost its bite. “One more vanishing act and I will change the code. And possibly throw a something at your head.”
“That’s fair,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I deserve that.”
“You deserve worse,” you mutter, and then softer, “but maybe…we can start over.”
His eyes brighten, like that one line is the sun cracking through storm clouds. “Start over,” he repeats, nodding. “I can work with that.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples again. “God, I must be out of my damn mind.”
Jungkook grins. “But you missed me.”
“Shut up and get me a drink before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s already up and heading to the kitchen.
And just like that, the door you’d sworn to keep closed,cracks open, just a little.
That was three weeks ago and now it’s like that two month period of silence between you had never really happened. Jungkook had been doing everything he could to make it up to you and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t working or that you weren’t developing even bigger heart eyes for him than you already have, which brings you to now.
You’d seen Jungkook shirtless numerous times throughout the years you’ve known each other but it’s the first time you’re seeing it since his discharge and you wonder if he’s trying to send you crazy.
He called you over earlier insisting on a movie night, he ordered all the food and bought snacks and was fresh out of the shower when you arrived. What you didn’t expect was the new ink that spanned almost across his chest from the previous one or the new ink on his once bare left arm.
You’re staring as you sit on the edge of his bed and if he notices then he says nothing, at least, not at first.
Jungkook hums to himself as he rifles through his drawers for a shirt, towel slung low around his hips, completely unbothered by the fact that he looks like a walking thirst trap. Your eyes flick from the still-damp curls clinging to his forehead to the ink blooming across his chest, bold and black and unfairly sexy, and then lower—to the newer piece coiled along his left arm, delicate lines and sharp edges, intricate enough to make you forget how to breathe for a second.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until he turns around, shirt finally in hand, and catches your expression.
His lips twitch. “You good over there?”
You blink, looking up like you’d been snapped out of a trance—which, in a way, you had.
“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, voice a little higher than usual. You clear your throat and try again. “You got more tattoos.”
He grins then, cocky and sweet, tossing the shirt on the bed beside you instead of putting it on. “Noticed, huh?”
“Kind of hard not to when you’re standing there like a Calvin Klein ad.”
He laughs, and god, you really wish he’d stop doing that because now you’re not just thinking about the tattoos.You’re thinking about tracing them, about how warm he probably still is from the shower, about how close he is and how unfair it is that he looks this good and knows what to do with it.
“Come closer if you want a better look,” he says, teasing, like he hadn’t just weaponized his body against your willpower.
You roll your eyes, but your legs move before your pride can stop them. You stand, stepping into his space slowly, gaze trailing over the ink as if it might tell you something he hasn’t said yet.
“This one’s new,” you murmur, lightly brushing your fingers near the chest piece—near, not on, because you’re not sure you’d recover if you actually touched him right now.
“Finished it last week,” he says, voice softer now. “Didn’t want to show you until it healed properly.”
You glance up at him then, eyes meeting his, and for a second the air feels thick between you. Not tense,just charged.
“Looks good on you,” you say, because it’s the truth. “You always pull them off.”
“I was hoping you’d like it,” he replies, gaze dropping to your mouth for the briefest second.
You should move. Say something smart. Tease him, maybe but all you manage is a quiet, “I do.”
Neither of you move away and then Jungkook speaks again, lower this time. “You know… movie night can start a little late.”
And if you lean in after that, it’s definitely not just because of the tattoos. His towel hits the floor as both his hands find your waist walking you backwards until your knees hit the bed and he’s pushing you down onto it immediately crowding your space.
“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips, hands gripping your thighs and wrapping them around his hips as he presses closer.
You gasp against his mouth, fingers curling into his damp hair as he settles between your legs like he belongs there, because he does or at least, that’s what it feels like in this moment; when every part of him is pressed to you like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent away.
“Jungkook…” you breathe, and it’s not a protest,it never was. It’s a warning, maybe a plea or just the only thing you can manage to say with your heart thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to catch up to his.
“I know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. “I know, baby. I’ll go slow.”
And he does, despite the urgency in the way his hands move—palming your waist, mapping your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again. His kisses trail down your throat and linger there, like he’s trying to make you feel safe and wanted in the same breath.
Your hips roll up instinctively, seeking more, and he groans low in his chest like the sound is pulled straight from the pit of his stomach. One of his hands grips your thigh tighter, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing over the bare skin of your stomach.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mutters against your collarbone. “Three weeks of pretending I wasn’t dying to touch you like this,longer than that, really.”
You tangle your fingers into the back of his neck, dragging him back up to kiss you again, slower and deeper this time. He hums into it, hips grinding down once, and you both break the kiss with matching, shaky breaths.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.
“I don’t,” you whisper back, and that’s all he needs because this time, when he kisses you, it’s not just want but a promise.One that says he’s here now and that he plans to stay.
He grips the hem of your t-shirt and you lift your arms for him to pull it up and over your head, you think he’s going for your bra next but his eyes are locked on your right shoulder.
“Kook, what’re you—”
“That’s new…” he mumbles and you’re about to ask what he’s talking about when you remember the branch of sakura blossoms you’d gotten done the second week after you hadn’t heard from him.
Your breath catches, and not just because he’s half-naked and straddling you, but because of the way his fingers reach out—slow, reverent—and lightly trace over the ink on your shoulder like it’s sacred.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just follows the curve of the branch, the blossoms that trail over your skin. His thumb brushes the edge of one petal, and it’s so gentle it nearly makes you shiver.
“You got this while I was gone,” he says quietly, not a question but like he already knows.
You swallow, heart suddenly louder than it was a minute ago. “Second week after you stopped calling.”
His eyes flick to yours, guilt heavy in his expression, but also something else—curiosity, awe, maybe a bit of sadness.
“Why sakura?” he asks, voice low.
You shrug a little, feeling strangely vulnerable under the weight of his gaze. “They’re short-lived. Beautiful, but fleeting.”
Something flashes across his face then, like your answer stung a little, like it cut deeper than you intended as his hand cups your shoulder, thumb still brushing over the blossoms.
“I hate that I gave you a reason to pick that,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, chest tight. “I didn’t do it to spite you, Jungkook. I did it because I needed to remember that something beautiful could still come out of something that hurt.”
He nods slowly, lips pressed together like he’s chewing on every word.
“I want to be something that lasts,” he says suddenly, and it’s so earnest you nearly forget how to breathe.
You search his face, your voice softer now. “That why you didn’t put the shirt on? Wanted me to see your ink and think the same thing?”
He smirks, a little bashful now. “Maybe. Figured if we’re starting over, you should see what’s changed.”
You smile then, brushing a thumb over the new lines on his arm. “Guess we both changed.”
His gaze lingers on yours. “Yeah. But I’m still yours, if you want me.”
Your heart does that stupid flutter thing again, but this time you let it. Because the sakura on your shoulder might’ve been born from pain but right now, with his hands on your skin and that look in his eyes, you feel something blooming again.
“Y’know they also mean new beginnings right? They bloom in the spring when life is being given to the earth again.”
Jungkook’s eyes soften as he takes that in, thumb still grazing the edge of one blossom like it means something sacred. Maybe it does now.
“Yeah?” he says quietly, gaze flicking from your shoulder to your face. “I didn’t know that.”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It felt fitting. I was trying to remind myself that something good could still come out of everything—even if it looked different than what I imagined.”
He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder just beneath the flowers, lingering there like he’s trying to apologize through touch alone.
“I want to be part of that new beginning,” he murmurs against your skin. “If you’ll let me.”
You tilt his chin up, looking him dead in the eye. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you’re gonna disappear again the second things get scary.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “I won’t. I’ve already been through losing you once,don’t need a second reminder.”
His fingers slide up your ribs, warm and grounding. You sigh, leaning into him, the weight of everything that came before slowly peeling off in layers.
“Okay,” you whisper. “New beginning.”
A grin spreads across his face, soft and just a little smug. “New beginning,” he echoes, pressing his forehead to yours. “And this time, I’m not going anywhere.”
Outside, the wind rattles the window just enough to remind you it’s still summer but on your shoulder, spring’s already started again.
“Is it weird that it doesn’t feel like we’ve been apart?” You ask, he’s still between your legs, lips trailing kisses across the ink and up the side of your neck
“I don’t think so, we’ve always been in sync since we met. I don’t think any amount of time apart can undo that, at least for me anyways.”
His voice is warm against your skin, roughened slightly from emotion and the low, lazy rhythm of his kisses. You shiver as his lips reach the space just beneath your ear again, that spot he always seemed to remember without being told.
You smile, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I thought I imagined that,” you murmur. “Like maybe it was just one-sided. I felt everything too much and you didn’t feel it at all.”
Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorize every piece of it. “No,” he says, firmly. “You didn’t imagine a damn thing.”
Your breath hitches.
“I felt it from the beginning,” he continues, voice quieter now, almost like a confession. “I just… just didn’t know how to handle it. You weren’t something casual for me. Never were.”
You study him, the vulnerability in his expression, the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll vanish. And maybe it’s a little crazy how easily things have fallen back into place, how his touch still feels like a home you never stopped missing but it’s not scary. Not anymore.
“You’re still a dumbass for leaving without saying anything,” you say, though there’s no heat in your voice.
He nods, solemn. “Biggest mistake of my life.”
“And showing up in my apartment like that?”
“Now that, I don’t regret.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk, leaning down to kiss you again and this time, it’s unhurried, full of something deep and certain.
You let yourself melt into it, arms around his shoulders, legs still curled around his hips. It doesn’t feel like starting over, not really. It feels like picking up a book you loved and finding you still remember all the words by heart.
And if your tattoo means new beginnings, maybe this one—this version of you and him—is finally the one that sticks.
“You knew what you were doing coming over here in this skirt” he mumbles.
“You told me not to go home after I met with the girls. It’s not like you gave me a choice to go home and shower.”
Jungkook chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck as his fingers skim the hem of your skirt, bunching it slightly. “You say that like I’m complaining.”
You arch a brow at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You kind of are, accusing me of seduction when I was just following orders.”
He leans in, lips brushing your jawline. “Don’t play innocent. You knew what that skirt would do to me.”
You laugh, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear again. “It’s not my fault you’ve developed a thing for short skirts and oversized shirts.”
“Oh no, that’s your fault entirely,” he groans, sliding a hand beneath the fabric now, palm warm against your thigh. “You wore this knowing damn well I haven’t seen you since Monday.”
“And you could’ve waited until after the movie,” you say, voice thinner now, more breath than words.
“Why would I do that,” he murmurs, “when you walked in smelling like warm vanilla and trouble, legs out like you wanted me to lose my mind?”
You gasp as his hand grazes higher. “Kook…”
He kisses you again, hot and full of intent. “You came over here like a walking fantasy and expected me to behave? That’s cute.”
You grin against his mouth. “I am cute.”
“You’re unfair,” he counters, finally lifting your skirt all the way and settling back between your legs like he’s found his favorite place in the world. “And mine.”
You don’t argue because you know he’s right and you want to be his problem. Again and again.
Your back arches slightly as his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider with an ease that sends a pulse straight through your core. There’s something in the way he looks at you—like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s ever really wanted—and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you ache.
“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, fingers threading into the strands of his hair, “and we’re not making it through even ten minutes of this so-called movie night.”
Jungkook laughs softly against your skin, but it’s low and rough, like his restraint is hanging by a thread. “Sweetheart, the second you walked through that door, movie night was already canceled.”
His lips find yours again, this time more desperate, more demanding. Like he’s making up for every single day he had to pretend he was okay not touching you like this. You match his pace, hands roaming his back, nails grazing skin and muscle like muscle memory and in a way, it is.
It’s familiar and electric all at once.
You break the kiss just enough to whisper, breathless, “You always this greedy when you miss me?”
He grins, pupils blown wide. “Only when you show up in my bed like a dream I’m scared I’m about to wake up from.”
You reach up, thumb tracing his bottom lip. “Then you better hold on, Jeon.”
His grin fades into something more serious then—something full of want and reverence and a little bit of awe.
“Already am,” he says, and when he kisses you this time, it’s deeper. Slower. Like he’s not just trying to have you but like he’s trying to keep you.
He presses down on you, his hard length pressing against the shorts you wore under your skirt to avoid flashing anyone in public and you moan into his mouth.
“Tease,” you mumble.
Jungkook chuckles against your lips, the sound rich and smug, like he’s thriving off the way your body reacts to his—off the way your thighs tighten around his waist, the way your hands clutch at his back like you need something to ground you.
“Me?” he breathes, nipping gently at your bottom lip. “You’re the one who showed up in a skirt that short and booty shorts this tight acting like I wasn’t gonna lose my mind.”
You huff a laugh, gasping again when he rolls his hips, grinding into the pressure point he knows drives you crazy. “I wore them so I wouldn’t flash strangers, not to make you feral.”
“Well,” he grins, dragging his mouth down to your neck again, “you accomplished both.”
You arch into him, toes curling as his hand sneaks under the band of your shorts, fingers skimming along skin that’s suddenly way too hot. “You really have no self-control, huh?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath your jaw, voice rough with want. “Not when you’re laid out under me like this,already moaning, already mine.”
Your breath hitches at that, the heat in your belly twisting tighter. “You keep saying that.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark and focused entirely on you. “Because it’s true.”
And when he kisses you again, slow but devastating, you realize you don’t want him to stop saying it.
Because with the way you’re wrapped around him—how your body fits against his like it was made for this—you’re his and he’s very much yours.
“Take it off,” you say as you reach behind you and easily unhook your bra and toss it somewhere on his bed.
Now, Jungkook would usually consider himself an ass man but when it came to you he suddenly became an everything man and your boobs were his favorite pillows and stress balls of all time.
Jungkook lets out a low, reverent groan the second your bra hits the bed, his eyes dropping like gravity’s got a hold on him and all he can do is follow.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, palms immediately finding their way to your chest like muscle memory. He squeezes gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and the smirk that curls onto his face is downright sinful when he hears the way you gasp.
“You do this on purpose,” he says, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses across the tops of your breasts. “Wear this little outfit… toss that bra like you’re not trying to kill me.”
“I was just trying to get comfortable,” you lie, breathless, and he huffs a disbelieving laugh against your skin.
“Comfortable?” He closes his mouth around one nipple, sucking just hard enough to pull another moan from you. “Baby, this is the opposite of comfort. This is suffering. Beautiful, slow, brain-melting suffering.”
Your back arches into his touch, hands threading back into his hair again as his mouth works you over like he’s found religion in the curve of your body.
“Not my fault your self-control’s hanging by a thread,” you murmur, but your voice is uneven now, every word laced with the kind of heat that matches the way he’s touching you like he can’t decide between worship and ruin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips slick and eyes wild.
“Oh, it snapped the second you walked in,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “and you’re gonna pay for that.”
You grin, breathless and drunk on the way he’s looking at you. “Then shut up and collect your debt, Jeon.”
His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and greedy.And this time? There’s no teasing left,only intent.
Your shorts and underwear disappear next but he leaves your skirt on as he pushes you further up the bed and settles on his stomach. He wraps both of his arms around your waist and pulls you down until your exposed heat is right in front of his face.
Both of your legs are tossed over each of his shoulders as his head disappears beneath the pleats of your skirt.His breath fans hot against your center before he even touches you, and the anticipation alone has you clenching around nothing, your fingers twisting into the sheets above your head.
“Fuck…” he groans, more to himself than to you, like he’s witnessing something divine.
Your skirt drapes over his head like a veil, and for a moment it’s almost comical—almost—until his tongue makes its first slow, deliberate pass through your folds and you forget how to breathe.
Your hips jerk, a whimper escaping your lips, and Jungkook just tightens his grip around your waist, locking you in place like he knew you’d try to run.
“Stay still,” he mumbles under your skirt, voice muffled and wrecked with want. “Lemme taste you properly.”
And taste you he does.
He’s relentless, tongue lapping at you with a hunger that borders on obsessive like he’s been dreaming about this every night since the last time and now he’s making up for lost time. The soft drag of his tongue, the way he teases your clit with slow, purposeful flicks before switching to the kind of pressure that makes your back arch off the bed tells you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Your thighs tremble on either side of his head, the grip you have on the sheets now white-knuckled, and all you can do is moan his name over and over like a prayer.
“God, Jungkook—”
He hums, clearly pleased, the vibration shooting straight through you.
You swear he smiles before he dives in deeper, tongue fucking you with such focus and ferocity it’s criminal. Every stroke, every sound—your skirt still hiding the sight of him but somehow making it worse—has you spiraling fast.
“You’re-fuck-you’re obsessed,” you gasp, legs shaking.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his voice low and wrecked. “With this? With you? Baby, I’ve been starving.”
He buries himself in you again, and this time, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying out his name, body shaking, pleasure crashing over you in wave after relentless wave.
Jungkook doesn’t come up for air until you’re completely undone.
“Fuck, Koo…baby I can’t. N-no more” you whine thighs shaking and threatening to close around his head.
“One more baby, just one more and I’ll fuck you. Promise.”
He groans like the sound of your voice alone could get him off, his grip around your waist tightening as he drags you impossibly closer, locking you in place like you belong to him—which, in this moment, you absolutely do.
“You can,” Jungkook says when you repeat that you can’t, voice thick with lust and unrelenting focus. “You’re doing so fucking good for me, just give me one more. Just one.”
You’re not sure if it’s the way he praises you—low and sweet and filthy all at once—or the way his tongue swirls over your clit like he’s got something to prove, but your body doesn’t listen to your mouth.
Your thighs tremble around his head as another whimper slips from your lips, your fingers tangled in the bedsheets like you’re holding on for dear life. “Kook-fuck, I-!”
He hums, lips closing around your clit and sucking gently—just enough to tip you over the edge again.
Your body convulses as you squirt,the orgasm ripping through you so fast and intense it leaves you gasping, eyes squeezed shut as your hips buck up against his face on pure instinct.
Jungkook holds you steady through it, eating you through your high like a man possessed, like he needs it, needs you, more than air.
Only once your body finally slumps into the bed—wrecked and twitching and breathless—does he emerge from beneath your skirt, lips shiny, face and chest dripping in you; eyes blown wide, pupils dark with something primal.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, crawling up over you, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your chest like he’s trying to soothe the very fire he started. “You’re unreal.”
You blink up at him, lips parted, chest heaving, voice a broken whisper. “You said you’d fuck me after that…”
He smirks,dark, slow, and unbearably smug. “And I always keep my promises, baby.”
Then he’s reaching for your skirt, and you already know that you’re not making it through the night in one piece.
Jungkook tosses the skirt somewhere behind him without looking, too focused on you, on the way your body is still trembling beneath him, on the way your chest rises and falls like you’ve just been through something life-altering. And in a way, you have.
He leans down and kisses you, slower this time—sweet and reverent, like he’s trying to let you catch your breath before he takes it again.
“Still with me?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice all husk and honey.
You nod, dazed, fingers reaching up to frame his face, brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Barely.”
His grin is pure trouble. “Good. I want you like this. Wrecked and soft and only thinking about me.”
You roll your eyes, weakly. “Cocky much?”
“Confident,” he corrects, reaching down between your bodies. And then finally, you feel the thick press of him against your slick folds, and your eyes flutter closed, a soft gasp escaping you.
“God, finally,” you breathe.
Jungkook groans, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing that exists. “You’re still so fucking wet,” he says, almost in awe. “Gonna slide right in, baby. Gonna fuck you slow.”
He pushes in, inch by inch, and you swear you feel every second of it—your body stretching to accommodate him, still pulsing from your last orgasm. He’s big, he always is, but right now he feels like too much and just right all at once.
Your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in, and the moan that slips from your lips is more of a cry than anything else. “Koo-fuckkk-you feel…”
He kisses your neck, your cheek, your temple, anchoring you to the bed as he starts to move, slow and deep, hips rolling like he’s savoring every thrust. “I know, baby. I know. Just let go, I got you.”
And you do,you let yourself feel it all, the burn, the stretch, the ache and the bliss. The way his body fits against yours, inside yours, like he was made to be here.
Jungkook moans into your neck, pace picking up just slightly, voice low and desperate. “You don’t even know what you do to me. I missed this. Missed you.”
You hold him tighter, fingernails digging into his back, voice breaking as your pleasure builds again, unbelievably fast.
“Then don’t let go,” you whisper, kissing him like it’s a promise.
He doesn’t plan to. Not that night or ever again.
“More…please baby. Harder.” you whine as he lifts your legs higher on his hips as he drives into you. This feeling was something you couldn’t recreate with your vibrator or other toys no matter how many nights you tried. Jungkook had completely rearranged your system to his liking and god did you miss it.
Jungkook groans—deep and ragged—at the sound of your voice, at the way you beg for him like he’s the only thing that can make you feel this good. And honestly? He is,he knows it and so do you.
“Yeah?” he pants, tightening his grip beneath your knees as he shifts forward, hitting deeper, harder just like you asked. “That what you need, baby? Me splitting you open like this?”
You cry out, back arching as he pistons into you with a new, ruthless rhythm, the bed creaking beneath the force of it. “Yes, Jungkook…fuck, yes,just like that!”
He’s wrecked, sweat dripping down his temples, jaw clenched as he watches your face contort in pleasure with every thrust. “You tried to replace me, didn’t you?” he mutters, voice low and breathless. “Thought your little toys could do what I do?”
You whimper, too far gone to deny it.
“Be honest,” he growls, fucking into you harder, now leaning over you so you’re folded beneath him, your thighs pushed back near your chest. “Did they make you feel like this?”
You shake your head desperately, nails clawing down his back. “No…never,fuck…they never—”
“That’s right.” His voice is pure grit, satisfaction and possession curling around every word. “Because this pussy knows who it belongs to.”
You moan louder, words crumbling as your body trembles beneath him, every nerve ending lit on fire. The sounds are messy now—you’re messy now, reduced to nothing but sensation and need and the maddening rhythm of his body claiming yours.
“Missed this,” Jungkook grits out, eyes locked on the place where your bodies meet, where he disappears inside you over and over. “Missed the way you take me. Like you were fucking made for me.”
And maybe you were—because no one else ever felt like this, no one else ever ruined you this sweetly.
You can’t even form a warning before your climax crashes through you—hard and unforgiving—your entire body seizing around him.
Jungkook groans loud and deep, barely holding himself together. “That’s it, baby-fuck, I got you.”
He doesn’t slow down. He chases his own high through your trembling, overstimulated body—like you’re his favorite drug and he’s too far gone to stop now.
Because this isn’t just sex, not with Jungkook. It’s addiction, it’s ownership but most of all it’s home.
“Want it, baby, please.” he knows what you’re asking for and he knows he’ll give it to you but not without teasing you a bit first.
Jungkook smirks through his labored breaths, hips still rolling deep and slow, like he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion. His eyes darken as he leans in, mouth brushing your ear.
“Want what, baby?” he murmurs, all sin and silk. “Gotta be specific.”
You whine, back arching beneath him, trying to rock your hips up to meet his, but his grip on your thighs keeps you pinned. “You know what I mean,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Don’t make me say it.”
He chuckles darkly, kissing your temple, then your cheek, lips trailing lower until they hover just above your mouth. “Oh no, sweetheart,” he whispers, “you don’t get to beg like that and then get shy on me now.”
His next thrust is sharper, making your eyes roll back as another moan rips out of you. “Say it,” he growls. “Tell me what you want.”
Your pride’s long gone, scattered somewhere between your second orgasm and the moment he told you this pussy was his, so you give him what he wants.
“Want you to come inside me,” you breathe, clutching at his back. “Want to feel it. Please, Jungkook, need it.”
He groans loud, like the words just short-circuited every nerve in his body.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he growls, dropping his forehead to yours as his thrusts pick up again, fast and brutal now. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come so deep…”
You tighten around him at the promise, moaning his name, and he damn near loses it on the spot.
“God, yes, baby. fuck…take it, take all of it,” he gasps, hips slamming into you with wild, desperate precision.
It only takes a few more thrusts before he’s spilling into you with a groan that sounds like your name broken apart, hips twitching as he rides it out, pressing as deep as he can go.
You feel everything—every pulse, every drop—and it sends aftershocks rolling through your body, making you gasp, legs still locked tight around him.He stays there for a long moment, chest heaving against yours, lips pressing soft, almost apologetic kisses to your collarbone, your jaw, your lips.
When he finally pulls back enough to look at you, his expression is soft, eyes dark but tender.
“Feel better now?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You smile, completely wrecked, thoroughly claimed, and still somehow ready for more. “I told you I missed you.”
Jungkook grins, kissing you again. “Baby… you’re never going that long without me again.”
“Yeah?” you ask. Smile on your face as you tighten your legs around him and use his distractedness to flip you both over.
Jungkook grunts in surprise, eyes going wide as his back hits the mattress and you settle on top of him, legs straddling his hips, looking like the prettiest mess he’s ever seen.
“Fuck,” he breathes, hands instinctively flying to your thighs, gripping them like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His eyes rake over you, flushed, glowing, glistening with sweat and his release. “Yeah… definitely missed this.”
You smirk, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Want more,” you murmur, voice dripping with sugar and sin.
Jungkook groans, head falling back against the pillow as his fingers flex on your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you whisper against his neck, kissing along the pulse hammering beneath his skin, “but what a way to go.”
You rock your hips slowly, letting the full sensitivity of him still inside you hit both of you at once and his strangled moan tells you everything you need to know.
“You’re so tight,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips now, “still gripping me like your pussy knows I’m home.”
You hum, starting to ride him slow, deep—deliberate. “You said you wanted to stay inside me,” you whisper in his ear. “So I’m not letting you go yet.”
His whole body twitches beneath you, equal parts wrecked and obsessed. “You’re gonna make me come again,” he warns, voice breaking. “You’re insane.”
You tilt your head with a grin. “You love it.”
“I do,” he admits, hips bucking up into you, chasing the rhythm you’ve set. “God, I do.“
“Yeah?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his.
“Yeah,” he breathes, kissing you like he means it. “and I’m never letting you go again.”
You press your forehead to his, still moving on top of him, still trembling from the overstimulation and the heat between you.
“Good,” you whisper. “…cause I’m not done with you yet.”
“Fuck! Turn around for me baby,”
Jungkook’s voice is ragged, hoarse with desperation, dripping with the kind of hunger that makes your thighs tighten around him reflexively. His grip on your hips is vice-like now, holding you in place even as you try to grind down harder.
“Turn around for me,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours, nearly begging this time. “Wanna see that ass bounce, baby. Wanna watch you fuckin’ take me.”
Your smirk is slow and wicked, and it only gets deeper when you lean in and murmur right into his ear, “Didn’t even last five minutes on bottom.”
He groans—a beautiful, wrecked sound—as you pull back and slowly rise off of him, both of you gasping as you separate, just for a moment.
“Shit,” he hisses, watching you like a man possessed as you turn around, hands braced on his thighs as you slowly sink back down on his length, facing away from him now.
“Oh my god,” Jungkook chokes out, his hands immediately flying to your waist again, thumbs digging into the curves of your hips as he watches you take every inch.
“You like that, baby?” you tease, rolling your hips with intention, slow and deep, milking every sound from him.
“I love it,” he moans, thrusting up into you now, meeting your movements with an intensity that makes you cry out. “You feel fucking unreal.”
The sound of skin against skin fills the room now, lewd and loud, your breathless moans layered with his deep groans as your rhythm grows frantic.
“Look at you,” he pants, one hand sliding from your waist to your ass, gripping, guiding, loving every bounce. “This pussy was made to ride me like this.”
You’re trembling, both from overstimulation and the obscene stretch of him pounding into you from below, hitting every sweet spot like he’s got your entire body mapped out.
“I’m…fuck, I’m close again,” you gasp, barely able to hold yourself up as your thighs start to shake.
Jungkook thrusts up even harder, his pace feral now, hands pulling you back to meet each snap of his hips. “Then come on, baby,” he growls. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”
You do, with a cry so loud and raw it leaves you both breathless. Your body seizes, clenching down around him so hard he curses violently and spills into you again, gripping you like he’s drowning in you.
And maybe he is because when your bodies finally collapse into each other, panting, spent, still trembling with aftershocks, Jungkook presses his lips to your spine and whispers…
“Still not done.”
He pulls you up onto your hands and knees pressing your back down to arch just the way he likes it and even though you’re tired you still find it in you to tease him by shaking your ass in his face. You both know what’s coming once he has you in this position and those dancer hips of his goes to work.
Jungkook groans the second you give that little shake, hands flying to your hips like instinct—ownership—as he stares down at you, chest heaving, eyes dark with something primal.
“You’re really gonna tease me right now?” he mutters, voice low and dangerous behind you. “After everything I just gave you?”
You laugh breathlessly, barely able to hold your weight on shaky arms, but the look you toss over your shoulder is pure sin. “Thought you said you missed this.”
He growls—actually growls—and the next second he’s pressing a firm hand between your shoulder blades, pushing your chest into the mattress until your back arches deep, presenting him with his favorite view. The sight of you like this—ass up, legs trembling, slick and swollen and still dripping from everything he’s already done—nearly sends him over the edge again.
“Stay just like that,” he grits out. “You wanna act like a brat? You’re gonna take all of it.”
And then he’s sliding back into you in one smooth, devastating thrust.
You cry out into the sheets, back arching even more as his hips slam into yours, that dancer rhythm kicking in immediately, precise, brutal, relentless.
Every stroke is deep, intentional, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing off the walls like an applause. Your nails claw at the sheets, your body rocking forward with each thrust, completely at his mercy.
“Fuck, Jungkook…baby,you’re so—”
“Loud,” he pants, smirking even through his own wrecked moans. “You’re so loud, baby. You want the whole building to know who’s fucking you like this?”
You whimper, voice raw and ragged. “Y-Yes—yes, let them hear it. I don’t care.”
He groans at that, snapping his hips faster, one hand reaching around to toy with your clit while the other keeps your hips locked against him. “That’s right,” he growls, breathing harsh against your spine. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. Let them know you’re mine.”
The pleasure is overwhelming—white-hot and consuming—and you’re coming again before you can even warn him, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as your entire body clenches around him like a vice.
He stutters in his rhythm, cursing, and buries himself deep one last time, spilling inside you for the third time with a loud, broken moan of your name.
You both collapse, tangled and shaking, breathless and coated in sweat, your body molded into the sheets, his weight heavy on your back.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your shared breathing—uneven, wrecked.
And then Jungkook kisses the back of your neck and whispers with a hoarse little laugh, “Still not done…”
“I have a studio session tomorrow, you menace.” you laugh trying to pull away from him. You had already lost count of how many times he made you come for the night and you knew if he continued you wouldn’t be sitting or walking right for the next few days.
Jungkook laughs against your shoulder, breath still hot on your skin, arms tightening around your waist as he keeps you locked beneath him. “And? You’ll sound better relaxed,” he mumbles, trailing kisses down your spine like he’s not the reason your legs feel like jelly.
You squirm weakly in his hold, whimpering when he grinds against your still-sensitive core, making your whole body twitch. “Koo…please,” you gasp, laughing through the overstimulation. “You’re actually insane.”
He grins against your skin, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Insane for you. You started this, showing up looking like a walking wet dream.”
“You told me not to go home first!”
“And you listened,” he chuckles darkly. “That’s on you, baby.”
You try again to wiggle free, but he’s already rolling you onto your side, pulling you flush against him like you belong there, wrapped up in his arms, bare and exhausted, skin warm and sticky from every way he’s touched you.
“You’re evil,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut.
He kisses your temple, soft now. “Yeah, but I make you come like no one else.”
You groan and shove at his chest with the strength of a wet noodle. “If I show up to the studio tomorrow and can’t hit a single note without thinking about your damn tongue—”
“Then I’ve done my job,” he says proudly, hugging you closer. “And you’ll be thinking about me every time you sit down, too.”
You laugh, face buried in his chest now. “I hate you.”
“Nah,” he says, voice low, hand stroking your back as your breathing starts to slow. “You love me. Admit it.”
You pause, letting the silence stretch between you.
Then, just loud enough for him to hear,
“…Maybe.”
He grins like you just handed him the world. “That’s all I needed.”
And as sleep starts to pull you under—sore, satisfied, and wrapped in his warmth—you feel him pulling out of you and you groan clenching around him.
“Shh, lemme clean you up baby. Maybe we should shower again and I need to change the sheets.”
You whimper at the sudden emptiness, your body twitching instinctively, oversensitive and greedy even after everything he’s given you tonight. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me,” you mumble into his chest, clenching involuntarily around him.
Jungkook groans at the feeling, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Don’t do that,” he warns, voice hoarse. “You’re already trying to suck me back in.”
You grin weakly. “Maybe I am evil.”
“Yeah?” he mutters, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. “Then we deserve each other.”
He sits up with a sigh, rubbing at his face before reaching for the towel he tossed earlier. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft shuffle of him moving around the bed, and then his gentle hands parting your thighs as he crouches between them with that same care he didn’t show while ruining you earlier.
“Hold still, baby,” he murmurs, voice tender now. “Just cleaning you up.”
You flinch slightly at the first contact, hissing through your teeth. “Still so sensitive…”
“I know.” His tone is all softness now, soothing, the towel warm and damp as he carefully wipes you down. “You took me so well tonight. So fucking good for me.”
Your eyes flutter shut at the praise, your heart blooming even as your body shudders through the afterglow.
He tosses the towel aside and leans over to kiss your belly, your hip, your thigh—little tokens of apology and affection—before crawling off the bed entirely.
“C’mon,” he says, voice playful but affectionate. “Let’s shower before I throw us both into clean sheets and ruin them all over again.”
You groan. “I won’t survive another round.”
“We’ll make it quick,” he smirks, reaching out to pull you up by the wrists, your limbs heavy and limp. “Five minutes.”
“You’re a liar.”
“A hopeful liar,” he corrects with a wink.
Still, you let him guide you off the bed, legs wobbling just like he knew they would. He catches you with a proud little sound, arms wrapping around your waist like muscle memory.
You glance back at the bed, sheets tangled and ruined, evidence of every round and every promise kept.
“Tomorrow,” you warn him as you stumble into the bathroom. “No touching.”
“We’ll see,” he grins, turning the water on. “Depends on how cute you look when you’re singing off-key thinking about my tongue.”
You don’t respond, not because you don’t have a comeback, but because your knees almost buckle again.
He sees it, of course he does and he grins like he’s already won.
“Fucking menace.” you mumble as he sits you on the toilet seat to handle your business and turns the water on for the tub instead of the shower.
“You hate baths.”
Jungkook glances over his shoulder with a lazy, smug grin as he tests the water temperature with his hand. “Yeah, I do,” he says, twisting the tap to the perfect warmth, steam already beginning to rise, “but you love them. And you can barely stand right now, so guess what? We’re compromising.”
You narrow your eyes at him, cheeks still flushed, legs still trembling from everything he put you through. “That’s not a compromise. That’s you getting what you want while pretending it’s for me.”
He raises a brow, stepping closer and leaning down to rest his hands on either side of your thighs, trapping you there. “Baby,” he murmurs, eyes dark and sticky-sweet, “I already got what I want.” His fingers brush the inside of your knee, thumb teasing gently over the bruises blooming on your skin. “Now I’m making sure you feel good. You deserve that too.”
Your sass falters for just a beat as warmth curls low in your stomach again—a different kind of warmth now, softer, more vulnerable than lust.
“Don’t get all sweet on me now,” you grumble, but your voice has lost its bite.
He smirks, brushing his nose against yours before pulling away. “Too late.”
He checks the water again, then plugs the tub and starts gathering your favorite bath products—the ones he pretends not to care about but somehow knows the exact scents of. Vanilla, soft musk, a hint of rose. He even grabs that overpriced foaming oil you only splurge on when you’re feeling emotionally wrecked.
“You’re a menace and a simp,” you say, watching him with a half-hearted pout as he pours the oil under the water.
He shrugs. “Only for you.”
When the tub is full and the scent of warm vanilla fills the air, he turns to you, arms open. “Come here.”
You groan, muscles aching, but let him scoop you up anyway like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He eases you into the tub with a gentleness that contrasts wildly with how he had you earlier, and when he climbs in behind you and pulls you back against his chest, you melt.
“This is illegal,” you mumble, sinking into the heat of the water, his arms wrapping around you, palms flat on your stomach.
“What is?”
“Being good at sex and aftercare. Pick a struggle.”
Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Nah. I’m greedy. I want all your stars, not just one.”
You hum, eyelids heavy, body warm and floating. “You already have ‘em.”
And the way his arms tighten around you, holding you just a little closer?
Yeah. He knows.
“You coming to Jin-hyung’s concert this weekend?” He asks after a moment of silence.
“Can’t, I leave for Japan on Saturday morning.”
Jungkook stills behind you for a moment, his arms pausing in their gentle strokes across your stomach.
“You didn’t tell me that,” he says softly, not accusing, just surprised, a slight shift in his voice that only someone who knows him would catch.
You tilt your head slightly, letting it rest back against his shoulder. “Didn’t really come up, what with all the…well,” you gesture vaguely to the war zone that is your shared exhaustion and the bath you’re currently soaking in.
He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s tinged with something thoughtful. “Work trip?”
“Mmhm,” you nod. “Couple meetings, studio sessions and an interview before I fly back.”
He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “When?”
“I’ll be back Tuesday night.”
Another pause.
“You want me to pick you up from the airport?”
Your chest warms. “You don’t have to, Kook.You get caught picking me up at the airport and both our asses are in deep shit. You don’t need to be getting dragged on the internet for being seen with a girl much less me.”
You knew how people would spin it especially the media, given that you weren’t full blooded Korean.
Jungkook exhales slowly, like he’s weighing his words before letting them go. His fingers trail lightly over your skin again, thoughtful, grounding. “First of all,” he says quietly, “If it’s about you being a little bit older than me or not fully Korean,I don’t give a shit. None of that mean anything to me, and it never did.”
You open your mouth to respond, but he keeps going.
“And second…” he pauses, then dips his head to kiss the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, lingering. “Let them talk. Let them spin it. They’ve got no idea what this actually is. They don’t see you taking care of me when I’m burnt out. Or how you tell me the truth when everyone else just tells me what I want to hear.”
