a/n: Something different, 3 very short fics, an anthology. Been busy recently, was too tired to sit down and work on my wip's, instead i find myself writing these shorts which are prompted by some dialogue that were stuck on my mind.
a/n: And Yes! promise 9 is that wip, writing whenever i can, sorry for the long wait.
Three Super Short Stories, Triple S
- Self-worth - Xinyu 🦊
- Sought - Mayu 🐰
- Skirt - Kotone 🦭
Self-worth
Xinyu (🦊) x Reader (📖)
Word Count: 584
You say it like a disclaimer. Like you need the record straightened before anything else can happen in this room.
"Just to be clear, I didn't hire you to be a prostitute."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't even look up from where she's tracing the rim of her wine glass with one finger, slow and idle, like she has all the time in the world and every intention of using it however she pleases.
"I know."
The suite hums quietly around you — the soft pulse of city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass, the low ambient cool of air conditioning, the way expensive rooms always seem to hold their breath. You'd chosen this place for appearances. A weekend. A function. Names in the same social circle, faces that already knew each other just enough to make the arrangement feel almost natural.
Almost.
You look at her. She looks at her wine.
Silence.
You don't say it. You don't have to. The silence does the asking for you — is that what you think this is? The question sits somewhere behind your teeth, unvoiced, because you don't quite know how to ask it without making everything worse. You'd been careful, you thought. Deliberate about the wording, about the boundaries, about making sure she understood that the money was — it was logistics, not a transaction, not that kind of arrangement. But then the weekend happened, and the function happened, and somehow the two of you ended up here, in one room, one bed, the city sprawling indifferent and glittering beyond the glass.
You wonder if she's been thinking it this whole time. If every time you pulled out her chair or rested a hand at the small of her back for the cameras, she'd been quietly tallying it against what you'd paid her. If she'd felt cheap in a way you never intended.
Apparently, to Xinyu it never did.
She sets the glass down.
And then she turns to you, and something in the air shifts — not dramatically, not like a storm, more like the moment before one. Her eyes find yours with the kind of ease that shouldn't belong to someone you've only ever exchanged pleasantries with at mutual friends' parties, whose name you knew but whose attention you'd never quite managed to hold.
Until apparently, you could be persuaded to pay for it.
She crosses the space between you unhurried, like she already knows you're not going anywhere. When she stops, it's close — closer than the arrangement strictly requires, closer than anything written in the terms you'd half-jokingly outlined over coffee three weeks ago. You can smell her perfume now. Something warm. Something that doesn't apologize for itself.
"Oh, baby." Her voice drops, not into something cheap, but into something almost fond — like you've said something endearing without meaning to. "The money you gave me could've bought you a thousand prostitutes, maybe hundreds of escorts."
She tilts her head, just slightly. A small smile playing at the corner of her mouth like a secret she's deciding whether or not to share.
"You never needed a prostitute."
Her eyes don't leave yours. Her hand comes up — barely, just a suggestion of touch at the lapel of your jacket, fingers resting there like punctuation.
"You needed me."
And the worst part — the part that sits hot and unresolved somewhere behind your sternum — is that Xinyu is not wrong, and she knows it, and she's looking at you right now like she's known it longer than you have.
===(0)===
Sought
Mayu (🐰) x Reader (📖)
Word Count: 765
You hear the words begin to form and something in you goes very, very still.
"I love—"
"I love you?"
It comes out wrong. Not soft, not wounded — sharp, the way things come out when they've been held too long in a place that's run out of patience for gentleness. You hear your own voice like it belongs to someone standing slightly behind you, someone who has been waiting a long time for exactly this moment and isn't relieved that it's finally here.
"You love me."
You say it again, quieter, and somehow that's worse. You watch her face — the way it does that thing, that thing she's always done, where she arranges her expression into something soft and open and just uncertain enough to make you feel like the difficult one. You know that face. You built a whole version of yourself around trying to deserve that face.
"After everything."
You don't even know where to start. That's the cruelest part of it — that there's so much, so much ground to cover, that the damage has spread so wide and settled so deep that standing at the edge of it now, you can't even find the beginning. You just know that you're standing in it. That you've been standing in it for a long time, and somewhere along the way you convinced yourself the ground was supposed to feel like this.
She takes a small step toward you.
"Don't." The word leaves you before she can close the distance. "Don't do that."
She stops. And you watch her recalibrate — barely perceptible, the microscopic adjustment, the way she reads the room and finds a new angle. You used to mistake that for emotional intelligence. You used to think it meant she understood you, that she was careful with you. It took you longer than it should have to understand that careful and calculated are not the same thing.
"I mean it," she says. Quietly. Like quiet is the same as sincere.
"I know you think you do." You almost laugh, and what comes out is worse than laughing. "That's always been the problem, Mayu. You always mean it. Right up until it's inconvenient, and then you meant something else, and somehow by the end of it I'm the one apologizing for misunderstanding."
She opens her mouth.
"No — " you cut across her, and your voice doesn't rise, which surprises you, because everything inside you is loud right now, everything is loud — "I need you to hear this. I need you to actually stand there and hear it without finding a way to make it about what I'm doing wrong by saying it."
The room holds still.
"You made me feel insane." The words come out measured, because if you let them come out any other way you're not sure you'll survive the saying of them. "You'd do something — you'd do something, and I'd feel it, I'd know it, and then you'd look at me like that — " your jaw tightens " — exactly like that, and I'd end up convinced I invented it. That I was too sensitive. Too much. That I should be grateful you stayed."
Something moves across her face. You can't tell anymore if it's real. That's what she took from you — the ability to tell.
"How dare you," you say, and it comes out almost quiet, almost gentle, which is the most devastated it's sounded yet. "How dare you stand there and hand me that word like it's an apology. Like it fixes the architecture. Like I'm supposed to feel something good right now."
She looks at you with those eyes that have always known exactly what they're doing.
And that's the thing — that's the thing that keeps you rooted to the floor instead of walking out — because part of you, the part that still lives in all the versions of this that weren't terrible, wants to believe her. Wants to cross the room and let her make it make sense the way she always could, the way she'd fold your anger back into something that felt like your fault, and you'd be grateful for the explanation.
You're so tired of being grateful for the explanation.
"You don't get to say that to me," you say finally. "You don't get to hand me something that big after everything you've taken. That's not love. That's just — " you look at her, really look, and it costs you something " — that's just the last thing you have left to try."
The silence that follows doesn't feel like an ending.
It feels like her, waiting to see if it worked.
===(0)===
Skirt
Kotone (🦭) x Reader (📖)
Word Count: 821
You find her in the hallway outside the function room, half-turned like she was already leaving, like she knew this conversation was coming and gave it a five-minute head start.
"Kotone."
She stops. Doesn't turn around immediately — and that alone is strange, because Kotone has never needed a moment to face anything in her life. You've seen her walk into rooms that didn't want her without breaking stride. You've seen her take a hit during a pick-up game and laugh before she hit the ground.
She turns around, and for a second you almost don't say it.
Almost.
"You said so before, right?" You keep your voice even, careful, like you're handling something you're not sure is loaded. "You love me. Tell me it wasn't a joke."
Something flickers across her face. Fast, and then gone.
"We agreed it was a joke."
"Because we both laughed at it."
"Because—" She stops. Resets. Her jaw shifts the way it does when she's deciding how honest to be. "Because you laughed at it first."
The words land somewhere quiet.
You let them sit there a moment before you say, "Well. I'm not laughing now."
The hallway hums around you — muffled music from inside, the distant clink of glasses, someone's heels on marble. Kotone looks at you the way she used to look at a bad call on the court, like she's deciding whether to argue it or let it go and make you pay for it later.
"And why is that?"
"Kotone, what do you mean—"
"Why now." It isn't a question the second time. Her voice is flat and precise, the way it gets when she means business. "What exactly changed?"
"What? Nothing changed—"
"Bullshit."
The word hits the air clean and final and you go quiet.
She doesn't fill the silence for you. She stands there in the dress — the dress you noticed the moment she walked in, the way everyone noticed, the way you noticed and spent the rest of the evening pretending you hadn't — and she waits, arms crossed, chin lifted, looking more like herself than anything she's wearing.
"What, do you think I'm saying this because you're wearing makeup now?" Your voice comes out more defensive than you intended. "Kotone, do you think I'm that shallow?"
And something breaks open in her expression — not soft, not hurt, something furious and exhausted in equal measure.
"Yes." She says it like she's been holding it. "Call it shallow or whatever you want. You knew Yooyeon for a day — one day — and suddenly you're on your knees. I'm here. I've been here. Your whole life. You threw a water bottle at my head. We cut each other's hair with kitchen scissors at two in the morning because you lost a bet—"
"So you're jealous." You say it before you think better of it. "Is that what this is?"
"Of course I'm jealous." She doesn't even flinch at it, doesn't try to dress it up or take it back, and somehow that honesty is the most disarming thing she's ever done. "But that's not the why. That's not what I'm saying."
She takes a breath. When she speaks again her voice is lower, and that's worse — Kotone quiet is always worse than Kotoneloud.
"I let my hair down. I wore a dress. Fine. But I'm not the only one who changed." Her eyes hold yours. "You opened doors for me. You censored your words. You were nice."
"And I'm supposed to not be?"
"You were supposed to be a friend." The word comes out worn around the edges, like she's carried it too long. "Just that. We made that decision — both of us, together — when we agreed that what I said was a joke. You were supposed to just be that. Just stay that." Her voice drops on the last part, almost to nothing. "Please."
The please is the part that gets you. Kotone doesn't please. Kotone negotiates, argues, wins, concedes on her own terms — she doesn't plead. And she's looking at you now like she already knows what you're going to say and has braced herself for it anyway.
"And if I can't?"
She looks at you for a long moment. Something in her face closes like a door.
"Then at least don't pretend," she says quietly, "that it wasn't because I wore a skirt."
She holds your gaze just long enough to make sure you heard it — really heard it — and then she turns, and this time you don't call her name, because you're not sure you've earned the right to yet.
The hallway feels different after she's gone. Smaller, somehow. Like it took something with her when she left.
You stand there in it and think about a water bottle, and kitchen scissors, and the specific sound of someone laughing at a joke they didn't find funny — and you wonder how long she's known the difference between the two.
(Xinyu X Tzuyu X Shuhua X Nien X Male Reader) Wordcount: 15045 words
(Author's note: Thanks for @jmuns-kpop and @azelfty for hosting this prompt. Because of amazing feedback from other writers and my own enjoyment while writing this, a second part will be guaranteed, even if it takes hal a year.)
You sit in the shaded audience hall of your seaside estate in Xiamen. The morning sun slants through carved wooden screens. Before you lies a low rosewood table covered in scrolls and bamboo slips. Tax reports from the newly settled villages around Tainan, manifests of rice and silk arriving from the harbor, petitions from local Fujianese merchants begging for lower duties on Taiwan goods. Your brush moves without a pause, marking approvals and corrections in black ink. The air smells of sandalwood incense and distant salt.
Outside the open doors, the training ground rings with disciplining shouts. Your Green Standard troops drill in neat squares, spears thrusting in unison, bows drawn and released with sharp twangs, officers barking corrections. The red-and-gold banner with your coiled dragon, wave, and crossed sword-anchor symbol snaps overhead in the sea breeze. You glance up now and then to watch the formations shift, satisfied with the crispness after months of Penghu blood and sweat.
A young servant boy - barely sixteen, one of the new household additions - bursts through the side door, sandals slapping against stone. He drops to his knees so quickly his forehead nearly kisses the floor.
“General!”
His voice cracks with haste.
“Lady Xinyu bids you come at once to her chambers. She says the matter is urgent and cannot wait.”
You set the brush down. The ink bead trembles on the tip, then falls. Urgent from Xinyu is never trivial. You rise, robe whispering against the mat.
The boy scrambles ahead. You stride through the middle courtyards, past lotus ponds where carp glide beneath lily pads, past the private theater where musicians sometimes play at dusk, then through the moon gate into the women’s quarters. The garden here is quieter, jasmine heavy in the air, silk lanterns swaying gently even though it is still daylight.
Xinyu’s pavilion stands at the center. It’s the largest and most ornate. Red-lacquered pillars, silk curtains the color of ripe persimmons, carved peonies climbing the screens. Already a small crowd has gathered on the stone path outside. Maids in plain blue ao stand with lowered eyes. Your chief steward hovers nearby, hands clasped behind his back. And then there are the three of them.
Tzuyu waits closest to the door. Her posture is perfect, hands folded inside wide pale blue sleeves. Her long hair is pinned with a single jade hairpin shaped like an orchid. The silk of her robe catches the light so it shimmers like water. She meets your gaze for only a heartbeat before looking down again. She looks elegant, composed, yet you know the quick pulse at her throat betrays her.
Shuhua stands a step behind, arms crossed loosely under her chest so the vibrant green silk pulls taut across her figure. A small smirk plays at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes are sharp and watchful. She has added a thin silver chain with a tiny shell pendant around her neck. Something she brought from the island.
Nien casually leans against a pillar, in soft peach silk, sleeves rolled to her elbows as though she was in the middle of some light chore when the summons came. She twirls a jasmine blossom between her fingers, but the playful tilt of her head does not hide the way her gaze flicks between you and the closed doors of Xinyu’s chamber.
The steward bows low as you approach.
“General.”
You nod once. The crowd parts. You push the curtain aside and step into Xinyu’s receiving room.
The space is warm, perfumed with aloeswood and a faint trace of medicinal herbs. Xinyu sits on the low platform bed, back straight despite the slight curve already visible beneath her loose rose-pink robe. Her hands rest in her lap with her fingers laced. She looks up at you and, for the first time in weeks, there is no carefully schooled calm on her face. Only quiet, radiant certainty. Behind you the three concubines enter in single file, silent, each taking a place along the wall. Tzuyu to your left, Shuhua to your right, Nien nearer the door. The maids withdraw, letting the heavy curtain fall.
Xinyu draws a slow breath.
“My lord, this morning the physician confirmed it. I carry your child.”
The words drop into the room like a stone into still water. You feel the shift in the air at once. The way Tzuyu’s breath catches, the way Shuhua’s smirk vanishes, the way Nien’s fingers still on the jasmine blossom until the petals bruise. Xinyu’s gaze moves past you to the three younger women. Her expression is gentle, almost kind, but there is steel beneath it.
“The household will rejoice.”
She continues softly.
“But the child will need brothers and sisters to strengthen our line. I trust my lord will see to that duty… in due time.”
She looks back at you, eyes shining.
The evening arrives with the slow fade of sunset over the harbor, turning the sea into molten gold. Lanterns are lit along every path and pavilion, their warm glow pushing back the creeping darkness. In the grand banquet hall, long tables are set with lacquered trays. Steamed abalone glistening in ginger soy, crisp-skinned duck glazed with honey, platters of fresh crab from the morning boats, bowls of fragrant rice studded with lotus seeds, and delicate sweets shaped like peaches, symbols of longevity and fertility.
You sit at the head of the main table, Xinyu to your immediate left. Her rose-pink robe has been changed for one of deeper crimson silk. The wide sleeves are embroidered with subtle phoenixes that rise as she gestures. She looks radiant, the faint curve of her belly hidden but somehow announced by the way she carries herself. To your right sit the three concubines in careful order: Tzuyu closest, then Shuhua, then Nien. Tzuyu’s pale blue silk falls in perfect folds, her movements careful. Shuhua’s vibrant green catches the lantern light every time she leans forward. Nien’s soft peach seems almost to glow against her skin. They sit with the practiced grace of women who know they are watched.
A handful of guests fill the other seats. Two wealthy Fujianese merchants who supply your ships, a minor magistrate from the nearby prefecture, and Lady Wei, the wife of a coastal garrison commander. She’s sharp eyed, silver haired, and already deep in conversation with Xinyu about midwives and auspicious birth dates.
The congratulations begin almost immediately. Cups are raised again and again.
“To the General and Lady Xinyu. May the child be strong, wise, and bring endless prosperity!”
Xinyu inclines her head with perfect modesty, accepting each toast with a small smile. The women cluster around her, asking about cravings (none yet, but she jokes about sudden desires for Taiwanese mangoes), sharing remedies, laughing softly over old birthing tales. For this evening, at least, the household orbits her.
Your own conversations pull in a different direction. The merchant across from you leans in, voice low beneath the music of the pipa and erhu players in the corner.
“General, the new trade route from Tainan is open, but the pirate remnants still lurk near Penghu. If we could station another squadron-”
You nod, swirling wine in your cup.
“I’ve already drafted the request to Admiral Shi Lang. Two more junks with swivel guns should suffice. The Emperor wants steady rice flowing north before winter.”
The magistrate chimes in about tax exemptions for settlers willing to farm the interior. You listen, respond, commit details to memory. Politics and business weave through every sip and every bite.
Then the musicians shift tempo. A livelier melody rises. Strings get plucked in quick, playful runs. Nien sets her chopsticks down. Without a word she stands, smooth as water, and steps into the open space between tables. No one seems surprised. In households like yours, especially after a victory feast or good news, a concubine dancing is not unusual. It is entertainment, a display of grace, a way to honor the host. Nien moves as though the music has simply pulled her in.
Her peach silk flutters as she turns, arms lifting in slow arcs, wrists flicking like willow branches in wind. She spins once, twice. The hem rises just enough to show the delicate curve of her calves, then sinks low, one knee bending, head tilting back so her dark hair spills like ink. The lanterns catch every motion, turning her into flickering light and shadow.
You glance at her again and again. Her form is elegant and fluid, unmistakably inviting. The way her hips sway, the intended pause when she extends a hand toward the musicians as if offering herself to the melody…it is artful and practiced, but tonight it feels personal. Her eyes find yours once, twice, three times. Each meeting lasts only a heartbeat, yet in that look there is no coyness. It is direct. Hungry. A silent question.
You look away, toward Xinyu. She watches Nien with calm amusement, one hand resting lightly on her belly. Lady Wei says something. Xinyu laughs softly, then replies. There is no tightness in her shoulders, no flicker of irritation. The pregnancy has shifted something fundamental. Xinyu is no longer merely first among equals. She is the mother of the heir, the uncontested center. The three foreign concubines, beautiful as they are, suddenly seem less threatening. Almost decorative. The dance ends to polite applause. Nien returns to her seat, cheeks faintly flushed, breathing a little quicker. She does not look at you again, but you feel the weight of her earlier gaze lingering.
The evening stretches. More dishes arrive. lotus root stir-fried with pork, clear broth with fish maw, and more wine is poured. Guests begin to excuse themselves one by one. Lady Wei departs with effusive promises to send her best midwife. The merchants bow and leave with assurances of loyalty. The magistrate lingers longest, finishing a quiet discussion about harbor patrols.
Xinyu rises at last, graceful despite the hour.
“My lord, I will retire. The child demands rest.”
You stand and offer your arm. She takes it briefly, presses your hand once, then slips away toward her pavilion, maids trailing like shadows.
The hall empties slowly. Servants clear trays. Musicians pack their instruments. Only the last merchant remains, the one who spoke of pirates earlier. You walk him to the outer doors, sealing the final details of tomorrow’s orders. He bows deeply and then vanishes into the night.
Silence falls over your estate. You turn left toward the moon gate that leads to the inner garden. Halfway down the shadowed corridor, you round the corner.
Shuhua stands there. She leans against a red-lacquered pillar, arms folded loosely under her chest, the green silk of her robe catching the faint lantern light from the garden beyond. Her chin lifts when she sees you. She doesn’t say anything at first, but her face is in conflict with herself. A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but her eyes are full of determination.
Shuhua straightens from the pillar as you approach, her arms unfolding slowly. The moon light catches the silver shell pendant at her throat, making it twinkle a little.
“My lord, I dislike seeing you walk these corridors alone at night. Must be tiring, carrying the weight of the household on your shoulders.”
You stop a few paces away.
“It’s a familiar burden.”
She tilts her head, studying you.
“The banquet was long. Everyone fawning over Lady Xinyu and her precious news. You barely touched your wine.”
“I had business to attend.”
A small laugh escapes her.
“Always business.”
She pushes off the pillar and takes one step closer.
“Did you like Nien’s dance at least? She moves like she’s trying to remind everyone she exists.”
You don’t answer immediately. Shuhua’s eyes narrow, pleased by your silence.
“She’s sweet.”
You say at last.
“Sweet.”
Shuhua echoes, rolling the word like it tastes sour.
“How boring. You must be starving for something with bite.”
The air between you thickens. She closes the last distance, stopping so close you can smell the faint jasmine oil she favors. Something she brought from the island, stubborn and defiant against the mainland scents of the estate.
“Walk with me.”
Not a question.
She turns without waiting, green silk whispering as she moves down the moonlit path toward her pavilion. You follow. The garden is quiet. Only the distant lap of waves against the harbor and the occasional rustle of leaves break the silence. At her door she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.
“You’re still here. Good boy.”
You raise an eyebrow at her attitude, but it’s not unfamiliar anymore.
Inside, the room is smaller than Xinyu’s but brighter. The lanterns hang low, casting warm pools of light across silk screens painted with crashing waves and distant islands. A low bed dominates the center, piled with embroidered cushions and a thin quilt the color of young bamboo.
Shuhua doesn’t hesitate. She turns, places both hands flat on your chest, and shoves. You fall back onto the bed, the mattress yielding under your weight. Before you can sit up she’s on you, straddling your hips, knees bracketing your thighs. Her robe parts at the front just enough to show the smooth line of her collarbone and the dip of her breasts beneath thin silk.
“You didn’t look at me all evening. Every time Nien spun, your eyes were on her. But you’re mine now.”
Her breath is warm against your skin. You slide your hands up her thighs, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. She shivers once, then presses harder into your lap.
“Not slow tonight. Never slow with me. You know that.”
She starts with kisses. Quick, hungry ones across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Then she finds your neck. Her teeth graze just enough to sting before she sucks a mark there. Her hips roll in a slow, heavy grind, pressing her heat against the growing hardness beneath your robes. Your hands move higher, cupping the firm curve of her ass through the thin silk. The fabric is slippery, barely a barrier. You squeeze. She gasps softly against your throat, then bites down again, sharper this time.
“Good. Touch me like you mean it.”
One hand leaves your neck. She reaches between your bodies, deft fingers working the ties of your trousers open. Cool air hits your skin for only a second before her palm wraps around your cock.
“Look at you.”
She whispers, lips still at your ear, voice dropping lower.
“Already so hard for your bratty little island princess. You pretend to be so composed in that hall, but here? Here you’re just a man who wants to fuck me raw.”
She continues to stroke your cock with slow, teasing up-and-downs, then squeezes at the base.
“Say it.”
Her demand is soft, almost sweet.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re going to ruin me tonight while your perfect wife sleeps with your heir safe inside her.”
Her hips rock forward again, grinding her clothed heat along your length. The friction is maddening. You grip her ass harder, pulling her down so she feels every inch of your dick pressing up against her. Shuhua laughs and leans in to kiss you properly this time, all teeth and hunger, no gentleness at all.
You flip her, rolling so Shuhua is suddenly beneath you. Her back hits the quilt with a soft thud. Her green silk robe fans out around her like a bed of grass, dark hair spilling across the embroidered cushions. She gasps once, surprised by your switch, then immediately tries to mask it with that familiar smirk. You brace yourself on one forearm beside her head, caging her in. Your free hand pins her wrists above her head.
“You’re being unusually annoying tonight.”
Shuhua blinks up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a heartbeat before the mask cracks. She flutters her lashes.
“Me? Annyoing? I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’m just… keeping you company after such a long day.”
You don’t smile. You don’t need to. You can see the calculation behind her wide-eyed act, the way her thighs shift restlessly beneath you. You don’t particularly care about the quiet tension that simmers between her and Xinyu. Petty jealousies, veiled barbs in the garden, the way the three concubines sometimes glance at your wife like she’s stolen something they never quite had. As long as they keep it away from you, let them claw at each other all they want. But tonight? Tonight she didn’t even give you the chance to choose whose pavilion you’d visit. She ambushed you in the corridor, dragged you here without a word of invitation or permission. You can put two and two together.
You lean closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“I don’t care what games you play with Xinyu. But when it comes to me? Be a good woman. Look pretty. Stay quiet.”
Shuhua’s breath hitches. Then she laughs, clearly defiant, the sound vibrating against your chest.
“Quiet?”
She whispers back.
“That’s no fun. That’s what Tzuyu does. You like it when I talk back. Admit it.”
You don’t answer with words. Instead, you shift your weight, turning her over so she’s on her stomach beneath you. She lets out a startled huff, palms pressing into the quilt as she tries to push up. You plant a hand between her shoulder blades, applying pressure. Your other hand finds the hem of her robe. You drag it up, bunching the silk at her waist until her lower half is completely bare to the lamplight. The curve of her ass, the smooth dip of her spine, the faint sheen of arousal already glistening between her thighs…it’s all exposed. You settle behind her, knees bracketing her hips. Your cock, still hard from her earlier teasing, nudges against her entrance. You lean down, chest pressing along her back, mouth at her ear again.
“The only thing you need to know tonight is how to take my cock.”
Shuhua opens her mouth, probably to fire off another bratty retort. But you don’t give her the chance. You push in with one steady thrust. She chokes on whatever words were coming, body arching sharply beneath you. A raw, broken sound escapes her - half moan, half gasp - as you sink deep, stretching her open in one go. Her walls clench wildly around your length, hot and slick and greedy despite her earlier bravado. You don’t pause. You pull back almost to the tip, then drive in again, harder this time, hips snapping forward. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the pavilion, louder than the distant waves outside. Shuhua’s fingers claw at the quilt. Her cheek presses into the cushion, mouth open, breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Every thrust rocks her forward, every withdrawal drags a whimper from her throat. You keep the rhythm steady, just like she would if she were on top: deep, punishing, no gentleness. One hand slides up to grip her hip, holding her exactly where you want her. The other tangles in her hair so she can’t hide her face. She tries to speak again, but it dissolves into a moan when you angle your hips and hit that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble. You lean down once more, lips grazing the nape of her neck.