You go still at that, lips parting.
“They don’t see what I see,” he murmurs, voice low, tender, and just a little raw. “They never will. And honestly? I’m kind of done pretending that matters.”
Your chest tightens, throat catching on something you can’t name.
“Kook…”
“I’m serious,” he says, shifting just enough so you can see the edge of his expression. His eyes are darker now, not with lust, but with clarity. “I’m not trying to plaster us across tabloids or post some grand reveal on Weverse. But I am saying I don’t want to keep treating you like some secret I have to hide in dark rooms and back entrances.”
Your heart thuds loud in your chest.
“I want to pick you up from the airport,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Not as Jungkook from BTS, but just as your…your man. If that’s okay with you.”
You turn your head then, looking up at him. His cheeks are a little flushed, his jaw tense. But his eyes?
Completely open. No mask, no hesitation.
“I’d like that,” you whisper, voice smaller than usual.
He grins softly, a little relieved, a little smug. “Yeah?”
You smile. “Yeah.”
His arms wrap around you a little tighter, pulling you close again until there’s no space left between your bodies, water sloshing gently around you.
“Good,” he whispers, nose nudging your hair. “Because I wasn’t asking.”
And just like that—wrapped in warm water, tangled in each other, tangled in something so real—you stop worrying about who might see.
Because between you and him,you know that the love is genuine.
Had a dream I swapped bodies with Mingi on some freaky Friday type shit and dude didn’t pick up my calls for a week because
1. he didn’t know his own number by heart
2. “first time being a girl,kinda nervous” lemme enjoy this
Yall I am unable to can because wtf was that shit 😂 I can’t remember much else but good lord I just know that man was causing chaos and being a menace in my body like he didn’t even question it just went with the flow
Summary: It’s Hyunjin’s birthday but you’re stuck in Busan for your department seminar but where Anne hath a will,Anne Hathaway and Hyunjin will spend his birthday with his muse because who’s gonna stop him?
Warnings:Certified loverboy/Munch!Hyunjin, uni student!hyunjin x TA grad student!f.reader, curve/plus size reader, Hyunjin still has some morally grey traits that you overlook because you lowkey love that shit and you’re just as much as a simp for him, there’s some plot/fluff in there somewhere, smut! MDNI! ,you both are down horrendous and can’t keep your hands off each other,may or may not be the honeymoon phase,birthday sex, Multiple sex scenes/rounds, unprotected sex, oral (m.&f.rec), Hyunjin’s back because yes, mirror sex but it’s on the ceiling and they didn’t notice it the night before, unprotected sex, long-haired Hyunjin, Hyunjin’s visual waiting for her are the headers, nicknames: Hyune, baby,Simp(his), Muse(this is cannon), baby (hers), lots of text dialogue cause i can and i like it, as usual I might have missed something.
W.C: 11.5k
A/N: Part 2 to Pussy Fairy, I’d recommend reading that first to understand Hyunjin’s morally gray behavior and their relationship but it can be read as a standalone. I know it’s a late post but school has started back and I’ve got so much going on this semester that I fell behind on the editing and posting. Happy belated birthday to the man that loves love. edited this running on fumes so if you see mistakes,forgive me.
The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, and you’ve been nursing the same drink for the past hour trying to look engaged while your department head drones on about teaching methodologies. Your phone buzzes in your lap for the third time in ten minutes, and you risk a glance down.
Hyune🥟🥰 : miss you 😭
Hyune 🥟🥰: the bed is too big without you🥺🥺
Hyune 🥟🥰: and cold. very cold. might die of hypothermia actually
Despite your exhaustion, you can’t help but smile. You type back quickly under the table.
You: dramatic. it’s march, not december
Hyune 🥟🥰: irrelevant. i require your warmth for survival
Hyune 🥟🥰: it's a medical necessity
You: you survived 25 years without me
Hyune 🥟🥰: that was before i knew what i was missing
Hyune 🥟🥰: now I'm spoiled. ruined. a shell of my former self
You’re trying very hard not to laugh out loud when Professor Kim calls for another round of soju. You suppress a groan. It’s nearly 10 PM, you’ve been at this seminar since 8 AM, and all you want is to get back to your hotel room, take a scalding shower, and video call your boyfriend. But the senior professors are still here, still drinking, and leaving before them would be a massive breach of department etiquette. So you paste on a smile and accept another glass, texting Hyunjin one-handed under the table.
You: still at dinner. prof kim just ordered another round
Hyune 🥟🥰: another one??? how are you still conscious
You: barely. running on fumes and spite at this point
Hyune 🥟🥰: my poor baby. wish i could rescue you
You: me too. i miss you🥺😭
You: I'm sorry I'm not there for tomorrow
There’s a longer pause before his response comes through.
Hyune 🥟🥰: don't apologize. it's not your fault
Hyune 🥟🥰: besides I’ll be 26 whether you’re here or not. we can celebrate when you get back
You: still feels shitty. it's your first birthday as my boyfriend and I'm stuck in busan
Hyune 🥟🥰: first of many though right?
Your chest does something complicated at that. First of many. Like he’s already planning a future, already certain you’ll be there for the next one, and the one after that.
You: right. first of many.
Hyune 🥟🥰: then don't worry about it. tell me about the seminar. learn anything interesting?
So you do, typing out summaries between shots of soju and forced laughter at your colleagues’ jokes. You tell him about the morning panel on contemporary pedagogy, about how Professor Lee nearly started a fight over grading methodologies, about the terrible coffee at the conference center.
He responds to everything, asking questions, making jokes, keeping you entertained even though you know he’s probably bored out of his mind but that’s Hyunjin; he always makes you feel like whatever you’re saying is the most interesting thing in the world.
You: okay prof kim is definitely drunk now. he’s singing.
Hyune 🥟🥰: SINGING???
Hyune 🥟🥰: please tell me you’re recording this
You: absolutely not. i value my assistantship
Hyune 🥟🥰: coward
You: practical
Hyune 🥟🥰: tomato tomahto
Another round of food appears—this time it’s grilled fish and more banchan than your table has room for. You take a picture and send it to him.
You: at this rate im going to roll back to seoul
Hyune 🥟🥰: good. more of you to hold
Hyune 🥟🥰: more of you to worship
Hyune 🥟🥰: speaking of which…what are you wearing? 👀👀🫦
You: hyunjin.
Hyune 🥟🥰: what? I’m just asking
Hyune 🥟🥰: for academic purposes
You: academic purposes???
Hyune 🥟🥰: i’m conducting research on what i want to take off you when you get home
You nearly choke on your drink. Your face heats up as you glance around to make sure no one’s looking at your phone.
You: you’re terrible
Hyune 🥟🥰: you love it
Hyune 🥟🥰: but seriously. black dress? the one with the buttons that you sent me this morning?
You:…yes
Hyune 🥟🥰: fuck. That’s my favorite.
Hyune 🥟🥰: been thinking about it all day actually. about unbuttoning it slowly. kissing every inch of skin i reveal.
You: hyunjin we are in PUBLIC
Hyune 🥟🥰: you’re in public. I’m alone in bed. wishing you were here.
Hyune 🥟🥰: wishing i could put my hands on you. my mouth on you.
Hyune 🥟🥰: been two days and i already miss how you taste
Your thighs press together involuntarily. You take a long sip of water, trying to cool down.
You: you’re not playing fair
Hyune 🥟🥰: all’s fair in love and sexting
Hyune 🥟🥰: besides you started it by sending me that photo this morning
You: that was just my outfit!
Hyune 🥟🥰: yeah, and you looked hot as fuck in it
Hyune 🥟🥰: do you know how hard it was to not immediately book a train ticket to busan?
You: it’s a 3-hour train ride
Hyune 🥟🥰: exactly. showed incredible restraint.
Hyune 🥟🥰: felix said i should be proud
You: you told felix?
Hyune 🥟🥰: i tell felix everything
Hyune 🥟🥰: he’s deeply invested in our relationship
Hyune 🥟🥰: also slightly concerned about my mental health
You: why?
Hyune 🥟🥰: because i might have walked past your apartment building three times today
You: HYUNJIN
Hyune 🥟🥰: WHAT
Hyune 🥟🥰: i missed you!
Hyune 🥟🥰: sue me for being in love!
You smile despite yourself, warmth flooding your chest. Two months in and he still makes you feel like a teenager with a crush.
You: i really do miss you
Hyune 🥟🥰: miss you too baby
Hyune 🥟🥰: two more days though and then you’re all mine
You: all yours
Hyune 🥟🥰: damn right
Hyune 🥟🥰: gonna spend the whole week in bed with you
Hyune 🥟🥰: well. in bed. on the couch. against the wall. in the shower.
Hyune 🥟🥰: basically, anywhere i can get my hands on you
You: insatiable
Hyune 🥟🥰: only for you
Professor Kim stands up suddenly, declaring that they should move to another restaurant for round two. You suppress a groan. It’s already past 11:00, and round two could easily stretch past midnight.
You: they’re talking about a second location
Hyune 🥟🥰: nooooo
Hyune 🥟🥰: tell them you have explosive diarrhea
You: HYUNJIN
Hyune 🥟🥰: what? its foolproof. no one questions explosive diarrhea
You: I'm not telling my professors i have explosive diarrhea
Hyune 🥟🥰: your loss. it's a great excuse
Thankfully, some of the junior professors manage to convince Professor Kim that they should call it a night. You could kiss them. The group starts to disperse, people calling taxis and saying their goodbyes. You gather your things, pulling on your coat and checking your phone.
You: finally freed. heading back to hotel
Hyune 🥟🥰: thank god. thought i’d have to actually take the ktx down there and rescue you
You: my hero
Hyune 🥟🥰: always
Hyune 🥟🥰: text me when you get back safe okay?
You: will do. love you
Hyune 🥟🥰: love you more
You step out into the cool March night, pulling your coat tighter. The restaurant is in a busy area, full of other groups spilling out of bars and restaurants, couples walking hand in hand. The sight makes you ache for Hyunjin; for his hand in yours, his arm around your shoulders, his warmth against your side. A few of your colleagues are lingering outside, smoking and chatting. You bow politely, making small talk about tomorrow’s schedule while checking your phone to call a taxi.
“And here I thought you’d spot me as soon as you stepped outside,”
The voice—his voice—makes you freeze. You look up so fast you nearly drop your phone. Hyunjin is leaning against a car parked just a bit away from where you’re standing, hands in his pockets, wearing that leather jacket you love and a grin that makes your heart skip. His hair is wind-tousled, longer than it was two months ago because you’d mentioned you liked it that way and he’d immediately stopped cutting it.
Even in the dim streetlight you can see the way his eyes light up when they meet yours, like you’re the only person on the entire street. For a second, you just stare. Your brain struggles to process what you’re seeing; your boyfriend, who should be in Seoul, standing on a street in Busan at nearly 11:30PM the night before his birthday.
“Yah, what’re you doing here?” you manage, legs carrying you toward him automatically. Your colleagues have gone quiet behind you, probably confused but you can’t bring yourself to care. He pushes off the car and meets you halfway, immediately taking your handbag from your shoulder like he always does; like the weight of it personally offends him, like carrying your things is his sacred duty. His free hand finds your waist, pulling you close, and the familiar warmth of him, the solid reality of him actually being here, makes your throat tight.
“Did you really think I’d spend my birthday without you?” he asks softly, tucking a loose curl behind your ear with such tenderness it makes your chest ache.
“What about the boys? Thought you guys had plans?” Your hands have found his jacket, clutching the leather like you need to hold on to prove he’s real.
“Did them yesterday,” he says easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to rearrange his entire birthday celebration. “Figured I’d rather spend it with you instead of getting drunk with the guys. I think Busan makes for a good birthday getaway, no?”
“You—” You’re struggling to find words, emotion clogging your throat. “You came all the way to Busan for your birthday, instead of celebrating in Seoul?”
“I came to Busan for you,” he corrects gently, and the way he’s looking at you—soft and fond and completely certain, like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had—makes your chest feel too tight. His thumb traces your cheekbone, catching on the curve of your face like he’s memorizing it all over again even though it’s only been two days. “Three hours on the KTX is nothing. I’d have taken a train twice as long. Would have walked here if I had to.”
“Hyunjin…” Tears are pricking at your eyes and you don’t even know why. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the overwhelming realization that this boy—this beautifully, ridiculous boy—took the train to Busan on the night before his birthday just to be with you.
“Hey, no crying,” he says, thumbs coming up to brush at your cheeks even though you haven’t actually cried yet. “You’re supposed to be happy I’m here.”
“I am happy,” you insist, voice thick. “I’m so happy. I just…you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he interrupts. “I needed to. Do you have any idea how long two days felt? I walked past your apartment building so many times like a fucking creep because I missed you so much. Felix said I was being pathetic and you know what? I didn’t even care, because I am pathetic when it comes to you.”
You let out a watery laugh. “You really walked past my building?”
“Multiple times,” he admits, shameless. “Was gonna let myself in but then I thought, fuck it, why am I walking past her empty apartment when I could just get on a train and go where she actually is?” His hands cup your face, tilting it up to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to spend my birthday without you, Muse. Don’t want to spend any day without you if I can help it.”
You pull him into a kiss right there on the street, not caring that your colleagues are definitely watching, not caring about anything except the fact that he’s here, he took a train to be here, he rearranged his entire birthday because he wanted to be with you.
His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he kisses you back like he’s been starving for it. Like two days apart was two days too long. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, can feel the way his hand trembles slightly as it cradles the back of your head and you realize he was probably nervous—taking the train all this way, not knowing if you’d be happy or overwhelmed or upset.
When you finally pull apart, he’s grinning. “Miss me?”
“So much,” you admit, fingers tangling in his hair. It’s gotten so long, falling into his eyes and you love it. Love that he grew it out just because you mentioned liking it once. “Two days felt like forever.”
“I know. I was going crazy.” His thumb traces your cheekbone again, like he can’t stop touching you now that you’re here. “Couldn’t focus on anything. Failed a quiz because I kept thinking about you. Felix literally had to confiscate my phone at one point because I wouldn’t stop checking to see if you’d texted.”
“You failed a quiz?”
“Not an actual quiz,” he says immediately. “But I would fail a hundred quizzes for you. Would fail the entire semester. Would drop out of school entirely.”
“Please don’t drop out of school or fail your classes.”
“Okay, but only because you asked nicely.” He grins, pressing his forehead to yours. “God, I missed your face. Missed everything about you. The way you smell, the way you feel, the way you look at me like I’m not completely insane for taking the KTX to Busan on a Thursday night.”
“You are completely insane,” you point out, but you’re smiling.
“Only for you,” he says and kisses you again.
Someone clears their throat behind you. You pull away to find Professor Kim watching with raised eyebrows, several of your colleagues poorly hiding smiles.
“Ah, Professor Kim,” you say, bowing awkwardly while still in Hyunjin’s arms because he refuses to let you go. “This is—this is Hyunjin. My boyfriend.”
“I gathered,” Professor Kim says dryly but his eyes are kind. “Took the train all the way from Seoul?”
“Yes, sir,” Hyunjin says politely, bowing as much as he can while keeping one arm firmly around your waist. “Couldn’t miss the chance to spend my birthday with her.”
“Your birthday?” Professor Kim’s expression softens. “Well then. Happy birthday, young man. And take care of our teaching assistant, she works very hard.”
“I know, sir. I will.” Hyunjin’s arm tightens around you. “I promise.”
Professor Kim nods approvingly and heads to his taxi. Your other colleagues offer congratulations and birthday wishes before dispersing, leaving you alone with Hyunjin on the street.
“They seem nice,” Hyunjin says.
“They’re drunk,” you counter. “Wait until tomorrow when they remember their teaching assistant’s boyfriend crashed a department dinner.”
“Don’t care.” He opens the door of the car he’d been waiting beside. “Let them remember. Let them know you’re taken.”
As you slide into the car, you just watch him, still half-convinced you’re hallucinating from exhaustion. He settles in the drivers seat, immediately lacing his fingers with yours.
“What do you wanna do first?” You ask.
“First we need to stop at your hotel,” Hyunjin says, asking for the address. “So you can grab your things, then we’re going to—” he rattles off another address.
“Wait, my hotel?” you ask. “I thought—”
“You’re not staying in a room with your colleagues when I’m here,” he says simply. “I booked us a place. Nice one, on the beach. Figured we could have a proper birthday celebration.”
“Hyunjin, you can’t—that’s too expensive—”
“It’s my birthday,” he interrupts, locking his fingers with yours and bringing it to his lips. “I’ll spend it how I want. And I want to spend it with you, in a nice hotel room, with a view of the ocean and a bed big enough for all the things I’ve been dying to do to you for the past two days.”
Your face heats.
“Plus,” Hyunjin continues, lowering his voice, “I’m staying the whole weekend. Booked a return ticket for Sunday. Figured we could explore Busan together before heading back to Seoul.”
“The whole weekend?” Your heart stutters. “But—”
“No buts. The seminar ends tomorrow at noon, right? Then you’re all mine for two whole days.” He grins. “Already planned it all out. There’s this café Jeongin told me about, and the beach, and—”
“You planned a whole weekend?”
“Obviously.” He looks at you like you’re being silly. “Did you think I’d come all this way just to turn around and leave? No way. I’m getting every possible second with you.”
The car pulls up to your hotel—a modest place near the conference center—and Hyunjin insists on coming up with you. Your room is on the third floor, shared with two other junior professors who thankfully aren’t there yet.
“This is depressing,” Hyunjin says, looking around the cramped room with its twin beds and dated furniture.
“It’s fine for a work trip,” you defend, pulling out your bag.
“Well, you’re not staying here anymore.” He starts helping you pack, folding your clothes with surprising care. “Not when I got us a room with an actual view and a bathroom that doesn’t look like it’s from 1995.”
“The bathroom is not that old—”
“Muse. There’s floral wallpaper.”
“…okay, fair.”
You pack quickly, leaving a note for your roommates and twenty minutes later, you’re back in the car. The hotel Hyunjin booked is beautiful; right on Haeundae Beach, modern and sleek, the kind of place you’d never book for yourself. The lobby is all marble and soft lighting and when you get to the room, you actually gasp.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean, the city lights reflecting on the dark water. The bed is massive, covered in crisp white linens. There’s a sitting area with a plush couch, a desk and,
“Is that a balcony?” you ask, spotting the glass doors.
“Private balcony,” Hyunjin confirms, setting down your bags. “Thought we could have breakfast out there tomorrow. Watch the sunrise if you want, though I’m planning on keeping you in bed for as long as possible.”
He comes up behind you as you stare out at the view, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“This is too much,” you say softly, but you’re leaning back into him.
“Nothing’s too much for you,” he says simply. “Besides, I wanted it to be special. It’s not every day I turn 26 with the love of my life.”
You turn in his arms to stare at him. “Love of your life?”
He has the grace to look slightly embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck. “Is that…is that too much? Sorry, I can—”
“No,” you interrupt, hands finding his face, making him look at you. “No, it’s not too much. You just surprised me.”
“Good surprised or bad surprised?”
“Good,” you assure him. “Really good ‘cause you’re the love of my life too.” His expression transforms, surprise giving way to joy giving way to something tender and overwhelming. He kisses you like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words, backing you toward that massive bed.
“Wait,” you mumble against his lips. “I really do need a shower. I’ve been in these clothes all day and I probably smell like soju and cigarette smoke.”
“Don’t care,” he says but his hands are already working at the buttons of your dress. “Could not possibly care less. You could smell like a dumpster, and I’d still want to get my hands on you.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s love, baby.” He gets the first button undone and presses a kiss to the newly revealed skin. “But fine. Shower, I’m joining you.”
“I was hoping you would,” you admit, pulling him toward the bathroom.
The bathroom is as impressive as the rest of the room; huge glass shower, separate soaking tub, heated floors and fluffy white towels that probably cost more than your monthly rent and you briefly wonder just how much money he makes for his commissioned works because he pays for almost everything. Hyunjin’s hands are gentle as he helps you out of your dress and your thoughts, reverent as he traces the lines of your body like he’s relearning geography he’s afraid of forgetting.
“Missed this,” he murmurs, palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “Missed touching you. Missed being near you. Two days is too long.”
“Agreed,” you breathe, reaching for his shirt.
He helps you pull it off, then his jeans, until you’re both bare and stepping under the warm spray. For a moment you just stand there, holding each other, letting the water cascade over you both.
“This is nice,” you mumble against his chest. “Just this.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, hands stroking up and down your back. “Just this is perfect.”
But then his hands start to wander—not urgently, just exploring. Reacquainting themselves with your body, mapping the curves and dips like he’s got all the time in the world.
“I really did miss you,” he says, fingers tracing your spine. “Missed how soft you are. How perfectly you fit against me.” His hands slide lower, cupping your ass, pulling you closer. “Missed this. All of this.”
“Hyune,” you sigh, tilting your head back as his lips find your neck.
“Want to take care of you.” He whispers against your skin.
You let him, closing your eyes as his fingers work your body. It’s intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex—this gentle care, this tenderness.
“We should wash,” he murmurs but makes no move to actually do so.
“We should,” you agree, but your hands are sliding down his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach.
His eyes open, dark and wanting. “Muse…”
“What? I’m just washing you,” you say innocently, hands dipping lower.
“That is not washing,” he says, breath catching as your hand wraps around his cock.
“No?” You stroke him slowly, watching his face. “My mistake.”
“You’re evil,” he groans, hips rocking into your touch. “Beautiful and perfect and evil.”
“You love it,” you counter and then you’re sinking to your knees.
“Fuck, baby, you don’t have to—” But his hands are already in your hair and when you look up at him through wet lashes, his protest dies in his throat.
“I want to,” you say simply. “It’s your birthday. Let me make you feel good.”
“You always make me feel good,” he says, but then you’re taking him in your mouth and he stops talking entirely, just moans your name like a prayer.
You take your time, using everything you’ve learned about what he likes. The way he loves when you swirl your tongue just under the head, how he shudders when you take him deep, the sounds he makes when you hum around him.
“Fuck, Muse, your mouth,” he gasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “So good, baby, so fucking good—”
You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, and his hips stutter forward before he catches himself.
“Sorry, sorry,” he pants. “Just…fuck, you feel so good—”
You pull off with a wet sound. “Don’t apologize. I like it when you lose control.”
“Yeah?” His voice is wrecked. “Like when I fuck your mouth?”
“Love it,” you confirm and take him back in, giving him permission.
He groans, both hands in your hair now and starts to move. Slow at first, careful, but when you moan encouragement he loses it—fucking into your mouth with abandon while praising you constantly.
“So good for me, so perfect, taking me so well,” His rhythm is getting erratic and you know he’s close. “Gonna come, baby, fuck, gonna—”
You double your efforts, wanting it, wanting him to fall apart for you, and he does; coming with a shout of your name, hips jerking as he spills down your throat. You swallow it all, working him through it until he’s trembling and oversensitive, then pull off and look up at him. He’s looking down at you like you hung the moon.
“Come here,” he says roughly, pulling you up and into a kiss. He doesn’t care that he can taste himself on your tongue, just kisses you like you’re everything. “You’re too good to me.”
“Impossible,” you say against his lips. “You took a three-hour train ride to see me.”
“And I’d do it again,” he says immediately. “Every day if you wanted me to.” He actually washes you then, gentle hands soaping your body, careful and thorough. Then you do the same for him, taking care with every inch of him and by the time you’re both clean you’re both aroused again.
“Bed,” he says, turning off the water. “Need you in that big bed.”
He wraps you in a plush hotel robe, ties it carefully, then puts on his own. Orders room service—all your favorite foods because of course he does—and you eat while sitting on the bed, the ocean view spread out before you.
“I actually got you a present,” you admit, curling into his side. “It’s back in Seoul though. I was going to send you to my place to get it, but you decided to take a train ride to Busan.”
“Don’t care. This is better.” He pulls you on top of him, hands sliding under your robe to find bare skin. His palms spread across your stomach, your hips, holding you like you’re precious. “Having you here. Getting to touch you. That’s all I need.”
“Still,” you say, pressing kisses along his jaw, down his neck. “You deserve to be celebrated properly.”
“Oh, I intend to be celebrated very thoroughly,” he says, grin wicked. His hands slide higher, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples. “Starting right now.”
He rolls you beneath him, settling between your thighs, and for a moment just looks at you—sprawled beneath him in the lamplight, hair still damp, lips swollen from kissing. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you confirm, reaching up to cup his face. “All yours, Hyune.”
“Mine,” he repeats and then he’s kissing you, deep and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world and he does, you both do. The whole night stretched out ahead of you.
His mouth trails down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He pushes the robe aside, revealing your body to his gaze, and the way he looks at you—like you’re art, like you’re everything—makes your breath catch.
“I’ve been dying to get my hands on you,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your chest. “Dying to taste you again.”
His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his teeth. You arch into him with a gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. “That’s it,” he encourages, switching to the other breast. “Let me hear you, baby. No one here but us.”
His hand slides down your stomach—that soft, gorgeous stomach he dreams about kissing, about resting his head on—and between your thighs. He groans when he finds you already wet. “Fuck, you’re soaked. This all for me?”
“Always for you,” you gasp as his fingers circle your clit.
“Good,” he says, and then he’s moving down your body, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. Your ribs, your stomach, your hips. He spreads your thighs, settling between them, and just looks for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about this for two days,” he says, breath hot against your inner thigh. “About loving on you. About getting my mouth on you again. About making you come on my tongue until you can’t remember your own name.”
“Hyune, please,”
“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” then his mouth is on you, and you forget how to think. He eats you out like a man starved, like two days without this was two days too long. His tongue is everywhere, circling your clit, dipping inside you, lapping at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“So good,” he mumbles against you. “Taste so fucking good. Could spend hours between your thighs, you know that? Would live here if you’d let me.”
You’re already embarrassingly close, two days of built-up tension and the reality of having him here, having his mouth on you, overwhelming your senses. “That’s it,” he encourages, reading your body like a book. “Come for me, Muse. Want to taste it.”
He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you shatter, crying out his name, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, tongue gentle now, until you’re pushing at his head from oversensitivity. He kisses his way back up your body, and when he reaches your mouth, you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“Need you,” you gasp, pulling at his robe. “Need you inside me.”
“I’ve got you,” he promises, shedding the robe. He lines himself up, and when he pushes inside—slow and deep and perfect—you both moan. “Missed this,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Missed you. Missed how perfect you feel around me.”
He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts that have you gasping. One hand laces with yours, pressing it into the pillow beside your head, while the other grips your hip, thumb stroking the soft skin there.
“I love you,” he says, punctuating each word with a thrust. “Love you so fucking much. Love everything about you. Gonna marry the fuck outta you someday.”
“Love you too,” you gasp lost in pleasure, wrapping your legs around his waist. “So much, baby, so much—”
He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in, and his rhythm picks up—still deep but faster now, chasing pleasure for both of you. “Touch yourself,” he says against your skin. “Want to feel you come around me.”
You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. “That’s it,” he encourages. “So good, baby, you’re so good,”
You come with his name on your lips, clenching around him and he follows seconds after—hips stuttering as he spills inside you, groaning your name like a prayer. For a long moment you just lie there, tangled together, hearts pounding in sync. His weight is comforting, grounding, and you run your fingers through his hair as you both come down.
“Best birthday ever,” he mumbles against your neck.
You laugh softly. “It’s only been an hour.”
“Don’t care. Already the best.” He lifts his head to look at you, eyes soft and warm. “Got everything I need right here.”
“Simp,” you accuse fondly.
“Yours and don’t you forget it,” he says before he kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulls out carefully, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, then collapses beside you and immediately pulls you against him. His hand resumes its place on your stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns, and you realize this is his favorite place to touch you; this soft part of you that you’ve always been self-conscious about, but he treats like it’s precious.
“I love this,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. His palm presses flat against your stomach, warm and possessive. “Love how soft you are here. Love putting my head right here when we watch movies. Love kissing here.” He demonstrates, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “Love how you feel under my hands.”
“Hyune,” you say, throat tight.
“I know you don’t always believe me,” he continues quietly. “I know you still get in your head about your body sometimes but baby, I’m obsessed with you. All of you. Every curve, every stretch mark, every inch of you. The way your thighs feel around my head. The way your hips fit in my hands. The way you feel pressed against me.”
He rolls you onto your back so he can look at you properly, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces the lines of your body—your collarbone, the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip.
“This body?” he says seriously. “This perfect, gorgeous body that you try to hide sometimes? It’s everything to me. You’re everything to me.”
“You make me feel beautiful,” you admit quietly. “Even when I don’t feel it myself, you make me believe it.”
“Good.” He leans down to press a kiss to your stomach, then rests his head there, looking up at you. “Because you are. You’re so fucking beautiful it makes me stupid. Makes me take three-hour train rides on Thursday nights. Makes me fail quizzes because I can’t stop thinking about you. Makes me walk past your apartment building like a creep.”
You laugh, fingers automatically threading through his hair. “Still can’t believe you did that.”
“I’d do worse,” he says easily. “I’d do anything for you, Muse. Anything at all.”
“I know,” you say softly. “You’ve been proving it.”
“And I’ll do it again tomorrow.” He presses another kiss to your stomach, then one to your hip. “Will do it every day. Would rearrange my entire life around you if that’s what it took.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” you point out, but you’re smiling.
“Nah.” He grins up at you. “It’s easy when it’s you. Everything’s easy when it’s you.” He crawls back up your body, settling beside you again, and you curl into him naturally. The ocean sounds drift through the windows, mixing with his breathing and you feel more relaxed than you have in days.
“Thank you,” you murmur against his chest. “For coming, for being here. For making this long week better.”
“Always,” he says simply, pressing a kiss to your hair. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than wherever you are.”
You lie there together, talking quietly about nothing and everything. He tells you about the celebration with the boys on Wednesday; how they’d gone to his favorite restaurant and Felix had gotten drunk and tried to serenade him, how Han had gotten him a nice watch that he’s definitely wearing right now, how they’d all teased him mercilessly about being whipped for you.
“Which I am,” he admits cheerfully. “Completely pussy-whipped and not even ashamed of it.”
“Hyunjin!” you laugh, smacking his chest.
“What? It’s true!” He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’m obsessed. Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t function without you. Pretty sure I’ve become That Guy in our friend group.”
“What guy?”
“The one who never shuts up about his girlfriend. The one who checks his phone constantly. The one who bails on plans because he’d rather be with his girl.” He grins, unrepentant. “Felix said I’ve been insufferable since New Year’s. Han said I need to ‘get a grip.’ I told them they just don’t understand true love.”
“Oh, good lord.”
“I also showed them like fifty pictures of you,” he continues. “Which they said was ‘concerning’ but I think they’re just jealous because their girlfriends aren’t as pretty as mine.”
“You did not show them fifty pictures.”
“I absolutely did. Had a whole slideshow prepared. They made me stop at thirty, but I could have kept going.” He pulls out his phone. “Want to see? I have them organized into folders—‘Muse being cute,’ ‘Muse laughing,’ ‘Muse concentrating,’ ‘Muse sleeping’—”
“You have pictures of me sleeping?”
“Just a few!” He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. “Like maybe…twenty?”
“Twenty? Hwang Hyunjin!”
“You look really peaceful when you sleep! It’s cute!” He’s laughing now, pulling you closer when you try to squirm away. “I can’t help it! You’re beautiful all the time and I have no self-control when it comes to you!”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” he counters, and kisses you until you’re laughing against his mouth. The conversation drifts to your plans; what you want to do with your research, his post-graduation job prospects, the possibility of moving in together when his lease is up in June.
“We’ve only been dating for two months,” you point out.
“So? I’ve been in love with you for almost a year and I already spend most nights at your place anyway. Might as well make it official.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Besides, think of all the time we’d save if we didn’t have to go back and forth. More time for important things.”
“Like?”
“Like this.” He rolls on top of you, settling between your thighs. “Like getting to wake up with you every day. Like coming home to you. Like never having to sleep alone in a bed that’s too big and too cold because you’re not in it.”
“You really missed me, huh?”
“Soooooo fucking much,” he admits. “Two days felt like two years. I don’t ever want to do that again.”
“Well, I’m here now,” you say softly, pulling him down into a kiss. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He makes love to you again; slower this time, sweeter, like he’s savoring every moment and when you’re both sated and drowsy, tangled together in the expensive sheets with the sound of the ocean in the background, you think that maybe this is what happiness feels like.
“Happy birthday, Hyune,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest.
“Best birthday ever,” he mumbles back, already half-asleep. “Love you so much, Muse.”
“Love you too.”
You drift off like that, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear and when you wake a few hours later to the early dawn light filtering through the windows, you find him already awake—just watching you with that soft expression that makes your heart squeeze.
“Morning,” he says quietly, brushing hair from your face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. What time is it?”
“Almost six.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Sun’s coming up. Want to watch it with me?”
You nod and he pulls you up, wrapping the hotel robe around you before leading you to the windows. You settle on the small couch there, you between his legs with your back to his chest and watch as the sun slowly rises over the ocean, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks.
“This is perfect,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he agrees, arms tightening around you. “It really is.”
You sit there in comfortable silence, watching the sunrise, and you think about how much has changed in two months. How this boy who you’d tried to keep at arm’s length has become your entire world. How his obsession with you isn’t overwhelming but comforting, a constant reminder that you’re wanted, chosen, loved.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, chin resting on your shoulder.
“You,” you admit. “Us. How happy I am.”
“Yeah?” His smile is audible in his voice.
“Yeah. Even though you’re clingy and obsessive and took a train to Busan on a Thursday night.”
“Because of all that,” he corrects. “Not ‘even though.’”
You laugh. “Okay, because of all that. Because you’re you and I’m stupidly in love with you.”
He turns your face so he can kiss you properly. “Not stupid. Smart. I’m a great boyfriend.”
“The best,” you agree, and mean it.
The sun continues to rise, the sky getting brighter and you know you’ll have to shower and get ready for the seminar soon,but for now, you just sit here with him, soaking in this moment—this perfect birthday morning with the love of your life.
“Hey Muse?” he says after a while.
“Mmmh?”
“I know I said it drunk on birthday sex last night, but—” He takes a breath. “I really do want to marry you someday. Like, for real. Not just because I was inside you and I wasn’t thinking straight, but because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Because I want this—you and me—forever.”
Your heart stops. “Hyunjin—”
“I know it’s fast,” he continues. “I know we’ve only been officially together for two months, but I’ve been in love with you for way longer than that, and I’m not going to change my mind. So just—when you’re ready, when it doesn’t feel too fast anymore—know that I’ll be ready. That I’m already sure.”
You turn in his arms to face him properly, and the vulnerability in his eyes, the absolute certainty mixed with the fear that he’s said too much—it breaks something open in your chest.
“Ask me again in a year,” you say softly, cupping his face. “When we’ve lived together and you’ve seen me at my worst and you still want this. Ask me then.”
His smile is brilliant. “That’s not a no.”
“That’s definitely not a no,” you confirm, and kiss him.
“One year,” he says against your lips. “I can do one year but I’m warning you now, I’m going to be thinking about it constantly. Planning it. I’m going to be the most annoying boyfriend ever about it.”
“You’re already the most annoying boyfriend ever,” you point out. “Might as well commit to it.”
“Deal.” He grins, then glances at the clock. “You’ve got about two hours before you need to leave for the seminar.”
“Two hours, huh?” You straddle his lap, arms looping around his neck. “Whatever will we do with all that time?”
His hands find your hips, grin turning wicked. “I have a few ideas. After all, it is my birthday and I still haven’t gotten my present from you yet.”
“No?” You roll your hips, gratified by his sharp intake of breath. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well,” he says, hands sliding under your robe to grip your ass, “I was thinking about waking up to you riding me but we can save that for when we’re back in Seoul.”
“Oh?” You’re already working his robe open. “What about today then?”
“Today,” he says, lifting you slightly so he can line himself up, “I want you just like this. Want to watch your face while you take me. Want to see every expression, every reaction. Want to memorize how you look when you come because I’m going to be thinking about it until I see you again.”
“That’s only a few hours,” you point out, but you’re already sinking down onto him, both of you groaning.
“Hours too long,” he gasps, hands guiding your hips. “Two hours too long. Two minutes too long. Any time without you is too long.”
As the sun continues to rise outside, you make love slowly, savoring every moment, every touch because in two hours you’ll have to leave, and then you won’t see each other until the seminar ends. But for now, you have this; this perfect morning, this beautiful man who took a train to spend his birthday with you, this overwhelming love that neither of you quite knows how to contain.
“Happy birthday,” you gasp as you move together, as pleasure builds between you.
“Best birthday ever,” he agrees, and pulls you into a kiss. Later, after you’ve both come undone in each other’s arms, after you’ve showered together again and he’s helped you get dress for the seminar, he kisses you goodbye with a promise to be waiting when you’re done.
The morning session drags. Your presentation goes well—Professor Kim even compliments your research—but you’re distracted, checking your phone between panels, counting down the minutes as you sit in the back of the conference room, barely listening to the presentations, thinking about the man waiting for you back at the hotel.
The man who has a folder of restaurant recommendations, who walked past your apartment because he missed you, who took a three-hour train ride on a Thursday night just to spend his birthday with you. The man who wants to marry you someday and you realize you want that too.
Hyune 🥟🥰: hows it going?
You: good. presentation went well
Hyune 🥟🥰: of course it did. you're brilliant
Hyune 🥟🥰: anyway I'm in the pool
Hyune 🥟🥰: its really nice
Hyune 🥟🥰: wish you were here
Hyune 🥟🥰: the view is incredible
A minute later, a video comes through. You open it and nearly drop your phone.
It’s Hyunjin in the pool—and by “in the pool” you mean he’s rising out of the water in one smooth motion, water cascading down his body. The video is shot from his phone propped somewhere, probably on a lounge chair, giving you a perfect view of his chest and back as he emerges from the pool.
His back.
Those shoulders, broad and defined. The line of his spine, water droplets tracing down the valley of muscle. The way his swim trunks sit low on his hips, the dimples at the base of his spine just barely visible. The flex of his arms and shoulders as he moves, every muscle defined and glistening.
Holy fuck.
You watch it again. And again.
Hyune 🥟🥰: told you the view was incredible
You: hyunjin…
Hyune 🥟🥰: what? just showing you the pool
You: i hate you
Hyune 🥟🥰: no you don't
Hyune 🥟🥰: whats wrong? you sound upset and why do you have memes of Felix?
You look around the conference room—Professor Lee is still talking, everyone’s attention on the front. You’re in the back corner, phone hidden on your laptop keyboard.
Fuck it.
You: that’s not important rn, I'm trying to pay attention to this panel and you send me THAT???????
Hyune 🥟🥰: what? its just me in the pool?
You: you KNOW what you did, what you’re doing
You: your back should be illegal
Hyune 🥟🥰: my back??? Where are you getting these memes? Did Han send them to you????
You: irrelevant and yes your back
You: your shoulders. your spine. those fucking dimples.
Hyune 🥟🥰: 👀👀
Hyune 🥟🥰: muse are you turned on by my back?
You: I'm turned on by ALL of you but yes especially your back right now
You: been thinking about it for the past 10 minutes
You: thinking about dragging my nails down it. biting your shoulder. watching the muscles flex when you’re inside me.
Hyune 🥟🥰: oh my god
Hyune 🥟🥰: you’re going to kill me
Hyune 🥟🥰: I'm in PUBLIC
You: payback for yesterday’s sexting
You: how does it feel?
Hyune 🥟🥰: RUDE
Hyune 🥟🥰: also extremely hot
Hyune 🥟🥰: also I'm hard now so thanks for that
You: you’re welcome
You: what are you going to do about it?
Hyune 🥟🥰: well i WAS going to swim some more laps
Hyune 🥟🥰: but NOW I'm thinking about your hands on my back
Hyune 🥟🥰: your mouth on my skin
Hyune 🥟🥰: you riding me while I watch your face in the mirror
Wait.
You: what mirror?
Hyune 🥟🥰: the one on the ceiling
You: WHAT??
Hyune 🥟🥰: you didn't notice?
Hyune 🥟🥰: there’s a huge mirror on the ceiling above the bed Hyune 🥟🥰: noticed it this morning when i woke up
Hyune 🥟🥰: been thinking about it ever since
You: thinking about what exactly????
Hyune 🥟🥰: about you on your back
Hyune 🥟🥰: watching me fuck you from above
Hyune 🥟🥰: watching my back while i make you fall apart
Hyune 🥟🥰: seeing everything from a completely different angle
Hyune 🥟🥰: have you ever done that before?
You: no…
Hyune 🥟🥰: good
Hyune 🥟🥰: want to be your first
Hyune 🥟🥰: want to watch you see yourself the way i see you
Hyune 🥟🥰: want to see my back the way you want to see it
Hyune 🥟🥰: while I'm buried inside you
Your breathing has gone shallow. Professor Lee’s voice fades into background noise. All you can think about is getting back to that hotel room..
You: closing remarks start at noon
Hyune 🥟🥰: how long do they usually last
You: too fucking long
Hyune 🥟🥰: can you leave early?
You: i should stay for lunch. networking and all that.
Hyune 🥟🥰: or
Hyune 🥟🥰: you could come back here
Hyune 🥟🥰: and i could put my mouth on you
Hyune 🥟🥰: make you come while you watch in the mirror
Hyune 🥟🥰: then fuck you exactly how you’ve been thinking about
Hyune 🥟🥰: with you on your back and your hands in my hair
Hyune 🥟🥰: and we can both watch my back while i make you fall apart
Fuck networking. Fuck lunch.
You: leaving as soon as this panel ends
Hyune 🥟🥰: good
Hyune 🥟🥰: i’ll be waiting
Hyune 🥟🥰: naked
You: HYUNJIN
Hyune 🥟🥰: what? it's my birthday
Hyune 🥟🥰: i can be naked in my hotel room if i want
You: our hotel room
Hyune 🥟🥰: even better
Hyune 🥟🥰: hurry back baby. got a whole afternoon planned for us
You: just the afternoon?
Hyune 🥟🥰: afternoon. evening. night. tomorrow.
Hyune 🥟🥰: basically until we check out sunday
You: insatiable
Hyune 🥟🥰: you started it with the back thing
Hyune 🥟🥰: now you’re gonna have to finish it
The panel finally, mercifully, ends at 11:58. You sit through two minutes of closing remarks before slipping out the back, texting Hyunjin that you’re on your way.
The taxi ride back to the hotel feels like it takes forever. You’re vibrating with anticipation, replaying that video in your mind, thinking about what’s waiting for you.
When you finally get to the room and slide your keycard in, you find exactly what Hyunjin promised; he’s on the bed, gloriously naked, still damp from the pool with his hair towel-dried and messy. He’s propped up against the headboard, and when he sees you, his smile is pure sin.
“Welcome back,” he says. “How was the seminar?”
You drop your bag, eyes tracking over him. “Educational.”
“Learn anything interesting?”
“Yeah.” You start unbuttoning your blouse, never breaking eye contact. “Learned that my boyfriend’s back should come with a warning label.”
His laugh is delighted. “Did you really get turned on by a video of me getting out of a pool?”
“You know I did.” The blouse hits the floor, followed by your skirt. “You sent it on purpose.”
“Maybe,” he admits, eyes tracking your movements hungrily. “Wanted to give you something to think about during your boring panels.”
“It worked.” You’re in just your underwear now, standing at the foot of the bed. “Couldn’t focus on anything else.”
“Good.” He crooks a finger at you. “Come here, baby. Let me show you what I’ve been thinking about all morning.”
You climb onto the bed and that’s when you see it, the mirror on the ceiling. Large and perfectly positioned above the bed, reflecting both of you back in perfect clarity.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, hands sliding up your thighs. “Pretty sure this hotel caters to a specific clientele.”
“And you booked it anyway?”
“I booked it for the ocean view,” he says, grinning. “This is just a bonus. A good bonus.”
He pulls you down into a kiss, one hand resting on your throat while the other palms your ass through your underwear. You want to see all of it in the mirror—his hands on you, the arch of your back, the way your bodies fit together.
“Look up,” he murmurs against your lips. “Watch.” So you do and fuck, he was right.
Seeing it from this angle—seeing yourself through his eyes, seeing how your body curves against his, seeing his hands claim you—it’s overwhelming and arousing and you suddenly understand why he’s been thinking about this all morning.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, and you can see his face in the mirror too, see the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. “So fucking beautiful, Muse. Do you see it? See what I see every time I look at you?”
“I’m starting to,” you admit, and he grins.
“Good. Now let me really show you.”
He sits up, bringing you with him, and reaches for your hair. You’d put it up in a bun this morning for the seminar, and his fingers find the tie, pulling it free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders and he makes this satisfied sound low in his throat.
“There,” he says, fingers immediately threading through the curls. “That’s better. Love your hair down. Love getting my fingers tangled in it.”
He demonstrates, fisting his hand in your hair and tugging gently, making you gasp and arch. You can see it in the mirror, the way your head tilts back exposing your throat, the way his hand looks buried in your hair.
“Fuck, yes,” he breathes. “Just like that. So perfect.” His other hand slides down to your hips, working your underwear down your legs. When you’re completely bare, he wastes no time, one hand sliding between your thighs while the other stays tangled in your hair.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, fingers finding you already wet. “Look at how ready you are for me. Look at how your body wants me.”
You watch in the mirror as his hand works between your legs, as your thighs tremble, as you rock into his touch. The visual combined with the sensation is overwhelming.
“Want to see your back,” you gasp. “Want to watch you fuck me like in the video.”
His groan is absolutely wrecked. “Yeah? Want to be on your back while I fuck you? Want to watch my back in the mirror?”
“Please,” you whimper. “Need it. Need you.”
“Okay, baby, okay.” He’s already moving, positioning you on your back on the bed. “Gonna give you everything you want. But first—” he settles between your thighs, “—first I need to taste you.”
“Hyune, please, I need you—”
“And you’ll have me,” he promises. “But I need this first. Need to get my mouth on you.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue before his tongue is on you, and you cry out, hands flying to his hair—that long, beautiful hair you can actually grip now. He moans against you, the vibration making you shudder.
“Look up,” he commands between licks. “Watch yourself.” Seeing yourself like this, spread out beneath him, his head between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips—it’s obscene and beautiful and overwhelming.
“That’s it,” he encourages and you can see his eyes in the mirror, watching you watch yourself. “See how fucking beautiful you are? See what I get to taste, what I get to worship?”
His tongue circles your clit, then he’s sliding two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly. The combination is devastating and you can’t look away from the mirror as you watch your chest heave, your back arch, your hands fisting in his hair.
“Hyune, baby I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he demands. “Want to taste it. Want to feel you come on my tongue.”
He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, fingers hitting that spot inside you, and you shatter—crying out his name, thighs trembling around his head. He works you through it, tongue gentling as you come down.
When he finally pulls away, his face is wet with you and he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery. “Never getting tired of that. Could spend hours between your thighs.”
“Later,” you gasp. “Right now, I need—I need to see your back. Need you inside me.”
“So demanding,” he teases, but he’s already moving, positioning himself above you. “Like this? Want to watch me fuck you?”
“Yes,” you breathe, because you can see him in the mirror now, see the broad expanse of his back, those shoulders, the way his muscles shift as he moves. “Oh fuck, yes.”
He lines himself up, and when he pushes inside—slow and deep and perfect—you both moan. The angle is incredible and you can see everything in the mirror above.
“Look at you,” he breathes, starting to move. “Look at us. Look at how perfectly you take me.” Your eyes are glued to the mirror, watching his back flex with each thrust, watching the play of muscles beneath his skin, watching those dimples at the base of his spine appear and disappear as he moves.
“Your back,” you gasp, hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. “Fuck, Hyune, you’re so beautiful—”
He groans, hips snapping harder. “Keep talking. Tell me what you see.”
“I see—” you’re panting now, watching him in the mirror, “—see how your shoulders move, how your back flexes, those fucking dimples…” You drag your nails down his back and he shudders. “Want to mark you up. Want everyone to see.”
“Do it,” he growls. “Mark me. Make me yours.”
Your nails drag down his back with more pressure, leaving angry red lines in their wake. He moans, fucking into you harder and you watch the marks appear in the mirror.
“Fuck, Muse, you feel so good,” he pants. “So perfect, so tight—” One of his hands tangles in your hair, tugging, angling your head so you have to keep watching the mirror. “Don’t look away. Want you to see this. Want you to see us.”
The combination of sensations—the fullness of him inside you, the pull of his hand in your hair, the visual of his back flexing above you—is overwhelming. You can feel another orgasm building, faster this time.
“Touch yourself,” he demands. “Want to feel you come around me.” You slide one hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you gasp. You can see it all in the mirror—his back, your hand working, the way your bodies move together.
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages. “Let me feel it. Come for me.” But then he shifts the angle slightly and hits something deep inside you, and suddenly you’re coming harder than you ever have; body seizing, a gush of wetness and you’re distantly aware of Hyunjin making this absolutely feral sound.
“Fuck, fuck, did you just—” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wild. “Muse, did you just squirt?”
You’re too overwhelmed to respond, still trembling through aftershocks and he looks down at the wet sheets, at the evidence of what just happened, and something in him snaps.
“Oh fuck,” he growls, and suddenly he’s flipping you over, manhandling you onto your hands and knees so fast you barely process it. “Gonna make you do that again. Gonna make you fall apart for me.”
“Hyune, I can’t, I just—”
“You can,” he insists, sliding back inside you from behind. This angle is even deeper, and you cry out. “You’re gonna come for me again, baby. Gonna watch yourself in the mirror while I fuck you, gonna see how fucking gorgeous you are when you let go.”
You turn your head and look up at the mirror, and the sight makes you moan; you can see yourself now, see your face, your body, see him behind you with his hands gripping your hips. His back is on display, covered in the red marks you left, and the visual is obscene.
“Look at you,” he breathes, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair again, tugging your head back so you have to keep watching. “Look at how well you take me. Look at how perfect you are.”
He starts to move, and it’s harder than before, more desperate. His free hand slides around to find your clit, and you’re already so sensitive that you nearly sob at the contact.
“Too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters. “Never too much. You can take it, baby. You can give me one more.”
He’s relentless, fucking into you while his fingers work your clit, his other hand pulling your hair just enough to keep you watching the mirror. You can see everything—the way your body moves with each thrust, the way his back flexes, the absolutely feral expression on his face.
“So good,” he’s panting. “So fucking perfect. Love you so much, love this, love making you fall apart—”
You can feel it building again impossibly fast, the pressure overwhelming. “Hyune, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he demands. “Come for me again. Want to feel it, want to see it—”
And you do, screaming his name as you come again, body shaking so hard he has to hold you up. You feel that gush again, feel yourself absolutely drench him, and his groan is absolutely wrecked.
“Fuck yes, that’s it, that’s so fucking hot—” His rhythm falters, hips stuttering. “Gonna come, baby, gonna—fuck—”
He buries himself deep with a shout of your name, and you can see it in the mirror—the way his back arches, the way his whole body tenses, the absolute bliss on his face. For a moment you both just stay frozen like that; him still inside you, both of you trembling and gasping, then he’s carefully pulling out, helping you collapse onto the bed before collapsing beside you.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you agree, because you can’t form more complex sentences yet.
“You squirted.” He sounds awed. “Twice. I made you squirt twice.”
“Don’t be smug about it.”
“I’m absolutely being smug about it,” he says, grinning like a maniac. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. We’re definitely doing that again.”
“I can’t move.”
“Don’t need to move. Just need to lay here and let me worship you.” He pulls you against him, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. “You’re fucking incredible, you know that? Perfect. Mine.”
“Yours,” you agree, still dazed.
“And we have a mirror kink now.”
“We absolutely have a mirror kink now,” you admit.
His laugh is delighted. “Best discovery ever. Well, second best. First best was you, obviously.”
“Simp.”
“Proudly,” he grins, and even exhausted and wrung out, you smile. After a few minutes of recovery, he insists on cleaning you up—gentle hands with a warm washcloth, tender care that makes your chest tight. The sheets are definitely ruined, and he laughs as he strips them off.
“Worth it,” he declares. “Totally worth it. Hotel’s probably used to it anyway, given the whole mirror situation.”
“Oh my god, don’t—I can’t think about that.”
“Why not? We’re consenting adults who just had amazing sex in a hotel designed for it. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He tosses the sheets aside and pulls you back into bed—the mattress is fine, and there are extra blankets in the closet. “Besides, I plan on doing it again. Multiple times. We have until Sunday.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you,” he says, and pulls you close. “But first, food. I’m starving. You worked me hard.”
“I worked you hard?”
“You squirted on me twice,” he points out. “That takes effort. Team effort. We both deserve a medal and also several thousand calories.”
You can’t help but laugh, and he grins, looking pleased with himself.
“Room service?” he suggests.
“Room service,” you agree. “And then maybe a nap.”
“And then round two,” he adds.
“Hyunjin—”
“What? I have plans for that mirror. We’ve barely scratched the surface of possibilities.” You cover his face with a pillow, laughing despite your embarrassment, and he’s laughing too, pulling you on top of him.
“I love you,” he says, grinning up at you. “Even when you try to suffocate me.”
“Love you too,” you say. “Even when you’re a menace.”
“Especially when I’m a menace,” he corrects. “Admit it, you love it.”
You do. You really, really do.
The rest of Friday afternoon is spent exactly as Hyunjin promised; room service—which gets cold again because you can’t keep your hands off each other— a nap—that turns into lazy, sleepy sex—and then more exploration of the mirror’s possibilities.
Saturday morning, you wake up to Hyunjin already awake, propped up on one elbow, just watching you.
“Creep,” you mumble sleepily.
“Your creep,” he corrects, leaning down to kiss you. “Happy Saturday. Ready to explore Busan with me?”
After another round in the shower—because Hyunjin has no self-control and you’re not complaining—you finally get dressed and leave the hotel.
Busan in March is beautiful—the air is crisp but not cold, the sky clear, the ocean a brilliant blue. Hyunjin holds your hand as you walk along Haeundae Beach, occasionally stopping to take photos.
“You have enough pictures of me,” you protest.
“Impossible. There’s no such thing as enough pictures of you.” He snaps several anyway, then pulls you close for a selfie. “There. Perfect.”
The cafe Jeongin recommended is small and cozy, tucked away on a side street. The coffee is incredible, and Hyunjin orders you both pastries despite your protests.
“It’s my birthday weekend,” he argues.
“Your birthday was yesterday.”
“Birthday weekend is a thing. I’m making it a thing.” He steals a kiss. “Let me spoil you, Muse.”
You spend the afternoon exploring; Gamcheon Culture Village with its colorful houses and street art, small shops, too many photos. Hyunjin buys you a small ceramic piece from a local artist despite your protests, insisting it’ll look perfect in your apartment.
“Our apartment,” he corrects. “When we move in together in June.”
“We haven’t decided that yet—”
“We have though,” he says simply. “You just haven’t admitted it but we both know you’re going to say yes.”
He’s probably right.
As the sun sets, you find yourselves back at the beach. Hyunjin pulls you down to sit in the sand, your back against his chest, his arms around your waist.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For being here. For giving me this. For giving us a chance.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re everything to me, Muse.”
You turn in his arms to face him properly. “You’re everything to me too, Hyune.” He kisses you as the sun sets over the ocean, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks.
“Come on,” he says eventually, pulling you to your feet. “Let’s get dinner, then go back to the hotel.”
“More mirror activities?”
“Oh, definitely,” he grins. “I’ve been thinking about all the different positions we could try but I also just want to lay up with you.”
Saturday night is full of cuddles and making full use of the mirror one last time. Hyunjin maps every inch of your body with his hands and mouth, making you watch, making you see yourself the way he sees you—beautiful, wanted, loved.
“I’m going to miss this mirror,” he admits later, both of you sweaty and sated and tangled together.
“We could get one for our apartment,” you suggest, and his eyes light up.
“Our apartment?”
You realize what you’ve said. “I—I mean—”
“No takebacks,” he says, grinning brilliantly. “You said our apartment. That’s legally binding.”
“That’s not how that works—”
“Too late. Already planning the furniture arrangement. The mirror’s going above the bed, obviously—”
“Hyunjin!”
You kiss him to shut him up, and he kisses back, still smiling.
“Our apartment,” he says against your lips.
“Our apartment,” you agree, and his joy is palpable.
Sunday morning, you check out of the hotel with reluctance—leaving behind the mirror, the ocean view, the bubble of this perfect weekend but Hyunjin is grinning as he holds your bags, talking about all the places in Seoul he wants to take you, the furniture shopping you’ll do together, the life you’re building.
The train ride back is comfortable and easy. You’re in first class—Hyunjin’s treat—and you spend the journey curled against his side, his arm around you, both of you alternating between dozing and talking and stealing kisses.
“Best birthday ever,” he says for probably the hundredth time.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Got to spend it with you. Got to discover our mirror kink. Got you to admit we’re moving in together. I’d call that a successful birthday.”
You hide your face in his chest, embarrassed, and feel him laugh. When the train pulls into Seoul Station, you’re both reluctant to separate but Hyunjin insists on coming to your place.
“We’ll order food, watch something, just…stay together a little longer,” he says.
“Besides,” you add, “you should start getting used to it. Since we’re apparently moving in together in June.”
“We are,” he confirms, grabbing both your bags. “you agreed to it.”
As you head home together—to your apartment that will soon be both of yours—you think about how much has changed in two months. How this boy who you’d tried to keep at arm’s length has become your entire world.
“I love you,” you say as you’re leaving the station, hand in his.
“I love you too,” he says. “So fucking much, Muse. Thanks for the best birthday ever.”
“Thanks for coming to Busan.”
“Always,” he says simply. “Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”
And as you head home together, you realize that maybe this is what happiness looks like. A ridiculous, obsessive boyfriend who takes trains to Busan on Thursday nights.
A mirror on a hotel ceiling and a love that’s big enough to handle both.
[ex-husband!wooyo x ex-wife!reader] 𓈒𓏸.°• part two to wifey | smut minors dni 18+, raw p in v, creampies, breeding, sweet talk, dirty talk, mommy/daddy, nothing too crazy i turned up the plot this time | 9.7k
there are some special appearances in this from @chimivx 's friends ᢉ𐭩 if you're curious about yunho's wife n kids, read tcmc ‼️ if you wanna know everything about wooyoung and aurora, how yunho and aurora came to be, if you're curious about the lore at all, pls start here :) thank you plum for letting me write a story from your story, i love your people very very very much, almost as much as i love u u terrifying mastermind genius ₊˚⊹♡
Like fucking clockwork.
You close the door to Kyungmin’s room quietly, hearing the soft noise of the latch clicking into place, face scrunching together, silently praying that you don’t hear his small voice call you back inside.
At the same time, Wooyoung’s key turns in your front door, heavy, deep brown wood groaning open. On silent feet he ushers himself inside, closing the door quietly behind him, lips tucked between his teeth to enforce the silence.
From the top of the staircase, you see him dressed in oversized charcoal at the bottom, kicking his sneakers off his feet while throwing his phone, wallet and keys on the entryway table. Skipping down the stairs, you forgo greeting him, whispering, “Be quiet, he just went down.”
“He’s eight,” Wooyoung whispers back, “you still tuck him in?”
“He begs me to,” your brows knit together, “he doesn’t beg you?”
“No,” his lips spread in a grin, “he’s a big boy at my house.”
You scoff, “Shut up, he’ll always be my baby.” Leading him into the living room, you keep your voice low, louder than a whisper, “We have to be quiet.”
“You have to be quiet,” he corrects you, tone teasing, smirking as you lay back on the couch. The TV is on but muted, the lamp in the corner coating the living area in dusky orange even if the sun had gone to sleep hours ago.
“I am quiet,” you pout as he crawls over you, wasting no time, crouching between your parted legs, a hand falling to the back of the couch for purchase as he pecks a short kiss to your lips.
“Don’t tease tonight,” you grab hold of his hoodie, pulling him close enough for your lips to touch, “I don’t have it in me to fight for it.”
He smiles, kissing you again, parting your lips with his own, hands moving to the armrest to keep him steady as he lowers his hips into you. You gasp into his mouth at the friction, your tiny shorts doing nothing to shield you from his weight.
“Then don’t fight,” he moves to kiss your jaw, your head tilts to let him in, his breath is hot against your skin, “lay there and behave for once.”
Your hands find his neck, his cheeks, pulling him back up to kiss you deeper, head lifting off the pillow, calves hooking over the back of his thighs. He makes a grumbled noise, tongue licking into your mouth like he was searching for something, one hand falling from the armrest to tug at the hem of your hoodie, pushing it upward.
“Off.”
One word, a singular order, you sink further down the couch after pulling it off your body in a rush, throwing the pillow beneath your head to the floor, giving him space to plant his elbows above your shoulders.
“Don’t wait,” you murmur into his mouth, “I can take it.”
He hums, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before he answers, “You don’t know how to take it.”
“Then I’ll fucking learn,” your feet tug at his sweatpants, spine bending toward him, “get inside me.”
“Antsy,” he sits back on his knees, pushing his sweatpants and his briefs down in one quick motion. “Like I haven’t been fucking you right or something.”
“You haven’t been here in a week,” you argue, pushing your shorts down to your ankles, kicking them on the floor, “you haven’t been fucking me at all.”
“I had our kid for four of those days,” he pulls your thighs over his, sliding his cock through your folds, “I didn’t see you at my door after he went to bed. On his own, might I add.”
You loose a shaky breath as his tip collides with your clit, hips bucking up towards him, “Shit, I was busy, Wooyoung. What about those three days then?”
He pauses, glancing up at you, “You serious?”
“Yes?” You blink, “What were you doing? You had Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”
He laughs, lining himself up, holding his breath as he pushes inside. Your lips part in a silent scream, head tilting backwards to dig into the couch cushions, hands clawing at your own thighs for something. He stills once he’s fully seated, chest heaving, veiny forearms reaching for your ankles.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he grinds out, voice tight with restrain, pushing your knees up to your chest. “Careful what you say, wifey. Might think you want me for real.”
“Regretting,” you squeak, eyes screwed shut tight, “s’big.”
He’d laugh again if your pussy didn’t look so pretty trying to keep him in. Walls fluttering around the base of him, your clit pulsed, begging for attention already, he started a slow, deep grind of his hips, making sure he filled you up all the way with each one.
“So wet for me, mommy. Didn’t even have to touch you,” he keeps his palms splayed on your thighs, bearing his weight as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the arch of your foot that dangles in the air.
You whimper, face scrunching in pleasure, core clenching around him, he kisses up to your ankle, grazing his teeth against your skin, your hands shoot for his wrists, his forearms, just to hold them. Forcing words out, you say, “Been waiting for this, for you.”
“A whole week,” he picks up the pace, voice leaning into condescending, “must have been so hard.”
Your breath catches, eyes rolling back, a soft moan tumbling off your tongue, “Fuck, ‘t was. It was.”
“Quiet,” he reminds you, “or I’ll stop.”
“You won’t stop,” you mutter, fingers tightening over his wrists, a challenge.
At that he stills, sitting back on his calves, leaving just the tip inside. “I won’t what?”
Jaw clenching, your hips follow him, he lays his palms over bone to keep you still. You stay like that for a moment, a game of chicken, eyes locked on his that stare at you expectantly. Obedience, silence, submission, he loves you bratty, he’s a brat himself, but when it comes to fucking you open on your couch just past nine at night, he expects you to listen.
“Fine,” you shift against the cushions, “fine, you win.”
He pulls you onto his cock by your hips without a word and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to force yourself silent. The angle, the ease in which he mounted you onto him, your eyes slammed shut, gasping out a broken sound into your palm, he fills you up perfectly, carving into you like you were built to take him and him only, it’s war to not cry out in pleasure.
“Fuck,” under his breath, low, he tells you how good you feel in one blurted word. You roll your hips against him, meeting his thrusts, curved cock dragging along the front of your walls with each grind.
“More,” you plead, grabbing for him, “kiss me.”
He crawls over you, elbows beside your ears again, pressing his lips to yours with a softness reserved for you. His hips slow, your ankles crossing over his back, pushing his hoodie up with your heels just to feel more of his skin against you.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathing the same air, bodies moving together now, “just like that, daddy.”
His forehead meets yours, a quiet noise of pleasure rumbling from his chest, “‘m not gonna last.”
You kiss him again, tongue slotting between his lips, hands tugging at his roots, body moving in the shape of his, the only thing you can hear is your breath singing in harmony and the slick sound of your bodies conjoining.
Six weeks of Wooyoung breaking you down on your couch, your kitchen counter, your living room floor, once against the wall just outside of your hallway bathroom. You don’t know what it is, you haven’t spoken any more of what it means, what comes next, the only thing you know is that you can’t stop.
“Want me to fill you up? Fuck you full?”
You’re nodding, tongue catching on his lips, delirious with pleasure, your body ached for him. Burned for him. Only him. Always him– till death do you part.
“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, voice pitched and whiny.
His hips stutter, he tucks his head into your neck to muffle his groan, fingers tightening in your hair that’s sprawled out around your head like a blanket. Losing his rhythm, his slow deep strokes turning shallow, quick– chasing a high he found so easily with you.
Your toes curl over his back, chin tipping up when you feel the warmth spread, the heaviness, the feeling was indescribable. Claimed, owned, like he was marking his territory, it made your stomach swirl with affection, enough to pick his head up by his hair and kiss him again.
Your hips rock, he whimpers. “T-too much, jagi, no.”
So warm, you glide against him, too slippery for there to be any resistance. The sound you make is small but it says everything you can’t, that you need more, you aren’t done.
“D’you wanna sit on my face?" You hold his flushed cheeks instead, doe eyes staring up into his dilated pupils, begging. He shakes his head, “Can’t fuck you again, can’t.”
“Pussy,” you smack your teeth, “are you serious?”
“I’ll make you cum in under three,” he feeds you a peck of his lips, “promise.”
“Mommy?”
Both of your heads turn toward the staircase, the small voice that couldn’t see you from the platform at the top. It takes all of a millisecond for you to push Wooyoung away from you and jump off the couch.
“Coming!” You call, grabbing your shorts from the floor. Pulling them up your thighs, clenching hard to keep Wooyoung inside, you hiss at your ex, “Don’t fucking leave, you owe me.”
“Yes, mommy,” he nods, grin amused and lazy, “duty calls.”
You run up the stairs to find your brown-haired boy standing at the top, one of his fists rubbing at his eye, his favorite Frozen pajamas already pulled up and twisted at each and every hem. Before you have a chance to speak, he asks, “Who’s here?”
“No one,” you speak quietly, softly, turning him around by his shoulders, guiding him back into his bedroom. “Come on, baby, bed time.”
Five minutes of staring at the ceiling feels like a fucking lifetime until his tiny breaths turn slower, deeper. Creeping out of his bedroom once more, closing his door even softer than you did the first time, you nearly sprint down the steps to find Wooyoung still half-clothed.
“Now what if I brought him down here?” You stand before the couch, hands on your hips.
“Why the hell would you do that?” He quips, leaning forward to grab you by the hips, pulling you back down to him. “He’s asleep?”
“Out like a light,” you throw your arms over his shoulders, taking your spot in his lap. “You promised me something.”
“Is that all I’m good for?” His brows raise and the question takes you by surprise.
Wiping the smirk off your lips, your arms lower a little, disarmed. “Sex?”
“Yeah,” he sits up a little, shifting where you sat on his lap. “We’ve been sneaking around for over a month, I haven’t pressed the date thing because you’ve never been one to break your promises and–”
“You were serious?” You push your brows up to your hairline, cutting him off. To make it clear, you repeat, “You seriously want to take me on a date.”
His head cocks to the side, “You didn’t think I was serious? Of course I want to take you out.”
“We’re divorced,” you argue, leaning back, adding space between you.
“I’m aware,” he says, as if he really means no shit. “You’re on my lap right now, I’m still dripping out of you, are you planning on fucking me after the sun goes down for the rest of our lives?”
“Not for the rest of our lives,” you shake your head a little, brows knitted together, confused.
“Oh, then until you’re over it?” He blows amusement through his nose. “We made a tiny human who’s upstairs right now and I’m suddenly disposable?”
“That’s not what I meant,” you rub your palms over your face, sucking in a deep breath. “I just thought this was, like, an agreement. I didn’t think either of us wanted anything more, I’m sorry if I misread the situation.”
“We’d have a chance to talk about it if you didn’t kick me out as soon as you came.”
“Wooyoung,” you gasp sharply, offended, “I do not do that.”
His brows raise, forgoing a verbal response. You think back on the past six weeks, remembering each and every night you’ve shoved him out of your front door as soon as he pulled his pants up, the memories flash through your mind like a medley. Your lips flatten, cheeks heating, guilt and shame forming in the pit of your belly.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, just above a whisper.
“You really don’t want anything more?”
He sounds wounded and your heart cracks beneath your ribs. His brows are upturned, mismatched eyes rounded out, pink lips still swollen from earlier almost pouting. You swallow, taking a second to be honest with yourself and your feelings… This works. The last six weeks have worked so effortlessly, so easily, you’ve been spending your days bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so fulfilled you haven’t even considered what comes next. If anything comes next.
“I haven’t been this happy in awhile,” you reply honestly, “I think I don’t want to fuck anything up, our sex life wasn’t this consistent when we were still married, it’s nice.”
His fingers squeeze your hips, pulling you closer to him, a small smile forming on his full lips. “All I want to do is take you out one time, jagi. We don’t have to put any pressure on it, let’s just go out for dinner, have a few drinks and talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve just talked.”
It puts a smile on your face, too. You run a hand through his hair, locks of coal soft between your fingers, “Okay, let’s go this weekend.”
His face lights up, “Really?”
You snort, “Yes, really. I’ll get a babysitter for Saturday and–”
“I’ll bring him to Yunho’s,” his hands slide up to your waist, under the hem of your tank, leaning forward until his chest brushes against you. “He hasn’t seen Aden in awhile, maybe they can have a sleepover.”
Your hands find the base of his neck, pulling him flush to you, “A sleepover?”
Wooyoung’s lips find yours, a small kiss, his hands traveling upward, cupping your breasts beneath your tank, “Maybe we can have a sleepover of our own.”
You gasp into his touch, brows furrowing in pleasure, “Please.”
“You can have me all night,” he reaches for the hem of your tank, pulling it swiftly over your head before his hands go right back to toying with your chest, pressing his thumbs over your nipples as he says, “We can fuck in our big, comfortable bed, all night if you want to. Just like old times.”
You moan softly, quietly, head going fuzzy like he’d cast a spell on you, “Let’s go up there now.”
He keeps his eyes on yours as he leans forward, tongue poking out to circle over your nipple before his lips wrap around it, sucking harshly. You suck in a sharp gasp, face twisting in pleasure, hips grinding into him beneath you, “Fuck, Wooyoung.”
“Saturday,” his voice is low, gravelly, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Tonight you get to ride my face.”
You can’t argue. Not when he brushes his nose over your spit-soaked nipple, giving you a perfect view of the curve of cartilage, already imagining bucking your hips against it.
Immediately you’re climbing off of his lap, pointing to the rug beneath your feet, “On the floor.”
“Whatever you want, mommy.”
“Damn.”
It’s loud enough for the neighbors to hear. On your porch, fist over his lips, his brows are scrunched like he can’t believe his eyes, he looks you up and down three times before he whistles.
You snort, rolling your eyes, pulling your front door closed behind you. “Shut up, Wooyoung.”
He steps backwards, down one of your cement stairs, watching as you bend over slightly to lock your front door. Voice amused, he continues, “All dressed up for lil’ ole me? The dreaded ex?”
You turn around with a smile, “I’m keeping my word.”
His hand goes over his heart, frowning, “That hurt.”
“Shut up,” you shake your head, fighting your amusement as you move to step down, following him, he keeps his feet planted where he stands, an unmovable force.
Then he cracks a grin. “What, you’re not even gonna kiss me hello?”
You cross your arms over the front of your dress, sleek and red and hugging every inch of your body you want to be hugged. You got it on sale, an outfit you’ve been saving for the right occasion, you can’t believe tonight, of all nights, is the night you took it off the hanger.
You can’t believe you pulled it out for Wooyoung.
“Good things come to those who wait,” you sing, “if you’re on your best behavior maybe you’ll get a kiss goodnight.”
He groans, head tipping backward, eyes squeezing shut, “You’re gonna make me hard.”
“I hate you,” you laugh, pushing on his chest, making him tumble backward a step. You follow him down the staircase, towards his still-running SUV in your driveway, “Where are we going?”
He said to dress nice, two days ago in a short text-exchange that started off with you asking if he forgot to drop off Kyungmin’s backpack, which you found in the corner of your living room approximately nine seconds later. Two texts back and forth before he reminded you of your date tonight, that he’d already made the plans with Yunho and Aurora, Kyungmin would stay over at their house tonight to have a sleepover with their son, Aden.
Yunho was Wooyoung’s friend from college, living only fifteen minutes from where you lived on the outskirts of the city, suburbia with a good school district, which is where Kyungmin had met their son, Aden, the second of four. You wondered how they did it, you had your hands tied with only one.
“It’s a surprise,” he walks to the passenger side, opening the door for you.
“Wow,” you raise your brows, “such a gentleman. Who even are you anymore?”
He holds an arm out for you to grab as you climb in, “I’m just a husband taking his sexy ass wife out to dinner, that’s all.”
“Ex-husband,” you correct, “ex-wife.”
He leans against the door with a smile, “Whatever you say.”
He looks good. Dress pants on his legs, tailored, all his dress pants are. A button-up, rolled up on his veiny forearms, showcasing his tattoo, the top two buttons undone. Dressed in all black so his golden skin gleams in each pocket where it shows, fuck he knows how to dress himself and God it pisses you off. His hair is styled, down, tucked behind his ears, it frames his face effortlessly, beautifully, part of you wants to ask if you can make a pit-stop in the backseat.
It’s a thirty minute drive, filled with the same soft rock playing from his speakers, he talks over it the whole time. From Kyungmin to work to his apartment, which he nags at you that you still haven’t seen the inside of, the conversation is as easy as it always is. Bickering, of course, but you’ve been bickering since you were twenty-two. Fifteen years of partnership, of friendship, of learning each other down to particles and atoms, awkward silence has never existed between you.
A fancy restaurant, one that just opened in the city, dim lighting and red velvet and black leather, you couldn’t tell if you were supposed to eat dinner or each other. Side-eyeing Wooyoung as the hostess brought you to your table, the moment she left you quirked a brow, “Is this foreplay?”
He grabs the drink menu, “It can be if you want it to be.”
So shameless it makes your lips part. “Are we in a restaurant or a sex club?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a restaurant,” he doesn’t look up over the menu, “but we could make it a sex club if you want to make it a sex club.” You snort, reaching over to steal the drink menu from his hands. He scoffs, “No way you’re reading that as if you aren’t gonna nurse one margarita until it’s tequila-water.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, “maybe I’m in the mood for something different.”
You quickly scan the specials, the list of bottles they carry, different brands of wine they have. Pursing your lips, you quickly realize you’re not in the mood for something different.
Shoving the menu back into his hands, you mumble, “Fine.”
He laughs, a high, amused giggle, “You’re so predictable.”
“You just know me,” you huff, “not predictable.”
When the waiter comes by, Wooyoung not only orders his beer, but he orders your margarita, too. Casamigos, salt on the rim, you don’t correct him because you’re as predictable as they come. Your cheeks heat up anyway, you might be predictable but he remembers and it sends a streak of heat up your spine. Whatever.
You’re reading the menu, or trying to with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, seeing words but not ingesting any of them. Maybe you should just let him order your meal for you, too.
“What’s bothering you?” He asks, and you glance upward like he’s ripped you out of a trance.
You purse your lips, shaking your head a little, defensive. “Nothing.”
“I’ve known you for over a decade,” his lips curl at the corner, “I’ve lived with you, I’ve loved you, you’re the mother of my son. Is it so crazy that I know you? One year spent apart out of fifteen is nothing.”