“Quiet.”
You remind her.
“Pretty and quiet.”
She shudders beneath you, walls clenching hard around your cock. But she doesn’t talk back. At least not yet.
You keep the rhythm harsh, each thrust slamming deep, hips colliding with the soft curve of her ass in sharp, punishing slaps that echo through the small pavilion. The bed frame creaks under the force. The quilt bunches beneath her fists. Shuhua’s earlier pretense of quiet vanishes entirely. Instead, she moans. Loud, unrestrained, throatier than you’ve ever heard from her. The sounds spill out raw, carrying through the thin silk screens and into the garden beyond.
She wants the whole estate to hear. Every cry is pitched just right, high enough to pierce the night, drawn out enough to linger. It’s not pleasure alone, it’s performance. A declaration.
“This is me. This is who he’s choosing tonight. This could be the one who carries his next child.”
Your hand shoots forward, clamping over her mouth. Your palm seals tight against her lips, fingers pressing her cheek into the cushion.
“Quiet.”
Shuhua’s eyes flash. She doesn’t obey. Instead, she bites down hard enough to sting, teeth sinking into the meat of your palm. You hiss through your teeth but don’t pull away. She twists her head just enough to speak around your fingers, voice muffled but dripping with bratty triumph.
“Mmph-make me.”
She manages, the words fractured by another loud, broken moan as you drive in particularly deep.
That’s enough. You decide she doesn’t get to keep that smug little voice tonight. You pull your hand free only to slide it down, fingers wrapping around the slender column of her throat. Not choking…yet. Just firm enough to feel her pulse hammering against your palm. You give a light squeeze, then another, timing them with your thrusts. Each press makes her cough, short, startled gasps that cut off her moans mid-note. Her walls spasm around your cock in response, slick and clenching like she can’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
You pound harder. Relentless. No pause, no mercy. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder and faster. Your hips snap forward with bruising force, burying yourself to the hilt every time, grinding against her cervix until her whole body jolts. Shuhua’s moans fracture completely, reduced to choked whimpers, then to breathless little ah-ah-ah sounds that can’t quite form words anymore. Her nails rake the quilt. Her back arches sharply, trying to take you deeper even as her lungs fight for air. You feel the heat coiling low in your gut, the telltale tightening. Your rhythm stutters for half a second as you chase the edge. Shuhua feels it too. Her body knows exactly what’s coming. She tries to speak again, voice wrecked and trembling, forcing innocence into the words even as her hips push back desperately against you.
“Please… fill me.”
She whispers, soft and sweet like she’s begging for a favor.
“Inside… please, my lord…”
You see straight through it. The wide eyes, the trembling lower lip, the way she clenches around you like she’s trying to milk you dry...She wants your seed. Wants the chance to swell like Xinyu, to claim the one thing your wife already has secured. After tonight’s attitude - the corridor ambush, the loud moans meant to taunt the entire household - you’re not in the mood to reward her.
No. When the pressure builds to breaking, you pull out quickly enough. Shuhua lets out a sharp, disappointed whine, cut short as you stroke yourself twice and spill across her ass. Thick ropes of cum paint her skin in hot streaks, dripping down the curve of her cheeks and pooling in the small of her back. She trembles beneath you, thighs shaking, breath ragged.
You release her throat. She coughs once, twice, then goes still.
For a long moment there’s only the sound of both of you breathing. Shuhua doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Her face is half-buried in the cushion, hair tangled, cheeks flushed dark. The disappointment is plain in the way her shoulders slump, the way her hips twitch once like she’s still hoping you’ll push back in. But she doesn’t dare say it. She doesn’t dare ask why you didn’t finish inside her. She just lies there - marked, used, unsatisfied - while the night outside stays quiet, as if the rest of the estate never heard a thing.
Eight days later, the morning sun filters softly through the carved wooden screens of the garden pavilion. The air carries the fresh scent of sea breeze mixed with jasmine from the nearby bushes. Servants move quietly, setting out steaming bowls of congee topped with pickled vegetables, fresh steamed buns, salted fish, and fragrant tea brewed with Taiwanese herbs. Xinyu is absent this morning. A maid quietly mentioned that the lady woke with mild nausea and chose to rest in her chambers. No one questions it. Pregnancy has its demands.
You sit at the head of the low table. To your right, in their usual order: Tzuyu closest, then Shuhua, then Nien. All three wear light morning robes.
The conversation flows easily, as it always does at these meals. Nien chatters about a new shipment of mangoes that arrived from the island yesterday.
“They’re so sweet this season, my lord. Much better than the ones we get here in Xiamen.”
Shuhua laughs and teases her gently.
“You say that every time a ship docks. One would think you’ve never tasted mainland fruit before.”
Tzuyu adds a soft comment about the weather and how the garden lotus flowers are beginning to bloom. She serves you a perfectly steamed bun with her usual grace, placing it on your plate without drawing attention to herself.
You eat steadily, nodding at their words, but your mind keeps drifting back to last night.
Tzuyu’s pavilion. The way her long legs wrapped around you, her quiet gasps turning into soft cries as you filled her twice. Two creampies that left her belly slightly swollen with your seed by the time you left her bed. The memory is still vivid: her elegant face flushed, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, whispering your title like a prayer while her body trembled around you.
You glance at her now. Tzuyu catches your eye for a brief moment, a faint blush coloring her cheeks before she looks down at her bowl. You wonder silently what would happen if Xinyu gives birth to a daughter… while Tzuyu, after last night, carries your son. The first male heir coming from one of the Taiwanese concubines instead of the principal wife. The shift in power, the whispers among the servants, the way the household balance would tilt…You picture Xinyu’s face. That carefully controlled expression cracking into agitation and quiet fury. The drama that would ripple through the inner quarters, the three girls suddenly competing even harder. The thought amuses you. A low chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.
At that exact moment, Shuhua is in the middle of telling a light, exaggerated story about one of the kitchen maids mistaking a crab for a sea monster during yesterday’s market trip. Her delivery is sharp and funny, the timing perfect. Everyone at the table turns toward you, assuming your laugh was for Shuhua’s tale.
Nien giggles.
“See? Even the General finds it amusing!”
Tzuyu smiles softly, though her eyes flicker with a hint of curiosity. Shuhua’s back straightens instantly. Her shoulders square with visible triumph, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. She usually doesn’t get open favor when all three of you are together. You keep things balanced to prevent open jealousy. But this morning, that chuckle lands squarely on her. She sits a little taller, her emerald robe shifting as she leans forward just enough to emphasize her figure.
“Thank you, my lord. I’m glad my silly story could brighten the morning.”
You don’t correct them. Instead, you take another sip of tea. Shuhua’s eyes sparkle with quiet victory, while Tzuyu lowers her gaze again, fingers tightening slightly around her chopsticks. Nien watches the exchange with open curiosity, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth. Conversation picks up once more around the table. You glance at Tzuyu one more time. She meets your eyes again, before looking away. The breakfast continues with the gentle clinking of porcelain. Nien is now telling a lively story about a mischievous monkey she once saw near the harbor in Tainan as a child, while Shuhua occasionally interjects with teasing remarks. Tzuyu eats quietly.
You set down your chopsticks and reach for the tray of letters next to you which is holding several folded papers sealed with wax or tied with silk threads. You take the tray and begin sorting through them one by one while the girls continue eating and talking around you. The first is a routine report from one of your merchants in Fuzhou: dull matters of silk prices and shipping delays. You scan it quickly and set it aside. The second is a polite note from the local magistrate, thanking you for the recent favor regarding harbor patrols. Nothing urgent. You unfold the third letter. The paper is fine, the handwriting elegant and careful. The seal belongs to a respected Han family from the Tainan region. Tzuyu’s parents, a merchant-official clan that had aligned itself with the Qing after the conquest. They address you with the proper respect due to a victorious general.
“Honored General,
We are overjoyed to hear of the great blessing that has been granted to your household - a child on the way. May Heaven continue to smile upon you and grant your line strength and prosperity for generations.”
“News travels fast.”
You murmur with an amused scoff. The three concubines glance up at you almost simultaneously. Tzuyu’s chopsticks pause mid-air. She must recognize her family’s seal Shuhua’s eyes narrow with interest. Nien tilts her head.
You continue reading. The tone shifts from polite congratulations to something more direct, as expected from ambitious parents who see their daughter as a bridge to greater favor.
“We humbly pray that you will also bestow the same blessing upon our daughter Tzuyu. She is dutiful, graceful, and eager to serve you fully. A son from her would bring even greater glory to your household and secure the bonds between our families. We entrust her completely to your wisdom and care.”
You lower the letter. Your eyes lift and meet Tzuyu’s across the table. She is watching you now, a faint flush creeping up her neck, probably able to guess what the letter of her parents includes. You remember last night vividly: the way she clung to you, the two thick loads you pumped deep inside her, her quiet moans as her body accepted every drop. The thought flickers through your mind again: what if Xinyu bears only a daughter… while Tzuyu is already carrying your son from last night? The potential drama makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
You set the letter down without further comment and pick up the fourth one. This one carries the official seal of Admiral Shi Lang’s command. The handwriting is brisk. You unfold it and scan the contents. It is an order.
“General,
Pirate remnants loyal to the old Zheng cause have grown bold again near Penghu and the southern Taiwan coast. They have raided three merchant junks in the past month and threaten the new settlement routes. You are commanded to take your squadron of ships and two hundred Green Standard troops to suppress these bandits. Depart within ten days. Stabilize the sea lanes and ensure safe passage for imperial trade.”
You read the key lines in silence, then fold the letter neatly and place it on the tray. You take another sip of tea, mind already turning to preparations. Ships to ready, troops to muster, supplies to organize. A campaign of several weeks, perhaps two or three months if the pirates prove slippery.
The morning sun climbs higher as breakfast ends. You leave the garden pavilion with the weight of the military order already pressing on your mind. Preparations for the campaign will take most of your upcoming days.
A few hours later, in a shaded pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, Xinyu sits across from Lady Wei, the wife of the coastal garrison commander who had attended the dinner the night she announced her pregnancy. They play a quiet game of Weiqi on a low rosewood board. Xinyu moves a white stone with elegant precision.
“Your defense is as sharp as ever, Lady Wei.”
The older woman chuckles, placing a black stone to surround a small group.
“One must stay vigilant, especially when new life is growing. How are you feeling this morning? The nausea has passed?”
“A little better. The physician says it is normal in the early months.”
Lady Wei nods knowingly, then adds with a light smile:
“A strong son will make all the discomfort worthwhile. The household will feel more secure once the heir is born.”
Xinyu’s fingers pause over the next stone. The word “son” lingers in the air. She had said the same thing to you many times. She is certain it is a boy. Yet the comment makes her think. She knows you have been spending your nights with the three Taiwanese concubines ever since the pregnancy was confirmed. It is expected, of course. A man of your status cannot be left wanting, and she herself had told you to seek siblings for the child. Still, the reality stings more than she cares to admit. Every morning she notices the faint marks on your neck, the way the girls glance at you with fresh satisfaction. What if one of them is already carrying? What if she gives you only a daughter while one of those island girls produces a son? Her position as principal wife is secure in name, but influence in the household is something else entirely. As the game continues, Xinyu turns the stones over in her mind. She should actively support one of the concubines in front of you. Better to guide the choice than let the competition spiral out of control. Tzuyu is quiet and reserved, but Xinyu suspects it might be a clever front. The girl could be far more calculating than she appears. Shuhua is too wild, too unpredictable. Her sharp tongue and bold nature would make her dangerous if she gained real power. Nien, though… Nien seems the safest. Cute, playful, loveable. She doesn’t scheme openly for status or influence. She simply enjoys attention and seems content with whatever affection she receives. A son from Nien would be easy to manage.
Just as Xinyu settles on that thought, she glances toward the main path and sees you walking toward the outer gates, already dressed for the day’s duties. Dark robe with a military sash, boots ready for the harbor. She excuses herself gracefully.
“Please continue without me for a moment, Lady Wei. I must speak with my husband before he leaves.”
Xinyu rises and walks over to you with slow steps, her crimson robe flowing around her still modest belly. You stop when you see her.
“Xinyu. Are you feeling better this morning?”
She smiles softly, placing a hand lightly over her abdomen.
“Much better, my lord. The boy is behaving himself today.”
You nod, eyes flicking to her hand.
“Good. Take care of yourself…and him.”
Xinyu hesitates only a moment, then speaks with careful subtlety.
“The girls have been attentive lately. Especially Nien. She has such a gentle, cheerful way about her. It brightens the household.”
You acknowledge the comment with a small hum, already thinking about the campaign preparations. Xinyu continues, making it a touch more obvious.
“She would make a fine companion for your nights while I rest. Playful and easy to please. I think you would enjoy her company more often.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally catching the suggestion.
“Nien?”
Xinyu meets your gaze.
“Yes. She seems the least likely to cause unnecessary trouble. A good choice for now.”
You study her for a beat, then nod once.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She smiles again, satisfied that the seed has been planted.
“Go safely with your preparations today. The household will be waiting for your return.”
You bid her farewell and continue toward the gates. Once you are out of sight, Xinyu stands still for a moment, then turns to a waiting maid. She knows your weaknesses well. You can be firm with troops and merchants, but when it comes to the four women in your life, you sometimes let things flow too easily without seeing the undercurrents.
“Call for Nien. Tell her I have a small errand for her in the Xiamen market. She should fetch some fresh Taiwanese mangoes and herbs for my tea. Make sure she leaves soon.”
The maid bows and hurries off.
The midday sun beats down on the bustling Xiamen docks, turning the sea into a glittering expanse of blue. You stand on the raised deck of one of your junks, overseeing the final preparations for the upcoming campaign. Sailors and soldiers swarm the ships, loading barrels of fresh water, crates of dried provisions, bundles of arrows, and extra matchlock muskets. Officers shout orders while carpenters hammer reinforcements onto the hulls. The air smells of salt, tar, fish, and sweat.
You gesture to one of your lieutenants, pointing at a list on a bamboo scroll.
“Double the rice stores. We may be out for two months if the pirates scatter into the smaller islands.”
While the man nods and hurries off, your eyes drift across the crowded waterfront market that sprawls along the docks. Merchants hawk goods straight from newly arrived ships: bolts of silk, crates of tea, Taiwanese fruits, and baskets of wriggling seafood. Fishermen call out their morning catches, their voices blending into the lively chaos.
Then you spot her. Nien moves through the crowd with a small group of maids trailing behind. She wears a simple but pretty peach-colored robe suitable for an outing with subtle floral embroidery that catches the sunlight. Her dark hair is loosely pinned with a few fresh flowers, and her face glows with genuine delight as she examines a stand piled high with ripe mangoes and exotic herbs. She laughs at something one of the maids says, her smile bright and carefree, completely at ease in the noisy market.
You watch her for a moment from your higher vantage point. She looks beautiful, youthful, playful, radiating that innocent charm that always seems to lighten the mood. For a few heartbeats you simply enjoy the sight, the way she tilts her head, the gentle sway of her robe as she reaches for a piece of fruit. Then you remember Xinyu’s words from earlier.
“…Nien. She seems the least likely to cause unnecessary trouble. A good choice for now.”
You hesitate, fingers tightening around the railing. It is broad daylight. You are in the middle of important preparations. Usually, you do not ask for such things so directly, especially not outside the privacy of the estate. And Nien… she is always so bright and cheerful, almost too pure for the kind of raw hunger stirring in you right now. Taking her in some semi-private corner of the market feels almost sinful. Like treating her like a common dockside whore instead of one of your cherished concubines. But the order to depart in ten days hangs over you. The campaign will keep you away for weeks, maybe months. And Xinyu herself planted the suggestion.
You descend the gangplank and stride into the crowded market, your military sash and commanding presence causing people to part instinctively. Merchants bow quickly as you pass. Your eyes stay fixed on Nien. She is standing at a merchant’s stall, happily bargaining over a bundle of fresh Taiwanese herbs when you approach from behind. One of her maids notices you first and quickly bows. Nien turns, and her face lights up with a bright, surprised smile.
“My lord! A wonderful coincidence!”
You nod, suddenly unsure how to steer the conversation. The usual elegance of the inner quarters feels far away in this noisy, public place. Nien tilts her head, still smiling that sunny, innocent smile.
“The mangoes are especially sweet today. Would you like me to pick some for the journey?”
You look at her. At the way her eyes sparkle, the soft curve of her lips, the way her robe clings lightly to her figure in the sea breeze. Xinyu’s suggestion echoes again in your ear. For a moment the contrast hits you hard. She looks so cheerful and lovable standing here among the common people. It almost feels wrong to pull her away for something so base in the middle of the day.
Yet the hunger wins. You step closer, voice dropping so only she can hear.
“Nien… come with me for a moment.”
She blinks, still smiling, though a flicker of curiosity enters her eyes.
“Of course, my lord. Where to?”
You glance around quickly. The market is crowded, but you know this waterfront well. There is a large merchant warehouse belonging to one of your loyal suppliers just a short walk away. The upper floor has private rooms used for business negotiations, and the owner would never dare question your presence.
You gesture subtly in that direction.
“Follow me. Quietly.”
Nien hands the bundle of herbs to one of her maids with a quick instruction to continue shopping, then falls into step beside you. As you lead her through the crowd toward the warehouse, the sinful contrast lingers in your mind. She chatters lightly about the market finds, completely unaware of what you have in mind, while you feel the growing heat of anticipation. The warehouse door looms ahead. A quick word to the guard at the entrance, and he bows, clearing the way without a single question. The heavy warehouse door slides shut behind you with a solid thud, cutting off the noisy clamor of the market and the sharp smell of fish and salt air. In the sudden quiet, the only thing left is Nien. Her soft, feminine scent hits you immediately. Warm skin, faint jasmine from her hair, and that sweet, light perfume she always wears, mixed with the faint tropical sweetness of the mangoes she had been handling. It floods your senses and triggers a rush of memories. Her giggles in the dark, the way her body arches so willingly beneath you, the soft little sounds she makes when you’re gentle with her.
Your lust surges hard and fast, climbing with every step you take deeper into the dim corridor. You never make it to the private room upstairs. Two steps in, you lightly shove her against a tall stack of wooden crates and barrels. Nien’s back meets the wood with a soft gasp. Her eyes widen in surprise. The playful sparkle is replaced by genuine shock.
“My lord…?”
She stutters, voice small.
“Are you alright?”
You don’t answer with words at first. Your mouth is already on her neck, lips pressing hot against that sensitive spot just below her ear. The one you know makes her knees weak. You kiss, then suck gently, tasting her skin. Nien melts instantly. A shaky breath escapes her. Her hands come up to clutch at your robe, but she still tries to hold onto some dignity.
“W-wait… my lord.”
She whispers, voice trembling even as her head tilts to give you better access.
“Shouldn’t we… go somewhere more private? My chambers… or at least upstairs…”
“I can’t wait another second.”
One hand already roams over her body through the thin peach silk. You cup her breast, squeeze her waist, slide down to grip her hip.
“I’m sorry, Nien. I hate doing this to you like this… like you’re some commoner’s whore in the middle of the docks.”
Nien gasps sharply at your words, her body shivering against yours. Then, to your surprise, a tiny, cute laugh bubbles out of her. Nervous but genuine. She pulls back just enough to look up at you, cheeks flushed pink.
“Do you… want me to act the part?”
You blink, stepping back half a pace in surprise. Nien lets out another soft laugh, shy but playful, covering her mouth with her fingers for a moment.
“I love how careful and loving you always are with me.”
She admits quietly.
“It makes me feel special. But… whenever I hear Shuhua moaning so loudly through the estate, or when I walk past Xinyu’s chambers and hear her begging for more… I can’t help but wonder how it feels to be treated rough sometimes.”
You stare at her, caught off guard by the confession.
“I only treat you this way because of how you look and act. You’re always so cheerful and loving… like a beautiful flower that should be handled gently. Shuhua is just exaggerating when she-”
Nien shakes her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
“You really don’t believe the three of us talk about these things? Shuhua brags about it all the time.”
She closes the small distance you created, stepping right up to you again. Her small hands reach down and slowly start undoing the ties of your pants, fingers deft and steady despite the blush on her cheeks.
“You can treat me however you want, my lord. Even if that means I’m just an object for you to release your lust into. I’d… appreciate being treated like that from time to time as well.”
Her fingers finish loosening your pants and slip inside, wrapping gently around your already hard cock. The innocent, cheerful Nien is still there in her bright smile, but now there’s a new spark of curiosity and desire in her gaze. A quiet invitation to be rougher, dirtier, to use her the way you use Shuhua.
“So… what will you do with me, my lord?”
She asks sweetly, almost innocently, while her hand works your length.
“Here, against the crates… like I’m just your little dockside toy?”
The contrast between her cute voice and the filthy offer makes your blood burn even hotter. Your hands tighten on her waist, the raw need from moments ago now completely unleashed. You spin Nien around without warning and shove her forward against the stack of wooden crates. You’re careful not to be too rough at first, just enough force to pin her in place, her palms flattening against the rough wood as she braces herself. Nien lets out a sharp little gasp, her body jolting. A moment later she pushes her ass back against you instinctively, grinding softly, silently asking for more. Your hands roam over her body from behind, sliding up her waist, cupping her breasts through the thin peach silk, then moving down to grip her hips again.
She tries to speak. Her voice is a little awkward as she attempts something filthy.
“I… I’m your little… dockside toy now.”
She stammers a little, the words sounding almost cute despite her effort.
“Use me… however you want…”
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.
“You don’t have to try so hard.”
You murmur against her ear, one hand already pushing her robe up. You bunch the silk around her waist until her lower body is completely exposed. Nien whimpers softly.
“I’m sorry… I’ll learn. I want to pleasure you as good as I can. I really do.”
You line yourself up and push into her in one thrust. Her pussy is soaked. She’s hot, slick, and surprisingly tight around your cock. Nien moans immediately, a sweet, surprised sound that echoes softly in the dim corridor.
“Oh… my lord…”
She pushes back against you again. You start fucking her from behind, slow and deep at first, letting her adjust. But the hunger from earlier is too strong. You gradually lean into it, picking up speed, pounding harder with each thrust. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the narrow space between the crates. Nien does her best to keep up. Her hands grip the edge of the crate stack tightly, knuckles whitening. She’s never taken you this roughly before, and it shows. Her body trembles as she tries to get used to the intensity. Still, she keeps trying to talk, her voice breaking with every hard snap of your hips.
“You… ah!… you feel so big like this…H-hurry… before anyone sees us…”
There’s no real worry in her tone. If anything, the idea of getting caught seems to excite her. Her pussy clenches tighter around you with every teasing word, and her moans grow a little louder, a little sweeter. You grip her hips harder and thrust deeper, the pace turning rougher. Nien’s legs shake. She bites her lip, trying to stifle another moan, but it slips out anyway.
“I… I can take it…Please… don’t hold back… I want to be good for you…”
Her walls spasm around your cock as you pound into her, the contrast between her usual bright, cheerful self and the way she’s bent over crates in a warehouse only making you fuck her harder. Nien’s breathing turns ragged. She’s clearly still adjusting to the rough treatment, but she’s doing everything she can to please you, pushing her ass back to meet your thrusts, moaning softly with every deep stroke, even trying to keep up her awkward dirty talk between gasps.
You grip Nien harder and start fucking her with real roughness. Your hips snap forward with sharp, punishing thrusts, driving deep into her soaked pussy again and again. The wooden crates creak under the force. One of your hands slides up her back, tangles roughly in her dark hair, and tugs her head back. Several of the pretty flowers she had pinned in earlier tumble to the dusty floor.
“Ahh-!”
A loud, broken moan rips out of her, much louder than before. Her body jolts with every hard thrust, but instead of tensing up, she starts pushing back to meet you, her hips rolling greedily. The awkwardness from moments ago has completely vanished. Now her words spill out naturally, filthy and eager, each one making your cock throb harder inside her.
“Yes-! Fuck me harder, my lord…! Use your little dockside whore… I don’t care if someone walks in right now-I’ll still take every inch of your cock!”
You pound into her faster, the wet sounds of her pussy echoing in the narrow corridor. Nien keeps going, her voice growing bolder with every thrust.
“Take my sweetness away… ruin me…! Fuck the cheerfulness out of your cute little flower… Make me your dirty toy every single day… Please-use me like this whenever you want… I’ll spread my legs for you anywhere!”
You’re genuinely surprised by how loud she’s getting…and how much she’s talking. Shuhua has always been the loudest by far while Tzuyu is the quietest, usually only soft gasps and whispered pleas. Xinyu and Nien normally fall somewhere in the middle, depending on their mood. But right now? Nien has clearly surpassed Xinyu. Her moans are high, sweet, and shameless, filling the warehouse corridor without restraint. If she keeps this up, she might even challenge Shuhua for the top spot. The thought sends another surge of heat through you. You yank her hair a little harder, slamming into her with deep strokes. Nien’s legs shake violently, but she doesn’t try to quiet down. Instead, she cries out even louder.
“Harder-! Please, my lord… I can take it… I want you to break me… Fill me up right here where anyone could see… I don’t care-just use me!”
Her pussy clenches rhythmically around your cock, slick and hot, clearly loving the rough treatment. Every dirty word that leaves her mouth turns you on more, the contrast between her usual bright, innocent personality and the filthy things she’s begging for right now driving you wild. Nien’s voice cracks into another loud moan as you pound her without mercy.
“Do you like hearing your sweet Nien talk like this…? I’ll be louder for you… I’ll scream if you want… Just don’t stop-!”
You can feel her getting closer, her walls clenching around you with every rough thrust. Her cheerful, lovable demeanor has cracked wide open, revealing a hungry, surprisingly vocal side you never expected. She’s still pushing back against you desperately, flowers scattered on the floor around her feet, robe bunched uselessly at her waist, moaning and babbling dirty promises without any shame left.
But the rough pace suddenly changes the moment Nien reaches her peak. Her walls clamp down hard around your cock, fluttering and pulsing in strong, irregular waves. A loud, trembling moan tears from her throat. Then it softens, breaking apart into the familiar sweet sighs and delicate gasps you’re used to hearing from her.
“Ah… ahh… my lord…”
She whimpers, voice turning small and breathy again. For a few heartbeats she sounds exactly like the same old Nien - cute, sweet, almost innocent - as if the filthy words from moments ago had never left her lips. Your body reacts on instinct. You slow down immediately, thrusts turning gentler, almost protective. Something inside you refuses to keep pounding such a sweet, soft girl against dirty crates in a random warehouse. Your hips roll slowly, carefully, letting her ride out the aftershocks while you stay buried deep inside her.
Nien’s breathing gradually steadies. Her head rests against the wooden crate, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Then, to your surprise, her soft voice returns. Still gentle, still sweet, but now carrying a new, shy request.
“…Please… give me your cum. I want it inside… Fill me up, my lord…”
You blink, caught off guard. Nien has never asked for your seed like this before. The words sound almost too filthy coming from her usual bright, cheerful tone. You wonder if she picked that up from listening to Shuhua’s loud bragging sessions through the walls. You aren’t pounding her anymore, just slow, gentle thrusts, keeping her full while you process the contrast. Her innocent voice begging for something so dirty makes your head spin even harder than the rough fucking did.
“I want to feel it… deep inside me… Please cum for me…”
That sweet, lovable tone combined with her filthy plea finally pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard. You groan low against her neck and spill deep into her waiting pussy, thick ropes of cum flooding her warmth. Nien gasps and moans sweetly as she feels every pulse, her walls shaking again around you as if trying to milk out every drop.
“Thank you…Thank you for using me…”
Your lust slowly drains away, leaving your body heavy. You slump forward slightly, pressing her gently between your chest and the stack of crates. She’s trapped there, unable to move, your cock still buried inside her cum-filled cunt as it slowly softens.
For a long moment neither of you speaks. Then Nien lets out a shy little laugh.
“I… I enjoyed that very much. I don’t want to ask you to be so rough with me all the time… but whenever you’re in the mood for it… you can have me like this. Anytime.”
You lean down and press a soft kiss to her naked shoulder. The robe had slipped down earlier when you were tugging at it. Her skin is warm and slightly damp with sweat. Your eyes drift to the floor. A few scattered flowers lie among the dust. You make a mental note to buy her new ones on the way back to the estate later today. Her favorites.
You stay locked together like that for a while longer, your body shielding hers, cock still nestled inside her. Then Nien’s usual bright energy slowly returns. Even with you still buried deep inside her, her mind seems to drift far away from sex. She starts chattering again in that cheerful, playful voice you know so well.
“After you come back from your duties today… do you think we could play a game together? Maybe Weiqi in the garden pavilion? Or that new card game the merchants brought from the south? I’ve been practicing!”
You can tell she’s genuinely excited. Not about more sex, but simply about spending time with you. Her tone is light and happy, as if the intense moment against the crates had already become a fond memory rather than the main focus. You smile against her shoulder.
“I’ll make sure I have some time before dinner.”
Nien lets out a delighted little hum, her body relaxing even more against you.
A month has passed. The campaign against the pirate remnants has been grueling. Weeks of chasing shadows across the Taiwan Strait, stormy seas, and tense night raids on hidden coves near Penghu. Your squadron has sunk three pirate junks and scattered the rest, but the work is far from over.
Three days ago, while your ships were resupplying at a small harbor on the western coast of Taiwan, a messenger arrived from Nien’s family. Somehow, they had learned of your presence and extended a formal invitation. You and a small retinue were welcome to stay at their modest but respectable estate near Tainan for the remainder of the campaign. It would give your men safer anchorage and better provisions while you coordinated with local Qing officials. You hesitated for several reasons. Staying with the family of one of your concubines carried political weight. It could be seen as favoritism. It might also encourage the very competition you preferred to keep balanced. But refusing the offer outright would have been a grave insult to a family that had already lost much influence after the conquest. So, you accepted with measured gratitude.
Now you stand in the guest quarters of their estate, quickly cleaning yourself after another long week at sea. Servants bring fresh hot water and clean robes. You wash the salt from your skin, change into a simple but dignified dark silk robe, and make your way to the main hall for dinner. The hall is warmly lit with lanterns and candles. A long lacquered table is set with an impressive spread of fresh seafood, braised pork, fragrant rice, pickled vegetables, and delicate soups. Nien’s father, a scholarly looking man in his late forties named Master Lin, rises to greet you with a deep, respectful bow. His wife, Madam Lin, stands beside him, elegant in a muted green robe, her expression warm.
“General.”
Master Lin gestures for you to take the seat of honor.
“We are deeply honored by your presence. Please, make yourself comfortable. This humble home is yours for as long as you need it.”
You bow slightly in return and take your seat.
“I must thank you again for your generous hospitality. Your offer has made the campaign far more bearable. My men and I are grateful.”
Master Lin is tactful and measured as the meal begins. He speaks of the weather, the recent trade routes, and the stability the Qing has brought to the region. He never directly mentions Nien or any expectations. Yet you can read between the lines. This invitation is strategic. By hosting you, he strengthens his family’s ties to a powerful general and hopes his daughter will rise in your household. Still, he remains polite and respectful.
His wife is different. Madam Lin smiles sweetly as she serves you a choice piece of fish.
“Our Nien has always been such a bright and loving child.”
Her eyes flicker toward you.
“She brings such joy wherever she goes. We pray every day that she continues to bring that same joy… and perhaps even greater blessings… to your esteemed household.”
The hint is gentle but unmistakable. She doesn’t say the words “get her pregnant,” but the meaning is clear. They hope Nien will soon follow Xinyu’s example and give you another child…ideally a son.
You nod politely, murmuring thanks, but inside you feel the weight of the conversation. Eating with Nien’s parents is proving almost as exhausting as fighting pirates. Every smile, every carefully worded comment feels like navigating hidden reefs. As Madam Lin continues praising Nien’s sweetness, her gentle nature, and her “pure heart,” your mind drifts unavoidably to memories that make you feel strangely guilty. The warehouse a month ago. Nien bent over those crates, moaning filthily while you fucked her raw in broad daylight. The way she begged you to ruin her sweetness, to use her like a toy. The flowers scattered on the dirty floor.
And then the night just two days before your departure from Xiamen…You had gone to her chambers expecting another gentle, sweet night. At first it was exactly that - soft kisses, her bright laughter, her body warm and welcoming beneath you. But then, to your surprise, Nien had gently pushed you onto your back. For the first time ever, she climbed on top of you, straddled your hips, and slowly sank down onto your cock. She rode you with shy determination, her small hands on your chest, her hair falling around her face as she moved. Her moans had been softer than in the warehouse, but there was a new hunger in her eyes. She had whispered things she had never said before, asking if she was pleasing you, if you liked the way she took control for once. You can still picture the way her breasts bounced gently with each roll of her hips, the cute, concentrated expression on her face as she tried to ride you to completion.
Now, sitting here at her parents’ table while her mother praises that same “sweet, innocent” daughter, the contrast hits you hard. You feel almost like you’ve corrupted something pure. The cheerful, lovable Nien who chatters about games and flowers is the same girl who begged you to treat her like a dockside whore and then sweetly asked for your cum while riding you.
Madam Lin’s voice pulls you back.
“…and we are certain that with your guidance, our daughter will continue to grow and flourish in every way.”
You raise your cup in a polite toast, hiding your thoughts behind a calm expression.
The dinner continues. The food is excellent, but the conversation is a careful dance. Master Lin steers topics toward safer waters like local governance, the pirate situation, and your recent victories. Madam Lin occasionally slips in another gentle hint about family, legacy, and the blessings of many children. You eat and respond with politeness, all while vivid memories of Nien, both the innocent and the surprisingly eager versions, linger at the edge of your mind.
Your ships slipped into Xiamen harbor just before midnight, the sails heavy with salt and victory. It took nearly two more hours to organize the docking, unloading wounded men, securing captured pirate banners and weapons, assigning guards, and sending preliminary reports to Admiral Shi Lang. By the time you finally mounted your horse and rode toward the estate, the moon was high and the streets of Xiamen were quiet.
As you approach the main gates, you notice something unusual. Despite the late hour, lanterns are lit along every path and courtyard. Warm golden light spills from windows and pavilions. The entire estate is awake. The moment the heavy gates swing open and you step into the main courtyard, you are greeted exactly as expected. Nearly the entire household has gathered. Servants line the sides holding lanterns. Your steward stands at the front with a deep bow. And in the center, waiting for you, are the four women who rule your inner world.
Xinyu stands slightly ahead of the others, her crimson robe flowing around her noticeably larger belly. Three months have transformed her. The gentle curve has become a full, rounded swell that she carries with quiet pride. Her hair is neatly pinned, and though fatigue shadows her eyes, she holds herself with the dignity of the principal wife. Behind her stand the three concubines in a neat row. Tzuyu on the left, elegant in pale blue silk, posture perfect as always. Shuhua in the middle, vibrant green robes hugging her figure, a small smirk already playing on her lips. Nien on the right, soft peach silk glowing in the lantern light, her bright smile lighting up her face the moment she sees you.
As one, they all bow deeply.
“Welcome home, General.”
Xinyu says first.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
The three concubines echo, their voices blending together.
You return the greeting with a nod.
“It is good to be back.”
You step closer to Xinyu, eyes dropping instinctively to her swollen belly. You reach out and gently touch her arm.
“Are you doing alright? You shouldn’t have stayed up so late or woken the entire household just to welcome me. You need rest, especially now.”
Xinyu meets your gaze. There is clear love in her eyes, soft and genuine, even beneath the exhaustion.
“It is my duty as your wife.”
She replies simply.
“And… I wanted to see you return safely.”
You nod, then turn to address everyone.
“Go back to sleep. All of you. The night is late and tomorrow will be busy enough.”
The servants and steward immediately begin to scatter with bows and quiet murmurs of:
“Yes, General.”
Xinyu starts to turn with you as you guide her gently toward her chambers, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back to support her. Before you’ve taken more than a few steps, Xinyu pauses and glances back at the retreating maids.
“Prepare some warm food for the General. Light congee, steamed buns, and tea. Bring it to my chambers.”
The maids bow and hurry off to obey.
The three concubines remain standing for a moment longer, watching as you lead Xinyu away. You can feel their eyes on your back. None of them speak, but the air is thick with unspoken anticipation. They know you have just returned after three long months. They know the nights ahead will be filled with competition once again.
You continue walking with Xinyu, the lanterns along the path lighting your way toward her pavilion. Her steps are slower now, weighted by the growing child inside her. She leans into your touch, the love in her eyes still visible even in the dim light.
You reach the entrance to Xinyu’s chambers. The heavy silk curtains sway gently in the night breeze. Xinyu looks up at you, one hand resting protectively over her rounded belly.
“Will you stay with me tonight, my lord?”
She asks softly, though she already knows the answer may not be simple. You look down at your salt stained robes and travel worn appearance, then gently shake your head.
“I do not dare enter your halls in this state. I smell of the sea and weeks of campaign. Let me bathe first. I promise I will return afterward.”
Xinyu studies you for a moment, then a small, teasing smile curves her lips.
“Very well, my lord. But do not take too long. A wife can only be patient for so long… especially when her husband has been away for three months.”
You give her a nod and a faint smile before turning toward the private bathing courtyard.
The bathing pool is one of the few luxuries you allow yourself. Set in a secluded corner of the inner garden, surrounded by high screens and flowering jasmine vines, it is fed by heated water carried in by servants. Lanterns hang from the wooden beams overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the rippling surface.
You sink into the pool with a low sigh of relief. The water feels impossibly soft and clean compared to the harsh, salty waves you have lived in for months. Heat seeps into your tired muscles as you lean back against the smooth stone edge, closing your eyes for a moment. The night is quiet except for the gentle lap of water and the distant chirping of insects.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch a shadow moving near the edge of the lantern light. Your body reacts instantly. Your hand shoots out toward the knife you had placed beside your folded clothes on the low bench behind you.
Before your fingers can close around the hilt, the shadow steps fully into the light.
It is Tzuyu.
She stands at the edge of the pool, wearing a simple but elegant white inner robe that clings lightly to her figure. Her long hair is loosely tied, a few strands framing her face. She looks slightly more confident than usual. Shoulders straighter, chin lifted just a fraction higher. The change is subtle, but you notice it immediately.
You relax your hand and let it fall back into the water.
Tzuyu has always been quiet and reserved, but right now you cannot help wondering if she has schemed something while you were away. The letter from her parents three months ago still lingers in your memory. The polite but clear urging to get their daughter pregnant. If Tzuyu takes after them at all, she might be here with similar intentions. Yet, just like Xinyu, you can never quite tell with her. Is this quiet confidence a calculated move, or simply her natural grace?
She hesitates at the edge of the pool, fingers lightly twisting the sash of her robe. You watch her in silence, already expecting what is coming. Tzuyu finally meets your gaze.
“My lord… would you allow me the honor of your company?”
She takes one graceful step closer.
“After all, a man of your status should not have to wash himself alone.”
She stands there, waiting, the lantern light casting a gentle glow on her skin and making her eyes shine with quiet expectation. You lean back against the smooth stone edge of the pool, the warm water lapping gently at your chest.
“You don’t have to be so formal when we’re alone, Tzuyu.”
Tzuyu lowers her gaze for a moment, a faint blush touching her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
Then, after a small pause, she adds, almost shyly:
“Since we are alone… it should be fine if I join you in the water.”
You don’t answer right away. You simply watch her. Tzuyu takes your silence as invitation. She reaches for the sash of her white inner robe. With slow, teasing movements she unties it, letting the fabric part. Your breath catches as she begins to undress right there on the other side of the pool. The robe slides off her shoulders first, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and the gentle swell of her breasts. She continues, letting the silk glide down her body like water, exposing the smooth curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the long, graceful length of her legs. Finally, the robe pools at her feet, leaving her completely naked.
You have never seen Tzuyu like this before. Fully bare, standing at a distance where you can take in every inch of her at once. In the dim lantern light of her chambers, it was always darker, closer, more intimate. Here, under the warm glow of the lanterns, she looks almost unreal: tall, slender, perfectly proportioned, with smooth pale skin and long black hair cascading down her back. Her breasts are full and firm, nipples already slightly hardened by the night air. Her waist is narrow, hips gently curved, and between her thighs you can see the delicate line of her pussy.
Tzuyu seems a little shy under your undivided stare. She shifts her weight slightly, one hand instinctively moving to cover herself before she catches the motion and lowers it again. But there’s also a quiet pleasure in her eyes, as if she enjoys the way you’re looking at her. She steps slowly into the pool. The water ripples around her ankles, then her calves, then her thighs as she wades toward you. When she finally stands directly in front of you, the water reaching just below her breasts, she hesitates for only a heartbeat. Then she leans in carefully, giving you time to pull away if you wish.
Her lips meet yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You respond naturally. Your hands rise from the water and find her naked body, roaming slowly over her wet skin, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She trembles slightly under your touch.
When she finally draws away just enough to look at you, you are too relaxed after the long campaign to take charge. You simply watch her, hands still resting on her hips under the water. Tzuyu’s cheeks are faintly pink. She moves closer, carefully straddling your lap beneath the surface. You feel the heat of her body even through the warm water. Your now hard cock presses against her tight, flat tummy as she settles on top of you.
You let out a low chuckle.
“You said you’d wash me.”
Your voice is rough with amusement and growing desire.
“Not pleasure me.”
Tzuyu’s blush deepens, but she doesn’t look away.
“Can’t I do both?”
The warm water laps gently around your bodies. Lantern light flickers across her wet skin. She is beautiful, elegant, and clearly offering herself to you after three long months apart. You lean back against the edge of the pool, the warm water lapping at your shoulders, and give her a slow smile.
“I’m sure you can do both.”
Tzuyu’s lips curve into a gentle, pleased smile.
“Then I will try my best, my lord.”
Her hand slips beneath the water. You feel her slender fingers wrap around your hard cock, stroking you slowly from base to tip. The sensation is smooth and teasing in the warm water.
“I’ll start with this.”
You rest your arms along the stone edge and watch her. Tzuyu’s naked upper body is beautiful in the lantern light. The elegant curve of her shoulders, the full swell of her breasts with water droplets sliding down them, the graceful line of her neck…She keeps her eyes on you as she strokes, her touch growing a little firmer, a little more confident with every pass.
After a few moments, Tzuyu rises slightly on her knees. She positions herself over you, one hand still guiding your cock. Then she slowly lowers herself. You watch her face closely. Pleasure washes over her features the moment the head of your cock parts her folds. Her lips part in a soft gasp. Her brows furrow slightly as she sinks down. Her eyes flutter half-closed, and a quiet, trembling moan escapes her. It’s clear she has been just as eager for this as you have been for her. Three long months apart have left her hungry too.
You feel every inch as her tight, silky pussy lips glide down your length, enveloping you slowly, warmly and completely. She is wetter than the pool water, her inner walls clinging to you with familiar perfection.
Tzuyu is not like Shuhua. She prefers it slower, especially when she’s on top. She begins to move with graceful rolls of her hips, grinding down deeply, then lifting and bouncing in a smooth, controlled rhythm. Her hands rest on your chest for balance as she rides you, doing her best to make your head roll back with every motion.
For several long minutes she works you like this: slow, deep grinds mixed with gentle bounces, her breasts swaying softly with the movement. The water ripples around your joined bodies in steady waves. Tzuyu’s breathing grows heavier, her quiet moans filling the night air. Then she leans down, pressing her wet breasts against your chest. Her lips brush your ear.
“My lord…”
She breathes, still moving on you.
“I think… I am with child.”
The words hit you like a quiet thunderclap. She continues riding you slowly as she speaks, her voice trembling with both pleasure and nervousness.
“All the signs are there. The missed courses, the tenderness, the way my body feels different… but I haven’t told anyone yet. Not even the physician. I wanted you to know first.”
Tzuyu pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, still gently rolling her hips, your cock buried deep inside her. She searches your face, waiting for your reaction while her body keeps moving on you with that same graceful, needy rhythm.
The night is quiet as Nien stands just outside the kitchen courtyard, hands clasped in front of her peach-colored robe. She had been waiting patiently for several minutes when the two maids finally emerge, carrying a lacquered tray with warm congee, steamed buns, pickled vegetables, and a pot of fragrant tea. Exactly what Xinyu had ordered for you.
Nien steps forward with a bright, innocent smile.
“Let me take that to the General.”
She offers sweetly.
“He must be very tired after such a long journey. I would be happy to bring it to him.”
The maids exchange a quick glance, but they know better than to refuse one of the master’s concubines. They hand over the tray without argument.
“Thank you.”
Nien says cheerfully, balancing the tray carefully as she turns and heads toward the private bathing courtyard. She knows exactly where you are. The lanterns glowing softly in that direction are impossible to miss.
The garden paths are dimly lit, the night air cool and filled with the scent of jasmine. Nien walks quickly but gracefully, her mind already imagining the your tired smile when she arrives with food. She rounds a corner near the moon gate…
… and nearly collides with Shuhua.
Both women stop short. The tray wobbles dangerously in Nien’s hands. A few drops of tea splash over the edge. Shuhua startles, stepping back with a sharp intake of breath, her vibrant green robe swirling around her legs.
“Nien!”
Shuhua hisses.
“Shuhua!”
Nien replies, steadying the tray with both hands. Her usual bright tone carries a hint of surprise and wariness.
For a moment they simply stare at each other in the half dark. They don’t hate each other - there has never been open hostility between any of the three concubines - but Nien has always found Shuhua suspicious, and Shuhua clearly feels the same about the overly cheerful youngest.
Shuhua crosses her arms, one eyebrow raised.
“Going to the bathing courtyard? With food? How thoughtful of you.”
Nien tilts her head, still smiling but with a sharper edge.
“Xinyu asked me to bring it. The General needs to eat after his long journey. Why are you heading in that direction so late?”
Shuhua lets out a short, scoffing laugh.
“Don’t play innocent. You’re trying to get to him first.”
“And you aren’t?”
Nien shoots back, voice still light but now clearly defensive.
“You’ve been waiting for him to return just as much as I have. Don’t pretend you were just taking a midnight stroll.”
Shuhua steps closer.
“At least I’m honest about wanting his attention. You act all sweet and harmless, but we both know why you’re really bringing him food at this hour.”
Nien’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down.
“And you act all bold and fiery, but you’re doing the exact same thing. We’re both trying to gain his favor tonight. There’s no point in denying it.”
A tense silence stretches between them. The tray remains steady in Nien’s hands, but the air crackles with mutual suspicion.
Finally, Shuhua lets out a sigh and rolls her eyes.
“Fine. We both want to see him. There’s no use fighting over it right now.”
Nien nods, her bright smile returning, though it’s a little tighter than usual.
“Exactly. So… shall we go together?”
Shuhua hesitates for half a second, then gives a small, reluctant nod.
“Together. But don’t think this means I’m sharing nicely.”
The two women fall into step side by side, heading toward the glowing lanterns of the bathing courtyard. Nien carefully balances the tray while Shuhua walks with her usual confident stride. The rivalry simmers just beneath the surface, but for now, they have reached an uneasy truce. As they approach the entrance to the private bathing area, both can see the warm light spilling out and hear the faint sound of water rippling.
Nien and Shuhua step quietly into the bathing courtyard together, the tray of food balanced carefully in Nien’s hands. They both stop dead in their tracks the moment they see what is happening in the pool. Tzuyu is in your lap, facing you, her long bare back and elegant shoulders glowing in the lantern light. Her hips move in slow, graceful rolls as she rides you. The water ripples gently around your joined bodies. From behind, they can see the elegant line of her spine, the way her muscles flex and shift with every movement, and the subtle bounce of her long black hair.
Tzuyu lets out a soft, needy moan.
“More… please, my lord…”
Shuhua’s expression instantly darkens. Her jaw tightens and her eyes flash with fury. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, practically vibrating with irritation.
“Tzuyu is such a slut.”
She hisses under her breath, loud enough for Nien to hear. Nien bites her tongue hard to stop herself from snapping back that Shuhua is easily the biggest slut in the entire household. Instead, she feels a quiet wave of sadness wash over her. She isn’t really angry, just disappointed. She had hoped to have you to herself tonight, even if only for a little while. Now she will only get a third of your attention.
While Shuhua is still fuming, Nien sets the tray of food down on a nearby stone bench without a word. She doesn’t want to fall behind. Shuhua makes the decision first. Without saying anything else, she starts pulling off her robe, letting it drop carelessly to the ground. Her naked body is revealed in the lantern light: bold curves, smooth skin, and an unmistakable air of confidence. Nien quickly follows her example. She unties her peach robe and shrugs it off, stepping out of the silk puddle at her feet. Her own body is softer and more delicate than Shuhua’s, but no less beautiful.
Both women move toward the pool together. They step carefully into the warm water, the liquid rising around their legs, then their thighs, then their hips. The ripples they create spread outward, disturbing the calm surface.
Tzuyu is still riding you slowly when the sound of their movement reaches her. She doesn’t stop, but her head turns slightly, eyes widening as she notices the two new arrivals. Shuhua and Nien wade closer until they are only a few steps away from where Tzuyu sits impaled on your cock. The air in the bathing courtyard grows thick with tension, jealousy, and unspoken competition. Tzuyu’s hips continue their gentle, graceful motion as she looks at the other two women, a faint blush on her cheeks. Shuhua stops with her hands on her hips, water lapping at her waist, and stares directly at you with a challenging glint in her eyes. Nien stands beside her, quieter, her expression a mix of envy and shy hope as she watches Tzuyu’s flawless back and the way her body moves on you.
You notice the movement at the edge of the pool and lift your gaze. Nien and Shuhua stand there, both completely naked, the warm lantern light dancing across their wet skin. Shuhua’s body is bold and curvaceous, perky breasts and strong hips cutting through the surface. Nien’s figure is softer, more delicate, her skin glowing with that same innocent charm she always carries.
The moment you see them, your cock twitches hard inside Tzuyu. Tzuyu feels it immediately. Her walls flutter around you in response, and she lets out a tiny, surprised gasp, her hips stuttering for a second before she continues her slow ride.
You can’t help it. An amused chuckle escapes your throat.
Tzuyu’s cheeks flush deeper as she realizes the other two are watching her ride you so openly. Shuhua’s usual confident smirk falters for half a heartbeat, replaced by a flicker of awkwardness. Nien’s bright eyes widen, her hands instinctively moving to cover her chest before she catches herself and lowers them again. They’ve never seen each other fully naked like this. The usual private intimacy of the bedchambers has suddenly become very public. None of them quite know how to act now that they are all together in the same pool. You feel a brief moment of uncertainty yourself. Three naked, beautiful concubines surrounding you after three long months away is almost overwhelming.
You motion with your head.
“Shuhua. Left side.”
You turn slightly and gesture to the other side.
“Nien. Right.”
Shuhua moves first, wading through the water with that bold stride until she’s pressed against your left side. Nien follows more shyly, slipping into the water on your right until her soft body brushes against you. The moment they settle, Tzuyu - clearly not willing to lose her place on your cock - starts putting in more effort. Her hips roll deeper, grinding down harder, her tight pussy squeezing around you with renewed determination. Her breathing grows heavier as she rides you more purposefully. You reach out with your left hand and grope Shuhua’s perky tits, squeezing the firm flesh and rolling her nipple between your fingers. Shuhua lets out a sharp, pleased breath and arches into your touch. At the same time, you pull Nien closer with your right arm, tilting her chin up so you can claim her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. She melts into it instantly, her soft lips parting for you, a tiny whimper vibrating against your tongue. While you kiss Nien and fondle Shuhua, Tzuyu continues riding you steadily, her long legs flexing under the water as she works herself on your cock.