You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, you forgot he knows you down to your thoughts, too. A small sigh escapes you, “Do you wanna start now? Before there’s even any food on the table?”
He leans forward, smile mischievous, “Hey, there’s bread.”
You push air out of your nose, amused as you sit back in the upholstered chair. “It’s just stupid. We’ve only been divorced for a year, and look at us. We’re in a sex club that has a kitchen.”
His lips thin before he answers. “Did you really think we’d stay separated?"
“Yes?” Your head tilts with the question. “Did you not?”
“No,” he answers honestly, “I’ve been working on myself a lot this past year. All the time spent away from you, Kyungie, it’s given me space that I never wanted. Space I’ve filled with things to better myself, for him, for you.”
“What, did you get a promotion or something?” You quirk a brow, “Work stuff?”
He smacks his teeth, “I went to therapy.”
“You went to therapy?” Your brows meet your hairline, “Like, the couch and everything?”
“No, she made me sit on the floor,” he muses. “She actually has a brown, leather chair. She helped me figure a lot of my shit out, that way when it was time for me to propose the idea of us seeing each other again, it’d be different. I’d be different.”
“Woo, I had no idea,” your heart picks up speed in your chest. “I didn’t even know that you were this… bothered about us separating, to be honest.”
His face scrunches up in disbelief, “That’s bullshit.”
“I’m serious!” You argue, “The divorce process was so smooth, I guess over time I got it in my head that it was smooth because it was mutual.”
“It was never, not even for a second, mutual.”
“You made it easy,” you shrug, picking up your margarita, taking a sip. “You never told me the details, I only knew what I found out from your mother. She never mentioned therapy.”
“You knew what I wanted you to know,” he sets his menu down in front of him. “It’s not like we were exactly on speaking terms, you didn’t give me the opportunity to fix anything while we were still together, either.”
Your stomach churns. “I gave you a lot of chances, Wooyoung.”
“Not enough,” he argues, not sternly, earnestly. He picks up his beer. “You gave up on me.”
“I gave up on being a single mother in my own marriage,” your voice is low, quiet. Your throat feels tight.
The waiter comes, Wooyoung orders for the both of you, something you would’ve chosen for yourself. Your thoughts are too loud for you to pay it any mind.
“I’ll have to live with the fact that I made you feel that way until the day I die,” his face is solemn, his words so honest your heart feels like stone in your chest. “But I thought I was doing the right thing, setting us up for our future, setting our son up for his future. For a long time I couldn’t understand why that wasn’t enough for you.”
“But you understand now?”
He nods, “Strangely enough, you making that deal with me at the conference, about having San speak, it might’ve been the final piece that put everything together. I feel like I can see it clearly now, and it feels so fucking stupid looking back.”
“Yeah?” Your lips curve at the corners, “Did your therapist enjoy my ultimatum?”
“I think she thinks we’re childish,” he laughs a little, “she doesn’t say that, but I can kinda feel it. Like we’re still kids playing at being adults.”
“We are,” your smile widens, “but now I keep wipes and snacks in my purse instead of lipgloss and condoms that we never used.”
“Don’t talk mommy to me right now,” his face scrunches together like you pressed your foot against his crotch. “We’re still in public.”
You stare at him over the salt on the rim of your glass, taking a sip of your margarita before you mumble, “I don’t think anyone here would be bothered.”
“I want to try again,” he wipes the smile off his face, voice a little louder, stronger. “Just to lay everything on the table, I’ve been wanting to try again and if a hookup at a work conference is the start of it unfolding, then so be it.”
You take a second before responding. “Do you really feel like I gave up on you?”
“Yes,” there’s no room for uncertainty, the agreement is crystal clear. “But I know I pushed you to that point, and I know in the end it was my fault. I should have been around more to help you. Just to have been there.”
Your bottom lip quivers, he catches it as soon as the first twitch tugs at your mouth.
“No, no crying,” he reaches his hand across the table, searching for yours. You tangle your fingers with his, his palm warm, fingers encasing your hand within his own perfectly like you were made for each other. “If you’re open to trying again, to giving me another chance, it’ll be different this time. I’m different, but I still love you, I still want to be beside you.”
You wipe at your eyes before tears fall past your waterline, “I love you too, but I did my makeup for this.”
“And it looks beautiful,” his lips curve, “but it’s just gonna get ruined later, anyway.”
“Why would it–” You meet his eye, the mischievous glint. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Hopefully I’m lucky and you will fuck me.”
“Is sex all you think about?” You laugh, then tease him, “Is that all I’m good for?”
He glares across the table, “Too soon.”
“You’re the one who said we were gonna roll around in my bed all night.”
“Once upon a time, it was our bed,” he releases your fingers to point at you, “and I know it’s lonely in that big ass bed without me.”
“Who’s to say I’m lonely?” You taunt, “Maybe there’s been plenty of men warming my bed since we separated.”
“You,” he says it like it’s obvious, “at the conference you said there was no one else, so unless you lied, you’ve spent over a year alone, in that bed, playing with yourself and wishing it was me.”
You think everyone in the restaurant could hear the gasp that erupted from your chest. Wooyoung’s head tips back in laughter and you curse under your breath, whisper-shouting, “We’re in public, Jung Wooyoung.”
“The mom-voice makes it funnier,” he’s still laughing, a hand over his mouth, “scolding me like I’m five. Fuck, do you remember when Kyungmin drew all over the wall in the living room? With fucking Sharpies?”
You groan, digging your head into your palms, elbows propped up on the table. “Still to this day I fucking hate the feeling of Magic Erasers.”
“You sounded just like that,” he takes a deep breath to control his laughter, then puts on his best you-voice to mock you. “Jung Kyungmin, we color in coloring books, not on the walls.”
The memory makes you smile, even laugh a bit under your breath, “It’s only funny now because I got the Sharpie off the wall.”
“It was funny then, too, trust me.”
The food comes hot and perfect, neither of you speak for the first few bites, until Wooyoung catches you staring at his plate, at his food. Mid-bite he pauses, popping a brow, “Want to try?”
You smile, and he smiles back, reaching over, fork in hand. The sound that leaves you is almost fitting for the restaurant you’re in. “I like yours,” you mumble, putting on your best doe-eyed look, making him snort.
“I’d be mad, but I’m too nostalgic,” he hums, satisfied with a smile on his cheeks he reaches over to grab your plate, switching it with his own. “Can I pretend I ordered mine for the sole intent of giving it to you?”
“No,” you hum happily, “it’s better that you gave yours to me. More romantic that way.”
He shakes his head, “First day back and you’re already spoiled.”
“Technically I still haven’t agreed,” you shrug, eyes on your food, about to take another bite before you realized Wooyoung had paused entirely. Looking over the table, you giggle at his deadpanned face, brows flat, lips flat, his entire face flat.
“Not funny.” He tightens his lips again. “Are you agreeing? Do you want to give me another chance?”
“Is this an immediate answer kind of thing?” You ask, food still halfway to your mouth, “Or can I get back to you on it?”
He purses his lips like he’s deciding the answer for himself before he gives you one. Eventually, when your bite is swallowed, he answers. “I guess you can think about it.”
“You guess?” Facing your plate, your eyes flicker across the table.
“Do you understand how long I’ve been waiting?” He doesn’t sound aggressive or forceful, or like he’s urging you towards an answer. “I had you for fifteen years and I just spent over an entire year without you.”
“You say that like I didn’t spend a year without you, too,” you argue, “you aren’t alone in that feeling, Wooyoung.”
“I just want my life back,” his voice settles into something just above a whisper, too raw for the crowded restaurant. “I want you, I want Kyungminnie, I want to come home.”
You swear you can see an entire year of pain in his eyes. Chocolate that’s usually melted, milky sweet, a delicacy, is deepened into something dark; hardened with time spent apart, changed with a life lesson that needed to be felt in order to be learned. He’s the same but he’s different, you can feel it, you know it.
All you can do is pray he doesn’t disappoint you again.
He keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive home.
Quiet for once, the calm before the storm, you use the silence to think about your time spent apart, how it affected you. He was right, alone in your king-sized bed, but more than that you’ve learned so much about yourself in the year spent away from him. Kids fresh out of college, thrown into the workforce, pregnant before your first paycheck, court-signed documents without a big party to follow, your adult life has been spent entirely by his side.
You’ve learned strength. You’ve learned to trust yourself. You’ve come to fall in love with yourself, by yourself, the you that wasn’t half-Jung. Despite the tears, the nights drowning in self-doubt, of not knowing what the next day would look like, you did it.
And now he’s back, and he promised that he changed.
You don’t know whether or not to trust the tiny voice in the back of your mind, you don’t know if it’s nerves or a gut-feeling. But when you turn your head to the side, to the man you’ve spent fifteen years loving, adoring, his chiseled jaw and his curved nose and the veiny, tattooed forearm that’s attached to the steering wheel, it’s easy to admit that you want him to come home, too.
You missed him. You miss him, and he’s beside you.
You miss him making the bed in the morning, having coffee on the pot downstairs, already prepped for you. You miss him shoveling the driveway in the winter, mowing the lawn in the summer. You miss him taking out the trash. You miss him fixing a toy when Kyungmin breaks it. You miss him doing your fucking taxes. You miss him doing the dishes after you cooked dinner, you miss him stealing the dishes out of your hands when he cooked dinner.
You miss the mundane things.
You miss the way he kisses you goodmorning, when he gets home from work, before bed, randomly, mid-day on a Saturday. You miss him making Kyungmin laugh. You miss the way his skin feels on yours, the way he finishes your thought before you’ve finished it, the way he makes it so easy to believe that it’s possible to love another human so much.
You miss him present most of all.
“If I agree,” you speak into the silence, his fingers add the slightest pressure onto your thigh. “You swear you’ll be around?”
“Yes.” The word is final. “I’ve made the changes already. You’re my priority.”
You don’t answer, you let the words sink in. It’ll take time, learning to believe him, learning to trust his words again, but something settles in your chest, in your gut, something calm. It reminds you that you can still be yourself, you can still be strong, you can still trust yourself, you can still be in love with yourself– but he’s here to love you, to trust you, to lean on you for strength, too. There’s something about it that’s comforting, that’s right.
The house is dark when you walk through your front door. You forgot to leave the lights on, the lamp in the corner of the living room, the one above the kitchen sink. So scatterbrained about being out with Wooyoung, about your kid sleeping at someone else’s house, you huff a curse as soon as the darkness welcomes you home.
While you turn the lamp on, without a word he’s in the kitchen, turning on the other above the sink.
And for some reason that’s enough.
Maybe it’s how he looks, doused in twilight, standing in the kitchen he designed. Shadows finding home in the structure of his face, the tattoo on his forearm, the veins that swirled around it, blending into the vines, rippling each thorn of the rose. Maybe it was just the fact that after all this time, seeing him here, in your kitchen that you left exactly how it was the day you kicked him out, reminded you just how deeply you love him. That even though you’ve spent a year apart and you’ve learned to love so much about yourself, the part of you that you love most, is the half of you that’s him.
You hope he feels it as you kiss him, standing in the space between the two counters, the long, skinny walkway between the sink and the island. Your arms around his shoulders, his find your waist, sliding down to your hips, then behind you, taking two fistfuls of your ass.
You squeak into the kiss and he turns you, scooping under your thighs to lift you, placing your ass on the kitchen counter. You don’t break the kiss, feet hooking around his back, fingers curling into his roots, tongue sliding between his lips like you were the one coming home.
He hikes your dress up, warm palms searing the skin beneath fabric, slipping under the hem just to rest there like he couldn’t deny himself feeling you any longer. You’re panting into his mouth, sizzling under his touch, you whisper, “I need you.”
He pulls away, putting an inch between your faces, “Here?”
“I don’t care where,” your hands find his cheeks, holding him close, “I need you, Jung Wooyoung.”
His eyes flicker over your features like he’s reading your thoughts and it takes him all of a second for his fingers to dart to the hem of your dress. You lift yourself so it pools around your hips, reaching forward for his button-up, getting only three unbuttoned while his fingers work the button and zipper of his pants. Both of you panting, heartbeats uneven, your feet stretch to reach the opposite counter, palms planted on the one you sat on, shifting yourself to the edge as Wooyoung frees himself from his briefs.
Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips, tasting remnants of your lipstick and his saliva on your tongue. The lack of a rebuttal from him, of snarky, taunting comments– this was different than him filling you silently on your living room couch. One hand moves your thin, lace thong to the side as the other grips his length, prodding at your entrance, making you gasp.
He fills you quickly, slipping inside with barely any resistance, the two of you moaning out in relief and pleasure. He grumbles out a curse, reaching the hilt, hands finding your hips, fingers bruising into your skin.
“Jagi,” he whispers. “Wanna give you a baby.”
Your eyes meet his and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world. Like nothing else matters except you and him, like the outside world melted away, like you haven’t built and ruined a life between you. Like it was fifteen years ago and you’d just opened the first page of your love story.
“Do it, then,” you whisper back, eyes glossy, throat tight. “Give me one.”
“Can I?” He asks, face stone, as if you couldn’t feel his cock twitch inside you. He wasn’t asking permission, he was questioning the possibility.
Counting in your head, you wait a moment to reply, “Yes. Slim, but yes.”
He grins ear to ear, that same shit-eating grin he wears when he gets what he wants whether he fights for it or not. Then he moves, a shallow, promising thrust, grinding into the deepest spot inside you, making you hiss out a curse.
“Have to fill you,” his eyes find your meeting, watching himself as he barely thrusts, keeping himself buried. “Nice n’ deep. Make sure it takes.”
Your head dips backward, arching into him, skin catching on the glossiness of the counter you’d wiped down before you left the house. “Please.”
He grunts, fingers searing your skin, picking up his pace. “Fuck, need to see you pregnant. Belly full of my fuckin’ kid.”
“Wooyoung,” your voice is breathy, shaky, full of arousal as you moan his name, it makes him grunt out a curse, hips slapping against yours, reverberating through the room, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances.
His hands on your hips use the strength of his arms to lift you, pulling you off the counter with too much fucking ease. He slips out of you before your feet hit the floor, but he’s back inside you as soon as your back presses against the cool wood of the kitchen floor, freshly mopped this morning, knowing he’d be here tonight.
His lips are on yours, your legs hooked over his back, panties thrown somewhere you didn’t care to see. His shirt is open, still over his shoulders, trapping you between the open panels like it was shading you from something, anything that wasn’t him.
His hair feels silken between your fingers as you tug at his roots, keeping him as close as possible, never close enough. Murmuring words into each other’s lips, the sound of his skin hitting yours muted it, like the two of you were stuck in a time-warp, a lovesick bubble you entered fifteen years ago.
Pressure builds with each thrust, your moans growing in pitch, and Wooyoung keeps his eyes on yours, his bottom lip touching yours, assessing, watching, feeling, waiting for you to crest your peak without any stimulation to your clit. His eyes flare when your breathing catches, keeping his rhythm unfaltering, his angle locked, muttering yes, yes as you approach the high only he can give you.
He groans when he feels the pressure blow, as you clench around him, the heels of your feet digging into his back, he catches your lips between his own to feel everything, all of it, all of you.
The silence says everything. You’re stuck in euphoria as his cock drags over that same spot inside you, his head dropped down to your shoulder, your nails clawing at his back as he takes you for everything you’re worth. Every drop of pleasure, every emotion, you handed everything over to him, put it in his palms, let him cradle it– had you ever even taken it back for yourself?
“Gonna give you a baby,” he mutters into your skin, voice jagged like the edge of a blade, a man slicing a promise into your skin. “Gonna give you a girl this time. Pretty like her mama.”
“Yes,” it’s a whimper, a plea. “I love you, please– I love you.”
He grunts, heavy and rough, hips smacking yours with fervor, picking up his pace, weighting his thrusts. He picks up his head, palms finding your cheeks, holding your scrunched up face between them before he presses his mouth to yours, and you can taste the I love you too on his tongue.
Into his mouth, weak, soft, you utter, “I missed you.”
And why the admittance brought tears to your eyes, you aren’t sure. But they fell to his thumbs and he seemed to understand even if you didn’t, kissing you deeper, tongue slotting into your mouth as if he was soothing your scars.
He finished inside you with a low grunt that vibrated through you and into the hardwood beneath, cock hilted, buried so deep you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. You wanted to stay there, full of him, in the bubble you’d fucking missed being in, but his phone ringing on top of the counter had you both moving before you could breathe.
“Yunho,” is all he said before he pressed the phone up to his ear, still panting, brows furrowed. You stood up, dress falling over your hips, thighs wet and legs jelly, you leaned an arm over the counter for stability, silent enough to hear Yunho on the line.
Yeah, he threw up… Asking for you… Rory took his temp, he has a fever… He’s on the couch now… Okay, see you soon…
Wooyoung hung up with a sigh, “Rain check for rolling around in our bed?”
You cracked a smile, “What’s your schedule looking like on Monday?”
Wooyoung snorts as he tucks himself into his slacks, fingers working his buttons, “I’ll drive.”
Aurora had the door open before you’d made it up the steps of their front porch. “Sorry for cutting the date night short.”
Her sad smile was full of apology, she had one arm on the door as she held it open for the two of you. Pajama pants on her legs, slippers on her feet, her oversized tee that said Nasara University had one shoulder cut off. Hair tied in a bun on top of her head, bare-faced, so effortlessly gorgeous you felt self-conscious even if you were still in your red dress.
“Thanks for taking care of him, Ro,” Wooyoung replies. “Yunho said he’s on the couch?”
Ro. A nickname you haven’t heard before. Storing the info for later, you followed Wooyoung inside, taking note that their house was full of everything warm and cozy. Toys littered the floor, picture frames on the walls, nothing was tidy or put together. Not dirty, but… Lived in. Like six people lived here and not one of them was hiding the fact. The TV on and playing an old cartoon from when you were all kids, three out of Yunho and Aurora’s four sat on the living room floor just before Kyungmin who was curled up on the couch, blanket covering his body.
You stayed back while Wooyoung crossed the room, saying hi to the kiddos before scooping Kyungmin up in his arms. Aurora spoke while you watched him, “Yunho’s upstairs with the baby, she woke up when the kids started screaming about throw up.”
“Sorry,” you scratched the back of your head, cheeks flaring heat. You hoped you didn’t smell like sex. You also hoped she wasn’t thinking about the fact that you and Wooyoung are divorced and together right now.
But she just waved her hand, “Please, don’t be. She’s a terrible sleeper anyways, and all four of them were playing dress up in June’s room. She was bound to wake up sooner or later.”
“Dress up?” You cracked a smile.
“June has the time of her life dressing up her siblings,” she smiled with you, “and I think Aden enjoys it more than she does. They call it Fashion Runway, and Kyungmin was the star tonight, just so you know. June and Aden said he’s their new muse.”
You snort, not a lick of surprise on your face, “I need to see this.”
“You guys should come over more,” she offers, looking at Wooyoung as he returns with your gray-faced son’s head on his shoulder. “We should do the things the cool families do, hangout while the kids hangout, conjoined vacations and shit. We live so close and we never do anything.”
You look at Wooyoung who nods like he was brushing her off. “Yeah, sure. Don’t you wanna wait til’ Sunnie gets a little older?”
Her brows furrow, “No?”
“Sunnie’s a cute name,” you turn to her. “I didn’t know that was her name. How old is she?”
“Her first birthday is next month, I invited you guys, he didn’t tell you?” Her brows furrow further as you shake your head. Her eyes thin as she glances at Wooyoung, “Sunnie’s short for Woosun. Named after her godfather who apparently doesn’t want to come to her first birthday party.”
You will your face into staying neutral, like you knew Wooyoung was Aurora’s daughter’s godfather. “Woosun’s a gorgeous name.”
“Yunho came up with it,” her smile is proud, and if she could see yours, the one you’re hiding behind your stone features, you think she might be terrified of you. Your eyes find Wooyoung’s and he looks as gray as Kyungmin, face dropped, fear rippling in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Thanks again for taking care of him, Aurora.” You barely hear her response as she gives you a side-hug. She smells clean, like grapefruit and vanilla, a hint of baby formula like she’d just finished feeding Woosun. Woosun.
You don’t speak until after Wooyoung buckles in Kyungmin, your son still somehow knocked out in the backseat, head lolled to the side. Wooyoung tugged on the seatbelt twice, making sure it was locked, keeping him in place. You see the glitter on him then, on his eyelids, his cheeks, his hair, he’s in clothes that aren’t is. God, did he throw up on his own clothes? You didn’t even notice, nor did you ask for his clothes back. You’d have Wooyoung text her tomorrow.
Seated in the driver’s, he flips the engine, eerily quiet. Waiting for you. So you start.
“I thought Yunho was your friend from college.”
He takes a steadying breath before he speaks, “He was, is. But I’ve always been friendlier with Ro.”
“Ro,” you repeat, lips scrunching together. Your head shakes slowly, “Define friendlier.”
“Baby, we went to college together–”
“Don’t baby me,” you snap, keeping your voice quiet to not wake up your son, “you just tried to give me a daughter and then I find out you’re the godfather of someone else’s?”
“I was going to–”
“You were going to tell me nothing,” you snap again, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “You used to fuck her, then? In college? Is that why we’ve never hung out with them?”
“It was more than that,” his voice is defensive, curt. Your lips snap shut, eyes widening a fraction. “We were together for a while, but it was… complicated. Everything about that time was complicated.”
“She named her fucking kid after you,” your voice is quiet but not any less venomous. “You know everything about me. Everything. And after fifteen years, I’d expect to know everything about you. Why keep it a secret?”
He keeps his eyes on the road, even if they blaze with emotion; fear, guilt, shame, remorse. “I don’t know if I can even explain it, she’s– she’s special. Different from a girlfriend or a hookup, we went through a lot of tough shit together.”
Eyes widening further, throat tightening, you can taste the salt lining your eyes. Your voice comes out hoarse, “She’s so special that you couldn’t tell your wife about her?”
“There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t make you feel like this. She’s married, happily, with four kids. If you knew our history you wouldn’t want me around her.”
“And that’s more important? Being around her? Than me knowing the truth?”
“No,” he shakes his head tight. “No, it’s not. I spent a lot of time at their house while we were separated, and the three of us got really close again–”
“So that’s why she said we should all hangout,” you laugh a little, it’s dry, lacking amusement. “She wants to know what the wicked ex-wife that divorced you is like.”
“No,” he counters, voice raising, exasperated. “I never said anything bad about you, fuck. After the conference I talked to them, and she needs a girlfriend. I basically pimped you out to her, to be her friend.”
“Pimped me out to a girl you used to date. Fuck. Go through tough shit with.”
“We weren’t close during our marriage,” he argues, eyes flickering up to check on the still-sleeping Kyungmin through the rear-view mirror. “I sought them out after you divorced me, I needed a friend, and I knew Kyungmin and Aden were in the same class, I– they helped me.”
“Your ex-girlfriend and her husband helped you. Did they invite you into their bed? Help take your mind off your sad, divorced heart?”
“I’m not going to talk until you stop seeing red. Calm down and then speak to me like an adult.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare out the window, and let the tears fall.
Kyungmin lay on the couch, asleep again after another round of emptying the contents of his stomach into the same stained bowl you use for popcorn on movie nights. You and Wooyoung sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. So small, his face looks so peaceful, in a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep. He changed your lives eight years ago. Forced you into an adulthood you weren’t prepared for, the greatest blessing you didn’t ask for. A gift.
“Think he has the flu?” Wooyoung asks after too long of staring at the boy you created in silence. His hands stretched behind him, legs in front of him, body sagged with exhaustion. It’s been a long day.
“Maybe a stomach bug,” you reply through a sigh, sitting with your arms curled around your knees. “Time will tell. If his fever’s still up tomorrow, I’ll take him to the doctor.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’m his father, I want to.”
You swear, it’s grumbled, irritated. You can still feel the stickiness between your thighs, almost like it’s taunting you now. Telling you good job, you get to have another baby with a liar!
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Wooyoung’s voice is grave. “Aurora is harmless. I don’t love her, I’m not into her, there’s nothing left between us but friendship.”
“You’re missing the point, Wooyoung. It’s not about her, it’s about the fact that you kept it from me for fifteen years.”
“It wasn’t relevant for fifteen years. But it’s relevant now, and I’m telling you.”
“Because you were put in a situation where you had to tell me,” your head snaps to the side, glaring at him. “You should have told me when we had the whole exes conversation over a decade ago, or maybe when you found out Aden was in the same class as Kyung, or when she named her daughter after you, or when she made you the fucking godfather. You had a million-and-one chances to tell me.”
Wooyoung sighs, “It was a wound I didn’t want to reopen back then, but I should have. I’m sorry.”
“It feels wrong,” you look back at Kyungmin, a frown on your lips. “Knowing you had a relationship with these people deep enough for them to name their child after you, and I don’t know any of it. It makes me feel like I don’t know you, like there’s a side of you that you’ve kept from me all these years.”
“Do you want to know the full story?” He glances sideways, and the look you give him is an obvious yes. He sighs, “Fuck. Alright.”
And you sit there, for an entire hour as he reveals a side of himself that you’ve never gotten a glimpse of. Partying, threesomes, Aurora, men– so many men, and even though that part didn’t take you by surprise, it did make you wonder. The tough shit was about her, Yunho surprisingly, her father, her own personal issues that Wooyoung had adopted like his own and helped her through. Living with his cousin, switching his major, supporting his mother, all the fucked up people who went to his university that married each other. You wondered how well they turned out.
“Her and Yunho, made for each other. Their kids were a blessing, and they started younger than we did. Then kept fucking going.”
It made you laugh a little, and as the sound hit his ears, he finally cracked a small smile. Glancing at you, he muttered, “I did love her, I loved everything about her. But our relationship, me in her life, it was for a purpose, y’know? And when it was fulfilled, after I’d done what I was… destined to do or whatever, her life got a lot better. She got better. Everything got better, actually.”
“You were all too young for all of that shit.” It’s all you could say. All you could muster up seeing Wooyoung’s life twenty years ago pass through his eyes, listening to him describe it like it happened yesterday.
“I know,” he heaved a sigh, laying back on his elbows. “But then I met you and I thought it was my turn to be happy. To feel like I had it all figured out.”
“Then I got pregnant.”
He laughed, a rich, light sound. “Then you got pregnant.” He sat in silence for a moment, glancing at your son on the couch, before he bit his lip in contemplation. “I have something else to tell you. Since we’re being honest.”
Your heart dropped, skin feeling icy-hot. Nervously glancing at him, your voice comes out shaky as you ask, “What?”
“We’re still married.”
You blinked. “No we’re not.”
“Yes we are.”
Fingers meeting the floor on either side of you, you shook your head, warning, “Wooyoung.”
“That’s why the divorce process was so easy,” he isn’t looking at you, his eyes stay on Kyungmin, unblinking. “Because I never filed for it.”
“I filed for it,” you counter.
“With my lawyer,” his eyes meet yours. “Who I paid generously not to file.”
“What? I–”
The walls felt like they were closing in. He continued, “I thought it was hasty. That you would regret it, or that you didn’t mean it, or that I’d fix it, I don’t know. I couldn’t stomach the idea of us not being together, so I faked it.”
“You pay me child-support, Wooyoung.”
“I know,” he shrugs, lips thin. “I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d stay apart forever.”
You stare at him for a moment, a thunderstorm brewing beneath your skin. “Get out.”
His head snaps to the side, eyes wide, “What?”
“Get out,” you repeat, firmer. “Get the fuck out.”
“Wait– Let me explain, I–”
“Jung Wooyoung get the fuck out of my house.”
“I love you,” he argues, voice strained, turning his entire body to face you as you start standing up. “With my entire heart and soul. I can’t live without you any longer, without him, please talk to me– please talk this out, please–”
“I’m filing first thing tomorrow morning,” you bite, voice so fucking harsh and venemous you can’t believe it came from your lips. “With a different lawyer, my own fucking lawyer. You better hope and pray that I’m not fucking pregnant.”
Just so you know @minkieater I will be forwarding my therapy bill 😭😭I love how you linked the stories cause the way my jaw dropped when I saw Nasara University, I was like ain’t no way this the same Rory 😭😭😭
Summary: Hwang Hyunjin didn’t do seconds or thirds after a hookup which is why you thought fucking him once would get him to leave you alone. You were wrong, he came back twice during the summer after that one time during the spring semester and now you’ve got a Hwang Hyunjin stuck on you like a lost, lovesick puppy. Hyunjin’s on a mission to sabotage every date you go on until you admit that you two are perfect for each other. You tell him he’s being a stalker, he says he’s being persistent and dedicated and you’re just being dramatic.
Warnings: Certified loverboy/Munch!Hyunjin, uni student!hyunjin x TA grad student!f.reader, implied curve/plus size reader, Hyunjin has some morally grey traits that you overlook because you lowkey like that shit and you just as much as a simp for him, smut! MDNI! Multiple sex scenes/rounds, unprotected sex, oral (m.&f.rec), slight exihibitionism, car sex,public sex, unprotected sex, slight dom/sub/switch dynamics, Hyunjin was a kiwi when they first hooked up, nicknames: Hyune, baby,Simp/munch(his), Muse(this is cannon atp), pussy-fairy, baby etc (hers), as usual I might have missed something.
W.C: 17.7k
You had thought fucking Hyunjin would get him to leave you alone. He never went back for seconds from what you had heard around campus and the kid’s been nagging you—not really because you do enjoy his company sometimes—since you TA’d one of his English Foundation classes last fall.
You figured he just wanted to try sex with a big girl given what you knew his usual hookups looked like.So, after one particularly shitty presentation—with a lecturer that you were sure hated you—you invited him over.
What you hadn’t planned on was having Hwang Hyunjin stuck on you like a lost puppy after one fuck; okay, maybe two…three times. Once in late spring, twice over the summer when he somehow kept showing up at places you frequented and now it’s the fall semester again and Hyunjin has found every opportunity to be in your bubble even befriending your friends Minho, Chan and Changbin.
“Yahhh! Hwang Hyunjin, you can’t keep doing this to me.” You groan as you push open your apartment door with him hot on your trail. This is the third date since the semester started that he’s run off.
“I don’t see why you need to be going on dates when I’m literally right here, ready and willing to do all that Muse.”
“That’s not the point Hyune.”
“It’s not? I’m hot, you’re hot. The sex is an incredibly hot bonus but at least you know it won’t be subpar and I’ll actually get you off. All you gotta do is say yes, I’m very persistent.” He smiles.
You drop your bag on the kitchen counter with more force than necessary, the thud punctuating your frustration. Hyunjin closes the door behind him—of course he follows you inside—and leans against it with that infuriating confidence that probably works on everyone else.
“Persistent is one word for it,” you mutter, yanking open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. Anything to avoid looking at him right now, at the way his hair falls perfectly even after he’s been trailing you across campus, at how his shirt rides up slightly when he crosses his arms. “Stalker is another.”
“Dramatic.” He pushes off the door and you can hear the smile in his voice as he moves closer. “I prefer ‘dedicated.’”
You spin around, pointing the water bottle at him like a weapon. “You literally interrupted my date at the restaurant, Hyunjin. You sat down at our table and ordered food.”
“The guy was boring you to tears. I could see it from across the room.”
“You were across the room watching me? Do you hear yourself right now?”
He has the audacity to shrug, unbothered, as he hops up onto your counter like he pays rent here. “I was meeting someone at the café next door and happened to look up—”
“Meeting someone? You?”
“—and I saw you doing that thing you do when you’re trying to be polite but you’d rather be anywhere else.” He tilts his head, studying you with those dark eyes that got you into this mess in the first place. “That little fake laugh, the way you keep checking your phone under the table. You did it in Professor Kim’s lecture last spring too, remember?”
You hate that he notices these things. Hate that he’s right. Hate even more that you know there was no one he was meeting; he’d literally sat at that café for an hour, coffee going cold, just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and ruin your date.
“That doesn’t give you the right to crash my dates, Hyune. We hooked up. Past tense. That’s it.”
“See, you keep saying that.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees and the air between you shifts into something heavier. “But your body language says something different. The way you let me walk you home. How you haven’t kicked me out yet. How you’ve already called me ‘Hyune’ twice in the last five minutes.”
Fuck. You hadn’t even noticed.
“I—” You falter, gripping the water bottle tighter. “That’s just habit.”
“Is it?” He slides off the counter, moving into your space slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You don’t. “Because I think you like having me around. I think you keep going on these shitty dates hoping one of them will make you stop thinking about me, about us.”
“There is no us.”
“There could be.” His voice drops lower, softer, and suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is, how warm your apartment feels. “Just say yes, Muse. One real date. Let me take you somewhere, treat you right, show you I’m not just some college kid looking for a hookup.”
“You ran off three of my dates, Hyunjin.”
“Because they weren’t good enough for you.” No hesitation, no shame. “And I am. Let me prove it.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, treacherous thing that it is. You should say no. Should maintain the boundaries you set months ago when you decided sleeping with him was a lapse in judgment.
But god, the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth his attention—makes it really hard to remember why those boundaries existed in the first place.
“One date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up like you’ve given him the moon. “But if you fuck this up—”
“I won’t.” He’s grinning now, that devastating smile that should come with a warning label. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do,” you lie but you’re smiling too and from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, he knows it.
You turn your back to him as you head towards your bedroom to change out of your clothes. You know he’s going to follow you and follow he does, making himself comfortable at the foot of your bed leaning back on his arms in that lazy confident way he has while you strip out of the layers of clothes you’d been wearing.
“You’re staring, Hwang.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Annoying fucker.”
“Yeah, but you like me though.” and you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning or smirking. “C’mere, muse.”
“Don’t use that tone of voice,”
“Why? Does it make you wet?”
You pause mid-motion, your shirt halfway over your head, heat crawling up your neck that has nothing to do with the layers you’re peeling off. “Hyunjin—”
“That’s not an answer.” His voice is lower now, teasing but edged with something darker that makes your stomach flip.
You yank the shirt off completely and toss it at him. He catches it easily, bringing it to his face with an exaggerated inhale that makes you roll your eyes even as your pulse quickens.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.” The bed shifts as he adjusts his position before he speaks again. “Come here, Muse.”
There it is again—that voice, the one that’s all command wrapped in honey, the one that got you into trouble the first time. You should tell him to back off, remind him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to waltz back into your bed like nothing’s changed.
But your body has other ideas, already responding to his proximity, to the memory of his hands on your skin.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” you say but your voice comes out breathier than intended as you turn to face him.
He’s still on your bed, leaning back with that infuriating smirk playing at his lips, eyes tracking every inch of you like he’s memorizing the view. “What deal? I just want you closer. We can just talk.”
“You don’t want to talk.”
“Maybe not.” He reaches out, fingers ghosting over your wrist. “But I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. Even if that’s just you sitting here, telling me about your terrible date while I try very hard to behave myself.”
You snort despite yourself. “You? Behave?”
“I can be good when properly motivated.” His thumb traces circles on your inner wrist and goddamn if that simple touch doesn’t make you want to forget every reason this is a bad idea. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this, or are you gonna stop overthinking for once and let yourself have something good?”
You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you wrap your hands around his throat and tilt his head back just a little so he’s looking up at you. What you don’t expect is the moan that slips out of his mouth along with the way his grip tightens on both of your ass cheeks.
“You’re playing with fire, Muse.”
His pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting, and the way his breath hitches under your palms sends a thrill straight through you. You tighten your grip just slightly—not enough to hurt—just enough to feel his pulse jumping against your fingers.
“Maybe I want to get burned,” you murmur, watching the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes and his hands slide higher, pulling you closer until you’re standing between his spread thighs. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, gripping like he can’t get enough and there’s something about the way he touches you—like every curve is exactly what he wants—that makes your breath catch. “You can’t just…Muse, if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to keep my promise about behaving.”
“Did I ask you to behave?”
Something shifts in his expression; surprise giving way to hunger, that cocky facade cracking just enough to show you the desperate want underneath. It’s intoxicating, this power you have over him, the way someone so confident turns pliant under your touch.
“You’re killing me,” he groans but he’s tilting his head back further, offering himself up. “Months. Months of you ignoring me, going on dates with other people, pretending those nights didn’t change everything—”
“It was just three nights,” you say, squeezing just a little harder and his moan is obscene.
“Three perfect nights that I can’t stop thinking about.” His hands slide from your ass to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. “The way you look on top of me, the sounds you make, how your thighs feel wrapped around my head—” He cuts himself off with a shudder as your thumb traces along his jawline. “Please, Muse. Put me out of my misery. Tell me I’m not crazy, that you feel this too.”
You could still walk away. Should walk away. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid; getting tangled up with Hwang Hyunjin and his persistent attention, his ability to make you forget every logical reason this is complicated.
But God, the way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re everything he wants…
“You’re not crazy,” you admit quietly and watch his face transform with relief and triumph and raw need. “But you’re still annoying.”
“Yeah?” His hands slide under the waistband of your pants, palms hot against bare skin. “Wanna shut me up about it?”
Your fingers flex on his throat and before you know it the world tilts and suddenly your back hits the mattress, the air rushing from your lungs. The switch happens so fast your head spins or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking down at you under him with his hand around your throat; eyes dark with promise and that damn smirk that makes your thighs clench.
“Know you missed your favorite necklace.” He says with a grin and a flex of his fingers.
His hand spans your throat perfectly, thumb resting against your pulse point like he’s counting each racing beat. The weight of it, the controlled pressure, sends liquid heat pooling low in your belly.
“There she is,” he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. “Been wondering how long you’d make me wait to see you like this again.”
You should probably say something cutting, remind him he’s getting ahead of himself, that agreeing to one date doesn’t mean—
But then his fingers flex, just enough pressure to make your breath catch and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. Your hands fly up to grip his wrist, not to push away but to anchor yourself as your body arches involuntarily beneath him.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he breathes against your neck, his free hand sliding down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. “Missed the way you melt for me the second I get my hands on you. All that attitude just…gone.”
“Hyunjin—” His name comes out strangled, needy, and you hate how desperate you sound. Hate more that he’s right about all of it.