In the back of your mind, the news Tzuyu whispered earlier still burns. The possibility that she is already carrying your child. The thought sends another throb through your length, making Tzuyu moan softly.
You hope Xinyu doesn’t mind you indulging a little tonight. After three months away, and with her own belly growing heavier by the day, she might even understand. For now, you focus on the three women surrounding you. Shuhua presses her breasts more firmly into your groping hand, her usual bratty energy already starting to surface again. Nien kisses you back sweetly, her smaller hand resting shyly on your chest. Tzuyu keeps riding you with quiet determination, clearly trying to remind everyone that she was here first.
The warm water laps around all four of you as the night air grows thicker with tension and desire.
The morning sun beats down on the training ground, turning the dirt courtyard into a haze of dust and heat. You move through the forms, wooden practice sword clashing against your partner’s in sharp, rhythmic strikes. Sweat runs down your bare chest and back, soaking the waistband of your trousers. Your breathing is heavy, muscles burning after weeks of pushing yourself hard since returning from the campaign. You parry a strong overhead blow, then counter with a low sweep that forces your opponent to jump back. The soldiers watching from the sidelines murmur in approval.
Just as you reset your stance for another exchange, you catch sight of a servant hurrying across the edge of the training ground. The man is moving quickly, his face tense. You raise your hand and step back, lowering your sword.
“Enough for now.”
You tell your practice partner, who bows and retreats. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your arm and motion the servant closer. He approaches, bowing deeply the moment he’s within speaking distance.
“General, Lady Xinyu… she has gone into labour.”
You straighten immediately, chest still heaving from the exertion. Sweat continues to trickle down your temples, but the fatigue in your muscles is forgotten in an instant.
“When?”
“Just now, my lord. The midwife and her maids are with her. Lady Xinyu asked that you be informed right away.”
You nod once, already turning toward the inner quarters.
“Prepare hot water and clean cloths if they haven’t already.”
You order as you start walking.
“And send word to the physician if he isn’t there yet.”
The servant bows again and hurries off to carry out your commands.
You stride across the courtyard, practice sword still in hand, sweat cooling on your skin in the morning breeze. The training ground and your soldiers fade behind you as your focus narrows entirely to Xinyu’s pavilion. Your mind races with a mix of anticipation and concern. Xinyu’s belly had grown significantly. The child - the one she has been so certain is a son - is finally coming.
As you pass through the moon gate into the women’s quarters, you can already hear faint activity ahead: maids moving quickly, low voices, and the occasional strained sound that might be Xinyu.
The three concubines are nowhere in sight yet, but you know they will learn of this soon enough. The news will spread through the household like wildfire.
You reach the entrance to Xinyu’s chambers. The heavy silk curtains have been pulled back, and several maids hover nervously just outside.
One of them bows deeply when she sees you.
“General… Lady Xinyu is in her bed. The pains have started strongly. The midwife says it is progressing well, but it may take some time.”
You hand your practice sword to the nearest servant without a word and step inside.
The room is warm, scented with medicinal herbs and incense meant to ease the birth. Xinyu lies propped up on the large bed, her face flushed and damp with sweat. Her crimson robe is loosened and pushed up, her swollen belly clearly visible and tight with another contraction. She grips the sheets tightly, breathing through the pain with determined focus.
When she sees you enter, her eyes soften despite the discomfort.
“My lord…You came quickly.”
You move to her side, taking her hand in yours. Her fingers are surprisingly strong as they squeeze yours during the next wave of pain. The midwife, an experienced older woman, kneels nearby, quietly giving instructions to the assisting maids.
Xinyu looks up at you, her free hand resting protectively on her belly.
“It is time. Our child is coming.”
Outside the chamber, you can already hear hurried footsteps, the news spreading fast through the estate. The three concubines will likely arrive soon, drawn by the commotion and the weight of what this birth could mean for all of them.
You stay beside Xinyu, holding her hand as another contraction builds.
(male reader, 8k words, written for prompt from my beloved @azelfty & @jmuns-kpop - thank you both for hosting!!!! ♡)
So: the second you saw her, you knew you were going to marry Nakamura Kazuha one day.
“That’s not true,” says Kazuha, when you tell her this. “You’re just trying to flatter me.”
She’s making this real displeased expression when she says it too, brows scrunching together, both corners of her mouth downturned. But it’s not such a bad look when she’s laid out on your bed like that. Worn-thin tank top riding up, one of your hands on the heave of her ribcage. Jesus. Not bad at all.
You’re not-so-subtly inching up the hem of that top. The twitch of one corner of her frowny mouth: even less subtle.
“I’m dead serious,” you say. Your pinky finger draws her top up past her tits. “I felt it, physically. Right here.” You clutch at your chest with the hand that’s not pawing at her; you’re both a pervert and a romantic, it’s your whole thing. “Fate got me good. Really—you know, walloped me in the heart, first time I saw your face. No joke. I almost died.”
“I wish you had,” says Kazuha. But she’s still letting you touch her. “Ugh. You and fate.”
“I know, right? It was crazy. I didn’t even have a choice.”
“And I’m sure it was just terrible for you.” She stretches languorously under your palm, back arching for your benefit. “Being shackled to me by destiny or whatever.”
“Shackled,” you say, briefly losing your train of thought. You are suddenly inundated with ideas about how to fasten her little wrists to your bed frame.
“See?” says Kazuha, as your fingers hook into the side of her panties, stretched taut over her hipbone. “This is what I mean. You have a one-track mind.” She stays so still for you as you undress her. “When you first met me you were not thinking about marrying me.”
“My God. You’re so snarky these days.” Her underwear is promptly lost to some dark corner of your bedroom. “What happened to my sweet girl?”
“You killed that sweet girl,” says Kazuha, batting her lashes. “Shot her dead.”
She pulls a face that is probably supposed to be disgusting: her best corpse impression, eyelids fluttering, tongue lolling out. Understandably you are less than disgusted by it. You lean in to kiss that pretty gaping dead-girl mouth until she laughs and comes back to life.
You’re being serious, though, when you say she used to be so sweet. You still remember those early days, her sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands, all that blushing and stammering she did, all the times she looked at you and away, too shy to hold eye contact. She was so meek it drove you crazy; you were sure there was something up with her. You became kind of obsessed with trying to work out her deal. You thought she was maybe religious—toyed frequently with the image of her in one of those pleated private-school skirts, yum—but she wore a locket around her neck and never any crosses, and sometimes the shortest shorts you’d ever seen.
So you figured: Okay. Not God-fearing. Probably soul-searching anyway. Probably away from home from the first time, new to college and finding herself. You liked the way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled so you took it upon yourself to help with that, Good Samaritan you are.
“You sure?” you murmur to Kazuha. Two fingers between her thighs. Working her open all slow. “I think this little cunt’s still sweet.”
Kazuha makes this hitched sound in the back of her throat. She used to cover her face with her hands whenever you talked dirty to her: furious flush, whining, whimpering, dripping wet, the whole nine. Very cute. Now she just spreads her legs wider and takes it.
“Don’t you think?” you prod, when she says nothing.
Your fingers are down to the knuckle now. Same sound in her throat. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
You’ve taught her well. Kazuha has no trouble looking you in the eye now. She sighs hard: such a chore, going along with your game, like you can’t feel the needy clench of her cunt about it. “Yes, daddy.”
Nakamura Kazuha’s deal, turns out, was this: nobody had ever fucked her good in her life. And—you should’ve been able to tell from all her slutty shorts—this was a girl who desperately needed to be fucked. It was so obvious in retrospect. The long-lashed fuck-me eyes. The way she made her voice all soft and breathy. The day she crawled into your lap and you realized this whole thing was some long-con seduction was like seeing color for the first time, just this world-shattering revelation. I want you, she whispered, so embarrassed about it that humiliated tears shone in her eyes. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t. I just do.
What were you gonna do—say no to that face? Get real. You gave her exactly what she wanted just like you’re giving it to her now.
Somewhere in the filthy haze of Kazuha gagging on three of your fingers and melting when you get your cock in her and you making her beg daddy to cum inside her, the thought surfaces that it’s possible you ruined her. Like, forever. But you can’t find yourself feeling too sorry about that. The idea that you really fucked this girl up for the rest of her life: better and more binding than a ring on that finger.
Almost.
It’s only after you cum inside her and also on her thighs and the smooth plane of her stomach that Kazuha makes an attempt to speak again. Her voice gets thick after sex, like she’s just been crying hard; she has to clear her throat a few times before you can even understand her. Like right now: she tries to say something and just ends up coughing. It reminds you of her laugh, all funny and phlegmy. The first time she got sick around you you could never tell whether she was giggling or hacking up a lung.
“What?” you ask, dragging your fingers through her long dark hair. Your brain kind of always empties out after you fuck her; right now you’re only staring at her flat tummy, picturing what she’d look like knocked up. Not that you have any real plans to do this—you just like thinking about it sometimes, in a feral animal-brained fog. Whatever. After the ring. You can be patient.
Kazuha gives a long-suffering sigh. “You heard me.”
“I really didn’t, baby, I’m sorry.”
“I said.” Kazuha clears her throat again. Or she’s laughing; see, hard to tell. “Marriage, my ass.” Cum drips from her cunt to the sheets. “Admit it. When you met me, you just wanted to fuck me.”
“Mmm,” you say, pretending to think. “It’s been so long, I don’t remember. I definitely wanted to do something to you.”
When Kazuha smiles it shows teeth. You didn’t take her top all the way off; it’s still bunched awkwardly above her tits, a little damp with sweat. But when she yawns and stretches it’s with spades of former ballerina grace, all of it reserved for private performances in your bed.
“Congrats,” she says, eyes closed. “Your wish came true.” She might be falling asleep again. “Now you can do anything to me.”
When you touch the fourth finger on her left hand, you swear her smile grows.
Anything, huh. Well, sure, you know that. You’ve already done a lot of things. You do have that ring in your drawer, though, and it’s been like four years, and you love Kazuha more than life. You’ve checked the forecast; it’s supposed to be a beautiful day today. Might as well let fate have its way.
-
Actually, most days in your life are beautiful, because most days start like this:
Kazuha ends up nodding off after all, but she comes downstairs for breakfast and instead drops to her knees on the kitchen tile and makes you cum with her hands and mouth. She’s so nasty about it, mouth droolly and swollen. Her fingernails are chipping with polish, painted blue. She’s got this bikini you love that’s about the same color; for a while you were seriously wondering if you could somehow get her in it for the proposal. Maybe if you did a beach thing. Hell of an engagement photo. Sending it out to all your friends and family, making everyone go wild over your girl. You cum in her mouth thinking about this and hold her hair in your fist while she swallows, then sticks her clean tongue out afterwards, to prove it.
“Look at you,” you say, patting her cheek. It took Kazuha a while to get used to the whole cum-swallowing thing; she used to spit it up into her hands and look at you with helpless and somewhat betrayed eyes: I’m supposed to like this? “You’ve come so far.”
“I had a great teacher,” says Kazuha, smiling coyly, and it’s so funny, it really is.
After breakfast she lays out on your couch and scrolls mindlessly on her phone. You just have to give her shit for it, making cracks about kids these days, her whole screen-obsessed generation. She calls you old with her eyes kind of glazed; you’ve seriously got to get a book in that girl’s hand one of these days, do something about that attention span. But you like how she looks on her stomach with her feet kicked up, the liquid spill of dark hair over the leather sofa. You’re selfish. You prefer your eye candy with her head in the clouds—gives you all the time in the world to stare. Plus you need her distracted today if you’re going to pull this off.
You’ve got this whole plan. You’ve got a huge backyard you’re going to truss up. Bouquets of flowers in the garage. Kazuha can waste half the day melting into your couch like this; she won’t even notice if you’re putting up string lights.
It’s kind of the best-case scenario—but that’s your whole life, these days. Ever since Kazuha moved in with you at the beginning of summer every morning is this. But you knew it’d be this perfect; you still remember how your heart contracted at the way she looked back in June, running to your car, drowning in her college graduation gown, ponytail streaming like ribbon. You were lovestruck, overcome. You cranked up the AC and gave some sappy and ironically slightly paternal speech about a new chapter for her. Said: Here’s to the rest of your life, kid. She said nothing until you hauled her into your lap and got your cock inside her, and then it was all trying not to bump the horn and going: Fuck, harder, daddy, yeah, like that. And then you took her back to your place and finally the rest of her life began.
It’s funny. When you first imagined proposing you considered taking Kazuha somewhere fancy, or public, making some huge gesture. Big speech, everything. But you think doing it here says more. This is our life, you’d say; beauty in the mundane and all that. This is what’s real. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Spend every day with me just like this. Marry me.
Obviously you do still care about aesthetics. You’ll say something to get her in a dress. You’ve got one in mind—blue like the bikini, marginally more fabric involved, thin straps, lace at the low neckline. These days all Kazuha does is lounge around in pajama pants, faded camp t-shirts from middle school. Lazy girl, this one. It might take some finagling to get her in something nicer. But you’re pretty good at getting her right where you want her.
“Hey, baby,” you call. Kazuha’s head tilts to the side, listening. “You got anywhere to be later?”
Kazuha’s brows lift. “When do I ever?”
“Touché.” She’s a homebody at heart. “Just—stick around. I’m gonna make you dinner tonight.”
“Stick around?” Bark of her phlegmy cough-laugh. “Where else would I go?”
Her feet swing casually. Her toes are painted the same color as her nails, the gleam of sunlight over frothing ocean, shimmering beautiful blue. You catch her by the shin as you’re passing her so you can kiss the bone of her ankle, and she squirms about it, ticklish, but it earns you a sweet little smile.
This is your life, all right. Oh, yeah. Living the dream.
-
Here’s what you’re thinking. There’s this certain perfect time of evening just after the sun goes down—blue hour, they call it. You’ve been looking at photos, so gorgeous and vivid. You’ve been imagining it like a movie. The sky will turn the same color as her dress and her nail polish and her one good bikini. You’ll get down on one knee among all the flowers and lights and you’ll grin and say: Nakamura Kazuha, marry me. She’ll gasp and squeal and cry and kiss you and say: Yes, yes, yes, oh my God, yes, are you kidding, yes, yes, yes. Of course. Yes. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. I love you, I love you so much. You’re it for me. Yes.
Then you’ll probably get all nasty about it and fuck just like that, out there on the lawn, rucking up her little dress around her waist and getting her hair tangled in the grass and calling your future wife a filthy fucking whore. (Obviously you’re allowed to do that, on account of the future wife part, and that it makes her really wet.) Still she won’t stop, just won’t shut up, so excited. Still she’ll throw her head back and keep answering you in that teary thick voice: Yes, daddy, yes.
That’s your whole plan. That’ll be it. Happily ever after, the end.
-
In the end, the dress thing isn’t so hard. In your bedroom she’s peeling off her top, rifling through the dresser in just her panties. You lean into the closet and pluck the dress off the hanger. “Hey,” you say, holding it out to her. “Wear this for me.”
“What am I, your doll?” Kazuha asks, but she’s already reaching for it. So you both know the answer to that question.
-
You’ve decided that you still want a big speech before you pop the question. So lately you’ve been drafting one in your head about all of you and Kazuha’s greatest hits.
There’s this one moment that comes to mind. Spring break of her freshman year of college—you’d only been dating a few months by then. It felt like longer; you’d wanted each other all year, dancing around it all the time. Kazuha was still very sweet but by March you’d fucked her kind of stupid. She got all pouty at having to leave you, sulking into your shoulder until you kissed her hair and made her cum, nice and slow, all over your fingers. You said something dirty to make her shiver, something about her greedy little cunt, so good for daddy. She whispered into your neck: What if I just die without you?
She was really only half-kidding. She was very attached, clinging to you all the time; at the beginning she was always texting you in her classes instead of paying attention, wondering what you were up to. Naturally you were not complaining about the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen being overly dependent on you. You wiped your wet fingers on her thigh.
You’re a big girl, you said. You’ll survive.
Kazuha scrunched up her nose. If you say so, she said.
Her smile was soft with total trust. That was one of your favorite things about her, that starry-eyed blind-faith look. Anything you said automatically became true.
During spring break Kazuha went back to her hometown and got into some major drama with one of her little friends from high school. You were only kind of following the messages she was sending about it; you were trying to keep up with work, grading essays, glancing at your phone in between passable term papers. I’m sorry, you replied to Kazuha, squinting at the frantic blocks of text. Who is this girl again?
chaewon, Kazuha said.
Chaewon… right. Chaewon? You could not remember for the life of you who this was. Kazuha didn’t talk about high school a lot and when she did it was evasive and often negative; junior prom sucked, senior prom I skipped, it was hard to make friends, hard to figure out what to do with my life, ugh, thank God I never have to be sixteen again. What are you even fighting about?
idk. kind of everything?
she was just saying all this stuff about how she doesn’t recognize me anymore
just kept going “what happened to you?”
and i don’t know what to tell her
it’s always been complicated between me and chaewon
but
i don’t know how to explain it
and when i tried to explain it it just made her even more upset
This was all kind of going in one ear and out the other, metaphorically. You wished Kazuha was there with you; it was so much easier to soothe her when you could touch her, wipe her whole brain clean. You’re not making any sense, you said.
i know
i’m sorry
it’s just hard because she’s supposed to be my best friend
she says she’s just worried about me but like
i don’t know
Best friend. Okay. So: this was all just high school shit, basically. Kid stuff. You could empathize. You also started hearing major alarm bells the second you read worried about me. You said: Did you tell her about me?
yeah, says Kazuha, after a long moment. i did.
Is that what you’re fighting about?
kind of?
What do you mean, kind of? You massaged your temples. Like, you told her everything about me? How we met?
You could picture the face Kazuha was making as the panicked texts rolled in: crease between her brows, gnawing at her bottom lip like she was trying to draw blood, or bite it clean off. Sometimes she worked herself up into these fits and the only way to get her out of them was to take her apart one piece at a time. A kiss to the wrinkle in her forehead. Plucking out her bottom lip from between her teeth, and then running your tongue over it until it went soft.
no of course not!
i mean
i told her you were older but
not any of the gory details or anything
Jesus. Gory details, like you had been torturing her, just holding her captive in your basement or something. That was how you knew Kazuha was spiraling. You called her up so you could talk her down.
It wasn’t so hard. Even without touching her you still had a way of soothing her; sometimes in your bed she’d just curl up, shut her eyes, listen to you talk in circles as you heard her breathing slow. You told her a lot of sweet things on that phone call: how it wasn’t her fault, how Chaewon was being crazy, probably jealous, probably can’t handle how you’re all grown up now, she’s stuck in your hometown, you’re making something of yourself, it’s all so pathetic. If she can’t be supportive of you, she’s no friend to you at all. You said things like: Your life should be filled with people who want to see you be great. People who accept you always. You don’t need to bother with anyone who doesn’t understand you, No, honey, don’t cry, I know it’s hard, I know you were friends with her for a long time. But if she can’t love you unconditionally it might be time to let her go.
Because that’s what you deserve, Kazuha, you said. Unconditional love.
Kazuha had stopped sniffling about halfway through the speech. Now her voice was all tender, with a golden thread of awe.
Is that what you feel for me, then? she murmured, sounding very small. Unconditional love?
You laughed. You said: I’m not saying it for the first time over the phone. You can wait for it.
Okay, said Kazuha. She took a deep and shuddering breath. Okay.
But there were things she couldn’t wait for and she still had tension she needed to work out. So you had sloppy, rushed phone sex, you asking her to fuck herself with her fingers, tell you how much she wished it was your cock instead. Of course she complied gorgeously. Just this vile, incredible little chant of: I miss you, I miss your cock, Daddy, let me cum, daddy-please-fuck-can-I-cum, oh God, thank you, thank you.
That Sunday night she was back at college. You picked her up from her dorm room that night, parallel parked at the curb, wearing a baseball cap, kind of going incognito. Kazuha ran down to you with her hair in braids, cheeks flushed, breathing hard.
She opened the passenger side door. She was wearing patterned pajama shorts and her mile-long legs were covered in goosebumps. Her teeth were chattering in her mouth; you could hear the sound of it like something breaking over and over. She looked girlish, every single emotion telegraphed on that innocent wide-open face. She was breathtaking, and all yours.
Hi, Kazuha said. The one word warbled, expectant.
I love you, you said.
She broke into a grin, prettiest thing you’d ever seen. She threw herself into your passenger seat and then into your arms.
-
Here’s another one, hit for the ages. That summer before her sophomore year you packed up your car and you drove Kazuha out to the beach. It was the first time you ever saw her in a swimsuit. Tiny blue bikini, almost comically small on her—I don’t swim ever, she said, it’s so old and gross, I’m sorry, I don’t own another one. But you were pretty sure she wore it for all the skin, just so you would touch her. You knew how girls like her operated. So you touched her.
You’re such a tease, you complained, your hands on her waist, in the ocean up to your knees. The water was freezing cold; she was shivering in your arms. You hooked a finger beneath the strap of her bikini top and then you mimed shooting yourself in the head and just dying about it. You’re so hot you’re killing me.
I got this swimsuit when I was like fourteen, Kazuha said, bemused. How is that hot?
She kept wanting to go out further and further into the water. You didn’t know why—she had a bad knee that had a tendency to ache in the cold, always bothering her in the winter and when it rained. It was what took her out of ballet as a teenager, this really terrible injury, left a jagged scar on one of those perfect long legs. But she floated out of your arms, long careful fingers skimming gentle as summer breeze over the surface of the sea. If she was in pain you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t see her face.
You felt ancient watching her drift away, you with your sore back, her with all that silk-soft skin, no wrinkles by her eyes or mouth. Nineteen, almost. Her birthday was in a few weeks. Kazuha was in the sea up to her collarbone, wet hair plastered to her cheeks and throat.
Don’t drown, kid, you called.
Kazuha waved a hand. I don’t swim ever, that was what she’d said. But she didn’t seem to be scared as she took a breath and went under.
The water lapped at your waist, waves gentle, docile even. You looked up at the sky, such a stunning vivid blue. You thought for a while about your life, the former monotony of it, the soul-sucking jobs, that one awful split with your ex. Funny how none of it mattered now. Sometimes it felt like you’d been waiting all this time for Kazuha to find you.
Out of the blue she was there again. By your side, touching your hand, soaked to the bone.
Sorry, Kazuha said, breathless. She coughed, or laughed. Did I scare you?
Actually it hadn’t occurred to you to be scared. You hadn’t been paying attention for how long she was underwater. Despite what you said you never really thought she’d drown. Part of you was sort of convinced she was invincible, immortal. There was something about her and her bright eyes, her smile that showed all her teeth, her sex drive and her naïveté, her shy and ridiculous laugh. She was too beautiful to get hurt. It wasn’t possible. Even with that scar on her leg—you couldn’t imagine it as an open wound, couldn’t picture her bleeding. Even when the sex got rough you never hit her too hard. It would be going against something cosmic, causing her any serious pain.
Seawater glittered on Kazuha’s cheeks and forehead, in her hair. Her eyes were a little wild. She was shivering all over. Her bikini top had slipped a little; you pulled one of the straps back into place. You kissed her just to taste the salt off her mouth and found her lips trembling and chapped.
Crazy girl, you said. Your hand were on her hips. You knew suddenly that you were going to make her cum right there in a few minutes, just be a public nuisance, having sex on the beach like you were both crazy, horny teenagers, you could already feel it. You said, for the first time, very sure about it: I’m marrying you.
Oh, you are, huh? Kazuha leaned into your chest and let you touch her stomach, then the waistband of her bikini. Do I get a say in this?
Sure. But I know what you’re gonna say.
Still she says it for you over and over again, as you work your fingers into her cunt. Yes, yes, yes.
-
Greatest hit of all. Here’s the truth, about when you knew you were going to marry her.
It wasn’t the first time you saw her. It wasn’t the first time you touched her, even: that one day in the school hallway, you holding the door open for her, you the real gentleman. You’d been so good for so long, but then she’d looked up at you and in a fit of desire you’d touched the small of her back and—good God. The look on her face, then. Trembling mouth, delicious blush. She’d been so gone for you. Schoolgirl crush, literally, fucking adorable, two front teeth in that bottom lip. Made you think stupid words nobody uses anymore like minx and temptress.
It wasn’t the first time you fucked her, or even the second time, when you locked the door to your office and peeled off her soaked panties and fucked her right there on the desk, holding a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t moan, taking it off so you could ask her to call you something gross.
Kazuha hadn’t wanted to, at first. Too shy, sweet girl. She blushed fiercely and said: Do I have to say it?
Yeah, I think you do, you replied, amused. Your cock was inside her, unmoving; you were looming over her, sweating on her filmy sundress, holding her orgasm hostage. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.
Kazuha’s lashes fluttered. Uncertainty in her dark eyes, maybe even a childish tinge of horror. Really?
You’ll be into it, I promise. Come on, baby girl. Do it for me.
Kazuha’s mouth opened and closed, throat working over the conflict, shame, arousal, desire to please, desire to cum. But you were sure she would say it; she would do anything for you. She shut her eyes very tight. She whispered: Daddy.
Yeah?
Daddy. She buried her face in your neck. Please fuck me.
But that wasn’t the moment you knew. Oh, the truth:
Nakamura Kazuha was having a hard time before she met you. Drifting, aimless, purposeless. She’d had some nothing boyfriend that she’d just broken up with. She’d been a very good ballerina before she fucked up her leg. She’d been gearing up to attend some fancy ballet school overseas; she showed you videos of herself dancing, and even with your less-than-nothing knowledge about ballet you could tell she was fantastic, graceful and glorious, moving like she was floating on air, like the sweep of water over the shore, completely born for it.
Born for it? said Kazuha, when you told her this. She was frowning hard. No, I—that’s not how it works. With ballet you have to put all of yourself into it, all your time and effort. It’s your whole life. It’s not something that comes naturally to a person. Her voice got quiet. And—I was good, but I wasn’t great. I wasn’t the best. It would’ve ended for me at one point or another anyway. She touched her scarred knee. This just sped up the process.
You were a beautiful dancer, you said, gently. That’s all I meant.
Kazuha softened. Sorry, she said. I just—I can be sensitive about it. I’m sorry. Thank you. Sorry.
She was at your house for the first time, sitting on your bed while telling you all this. She’d never been so candid with you before, talking about college, how she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, no clue about her career or even picking a major, scared about everything, about losing her best friend from back home, about disappointing her parents, about failing her classes and her whole sprawling unknown unwritten future, terrified about everything under the sun. Or she was, she said. Until you.
I just felt so lost for so long, Kazuha was saying. She was laid out on her back now, her hands folded over her stomach. Her eyes were firmly closed; sometimes when she was being very vulnerable she found it impossible to look at you. I was just waiting around for my life to begin. And then I met you.
Dark eyes peeked open, just the slightest bit.
Sometimes I think you saved me, she said, sounding deeply embarrassed about it. Is that horrible?
You held her jaw in your hand. Why would that be horrible?
Tiny shrug. Because. I was supposed to be—like, I’m in college, and I’m nineteen now, and I—people say all these things about being independent, and I feel like I’m just not, I don’t know how to be, I don’t know anything, I rely on you so much sometimes, I’m just this dumb kid, and you already have a whole life, everything all figured out, and I—I—
You kissed her mouth to quiet her. You’re not dumb, Kazuha, you said. Not at all.
She turned away. She was sinking into your sheets, all that hair like a smear of ink over the pillowcase, like the depths of the bottomless ocean, so dark no light could touch it. When she left you’d bury your face in the pillow to catch the sea-salt smell of her, light like summer air. You were addicted; it was true. You wanted to say something crazy and romantic like: You are my whole life. But she was so young and fragile then and you didn’t want to scare her. No—you wanted to keep her, you realized. Forever, maybe. Forever, if fate allowed, if the stars aligned.
And then Kazuha looked back at you with such raw tenderness that you began to think forever wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.
I thought I knew what I wanted, she said. And now I just want to be yours.
-
That’s when you knew.
-
The perfect day stretches out in front of you. The sun rises high and then begins to fall; your fated blue hour is closer than ever. Kazuha is very tired and goes back to bed in her pretty dress, texting someone lethargically on her phone, the tap of her sapphire nails on the screen halting and slow. “Summer heat,” she says, “it’s getting to me.” You lower the temperature, kiss her head, and go make dinner.
When you’re done you call for her and Kazuha trundles downstairs to sit with you. She puts her phone face-down on the dining table and doesn’t touch it once as you eat. Tonight, for once, she wants to talk.
“About marriage,” Kazuha clarifies, taking a sip of her water, holding your gaze as she does it, those glittering dark eyes.
“Oh, really,” you say, nudging her beneath the table. “That’s funny.”
“Is it?”
“What do you want to know?” You grin; oh, of course she knows, of course she can feel it. Electricity in the air, live-wire spark. Tonight’s the night everything changes. “About marriage? Specifically?”
Kazuha smiles back at you. “What happened to yours, again?”
You laugh out loud. Okay; she’s in one of those moods. Go figure. Precocious fucking girl.
Yours. As in: your marriage, before Kazuha. Or: during Kazuha, technically, at the beginning, when you were sneaking around behind your then-wife’s back. But you don’t talk about that with Kazuha except to laugh at it: yawn, divorce papers, ugh, so tedious, thank God it was a mostly clean break, thank God she never found out about you. Isn’t it funny, I was with someone so wrong for me for so fucking long. I didn’t know what right would be until I met you. It’s actually a very romantic story, how you gave up everything for Kazuha. But she’s already heard this one. She knew you were married the second you met her and she still opened her legs for you anyway.
“You know what happened,” you say, tracing your finger up her thigh. “You happened.”
Kazuha spreads her legs a little wider. “But what was she like?”
Huh. She’s never really asked that before. You think about your ex-wife. “Miserable. She had a lot of issues. She was never happy, the whole time I knew her.” You remember the protruding notches in her spine, her red-rimmed eyes, always a trembling accusing finger pointed right at you. “She was nothing like you.”
“I ran into her the other day, actually,” Kazuha says casually. “Your ex.”
Your hand stops dead on her thigh. You are certain you’ve misheard. “What?”
“We were out of milk. I went to the grocery store and I just—saw her. Or: she saw me, I guess. But I recognized her from your pictures.” By this she means the pictures that used to be framed around your house, before you got divorced, and your ex moved out, and Kazuha moved in, and you filled the place with new pictures of the two of you. “She looks the same, mostly. She cut her hair.”
“When did you—you took your car?” She never takes her car—a graduation gift from you, which sits in the garage basically one hundred percent of the time. She’s always at home. She just doesn’t really have anywhere to go. “How did she know who you were?”
Kazuha shrugs. “Maybe she saw us together,” she says. “Maybe she knew the whole time.”
You stare at her, dumbfounded. “What did she even say to you?”
“A bunch of stuff. It was really weird.” Something very strange happens with Kazuha’s mouth here, a contortion you’ve never seen before. Finally she says: “I guess I didn’t really understand how you met her.”
“Oh,” you say. Your hand falls away. Suddenly it becomes very clear where she’s going with this. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you said she was your student—I thought you meant like me. Like, college student. I didn’t know you meant… I didn’t know that you used to teach high school.”
Ugh. Well: that makes it sound just reprehensible, putting it like that.
Leave it to your ex-wife to twist the whole story in her favor. You loved her, you did. There was just so much bullshit towards the end. She was so angry. She loved making you the bad guy. Always ranting and raving about things you took from her: stupid shit, the last yogurt from the fridge, or the car keys, or her virginity way back when, or her whole fucking life. You were very patient with her; you tried your best to understand. You sat her down, said talk to me, kid, tell me what you want from me, tell me how I can make it okay. But she could never seem to put it into words.
And then it was fall semester and you were back at the university and you stumbled across the love of your life in the front row of your twelve o’clock lecture. Fate is a funny, wicked thing.
“I didn’t teach high school then,” you say. “I was a counselor.”
“Okay,” says Kazuha.
“Christ.” You rub the bridge of your nose, already exhausted by this conversation. “It wasn’t as lecherous as it sounds, you know. We didn’t do anything until years after she graduated. I didn’t even work at that school anymore when she and I got together. And even when I met her, she wasn’t—a child, or anything. Probably around the same age you were.”
“Right,” says Kazuha.
“Kazuha.” You put your hand on her knee. “What did she say to you?”
For a moment she doesn’t speak. She looks for a long time at your hand on her leg. Her expression is completely inscrutable, wiped clean. Like when you weren’t looking the tide came in and washed all trace of Nakamura Kazuha away and now it’s just her body sitting hers—or not even really hers, just someone’s body, some gorgeous stranger, some rigid bloodless beautiful carcass, limp beneath your fingertips.
“Kazuha?”
An odd noise comes from Kazuha’s mouth. Laugh. Cough. Something. She touches her hand to her lips, looking surprised at herself. She looks up at you with wide clear eyes, like she’s seeing you for the very first time.
All of a sudden her whole face crumples and she begins to cry.
“Kazuha—”
Immediately you are up out of your chair and scooping her into your arms, rubbing her back, petting her hair. You whisper soothing things into her ear. You kiss her face and touch her all over, you tell her you love her, it’s okay, honey, baby, I love you, it’s okay. But Kazuha will just not stop crying, no matter what you say or do, thick wet sobs that rock her entire body, natural disaster in your arms. Nothing you do seems to be helping. So eventually you hold her close to your chest and try saying nothing at all for a while.
She’s been doing this more and more lately. Just falling to pieces for no discernible reason. You find her crying violently at random times of the day, in her bed or on the couch, or searching through the refrigerator, scrubbing ferociously at her wet cheeks, standing there with the door open so long the refrigerator starts to beep at her. She doesn’t even seem to notice when this happens. She just cries and cries over the sound. She’s getting a little cabin fever, you think; it makes a lot of sense. Recent college grad, no job, no prospects, no plans for the future. You’re not sure what she does while you’re at work. Sits at home, reads, waters all the plants in your big house, goes on her phone, paces, sleeps, sleeps, wakes breathless in the night, gets up, runs the tap in the bathroom for a long time, comes back to bed, sleeps fitfully, sleeps odd hours, sleeps entire days or weeks away, sleeps. You’re not certain what she does or what she plans to do with her whole life. She’d wanted to go to grad school at some point, or get a job, or had at least vaguely thrown the idea around, but you haven’t heard her talk about that in ages. She had friends once, but then she started spending all her time with you.
Maybe this isn’t so bad, though. Maybe it stopped mattering what she wanted to do with her whole life when her whole life became you. Which is actually very sweet and romantic. Which is the whole point, isn’t it? That’s what people say. Love: the point of everything. And now the benevolent universe or some higher power has tracked you down and given all that love to you.
Maybe she’s just a little lonely. Maybe you’ll get her a dog. Maybe she gets jealous and insecure, all that time you spend at school, all those pretty wide-eyed girls sitting in the front row right where she used to sit.
Maybe you know how to fix all of this. Maybe you’ll put that ring in your drawer on her finger and she’ll know she’s yours forever. Just like you said. Happily ever after, the end.
-
After a while, as usual, the terrible sobbing subsides.
“I’m sorry she upset you,” you tell Kazuha quietly, stroking back her hair. You’re a puddle on the kitchen floor, her ruffly dress like so much water in your lap. “There’s a reason I divorced her, you know. She’s—very difficult.”
Kazuha’s lips part. Indeterminable sound and expression. Maybe, at last, a smile. She says in a hoarse voice: “I thought the reason you divorced her was because you fell in love with me.”
“Oh, no, you’re right, that’s it,” you agree, cradling her close to your chest, your girl, your baby. “It was all your fault.”
You’re not really sure how you end up having sex about this but you do, right there on the kitchen floor, fucking her and her tight hot cunt into the tile. You push up her blue dress and remind her how your love story started. You cushion the back of her head with your palm and watch her face collapse and rebuild itself in all manner of expressions. You lean down and speak very softly into her ear. You say: You remember how it happened, honey. You started all this. You sitting in the front row with your big eyes and your slutty shorts, smiling so big at everything I said. Asking all those questions, little teacher’s pet freshman, acting so innocent, acting like you weren’t dying to be fucked by me. You knew what you were doing to me. You asked for this. And then you came to my office and then you really asked for it, begged for it even, cried like a baby about it, I remember. Putting on a big show, acting all pure and virginal the second you got my cock inside you: Ow, wait, slow down, it hurts. But then you curled up in my lap afterwards anyway with those tears in your eyes and told me it was so good, you swore to God.
She’s whining, cumming, crumbling, dissolving, turning to liquid underneath you, all slick and no substance. You’re saying only the truth. Yes, your fault, kid. Have you ever looked in a mirror? This one’s all on you.
“I don’t know,” says Kazuha. “I really—I don’t know about all of that.” She’s crying again, her hands hiding her face, like the sweet girl you shot dead. “I think I was just trying to go to school.”
-
Fine. The gory details, if people want to know so bad:
Kazuha walked into that lecture hall first day of fall semester and you knew with perfect shocking clarity that fate was on your side. Kazuha introduced herself that very first day after class by shaking your hand. Kazuha was very polite, all please and thank yous, a real good girl, too good to hide that she had a thing for you, her clammy hand, her darting gaze, her nervous shuffling, so fucking obvious, so cute. Kazuha was your best and brightest and by far most beautiful student, your revelation, your darling angel, your saving grace. Oh, God. Oh, she was something. Her and all those shy front-row questions, barely able to meet your eyes those first few weeks. Her coming rarely and then frequently to your office hours, sitting across from you in that tiny room, making fun of Freud, laughing at your jokes. Calling you professor with a blush, sneaky little cocktease, like re-establishing the boundaries between you two didn’t make her wet. When she smiled hard enough dimples appeared in the apples of her cheeks, like cat whiskers. They were so faint that you could only see them at the right angle, tiny shallow indents when she turned to the side. You thought: Mine. You are meant to be mine. You touched her wrist, you touched her knee, you touched her low on the back as you held the door for her to walk out and she went stiff like a frightened deer, just for a moment, before she melted.
One day you let her into your office and locked the door behind her. You hauled her into your lap and kissed the gasp off her mouth. You anchored her there, your hands on her hips. You said: Tell me the truth.
What?
Tell me you want me.
She squirmed and squirmed. There were tears in her eyes; she was turning you on. I want you, Kazuha said, her voice high and trembling. I’m sorry. I know it’s so bad; I’ve been feeling so bad about it, all the time. I know I shouldn’t want you. I just do.
And she wanted you so bad she began to beg about it, just totally fall apart. So in the end the whole thing—fucking her that first day and all the days after, picking her up from her dorm when her roommates were out, sneaking her into your house when your wife wasn’t home, taking her into your bed, taking her around in your car to dark bars and movie theaters and places people wouldn’t stare, wouldn’t care she was half your age, your pretty girl, your most favorite thing—was sweet, real, pure, true love, you know that now. In the end it really wasn’t gory at all.
-
You go to the garage to retrieve the overflowing bouquets of flowers. Inside sits the car you bought Kazuha. You really thought that one would be a bigger gesture than it was; you had some fantasy about her filling it with her perfume and lotion and lip gloss, plastering it with bumper stickers, leaving coffee old cups in there that you could nag her about. But she never touches it. Never puts any of her things in it. She’s like that in your house, too: scrupulously neat. She cleans her hair out of the shower drain. If she weren’t there, physically, all the time, no one would ever know anyone else lived here.
Well—no. The pictures. People would know from the pictures. Pictures of her at eighteen and nineteen and twenty and twenty-one, her little face pressed up against yours, smiling shyly. People will know when you take pictures of that ring on her finger, in her blue dress, surrounded by flowers, her mouth still forming the word yes. People will know where she belongs, that she’s yours.
It’s kind of beautiful, actually, about the unused car. She has nowhere to go only because you already give her everything.
-
You set up the backyard for a long time. It’s lovely, those lush blossoming petals out on the lawn, the twinkling lights. You’ll play music, maybe, some candy-sweet love song. You have the ring in your pocket. You are incandescently happy. You have until the end of the time to be with the love of your life. You go back inside to find her.
You hear the sound of the garage door.
-
Blue hour. Nothing else to call it: everything so sapphire blue, impossibly blue. Stretching overhead for miles and miles. It’s a little bit like you’re back on that beach, adrift in the middle of the ocean, watching your girl’s head go underwater. You hadn’t felt relief when she came back up because you never considered it, that she’d get hurt, that she’d leave you. You walk out the open garage door and onto the driveway. Your world has inverted; nothing is as it was. The sea above your head, the sky beneath your feet. You crane your neck up like you think you’ll find her there somewhere, treading water, or drowning in all that blue.
“Kazuha?” you say. Your voice comes out funny, like you’re making a joke. “Kazuha? Hello?”
It is a joke, a little bit. Kazuha’s car isn’t here and neither is she. But for a second you still think you’re going to get an answer.
You raise your voice. “Kazuha?”
She’d been wearing blue that first day in your office, too: periwinkle, actually, pale on her paler skin, slice of the washed-out autumn sky. She was bashfully asking questions about the material, blushing under the full sunlit beam of your attention. She talked about herself a little when prompted. She’d just had a big birthday—eighteen, can you believe it, finally grown up. She was excited and terrified to be in college. She was out from under her parents’ thumb. She was floating free and unmoored. She had all these outlandish ideas about what she wanted and wanted to be before you caught her by the wrist and brought her safely back down to earth.
At the end of the street, a car idles at a stop sign. It turns left, out of your neighborhood, out of sight.
You look up again. All around you, an inescapable embrace: glittering, gorgeous, endless blue.
-
🦋🌀🪼💙🪁
-
to @capslocked - much much love to my parallel! it is always an honor to share a :braincoat: with you & i wouldn't have it any other way 🐥🐣
Summary: Your girlfriend is insanely pretty and... that's the problem.
Got the idea from a conversation with @ducktoo, @kwilquib, and @azelfty. Also got some help from @leafostuff. Thank you, guys.
Shoutout to s1mpleducke and my fans who wanted more fromis.
This story is not really edited because otherwise I would have never published it, so sorry for the quality.
Your girlfriend Chaeyoung was stunning. Dating her was a daily lesson in humility. Whenever you went out in public, you could feel the collective “How?” radiating from every person you met. Everyone would look at her like she was royalty and you would look like you were the one who kidnapped her.
You didn’t blame them. She looked like a runway model even while she slept. The messier she was, the more angelic she felt, and she only needed a little effort to look stunning.
But for Chaeyoung, her face was also an insecurity. She was convinced that her incapability of looking cute (which wasn’t true) meant that your parents would never take her seriously.
“They’ll think I’m a rascal,” she’d say, pacing around the apartment. “They will never accept me as your girlfriend. They’ll think I’m just some heartbreaker.”
The anxiety reached an all-time peak in the week leading up to the day she’d meet her parents. By saturday she was an unstable bomb waiting to explode. It was exhausting just watching her. Every time your phone buzzed, she’d rush out convinced it was your mother calling to cancel the day or worse, to interview her over the phone. You tried to soothe her but eventually the sound of her frantic rambling became white noise that lulled you into an accidental nap on her couch.
You had finally awakened from your nap a couple of hours later, thinking she had finally stopped. Stretching your stiff limbs to get rid of the pains of the couch, you got up and looked for some water. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass. As you drank, you could hear some rustling from the other side of the hallway.
It sounded like clothes being thrown and beaten. You took a sip and started walking towards it. There was nobody else in the house but your girlfriend so surely it must have been her.
You stopped dead in front of the room and were left with your eyes wide open. There was a giant mountain of clothes on the ground—shirts, pants, dresses flung everywhere, dangling from the shelves and sliding off the edge of the bed. In fact, it was so full that there wasn’t any more space left on the floor, and some stray garments had found their way onto her head.
“Chaeyoung, what are you doing?” you asked, scanning the room to find stuff everywhere.
Your girlfriend blew a stray lock of hair out of her face and sighed. She slouched against the rolling chair, forgetting it was indeed a rolling chair that… rolls, so it just slid off, and she fell down on her back.
“Argh!” she exclaimed and kicked her legs at the pile of clothes out of pure frustration. “I don’t know what to wear!”
“You’re stressed about tomorrow?”
“Of course! Why would I not be?” she shot back.
“Don’t worry, Chae, just wear whatever,” you said, taking another casual sip of your water.
“Oh, it’s so easy to say for you!” she yelled and got back up. “I’ll see how you’ll act when it’s your time to meet my parents.”
“I will just wear a nice shirt,” you commented dryly, which seemed to upset her even more.
She crossed her arms up, her beautiful eyes narrowing at you. “Okay, I’ll try some stuff, and you tell me how it is. Be honest, alright?”
“Alright,” you agreed.
“Go out, let me change,” she said after getting up and pushing you out.
“It’s not like I can see you under that pile of clothes anyway—” you tried to reason before she closed the door.
You went back to the kitchen to put the glass away and came back to stand in front of the door, pacing around and staring at the wall, listening to the muffled sounds of zippers, frustrated groans and the occasional hanger flying into the wall.
As soon as you caught a glimpse of your girlfriend, air completely fled from your lungs. A floor-length, long-sleeved floral dress draped over her frame. The thin fabric had a pure white glow while the red roses painted it with vivid spots of love.
With her sharp, striking features, the simple dress didn’t look plain at all.
“Uhm,” you started, desperately trying to collect your thoughts. “What are you going for here?”
“Sweet girl next door? I look like I make my own butter, it’s perfect,” Chaeyoung said, brushing some strands of her hair behind her ears, an action that revealed itself to be more lethal than she thought.
“The next door must be heaven, because you look like an angel.”
She shot you a mean, angry glare, smoothing her dress on her stomach. “It’s no time for jokes!”
She looked down at the white fabric. “Look at it. It’s basically a tent. It has no shape whatsoever.”
“Well, no, you don’t really look like a ‘sweet girl’, to be honest…”
“Wh-why not?” Chaeyoung said worriedly. To prove her point, she did a stiff, awkward twirl, turning her back to you. “It’s just a cylinder.”
As she turned, the supposedly shapeless fabric caught on the curve of her hips. The thin, silky material draped right over the butt, clinging just enough to perfectly accentuate the exact shape of it. She looked like the breathtaking, painfully pretty heroine of a historical drama—specifically designed to ruin men’s lives.
All the teasing died in your throat. You just stood there in the hallway, opening and closing your mouth like a dumb fish out of water.
“It looks conservative,” she continued, looking over her shoulder at you. “Your mom will definitely think I’m—”
Chaeyoung stopped and saw your still expression aimed at her lower half. Her eyes narrowed. She turned around and saw her reflection in the full-length mirror behind her.
“Oh, you must be kidding me,” she groaned. She reached back and desperately tried to puff out the fabric, but as soon as she let go, they settled right back onto her curves. “Why is it doing that?”
“I… uh…” you mumbled.
“Don’t even say it,” she said, raising her index at you.
“It’s not going to work. You’re still way too pretty.”
“Ugh! Okay, let’s do another one.”
She stomped back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone in the hallway to recover.
A few minutes later, she stepped out, and your brain entirely short-circuited. You could pretty much hear the cables in your brain frying, sizzling, popping, while smoke poured out of your ears.
She was in a suit. It was a whole look. She was wearing her black stockings that drew attention to the length of her legs, partially covered by a sharp pencil skirt, and ended with a crisp white button-down shirt and a loosely tied necktie.
At this point, you were drooling.
“So?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her head.
“I would so fuck the shit out of you.”
“Oh my god!” She threw her hands in the air, causing the tight shirt to pull against her chest. “You can’t stay serious.”
You were truly, in all honesty and with maximum effort, trying to stay serious. This was your way of remaining grounded and sane. Actually, you were lucky she didn’t put on any makeup because that would have been the end of you. Her face was totally bare, her hair messy from the outfit changes, if she had paired the suit with red lips? Yeah would be on the floor.
“Chae, there’s no way you actually tried with this one. Are you doing it on purpose? Is this a test?”
“What’s so bad?” she whined, stomping her foot, in a strangely cute manner, which only confused your brain more. “I’m trying to look like a banker. So your mom can take me seriously. Do I look serious?”
“You look… you do look serious.” You swallowed hard, your eyes darting down to her stockings and then right back up to her face. “Uhm. Like one of those serious, confident, sexy secretaries who blackmail the CEO.”
“Fuck you. I’m throwing this out.” She grabbed the collar of her shirt, ready to rip it off.
“No, no, no, no, please!” you pleaded, lunging forward with zero dignity and grabbing her hands. “It looks too good! I didn’t even know you had any of this! Please, you have to wear it again for me later! I am literally begging you.”
“Fine! Fine! Get off me, you weirdo!” she huffed. Despite her tone and eye roll, a blush crept up her cheek. She liked the compliment, even if it completely ruined her plan. She placed her hands flat against your chest and shoved you back out into the hallway.
“Sorry,” you stated, going back to your stupid, stiff stance like a dog waiting at the door.
“I can go for something more casual.”
“Sure.”
When the door opened for the third time, she emerged wearing a mustard-yellow cardigan and a matching shell top, buttoned up to her very collarbone. It was paired with a longer skirt, and to tie the whole thing together, she had put on a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses.
You were already a sucker for girls in glasses, but seeing them on your girlfriend's perfect nose was a lethal combination.
She pushed the frames up her nose. “This way she can think I’m smart, right? I look like a librarian.”
“We’re not getting any reading done with you dressed like that.”
“Gosh, not even this?!” She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “It’s cute! It’s completely covered up!”
“No, Chae. It’s incredibly hot.”
“I even buttoned it all the way up.”
“You can hide your chest, but you can’t hide those curves,” you say, gesturing to her waist.
“Fuck, I really need to dumb this down.”
She retreated for the fourth time. When she returned, she was wearing a pastel pink polo shirt tucked stiffly into a pair of pleated khaki pants.
“Come on now,” she pleaded, gesturing to herself. “This is the standard suburban mom outfit. Your mom will take one look at me and think I’m the perfect, boring wife.”
“Mom, yeah. Milf, definitely.”
“What!”
“You did not dumb it down. Y-you look like a model from Vogue, where did you even get this?”
“I got it from the thrift shop!” she cried, looking genuinely distressed.
“It must be you then,” you sighed. “You make everything look good.”
“I give up!”
She disappeared into the bedroom one last time. For her final trick, she didn’t even bother with her own clothes. Instead, she chose one of your sweaters that she stole a long time ago. It was an old chunky knit sweater and a perfectly standard pair of blue jeans.
She didn’t try to style it but the sweater naturally draped in a way that was effortlessly chic, showing a hint of her collarbone. The jeans hugged her hips perfectly. She was comfortably, naturally gorgeous.
Defeated, Chaeyoung gave you a slow, lifeless spin and then slumped sideways against the doorframe, letting her head thunk against the wood.
“This is it. I surrender,” she sighed, her voice small. “This is the most boring clothing in the apartment, and it’s still not enough. Your mom is going to take one look at me and think I’m a rascal who’s going to ruin her son’s life.”
You softened and smiled. You stepped closer, gently reaching out to brush the stressed hair out of her face.
“You look beautiful, Chaeyoung.”
She looked up at you through her eyelashes, her sultry eyes genuinely vulnerable. “But do I look respectable?”
“You look adorable,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry so much. Actually, my mom is really into fashion; she’s probably going to love your normal clothes. And besides... You know my dad actively chooses to wear socks with his sandals, right?”
Chaeyoung giggled.
-
You didn’t really get much sleep last night. She kept nervously pacing around your room and asking you endless questions about what your parents liked, what they hated, and what shoes she should wear.