“Yeah, baby?” Another flex of his fingers, his thigh pressing between yours. “Still think those other guys could give you what I can? Still think you need anyone else when you’ve got me?”
Your nails dig into his wrist and he groans, low and dirty. “That’s my girl. Mark me up, Muse. Want everyone to know exactly who I belong to.”
“Possessive bastard,” you gasp out but your hips are already rolling against his thigh, seeking friction.
“Only for you.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear that makes you whimper. “Say you’re mine. Say those dates were bullshit and you want me.”
“You’re—ah—so fucking cocky—”
“Because I’m right.” His hand tightens fractionally, and stars burst behind your eyelids. “Now answer the question, or I stop.”
“Stop and I’ll never give you head again. Know you like that thing I do with my tongue before I take it all the way in.” You grin.
He freezes above you and you feel the full-body shudder that runs through him at the memory. His hand loosens just slightly on your throat as he pulls back to look at you, eyes blazing.
“That’s playing dirty, Muse.”
“You started it,” you shoot back, running your tongue along your bottom lip deliberately. His gaze tracks the movement like a starving man watching food. “What was it you said last time? That no one’s ever—”
“Don’t.” His voice comes out strangled, hips pressing harder against you. “Fuck, you can’t just—that thing you do, that fucking swirling before you—Jesus Christ.”
The power shift is delicious. For all his cockiness, all his control, you know exactly how to unravel him. You’ve done it before, watched him fall apart with his hands fisted in your hair, saying your name like a prayer, telling you how good you look on your knees with your mouth stretched around him.
“So maybe,” you say, walking your fingers up his chest, “you should reconsider your ultimatums. Because I can be just as stubborn as you, Hwang Hyunjin, and I know all your weaknesses now.”
He drops his forehead to yours with a breathless laugh. “You’re evil. Absolutely fucking evil.”
“You like it.”
“I love it,” he corrects and something in his voice makes your heart stutter. Too honest, too raw. He catches it immediately, tries to cover with that cocky grin. “Love how you think you’re in control right now when we both know how this ends.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
His hand slides from your throat to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lips. “With you saying my name so loud your neighbors complain. Again.” He punctuates it with a roll of his hips that has you gasping. “But first, you’re gonna answer my question. Those dates—”
“Were boring,” you admit, because fuck it, he’s not going to let this go. “Happy?”
“Getting there.” His smile is pure sin. “Now tell me you’re mine.”
“Make me.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before his eyes go molten, that pretty face transforming into something predatory and hungry. His hand slides back to your throat, not squeezing, just possessive.
“Oh, Muse,” he says, voice dropping an octave that goes straight between your thighs. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
Before you can respond with something appropriately bratty, he captures your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up frustration. It’s not gentle—Hyunjin’s never been gentle when he’s like this, wound up and desperate—and you wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Months,” he growls against your lips, kissing down your jaw. “Months of watching you pretend you don’t think about this.” His teeth graze your pulse point and you gasp. “Watching you go on dates with guys who couldn’t possibly know what you need.”
His free hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t move to remove them yet, just traces patterns that make your hips lift involuntarily.
“Hyune—”
“Shh,” he soothes, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at you. “You wanted me to make you admit it, right? That’s what this is?” He pops the button of your pants with practiced ease. “Let me remind you exactly what you’ve been missing.”
“You’re such an asshole,” you manage but it comes out breathless.
“Maybe.” He drags the zipper down slowly, torturously. “But you like it. Like when I call you out on your bullshit.” His fingers slip just beneath the waistband of your underwear, not touching where you need him yet, just teasing. “Like when I don’t let you hide.”
You dig your nails into his shoulders through his shirt, trying to pull him closer but he resists. That damn smirk is back.
“Patience, pretty baby. We’ve got all night and I’m gonna take my time reminding you exactly why you can’t stop thinking about me.”
“Cocky—” The word cuts off in a moan as his hand finally, finally slides lower, cupping you through the thin fabric. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit and your vision goes hazy.
“What was that?” He does it again, watching your face. “Couldn’t quite hear you over all those pretty sounds you’re making.”
“I said you’re—fuck—” He adds pressure and your argument dissolves entirely.
“That’s what I thought.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear. “You can act tough all you want, Muse, but your body tells me everything I need to know.”
He hooks his fingers in your waistband but doesn’t pull down yet. Just waits, making you squirm.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Tell me those dates were bullshit attempts to forget about us.”
“There is no us—”
He pulls his hand away entirely and you actually whimper at the loss. His answering laugh is dark and knowing.
“No? Then I guess you don’t need me to—”
“Don’t you dare.” You grab his wrist, pulling his hand back and his eyes light up with victory.
“Then say it.” He starts pulling your pants down, slowly, watching you the whole time. “Say you thought about me while you were out with them. Say you compared them to me and they didn’t measure up.”
The worst part is he’s right. Every single date, you’d found yourself thinking about Hyunjin; the way he laughs at your terrible jokes, how he brings you coffee during your TA sessions without being asked, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world.
And yeah, the sex. Definitely the sex.
“They were boring,” you finally admit, lifting your hips so he can slide your pants and underwear down your legs. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to devour you whole.
“Boring,” he repeats, tossing your clothes somewhere behind him. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there, spreading you wider. “Just boring?”
“Hyunjin, please—”
“Please what?” He settles between your legs but doesn’t touch you yet. Just looks, and the hunger in his eyes makes you clench around nothing. “I want to hear you say it, Muse. Want to hear you admit that this—” he finally drags one finger through your wetness, and you gasp, “—is all for me.”
“You’re the worst,” you breathe but your hips chase his touch.
“Yeah?” He circles your clit once, twice, before pulling away again. “The worst, but you’re soaking for me anyway. Been like this all night, haven’t you? Sitting across from that guy, being polite, while thinking about what I could do to you instead.”
You want to deny it, but he chooses that moment to slide two fingers inside you, curling them exactly right and the truth spills out in a broken moan.
“There she is.” His voice is reverent now, awed. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed watching you fall apart for me.” He sets a rhythm that has your back arching, your hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. “Missed the way you get so wet, so ready. Like your body knows exactly who it belongs to even when you’re being stubborn about it.”
“Not—ah—yours,” you try, but it’s weak even to your own ears.
His thumb finds your clit and you nearly sob. “No? Then why are you grinding on my hand like you’re desperate for it? Why’d you let me follow you home, let me in your apartment, your bedroom?” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “Why haven’t you kicked me out yet, baby?”
Because you can’t. Because despite every logical reason for why this is a bad idea, you want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he’d looked at you like you were everything, touched you like you were precious, fucked you like you were the only thing that mattered.
“Say it,” he demands, adding a third finger that has you seeing stars. “Say you’re mine and I’ll give you everything you need. Make you come so hard you forget every other guy’s name.”
“Fuck—Hyunjin—I can’t—”
“You can.” His fingers speed up, hitting that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake. “Come on, Muse. Stop being stubborn and just admit it. Admit you want this, want me, want us.”
He’s relentless and you can feel your orgasm building, pressure coiling tight in your belly. Your hands find his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.
“That’s it,” he encourages, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You’re so close, teetering on the edge and he knows it. Can probably feel it in the way you’re clenching around his fingers, the way your breathing has gone ragged.
“Just say it,” he coaxes, softer now but no less demanding. “Three little words and I’ll make you come. That’s all, Muse. Just tell me the truth.”
Pride wars with desperation but your body makes the decision for you; arching into his touch, chasing the release only he seems capable of giving you.
“Yours,” you finally gasp out. “I’m yours, okay? Happy now?”
His smile is blinding, triumphant, before his mouth crashes into yours. “So fucking happy,” he murmurs against your lips and then his fingers curl just right and you’re gone, falling apart in his arms while he swallows your moans and tells you how perfect you are, how good, how his.
You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with an obscene moan that makes heat coil in your belly all over again despite having just come.
“Missed that too,” he says with a little pat to your sensitive cunt, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath. “The way you taste. Been thinking about it for months.”
“You’re such a fucking munch,” you manage but there’s no heat behind it. Can’t be, not when you’re boneless and satisfied and he’s looking at you like that.
“Wonder whose fault that is?” He’s already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing all that lean muscle you’ve tried very hard not to think about. “And we’re not done. Not even close.”
Your eyes track the movement of his hands as he works his belt loose, the clink of metal loud in your quiet bedroom. “Confident.”
“Realistic,” he corrects, shoving his jeans down. “You think one orgasm is enough to make up for months? I’ve got a lot of lost time to account for, Muse.”
He’s not wrong. Even now, barely recovered, you want him. Want his weight on you, in you, surrounding you. It’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin.
“Come here,” you say, reaching for him and he goes willingly, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.
His cock presses against you, hard and hot, and you both groan at the contact. He rocks against you slowly, coating himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit with each deliberate thrust.
“Hyune—” Your nails rake down his back and he hisses.
“What, baby? Use your words.” He’s teasing, the bastard, dragging this out when you both know what you want.
“Stop teasing.”
“But you’re so pretty when you’re desperate.” He does it again, that maddening slide that’s almost enough but not quite. “Flushed and needy and all mine.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to angle him where you need him, but he doesn’t budge just holds himself just out of reach with that infuriating smirk.
“Ask nicely.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you threaten but it comes out more pleading than murderous.
“You love me,” he says, and then seems to realize what he’s said. For a moment, the cocky mask slips and you see something vulnerable underneath, hope and fear and want all tangled together.
The moment stretches between you, weighted with things neither of you are ready to name.
“Hyunjin,” you say softly, cupping his face. “Fuck me. Please.”
It’s enough. He reaches between you, lining himself up, and then he’s pushing inside with one slow, devastating thrust that has you both gasping. The stretch is perfect, familiar, like your body remembered exactly how he feels.
“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Fuck, Muse, you feel—” He can’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed, and something about seeing him undone like this makes your chest tight.
“Move,” you urge, rolling your hips. “Baby, please move.”
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. Sets a rhythm that’s punishing and perfect, each thrust hitting so deep you see stars.
“This,” he grits out, punctuating the word with a particularly hard thrust. “This is what you’ve been missing. What those other guys could never give you.” His hand finds your throat again, not squeezing, just holding. “Tell me. Tell me they didn’t fuck you like this.”
“They didn’t—” You gasp as he changes angles, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Didn’t even—fuck—didn’t even have a chance—”
“Because they don’t know you.” His thumb traces your racing pulse. His other hand grips your thigh to hook your leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft flesh there and pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t know that you like it rough. Like when I hold you down and take what’s mine.”
He proves his point by pinning your wrists above your head with his free hand, holding you completely at his mercy. The position makes your breasts press up and he takes advantage, ducking his head to drag his teeth across one nipple.
“Don’t know how fucking perfect you are when you let go and just feel.”
You should probably protest at the possessive way he’s talking, the assumption that he knows you better than you know yourself. But he does know you, knows exactly how to make you fall apart, how to push you right to the edge and keep you there.
“Harder,” you demand because if you’re doing this, if you’re giving in, you might as well get everything you want.
His answering laugh is strained. “Greedy girl.” But he complies, fucking into you with enough force that your headboard starts hitting the wall. “That what you need? Need me to ruin you so you can’t even think about anyone else?”
“Yes—fuck yes—”
“Good.” He releases your wrists to hitch your other leg higher over his hip, the new angle making you cry out. “Because that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the dual sensation is almost too much. You can feel another orgasm building, faster this time, pulled tight like a wire about to snap.
“Hyune, I’m close—”
“I know, baby, I can feel it.” His rhythm is getting erratic, chasing his own release. “Come for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.”
“Come with me,” you gasp, pulling him down into a kiss that’s more breathing into each other’s mouths than anything else. “Want to feel you—”
“Fuck…Muse—” The nickname becomes a chant as his hips stutter and the desperation in his voice is what tips you over. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, pleasure white-hot and all-consuming, and you feel him follow seconds later with a groan that you swallow down.
He collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty and spent and trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the occasional aftershock, his cock still buried inside you like he can’t bear to separate yet.
“So,” he finally says, voice muffled against your neck. “Still think those dates were a good idea?”
You smack his shoulder weakly. “Cálla.”
“Make me.” But there’s no heat behind it, just lazy satisfaction.
You wrap your legs tight around him and roll him onto his back as you settle on top of him. The ride you start is slow and torturous, hands on his chest as you lift until only the tip is inside before you drop all the way back down.
His eyes go wide when you flip him, a startled laugh escaping before it melts into a groan as you sink back down onto him. He’s still sensitive from coming, you can tell by the way his abs clench, the way his hands fly to your hips with a grip that’s going to leave bruises.
His fingers span your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your stomach and there’s something almost reverent in the way he’s looking up at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“Fuck, baby, what are you—”
“Teaching you a lesson,” you murmur, rising up slowly, torturously slow, until just his tip is inside. His fingers dig into your flesh, trying to pull you back down but you resist. “About running your mouth.”
You drop down hard and he chokes on whatever he was going to say, head falling back against the pillows. The oversensitivity makes him twitch inside you, makes his thighs tense beneath you.
“Baby, I just—ah fuck—”
You do it again. And again. Setting a pace that’s designed to drive him insane, that has him writhing beneath you and trying to thrust up to meet you. But you keep the control, keep him exactly where you want him.
“What’s wrong?” You drag your nails down his chest, watching red lines bloom in their wake. “Thought you liked being in charge. Liked making me beg.”
“I do—fuck, I do—but you’re gonna kill me—” His feet plant on the mattress, trying to get leverage, trying to fuck up into you harder.
That’s when your hand wraps around his throat again.
The effect is immediate and devastating. His whole body goes taut, cock throbbing inside you and the moan that tears from him is absolutely wrecked.
“Stay still,” you command, squeezing just enough to make his breath catch. “You’re going to take what I give you, understand?”
“Fuck,yes, yes—” His eyes are glazed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any iris left. His hands fall away from your hips, surrendering, and the sight of Hwang Hyunjin—cocky, confident, always-in-control Hyunjin—completely at your mercy sends a rush of power through you.
You start riding him in earnest now, the way you know drives him crazy. Rolling your hips on the downstroke, clenching around him deliberately, using him for your own pleasure while your hand stays firm on his throat.
“Oh god…oh fuck, Muse—” He’s babbling now, coherence lost. His hands scrabble at the sheets, his back arching. “Please,please, I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” You lean down, maintaining the pressure on his throat as you change the angle. “Can’t handle what you’ve been begging for? Can’t take being fucked the way you fuck me?”
“No…yes, fuck—” Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes from the intensity. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
You weren’t planning to. Not when he looks like this; absolutely destroyed, that pretty face twisted in almost painful pleasure, completely yours. Your free hand slides up to pinch his nipple and he nearly sobs.
“You’re so good like this,” you tell him and mean it. “So perfect when you let go. When you stop trying to control everything and just feel.”
“For you—” he gasps out. “Only for you—”
Your rhythm is relentless now, chasing your third orgasm of the night while he falls apart beneath you. You can feel him getting close again despite having just come, his cock swelling impossibly harder inside you.
“Gonna come again already?” You tighten your grip on his throat fractionally and he keens. “Greedy boy. So desperate for it.”
“Please—” It’s barely a whisper. “Please, Muse, I need—”
“I know what you need.” You lean down to bite at his jaw, his neck, marking him the way he marked you. “Need to come inside me again. Need to fill me up until it’s dripping down my thighs.”
“Yes! fuck yes,please let me—”
“Then come,” you order, releasing his throat and clenching around him as hard as you can. “Come for me, Hyunjin.”
He does, with a shout that’s definitely going to have your neighbors complaining, his whole body seizing as he spills inside you. The feeling of it, the heat and the way he pulses, triggers your own orgasm; smaller than the first two but no less intense for it.
You collapse onto his chest, both of you gasping for air. His arms come around you immediately, holding you close despite the way you’re both trembling.
“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages, voice absolutely wrecked. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Payback,” you mumble against his skin, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your cheek.
“Worth it.” His hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “So fucking worth it.”
You can feel him softening inside you, the mess of both of you starting to leak out, but neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your scalp.
“So,” he says after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “About that date…”
You bite his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. “One thing at a time, Hwang.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yes ma’am.”
You shift to look up at him, finding him watching you with an expression so soft it makes your breath catch. His free hand comes up to trace the curve of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“Lemme stay,” he says quietly. “Tonight. Don’t kick me out this time.”
“I never kicked you out—”
“You very politely suggested that I had to go.” His lips quirk. “Three times. Spring semester, twice over summer. Same thing.”
You study his face; the vulnerability lurking beneath the teasing, the hope he’s trying to hide. “You’re clingy when you’re fucked out.”
“Mhmm,” he admits, no shame in it. “So is that a yes?”
You could say no. Should probably establish some boundaries, maintain some distance. But you’re warm and sated and he’s looking at you like that, and—
“Fine,” you relent. “But you’re the big spoon because I’m not sleeping on my back all night.”
His grin is blinding. “Deal.”
He finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and disappears to your bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with a gentleness that feels at odds with how you’d just fucked each other into the mattress.
“Such a gentleman,” you tease as he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed.
“Only for you,” he says again, pulling you against his chest and draping himself around you. His hand splays across your stomach, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin. “See? Perfect big spoon.”
You hum in agreement, already feeling sleep pulling at you. His warmth surrounds you, solid and safe, and you find yourself relaxing into it despite your better judgment.
“Muse?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant.
“Mm?”
“I meant what I said. About wanting this to be real. About—” He pauses and you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder. “About all of it.”
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “I know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”
His quiet laugh stirs your hair. “Okay, baby.”
And wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your back, you let yourself drift off with a small smile on your face.
You wake up to a wet, heated sensation between your legs and when you look down, Hyunjin’s looking up at you from between your thighs, morning light filtering through your curtains and painting his skin gold.
“About time you woke up. Been down here for half an hour, baby.”
“Hyune,” you breathe, still half-asleep, and your hand automatically goes to his hair.
“Love it when you call me that.” He mumbles against your inner thigh, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. You can already see the marks blooming there, evidence of his dedication. “Especially all sleepy like this.”
Your brain is still foggy with sleep, trying to catch up, but your body already knows; hips lifting into his mouth, thighs spreading wider to give him better access.
“Half an hour?” you manage, voice rough. “Why didn’t you—ah—wake me?”
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening. “Wanted to see how long it would take. How deep I could get you before you woke up.” His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your grip tightens in his hair. “You were making the prettiest sounds in your sleep, Muse. Kept saying my name.”
“I did not—”
“You did.” He punctuates it with a kiss to your inner thigh, sucking another mark. “Kept squirming too, pressing that perfect ass back against me. Think you were dreaming about me?”
You were, actually. Hazy images of last night and the early hours of the morning bleeding into new scenarios, his hands and mouth everywhere. But you’re not about to admit that.
“You’re imagining things,” you say, trying for dismissive but it comes out breathy when he sucks a mark higher on your thigh.
“Am I?” His hands slide up to grip your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, to his mouth. “Then why are you so wet already? Been like this since I started, baby. So ready for me.”
His mouth returns to where you need it, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s not rushing, not trying to make you come quickly; just exploring, savoring, taking his time like he has all day.
“Hyunjin—” Your head falls back against the pillow as he slides two fingers inside, curling them just right. “Fuck—”
“Love the way you say my name,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. “Especially first thing in the morning, all sleepy and needy.” He adds a third finger and you arch off the bed. “Missed waking up with you. Missed getting to do this.”
You want to tell him he’s only been in your bed three times before—spring semester, twice over summer—and each time you’d basically kicked him out the morning after. That this isn’t some regular thing. But then he swirls his tongue over your clit before sucking making your thighs shake, and all coherent thought evaporates.
“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let me take care of you, Muse. Let me make you feel good.”
His free hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, palming your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple and the dual sensation has you arching into his touch. He’s everywhere, surrounding you, consuming you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.
“Close already?” There’s satisfaction in his voice as your hips start rolling against his face. “That’s my girl. So responsive for me.”
“Don’t—ah,don’t stop—”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, fingers pumping faster, and you squirt with a cry that echoes off the bedroom walls as you make a mess of his face and your sheets.
He works you through it, gentling his touches as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your hip bones, your stomach. When he finally crawls back up your body, his face is wet with you and he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“Good morning,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself.
You’re still trying to remember how to breathe. “You’re insane.”
“Crazy about you,” he corrects, dropping a kiss to your shoulder. Then another to your collarbone. “Couldn’t help myself. You looked so pretty sleeping, and I’ve been thinking about doing that since you kicked me out last time.”
“I didn’t kick you out—”
“You strongly suggested I should leave because you had shit to do,” he reminds you, nipping at your jaw. “Wouldn’t even let me stay for breakfast. Three different times.”
“Because it was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“Three-time thing,” he corrects. “And clearly not a one-time anything because here we are again and you’re not exactly complaining.”
He’s not wrong. You should be kicking him out right now, reestablishing boundaries, reminding him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to—
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I can literally hear you overthinking from here.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He shifts, settling beside you so he can look at you properly. His hair is a mess from your hands, lips swollen, and there’s something soft in his eyes that makes your chest tight. “Look, I know this is complicated. I know you’ve got reasons for keeping me at arm’s length. But Muse…” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I meant what I said last night. I want this. Want you. Not just the sex—though fuck, the sex is incredible—but all of it.”
“Hyunjin…”
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says quickly. “Just…give me a real chance. Let me take you on that date. Let me prove that you’re more than a hookup.”
The earnestness in his voice, in his expression, makes something in your chest crack open. Because the truth is, you want it too. Want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he stayed after, ordering takeout and arguing with you about the themes in the book you were teaching, making you laugh until your sides hurt before he rearranged your guts again.
“Like I said, one date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up. “But if you screw this up—”
“I won’t.” He’s kissing you before you can finish the threat, enthusiastic and clumsy and perfect. “I promise, Muse. I’m gonna make you so happy you agreed to this.”
“You’re still in my bed naked,” you point out. “Shouldn’t you go home and shower or something?”
His grin turns wicked. “Actually, I was thinking we could shower together. Save water. Be environmentally conscious.”
“That is not—”
But he’s already pulling you up, laughing at your protests, and somehow you end up in the shower with him anyway. His hands are gentle as he washes your hair, his kisses slow and sweet under the spray, and you let yourself have this—have him—without overthinking it for once.
When you finally emerge, clean and wrapped in towels, he immediately starts raiding your closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding clothes,” he says, pulling out one of your hoodies. “This’ll work.”
“That’s mine.”
“It’s ours now.” He pulls it on and it’s slightly too small on him, riding up to show a strip of his stomach, but he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Perfect.”
“You should go home and get your own clothes.”
“Why?” He asks pulling the sheet off of your bed looking at you expectantly as you pass him a fresh set which he puts on before he sprawls on it like he owns it. “It’s Saturday. Neither of us has anywhere to be.”
“Don’t you have—I don’t know, plans? Things to do?”
“My only plan was you,” he says, patting the space next to him. “And I’m exactly where I want to be.”
You should insist. Should maintain some boundaries, not let him get too comfortable. But he’s looking at you with those warm eyes, your too-small hoodie riding up to show that strip of stomach, and you find yourself giving in.
“Fine,” you relent, settling next to him on the bed. “But you’re buying or making food as long as you’re here.”
“Deal.” He immediately pulls you against him, arranging you so your back is against his chest, his arms wrapped around your middle. “What do you want to do today?”
“I was going to catch up on that show I mentioned.”
“The murder mystery one?”
You twist to look at him, surprised. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “You mentioned it. Three weeks ago, after your TA session. You said it looked interesting but you hadn’t had time.”
Your chest does something complicated. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you tell me,” he says simply.
“You’re such a simp.”
“Only for you,” he says, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Now come on, let’s go watch your show. But I’m warning you, it’s always the butler.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s always the butler.” He sounds entirely too confident.
“That’s such a cliché—”
“Wanna bet?”
You twist to look at him. “What are the stakes?”
His grin is wicked. “If I’m right, you come to my friends’ New Year’s party with me.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’ll stop interrupting your dates.”
You snort. “You’re that confident?”
“In my detective skills? Absolutely.” He pauses. “Also I may have already watched the first episode when you mentioned it.”
“Hwang Hyunjin!”
He’s laughing now, trying to fend off your playful smacks. “What! I wanted to be able to talk to you about it! That’s romantic!”
“That’s cheating!”
“Okay, okay—” He catches your wrists, still grinning. “New bet. Come to the party with me anyway, and if the butler isn’t the killer, I’ll make you that pasta dish you said looked good on Instagram.”
“You follow my Instagram?”
“Have for months,” he admits, shameless. “You post the best food pics. Also that selfie you posted last week? In the library? Saved it.”
You don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. “You’re obsessed.”
“Completely,” he agrees easily. “So? Deal?”
You should say no. Should not agree to go to a party with his friends, to blur these lines even further. But he’s looking at you hopefully, and—
“Fine. But the pasta better be amazing if you’re wrong.”
“It will be,” he promises, and seals it with a kiss.
You end up on the couch, you settled between his legs with your back against his chest, starting the show. He was right, the butler did do it, which he’s entirely too smug about. But you find you don’t really mind, especially when he keeps pressing random kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, clearly only half-paying attention to the show.
“Hyune,” you murmur during the second episode. “You’re missing it.”
“Don’t care,” he says against your skin. “This is better.”
“The whole point of watching together—”
“Is spending time with you. Which I’m doing.” He nips at your earlobe. “The murder mystery is just a bonus.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it,” he counters, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
Halfway through the fifth episode, your stomach growls loudly. Hyunjin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into your back.
“Lunch?” he suggests.
“It’s almost two. More like late lunch.”
“Even better.” But he doesn’t let go of you, just tightens his arms. “In a minute.”
“Hyunjin, I’m hungry.”
“Just—” He buries his face in your neck. “One more minute like this.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest. “Okay. One more minute.”
You give him five before standing up and pulling him with you toward the kitchen. “Come on. If you’re staying, you’re helping.”
“What are we making?”
“I was thinking cheesy kimchi fried rice? Nothing fancy, but—”
“Perfect,” he interrupts, already moving toward your fridge. “Comfort food. I can work with that.”
You expect him to be useless in the kitchen—he gives off those vibes—but he surprises you. He moves around your space with ease, finding things without asking.
“You can actually cook,” you observe, surprised.
“My mom made sure I all knew the basics,” he says, focused on cutting sausages and spam.
“And?”
“I’m no chef but I can handle myself fairly well in the kitchen,” he says. “It’s not really different from painting or drawing once you get used to it.”
“Big talk.”
“You’ll see.”
You work together comfortably; you handle the side dishes while he fries the rice. He keeps stealing touches; a hand on your waist as he moves past you, fingers brushing yours when you hand him the cheese, a kiss pressed to your shoulder when you’re stirring the adding radish to a bowl.
“You’re very touchy today,” you comment, not exactly complaining.
“Making up for lost time,” he says simply. “Plus you keep trying to kick me out in the mornings. Gotta get my fill while I can.”
“I don’t—” You pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”
“You do.” He flips the sandwich expertly. “Spring semester, you basically pushed me out the door. Said you had to work on your thesis.”
“I did have to work on my thesis.”
“At 7 AM on a Sunday?”
“…Yes?”
He gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “And the first time in summer, you had that ‘emergency meeting’ with your advisor.”
“That was real!”
“Mhm. And the second time, you suddenly remembered you had plans with your friends.”
You’re quiet, because okay, he’s got you there. Each time you’d basically panicked the morning after, overwhelmed by how comfortable it felt having him in your space, how much you didn’t want him to leave. So you’d created excuses, put up walls, tried to maintain distance.
“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “That was shitty of me.”
“Hey.” He turns and faces you properly, hands on your hips. “I get it. I’m younger, still in undergrad, not exactly what you probably pictured for yourself. And I came on really strong that first time. I get why you freaked out.”
“It’s not—” You struggle with the words. “It’s not about your age, really. It’s just…complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says softly. “We can just…be. No pressure, no expectations. Just us figuring this out together.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Because it is.” He cups your face in his hands looking at you. “I like you. You like me. Everything else is just noise.”
You want to argue, to point out all the ways it’s not that simple. But he’s looking at you with such earnest honesty that you find yourself nodding instead.
“Okay,” you say. “We can try.”
His smile is brilliant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But Hyunjin?” You poke his chest. “No more interrupting my dates.”
“Deal. Mainly because you won’t be going on them anymore.”
“Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, and kisses you until the rice is in danger of burning.
You eat lunch curled up on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, arguing about the show and laughing at his terrible theories about who’s going to die next. It’s easy, comfortable, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of dancing around each other for months.
“So this party,” you say eventually. “Your friends’ New Year’s thing.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he says quickly. “I know I kind of blackmailed you into agreeing—”
“I’ll come,” you interrupt. “Might be nice.”
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. But Hyunjin?” You level him with a look. “This counts as our first date, right? The party?”
“What? No!” He sits up, looking genuinely distressed. “No, I’m taking you on a proper date first. Dinner, the whole thing. The party is just…the party.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he insists. “I want to do this right, Muse. Take you somewhere nice, show you off, prove I’m not just—” He gestures vaguely. “I want to date you. Properly.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Okay. When?”
“Monday?” he suggests. “I know this place downtown, really good food, and it’s quiet enough that we can actually talk.”
“Monday works,” you agree, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Perfect.” He pulls you back against him, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s a date.”
“It’s a date,” you confirm, and let him hold you as you finish lunch, the show playing forgotten in the background.
He doesn’t leave until nearly evening, and even then it’s reluctantly, with promises to text you when he gets home and reminders about Monday. When the door finally closes behind him, your apartment feels too quiet, too empty.
You’re in so much trouble.
Monday—The Date
Hyunjin shows up at your door an hour early, flowers in hand and wearing a sleek all-black ensemble that makes him look unfairly good while you’re still getting ready.
“You look beautiful,” he says, and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing—makes you believe him despite your half-dressed state and bare feet.
“You’re early.”
“I missed you.”
You hum, stepping aside to let him in but your eyes are still dragging over him from head to toe. That deep-cut silk shirt is doing traitorous things to your lower regions, the fabric clinging to his frame in ways that should be illegal. The top three buttons are undone, exposing his collarbones and a hint of his chest, and the way the material catches the light makes your mouth go dry.
“These are gorgeous, thank you.” You take the flowers from him—red and white roses, your favorites, which means he remembered—with a kiss to his cheek and move to the kitchen to place them in a vase with water. Your hands are steadier than you feel as you arrange them, hyperaware of his presence behind you, the weight of his gaze.
“Not as gorgeous as you,” he murmurs against your temple.
You roll your eyes but can’t suppress your smile as you continue to arrange the flowers carefully before placing them on the counter where you can see them.
When you turn back, he’s still watching you with that look that makes your stomach flip.
“Come on,” you say, gesturing toward your bedroom. “I still need to finish getting ready.”
He follows, settling onto your bed in that way he does; legs spread just enough to be distracting, one arm propped behind him, looking like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.
You move back to your vanity, trying to focus on putting in your second earring, but you can feel his eyes on you in the mirror. Tracking every movement.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking at him directly.
“Can you blame me?”
Your eyes find his in the mirror, and something about the way he’s looking at you—hungry but patient, like he’s content to just watch you exist—makes heat pool low in your belly. Your mouth speaks before you can stop yourself.
“Unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants.”
There’s a beat of silence. “What?”
“You heard me.” You turn on your heels, the satin of your dress whispering against your skin as you face him fully. “Or are you going to pretend like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, showing up an hour early and dressed like lust incarnate?”
You walk toward him slowly, deliberately, watching the way his throat works as he swallows. The deep-cut back of your dress matches his aesthetic perfectly—the two of you look like vampire royalty, all dark elegance and barely restrained hunger.
He smirks, but his hands don’t move. “What are you planning?”
“To suck your cock.”
The bluntness of it makes his eyes darken further, his pupils blown wide. You stop in front of him, leaning forward with your hands on his thighs, giving him a perfect view down the front of your dress. No bra—just you and the slippery satin and the promise of what’s underneath.
“Unless you’d rather just sit there looking pretty?” you murmur, your voice dropping to something darker, more teasing.
“We have reservations,” he says, but his voice is rough, strained.
“In an hour.” Your hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the buckle of his belt. “Plenty of time.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then his hands are moving, unbuckling, unzipping, giving you what you want because he always does. Always will. The metallic clink as he unbuckles it sends a thrill through you. He unzips his pants, lifting his hips just enough to push them down slightly, and the sight of him—already half-hard and straining against his boxer briefs—makes your mouth water.
You sink to your knees between his legs, and the look on his face—reverent and wrecked and completely gone for you—makes every second worth it.
“Someone’s eager,” you observe, trailing one finger along the outline of him through the fabric.
His hips jerk involuntarily. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to be.”
You smile, slow and satisfied, the carpet is soft beneath you, and the way he’s looking down at you—pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast—makes you feel powerful.
“We’re going to be late,” he manages, even as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with surprising tenderness.
“Then we’ll be late.” You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down just enough to free him. “Besides, you showed up early. This is on you.”
Whatever response he has dies on his lips the moment yours wrap around him.
The restaurant he’s chosen is intimate and upscale, the kind of place with candlelight and wine lists that read like novels. You’re grateful you touched up your makeup in the car, though Hyunjin had watched you do it with a satisfied smirk that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all for the delay.
“Stop looking so smug,” you tell him as the host leads you to your table.
“I’m not smug. I’m content. There’s a difference.”
“Mmhm.” But you’re smiling too as he pulls out your chair for you, ever the gentleman despite what happened less than an hour ago.
Dinner is perfect. He’s charming and attentive, asking about your research with genuine interest, actually listening to your answers instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. He asks follow-up questions, remembers details you mentioned weeks ago, makes connections you hadn’t even considered.
He tells you about his classes; about the choreography project that’s been consuming him, the way movement can tell stories that words can’t. He talks about his friends with obvious affection, about his plans after graduation (vague and artistic and somehow perfectly him), about the contemporary dance company he’s been considering auditioning for.
The conversation flows easily, punctuated by his terrible jokes that still somehow make you laugh, by the way he reaches across the table to steal bites from your plate, by the comfortable silences that don’t feel awkward at all.
“This is nice,” you say over dessert, watching him fight with a particularly stubborn piece of chocolate cake after finishing your tiramisu.
“Yeah?” He grins, victorious as he finally gets the fork to cooperate. “Told you I could do dates.”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
“Too late,” he says, but his eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness. “Besides, you like it.”
You do. God help you, you really do. You like his confidence, his humor, the way he looks at you like you’re something precious. You like how he makes you feel—desired and seen and worth the effort. You like how he remembers small details you’ve mentioned in passing, how he laughs at your sarcasm instead of being put off by it.
“Maybe,” you concede, stealing his hard-won bite of cake just to watch him protest.
He gasps in mock outrage. “Betrayal! Treachery!”
“Should’ve eaten faster.”
“You’re terrible,” he says, but he’s laughing, flagging down the waiter to order a second dessert, and when it arrives, he makes a big show of guarding it from you.
The drive home is quieter, softer. His hand finds yours on the center console, fingers intertwining, and you let yourself enjoy the simple intimacy of it. The city lights blur past the windows, painting streaks of gold and red across the darkness, and you feel oddly at peace.
When he drops you home that night, he walks you to your door like a perfect gentleman. Kisses you with a sweetness that makes your chest ache, all soft lips and gentle hands framing your face. He pulls back before it can turn into more, before either of you can get swept away, and the restraint in his eyes tells you how much it costs him.
“New Year’s Eve,” he reminds you, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”
“I’ll be ready.”
He kisses you once more, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Wear something eye catching. My friends are going to love you but I want them to be a little jealous too.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Hyunjin.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.”
And as you watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, turning back once to flash you that devastating smile, you realize you’re actually looking forward to it; to meeting his friends, to being by his side, to whatever this thing between you is becoming.
You’re definitely in trouble.
But maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
Inside, you lean against the door, fingers touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his kiss. The flowers he brought sit on your counter, beautiful and bright, and your phone buzzes with a text.
Hyune🥟🥰: Already missing you
You: You just left
Hyune🥟🥰: Doesn’t change anything
Hyune🥟🥰: Dream about me
You smile, biting your lip, and type back:
You: Bold of you to assume I don’t already
Your phone rings immediately, his name flashing on the screen and when you answer you can hear the grin in his voice.
“Now who’s being cocky?”
“Learned from the best,” you counter, moving through your apartment, already starting your nighttime routine.
“I really did have a good time tonight,” he says, and the softness in his voice catches you off guard.
“Me too.”
“Even the part where you made us late?”
“Especially that part.”
His laugh is warm and rich through the phone. “I should let you sleep. But I’m serious about New Year’s. You’re going to have fun, I promise.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” A pause. “Sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
After you hang up, you go through the motions of getting ready for bed, but your mind keeps drifting back to him—the way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he kissed you goodbye like it hurt to leave.
Yeah. You’re definitely in trouble.
But as you slip between your sheets, your phone on the nightstand still warm from talking to him, you can’t bring yourself to mind.
New Year’s Eve
Hyunjin is nervous.
This is stupid—he’s not a nervous person. He’s confident, self-assured, usually has no problem with social situations. But tonight feels important in a way he can’t quite articulate.
He’s bringing his pussy fairy to meet his friends.
He really needs to stop calling you that, even in his head. But the nickname stuck after that first night back in spring, when he’d gone to your apartment thinking it would be like every other hookup; good sex, pleasant enough conversation, then he’d bounce and never think about it again.
Except he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.
The way you’d looked at him like he was more than just a pretty face. The way you’d argued with him about symbolism in The Great Gatsby while you ate shitty takeout at 2 AM, actually engaging with his points instead of just agreeing or trying to move things along to more sex. The way your thighs had felt wrapped around his head, soft and perfect, the way you’d tasted—
Yeah. He’d been fucked from the start.
He’d convinced himself it was just the sex. Just really, really good sex. That’s all. He wasn’t that gone after one night.