Eventually, she did run out of energy and went to sleep, cuddled deeply by your side. She looked relaxed and didn’t seem to have any worries left.
You were dead wrong.
It was 5 AM when a sharp noise jolted you awake. You blinked and looked around in the darkness, disoriented. It wasn’t just the noise; you were sure you could smell something burnt in the air. It smelled somewhat like sugar? But there was something off about it.
You moved your arm to check on her, only to find the sheets cold and her side of the bed completely empty. Mind you, it was a sunday so there was no logical reason for your girlfriend to be up. You cursed under your breath and got up to check what was going on.
You followed the faint glow coming out of the kitchen, with the strong scent. When you turned the corner, you stopped dead in your tracks. You couldn’t believe your eyes. There was flour all smeared across the counters and tables, and even the floor. Tons of used bowls were towering precariously in the sink. They weren’t even scraped clean, some of them had big globs of heavy drooping batter dripping from their sides.
And standing in the center of the kitchen, was Chaeyoung.
She was still in her cute pyjama with the bears but was wearing a pink apron. Her hair was lazily tied up in a messy bun, with strands falling into her face, and a streak of flour smeared across her cheekbone. Of course, there was stuff all over her apron as well with mysterious stains and wet spots.
She didn’t notice you. She was standing there, hands on her hips, staring directly into the oven door.
“Chae?” you asked, groaning, “What are you doing?”
She lightly jumped and squeaked when she heard your voice. She didn’t really expect you to be awake. Her eyes saw you, then darted at her mess and back to you. She straightened her back, trying to look a little more dignified.
“I’m making cookies,” she announced, letting her voice pitch up from the nervous laughter. “Your mom said she loves sweets. And it’s well known that great women can cook. So your mom will think I’m the perfect wife material for her son when she sees what I baked from scratch.”
“You really don’t have to—”
The oven timer interrupted you. Chaeyoung gasped and in a panic, scrambled to get a pair of oven mitts. She yanked the oven door open, releasing a dense cloud of gray smoke. Coughing, she reached into the fog and pulled out the baking sheet.
She slammed the hot metal tray on the stovetop, waving the smoke away with her hand and stepped aside to look at her masterpiece.
It was a total disaster.
Instead of individual cookies, they were half-melted into each other, forming one big mega-cookie. The edges were completely charred while the center was inexplicably pale and shiny. You weren’t sure how that would be possible. There was no physical explanation for what you were saying.
Chaeyoung stared at the pan. Slowly, her shoulders slumped. She buried her face in her hands.
“Look at them,” she whispered. “They’re terrible, just like me.”
“Hey, come on,” you said softly, carefully stepping over a puddle of milk. “They aren’t that bad,” you said and patted her back, kissing the top of her head.
“Your parents will hate me,” she mumbled into her hands. “I can’t even make cookies. I’m a disaster.”
“They are not going to hate you,” you said casually. To prove your point, you reached out and broke off a piece of the cookie slop.
“Don’t eat that,” she warned you, grabbing your wrist. “You’ll die.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” you said with a brave smile, tossing it into your mouth.
Your teeth crunched through bitter charcoal, followed immediately by the squishy, gooey texture of raw flour and wet egg. You forced a smile, chewing rapidly to make it end, and swallowed hard. You could feel it dragging its way down your throat.
“Mmmh,” you managed to hum, nodding aggressively. “Wow. Incredible. Delicious.”
Chaeyoung looked at you with a deeply unimpressed, cute grumpy face. “You’re lying. You look like you’re in pain.”
“I am,” you admitted, reaching for a glass of water to wash it away. You took a big gulp and finally exhaled when the foreign object was gone.
You looked back to her and wiped some flour off her face. “But I love that you tried. I know you care a lot.”
“You know what?” you said, squeezing her hand. “Let’s clean this… mess, and we’ll buy something at the bakery. We can just put it in our dish and say you made it.”
Chaeyoung looked up at you, letting a small smile break through her disappointment.
“You’d lie to your mother for me?”
“Of course,” you laughed. “Come here,” you tell her and open your arms.
“You’ll get all dirty, I’m covered in flour.”
“Who cares,” you mumbled as you wrapped Chaeyoung in your cocoon. Your girlfriend closed your eyes and exhaled with a defeated smile. She brought her hands around your back and melted into you.
It was alright. Chaeyoung could feel it in the way you held her. She didn’t realize how much she missed it until she felt your arms around her and realized how silly it was.
When you let her go, she couldn’t look you in the eyes.
That was the adorable Chaeng you knew. Even though she looked so cold and confident, she was just a soft girl after all.
“Look at you, you’re all white.”
“Well, we’re a couple, we need matching outfits, don’t we?”
Chaeyoung giggled and shoved you. “You’re so dumb.”
You stepped back, surveying the disaster zone while the mega cookie sat on the stove. “Okay,” you said, rolling up your sleeves, “we should start cleaning.”
Chaeyoung moved toward the sink. “It won’t come off,” she hissed, leaning her weight into the spatula as she tried to pry the charred mass from the tray. A sharp clack echoed through the kitchen as the spatula broke clean. “Fuck it,” she scoffed and threw the remaining piece of the spatula into the sink.
“Come on, get the trash bag. We have to throw it at the waste disposal site. They have to burn it. You never know if it could become sentient.”
She let out a dry, exhausted chuckle and got the flour and trash into the bag. While you scraped and scrubbed, she began wiping down the counters. At one point, she stopped, staring at a particularly stubborn stain.
“I really thought I could do it,” she whispered. “I thought if I could make something nice, your mom would see it and forget that I look like… well, this.”
“A goddess?” I offered, sliding the last of the burnt evidence into the bin.
She shot me a look that was half-pout, half-glare. “A heartbreaker. A rascal. Someone who doesn't know how to take care of her son.”
“Trust me, after they see how I live, they’ll realize you’re the one doing the heavy lifting.”
You got down on your hands and knees, grabbing the floor rag to try to remove the sticky slurry near the baseboards. Looking at it, you probably needed some kind of industrial solvent to really get those out.
You were still scrubbing the floor with that dirty rug when Chaeyoung found the courage to speak up. She took a deep breath and momentarily put the bowls down. She stared at the reflections in the water, where a thousand distorted versions of her face shimmered in the bubbles.
“Everyone thinks I’m just ‘the pretty girl,” she started. “It was all fun when I was in high school, although boys were too afraid to ask me out. But when I grew up, girls would say all kinds of things.”
“They were jealous?” you said.
“I think so, or they had the wrong idea. It’s not like I was doing anything for attention.”
You put the rag down and sat back, looking back at Chaeyoung. The cheap lighting of the kitchen showed all the rough parts of her. She was tired and dishevelled, but there was a tenderness that you had never felt. An angel was shedding her wings in front of you, molting her white feathers to reveal the skin and bone beneath.
“It must be so nice to have a job where you just have to look nice for cameras all day. That’s what they would say,” Chae sighed. “I had to work really hard to prove I was capable.”
“But you are,” you said. “You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re… incredible, and you know it. People are just judgmental.”
“Even then. It’s like I’m just a trophy. You know my ex?”
You raised an eyebrow. “That guy? What did he do?”
“Well, I kinda told you about it, but I don’t think he really liked me. He would never listen to me. I think he just wanted to boast to his friends about me.”
“Yeah, he was an asshole.”
“I was careful about boys afterwards,” Chaeyoung said and sat down under the sink. She hugged her knees and stared at the floor. “About people, in general.”
You scooted closer to her, sitting with her against the kitchen counters.
“The people that mattered didn’t take me seriously, while random people would always harass me,” she confessed. “It’s like I’m just a face.”
Your right hand slipped on top of hers, and you held it there, so she wouldn’t fly away into her thoughts. Chaeyoung instinctively leaned into your shoulder.
“I always knew you were a great person, Chaeyoung. Since the first time I met you,” you said. “Maybe it was because people projected their own personalities onto you, you did all you could to let people know who you were. You were so caring, so bright, so genuine.”
Chae turned her head to look at you as you talked with shiny eyes.
“More than anyone else, you were just you. You laughed like it was the first time you ever did. You were honest, but always so kind and gentle with everyone.”
You took Chae’s face in your hands and looked straight into her eyes. “You are beautiful. You know it; you were blessed with beauty. But it’s not just on your skin, but rather in your soul. Every day, I can’t think about anyone but you. There’s nothing like the first time I hear your voice, and the day just becomes better. Looking at your beauty is an experience, but living with you gives me purpose.”
Chae started tearing up and sniffling.
“Aww, no, crybaby,” you said and snorted.
She let out a jagged breath, a sob catching in her throat. “Why do you have to say shit like that now?” she hiccuped, her laugh breaking through the tears. “You’re always so dumb.”
“Want me to go back?”
“Shut up or you’ll ruin it,” Chaeyoung hiccuped. “I fucking love you.”
Chae leaned in to kiss you, and you accepted her salty lips. It was the most delicate kiss you ever gave her. She was so fragile right now that you were scared you would hurt her.
Your girlfriend finally laughed.
“Alright, I feel better now, it will be okay,” Chaeyoung said.
“That’s the spirit, princess,” you said and brought your hand up to pat her head. She closed her eyes and giggled, enjoying your touch.
-
“Let’s get that cake,” Chaeyoung said, pointing at the glass. She was pointing at the lemon chiffon masterpiece topped with gold leaf and spun sugar. There were all sorts of nice drawings made with buttercream, yeah, no way.
“Respectfully, that cake looks a bit too nice, no offense.”
“Offense taken, that’s wildly disrespectful, what are you implying?” she said sternly.
“We don’t want to give her expectations that high, do we?”
She looked back at the golden cake, then at the rustic strawberry tart in the corner. She let out a long, defeated sigh. “You’re right…”
-
You were finally in front of your parents’ house.
You turned the engine off and were going to leave the car, but Chaeyoung didn’t seem to move. She was in her passenger side with the sun visor flipped down, staring intensely into the small mirror. She flashed a wide, overly enthusiastic, toothy grin. She held it for two seconds before her face fell flat.
“Looks weird,” she muttered to herself. “How does Hayoung do this?”
She took a deep breath, adjusting her sweater, and tried again. This time, she kept her mouth closed, giving the mirror a softer expression.
“Too formal,” she whispered, sighing heavily.
You leaned across your seat. “Chae, what exactly are you doing?”
“I’m practicing my smile,” she said without breaking eye contact with the mirror. “First impressions are everything, you know? I have to greet them properly.”
“You’re overthinking it,” you chuckled, reaching over to flip the visor back up. She pouted at you. “You don’t need it. You have a great smile. Just be the girl I fell in love with, they’ll love you too.”
“Heh,” she complained, finally clicking her seatbelt open. She glanced down at the bakery box sitting on her lap. “Do you think she’ll know these are from the bakery?”
“Nah, she won’t know. They’re in a plate.” You reached over and gave her a reassuring pat on her shoulder. “It will be fine, I promise.”
“Okay, fine,” she nodded.
You both got out of the car and walked up to the house door. You knocked, and the door quickly swung open. Your mother stood in the doorway, a floral apron tied around her waist and a wooden spoon still clutched in one hand.
She froze.
Her eyes immediately locked onto Chaeyoung. She took in your girlfriend’s perfectly styled hair, her elegant but understated outfit, and the warm, genuinely sweet smile that Chaeyoung managed to produce.
Then, very slowly, your mother's gaze drifted over to you. She looked you up and down, her expression shifting from absolute awe to profound, undisguised confusion.
"Mom?" you prompted, shifting a little awkwardly under her scrutiny. "This is Chaeyoung."
Your mother finally blinked, snapping out of her trance.
"You’re gorgeous, dear," your mother said to Chaeyoung. “Why on earth would you choose this monkey of my son?”
“Come on, Mom, why would you say that?” you said. “Don’t you love your son?”
“I do love you, son, but compared to her…” she said, turning her head to Chaeyoung and offering her hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh, please call me Mom, you’re part of the family now,” your mom smiled brightly. “Is he treating you right? Do I need to talk to him?”
“No, Mom, he’s treating me really well, don’t worry.”
“See?” you said proudly, “I’m a good boyfriend.”
“I know she’s just being,” she said and stepped to the side, inviting both of you to come inside.
‘So far so good’, Chaeyoung thought as she stepped into the living room. You quickly went to the kitchen to put the food down while your girlfriend explored the space. To you, it all seemed familiar, but it was all new to her.
Unfortunately for you, the living room was riddled with photos of when you were younger, and your mom was really eager to talk about them.
“How old was he in this photo?”
“I think he was… 5?” your mom guessed, taking the picture frame from the wall. She handed it to your girlfriend, and the two scanned the embarrassing photo. You were riding around a toy car, and you probably were missing some teeth.
“He used to be really cute when he was little,” your mom said. “Oh, how fast they grow up. Now he’s just a brute.”
“Right!” Chaeyoung exclaimed. “How was he when he was little? Was he extroverted?”
“He kinda was. He used to do everything I told him and made friends pretty easily.”
“What about this one?” Chaeyoung said, pointing at the photo on the chimney frame.
“Oh, this one.” Your mom took that frame as well and handed it to your girlfriend. You weren’t alone in this picture. There seemed to be a girl right next to you. Judging by how you looked, it must have been around the time you started elementary school. Both of you had missing teeth and had very colorful clothes.
“They’re holding hands,” Chaeyoung mentioned, brushing her index finger on the glass.
“Oh, yeah, that was his first girlfriend. One day, he came home with that girl and said she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.”
“That must have been fun.”
“No, I was so worried! I had to call her parents and explain why she didn’t come home,” your mom said. “And all of that for him to forget her a couple of days later.”
Chaeyoung and your mom continued to laugh and chat while watching your photos. It wasn’t much later that she decided to pull out the big folder with the child photos of when you were playing with Legos or learning to walk. To hell with not trusting Chae, your mom was telling her all your secrets and dark stories. She didn’t care a single bit.
“Oh, look at this one, Chaeyoung,” your mom cooed, pointing to a Polaroid of you aged four, wearing nothing but a diaper and a colander on your head like a helmet, pointing a wooden spoon at a dog. “He thought he was a knight and refused to take his helmet off for a week.”
Chaeyoung let out a sound that was half-giggle, half-gasp, her eyes darting from the photo to you and back. “That’s so cute.”
“Mom! When will we eat?” you shouted from the kitchen.
“Oh, right!” your mom exclaimed and hurried to put the albums away into the closet. Your girlfriend helped her and then went into the kitchen as well.
Your dad was still under the sink with tools in his hands. He partially slid out to take a look at your girlfriend.
“Oh, Chaeyoung, right?” he asked.
“Ah, yes, sir—dad.”
“Attaboy that’s my son!” he exclaimed, lightly kicking your foot. “Chaeyoung, pass me the flashlight.”
“R-right away!” she stumbled and looked around for the tool.
“It’s on the table.”
“Okay, here.”
“Can you turn it on and hold it there?”
“Of course,” she said and crouched down to help your dad. She turned it on and illuminated the area where he was working. Of course, she had no idea what he trying to see so she did her best.
“Steady on the light, Chae,” your dad grunted as he was trying to turn the joining with his greasy hands.
“Like this?” she asked softly, pointing the beat to his wrench. He kept her there for a couple of minutes as he wrestled under the sink until everything was tight and fixed. Your girlfriend felt a bit disgusted by the dirtiness that was around the area, especially the grey water. But it also meant that your dad didn’t really care about how she looked and it made her feel better.
When he was done, he slipped out on the floor and got up with a heavy grunt. “Leak’s plugged,” he announced, dusting off his knees.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “My son would have dropped the light in the water, can’t trust him with nothing.”
“I’m right here,” you shouted from the stove.
“So?” he replied and laughed.
With that done, you started to prepare the table outside for lunch. You carried the stack of plates into the dining room. The heavy oak table had already been cleared, its surface reflecting the soft light from the overhead lamp. You laid out the mismatched silverware and a stack of paper napkins while Chaeyoung followed behind, carefully placing the bakery tart in the center.
One by one, the rest of the family filed in, pulling the heavy chairs across the hardwood until everyone was settled in their usual spots.
“My son showed me some of your photos, you really know how to dress, dear,” your Mom commented while getting some food onto her plate.
“He did?!” Chaeyoung exclaimed and elbowed your side. It wasn’t a soft one; she put a hole in your body.
You coughed up some of your food.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered. “I spent hours getting dress and you already showed her everything?”
“Well, you looked good in everything, I told you.”
Chaeyoung hit you again. “If you told me, I wouldn’t have been so worried. You’re such an idiot.”
“I’m really into fashion, I think we’ll get along,” your Mom said.
“Oh, I see, you read magazines?” Chaeyoung said, putting on a bright, friendly smile like she didn’t just beat you.
“I also watch programs on TV. Oh, Dad here really doesn’t know how to dress, you have to help me.”
“I understand you.”
“Right, like father like son. They both dress terribly.”
“What?” your dad said while munching. “I put on the nicest shirt I had.”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with me?” you said.
“You see what I’ve had to deal with, Chaeyoung?” your mom sighed, gesturing with her wine glass toward the two men at the table.
“He did try,” Chaeyoung admitted. “But apparently, he likes wrinkled clothes. I had to physically take the iron out of the closet myself.”
“You ironed for him?” your mom gasped, placing a hand over her heart. “Oh, darling, don't start that. You'll spoil him.”
The two women kept going back and forth, talking about their interests and commenting on how incompetent their men were at cleaning or dressing well. You two ate quietly, every once in a while talking about sports or just staring at each other.
The day ended with a trunk full of leftovers. As you pulled the car out of the driveway, Chaeyoung leaned her head back against the headrest and let out a long sigh she had been holding the entire time.
"They liked me," she whispered, as if she still couldn't believe it.
"They loved you, Chae. I told you."
"Your mom called you a monkey," she giggled, turning her head to look at you. The streetlights flickered across her face, catching the exhaustion and the lingering glow of success. She reached across to hold your hand.
“And to think you kept me awake just to bake that cookie monster.”
"Shut up," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Just drive, monkey."
Lewd thoughts on SNSD.. Reader asked them to cosplay for them.. What would each of the member cosplay as to surprise and treat their boyfriends?
Taeyeon
Taeyeon waits in the bedroom, wearing a classic sexy nurse outfit with short white dress unbuttoned just enough to show her lace bra, thigh-high stockings, and a stethoscope dangling between her breasts. She picked it because she knows you love her caring yet dominant side. You being tied to the bed and the "healing" fantasy lets her tease you mercilessly.
She saunters over, taking her time, while her eyes roam your body.
"Doctor says you need treatment."
She purrs, her voice husky with lust. She straddles your lap, grinding slowly while "checking" your pulse with wandering hands. Her fingers trace down your chest, then lower, unzipping you teasingly.
"Such a bad patient… so hard already."
She leans in, kissing your neck, nipping lightly as she strokes your cock firm and slow. The outfit rides up, revealing no panties. She guides you inside her wet pussy, sinking down with a soft moan. She rides you steady, hands on your shoulders, breasts bouncing in the low-cut top.
"Feel better? Cum for nurse Taeyeon… fill your prescription."
She moans, her pace quickening, her pussy clenching tight until you explode deep inside her womb. She stays seated, kissing you sweetly after.
"Good boy."
Jessica
When you walk into your apartment, Jessica looks like a luxurious ice queen. Shimmering silver gown with a high slit on her thigh, crystal crown, fur-trimmed cape. She looks at you, her chin slightly raised, as if you are nothing and she's everything.
"Kneel before your queen."
Your second-long hesitation, makes her clench her jaw. You scramble to your knees, unsure what to expect next.
She gracefully lifts herself off the chair and struts toward you, her glittering silver heels klicking on the floor.
"Prove your loyalty."
She snarls as she grabs a fistful of your hair, making you look up at her. While holding eye contact, Jessica's free hand reaches for the slit in her dress and pushes it to the side, revealing her light blue silk panties. The delicate snowflake pattern completes her ice queen look.
She only needs to give you a quick tug, before you lean in and pull the fabric covering her pussy to the side with your teeth.
"Do what you're here for, peasant."
Sunny
Sunny surprises you in a playful bunny girl cosplay. Black leotard hugging her petite curves, fluffy tail, long ears, fishnet stockings, and a cheeky bowtie.
She hops onto the couch beside you, legs crossed teasingly.
"Your little bunny's here to play."
She smirks, then straddles you, grinding her ass against your growing bulge. Her hands roam under your shirt while she whispers dirty encouragements.
"I want you so bad. Ride you until you're all drained."
When she feels your cock being fully hard, she slides down, kneeling between your legs, unzipping you with eager fingers.
"Bunnies love carrots…"
She takes your cock in her mouth, tongue swirling expertly, eyes locked on yours through her lashes. She hums, vibrations making you groan. Her blowjob soon has you holding onto the cushions. Her head bobs with a practiced rhythm, the bunny ears going up and down.
Once you're throbbing, she climbs back up, pulling the leotard aside to sink herself onto your length. She starts bouncing energetically, tail wiggling, moaning cutely.
"Breed your bunny… make me full."
Tiffany
Roleplaying with Tiffany is always weird. Somehow she manages to put you into an inferior position, but still gives you all the control over her.
Today she emerges in a typical French maid outfit. Frilly black dress barely covering her thighs, white apron, garters, and a feather duster she twirls playfully.
Ignoring you at first while you watch TV, she pretends to clean the coffee table right in front of you, leaning down, giving you a nice view of her cleavage.
"Still living with his parents at this age. And still making such a mess."
She mumbles in fake anger. For reasons only known to herself, she laces her usually normal Korean with a thick American accent.
You know you just have to let her do her thing, until she actually adresses you. That's how it usually works.
She bends over dramatically to "dust" the TV next, which is completely unnecessary, ass presented.
"Messy boy… how are you ever gonna find a woman if you live like this."
You want to defend yourself, but you hold back, until Tiffany finally turns around to look straight at you.
"You know what? It's time for you to learn how to be a real man. I'm tired of cleaning up after you."
She walks over and drops to her knees. She throws the duster over her shoulder and unzips your pants. Her lips wrap around your cock a moment later, sucking deep with perfect eye contact, humming approval at your size. Her blowjob is quick and messy. Before you know it, it's over.
Tiffany stands, hiking up her skirt to reveal lace panties and pushes them aside. She pushes you back, mounting you so her pussy wraps around your cock and her tits are right in your face.
"Like the view, sir?"
She asks with so much poison in her voice, for a moment you think you actually did forget to clean something outside of this roleplay.
Tiffany grinds deep, her walls gripping your dick tight. Her moans mix English and Korean as she picks up the pace.
"From now on, the only messes you make are the ones you leave inside me. Understood, sir?"
Hyoyeon
Hyoyeon surprises you in a tight black-and-red racing suit zipped low to reveal her cleavage, embroidered patches, gloves, and a full-face helmet tucked under her arm.
She strides in confidently, helmet in hand, the suit hugging every curve of her toned body.
"Ready for a ride?"
She pushes you back onto the bed, straddling your hips while still fully suited up. The zipper rasps down slowly as she grinds against your growing bulge, the thick fabric creating delicious friction.
"Fast or slow, driver decides."
She peels the suit open just enough, freeing her breasts and sliding the lower half aside. No panties of course. Completely naked under the suit. She frees your cock, stroking it firm with gloved hands before guiding you to her pussy.
Hyoyeon sinks down in one swift motion, moaning as you fill her completely. The suit bunches around her thighs as she starts riding hard, hips snapping like she's cornering at full speed.
"Feel that grip? I'm in pole position."
Her nails dig into your chest through the gloves; she leans forward, helmet discarded beside you, hair falling wild. She picks up pace, bouncing relentlessly, walls clenching tight.
"I think I'm gonna need a pit stop...get me filled up..."
You thrust up to match her rhythm. It doesn't take long until you explode deep inside her pussy as she shudders and cum with a sharp, victorious moan.
Breathless, she collapses onto you, suit still half-on.
"Best lap ever."
She kisses you slow, her tight body still trapping your cock inside her.
Yuri
Yuri surprises you in a sexy police officer uniform. Tight navy skirt, cropped top unbuttoned, handcuffs dangling, cap tilted. Her athletic body has your eyes roaming her exposed skin.
She saunters in, twirling cuffs.
"Hands where I can see them… you're under arrest for being too hot."
She cuffs your wrists loosely to the headboard, straddling you. She grinds down on you, skirt riding up to show thigh-highs and no underwear.
"Resisting will make it worse."
Yuri reaches for your belt and undoes your pants. When your cock is free, she gasps in fake shock.
"Can't let you go into luck up with a weapon. I need to take care of that."
She starts to stroke you, until you're fully hard. Then she sinks herself down, taking your cock fully. She rides powerfully, hips rolling, thighs flexing. Her breasts bounce free from the top. You whish you could reach up to grab them, but your hands are still cuffed. Yuri's satisfied smirk shows that she knows what you're thinking. It only makes her ride you harder.
"Confess… you want to fill your officer."
She speeds up, clenching her pussy as tight as possible. Your hips buck up. You cum inside her cunt as she arches her back.
Once you've filled her pussy completely, Yuri uncuffs you.
"Good behavior earns parole. But next time..."
Sooyoung
You're making dinner when Sooyoung walks in, wearing a seductive vampire outfit. Deep red corset dress, cape, fangs, pale makeup accenting her tall, model-like frame. She looks hungry, her eyes wandering up and down your body as if she's searching for the perfect place to sink her teeth into.
"Thirsty tonight… your blood...or something else."
She pushes you against the counter. Wearing her tallest heels, makes her look down on you just slightly. Her fangs graze your neck as she reaches down to cup your cock through your pants. You harden under her touch, making her chuckle.
"Such a willing donor."
She squats down, a little shaky because of the size of her heels. Her eyes look up at you in cold hunger as she frees your cock. She hisses at you and then starts to claim your cock as hers.
You caught her taking out the fangs, which you're thankfull for, just a second before she put the tip in her mouth. Now her nails rake over your stomach as she devours your cock.