So he’d shown up again in early summer, making up some excuse about being in the neighborhood. Went there specifically to prove to himself that it wasn’t as good as he remembered, that he’d built it up in his head. That the way you tasted, the sounds you made, the soft give of your thighs under his hands—he’d exaggerated all of it in his memory.
Except it was better. So much better. He’d spent hours between your legs that night, worshipping at the altar of your body, drunk on the taste of you, the way you pulled his hair—that had started growing out—and gasped his name. And when you’d kicked him out the next morning with some excuse about work, he’d gone home and immediately started planning how to see you again.
The third time, late summer, he’d finally admitted to himself that he was completely fucked.
Because it wasn’t just about the sex—though christ, the sex was incredible. It was everything. The way you challenged him intellectually, never letting him coast by on his looks or charm. The way you laughed at his stupid jokes, this surprised little giggle like you didn’t expect to find him funny. The way you fit against him afterward, soft and warm and perfect, even as you were already planning how to politely kick him out.
Each time you’d basically ushered him out the door the next morning with some variation of “Don’t you have class?” or “I’ve got work to do,” and each time it had stung more. Like you were trying to keep him at arm’s length, to pretend it meant nothing.
But he knew better. Had felt the way you held onto him, the way you’d whispered his name like a prayer when you came.
After that third time, he’d tried to move on. Went on a few dates, let people buy him drinks at parties, even made out with someone in a club bathroom before his brain conjured images of you—the soft curves of your body, those gorgeous thighs, the breathy way you said his name—and he had to stop.
Not even his own hand worked anymore. He’d lie in bed trying to jerk off to porn, to memories of past hookups, anything but his brain would just slide right back to you. The way your stomach felt under his palm, soft and warm. The way you’d bite your lip when you were close. The taste of you on his tongue, better than anything he’d ever had, addictive in a way that terrified him.
He’d become obsessed. Started following your Instagram, saving your photos. That selfie in the library? He’d stared at it for twenty minutes, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your hair fell. Started “coincidentally” showing up at places you frequented. The coffee shop where you did your grading. The restaurant near your apartment.
And yeah, he’d started sabotaging your dates. He’s not proud of it, but he also wasn’t about to let some undeserving asshole sweep in when he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that he could make you happy. That he could worship you the way you deserved, spend hours learning every curve and dip of your body, make you understand that every inch of you was exactly what he wanted.
Because it was. God, it was.
He knows you’re insecure about your size. He’s seen the way you try to hide sometimes, turning off lights or angling your body. Like he isn’t completely obsessed with your softness, with the way your thighs bracket his head perfectly, with how his hands look against the curve of your hips. Like he doesn’t dream about those thighs, about burying his face between them and staying there for hours, sipping the ambrosia you provide like a man dying of thirst.
If worshipping your body means getting on his knees and begging for the privilege of tasting you—well, that’s nobody’s business but his.
There was no one meeting him at that café all those nights ago and he knew you knew that. He’d sat there for over an hour, coffee going cold, watching you through the window with that forgettable guy who didn’t even make you genuinely smile. Waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt, to remind you that you already had someone who would move heaven and earth just to make you laugh.
His friends called it unhinged. He preferred “strategic dedication.”
But it had worked. You’d finally agreed to a real date and it had been perfect—you’d been perfect, laughing at his jokes and engaging with his questions and looking at him like he mattered—and now he gets to bring you to this party and show you off to his friends and maybe, just maybe, wake up with you tomorrow without getting kicked out.
He checks his phone: 8:47 PM. He’s early. Again.
chill, Felix texts him. she already said yes. stop spiraling
Hyunjin: I’m not spiraling
Felix: you’ve texted me 6 times in the past hour asking if your outfit looks okay
Hyunjin:…fair
Felix: just be yourself. she clearly likes you
Hyunjin hopes that’s true. He takes a deep breath and heads to your door.
When you opens it, he forgets how to breathe for a second. You’re wearing this skirt—black and pleated that hugs every single one of your curves before it flares out—and your hair is down and you’re smiling at him, actually smiling, and fuck, he’s so gone for this you.
“Hey,” you says. “You’re early...again.”
“Couldn’t wait,” he admits, offering his arm. His eyes trace over you appreciatively, cataloging every curve highlighted by that outfit. “You look incredible. Like—fuck, I don’t even have words. You’re perfect.”
You take his arm and he tries not to think about how right it feels, how natural. How much he wants this all the time; picking you up, taking you places, having you by his side.
The party is already in full swing when y’all arrive. Music thumping, people everywhere, the chaotic energy of New Year’s Eve in full effect. Hyunjin keeps you close, hand on your lower back as he navigates through the crowd. Possessive, protective, mine.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the noise.
“I’m good,” you say, and squeeze his hand.
His heart does something complicated in his chest.
His friends are gathered in the living room—Felix, Seungmin, Han, a few others. They look up when Hyunjin approaches and he sees the moment they clock who he’s brought. Felix’s eyes go wide, Han grins knowingly, and Hyunjin feels his ears go hot.
“Yo!” Felix stands, grinning. “Finally! We were starting to think you ditched.”
“I told you we’d be here,” Hyunjin says, pulling you closer. His hand slides from your lower back to your hip, thumb tracing absent circles. Mine. “Everyone, this is—”
“We know who she is,” Han interrupts, amused. “You literally haven’t shut up about her for months.”
Hyunjin feels his ears go red. “I haven’t been that bad.”
“You literally have a whole folder of restaurant recommendations saved specifically for taking her on dates,” Seungmin points out. “And you’ve been planning this party outfit for a week.”
“You also practiced your introduction in the mirror,” Han adds helpfully.
“Traitors,” Hyunjin mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. “All of you.”
You’re laughing though, that surprised giggle he loves, and it makes the embarrassment worth it. Watching you smile, hearing you laugh—he’d endure far worse for that.
“It’s nice to meet you all properly,” you say, and Hyunjin watches his friends immediately warm to you. Felix offers you a drink, Han makes room on the couch, and just like that you’re folded into the group like you belong there.
Like you belong with him.
Hyunjin doesn’t even think about it before sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. You make a small noise of protest, and he already knows what’s coming.
“Hyunjin, I’m heavy—”
“You’re perfect,” he interrupts, arms wrapping around your waist. His hand splays across your stomach—that soft, gorgeous stomach he dreams about kissing, about resting his head on—and something possessive and warm spreads through his chest. He loves this. The weight of you, the softness, how perfectly you fit against him. “Don’t start that shit. Not with me.”
He feels you relax incrementally, settling against him, and satisfaction curls through him. Good. He wants you comfortable. Wants you to understand that every single inch of you is exactly what he wants, what he craves, what he worships.
Because he does worship you. Has since that first night when he’d put his mouth on you and thought he’d found religion. The taste of you, the sounds you made, the way your thighs had trembled around his head—he’d been addicted instantly. Had gone back specifically to prove it was a fluke, that he’d built it up in his head, that no pussy could actually be that good.
But it was. You were. Is.
He dreams about it constantly. Dreams about lazy Sunday mornings spent between your thighs, about making you come so many times you forget your own name, about the weight of your thighs around his head and the taste of you on his tongue. Dreams about worshipping every curve, every soft inch of your body until you understand how fucking perfect you are.
If that makes him pussy-whipped, so be it. He’ll wear that label proudly.
The party flows around them. His friends chat and laugh, occasionally pulling them into conversation. Hyunjin keeps you close the entire time, unconsciously possessive, one hand always on you; your hip, your thigh, your waist. Under your skirt, his fingers trace patterns on your thigh, nothing obvious to anyone watching, just maintaining contact. Touching you. Claiming you.
He can’t help it. After months of wanting, of strategic “coincidences” and interrupted dates, of lying in bed alone wishing you’d let him stay; he finally has you here, on his lap, in front of his friends. He wants to touch you constantly, to remind himself this is real.
“So how’d you two actually get together?” Felix asks at one point. “Because Hyunjin’s been pining for months but he’s been real vague on details.”
“He stalked me,” you say, completely deadpan.
“I did not—”
“You interrupted three of my dates.”
“Strategically intervened,” Hyunjin corrects, fingers tightening on your thigh. “There’s a difference.”
“He also followed me on Instagram and started emailing me when I wouldn’t respond to his texts.”
Han chokes on his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not,” both of you say at the same time.
“You’re insane,” Seungmin tells him.
“I’m dedicated,” Hyunjin corrects, completely shameless. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, breathing in your scent. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“Debatable,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“You’re here,” he points out. “On my lap. At a party with my friends on New Year’s Eve. I’d say I won.”
His hand slides a bit higher on your thigh, still hidden by your skirt, and he feels your breath catch. He knows what he’s doing—teasing you, working you up slowly. He wants you desperate for him, wants you to feel even a fraction of what he’s felt for months.
The conversation moves on, but Hyunjin only half-pays attention. He’s too focused on you—the weight of you against him, the subtle shifts as you get more comfortable, the way you laugh at Felix’s jokes and engages with Seungmin’s questions about your research. The way his hands look against your skirt, spanning your waist, claiming you.
This could be his life. You on his lap at parties, meeting his friends, being part of his world. Mornings waking up between your thighs, lazy afternoons watching shows together, nights spent exploring every inch of your body. Showing you exactly how much he wants you, needs you, worships you.
He wants it so badly it physically hurts.
“You know,” Han says during a lull in conversation, grin wicked, “I’ve never seen Hyunjin like this with anyone.”
“Like what?” You ask, and Hyunjin can hear the curiosity in your voice.
“Whipped,” Felix supplies helpfully. “Absolutely pussy-whipped.”
Hyunjin doesn’t even try to deny it. His hand slides higher on your thigh, possessive. “And? Your point?”
“No point,” Seungmin says, amused. “It’s just nice to see you actually care about someone.”
And he does. So fucking much it scares him sometimes.
His hand continues its path up your thigh, fingers now tracing the edge of your underwear, and he feels you tense slightly. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Relax,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear. “No one can see. Just want to touch you.”
“Hyunjin—” your voice is strained.
“You’re so soft here,” he continues, fingers dancing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He loves this—the give of your flesh under his fingers, the warmth of your skin. “Love how you feel under my hands. Love that I get to touch you like this.”
“We’re in the middle of—”
“I know where we are.” His other hand splays across your stomach possessively. He can feel the soft curve of it, wants to kiss it, worship it. “Just reminding you that you’re mine. That all these curves, this perfect body, it’s mine to worship. Mine to taste. Mine to make come until you’re begging me to stop.”
He feels your breathing go shallow, feels the way you press back against him slightly.
“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Thinking about the last time I had my face between these thighs. How I made you come three times before you finally pulled me up. How you tasted on my tongue.” Like heaven. Like home. Like everything he’s ever wanted.
“Hyunjin, I swear—”
“I could spend hours between your legs,” he continues, barely audible. “Have spent hours there. Would spend every day there if you’d let me. Tasting you, worshipping you, making you understand how fucking perfect you are.”
“Later,” he promises. “Later I’m going to take you home and remind you exactly why you agreed to give me a chance. Gonna spend hours between your legs until you forget your own name. Until the only thing you can say is mine.”
You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes, and the heat there nearly undoes him.
“We either need to leave or find a room,” you mumble in his ear.
His brain short-circuits for a second. Then, “What?”
“You’ve been touching me for the past hour,” you say quietly. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve soaked through my underwear. So, unless you want me to sit on it right here and keep it warm…”
Oh fuck.
His cock, which has been half-hard for the past thirty minutes, goes fully hard in an instant. The mental image of you sitting on his lap, full of him, with all his friends around—
“Right here?” The words come out strangled.
You shift on his lap slightly, and it takes everything in him not to groan. “You can just slip it in. I’ll keep it nice and warm.”
Hyunjin goes completely still beneath you, his hands tightening on your thighs hard enough to bruise. He can feel his cock pressing insistently against your ass and the mental image you just painted has him seeing stars.
This is insane. You’re in the middle of a party. His friends are right here. Anyone could notice.
But God, he wants to. Wants it so badly he can barely think. Wants to be inside you, connected to you, claiming you in the most primal way possible while surrounded by people who have no idea.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Is that a no?”
His pussy fairy—his perfect, gorgeous woman—is suggesting they fuck right here, right now, with all his friends around.
The same woman who kicks him out every morning, who’s been holding him at arm’s length for months, who finally agreed to give him a real chance—is offering him this.
He should say no. Should take you somewhere private, do this properly. Prove he’s not just about the sex, even though his dick is currently screaming at him to take you up on the offer.
But the temptation is overwhelming. The thought of being inside you, of feeling you around him while he sits here pretending everything is normal—
“Han’s room,” he manages, voice wrecked. “Second floor, last door on the right. Go up there and wait for me. Five minutes.”
“Why can’t we—”
“Because if I stand up right now, everyone’s gonna see exactly how hard you’ve got me.” His teeth catch her earlobe. “And because I need a minute to figure out if I can actually do what you’re suggesting without losing my mind and fucking you in front of everyone.”
Heat floods through him at his own words. He wants to do this right, wants to prove he’s serious about you. But he also wants you so badly he can barely see straight. Wants to worship your body the way it deserves, wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.
“Five minutes,” you agree, and slide off his lap.
The loss of your weight, your warmth, is almost painful. He watches you excuse yourself—something about needing the bathroom—and tracks your movement across the room and up the stairs. His eyes follow the sway of your hips, the curve of your body in that outfit, and his mouth goes dry.
Felix leans over. “You good, man? You look like you’re dying.”
“I’m fine,” Hyunjin lies, discreetly adjusting himself. His cock is so hard it hurts, and all he can think about is you. “Just…need a minute.”
“Uh huh.” Felix’s grin is knowing. “Sure you do.”
Hyunjin counts down—four minutes, because he literally cannot wait the full five—before standing. “Be right back.”
He doesn’t wait for responses, just heads upstairs. His heart is pounding, blood rushing south, and he can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe you suggested it, that you want him enough to risk this.
He finds Han’s room easily, slips inside, locks the door. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, and the sight of you sitting there waiting for him makes his mouth go dry.
His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.
“You’re early,” you say, lips curving.
“Couldn’t wait.” He crosses the room in three long strides. “You’re really trying to ruin me, aren’t you? Sitting there looking innocent while suggesting the filthiest things.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Fuck no.” He’s on you immediately, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all desperation. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. “Been thinking about you all night. About getting my mouth on you again, tasting you, making you fall apart on my tongue.”
He wants to drop to his knees right now. Wants to bury his face between your thighs and drink until you’re begging. Wants to worship you the way you deserve, show you exactly how obsessed he is with every inch of your body.
But there’s no time, and the promise of what you suggested—
He hooks his fingers in your underwear and, yeah, you weren’t exaggerating. They’re soaked through and the evidence of your arousal makes him groan.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pulling them down your legs. He brings them to his face for a second, inhaling your scent, before pocketing them. “You weren’t kidding. You’re dripping for me.”
“Your fault,” you reply breathlessly.
“Mine,” he agrees, already working his belt loose. “All mine. This perfect pussy, these gorgeous thighs, all mine to worship.”
He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance and he pauses to look at you.
“You really want to?” he asks. “Want to go back down there and keep me inside you?”
“Yes, please—”
He pushes in slowly, both of you groaning. Once he’s fully seated, he pauses, forehead pressed to yours. Taking a moment to just feel you; the heat of your cunt, the tight grip of your walls around him, the way you fit him so perfectly.
His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”
He explains his plan; in ten minutes you both go back downstairs, you sit on his lap, keeping him warm while y’all chat with his friends like nothing’s happening. Your eyes go wide, dark with lust, and he knows he’s got you.
“You’re insane,” you say with a laugh.
“Crazy about you,” he corrects. “So what do you say? Think you can keep quiet?”
“Can you?”
Fair question. He’s not sure he can. The thought of sitting there, buried inside of you, surrounded by his friends while they have no idea; feeling your walls around him, warm and perfect, while he pretends to care about anything except how good you feel—
“Guess we’ll find out,” he says as he captures your mouth in a kiss.
This is insane. Unhinged. Absolutely fucking perfect.
And as he holds you close, feeling your warmth around him, Hyunjin knows with absolute certainty that he’s completely, irrevocably down horrendous for you.
Best decision he ever made.
“It’s been ten minutes,” you mumble against his neck when he still hasn’t moved.
“You feel good,” he whispers back. So good. Perfect. Like you were made for him. He never wants to leave this feeling—buried inside you, connected to you in the most intimate way possible.
“What happened to going back downstairs and having me sit on it? Don’t want your boys to know that you’re a simp?”
He pulls back to look at you, something fierce and possessive flaring in his chest. “Simp? Baby, I’ve been pussy-whipped since the first time I tasted you. They already know.”
“Then why are we still up here?”
“Because—” He rolls his hips experimentally and they both groan. “Fuck, because I’m trying really hard to behave and you feel so goddamn good that I’m about two seconds from saying fuck it and just pounding you into Han’s bed.”
“He would kill you.”
“Worth it,” he mutters but he’s already pulling out slowly, making them both whimper at the loss. He tucks himself back into his jeans, adjusting until you can’t really tell, then pulls your skirt back down. “Okay. Okay, we can do this. We’re adults. We have self-control.”
“Do we though?”
“No,” he admits with a slightly hysterical laugh. “No, we absolutely don’t. But we’re going to try anyway because I want to see if you can actually do it. Want to see you squirm on my lap trying to keep quiet while I’m buried inside you.”
He pulls you up, steadying you when your legs shake slightly. His hands smooth down your skirt, then slide around to cup your ass.
“No underwear,” he reminds you, voice rough. The thought of it—you walking back down there with nothing beneath your skirt except his cum when this is all over—makes him dizzy. “Lots of people down there and you’ve got nothing under this tiny fucking skirt except me when you sit back down.”
“Whose fault is that? You’re the one who took them.”
“And I’m keeping them,” he says smugly, patting his pocket. Another trophy. Another piece of evidence that you’re his. “Now come on, before someone comes looking for us.”
He leads you back downstairs, hand possessively on your lower back. A few people glance your way, but no one seems suspicious; just friends returning from wherever.
His spot on the couch is still empty, his friends still talking and laughing. The room is dimly lit, most of the light coming from colored LEDs and the occasional phone screen, the rest of the party having migrated to other areas of the house. Perfect. Dark enough for what you’re about to do.
Han looks up when they approach, grinning. “There you are! Thought you got lost.”
“Bathroom line,” you say smoothly and Hyunjin loves how easily the little white lie spills from your lips. How readily you’re going along with your insane suggestion and his plan.
He sits down first in the corner of the couch where it’s darkest, pulling you immediately onto his lap. You settle against him and he can feel your slight nervousness, your anticipation. His hands slide to your hips, adjusting your position, and then he shifts beneath you.
“What are you—” you start to whisper, but then he’s worked his cock free under you, hidden by the darkness and your skirt and then he’s guiding you back onto him with careful, subtle movements.
“Shh,” he breathes against your ear. “Just relax. Let me—”
The angle is different like this, and it takes a moment of careful adjustment; him lifting his hips slightly, you shifting your weight, both moving in tiny increments that look like normal fidgeting to anyone watching. The room’s darkness helps, shadows concealing the way his hand disappears under your skirt to line himself up properly.
Then he’s pushing inside, inch by torturous inch, and you have to turn your face into his neck to muffle the whimper that threatens to escape. He bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting the urge to groan at how fucking perfect you feel.
It feels like forever, this careful invasion, until finally he’s fully seated and you’re both trying to breathe normally. His hands settle on your waist, holding you still and he takes a moment to just revel in it; the heat of you, the tight grip of you around him, the knowledge that you’re doing this right here, right now, with everyone around you completely oblivious.
“Good girl,” he breathes directly into your ear, quiet enough that only you can hear. His hand splays across your stomach, feeling the soft curve there, grounding himself. “Now sit pretty and don’t move.”
He can feel your heart racing; can feel the way you’re trembling slightly. From arousal or nerves or both, he’s not sure but you settle against him, and fuck, you feel so good. So warm and tight and perfect around him.
This is insane. This is the craziest thing he’s ever done. And he’s never been more turned on in his life.
“I hate you,” you whisper back but it comes out shaky.
“No you don’t.” His lips brush your shoulder, innocent to anyone watching. “You love this. Love knowing that I’m inside you right now and nobody knows. That you’re completely filled with me while you’re making small talk with my friends.”
Felix is asking you something about your major and you have to focus, have to form coherent words while Hyunjin is thick, hard and long inside you, while every tiny shift makes you want to grind down.
“English Literature and Language Education,” you manage. “I’m—ah—” Hyunjin shifts slightly and you have to cover it with a cough. “I’m doing my Master’s.”
“That’s cool,” Felix says, oblivious. “Must be how you met Hyunjin then?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin answers for you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “She was the teaching assistant for my class. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.”
His hand slides up under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed possessively. To anyone watching it just looks like he’s holding you, being affectionate. They can’t see the way his thumb is tracing patterns on your skin, the way every small movement makes him shift inside you.
“You okay?” Han asks, looking at you with slight concern. “You seem flushed.”
“Just warm,” you say quickly. “Lots of people.”
“Want me to grab you some water?” he offers, starting to stand.
“No!” You say it too quickly, too desperately, because if Han leaves that means attention on you and you’re not sure you can handle that right now. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
Hyunjin’s quiet laugh vibrates through you. His lips find your ear again. “Careful, Muse. Don’t want to seem too eager. They might figure out what we’re doing.”
“This was your idea,” you hiss back.
“And you suggested it first before I agreed to it,” he counters. “So now you’re going to sit here, full of my cock and be a good girl while I decide when I’m ready to take you home and fuck you properly.”
You’re going to die. You’re actually going to die right here on Hwang Hyunjin’s lap while his friends talk about nothing and he stays buried inside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on your stomach even though his cock is literally throbbing inside you. “You’re doing so good, baby. So perfect for me.”
Another ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Conversation flows around you and somehow you participate, laugh at jokes, respond to questions, all while fighting the desperate need to move, to grind down, to get any kind of friction.
Hyunjin is iron control beneath you, not moving except for the occasional adjustment that makes you dig your nails into his thigh. His breathing is measured, his voice steady when he talks, giving absolutely nothing away.
“You’re evil,” you finally whisper when there’s a lull in conversation.
“You love it,” he whispers back. Then, louder, to his friends: “Actually, I think we’re gonna head out. It’s getting late.”
“It’s barely midnight,” Seungmin protests.
“Yeah, but we’ve got—” Hyunjin seems to search for an excuse, “—plans tomorrow. Early plans.”
“Plans. Right. Sure,” Han’s grin is absolutely knowing.
“Shut up,” Hyunjin mutters. He shifts you forward carefully, and you feel him slip out as you stand, biting back a whimper at the loss. He’s quick to adjust himself while you smooth down your skirt, both of you trying to look casual.
“Thanks for coming,” Felix says, and you manage a smile.
“Thanks for having me. Happy New Year.”
“Anytime!” Han calls as Hyunjin grabs both your coat and his jacket before he practically drags you toward the door. “Nice meeting you officially and Happy New Year too.”
The second you’re outside, Hyunjin has you pressed against his car, kissing you breathless.
“Home,” he growls against your mouth. “Now. Because I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”
“Promise?” you ask breathlessly.
His answering smile is absolutely feral. “Oh, baby. That’s a guarantee.”
He fumbles with his keys, gets the car unlocked but the second you’re both inside he’s on you again. Kissing you desperately, hands everywhere and you’re crawling into his lap in the driver’s seat like you can’t bear even the distance between the front seats.
“We should—” you gasp between kisses, “—should drive—”
“Can’t,” he groans, already pushing your coat and skirt up. “Need you right now. Need to be inside you right fucking now.”
“Hyunjin, we’re in a parking lot—”
“Don’t care.” His hands find your ass, gripping hard, grinding you down against the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Need you too much. Been sitting there with you on my cock and I can’t, I need—”
You’re already reaching for his belt, as desperate as he is. “Backseat. At least the backseat.”
He practically shoves you off him, both of you scrambling into the back in a tangle of limbs that would be funny if you weren’t so desperate. The space is cramped but you make it work, Hyunjin pulling you back onto his lap as soon as he’s seated.
“Someone could see—” you start but he’s already pushing his jeans down, freeing himself.
“Tinted windows,” he says, pulling you up to position you over him. “And I parked in the back. No one’s gonna—fuck—”
You sink down onto him in one smooth motion and you both groan, loud and unrestrained now that you’re alone. The angle is deeper like this, the space forcing you close together and it’s perfect.
“Move,” he demands, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. His fingers dig into the flesh there, anchoring you. “Fuck, Muse, move…please—”
You do, riding him hard and fast, chasing the release you’ve both been desperate for. The car rocks with your movements, windows already starting to fog and neither of you care. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, marking you up while you bounce on his cock like your life depends on it.
“That’s it,” he groans, one hand sliding between you to find your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Use me. Fuck, you’re so perfect like this, so desperate for it—”
“Your fault,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “Your fault for—ah—for making me sit there—”
“Worth it,” he pants, his other hand gripping your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder onto him. “So fucking worth it to feel you like this now. So wet, so tight—been thinking about this the whole time—”
Your thighs are burning but you don’t stop, can’t stop, chasing the orgasm that’s been building since you first sat on his lap inside. His fingers on your clit are relentless, his cock hitting deep with every bounce, and you’re so close—
“Come for me,” he demands, voice strained. “Come on my cock, Muse. Let me feel it.”
You do, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you, clenching around him so hard he follows immediately with a string of curses and your name, spilling inside you while you both shake apart.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied and completely wrecked. The windows are completely fogged now, the car still rocking slightly with the aftermath.
“We’re never doing that again,” you mumble against his neck.
“Liar,” he says, but he sounds just as destroyed. “You loved every second of it.”
And God help you but he’s right. The thrill of it, the risk, the way he’d looked at you all night like he was barely holding himself back; it was intoxicating.
“We should probably get out of here before someone actually does see us,” you point out, still not moving.
“In a minute.” His arms tighten around you, holding you close. One hand strokes up and down your back, the other still resting on your hip. “Just…give me a minute.”
You let him have it, both of you catching your breath in the cramped backseat of his car. His touch is soothing now rather than demanding, and you feel yourself relaxing despite everything.
“That was insane,” you finally say.
“That was hot as fuck,” he corrects. “You, sitting on my lap with my cock inside you while my friends had no idea? That’s going in the spank bank for the rest of my life.”
You smack his chest but you’re laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.” He pauses, and there’s that vulnerability again, peeking through. “You like me.”
“Yeah,” you admit, because fuck it, you’re already in this deep. “I do.”
His smile is brilliant even in the dim light filtering through the fogged windows. “Good. Because I’m definitely not letting you go now.”
“Possessive bastard.”
“Your possessive bastard,” he corrects and kisses you soft and sweet, so different from the desperate claiming just minutes ago.
Eventually you do have to move, have to untangle yourselves and make yourselves presentable enough to drive. Hyunjin insists on taking you back to his place this time.
“Mine or yours?” he asks as he drives, one hand on your thigh. “Either way I want to wake up with you tomorrow. Actually wake up with you, not you kicking me out before I’m barely awake.”
“Yours.” You reply knowing he’s never going to let you live that down so you don’t argue, just let him drive you to his apartment. It’s small but clean, surprisingly organized for a college guy. He leads you straight to his bedroom and you’re barely through the door before he’s on you again.
This time is different. Slower. He undresses you carefully, reverently, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he reveals. Maps your body with his hands and mouth like he’s trying to memorize it.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “Can’t believe I get to have you like this.”
When he finally pushes inside you again, it’s slow and deep, his eyes locked on yours. One hand laces with yours above your head, the other cupping your face as he moves.
“Wanted this for so long,” he breathes, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes your chest tight. “Wanted you.”
You pull him down into a kiss, pouring everything you can’t say into it. He makes love to you like that—slow and thorough and achingly tender—until you’re both falling apart again, quieter this time but no less intense.
After, he cleans you up and pulls you into his arms, your back to his chest, his face buried in your hair.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Not just tonight. Stay tomorrow too. Let me make you breakfast, take you on another date. Let me have you for the whole weekend and after that.”
You should say no. Should maintain some boundaries, some sense of self-preservation.
“Okay,” you say instead.
His arms tighten around you, and you feel him smile against your neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But you’re actually making me breakfast this time. None of this ordering in bullshit.”
His laugh is warm and fond. “Deal. I make a mean omelette.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“So competitive,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s hot.”
“Everything is hot to you.”
“When it involves you? Yeah.” No shame, no hesitation. Just honesty. “You make me crazy, Muse.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” you admit quietly.
He shifts, turning you in his arms so he can look at you. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.
“I know you’re scared,” he says softly. “I know this is complicated and I’m younger than you and people are going to have opinions. But I don’t care about any of that. I just care about you.”
Your throat feels tight. “Hyunjin—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts gently. “Just…give me this weekend. Let me show you how good this could be. And if at the end of it you still want to keep me at arm’s length, I’ll respect that. I won’t like it, but I’ll respect it.”
You study his face; the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he’s showing you. This boy who could have anyone, who’s choosing you.
“This weekend,” you agree. “But Hyunjin? I’m already in deeper than I meant to be.”
His smile is soft, understanding. “Good. Because so am I, probably been this way since before we hooked up if I’m being honest.
“That was almost a year ago.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Took me months to work up the courage to even talk to you outside of class. A couple more to convince you to give me a chance. I’m playing the long game here, Muse.”
Something warm and terrifying blooms in your chest. “You’re really serious about this.”
“Dead serious.” He kisses you softly. “Now sleep. We’ve got a whole weekend ahead of us, and I plan to make the most of every minute.”
You let him pull you close, let yourself relax into his warmth. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could actually work.
“Hyunjin?” you murmur, already half-asleep.
“Mm?”
“You better not fuck this up.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “I won’t. Promise.Happy New Year,Muse.”
You whisper it back to him, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, as you drift off to sleep with a smile on your face.
Maybe Hwang Hyunjin being pussy-whipped isn’t such a bad thing after all.
3 weeks into the semester and I wonder if it's too late to contemplate other methods but then I remember that God would probably use me as an example so I'm pushing through. Anyways I have something for Hyune’s bday which I'll try to post after classes tomorrow night.
Summary: What starts as a game becomes a night of stolen kisses, ending with Chan asking for your number and promising he wants more of whatever started building between you two. Carefully orchestrated dates where Chan exercises deliberate, maddening restraint, kissing you thoroughly at every doorway before pulling back and saying goodnight. Each date builds tension as he makes it clear he’s savoring the buildup, taking his time because he wants you to know this matters. As the dates go by, his composed patience and the accumulated wanting has you both unraveling at the edges.
Warnings: non-idol!au, bang chan x f.reader, smut but it’s not graphic still MDNI!, oral(m&f.rec),lots of kisses,slowish burn, week/months of buildup as foreplay, they say hi to each other a lot because I think it’s cute and it’s also just them checking in with each other through the entire thing, multiple rounds on every possible surface in his apartment(he has a thought out list),mentions of 97line friendship, it’s not explicitly mentioned but they’ve known each other for a while so it’s not some love at first sight kinda thing, Twice’s Jihyo as your bestie, lowkey glucose guardian Chris, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 12.8k
A/N: This was a requested piece from an anonymous ask.
It was definitely BamBam’s idea.
You’d clocked that the moment Jaehyun had stood up with that particular grin on his face, the one that meant someone had fed him the dare in advance. The room had erupted and you’d sat very still in your corner of the couch thinking about how Jihyo owed you something significant for this, dinner, at minimum. A full apology, maybe both.
Now you’re here, cross-legged on Chan’s bedroom floor while the party carries on without you through the wall and Chan is sitting across from you close enough that you can see the small details of him you don’t usually get at a distance. The way his hair falls slightly across his forehead. The particular set of his mouth when he isn’t performing for anyone. He’s watching you. Not nervously, exactly, but with a kind of attentiveness that makes the air in the room feel different.
“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t wanna,” he says.
His voice is different in here. Lower. Like he’d adjusted the register of it to match the room. You don’t say anything. There are several things happening in your chest simultaneously and you haven’t sorted them out yet. He leans in, not aggressively; just closing the distance by a few inches, enough that you’d have to deliberately look away to avoid his eyes. He smells good. Warm. Something with a little smoke and cedar in it.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
Not can I. Not the performative version that’s really just waiting for the yes. A genuine question, delivered quietly, with his eyes on yours and absolutely nowhere else. The honest answer surfaces before you can overthink it.
“Yes,” you say.
Something in his expression settles. Like he’d been holding something carefully and could finally set it down. He doesn’t rush it. That’s the first thing you notice, he doesn’t treat the yes as a signal to close the remaining distance as fast as possible. He reaches out first, slow enough that you see it coming, watching you while he does it, watching the way you let him, then his hand curves around the back of your neck and he brings his mouth to yours.
The kiss is unhurried in a way that feels almost indulgent.
He kisses like he has nowhere to be. Like the seven minutes on BamBam’s phone is a concept that applies to other people. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of easy confidence—not hurried, not searching, just certain, like he already knew exactly how he wanted this to go and had decided he was going to take his time getting there. You feel yourself lean into it before you consciously decide to.
His other hand finds your knee. Rests there, warm and still.
When he tilts his head and deepens it you make a small sound you weren’t planning on and he catches it like he’d been waiting for it, one hand tightening slightly at your nape, and the kiss goes slower and more deliberate in a way that does something deeply unfair to your ability to think clearly. He pulls back just barely—not to stop, just to change the angle—and when he comes back his bottom lip drags against yours in a way that makes your fingers curl against his shirt. He notices. Of course he notices. His hand moves from your knee to your hip, unhurried, and he kisses you again like the movement of his hand and the movement of his mouth are one continuous thought.
Time stops doing anything useful.
BamBam’s knock is obnoxious, as promised.
“Seven minuteeeees—”
Chan pulls back slowly, breathing slightly uneven. His thumb traces a short line along your jaw before his hand drops and he looks at you with an expression you don’t have an immediate word for; not smug, not the grin he usually wears. Something quieter and more interested.
“Yeah?” he says. Soft. Like he’s checking.
“Yeah,” you say.
The door swings open and BamBam reads the room with approximately zero subtlety. “Oh, interesting,” he says to no one and everyone. Chan stands, easy, unhurried, you follow and Sora says something pointed to her friends that you decide not to hear.
The game moves on without you the way these things do. Someone gets dared to text their situationship. Jaehyun ends up with a dare involving ice that he refuses to explain after the fact. The room rearranges itself and you find a spot near the edge of the living room where the energy is slightly less loud. You’re standing there, drink in hand, half-listening to a conversation nearby, when you feel warmth at your back.
Chan doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps up behind you, close enough that you’re aware of him the way you’d be aware of a fire nearby, heat and presence, not quite touching. Then his hand finds the small of your back and he leans down so his mouth is at your ear.
“Hi,” he says.
That’s it. Just hi. But his lips brush your ear when he says it and his hand presses slightly at your back and you feel it everywhere.
“Hi,” you manage.
He turns you gently by the hip—subtle enough that no one’s watching, or maybe he doesn’t care who’s watching—and walks you backward two steps until your back meets the wall of the hallway just off the living room. He looks at you in the low light with that same considering expression and then he dips down and kisses you slow and deep against the wall, one forearm braced above your head, his other hand settled at your waist with his thumb tracing a slow path just beneath the hem of your shirt against your skin. You grab the front of his shirt and he smiles against your mouth before he pulls back.
“There you are,” he says quietly, like he’d been looking for something and found it.
An hour later you step out onto the balcony because the apartment had gotten loud, warm and you needed two minutes of cold air and the wide quiet of the city at night. You’re leaning on the railing, eyes closed, when you hear the glass door slide open. You don’t need to turn around. His arms come around you from behind, chin dropping to your shoulder and he stays there for a moment just breathing.
“Hiding?” he asks.
“Getting air.”
“Sure.”
His mouth finds the curve of your neck, and you exhale shakily. He presses a slow kiss there—open-mouthed, unhurried, and then his teeth graze the skin just beneath your jaw with enough intention that you grip the railing.
“Chan—”
“Mmmh.” He doesn’t stop. He kisses up the side of your neck, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, pulling you back against him, you can feel how interested he is in the situation and it makes thinking substantially harder. He mouths at the spot just below your ear until you turn in his arms because you need to kiss him properly and he meets you immediately, one hand coming up to grip your jaw with a kind of deliberate possession that pulls a sound from you that you’ll be embarrassed about later.
The kiss is less slow now. Still deep but hungrier, his body pressing yours back against the balcony railing, his hand sliding to your nape and tilting your head exactly where he wants it. You get your hands under his jacket, and he makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel more than hear. When he pulls back, he looks at the mark he’s left on the side of your neck with open satisfaction.
“That’s going to be visible,” you say.
“Good,” he says simply, and kisses you again before you can respond to that.
By the time people start leaving in earnest you’ve lost count. A kiss stolen while you stood in the kitchen doorway. His mouth at your temple, brief and warm, while Jihyo was distracted on her phone. A longer, slower one in the dim hallway when the crowd had thinned enough to make it almost private, his hands on your ass, yours draped over his shoulders, both of you slightly breathless when you’d finally surfaced. He walks you to the door when Jihyo announces she’s called the car. His hand finds yours and he keeps it loosely as the group clusters at the entrance exchanging goodnights. Jihyo gives you a look of supreme, detailed significance. You ignore it completely. At the door he steps close one last time.
“I want your number,” he says. Not asking, exactly. More like stating something he’s already decided.
“That so?”you tease as you take his phone from his hand and put your number in.
“I’m going to find more reasons to do that,” he says, and the directness of it—no deflection, no performance—catches you somewhere low in your chest. His hand comes up and his thumb brushes over the mark on your neck, lightly, and his eyes find yours. “If you want.”
The car is outside. Jihyo is very pointedly already halfway out the door. You lean up and kiss him once more, slow and brief with enough intent to make the point, and you feel his hand catch your waist for just a second before you pull back.
“Text me,” you say.
The look on his face when you walk away—warm, unhurried, certain—stays with you the whole ride home.
The first date is dinner.
Not a casual, let’s-grab-food-somewhere kind of dinner. A reservation. A place with low lighting and a wine list and a host who leads you to a corner table that feels deliberately chosen. Chan is already there when you arrive, standing when he sees you and the way his eyes move over you when you approach is slow enough to make your face warm before you’ve even sat down.
“You look good,” he says. Simple, like a fact.
“You clean up well yourself,” you say, because he does; dark shirt, collar open just enough and he smells the way he had on the balcony that night, warm and faintly woody, and your memory does something unhelpful with that information immediately.
Dinner is easy in a way you hadn’t fully anticipated. Chan is good at conversation in the way that some people are naturally good at it—he listens like he means it, follows threads, asks questions that show he’d actually retained the last thing you said. You talk about your work; he talks about his and somewhere in the middle of the second glass of wine you realize you’ve been leaning toward him across the table for the better part of an hour.
He walks you to your door at the end of it.
You’re expecting the kiss. You’d been thinking about it since the balcony, if you’re being truthful; the specific way he kisses, slow and deliberate and entirely too aware of what it does to you. You’d been half-distracted by the anticipation of it through most of the entrée. He cups your face in both hands and kisses you softly. Thoroughly. Long enough to make your fingers curl around his wrist and your breath go slightly uneven. Then he pulls back with his forehead tipped against yours, you can feel him breathing, the space between you is very small and very warm.
“Goodnight,” he says.
You blink. “That’s,”
“Goodnight,” he says again, with the edge of a smile, and kisses your forehead once before he steps back.
You stand at your door and watch him go and feel the specific frustration of someone who has just been handled with great expertise.
The second date is a movie at his place.
You’d thought—reasonably—that come over and watch something was a particular kind of invitation. You’d shown up in something casual that was also not entirely accidental. You’d been prepared. What you had not been prepared for was Chan, who makes popcorn with real butter and argues earnestly about film scores and pulls you into his side on the couch so naturally that you’re tucked against him with his arm around you before you’ve registered the transition. He smells good. He’s warm. His thumb traces absent patterns on your shoulder throughout the movie and every time you shift slightly, he tightens his arm around you in a way that suggests he’s paying some attention to you in addition to the screen.
Halfway through he tips his head down and presses a kiss to your temple. Then your cheekbone. Then he turns you gently by the chin and kisses your mouth, slow and soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of salt, and you get your hand in his hair, and he makes a low, quiet sound against you and then he pulls back. Settles you back against his side. Returns his attention to the movie with an expression of perfect composure. You stare at the screen unseeing for several minutes.
At the door again, at the end of the night, the kiss is longer. His hands at your hips, yours gripping his jacket, his mouth moving against yours with intent and patience in equal measure. You press closer and he lets you, hands tightening, and just when you’ve decided something is finally going to give, he pulls back and looks at you with dark, steady eyes.
“I’ll call you,” he says. He does the next morning.
The third date he takes you to a gallery, which you hadn’t expected, and he stands close behind you in front of each piece with his chin nearly at your shoulder, speaking quietly about what he sees in it, what it reminds him of. His hand finds the small of your back and stays there the entire afternoon—not pulling, not directing, just present, warm and consistent, and you are aware of it with a focus that has very little to do with the art.
In a quieter corridor near the back, while two other visitors murmur on the far end, he turns you toward him and kisses you unhurriedly against the wall. Deep and slow. His hands bracketing your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, like he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend it here specifically. You make a small, frustrated sound against his mouth and his chest shakes with something low and quiet, not quite a laugh. More like satisfaction.
“Chris,” you say against him.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are darker than usual and the composure he wears is slightly less airtight than it was twenty minutes ago, which is at least something.
“Doing what?” he asks, with innocence that fools neither of you.
You give him a look. He gives you a small, unhurried smile, and kisses you once more—soft and brief and devastating in its restraint—before taking your hand and steering you back toward the main galleries like nothing happened.
The fourth date is dinner again, different restaurant, closer to your place this time. Easier commute, he’d said on the phone. Practical. It’s not practical. You both know it isn’t practical. He’s better at keeping his composure than you’ve given him credit for, that’s the thing. He watches you across the table with those steady, attentive eyes and finds every opportunity to touch you—your hand when he’s making a point, your knee briefly beneath the table, his fingers at your wrist when you’re both reaching for the wine—and every contact is casual enough to read as unconscious and deliberate enough that you know it absolutely isn’t.
You lean forward at one point, elbows on the table, and say, “You know what you’re doing.”
He tilts his head slightly. “What am I doing?”
“Drawing it out.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Takes a slow sip of his wine. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“I like the buildup,” he says simply.
“Chris...”
“I like knowing exactly how much you want it before we get there.” He sets his glass down. Calm, unhurried. “Don’t you?”
The honest answer, which you resent slightly, is yes. You’ve been thinking about him with an intensity and frequency that would be embarrassing to quantify. Every slow kiss at every door has left you with the specific, accumulated frustration of someone who keeps getting handed the first chapter of something and being told the rest is coming. And he knows that. He’s been watching you figure it out for weeks.
“You’re insufferable,” you say.
“You keep showing up,” he points out.
Correct. Accurate. Fully damning.
At your door at the end of the fourth date, he kisses you the way he sometimes does when his composure slips slightly; deeper, both hands in your hair, your back against the doorframe and his body warm and close and there. You get your hands under his jacket, and he exhales against your mouth, and for a long moment the careful, practiced restraint he’s been maintaining feels genuinely fragile.
He pulls back. Breathing slightly uneven this time. That’s new.
He presses his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. Lingers at the spot below your ear that he’d already catalogued as effective on the balcony that first night, and you feel your fingers tighten in his shirt.
“Baby,” you say, and it comes out less steady than you intend.
He lifts his head and looks at you. Something in his expression is quieter than usual. More open. “Soon,” he says. Low. Like a promise with a specific weight to it.
Not eventually. Not someday. Soon.
He kisses your forehead and steps back and you watch him go for the fifth time at this same door and the wanting follows you all the way inside and doesn’t really go anywhere after that.
You are, you think, extraordinarily in trouble.
You’d cleaned your apartment twice.
Not because it was dirty—it wasn’t, particularly—but because Chan was coming over for the first time and there’s a difference between knowing someone and letting them into the specific, curated intimacy of your living space. The books you’d left on the coffee table. The throw blanket on the couch that had seen better days but that you couldn’t bring yourself to replace. The small, accumulated details of a life that hadn’t been arranged for anyone else’s benefit.
He shows up with two pizza boxes and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and when you open the door he looks at you first—just for a moment, the same way he always does, like he’s taking inventory—before his eyes move past you into the apartment.
“Nice,” he says and he means it. He steps inside and takes it in properly, setting the boxes down on your kitchen counter and looking around with genuine interest. Picks up a small ceramic thing on your shelf, examines it, sets it back exactly where it was. Reads the spines of your books. Pauses on a framed photo.
“This you?” he asks.
“Obviously.”
“You still have a baby face.” He says it like it’s a thing he’d been curious about. He looks around for another moment and then at you, and there’s something settled in his expression. Comfortable. Like he’d walked into a room and found it matched what he’d imagined. “I like it.”
You pour the wine while he opens the boxes and you eat on the couch the way you’d both independently imagined this night going; pizza balanced on the coffee table, some movie neither of you will fully follow playing on the TV, the easy quiet of two people who’ve gotten past the performing stage of things. He’s mid-bite when he says it.
“Be my girlfriend.”
Not will you or I was thinking maybe. Just that. Like he’s stating something that already exists and simply needs your confirmation. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, eyes still on the screen, jaw working through his pizza, utterly and almost infuriatingly casual. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his jacket—draped over the arm of your couch—and sets something on the coffee table between the pizza boxes.
An open jewelry box. Chrome Hearts, the hardware unmistakable, the gold matching the silver Tiny E Choke chain sitting at his collarbone that you’d clocked the first time you’d seen him in a v-neck and filed away without meaning to.
You look at it. Then at him. He finally glances over. Waiting.
“You bought this before asking me,” you say.
“I was confident,” he says.
“That’s—”
“Arrogant, probably.” The corner of his mouth moves. “You gonna say yes or are you gonna keep stating facts?”
You pick up the necklace. The weight of it is immediately apparent—cool and solid in your palm, the kind of quality you feel before you fully register it. You look at the one at his throat.
“Put it on me,” you say.
Something in his expression shifts. Still composed, but warmer underneath it. He takes it from your palm, you turn lifting your hair, and his hands are steady and unhurried at the back of your neck. When the clasp catches, he doesn’t move away immediately. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, and his mouth brushes the back of your neck—soft, brief—before you turn back around. The necklace settles at your collarbone. His eyes drop to it for a moment.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “There.”
The movie plays. You finish the pizza. The wine gets poured a second time.
At some point the space between you closes the way it always does—gradually, without announcement, until you’re fitted against his side with his arm around you and his hand making those absent, familiar patterns on your arm. The lamp in the corner is low. The city outside your window is a quiet hum. The necklace sits cool against your skin and every time you’re aware of it something in your chest does something inconvenient.
You turn your head and look at him.
He’s watching the screen. The line of his jaw in the low light. The chain at his throat. The particular quality of stillness he has when he’s relaxed, unhurried, his guard fully down in a way you’ve only started to see recently. You’ve been on the receiving end of this for weeks. The slow kisses at doorways. The careful, deliberate buildup. His hands and his mouth and his composure, all deployed with a patience that has had you losing your mind incrementally since that first night on the balcony.
You’re done waiting for it to come to you.
You turn into him and kiss his jaw. His hand stills on your arm.
You kiss it again, slower, closer to the corner of his mouth, and then you move down—his jaw, the hinge of it, the side of his neck—and you feel his breath change. The hand on your arm doesn’t pull you back. Doesn’t redirect. His head tilts slightly, just slightly, giving you room.
So you take it.
You mouth at the curve of his neck with intention—not gentle, not passing. You find the spot below his jaw and you stay there, sucking a slow mark into his skin, and his hand grips your arm.
“Hey,” he says. Low. Not a protest.
“Hi,” you say against his neck.
You feel his chest move. Something between a breath and a laugh, quietly undone. You press another open kiss lower, at the side of his throat and the hand on your arm loosens and slides to your waist and you take that as the information it is.
You shift. Swing a leg over and settle into his lap properly, knees bracketing his thighs, and his hands move to your hips with the immediacy of someone who’s been waiting for somewhere to put them. The chrome hearts chain swings slightly forward as you look down at him. His composure is doing something interesting. Still present—still Chan, still steady—but the edges of it are softer. His eyes are dark and his hands at your hips are warm and certain and when you roll forward, just slightly, testing, his fingers dig in and a low sound leaves his throat that does something catastrophic to your ability to think in straight lines.
“You’ve been doing this to me for weeks,” you say. Close to his ear, voice low. You feel the way he responds to it—hands tightening, the subtle shift of his breathing. “Every time at the door. Every time you pulled back.”
“I know,” he says. Rough at the edges.
“Was that fun for you?”
“Yeah.” An exhale. “A little bit.”
You bite his earlobe and he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, and you smile against his skin. You move back to his neck. Find a spot lower this time, where his collar sits, and you work another mark into his skin slowly and with great attention while his hands guide your hips in a rhythm that’s barely-there and devastating. His head falls back against the couch. His throat works. You pull back to look at what you’ve left there—two marks, both visible, both unmistakable—and something deeply satisfied moves through you.
“Fair’s fair,” you say.
He looks at you with dark, blown eyes and the loosened composure of someone whose careful strategy has successfully backfired on him, and underneath that, something that looks very much like admiration. Your lips brush the hinge of his jaw again. Travel deliberately back to his ear.
“Can I taste you?” you ask. Quiet. Direct.
His hands still on your hips. Not pulling back. Not redirecting. Just…still, for a held moment, like he’s making sure he’s heard you correctly. Then one hand slides up your back and into your hair and he tilts your head back enough to look at you properly. His eyes search yours. Dark and steady and certain.
“Yeah,” Chan says. Voice low and unhurried and entirely unwound. The composure that’s survived five dates and every deliberate, practiced act of restraint now thoroughly, quietly dismantled. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, just to watch him wait for it. His jaw tightens slightly. His hands are warm and still in your hair and at your hip and he’s looking at you the way he had across every dinner table—steady, patient—except the patience now has a frayed edge to it that you find enormously satisfying.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, and kiss his jaw so softly it barely counts. His grip tightens. You smile.
You take your time getting there.
That’s the first thing. You’d decided somewhere around the second date—watching him pull back with that composed, deliberate expression while you stood at your door trying to remember how breathing worked—that if you ever got here first, you were going to take your time. You start at his mouth. Kiss him slow and deep until his hands are restless in your hair, until he’s kissing back with an urgency that’s a little more honest than his usual careful control. Then you pull away from his mouth and he follows—catches himself—and you feel more than hear the low, frustrated exhale that escapes him.
“Easy,” you say softly.
“Don’t,” he says, “tell me to be easy right now.”
You kiss his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth when he turns toward you instinctively, and you pull back just in time so he catches nothing.
“Hey—”
“Shh.” You press your lips to the hinge of his jaw and he goes still underneath you with great visible effort. “I’ve got you.”
You feel him exhale through his nose. Feel the deliberate way he loosens his hands in your hair. Choosing to let you lead, which from Chan is something—you understand that. You press a kiss to the soft skin just below his ear in acknowledgment and he shivers, which you file away immediately. Down the side of his neck. You take your time here because you’ve thought about this specifically, about getting his collar out of the way and having access to all of it. You push it aside and drag your mouth slow across his collarbone and his head tips back against the couch cushion and he says your name once, low, like it left without permission.
You look up at him from there.
He looks wrecked already. Hair slightly disheveled from your hands, throat marked from earlier, chest rising and falling with a breathing pattern that has abandoned its usual steadiness. He looks down at you with dark, blown eyes and the particular expression of a man who has been extremely patient for a very long time and is now experiencing the consequences of all of it arriving at once.
“Hi,” you say.
“You think this is funny,” he says. His voice has dropped to something rough and low that moves through you like a current.
“I think it’s fair,” you say, and press another open, slow kiss to his collarbone. “You left me at my door five times, Chan.”
“I know.” His hand slides through your hair. Not directing, just feeling. “I know I did.”
“On purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about this?” you ask. Mouth moving lower. You work at the buttons of his shirt, one at a time, unhurried. “When you were being so patient. Did you think about what would happen when I finally got here?”
A beat of silence.
“Yeah,” he says. Rough. “A lot.”
His shirt falls open and you take a moment to just look, which you can tell costs him something in the way his hands go still and careful like he’s trying very hard not to rush you. You spread your palms flat against his stomach and feel the muscle jump beneath your hands. Drag them slowly up his chest and watch his throat move as he swallows.
“You’re doing this intentionally,” he says.
“Mmmhm.” You lean down and press your mouth to the center of his chest. Feel his heartbeat against your lips, quicker than he’d ever let you hear in it his voice. “How does that feel?”
He makes a sound that’s not quite a word.
“I couldn’t hear you,” you say pleasantly, kissing across his chest to his ribs.
“I will—” he starts.
“You’ll what?”
He tips his head back and says nothing, jaw tight, and you smile against his skin and continue.
You move slowly off his lap, trailing your mouth down the center of his stomach, and his hands follow you—smoothing down your shoulders, the sides of your neck, tangling in your hair again—maintaining contact because apparently he needs to be touching you right now, which you understand. You feel the same pull toward him constantly, have since the first night, and there’s something quietly leveling about watching it operate on him now.
You settle between his knees and look up at him.
His eyes are very dark and very focused. The composed, careful Chan of five dinners and doorstep kisses is largely gone; what’s left is warmer, more open, the version of him you’ve been catching glimpses of and wanting the rest of. You hold his gaze and slowly, deliberately, work open his belt. He watches. Jaw set. Hands in your hair going still. You take your time. Of course you do. You get his belt open and his button undone and you press a slow kiss just below his navel and feel his stomach contract sharply under your mouth.
“You’re going to kill me,” he says.
“You’re fine,” you say.
“I’m not fine.”
“You’ve been doing this to me for weeks,” you remind him gently, and mouth along the skin just above his waistband. “Every time you pulled back at the door. Every time you kissed me exactly long enough and then stopped.” You look up at him. “Remember that?”
His eyes close briefly. “Yes.”
“Good,” you say, and finally, finally give him what you’d promised.
He’s quiet at first—contained, in the way that he is, processing it with that same deliberate control—but you’re patient now that you’ve started, you know exactly what you’re doing and within a few minutes the control starts to slip in small, telling ways. His hand tightens in your hair. His breathing goes ragged at the edges, the careful evenness of it entirely abandoned. He says your name once and then again, lower, and when you take your time with a specific swirl of your tongue, he groans, low and genuine, from somewhere deep in his chest, and you feel it everywhere.
You draw it out. Sweetly, deliberately, pulling back when he’s close enough that his hips shift forward involuntarily, looking up at him with an expression of perfect attentiveness.
“Don’t,” he says roughly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop and look at me right now, I’m begging you—”
“You said you liked the buildup,” you say.
He looks at the ceiling. “I’m going to lose my mind.”
“How does that feel?” you ask, because you’d genuinely like him to sit with that for a second.
“Terrible,” he says, and you can hear the fractured quality underneath it, the genuine unraveling, and you take pity on him—mostly—and go back, this time you don’t stop.
His hand in your hair. Your name in his mouth, wrecked and low and entirely unwound. His other hand gripping the couch cushion and then letting go, dropping to your jaw, cradling it carefully even now and you feel that, the tenderness of it even here, even like this; when he finally goes over the edge it’s with your name and his head tipped back and his whole body going momentarily, completely still.
The room resettles. The movie has long since ended on its own. The lamp in the corner is still low. The city outside is its quiet, distant hum. You move back up to sit beside him, and he pulls you in immediately; arm around you, your head against his chest, his mouth pressing slow to the top of your head. His heart is still working its way back to a normal pace and you can feel it under your cheek. His hand moves through your hair.
“Hi,” he says eventually. Still rough.
“Hi,” you say.
A long, comfortable quiet. “Come here,” he says, and tips your chin up and kisses you slow and deep and with the particular quality of someone who’s just had everything rearranged and is taking a moment to be grateful about it. His hand curves around your face and he kisses you like he has nowhere to be, like the night is long and he intends to stay in it.
When he pulls back, he looks at you. The necklace sitting at your collarbone. The marks on his own neck that you’d put there. Something in his expression is open in a way you hadn’t seen before; the last of the careful distance he’d maintained across five dates, five doorways, finally and completely dissolved.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the balcony,” he says.
“I know,” you say. “So have I.”
His thumb traces your lower lip. Eyes following it.
“It’s my turn,” he says quietly.
The words sit in the air between you. Chan looks at you with dark, unhurried eyes and the particular quality of patience that you now understand is not passivity—never has been. It’s intention. It’s someone who has thought carefully about what they want and decided to take their time getting it exactly right.
“My turn,” he confirms.
“We’re keeping score now?” you ask.
“We’ve been keeping score,” he says. “You know that.”
You do know that. You’ve known it since the second date when he’d kissed you on his couch and pulled back with that composed expression while you’d sat there completely unraveled. The score has been running the whole time, quiet and patient, and you’d just spent the last hour settling a significant portion of it and you know—looking at him now, at the steadiness in his eyes and the warmth underneath it—that he’s been waiting his turn with the same specific, detailed attention he brings to everything.
“Okay,” you say.
The corner of his mouth moves. Just slightly.
“Okay,” he says.
He starts at your mouth. Of course he does. He cups your face in both hands the way he had at every door across every date and kisses you slowly, thoroughly, taking the time to relearn it now that there’s nowhere else to be and no reason to stop. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, and you feel the familiar pull of him—that particular gravity—and lean into it the way you always do.
Then his mouth moves. Your jaw. The soft skin beneath it. He finds your pulse point with unerring accuracy and presses his lips there, open and warm, and you feel your head tip back without your permission.
“Chris—”
“Shh,” he says against your neck. “I’ve got you.”
Your own words. Delivered back to you with a composure you know is at least partly performance, and you’d find it infuriating if his mouth wasn’t currently doing something to your throat that makes thinking feel like a distant, theoretical activity. He kisses down the side of your neck slowly, cataloguing. Learning which spots make your breath catch, which ones pull sounds from you that you don’t entirely choose—and he remembers all of it, you can tell. Files it away with the same attentiveness he’d brought to every conversation across every dinner table.
He finds a spot at the curve of your neck and shoulder and stays there. Works at it with his mouth until you grip his hair and he hums against your skin, satisfied.
“Fair’s fair,” he says, quietly.
He moves you, not hurried—everything he does is unhurried—but deliberate. His hands find your waist and shift you until your back meets the couch cushions and he’s leaning over you, one arm braced, and he looks at you for a moment before continuing like he wants to see your face. The lamp catches the necklace at your collarbone and his eyes drop to it for just a second. He lowers his head and presses his mouth to the necklace. The skin beneath it. Drags his lips slow across your collarbone and you feel the goosebumps chase his mouth across your skin.
“Been thinking about this,” he says, against your collarbone. “Specifically.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I have a good memory.” He kisses your shoulder. The strap of your top gets nudged aside and he follows the newly exposed skin without any hurry. “I remember the first time I kissed your neck on the balcony. What sounds you made.” He mouths at the curve of your shoulder and you exhale sharply. “I thought about it a lot after that.”
“How much is a lot,” you manage.
“Distracting amount,” he says. His mouth moves back up to your jaw. “Ended up being a pretty good motivator to see you again.”
“And here I thought it was my personality.”
“It was your personality,” he says, pulling back to look at you, and he’s completely serious when he says it which does something to you that has nothing to do with what his hands are doing. “And this.” His thumb traces your jaw. “Both at the same time.”
He kisses you again before you can respond to that.
His hands are different from his mouth; where his mouth takes its time, his hands are warm and certain, moving across you with the confidence of someone who’s been patient long enough and knows exactly where he’s going. Your waist, the curve of your hip, sliding beneath the hem of your top to find your skin and spread his palm flat against it. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck. He comes willingly, mouth back at your throat, and his hand travels with slow, deliberate intention. Up your side, your ribcage, his thumb tracing each curve with focus. His mouth finds a new spot at the base of your throat and stays there working at it with patience and specificity until you make a sound that breaks in the middle and his chest moves against yours with something low and warm.
“There,” he says quietly.
“Don’t be smug,” you say.
“I’m not smug.” He lifts his head to look at you. Eyes dark, mouth curved. “I’m thorough.” He dips back down before you can answer.
He maps you.
That’s the only word for it. Methodically, unhurriedly, like he’d planned the route in advance and intends to follow it exactly. His mouth leaves marks at your throat, your collarbone, the soft skin of your inner thighs; none of them accidental, all of them placed with intention, and when he surfaces to look at his work he does so with an expression of open, unashamed satisfaction.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you say. An echo.
He looks up at you from where his mouth is at your hip. “When do I do anything that isn’t on purpose?”
Correct. Fully accurate. You pull him up by the jaw and kiss him deep and slightly desperate and he meets it—finally drops some of the careful patience, kisses you back with enough heat that the room feels ten degrees warmer and your hands find his open shirt and pull him closer. His hand finds the curve of your waist and grips. Slides lower. Over the line of your hip, the curve of your thigh, and you shift against him and he groans quietly into your mouth—the same low, undone sound you’d had from him earlier—and his hand tightens on your thigh and stays there.
He drags his mouth from yours to your jaw, your neck, finds one of the marks he’d made earlier and mouths over it gently, and the contrast—the careful tenderness of it following everything else—makes something in your chest pull tight.
“Chris,” you say. Quiet. Not frustrated this time. Just his name. He hears the difference. Lifts his head and looks at you. His hair is completely undone now. His shirt still open. The marks from your mouth dark at his throat, his jaw slightly flushed, and he’s looking at you with an expression that has nothing left hidden in it—no careful distance, no composure serving as buffer. Just him, warm and present and genuinely, entirely here. His thumb traces the line of your jaw.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you say back.
He kisses you again but slowly this time, differently; less fire and more warmth, his hand cradling the side of your face, his body settling against yours with a kind of ease that feels like something being decided. Something being named without words. When he pulls back his forehead drops to yours.
“Can I?” he asks. Not an assumption. Not casual. Just a quiet ask, offered the same direct way he’d placed the necklace on your coffee table between pizza boxes like it was already a fact. You look at him. The chain at his throat. The marks at his neck that mirror yours.
“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”
His exhale is slow and warm against your mouth.
He kisses your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth.
“Good,” Chan says simply before he shifts to his knees using his shoulders to spread your legs as his hands travel up under your dress again.
Two months after that night, you’ve learned the geography of Chan’s apartment the way you learn a second language—through immersion and repetition. The way the morning light comes through his bedroom window at a specific angle that means you’ve slept past eight. The particular creak of the floorboard between the kitchen and the living room. Which drawer holds the good coffee mugs and which one is full of takeout chopsticks he’s been meaning to organize for months.
You’ve learned him, too. The things that don’t make it into dates and doorway kisses. That he’s quiet in the mornings until he’s had his morning smoothie, that he runs warm at night and kicks the covers off around three AM, that he keeps his space cleaner than you’d expected but there’s always one chair that becomes a catchall for clothes that aren’t dirty enough for the hamper but aren’t clean enough to go back in the drawer.
It’s Saturday. Late afternoon, the kind where the day has gone soft and golden at the edges and neither of you has changed out of comfortable clothes or done anything more ambitious than order food and exist in the same space. You’re on his couch, legs stretched across his lap, reading something on your phone while his hand absently traces patterns on your ankle. The TV is on but neither of you is watching it. This is what you do now, coexist. Comfortably. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of weeks.
“I’m thinking about dinner,” he says.
“We just ate.”
“I’m thinking ahead.”
“Revolutionary,” you say, not looking up.
His hand slides up from your ankle to your calf, warm and present, and you feel the shift in his attention even before you glance over. He’s watching you with that particular expression; the one that means he’s been thinking about something for a while and has just decided to act on it.
“Come here,” he says.
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
You set your phone down and let him pull you across the couch until you’re settled in his lap, knees bracketing his thighs in the position that’s become familiar over the past two months. His hands find your hips immediately. The necklace—which you’ve worn every day since he put it on you—swings forward slightly and his eyes drop to it for just a moment before coming back to your face.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.” He leans up and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t have anywhere to go. Just existing for its own sake. His hands are warm through your shirt and when you settle your weight more fully against him, he makes a quiet sound of contentment and deepens it slightly. This is what you do now, too. Kiss on his couch or yours without the weight of a timer or a goodbye waiting at the end of it. It’s been two months of this—this careful, deliberate building of something. He still kisses you like he has all the time in the world, still touches you like he’s cataloguing, but there’s an ease to it now. A settled quality. Like you’ve both stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and started just…being.
You pull back and look at him. The late afternoon light catches in his hair, turning it warm. His hands are steady at your waist and he’s looking at you with an expression that’s become familiar—interested, attentive, present.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”
“Yeah?” His thumb traces a slow line just under the hem of your shirt. “What do you see?”
You lean down and kiss him instead of answering, and he lets you redirect, his mouth curving slightly against yours like he knows exactly what you’re doing. His hands slide up your back under your shirt, palms flat and warm against your skin, and you feel the shift in his breathing when you roll your hips forward slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you.
“Hi.”
“We should talk about something,” he says.
“We should?”
“We should.” But he’s still looking at you like he’s thinking about not talking at all, and his hands are still moving slow up and down your back, and you’re fairly certain this conversation is going to get derailed before it starts.
“Okay,” you say. “Talk.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts—settles, like he’s made a decision.“I want you,” he says. Simple. Direct. “I’ve wanted you. I’ve been taking my time because—” He pauses, and one hand comes up to cup your face. “Because I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to know it wasn’t just about getting here.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “But I think you know that now.”
Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
“I know that” you say quietly.
“Good.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “So I’m saying—if you want to—we don’t have to stop anymore.”
The thing is, you’d known this was coming. Have felt it building for weeks in the way his hands have lingered longer, the way the kisses have gotten deeper, the way he looks at you sometimes like he’s exercising active restraint. You’ve felt it in yourself too; the wanting has gone from a spark to a constant low heat, banked but present, waiting.
“I want to,” you say.
Something in his expression clears. Warms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again and this time it’s different—still slow, still Chan, but there’s an intent under it now. A promise. His hands slide back under your shirt, higher this time, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs, and when you shift in his lap you feel that he’s already interested in where this is going.
“Here?” you ask against his mouth.
“Here,” he confirms. “And probably other places. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Have you.”
“Mmhm.” His mouth moves to your jaw. “I have a whole list.”
“A list.”
“I’m thorough,” he says, which is what he always says. You’d laugh except his teeth graze the spot below your ear that he knows about and has been systematically destroying you with for two months, and instead you make a sound that’s not quite words and feel him smile against your skin.
“Starting here though,” he says. His hands slide to the hem of your shirt and pause. Waiting for permission even now, which does something to you. You lift your arms and he pulls it off in one smooth motion and then just looks at you for a moment, sitting in his lap in the golden late-afternoon light, and something in his expression makes your breath catch.
“You’re so—” he starts and doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head slightly and leans in and kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the skin above the necklace that matches his. His hands are warm and certain on your waist, and you thread your fingers through his hair and just feel it; the wanting, the patience finally reaching its conclusion, the months of careful building coming to whatever this is now. His mouth travels lower and his hands move with it, tracing the lines of you like he’s still cataloguing, still learning. When he reaches the center of your chest he pauses and looks up at you with dark eyes.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Chan, yes.”
He takes his time.
Of course he does. You’d known he would—he’s taken his time with everything, every kiss and touch weighted with intention—but it’s different now. Now there’s no timer, no stopping point, just the long stretch of the evening and his apartment and his hands learning you the way he’s been wanting to.
He maps you there on the couch with his mouth and hands until you’re squirming in his lap and saying his name in a way that makes his grip tighten on your hips. Until you pull at his shirt and he leans back just long enough to let you take it off, and then you’re skin to skin and you can feel his heart racing under your palm and it settles something in you to know you’re not alone in this wanting.
“Bedroom,” he says eventually, voice rough. Not a question.
“Bedroom,” you confirm.
He stands with you wrapped around him like it’s nothing—like he’s thought about this too, the logistics of it—and carries you down the hallway to his room. The one you’ve slept in a dozen times now but never like this. Never with this intent. He sets you down at the edge of his bed and just looks at you for a moment, standing between your knees, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. The late light is softer in here, filtered through curtains, and his hair is a mess from your hands and there are marks blooming on his neck that you put there on the couch and he looks…
“What?” he asks, echoing his question from earlier. “What do you see?”
You reach up and trace the chain at his throat down to the marks on his collarbone. The line of his stomach where it disappears into his waistband.
“You,” you say simply.
His eyes darken and he leans down and kisses you, deep and thorough, until you’re lying back on his bed and he’s following you down, settling his weight against you in a way that makes your breath catch. This…this is new. The full length of him against you, warm and solid and here. His mouth finds your neck and stays there while his hands work at the rest of your clothes with patient efficiency, and when you’re finally bare beneath him, he pulls back and just—looks. Studies you the way he’s been studying everything about you for months, committing it to memory.
“Baby,” you say, and there’s something in your voice that makes him look up.
“I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” you say, and you do. You’ve known it since the first night, really. Since seven minutes in this very bedroom when he’d asked permission before kissing you. Since every door and every goodbye and every time he’d pulled back when he could have pushed forward.
You reach for him and he comes, mouth finding yours again, and his hands are everywhere now—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your hip—mapping and cataloguing and learning, and you do the same, finally getting full access to all of him. The muscles of his back under your palms. The way he shivers when you drag your nails lightly down his spine. The particular sound he makes when you roll your hips against him just right.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. “I need—hang on.” He reaches over to his nightstand and you watch him, your chest rising and falling, as he takes care of the practicalities with the same unhurried focus he brings to everything. When he comes back to you his eyes are dark and warm and certain.
“Pretty baby,” he says.
“Hi,” you say with a soft smile and pull him back down.
He goes slow. Achingly, deliberately slow, watching your face the entire time, one hand cupped against your cheek while the other grips your hip.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained, holding himself so still you can feel the tension in his shoulders under your hands.
“Yes,” you manage. “move, please—” He does. Finally. And the feeling of it wipes out every coherent thought you’d had. He moves like he kisses—unhurried, thorough, paying attention to every response, every sound, adjusting and learning. His forehead drops to yours and his breath is ragged and you’ve never felt so completely present in your body, so entirely here with someone.
“You feel…” he starts, voice broken at the edges. “God, fuck, you feel—”
You pull him into a kiss instead of making him finish that sentence, he groans into your mouth and the pace shifts, just slightly, enough that you’re both chasing something now, building toward it together. His hand slides between you and finds where you need him and you arch into it, into him, his name leaving your mouth without your permission.
“There,” he says quietly, watching your face. “Yeah. There.”
He’s relentless now in that patient way of his; not rushing, not frantic, just absolutely focused on taking you apart piece by piece. His hand between you, his mouth on your neck, on your chest, the slow steady rhythm that’s pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Chris,” you say, and it comes out desperate. “I’m—”
“I know, baby” he says. “I can feel it. Lemme…just let me—”
And when you finally go over it’s with moans of his name, your hands fisted in his hair and your whole body pulling tight and then releasing, waves of it rolling through you while he keeps moving, keeps his hand exactly where you need it, drawing it out until you’re shaking underneath him.
“That’s it,” he says quietly, and there’s something wrecked in his voice. “Come for me, love.”
You pull him down into a kiss and roll your hips and he makes a sound that’s punched out of him, raw and genuine, his control finally fracturing. His rhythm stutters and his hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, when he finishes it’s with his face buried in your neck, your name on his lips and his whole body trembling against you.
The room settles back into itself slowly.
You’re both breathing hard, hearts racing, skin damp with sweat. Chan’s weight is warm and heavy on top of you and you’re stroking your hands through his hair, down his back, gentling him through the aftershocks the same way he’d done for you. Eventually he stirs, presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“I need to—hang on,” he says, and carefully extracts himself, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before coming back with a warm washcloth. He cleans you up with the same careful attention he brings to everything, his touches gentle, and when he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth toward the bathroom and collapses back onto the bed beside you.
“Come here,” he says, already reaching for you, and you go willingly, tucking yourself against his side with your head on his chest. His arm comes around you immediately and his other hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
The light outside has gone deep gold, nearly orange. The city sounds drift in through the window. His heart is still working its way back to normal under your ear.
“That was…” you start.
“Yeah,” he says.
A long, comfortable quiet.
“I thought about that a lot,” he says eventually. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
“It was fairly obvious,” you grin.
His chest shakes with quiet laughter. His hand tightens on yours.
“Was it…” he pauses. “Was it what you wanted?”
You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. He’s watching you with an expression that’s more open than you’ve ever seen—vulnerable in a way that makes something in your chest pull tight.
“Yes,” you say simply. “It was exactly what I wanted.”
Something in his expression settles. He pulls you back down and kisses the top of your head.
“Good,” he says quietly. You lie there together as the light shifts from gold to amber to the soft gray of early evening. His hand traces absent patterns on your arm. Your fingers trace the chain at his collar. The comfortable silence stretches, easy and unhurried.
“Hey,” you say eventually.
“Hmmm?”
“You said you had a list.”
His hand stills on your arm. Then starts moving again, slower. “I did say that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“What else was on it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped to something lower, warmer.“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
He shifts, moving to sit up against his headboard pulling you onto his lap. His eyes are dark again and there’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch.
“I thought about having you in the kitchen,” he says quietly. His hand traces down your neck, over your chest to your stomach and lower. “On the counter. Against it, bent over it. I thought about it a lot, actually. Every time you’ve been in there making coffee in the morning.”
Your breath catches.
“I thought about the shower,” he continues, his hand still moving, slow and deliberate. “How the water would feel. The sounds you’d make, would they echo...”
“Chris—”
“I thought about my couch.” His eyes follow his hand as it traces back up your ribs. “Which we started on, but I thought about finishing there too. Thought about what you’d look like in the light from that window.”
His hand slides higher.
“Basically,” he says, leaning down so his mouth is near your ear, “I’ve thought about having you in every room of this apartment. Multiple times. Multiple ways.” He pulls back to look at you. “So, if you’re asking what else is on the list—”
“Show me,” you say.
The smile that crosses his face is slow and warm and edged with something that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Show me the whole list.”
The kitchen happens before you’ve even fully decided to leave the bedroom. You’d gotten up—both of you—some vague idea about food or water or rejoining the living, you’re in one of his shirts and nothing else, he’s in his boxers and you make it as far as the kitchen before he’s turning you around and lifting you onto the counter in one smooth motion.
“This,” he says, stepping between your knees. His hands are on your thighs and his eyes are dark and focused. “This is what I thought about.”
“We should—” you start, but he’s kissing you and his hands are sliding up under the shirt you’re wearing and whatever you were going to say dissolves entirely.
He’s less patient this time. Or maybe just more urgent, the careful control he usually maintains loosened by what happened in the bedroom, by having finally gotten what he’s wanted. His mouth is demanding on yours and his hands are everywhere, when he pulls you to the edge of the counter you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “This. Exactly this.”
He doesn’t even take the shirt off you; just pushes it up and out of his way, his mouth following his hands, and when he’s ready, he pulls you onto him in one motion that has you gasping against his shoulder. The angle is different here. Deeper. More intense. Your back arches and he catches you, one arm around your waist and the other braced on the counter beside you, and the leverage lets him move in a way that has you seeing stars.
“Baby…nhng, fuck—oh god—”
“I’ve got you,” he says roughly. “I’ve got you, just—so fuckin’ tight—” He shifts the angle slightly and hits something that makes you cry out and his grip tightens and he does it again, and again, relentless and focused and watching your face the entire time with that same dark attention.
“There?” he asks, voice strained.
“There,” you confirm, barely coherent. “Don’t stop, don’t—”
“I’m not stopping.” His voice has gone rough and low and determined. “Not until you…I want to feel you,”
And when you go over this time it’s harder, sharper, your body clenching around him and your nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back with his name torn from your throat. He follows almost immediately, the feeling of you pushing him over, and he buries his face in your neck and holds you through it while you both shake apart together.