Her aggressive blowjob is something you've never seen from her before. It really feels like she's only sucking you off to make you cum, but it still feels amazing nonetheless. Her effectiveness soon has you stumbling toward the edge.
After a couple of minutes, your cock pulsates inside Sooyoung's mouth and she drains you of your cum, drop after drop. Once you're empty, she opens her mouth to show you how full it is. Then she gulps it down with a satisfied moan.
"I'm gonna need this every night from now on."
Yoona
Yoona walk into the living room, plaid miniskirt, white blouse tied high, pigtails, knee socks. She has her hands behind her back and does her best to look innocent and shy.
"Teacher… I need extra credit."
Before you can react, she climbs onto your lap, skirt flipping to reveal cute panties. She grinds innocently at first, then needy.
"Teach me…"
She frees your cock, stroking timidly before pushing her panties aside and guiding you into her pussy. She starts bouncing cutely, moaning "sir" softly. You reach up to undo her blouse letting her breasts spill out. She hands you her tie, enabling you to pull her closer whenever you want.
When you finally overcome your overwhelmed state, you lift Yoona off your lap, turn her around and position yourself behind her. You fuck her from behind, giving her cheeks soft spanks.
"Fill your student up with your cum, sir… make me pass."
Seohyun
Seohyun suddenly stands in front of you, wearing a makeshift, elegant angel costume. You raise an eyebrow, but she beams at you, swirling a white stick with a star on it around her fingers. The white sheer lingerie dress, the halo, the feathered wings...pure yet sinful. Her innocent image flips to seductive purity.
She floats toward you, her steps bouncing to make her wings flutter.
"Fallen for you… redeem me."
She kneels down, grinning up at you with a mix of lust and amusement at her own playfullness. She starts kissing down your body as she undoes your pants. Then she carefully takes your cock into her mouth.
"Your angel needs your cum."
Somehow she manages to make her blowjob look somewhat pure. Maybe that's just her costume. But Seohyun does her best to look innocent as she makes herself gag on your cock.
"I think you need to breed your angel."
She looks up at you with big puppy eyes, offering you to choose your position. You help nher onto her feet, then make her jump into your arms.
"Now I'm flying."
She laughs into your kiss.
You slowly lower her onto your cock, your lips still locked.
~24.6k words, syndicate boss's daughter Liz x vigilante reader, 'smut'
A/N: This is dedicated to my twin @kwilquib who loves Liz. Happy birthday! This is also my first x reader ... and first fic in second person ... so please be kind ...
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=====ENTRY #111131325233151811211251422323=====
Three bullets.
Bang. Pops the front right tire. Sends the Mercedes-Benz zigzagging down the street. Crashes into a fish stick stall.
Bang. Pops a dark red tunnel through the driver’s skull as he crawls out of the vehicle. His partner screams.
Bang. Now he doesn’t. Larynx blows into his esophagus. Only blood gets to spew out of his lips and all over his suit.
And you still have three-fourths of a round loaded into your Taurus TX22 pistol.
As the final passenger of the luxury car pushes out of their steaming ride, you shove your gun back into its holster. Instead, you unsheathe your hwando blade—the same blade your parents gifted you for your sixteenth birthday—and ready it at your side.
Your mark looks up at you through teary eyes. You don’t even register what they say.
Slick.
With one clean and deft motion, your mark’s eyes turn blood red in an instant. But no sign of remorse is etched on your face. Why? Did they show your family remorse when their Clan broke into your home? Did they show your parents remorse when they shook the living daylights out of them for their debt? Did they show you remorse when they murdered your parents right in front of you?
You still remember it. Every time you smell fresh blood in the air—you remember it.
The way your father begged and pleaded on his knees. He was never the type to bow down to anyone, but his forehead was right between their polished shoes. The sound of shattering dishes as your mother’s heart sank just as fast as the first few shots fired into her. The tightness in your chest as all the air left your lungs the moment you saw your parents turn into lifeless, unmoving bodies, bleeding out against the entryway of your family home.
It’s been eight years. Eight long, grueling years you have spent trying to avenge them—trying to get your revenge.
What was another three more bodies to your growing count?
You don’t care. They’re all just collateral. What you really want—who you really want—is Kim Jaehwi.
And you want him dead.
That was the plan. Until your recent mark started sending more grunts and goons out to hunt you—more than the usual at least.
On any other day, you’d flee the scene of the crime, head to your pathetic excuse for an apartment, clean your weapons and your clothes, and call it a day. But mere hours after you murdered everyone in that Mercedes-Benz, a manhunt for you was already in full swing.
Men in suits trudging up and down the streets. Goons with brass knuckles and similar hwando blades knocking on every house and business within ten kilometers of the incident. Police cars needing to stop at the blockades these thugs have set up themselves to initiate their own ‘investigation’.
You know the Devil Cat Clan is relentless. The moment they hear a man with a crow mask has reduced their member count even by just a bit, they chase after you. But today, you must have killed someone big. Because even the higher-ups want you gone now.
At least, that’s what you gathered when a spray of bullets disturbed your evening tea, shattering the flimsy walls of your two-hundred-thousand-won-per-month apartment. You don’t regret the loss of your favorite safehouse. You regret not salvaging the Samanco still sitting in your refrigerator.
You rush towards your other safehouses: the goshiwon in the Mapo district, the house out in the Gyeonggi-do suburbs, your college buddy’s place in Gangnam, the public safety shelter where you were brought to eight years ago back in Yongsan-gu.
But they have all been either broken into, torn apart inside-out, or heavily guarded by members of the Devil Cat Clan.
Well, shit.
You don’t even have enough time to worry about whether they’ve figured out who you are or not. Instead, you think of the last safe place you could seek refuge at.
The Requiem.
Before you even enter the underground bar, the bouncers on either side of the door give you nasty glances. You wonder if it’s because of your still in your usual tracksuit. They seem new—they aren’t used to you yet. As you push past them and head inside, you soon realize coming here is a bad idea when every criminal-in-hiding, vigilante, and underworld devil at the bar has their eyes on you like you don’t belong here.
Fuck them—you just want a goddamn drink and some room to breathe.
You slide over to the counter and signal for a drink from the bartender. He looks new too. He hesitates for a moment, but when you see your friend warn him with a glance, he immediately begins pouring you a glass of whiskey.
At least he knows better than to ask.
“Seems like someone’s had a rough few days,” Yujin teases, leaning forward on her elbows towards you. “You look like shit.”
“I have you to thank for that,” you say in between sips of your drink, feeling it burn down your throat. “Who the hell did you send me to kill? Ever since then, the Clan’s been on my ass non-stop.”
Yujin shrugs, pulling back to reach for one of the drawers, where a pile of keys were being kept. She picks one up and slides it over to the bald roughneck beside you. “Dunno. I’m just doing what you’ve told me to do: find members of the Devil Cat Clan causing trouble, ping their location, send them your way. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You scoff as you down the rest of your whiskey. “Whoever that was is causing more than just a pain in my neck. How big is this mess you got me in?” you ask, never really having the time to keep up with recent events.
As if on command, Yujin interrupts the ongoing football match on the TV and puts on the news—much to the dismay of several blokes.
You try to take it all in.
They’re covering it up. They made it out as an accident. Potential gang wars. No involvement from the Devil Cat Clan. They’re framing it as a tragedy. Collateral damage. Remnants of the ‘old school’ jopok ways—the old family style of mafia. But then the next few things catch your eye.
Whether it was further cover up, some sort of red herring, or something they actually had planned, the news comes as a surprise to you nonetheless.
Jaehwi has a daughter. And he’s marrying her off.
Something about strengthening the presence of the Devil Cat Clan. Something about metaphorically marrying their former jopok ways to more civilized and ‘clean’ endeavors. Whatever their explanations are, you don’t clock it. Partially because you could never believe that the Clan would ever want to come clean. Partially because there are four men with guns by the door threatening the bouncers to be allowed inside.
“Shit, they followed me all the way here,” you spit as you glance at Yujin for support. “Got anything for me?”
Without thinking twice, she pulls out a briefcase from underneath her and shoves it against your chest. “Bullets, clean set of clothes, burner phone. Get as far away from here as you can and sort this shit out before thinking of coming back again. Until then—don’t die.”
And as every last member of the Seoul underbelly at The Requiem pointed their guns towards the entrance of the bar, you take this as your chance to escape. Before darting out through the back entrance, you take one last look at the news showcasing Jaehwi’s revealed daughter.
Suddenly, an idea comes to you.
==
You thought it would be a good idea. You thought you could benefit off of the chaos going on in the background.
But the moment you walk through the gates of this traditional-style mansion at the very heart of the Devil Cat Clan’s scope of control, you begin to doubt your idea.
The plan was simple: act decent, present yourself naturally, and hope to get chosen as one of the potential aspirants for the hand of Jaehwi’s daughter. The rest? Well, the rest can follow. You have to worry about getting past screening first.
Which proved to be immediately difficult.
They ask for your identity and background, so you tell them the script Yujin prepared for you the moment you showed up at The Reqiuem searching for work as a new vigilante. They ask why you have weapons, and you tell them—who the hell doesn’t have weapons in this day and age? They ask you if you know what the Devil Cat Clan’s about, who the boss and his daughter are, and what your intentions for marriage would be. While you can’t tell them you’re here to get closer to Jaehwi and to end his miserable excuse for a life, you instead tell them, “I’m here because I see an opportunity to not just help the Clan with your endeavors, but to … pursue another endeavor of my own.”
They assume you meant getting with the boss’s daughter. You let it slide.
There are about ten other men of different ages and appearances at the waiting room. While they all form a colorful cast of potential husbands, what they had in common with each other (that you evidently didn’t have) was simple—affluence. Bespoke suits, watches that costed ten job’s worth of payouts, shoes that shined brighter than your future, gravitas that far exceeded what your dirty little lips could muster.
And yet, you still hold out hope.
By noon, that number reduces to seven. The first ones to go were the men pushing fifty—not much else to be said there.
By four, that number reduces further to five. The next ones to go were the men who had yet to make a name for themselves in their respective fields. This makes your legs tense and your breath hitch. You were getting closer and closer to the shaving point.
By nine, that number reduces to just two: you and this other guy in a white suit with a hairstyle that reminds you of Alex the Lion from Madagascar. He has the scars on his face to match the glint of the golden knuckles wrapped around his fists. You make the mistake of staring at him for too long, and when he catches your eye, he lets out some sort of growl as he cracks his fingers.
Well, this is just going swimmingly.
You’ve been a night owl all your life. Staying up past midnight is an easy feat. But the weight of the past few days being on the run is now slowly taking its toll on you. As the clock ticks further into the night, you find yourself losing the battle against sleep.
Until she walks in.
The first thing that rouses you from your slippery slope down into slumber is this fresh and powdery rose scent that’s elegant yet not overpowering. It thrills your nostrils. It captures your mind. The second thing that shakes you awake is the sound of her stilettos against the marble floor—gentle, light, unassuming. The final thing that makes you train your eyes on her was the way her floral dress clings to her slender frame, tracing up the length of her petite figure, and leads your gaze towards the neutral expression on her face.
She doesn’t belong here with the likes of Alex the Lion and you. She belongs somewhere between movie sets and luxury brand billboards.
She’s unreal.
And she’s looking right at you.
In fact, she’s not just looking—she’s pointing right at you. What did you do? Did you say something in your sleep? What the hell is going on? But the heat rushing to your face is overtaken by what her assistant says to you next. “Sirs, the decision by the young mistress has been made. You, in the back, please come with us.”
“Let’s get you acquainted with Lady Jiwon.”
Dinner.
They walk you along polished hallways dotted with traditional decor, through an luscious and well-maintained courtyard, and towards an imposing three-story building surrounded with Devil Cat Clan goons armed to the teeth—just for dinner.
You already regret your decision. But it’s too late to back out now.
As you enter the building, you’re brought towards the dining room that looks less like it belongs to an organized crime syndicate from the twenty-first century and more like it belonged to the owners of this house from six hundred years ago. A low dining table that looks a little larger than the usual soban frames the center of the room. Around it are several cushions atop a carpet with some sort of a mosaic design on it. Before you even contemplate hesitating, the man behind you presses up against you, reminding you of your situation with a shove. Eventually, you yield and join Jaehwi’s daughter at the table.
You have to hand it to the Devil Cat Clan—they are swift and efficient. Within moments, they begin setting the table. In mere moments, they pour you both tea, light some candles around the room, and set up different plates around Jaehwi’s daughter’s side of the table.
You say ‘they’ like there are multiple of them assembling all of this, when really, it’s just one woman in a traditional maid dress.
The assistant from earlier excuses himself and congratulates you for your first meal together. You’re not sure how to go about this, but you resolve to give it a try. Bowing next to you, the same maid from earlier gestures towards your empty side of the table. “Can I get you anything, young master? Our chefs are of the finest caliber, so I assure you—whatever cuisine your heart desires is no problem for us at all.”
You turn to the girl across you, still wearing her floral dress, staring at the food in front of her like she has seen this scene play out a thousand other times before. You return to the maid and say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
You keep it simple. Nothing more than it should be. Dinner. Just dinner.
With that, the maid excuses herself with another bow and heads to the kitchen to relay your request.
You can hardly call it a meal—whatever she was given. It looks more like a batch of impulsively assembled side dishes that had a total calorie count equal to an average meal—less appetizing, more functional. You realize this girl wasn’t even asked what she wanted to eat. She was just served it.
Like she doesn’t have a choice.
The maid returns minutes later with a similar set of food. When you ask her about this peculiarity, she just smiles and says, “Lady Jiwon follows a strict diet as per the request of Master Jaehwi. She is quite used to it by now.”
Like hell she is, you think to yourself as you watch her barely touch anything laid out for her. You admit—it smells good. And these side dishes of hers even taste great. Better than any convenience store meal could offer at three in the morning. But she isn’t eating any of it. Instead, you file away those sentiments. You’re not here to give a damn about what Jaehwi’s daughter thinks about her ‘rich girl food’.
You’re here to find a chance to strike at her father. So, you start something you absolutely dread doing with your marks.
Small talk.
“So,” you begin, poking at the vegetables you saved for later. “Marriage. You and me. Why all of a sudden?”
No response from her.
Instead, the response comes from her maid, which you start to think is her personal maid, as she continues hovering just out of view. “Lady Jiwon has been of age for years now, young master. It was only a matter of time before her father offers her hand to suitors. Lady Jiwon is aware of this, and is prepared to take any actions necessary to preserve the dignity of the Devil Cat Clan as his eldest child.”
You roll your eyes. So much for getting more information out of this girl. But you try again.
“Ok then. What about you? I mean, you as a person. Tell me about yourself.”
Again, before the girl could even get anything past her lips, the maid in the back replies, “Lady Jiwon is a wonderful woman. She has grown so much since I’ve begun taking care of her as a child. She enjoys gardening, traditional arts, and fashion among many other things. I’m afraid I cannot disclose much about her as is forbidden by Master Jaehwi. I hope this much will suffice for you, young master.”
This maid is starting to get on your nerves. You’re never getting to Jaehwi at this rate.
Clearing your throat, you exhale briskly before putting down your chopsticks. This grabs the girl’s attention, and when she locks eyes with you for the first time since arriving here, you ask, “Are you ok with getting married like this? Like a transaction? I mean, there’s always divorce, but your first marriage has to at least mean something, right?”
On cue, the maid responds, “Lady Jiwon has—.”
“Lady Jiwon this, Lady Jiwon that—I’m not asking for what you think she wants to say. I’m asking the damn woman in front of me what she thinks herself. So stop interrupting her,” you growl, maintaining your gaze towards Jaehwi’s daughter. “Just tell me. Do you even want to get married?”
She remains speechless against your first act of defiance within her household—within the territory of the Devil Cat Clan. The girl trembles in a way that a stray cat would when approached by a stranger—or anyone else for that matter—for the very first time. She has this look like she wants to come up with something, like she wants to say something, but what’s stopping her isn’t that she wasn’t sure about it.
She wasn’t sure if she was allowed.
Once the moment has come to pass, the maid interjects once more. “Like I was saying, young master, Lady Jiwon—.”
“It’s ok … Areum-unnie …”
Her voice. It came out. And god forbid—if you weren’t sitting within the premises of the Clan that murdered your parents, you would have likely spared the thought that she sounds just like an angel would. “It’s ok … I’ll take it from here.”
She’s no longer hunched forward. She’s no longer eating—not like she was picking at her food much earlier anyway. Now, posture straight, hands on her lap, she bows her head in a polite manner before rising up to meet your defiance. “I don’t have a choice. It’s … what’s needed of me. The least I can do is try to enjoy this as much as I can. I suggest you do the same.”
“I’d be enjoying this more if you’d stop looking like you’d rather be anywhere else but here.”
Her face does a thing that’s not enough to be a smile but is certainly above neutrality. The corners of her lips twitch in a way that you ascertain is of her own volition. “Thank you for sharing a meal with me. I … I’m sorry I couldn’t offer much for our first meal together. But I hope we can look forward to more … fruitful interactions in the future.
You fight yourself from scoffing. Yeah right—like you’ll let this farce play out for any longer.
Before she is able to stand up and command her maid, you shoot up from your seat and clear your throat. “Your … your father. Is he … home?”
That was such a weird fucking question to ask her, and her expression reflects the same sense of surprise. But still, she replies, “No. Father is away again tonight. Like always.”
Like always. The words echo in your head a few times. “I see. Sorry if that was … a bit weird to ask. I just wanted to—.”
Areum interrupts you with a terribly hidden snicker. “Oh my, young master. How bold of you to be having such … thoughts already. You need not worry. Even if he was home, I imagine he wouldn’t mind his daughter’s suitor seeing her upstairs.”
“Seeing her upstairs?”
Areum nods, running a hand down her mistress’s back several times to smoothen out the creases of her dress. “You did wish to see her to her room, did you not? I don’t blame you—it would be wise to get acquainted sooner rather than later. You do remember that part of the provision for marriage, no? If Lady Jiwon deems you unfit for her hand in marriage, Master Jaehwi will have you killed.”
Well, shit. You should have read through those damn papers better.
Caught between your held breath and the next, you nod like someone who was just realizing what they had signed up for. “Yeah … I’d like to accompany her upstairs. Do you mind?”
Areum shakes her head, extending her hand in invitation. “Right this way, young master. The living room is on the second floor. Her bedroom is on the third. Lady Jiwon, I trust you will be in good hands. Consider this … a test of his prudence and fidelity.”
Prudence this, fidelity that. You just need a chance to escape. If you had known Jaehwi wasn’t going to be anywhere near his daughter, and if you had half a brain cell to even read that contract you signed earlier, you wouldn’t be here right now.
You wouldn’t have done this.
The girl glances over her shoulder without even fully turning around. She eyes you like you should already know what to do. Oh, how mistaken she is when you don’t even offer your arm out to her as you two ascended the stairs. Instead, you left her to cling to the wooden grooves of the railing.
You pause by the landing on the second floor, and she wonders what’s wrong. “Nothing, nothing. I just—can you give me a moment before I head up? This is new even for me, entering a woman’s bedroom and all. I just want to be … a bit more ready.”
While you might not be the best suitor, you are certainly a well-versed liar. She buys your deceit without a hint of doubt and continues upstairs to her room.
Now that you’re alone, your mind races. The plan is in fucking shambles.
You were here for Jaehwi—not for his daughter. But the bloody bloke isn’t even home. Defense mechanism or just poor parenting? You couldn’t care any less. You came here to strike from within the Devil Cat Clan while they were still scrambling outside to find you. You aren’t leaving without doing any significant damage to them at the very least.
When you feel the weight of your hands drift towards your legs, inching closer and closer to your holsters, you then unravel a certain line of thought.
What if you don’t kill Jaehwi?
A riveting idea, you have to admit. But, what if you didn’t kill him? Instead, what if you kill someone else?
What if you took the life of someone that mattered to him, just like how he took the only two people you have ever loved in your life from you?
So you wait an hour. Then two. And once you’re certain the girl isn’t peeking over the balcony anymore to see if you were still coming up after her, you don your crow mask once more and grip your hwando.
This is for your parents.
You ascend up the final flight of stairs, one step at a time, holding your breath.
This is for what they did to your family—this is what they did to you.
One hand on the handle of the sliding door, you carefully tug it open and reveal the dark bedroom with its owner sleeping on her bed, back towards you.
This … is for what he took from you—Jaehwi … Now, it’s your turn to take from him.
And as you hovered over the girl’s bed, blade in hand, the same weapon that you’ve used to take countless of Devil Cat Clan lives with, you slice downwards and split her neck wide open.
At least, you would have, if you didn’t hear her sob.
Pausing with the sharpened edge nearly pressing into the delicate exposed skin of her nape, you shudder and tighten your core.
She’s crying.
Once she shifts and turns towards the reason why there’s a depression next to her on the bed, you swiftly take off your mask and shove it behind you while also sheathing your blade in the same motion.
“It’s … you. You’re still here …?”
Sweating, shaking, body tensing like a strung bow, your neck produces the bare minimum motion for a nod. “Yeah, I … I guess I still am. I didn’t mean to disturb your sleep, really. I was just … I was just …”
You look across her face: at her reddened eyes, at the damp spots against her unblemished cheeks, at the hair that clung to her temples, and at her full lips that quivered with the slightest motions.
Then, you sigh. “Sorry if I woke you up. You were … crying, weren’t you?” you point out like an idiot, as if she didn’t already know that. “Is it because of what I asked you earlier?”
She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even want to look you in the eye.
Instead of the awkward kneel and hover you’re doing above her laying figure, you instead convert to a sit on her mattress. It was only then that the girl fluffed her comforter up so you could apparently join her under the sheets.
You don’t question it. You just slip right in.
Hand on her waist above the comforter, she turns on her side once more. “I don’t want to get married. I … I never even dated anyone yet. Never really liked anyone before. But my father … he said it was time. Our Clan is losing influence. Many of our members are defecting and joining other families and gangs. He … he said there was no other way.”
You thought you hated Jaehwi enough already, but you learned you could hate him even more. “Your dad isn’t exactly the picture of parenthood, is he? Can’t you just say no? Can’t you just run away from all of this?”
She lets out a soft chuckle before shaking her head. You watch as the wavy ends of her hair dance underneath the moonlight. “All that I am … all that I have … is here. With my clan. I have nothing else. No one else. So I … I have no choice but to stay.”
She does something behind her back. She rests the back of her palm against her lower spine and splays her fingers open.
“Just for tonight … you can leave tomorrow and never come back … but for tonight, can you please—can you please just pretend to be mine and stay with me?”
You feel the weight of your blade against its sheathe. You feel the weight of each individual bullet in your pistol. You feel the weight of the pouring rain against your back on the night of your parents’ funeral.
And then, you feel the weight of her open hand against your thigh.
And then, you take it.
“You have some nerve allowing me to stay here. I could be an assassin out for your family’s money or something,” you tease, sublimating the anxiety that’s beginning to build up in the back of your head. “Why did you even choose me in the first place? I’m sure the other guys who were waiting to marry you could do more for you than just … this.”
You thought it would take her longer than that to respond, but you are mistaken.
In a heartbeat, she squeezes your hand in hers and tells you, “You seemed like the least threatening one. It felt like I could be safe with you.”
Your blade clinks in its place as if to laugh at her response, but you keep it silent with a firm squeeze as you sigh.
“Let’s hope you’re right about that.”
==
That is not the only time you attempt to assassinate Jaehwi’s daughter. In fact, that is not the only time you fail to kill her.
Like that one time you tried to maul her with a crowbar you picked up from the armory across the courtyard. You were going to beat her skull in but you had to stop when she ducked down to pet a stray kitten that wandered into the compound.
You stopped for the kitten—not for her.
Or that one time you aimed at her from the living room window on the second floor as she made her way towards some of the Clan members. You could have easily pulled the trigger several times on her, but you held back when she kept bowing politely to each one of them. You had to stop because you couldn’t miss your shot—and the lord knows Yujin didn’t pack you enough bullets.
It didn’t help that she spotted you shortly after and waved at you.
How about that other time when you approached her with a garrote in hand, ready to strangle her from behind? She was too busy watering her flowers to notice that you had arrived. You couldn’t just let her choke to death and cough up blood all over her orchids, right?
Instead, you ended up watching her tend to her personal garden as the sun set quietly behind you both.
This isn’t working out at all. Every time you got close to Jaehwi’s daughter, something would always get in the way of you ending her life. It was meant to be swift. You planned to make it as painless and as clean as possible. But time and again, life had other plans.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
Your window to visit her always opens at four in the afternoon. By the fifth day since the beginning of your arranged marriage, you were all out of ideas on how to take her out as you show up to the front gate of the mansion once more.
“I.D.?”
You look up at the burly guard in front of you, blocking your way. “What would I need an I.D. for?”
He grunts, leaning forward to cast his shadow over you, and repeats, “I said, I’m going to need an I.D. Before I let you in.”
Just when you were about to consider beating the hell out of this gorilla, a familiar face pokes her head through the door and smiles up at you. “Young master, I see you’re on time once again. Come, please head inside.”
You don’t appreciate her comment on being timely—you just had nowhere else to be. You couldn’t take any jobs from Yujin. Couldn’t even be anywhere near The Requiem or any of your safehouses. This was all you had now, so of course you showed up on time.
You give the gorilla-looking guard one final smirk before heading indoors.
Unlike the previous times that you’ve been here, Jiwon was nowhere to be found. Normally, you expect her to be sitting by the courtyard or reading a book in the living room. But today, she wasn’t home.
An idea strikes you.
You race up to her bedroom knowing full well that she wasn’t around, and with a quickened breath, you open her door and welcome yourself inside.
You start going through all of her things.
Her cabinets, drawers, that one compartment attached to her desk, the plastic crates underneath her bed, behind each ornament on her shelf, and even between the nooks and crannies that filled with dust—you leave no stone unturned in your desperate attempt to get any information that you can use on either her or Jaehwi.