The shower happens an hour later. You’re both sticky and spent and when he suggests it you agree immediately, following him into his bathroom on unsteady legs. He gets the water running and you step in together and for a few minutes it’s actually just a shower—the water hot and good, washing away the evidence of the evening so far. But then his hands are on you again, soapy and slick, he’s washing you with that same careful attention, and when his hands linger between your legs you lean back against his chest and let him.
“Again?” you ask, breathless.
“I told you I had a list,” he says against your ear. His fingers are skilled and patient and you’re already sensitive from earlier, so it doesn’t take long before you’re shaking against him, his arm around your waist holding you up while his other hand takes you apart.
“I want—” you start, when you’ve caught your breath.
“What do you want?”
You turn in his arms and kiss him. “More. You.”
“You have me,” he says.
“Chris,” you say, and drop to your knees.
His eyes go wide and dark and his hand comes up to brace against the shower wall.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” you say, looking up at him through the water. “Please?”
And who is he to deny you? Taking your time the way he always does, paying attention to what you learnt makes his breath catch and his hand tighten in your hair, and when he finally finishes it’s with his head tipped back and your name echoing off the bathroom tiles and his whole body trembling.
The couch happens last, deep into the night when you both should’ve been exhausted but somehow aren’t. You’d made it back there after the shower, skin still damp, wearing clean clothes that lasted approximately ten minutes before he was pulling them off again. The lamp in the corner is the only light now, warm and low, and you’re in his lap again where this whole thing started hours ago.
“Hi,” he says, smiling up at you.
“Hi,” you say back.
This time is different from the others. Slower. Not because he’s being careful but because you’re both exhausted and wrung out and this is less about chasing something and more about just being close. Being together. He moves under you with easy, rolling motions and you move with him, hands braced on his shoulders, and it’s intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. His hands are gentle on your hips and his eyes don’t leave yours and somewhere in the middle of it you feel something shift.
“Chan,” you say quietly.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here, baby.”
“I think—” you start and stop but his eyes are steady on yours and you can see your own feelings reflected there and suddenly it doesn’t feel scary to say it. “I think I’m in love with you.”
His hands still on your hips. His eyes search yours.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice soft.
“Yeah,” you say.
He pulls you down into a kiss that tastes like relief and something deeper, something unnamed but present. When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.
“I’m in love with you too,” he says quietly. “I’ve been in love with you. I think—I think since the balcony, maybe. Or the first date. Or—” He pauses. “I don’t know when exactly. But I am.”
You kiss him again and this time when you move together it’s different; not desperate or urgent or playful but something else entirely. Something that feels like a promise. His hands are gentle and his mouth is soft and when you finally finish together it’s quiet and mutual and perfect.
Later—much later—you’re back in his bed. Actually in it this time, under the covers, your legs tangled with his and your head on his chest. The city has gone quiet outside, and the apartment is dark except for the ambient light coming through the windows. His hand is tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your finger traces the chain at his throat.
“So,” you say eventually. “That was your list.”
“That was the list,” he confirms.
“Thorough.”
“I told you I was.” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“You did warn me,” you say.
A comfortable quiet settles over you. His hand continues its slow path up and down your back. You’re both exhausted now—truly, finally exhausted—but neither of you seems ready to let go of being awake yet. Of this.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hmm?”
“I meant it,” he says. “Earlier. I love you.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes and an expression that’s completely unguarded.
“I know,” you say. “I meant it too. I love you.”
He kisses your forehead. Pulls you closer. “Good,” he says simply.
And finally, hours after the sun went down on this lazy Saturday, you let yourself drift off in his arms, the necklace cool against your skin, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and the certain knowledge that this—this careful thing you’ve been building for months—is exactly what you both needed it to be.
Summary: At a frat party, you’re kissed by one of the Jung twins; notorious for using their identicalness to throw people off. You however, can tell them apart; it’s Youngwoo, not Wooyoung the brother you’ve been secretly hooking up with for three weeks. When both twins discover you want them both and can actually distinguish between them—something no one else can do—they proposition you together. What follows is a night of intensity, vulnerability, and the twins learning to share someone they both have genuine feelings for. By the end of the night, the three of you agree to figure out what it means to date both of them. After all, they share everything…why not you?
Warnings: university!au, twin!wooyoung x f.reader, fwb(woo&reader) to lovers,smut! MDNI!, kissing, threesome, poly, teasing, Oreo Woo,pillow talk, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 6.7k
A/N: After a year,this is finally seeing the light. This all started when I found out that Aaron and Shawn Ashmore were not the same person like I’d thought the entire time I spent watching Smallville and X-men as a kid. For plot sake, she’s the only one that can tell them apart.
The bass thrummed through your chest as you leaned against the kitchen counter, red solo cup warming in your hand. The frat house was packed, bodies moving in the low light and somewhere in this chaos were Jung Wooyoung and Jung Youngwoo, the twins who’d found joy in confusing everyone on campus. Their latest stunt? Growing their hair out to identical lengths and dyeing it in stark black and blonde sections like an Oreo cookie.
You were five drinks in—that dangerous sweet spot where everything felt good but your judgment got a little fuzzy around the edges—when a hand slipped into yours.
“Dance with me.”
You looked up at Oreo hair, that devastating smile, those sharp eyes that could belong to either twin. Usually you could tell. Wooyoung had a certain softness in his gaze, a way of looking at you like he was always one second away from saying something devastating. Youngwoo was sharper, more direct and challenged you with every look.
But in this light? After these drinks?
You let yourself be pulled onto the makeshift dance floor, bodies pressing close in the crowd. His hands found your waist, confident and warm and you moved together to the heavy beat. He leaned in close, breath hot against your ear and you still weren’t sure, until he kissed you. The kiss was eager, almost aggressive. Tongue immediately seeking entrance, hands gripping tighter. You kissed back on instinct, your body responding before your brain caught up but as his tongue swept into your mouth again, insistent and rushed, you knew.
You pulled back just enough to press your lips to his ear, a teasing smile playing on your mouth.
“Why are you kissing me, Jung Youngwoo?”
He froze, completely still for a heartbeat, two, three. Then his hand wrapped around your wrist and he was pulling you through the crowd, away from the dance floor, down a hallway, into a corner by the bathroom where the music was muffled and you could actually hear each other.
“How’d—”
“Too much tongue, too early,” you interrupted, leaning back against the wall with a knowing smirk. “Woo’s a yearner. He likes slow, nasty kisses that build. You could work on that technique.”
Youngwoo’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His jaw tightened in that way that meant he was pissed but also thinking too hard. “You’ve been kissing my brother and neither of you cared to personally inform me?”
The accusation in his voice made you laugh,actually laugh. “Didn’t think I had to. Don’t you both tell and share everything with each other?”
He stared at you and you could see the exact moment several things clicked into place in his mind. His hand was still around your wrist, thumb pressed against your pulse point.
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you been hooking up with Wooyoung?”
You tilted your head, considering him. His hair fell across his forehead, black and white strands mixing together. “Why does it matter?”
“Because….” He stopped, running his free hand through his hair in frustration. “Because I thought…when you kept looking at me—at us—I thought…”
“You thought I was looking at you,” you finished softly. “Maybe I was or maybe I was looking at him. Maybe I was looking at both of you.”
Youngwoo’s breath hitched. His grip on your wrist loosened but he didn’t let go. “Both?”
The music swelled in the other room, someone’s drunken laugh cutting through the bass. You reached up and tucked a white strand of hair behind his ear.
“You’re the ones who decided to look identical,” you said. “Maybe you should have considered the consequences.”
“You’re insane,” he breathed but he was leaning closer.
“Probably,” you agreed. “But you still haven’t let go of me.”
The air between you felt electric, charged with something dangerous and thrilling. Youngwoo’s eyes searched yours, that sharp intelligence you’d always been drawn to working overtime behind his gaze.
“Does he know?” His voice was lower now, rough. “That you can tell us apart?”
You considered lying, dragging this out, but the alcohol made you honest. “I don’t know. We haven’t exactly been doing much talking.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His thumb traced a slow circle against your pulse point and you knew he could feel how fast your heart was racing.
“And what are we doing right now?” he asked. “Talking or…?”
“That’s up to you.” You kept your voice steady even as his other hand came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “You could go find your brother. Tell him his…whatever I am… just outed our situation in the most awkward way possible.”
“Or?”
“Or you could kiss me again.” You met his gaze directly, refusing to look away. “With less tongue this time.”
The corner of his mouth twitched,not quite a smile but close. “You’re trouble.”
“Says the twin who spent half his life pretending to be someone else.”
“We don’t pretend—”
“Don’t you?” You tilted your head, studying him in the dim hallway light. “Every time someone calls you by your brother’s name and you don’t correct them? Every time you let people think you’re interchangeable?”
Something flickered across his face; vulnerability maybe, or recognition. “We’re not interchangeable.”
“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I could tell.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The bass thrummed through the walls, muffled voices and laughter creating a cocoon of sound around you. Youngwoo’s eyes dropped to your mouth and you could see the war playing out behind his expression; want versus loyalty, desire versus whatever complicated twin code he and Wooyoung lived by.
“This is so fucked up,” he muttered.
“Probably,” you agreed. “Are you going to do something about it or just keep holding my wrist?”
He laughed—sharp and surprised—and then he was kissing you again. Different this time. Slower, more controlled, like he was trying to prove something. His lips moved against yours with careful precision and when his tongue traced your bottom lip it was a question, not a demand.
You opened for him and the kiss deepened into something that made your knees weak. He kissed like he was mapping you, learning you, comparing notes against something only he knew. One hand stayed braced on the wall but the other slid from your wrist to your hip, fingers pressing firm through the fabric of your jeans.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
“Better?” he asked, voice rough.
“Much.” Your hands had somehow ended up fisted in his shirt. “See? You can learn.”
He shook his head, but he was almost smiling. “You’re actually insane. You know that’s insane, right? Making out with both—”
“Youngwoo.”
Both of you froze.
The voice came from down the hall and you didn’t need to look to know who it belonged to. Your stomach dropped even as something hot and reckless flared in your chest.
Wooyoung stood at the end of the hallway, matching Oreo hair and dark eyes with an expression you couldn’t quite read. He looked between you and Youngwoo who still had you caged against the wall, whose hand was still on your hip.
“Hey, hyung,” Youngwoo said and his voice was carefully neutral in a way that made your pulse spike.
Wooyoung walked toward you slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached you, he looked at his brother first, then at you and his smile was as sharp as broken glass.
“So,” he said conversationally. “Were you going to tell me you’ve been kissing my twin too,or?”
You opened your mouth but no good answer existed. Youngwoo’s hand tensed on your hip but he didn’t move away.
“In my defense,” you tried, “you both have the same face.”
Wooyoung laughed, bright and dangerous. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
“For who?”
Wooyoung’s smile widened and there was something predatory in it that made heat pool low in your stomach. “For all of us, I think.”
He stepped closer and suddenly you were bracketed between them; Youngwoo still against your side, hand on your hip, and Wooyoung directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne. The same cologne Youngwoo wore. Of course.
“See, here’s what I’m thinking,” Wooyoung said, reaching up to trace a finger along your jaw. His touch was lighter than his brother’s, more teasing. “You’ve been playing with both of us. Whether you meant to or not.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Shh.” He pressed his thumb against your bottom lip, and your breath caught. “My turn to talk. You’ve been hooking up with me for what…three weeks now?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
“And tonight, you let my brother kiss you. Kissed him back, even.” His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Knowing it wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t know at first—”
“But you figured it out.” Wooyoung glanced at his twin. “How’d she know?”
Youngwoo’s jaw tightened. “Apparently I use too much tongue.”
“You do,” Wooyoung agreed easily, turning back to you. “Always have. Too eager, not enough finesse.” His thumb dragged across your lip again, slower this time. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”
The casual intimacy of it—of them discussing kissing techniques, of Wooyoung not seeming angry so much as intrigued—made your head spin. Or maybe that was the alcohol. Or maybe it was being pressed between two identical sets of sharp eyes and dangerous smiles.
“So what happens now?” you managed to ask.
Wooyoung and Youngwoo exchanged a look over your head; one of those twin telepathy moments that everyone always joked about but you’d never quite believed in until now. Something passed between them, silent and electric.
“Now,” Wooyoung said slowly, “we figure out what you want.”
“What I want?”
“You can tell us apart.” Youngwoo’s voice was quiet against your ear, and you shivered. “Few people can tell us apart.”
“Our parents still mix us up to this day,” Wooyoung added. His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point, mirroring exactly where Youngwoo had held your wrist minutes ago. “But you knew after one kiss.”
“So either you’re more observant than literally everyone in our lives,” Youngwoo continued, “or…”
“Or you’ve been paying very close attention,” Wooyoung finished. “To both of us.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure they could both feel it. The hallway felt smaller, hotter, the muffled bass from the party creating a rhythm that matched your pulse.
“Maybe I have been,” you admitted. “Paying attention.”
“To?” Wooyoung prompted.
You looked between them; identical faces, identical hair, identical sharp grins that said they already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you say it.
“Both of you,” you breathed.
Youngwoo’s grip on your hip tightened. Wooyoung’s smile turned absolutely wicked.
“See?” Wooyoung said to his brother. “I told you.”
“Told him what?”
“That you wanted both of us.” Wooyoung leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing your ear. “We’ve been watching you too, you know. The way you look at us. Like you can’t decide.”
“Or like you don’t want to decide,” Youngwoo added.
Your mouth was dry. “This is insane.”
“You said that already,” Youngwoo murmured.
“It’s true.”
“Probably,” Wooyoung agreed. “But you’re still here between us and you’re not pulling away.”
He was right. You weren’t pulling away. If anything, you were leaning into it—into them—into whatever dangerous game this was becoming.
“So I’ll ask again,” Wooyoung said, his voice dropping lower. “What do you want?”
“If I say I want my back blown out, is it going to make our friendship weird?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the muffled bass from the party seemed to fade as both twins processed what you’d just said.
Then Youngwoo choked on a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shook. “Jesus Christ.”
Wooyoung’s eyes went wide before his expression shifted into something between shocked and deeply amused. “Our friendship. You’re worried about our friendship being weird. Right now, in this situation?”
“I’m drunk,” you defended but you were smiling despite the heat flooding your face. “I’m allowed to be concerned about the social ramifications of—”
“The social ramifications,” Youngwoo repeated against your shoulder, still laughing. “Oh my god.”
“Of propositioning twins,” Wooyoung finished, shaking his head in disbelief but his hand hadn’t moved from your neck and his thumb was tracing absent patterns against your skin that made it hard to think. “At a frat party. After making out with both of them.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad—”
“It sounds fucking insane,” Youngwoo said, finally lifting his head. His eyes were bright with laughter but there was something darker underneath; want, raw and undisguised. “Which is apparently exactly your speed.”
“To answer your question,” Wooyoung said, his voice dropping back into that dangerous register, “yes. It’s going to make our friendship weird.”
Your stomach dropped.
“But we stopped being just friends the first time I kissed you three weeks ago,” he continued, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “So I think we’re past worrying about weird.”
“Way past,” Youngwoo agreed. His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, pulling you slightly away from the wall and closer to him. “The real question is…”
“Are you serious?” Wooyoung finished. Another one of those twin telepathy moments, finishing each other’s sentences. “Because we don’t do anything halfway.”
Your breath caught. They were both looking at you now with identical expressions of dark promise and somewhere in your alcohol—fuzzy brain you recognized this as a pivot point—the kind of moment where you could laugh it off, play it as a joke, keep things in the realm of plausible deniability.
But you were five drinks in and pressed between two beautiful, dangerous boys who apparently wanted you as much as you wanted them and you’d never been good at playing it safe.
“I’m serious,” you said. “Are you?”
Another one of those loaded glances between them.
“We should probably go somewhere that’s not a frat party hallway to have this conversation,” Youngwoo said practically, but his hand was still on your back, fingers pressing into your spine.
“Our place is two blocks away,” Wooyoung offered. His thumb pressed against your pulse point. “Sober up a little. Talk about…logistics.”
“Logistics,” you repeated.
“Boundaries. Expectations.” His smile was sharp. “What exactly you mean by ‘back blown out.’”
Heat flooded through you. “I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“Humor us,” Youngwoo said, his breath hot against your neck. “We like details.”
Someone stumbled past you in the hallway, drunk and laughing, shattering the bubble of tension. The three of you shifted automatically, creating space, and reality crashed back in—the party, the people, the fact that you were having this conversation where anyone could overhear.
Wooyoung stepped back first, his hand sliding from your neck but he caught your hand instead, fingers lacing through yours. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Both of us,” Youngwoo added, like you might have somehow misunderstood. His hand found your other hand. “Together.”
You looked between them—identical faces, identical intent, identical matching grips on your hands—and thought distantly that you should probably think about this more carefully. Should probably consider the consequences, the complications, the absolute insanity of going home with twins who shared everything.
But then Wooyoung tugged you forward and Youngwoo’s thumb traced circles on your palm, and thinking seemed highly overrated.
“Okay,” you breathed. “Let’s go.”
“Last chance to back out,” Wooyoung said as you arrived outside their apartment complex.
“No pressure, we can watch movies or something if you change your mind.”
“You’ll end up watching that movie alone if your brother has anything to do with it,” you laughed, given that most of the proposed movie nights with Wooyoung ever made it past the opening credits.
Wooyoung grinned, shameless. “In my defense, you’re very distracting.”
“I literally just sit there—”
“Exactly.” He squeezed your hand. “Just sitting there, looking like that. What am I supposed to do, actually pay attention to the plot?”
Youngwoo made a disgusted noise. “Oh my god, you’re worse than I thought.”
“You were literally dry humping her against a wall twenty minutes ago—”
“That’s different—”
“How is that different?”
You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet street. The walk had helped clear your head a little,the cool night air cutting through the alcohol buzz, leaving you floating in that space between tipsy and sober where everything felt possible but you could still think straight. Mostly.
“You two bicker like this a lot?” you asked.
“Constantly,” they said in unison, then glared at each other.
“It’s endearing,kinda cute.” you offered.
“It’s annoying,” Youngwoo corrected but he was almost smiling. He’d kept hold of your hand the entire walk, his grip steady and warm. “He’s annoying.”
“You’re annoying,” Wooyoung shot back. Then, softer, he looked at you. “But seriously. No pressure. We can just…hang out. Talk. Whatever you want.”
There was something vulnerable in his expression that made your chest ache. For all the sharp smiles and dangerous energy, this mattered to him, to both of them.
You stepped closer, rising on your toes to press a soft kiss to his mouth. Sweet, chaste, nothing like the kisses you’d shared before. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” you said quietly. Then you turned to Youngwoo, giving him the same soft kiss. His breath hitched against your lips. “Either of you want to back out?”
“Fuck no,” Youngwoo breathed.
“Not a chance,” Wooyoung agreed.
“Then stop stalling and take me upstairs.”
Wooyoung fumbled with the code to get in the building—actually fumbled, which was gratifying—while Youngwoo kept his hand on your lower back, steady and grounding. The apartment building was nicer than you expected, the kind of place that suggested their parents had money they didn’t talk about.
The elevator ride up was thick with tension. You had caught your reflection in the mirrored walls, flanked by identical twins with identical hungry eyes, all three of you flushed and breathing too fast. It looked like the start of something either really good or catastrophically messy.
Probably both.
“House rules,” Youngwoo said suddenly. “Before we go in.”
“There are rules?”
“We’re making them up right now,” Wooyoung admitted. “But yes. Rule one: you use your words. Something feels wrong, uncomfortable, anything,you say so immediately.”
“Rule two,” Youngwoo continued. “This doesn’t leave the three of us. We’re not advertising this to the entire campus.”
“Rule three,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer. “We’re doing this together. Not me and you with him watching, or him and you with me watching. All three of us, or nothing.”
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. None of you moved.
“Those are good rules,” you said finally. “I have one too.”
“Yeah?”
“You also have to use your words. This goes both ways. If either of you gets weird about sharing or—”
“We share everything,” they said in unison again.
You shook your head, laughing helplessly. “That’s still crazy, you know that?”
“So you keep saying,” Wooyoung said, tugging you out of the elevator. “And yet here you are.”
Their apartment was surprisingly clean—minimalist furniture, gaming setup in the living room, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Wooyoung locked the door behind you with a soft click that sounded impossibly loud.
For a moment, the three of you just stood there, the weight of what you were about to do settling over you like a physical thing.
Then Youngwoo said, “Do you want water? You should probably—”
“I’m fine,” you interrupted. “I’m sober enough, I promise.”
“You sure?” Wooyoung asked. “Because we can wait—”
You crossed to him, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss that was anything but soft. He made a surprised noise that melted into a groan as you licked into his mouth, reminding him exactly how you liked to be kissed; slow, deep, building.
When you pulled back, his eyes were glazed. “Okay, yeah. You’re sure.”
“Very sure.” You turned to Youngwoo, crooking a finger. “Come here.”
He came, obedient in a way that made heat pool low in your belly and you kissed him too; different than Wooyoung, teaching him the rhythm, the pace, until he got it right and kissed back with devastating precision.
“Better,” you murmured against his lips.
“Good student,” Wooyoung said, his voice rough. He was watching you kiss his brother with dark, hungry eyes.
You pulled back, looking between them. “So. Someone want to take me to the bedroom?”
“My bed’s bigger,” Youngwoo said with a grin.
“Of course it is,” Wooyoung muttered. “You had to get the king size,”
“And now you’re grateful,” Youngwoo shot back, already tugging you down the hallway. “You’re welcome.”
Their apartment had two bedrooms on opposite ends of a hallway, and Youngwoo’s was exactly what you’d expect; neat but lived-in, textbooks stacked on a desk, laptop open with what looked like code on the screen. The bed was indeed massive, covered in dark gray sheets that looked expensive.
Wooyoung followed you in and immediately went to the nightstand, pulling out…
“Are you seriously checking the condom supply right now?” you asked, laughing.
“I’m being responsible,” he defended, but his ears were red. “We have plenty. And lube. Youngwoo’s weirdly well-stocked for someone who—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Youngwoo warned.
You sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at both of them. They stood there, identical and nervous in a way that was oddly endearing, like they’d just now realized this was actually happening.
“Come here,” you said softly.
They moved in tandem, Wooyoung sitting on your left and Youngwoo on your right, close enough that your thighs pressed together. The bed dipped under the weight of all three of you.
“So,” Youngwoo started.
“How do we…” Wooyoung trailed off.
You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “You two have never actually done this before, have you?”
“Shared someone?” Youngwoo shook his head. “No. We’ve talked about it but—”
“You’ve talked about it?” That caught your attention.
“Hypothetically,” Wooyoung said quickly. “We’re twins. We share everything. It’s come up in conversation—”
“Many conversations,” Youngwoo admitted. “But we’ve never actually…”
“Found someone you both wanted?” you guessed.
They exchanged another one of those loaded glances.
“Found someone who wanted both of us,” Wooyoung corrected quietly. “Our personalities are similar and it can be a lot sometimes and yeah, we’ve never really liked the same person before or had someone who could tell us apart.”
The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tight. You reached for his hand, then Youngwoo’s, lacing your fingers through both of theirs.
“I want both of you,” you said clearly. “And I can definitely tell you apart.”
“Prove it,” Youngwoo challenged, but his voice was soft. “Right now. Eyes closed.”
You closed your eyes, feeling the bed shift as they moved. Then lips on yours, a kiss that started gentle and built into something deeper, tongue sliding against yours with careful precision, one hand cupping your jaw with just the right pressure.
“Youngwoo,” you murmured against his mouth. “Good job on the improvement.”
He laughed, breathless and then pulled back. A moment later, different lips; these ones teasing at first, nipping at your bottom lip before licking into your mouth slow and dirty, making you chase the sensation. A hand sliding into your hair, gripping just hard enough to make you gasp.
“Wooyoung,” you said when he finally let you breathe.
“Fuck,” someone whispered but you weren’t sure which one. You opened your eyes to find them both staring at you with identical expressions of want and wonder.
“Convinced?” you asked.
“Very,” Wooyoung breathed. Then, to his brother, “Okay, this is happening.”
“This is happening,” Youngwoo agreed.
They moved at the same time, Wooyoung’s hands finding your waist while Youngwoo’s fingers tilted your chin up for another kiss. It should have been awkward—three people trying to navigate the same space—but somehow it wasn’t. Wooyoung kissed your neck while Youngwoo kissed your mouth and when they switched it felt natural, easy, like they’d choreographed it.
Maybe they had. They did share everything, after all.
“Shirt off,” Wooyoung murmured against your collarbone and you lifted your arms obligingly. The cool air hit your skin, followed immediately by warm hands, four hands, mapping your body with synchronized curiosity.
“You’re both still dressed,” you pointed out breathlessly.
“Problem?” Youngwoo asked but he was already pulling his shirt over his head. Wooyoung followed suit and you were faced with two identical expanses of lean muscle and smooth skin.
“No problem,” you managed. “Definitely no problem.”
“Good,” Wooyoung said, pressing you back against the pillows. He hovered over you, Youngwoo settling beside you and the weight of both their gazes made you shiver. “Because we’re just getting started.”
Wooyoung’s mouth found yours again, different now—more possessive, more intent. His lips moved against yours with the confidence of someone who’d kissed you dozens of times before, who knew exactly how to make you melt. You felt Youngwoo’s hand slide up your side, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arched into the touch.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” Wooyoung admitted against your lips, his voice rough with honesty. “Every time I kissed you. Wondering if you’d want him too. If you’d let us—”
“I want you both,” you interrupted, because it was true and they needed to hear it. “I’ve wanted you both for longer than I should probably admit.”
Youngwoo made a sound low in his throat and then his mouth was on your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp. “How long?”
“Since—ah—” Your words stuttered as Wooyoung’s thumb brushed over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. “Since you both showed up to class with that stupid hair, maybe before…”
They laughed in unison, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“The Oreo?” Wooyoung grinned against your collarbone. “That’s what did it?”
“Made it impossible to pretend I wasn’t staring,” you admitted. Youngwoo’s teeth grazed your pulse point and you shuddered. “Made it impossible to pretend I didn’t want—this—”
“This,” Youngwoo repeated, his hand sliding lower, fingers finding the button of your jeans. “What exactly is this?”
You looked at him, then at Wooyoung, both of them watching you with identical dark eyes. “Both of you. At the same time. Exactly what I asked for.”
“Greedy,” Wooyoung teased, but his breathing was uneven. His fingers worked at the clasp of your bra while Youngwoo slowly—torturously slowly—worked your jeans down your hips.
“Once again, you’re the ones who decided to look identical,” you shot back. “This is your fault.”
“Our fault,” Youngwoo agreed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your hip bone. “We take full responsibility.”
The bra came off and suddenly you were exposed to both of them, their identical gazes raking over you with undisguised want. For a moment they just looked, and the attention made you squirm.
“Don’t hide,” Wooyoung said softly, catching your hand before you could cover yourself. “We’ve been dying to see you like this.”
“Both of us,” Youngwoo added. His hands were on your thighs now, spreading them gently. “Do you know how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about you? Knowing my brother was doing the same thing?”
Heat flooded through you at the confession. “That’s—”
“Hot,” Wooyoung finished. “It’s hot. Knowing we both want you this badly.” He lowered his mouth to your breast, tongue circling your nipple before sucking gently. The sensation made you arch, a moan escaping before you could stop it.
Youngwoo took the opportunity to slide your underwear down and off, leaving you completely bare between them. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands on your inner thighs. “You’re already so wet.”
“Been thinking about this all night,” you admitted, the words coming easier now, inhibitions dissolving under their attention. “Since the first kiss. Since I figured out it was you.”
“Yeah?” Youngwoo’s fingers traced up your inner thigh, so close to where you needed him but not quite touching. “Tell us what you were thinking.”
“I—” The words died as Wooyoung bit down gently on your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through you. “I was thinking about how different you’d feel. How you’d both—oh god—”
Youngwoo’s fingers had finally reached where you needed them, sliding through your wetness with a groan. “So fucking wet,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “All this for us?”
“Yes,” you gasped as one finger pushed inside, then another. “Both of you. Always both—”
Wooyoung kissed you then, swallowing your moan as his brother worked you open with careful, deliberate strokes. His tongue moved against yours in that slow, building rhythm you’d taught him to love and the dual sensations had you trembling.
“She’s close already,” Youngwoo observed and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Can feel it. She’s squeezing my fingers so tight.”
“Don’t stop,” you begged against Wooyoung’s mouth. “Please don’t—”
“We won’t,” Wooyoung promised. His hand slid down to join his brother’s, and suddenly there were four hands on you—touching, teasing, learning every response. “Want to feel you come. Want to know what that’s like.”
“Want to know if you say our names,” Youngwoo added, his thumb finding your clit with devastating precision. “Which one you’ll say first.”
The combination of their touches, their words, the overwhelming reality of having both of them focused entirely on your pleasure—it was too much. You came with a broken sound, their names tumbling from your lips in a jumbled mess of syllables, unable to distinguish where one ended and the other began.
“Beautiful,” Wooyoung breathed, watching you come apart. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”
“Our turn,” Youngwoo said and there was a possessive edge to his voice that made heat curl low in your belly despite having just come. “Get the rest of your clothes off, hyung.”
They moved apart, stripping efficiently and you took the moment to catch your breath and watch them. Identical bodies, identically hard, identically desperate. When they came back to the bed, you reached for them both, needing to touch, to ground yourself in the reality of this.
“How do you want us?” Wooyoung asked and the question was genuine, they were leaving this up to you.
You looked between them, considering. “Youngwoo first,” you decided. “Since you interrupted us earlier. Wooyoung, I want you here—” You gestured to your mouth and his eyes went dark.
“Yeah?” His voice was strained. “You want both of us at once?”
“I said I wanted you to blow my back out,” you reminded him. “I meant it.”
They moved into position—Youngwoo reaching for a condom with shaking hands, Wooyoung settling near your head with a reverence that made your chest tight. This mattered to them. You mattered to them.
“Ready?” Youngwoo asked, positioned between your thighs, the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance.
“So ready,” you confirmed, reaching for Wooyoung with one hand while the other gripped the sheets.
Youngwoo pushed in slowly and the stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what you needed. You moaned around Wooyoung, taking him into your mouth at the same rhythm and the synchronization of it made all three of you groan.
“Fuck,” Youngwoo gasped, bottoming out and staying still for a moment. “You feel—this is—”
“I know,” Wooyoung panted, his hand gentle in your hair. “I know exactly how good she feels.”
Then Youngwoo started moving and thinking became impossible. He set a rhythm that had you rocking into him, taking Wooyoung deeper with each thrust. Thesounds you were making—broken, desperate—vibrated around Wooyoung, and his hips stuttered, fighting for control.
“Easy,” he breathed, but his fingers tightened in your hair. “God, your mouth—I’m not gonna last if you—”
Youngwoo’s hands gripped your hips, angling you just right, and suddenly he was hitting something deep inside that made your vision blur. You moaned around Wooyoung and he cursed, the sound ragged and broken.
“There,” Youngwoo groaned, watching your reaction. “That’s the spot. You should see your face right now—fuck, you’re so perfect—”
The praise washed over you, mixed with the overwhelming fullness, the weight of Wooyoung in your mouth, the way they both touched you like you were something precious and devastating all at once. Your free hand found Youngwoo’s arm, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself.
“Close,” you managed to gasp when you pulled off Wooyoung for a breath. “I’m so close—”
“Let me see,” Wooyoung said, shifting to lean over you, his hand replacing yours on his cock as he stroked himself. “Want to watch you come on his cock. Want to see what we do to you.”
His words, combined with Youngwoo’s increasingly desperate thrusts, pushed you right to the edge. When Youngwoo’s thumb found your clit again, circling with perfect pressure, you shattered, clenching around him so hard he shouted your name.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Youngwoo’s rhythm faltered, became erratic. “Can’t—you’re too tight, I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” you urged, voice wrecked. “Want to feel it.”
He did, his whole body going rigid as he spilled into the condom, your name on his lips mixed with a string of curses. The sight of him losing control, the feel of him pulsing inside you, sent another aftershock through your body.
Wooyoung watched it all with blown pupils and a hand working frantically over himself. When Youngwoo finally pulled out, breathing hard, Wooyoung immediately took his place.
“My turn,” he said, and there was something possessive in his voice, something that said he’d been waiting for this, fantasizing about this. “Been dying to feel you again. But this time—” He glanced at his brother. “This time he gets to watch what I do to you.”
Youngwoo settled beside you, still catching his breath, but his hand found yours. The intimacy of it—being held by one while being taken by the other—made your heart clench.
Wooyoung pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and the feeling was different; familiar but new, because this time Youngwoo was here, watching, his fingers laced through yours.
“God, you’re still so tight,” Wooyoung groaned, starting to move immediately. His rhythm was different than his brother’s; less controlled, more desperate, like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally didn’t have to. “Every time I’ve had you, I’ve thought about this. Wondered if you’d ever want him too. If you’d let us share you.”
“Yes,” you gasped, meeting his thrusts. “Always yes, I wanted—both of you—”
Youngwoo’s free hand slid over your body, touching wherever he could reach, and the dual sensation—being filled by one while being caressed by the other—was almost too much.
“You’re perfect,” Youngwoo murmured against your ear. “Taking him so well. You look so good like this.”
“Tell her,” Wooyoung panted, his pace increasing. “Tell her what you told me. About watching us.”
Youngwoo’s breath hitched. “I used to imagine it,” he admitted, his voice low and rough with arousal despite having just come. “Hearing you two through the wall. Knowing what he was doing to you. Wishing I could see.”
The confession sent heat flooding through you. “You heard us?”
“Every time,” he confirmed. “And I’d touch myself, imagining what you looked like, how you sounded. This is so much better than I imagined.”
Wooyoung’s hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit and you cried out at the added stimulation. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Want to feel you come on my cock too. Want you to know exactly how good we both make you feel.”
“Won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” you gasped, sensation building impossibly higher.
“Good,” they said in unison and the synchronization of it, the shared possessiveness, pushed you over the edge again.
This orgasm was different; deeper, more intense, lasting longer as Wooyoung fucked you through it, chasing his own release. When he finally came, he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.
“Holy shit,” he breathed eventually. “That was—”
“Yeah,” you agreed, boneless and satisfied and completely wrecked.
They helped you to the bathroom, both of them, and the care they took—the gentle hands and soft touches—made something warm bloom in your chest that had nothing to do with sex. When you were cleaned up and back in bed between them, the reality of what you’d done started to settle in.
“So,” Youngwoo said eventually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. “This is definitely happening again, right?”
You laughed, exhausted and euphoric. “You two are insatiable.”
“For you?” Wooyoung pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah. We are.”
“But seriously,” Youngwoo continued, his voice softer now. “We should probably talk about what this means. For all of us.”
You turned to look at him, then at Wooyoung. “What do you want it to mean?”
They exchanged another one of those loaded glances.
“We want you,” Wooyoung said simply. “Both of us. Together. Not just for sex, though that was—”
“Incredible,” Youngwoo supplied.
“Right. But we want…more. If you do.”
Your heart stuttered. “More as in…?”
“As in dating you,” Youngwoo clarified. “Both of us. However that works.”
“We know it’s unconventional,” Wooyoung added quickly. “And we can figure out the details, but we’ve been talking about it—before tonight even—and we both have feelings for you. Real ones.”
The vulnerability in their voices made your chest tight. You reached for both their hands, squeezing gently.
“I have feelings for both of you too,” you admitted. “Have for a while. I just didn’t think this was possible.”
“It is if you want it to be,” Youngwoo said.
“We’re good at sharing,” Wooyoung added with a grin. “Had a lot of practice.”
“Though I draw the line at sharing clothes,” Youngwoo said. “He stretches out my hoodies.”
“You literally can’t tell them apart—”
“I can tell—”
You kissed them both into silence, laughing against their mouths. “Yes,” you said when you pulled back. “I want this. Whatever this is. With both of you.”
Their smiles were identical, brilliant, devastating.
“Good,” Wooyoung said, pulling you closer. “Because we’re not letting you go.”
“Either of us,” Youngwoo agreed, his arm draping over both of you.
You settled between them, warm and safe and completely satisfied, thinking that maybe the Oreo incident was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
“Though we are definitely talking about logistics tomorrow,” you mumbled, already half-asleep. “Like who gets which nights and—”
“We both get every night,” they said in unison.
“That’s not how—”
“It is now,” Wooyoung said firmly.
“You wanted both of us,” Youngwoo reminded you. “You got us. Package deal.”
You were too tired to argue, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Falling asleep between Jung Wooyoung and Jung Youngwoo, their identical breathing evening out as they drifted off on either side of you, felt impossibly right.
Tomorrow you’d figure out how to explain this to your friends. Tomorrow you’d establish actual boundaries and schedules and all the complicated things that came with dating twins.But tonight? Tonight you just let yourself have this; them, together, exactly what you’d wanted even when you hadn’t let yourself admit it.
“Hey,” Wooyoung mumbled, already half-asleep. “For the record? You were right about the kissing thing.”
“I’m always right about the kissing thing,” you murmured back.
“Cocky,” Youngwoo said, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
“You love it.”
“Yeah,” they said together, and it sounded like a promise. “We really do.”
“By the way, I could tell you both apart before either of you kissed me.”
“What?!?” They say simultaneously.
“It’s your eyes,” you mumble sleepily. “You both have one double and one monolid, Wooyoung’s mono is on the left, yours is on the right,” you continue softly as you trace under Youngwoo’s monolid. “when Woo stands on your left side, I see Youngwoo. When you stand on his left that’s Wooyoung, if that makes sense. You’re both equal halves of each other on your own but standing next to each other you’re whole.”
Both of them look at you slightly awed because you saw them in a way they didn’t even see themselves. You don’t hear their response as you fall asleep smiling, wrapped in identical arms, thinking that life had a funny way of giving you exactly what you needed; even when it came in matching sets with matching Oreo hair and matching devastating smiles.