But you found nothing.
The only thing you discover is that this girl was abundantly … mundane? There is no better way to put it.
When you pictured what the daughter of Kim Jaehwi would be like, you thought of anything but this.
You imagined a spoiled chaebol who hopped from country to country each week and only visited Korea whenever daddy wanted her back home. You imagined fancy hotels, spending sprees, parties with as much designer drugs as she had designer clothes, running from the law, and getting her father to bail her out with his ‘influence’ each time.
You certainly did not expect someone this … bland and quiet.
As you withdraw from the last of her wardrobe, coughing at the dust that spewed from the hangers of her untouched clothes, you wonder what use killing this girl would be in the grander scheme of things. It almost feels like Jaehwi doesn’t care about her enough to even let her become her own person. It almost feels like she doesn’t even matter to him.
But why do you care?
“What are you doing?”
Yeah, what were you doing? The words repeat in your head. But when you realize someone else said it to you, you hide your hands behind your back and turn to see Liz wrapped up in a pair of towels. “Why were you going through my stuff?”
Well, shit. What’s the lie this time?
You could tell her you saw a bug and couldn’t kill it before it snuck into her wardrobe. You could tell her Areum asked you to prepare some clothes for her—seeing that she’s buck naked beneath those towels. You could even just tell her that the wardrobe was open when you entered, and you were just closing it.
Instead, the truth slips from your lips.
“Look, there’s a reason for this …” you confess, unsure of where this was heading. But when you look at her confused and naive expression, you conscience won’t let you lie to someone like her again. “I just … I don’t know what I was hoping to do actually. I guess I was … I guess I was just trying to get to know you more. Somehow.”
Strangely true. That wasn’t even much of a lie. “Huh. Ok …”
“Ok,” you say in return, bouncing on your heels as you avoid making eye contact with her. But she bats her lashes twice as if she’s waiting for you to continue your alibi. “I uh, how do I put this? It’s weird just marrying you and into … all of this … without really knowing you much at all.”
“You think it’s unnatural,” she wonders, her tone bordering more on curiosity than concern.
“That’s one way to see this. Definitely.”
“So you want to … align stories?” she continues.
“Align stories? Right, right—align stories,” you nod, deciding to go with it. “I’m sure the other higher-ups of the Clan will want to know how I earned your respect. Or love. The media will have questions too when they publicize all of this. We should work on our cover story.”
You are so eager to delve deeper into this farce that you fail to realize Jiwon is waiting for you to stop running your tongue and give her a moment to change. “Right—after you change, of course. Would be difficult talking to you while you’re still naked.”
Her expression doesn’t change. So you shut yourself up, head out, and give her some time.
Once she’s ready, she calls you back in.
Her room smells of citrus shampoo, conditioner, and wet skin. You walk towards her and sit on the edge of her bed while she crosses her legs atop it.
“So, what ideas do you have for a cover story? I think the first few things we need to iron out are how we met, why we started dating, and what we love about each other. Sappy, I know, but it’s realistic at least.”
Jiwon purses her lips in thought, but it doesn’t amount to anything concrete.
“Ok, let’s try to break it down further. Maybe we can start with the first question: how did we meet? Where do you usually go? You know, for fun and stuff. Where do you hang out outside of home? Maybe we can use that—I can work with it. Better something you’re familiar with so you end up making less mistakes when you explain.”
But Jiwon isn’t able to give you a response. She just looks at you as if you might have the answers she’s looking for.
“Wait, do you … mostly just stay at home?”
The way she retreats underneath her comforter is enough of a response for you. “Huh. I can’t really say I met you at home. They’ll think I’m some kind of robber breaking and entering into your house. They’ll have me killed.”
“I … I used to go to school,” she offers up in an attempt to pitch something useful. “I had to stop after middle school because my father didn’t like how there weren’t any exclusive high schools for girls. Any good ones, at least.”
“You could have gone to Sookmyung or Sehwa. Those are really close to my old high school,” you ponder, drawing figures on her bedsheet as if you were mapping it out. “One time, me and my friends got—.”
You stop yourself. Why are you remembering this?
This is a memory from your past life—a life you chose to bury and leave behind. This is a memory attached to who you once were, to who you used to be, to the you that still managed to have a normal life—with his parents. But that’s over now. And you swore not to think about it—any of it—ever again.
So why are you bringing it up again? Why are you even telling her this?
When you pause, she reaches a hand out and tries to place it over yours, but she jerks it back towards her person and gets all shy about it. Despite that, she has this look on her that’s telling you to continue, to not hold back. She must be thinking you were conscious about oversharing. She’s blissfully unaware that you’re intentionally stopping yourself.
“I … This one time, we all tried to get ourselves a date for Valentine’s. Stupid, I know, but we thought we might have a chance asking outside of our high school. So half of us went to Sookmyung, and the other half—my half—we went to Sehwa. I told them to play it cool, but god, they were such dorks. They approached the first girls that walked out of the school entrance, hitting on them right away. I was so embarrassed because of them that I barely got to ask anyone out.”
“Glad you know that was very weird,” she notes. “If I studied there, I would have called the cops on you.”
“Yeah, admittedly I’m not the best at courting or dating anyone. Never really had a girlfriend either so … this is all pretty new to me too. Which is crazy … right? One day I’m … just another person on the street, and the next day I’m … I’m marrying someone like you.”
You two share a look of understanding but immediately glance away when you connect a little too deeply with the other.
“I don’t know why I brought that up, sorry. It just came to me,” you try to continue past the topic. “So you didn’t go to high school. That’s out of the question for our cover story. Did you go anywhere for fun? In your free time?”
You think of asking her when even was her free time because every day seemed like a free day to her. She doesn’t seem to be invested in any form of academics, business, or even hobbies for that matter. She was just … here. At home.
“I … I like to sing.”
You nod, leaning into that. “Yeah, Areum told us. I remember that. What do you usually sing? Karaoke?”
“I’ve only been to a karaoke place once before, actually … I was probably twelve at the time,” she recalls, lacing her fingers together atop her lap. “My father had to meet some people, and he wanted to bring me along to introduce me. I ended up sneaking out and into the empty room next door. I had a blast singing some of my favorite anime songs.”
“You watch anime?” you ask in disbelief like Jaehwi’s daughter having some semblance of a personality was earth-shattering to you. “What did you watch?”
She chuckles like she thinks it’s ridiculous. “Oh, nothing big. Just … Madoka Magica, Shinsekai Yori, San-Gatsu no Lion. Those shows …”
She buries her face into her palms and peaks out at you to see your reaction. You in fact have none. You’re too stunned by this to even think of a response. “So the daughter of a syndicate leader likes dark magical girls, dystopian fantasies, and human drama.”
“Is it … bad?”
You shake your head and laugh at such a question in disbelief. “Not at all, it’s actually very … endearing. By any chance, did you ever watch …?”
You talk about your favorite anime shows and movies. Of course, you can’t help but circle back to the topic of your favorite openings and endings. As a result of this, you talk about other similar things too: your favorite K-dramas, your favorite Western movies, favorite bands and musical artists, favorite genres of music. You even go as far as talking about the places around Korea that she’s visited—Jeju being the standout one. About her favorite types of food—whenever she is allowed a cheat day of sorts, at least. About her favorite pastimes even, which she explains is all she ever does now in her daily idyllic life.
Throughout this entire time, you get the feeling that she’s another person—that she’s another human being. Just like you. The label of being Jaehwi’s daughter is something you easily forget—just like your initial excuse of coming up with a cover story together. It feels refreshing hearing her answer out of her own volition, recount stories and memories without being prompted, and actually responding to you like she has a mind of her own.
It’s incredible watching Jaehwi’s daughter opening herself up like this to you.
When you ask her what kind of cake is her favorite—and you hope it’s oreo cheesecake too because that’s the only cake you will ever eat—she asks if this is for your wedding. “I never really thought about the flavor yet … it has to be fancy though, right? My father—.”
You click your teeth and swat at her. “My father this, my father that—I’m asking you what you want. Actually, screw the wedding. Let’s not … let’s not even think about that right now. If your dad wasn’t in the picture, what would you be doing right now? What would you want to do, huh? What would you try?”
You can see the years of being under control dance across her face as she thinks long and hard about the answers to your questions. It takes her a few minutes to decide on a response that’s satisfactory to her—a quirk of hers, you now learn—but she ends up saying, “I want to … play video games.”
Leaning forward, you stare at her with eyes as wide and as open as your jaw. “What? You’ve never played video games before?”
She crinkles her nose in an innocent way. “Don’t say it like that … I wasn’t allowed to play any games growing up. My father thought it was a waste of time, and he would always put me on some kind of tutor for the summer: piano, traditional dance, painting—you name it. It was only my mother … who … who …”
She begins to choke on her words, and you see her visually jerk and jolt in place as she’s struggling with more than just words now. “I-I … she …”
You don’t think twice: you hold her hands and squeeze them. “Rough topic? Sorry, if I had known—.”
But she shakes her head. “No … no it’s ok … Just being … yeah, don’t worry about that. I um, I never really got to play any video games. If I could use my money, I’d maybe … maybe buy a TV.”
“You do know that’s not how you play video games, right?”
She turns her head to the side like an owl would. “But I saw my sister playing on her TV. Isn’t that where most games are now?”
She has a sister? You file that away for later.
But your hand can’t resist slapping itself across your face. A groan shortly follows. “That’s … what we call consoles. Probably a console, yeah. This nifty little gadget you plug CDs into? The CDs have the games, and the console lets you play it. On the TV. The TV itself does nothing for you.”
“So you mean to say you need a console to allow you to play a game, and you need a TV to allow you to play a console? That … sounds very complicated,” she points out. And when you hear it said out loud by someone who has never known any of this, you realize that she’s got a point. “Are they expensive?”
“Are you kidding? You’re Kim Jaehwi’s daughter. You’re flooded to the chin with cash from—.”
You stop yourself when you start to remember the debt your parents owned Jaehwi’s lowlife loansharks. You stop before the memories can come surging back from when they would arrive weekly to try and shake what little cash your family had left to make your parents pay up. You can feel the blood boiling in your veins as you remember what got you here in the first place—what brought you your misery.
But when you look at Jaehwi’s daughter and see the soft of her nose twitch out of concern for you, slowly, your frustration begins to fade. “Sorry … yeah, you’ve got money on your side. I wouldn’t be worried about that.”
“What games can you play on one? Can you … can you play Minecraft?”
Your hand flies back to your face. The daughter of Kim Jaehwi, the leader of the top syndicate in all of Korea, wants to play fucking Minecraft? She could have asked for anything else—a weeklong vacation in the Maldives, her own private jet or yacht or limousine, or even a pet peacock if she was that freaky.
But Minecraft? That’s something commoners enjoy.
Something you enjoyed.
When you stand up, you almost don’t want to leave when she crawls across her bed to follow you, but you reassure her with a smile.
After half an hour of awkward conversation with her personal maid and sifting through dusty boxes in the storage room, you return to her bedroom with an old laptop, its charger, and an extension cord.
“That’s …”
“Borrowed it for a while. It was a pain convincing Areum to let me even have it, but she said it might still have your dad’s credit card credentials on it,” you happily announce, laying it all out on the bed and plugging the laptop to the nearby outlet. “We could get you Minecraft on this.”
“You don’t have to. My father would—.”
“Probably notice?” you finish her sentence as you enter the password Areum told you. “He wouldn’t mind losing a couple thousand won. What’s that against his daughter’s happiness?”
As you connect to the internet with the laptop—something you both are surprised by—you head over to the website, purchase the game, and wait for it to install. As you’re explaining to her the general gist of the mechanics within the game, you notice in your peripheral vision that her mouth is doing that thing again. It pulls up from the corners this time, towards her ears, ever-so-slightly.
She smiles.
Shaking your head, once the all-too-familiar loading screen comes into view, you place the laptop onto her lap. “Think you’ll be fine, or do you need me to backseat you?”
She bites her lip and says, “I think I’ll be fine. So I just … press ‘singleplayer’ right?”
She was definitely not fine.
She spent the first ten minutes marveling at her new game, it’s unique block design and layout, and the cute little baby pig that approached her from the forest. But once the first ten minutes are up and nighttime falls upon her, she is immediately racing towards the nearest pile of dirt to bury herself six blocks under.
She alternates between whimpers and screams with each zombie and skeleton that chases after her poor unarmored character, struggling to even collect wood or stone without the ever-present fear of a mob jumping at her. While you’re watching this girl play what is likely her very first video game, you can’t help but feel this tightness in your chest.
It isn’t happiness. It isn’t joy. You knew what those felt like once upon a time. This is something … different. You resolve not to give it a name. Instead, you decide to see her sob into her thighs as she gets blown up by a Creeper for the seventh time in a single night, her items scattering to the winds.
You don’t even realize that you fell asleep at some point. The last thing you remember was her rocking your thigh steadily while mining for some iron in an abandoned mineshaft.
The moment you wake up, the room is dark, and the moonlight from the window is faint. It must have been hours now since you passed out. The first thoughts in your mind are the laptop and Jaehwi’s daughter, worried about what else beyond Minecraft she must have gone on with it.
Your answers, conveniently enough are right next to you—tucked into bed, back against you, the device right next to her blanketed feet, sleeping soundly like one would after a whole evening of playing Minecraft.
You pick up the laptop and unlock it, wondering what she was up to while you were out cold.
There, on the corner of the screen, was a sticky note. Written on it were the words: Made a house, too scared to mine again.
You opened the game and saw her humble little shack cobbled together with different bits of stone, wood, and spare wool. The occasional leaf blocks throughout the design tell you how desperate she was to build somewhere to live.
Cracking your knuckles, you manage a smile as you equip yourself with her nearly-broken wooden sword. “Leave the rest to me then.”
You spend the entire night lighting up a large area around her house with torches, making a little mineshaft downwards from the side of her house, and clearing the nearby zones off of any hostile mobs. You put it the dirty work—the kind of work you enjoy more back when you used to play this game with friends—so that she doesn’t have to. You’re amazed you still remember the recipe for a shield, how to pick off mobs with a bow, or even how to abuse hunger mechanics.
By the time you leash a dog to one of her fences, your eyes begin to falter, and before you know it, the early morning rays of sun threaten to blind you from the window. But the call of sleep is too strong. You hope you’ve done enough for her today. Now, it was finally time to rest in the real world.
Little did you know that the girl beside you got to wake up with a wide grin on her face as she took her new pet along with her to explore the world once more.
==
Your days with Jaehwi’s daughter look a lot like that day.
You spend your mornings doing god-knows-what trying to get your life back together again despite what’s going on around you. After a few days blow over, the heat on your back drops and you manage to return to The Requiem to take more jobs from Yujin. You clean these jobs up like usual, but you take extra pre-caution to get to your mark before four in the afternoon.
Because that was when your time with her began.
Of course, you’re keeping up an act. It wouldn’t make sense to stop following through after just a few days. It would make the Clan suspicious. It would place heat on you again.
Of course, you tell yourself that, but in actuality, spending time with his daughter was oddly enough a pleasant treat.
Whenever you come over, she’s already in the living room, hunched over her laptop, eyes wide open as the lights from her game flash all across her face. It’s almost endearing how adorable she looks when she’s taken over by the childhood wonder she’s been withheld from for years.
It’s almost endearing—until you remember you still have to kill her.
And you still try. You still try to end her life. But you know how things go—life still gets in the way.
You try attaching your ol’ reliable silencer to your pistol and convince her to enter the Nether, so you could shoot her in the back while she’s distracted by armies of Piglins. But the moment the lack of gold on her character becomes a problem, she’s throwing herself at you as if a physical escape in the real world would equate to a similar escape in the game.
You end up just hugging her trembling form and reminding her it’s just a game. The Piglins can’t hurt her in real life.
You try stabbing her in her sleep again—just like you originally planned. But Jaehwi’s daughter is one hell of a light sleeper. The moment you open the door to her room, she’s already turning towards you like she’s been expecting you. She pats the side of her bed and invites you to sit next to her, telling you all about what she did in Minecraft that day, how annoying Phantoms are, and how she might make a boat out of cherry wood and sail across the large ocean to the east.
You end up smiling through her stories of being raided by Pillagers.
You even try poisoning her food. You offered to serve her some breakfast in bed to surprise her, and Areum is immediately taken by your ‘sweetness’, naive to the notion of you sprinkling her meal with an agent so strong it would only take one bite to kill any mark. Except she doesn’t even want to take a bite of her food. She was too eager to jump back into the game again the moment she wakes up, insisting you eat the food yourself so it wouldn’t go to waste.
You end up dumping her laced breakfast into the trash, but not before kicking the can in frustration.
You regret buying her that damned game. Who would have thought it would make things more difficult than it already was.
This was unreal.
“Yeong Kyungsam—thirty-three, married with no children, head of logistics at one of Jaehwi’s construction companies, one of their fronts for money laundering.”
Bang.
“Myo Seungri—fifty-five, unmarried, retired grunt who worked for Jaehwi’s father and helped kill students during the Gwangju Uprising back in the eighties.”
Bang bang.
“Jeong Sooyun—twenty-seven, unmarried, works as a loanshark—.”
Bang bang bang.
As the blood stopped spreading across Sooyun’s carpet, you kick her lifeless face to make sure that she’s dead dead. You kick her face again just for the hell of it. Once you confirm she’s gone, you stuff your pistol in your holster and check the time on your phone.
Three-thirty-five.
Leaning against the window, you part the curtains and stare outside, weighing your options. It would take approximately half an hour to get to the mansion, but it would only take fifteen minutes to go to the nearest Subway to get a sandwich.
You go with the sandwich.
You line up, get your order taken, get your order messed up, watch as the staff apologizes and redoes your order with her manager behind her, and then finally, you get the sandwich you’ve been craving for, and take a seat somewhere near the back.
But it tastes like shit.
This is your favorite order for a sandwich and it tastes like absolute ass. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t stomach eating this alone or because you can taste the guilt of your actions with each bite. Whatever it is, it makes you check the time on your phone again.
Four-eleven.
You let out a sigh. Next to you, a high school student is eyeing you with a scared look on his face. You’re not sure if he’s scared because of your weapons or because you’ve been staring blankly at your half-eaten sandwich for minutes now. Either way, you offer him your half, and when he strangely enough accepts, you get up and begin jogging towards the Devil Cat Clan’s mansion.
“You’re late. But I still need your I.D.”
You grunt as you pretend to look for your non-existent I.D. through your different pockets. No way in hell are you giving this gorilla your actual I.D. “Can’t you let me in? I’ve been coming here for days now. Surely you recognize me.”
The guard doesn’t flinch. “You’re late, Tracksuit. She’s not happy with it.”
Those words stab into your chest. “I know, so could you just let me in?”
Before the gorilla can beat you to death, Areum pops her head out and assesses the ruckus before saying, “You’re here, young master. I thought you wouldn’t be coming today. You’re quite late.”
You exhale firmly through your nose. “I’m very aware of that. Could you help me get in?”
Sure enough, Areum waves down the guard and helps you enter the premises of the estate. She’s aware you know your way around by now, so she leaves you to confront the inevitable as she heads off to attend to some chores.
When you make it up to the third floor and open the bedroom door, a pillow smacks you right in the face before falling between your feet.
“You’re late,” she accuses you without looking up from the laptop. She’s just circling around the apps with the trackpad, pretending to be busy. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”
You shrug, picking up the pillow and placing it next to her. “I don’t have to come everyday, do I?”
That’s what makes her look away from her laptop. She clutches the pillow you picked up and hugs it tight against her chest. “I guess not …”
You glance away as you feel heat overtake your face for a brief moment. “Whatever. Is this what you’ve been up to again? You’re way too addicted to this. Maybe I should delete—.”
The pillow smacks your face again, and immediately, she recovers it with a pout. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh I would, young lady. You’re cooping up here’s gotten worse since I bought you that game,” you point out, sitting on the bed now. “Honestly, I’m surprised you even managed to play all this time with just a trackpad. Doesn’t it hurt your fingers?”
She shakes her head. “I can manage. Want to see what I built while you were gone?”
You inch closer to her and she shows you what’s new. You give her a day, and she managed to build a simple doghouse for her pet. You give her three days, and she managed to dig streets into the ground, make her own pathways with a shovel, and connect the roads in a cute little pattern. You give her a week, and she’s managed to copy the layout of this mansion as similarly as she could with the limited blocks and materials she has access to.
“Not bad, not bad,” you’re saying over her shoulder as you watch her do donuts on her boat. “I bet by the time we get married you would have already built all of Seoul in your world.”
Her mouth does it again—she smiles. But this time, she’s chuckling along with it.
But that moment is short-lived when your noses touch and you both realize how close you are to each other.
Instead of pulling herself away, she lets you stay where you are, hovering above your shoulder. Instead of withdrawing yourself, you allow yourself to stay close to her, staying by her side.
The two of you don’t say anything for a good few minutes.
What breaks the ice is one of your fingers moving towards hers, which was by the trackpad. You wiggle it around, and the field of view in the game wiggles around as well. “Maybe we should get you a mouse.”
“A mouse?”
“Yeah, for your laptop. I think we can get you a nice Logitech one that’s bluetooth too. It will help you with your building—trust me,” you explain. “And you’ve been playing on mute still? No wonder you keep getting jumped by mobs. I turned on subtitles for you already, but it helps to hear where they’re coming from too.”
“Ah, I get conscious playing with volume, especially when everyone’s already asleep.”
You chuckle. “You know, you’re technically their boss. I’m sure they wouldn’t give a damn if they heard their boss screaming after being chased by Skeletons again.”
She punches your shoulder—not a soft one, but one that packs some strength behind it. “Ya! I know how to use a shield now, you know?”
She raised her voice. That was the first time she’s ever done that. Endearingly.
When you don’t speak, she hides her face against the pillow and looks up only to paddle back to her little dock area. “I guess some earphones would help.”
Leaning back on your hands, you ask her, “What else do you want to buy? I don’t just mean for your laptop or to feed your Minecraft addiction—I mean other things. In general, you know?”
“In general …?”
You nod, glancing around the bare room within her four walls. “Things you’ve always wanted but never got to have. Things you couldn’t buy for yourself. Things you wish Jae—your dad could have gifted you but didn’t. Because he’s an asshole.”
She punches you again, this time with less power as she seems a bit more conscious. “Not clothes then. He only ever buys me clothes. Sometimes they aren’t even the right size.”
You think about the wardrobe filled with dust. You think about the first dinner you shared together and how meek she was. And you think about how, right now, you’ve heard her speak ill of her father for the first time. “You’re sure daddy won’t be mad if he heard that?”
And then, for the first time as well, you see her smirk at you. “Daddy won’t mind if I spend money again. He hasn’t given me a gift for my birthday last year anyway. This is just … making up for it.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘revenge’,” you quip, yet the word never felt sourer in your mouth. “How about we go to the mall then?”
Immediately, her expression twists and tightens. “The mall …? You mean like … outside?”
You nod, weirded out by her question. “Where else would the mall be? I know a gaming store I used to … I used to go to when I was younger. If they’re still open, maybe we could buy your gaming gear there with a discount too. Then, we can go around and see if there’s anything else you want to buy. We could even get something to eat afterwards.”
It seems she doesn’t like what you’re telling her. The moment you run your mouth about the different things you could do together at the mall, she falls silent and returns to that wilted state you first saw her in.
Dropping the topic, you reach out to her. But you stop yourself before your hand could touch her skin.
Why were you doing this? Why were you offering to go to the mall with her?
She could ask someone like Areum to go with her and buy whatever it is you listed out. She could just order them online and have them delivered the next day without any problems. Why did she have to go to the mall? And why did she have to go with you?
You’re supposed to fucking kill her—not babysit her.
Not take her out on some date.
When she comes to once again, she pushes the laptop away along with the pillow she was previously hugging. She curls up into a ball and lays down with her back towards you.
Well, shit. What did you say this time?
Rubbing your temple, you lay down next to her, share a moment of silence first, and then speak to the ceiling. “Another sore spot? Sorry about that. I still need to get used to your … triggers.”
But she shook her head. “No, it’s just … I … I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?” you say, and you fight the urge to look at her, knowing she would get too conscious—too ‘seen’. “Believe me, I’ve been called a disappointment more times than you can count. You’re the last thing I’ll think of when I think ‘disappointment’.”
Something in her springs to life. Something in her makes her sit up, and then get off the bed.
You follow her. You trail behind her like you’re her shadow. She glides out of her bedroom, down the stairs, into the courtyard, through the lavishly decorated hallways, past the Clan goons who all greet her politely, and when you’re both finally at the main entrance of the estate, she takes a deep breath and sighs.
She takes one step through the door and instantly, she’s shaking. Sweating. Like she’s sick. Like she’ll combust if she steps out into the light.
It’s only then that you recognize what was happening—a panic attack.
You lift her beneath her shoulders and bring her back inside, and without any hesitation, she’s clinging to you for dear life.
You hear her sobbing into your chest.
“I-I can’t … I can’t go out …” she whimpers, shaking her head, trying to dry her eyes against your jacket. “I-I-It feels like I need to … need to vomit. Head spinning, chest … chest hurting. I can’t … I’m sorry.”
Whatever happened to her—whoever did this to her—had a lot of explaining to do. But not her. She didn’t have to say another word. “You idiot … you didn’t have to do all this just to show me. Don’t worry about it. We’ll … we’ll find another way.”
“But that’s the thing—I don’t want to stay like this forever.”
As she trails off, back indoors, back down the first few hallways, and as you follow shortly behind her, she humors you some. “I didn’t always used to be like this. Just … just happened recently. I just … I just wish I wasn’t this helpless.”
“I just wish I wasn’t this weak.”
You know that feeling. You’re terribly familiar with it.
Feeling helpless. Feeling hopeless. Feeling weak. The world doesn’t stop for anyone or anything. It doesn’t stop for unpaid debt. It doesn’t stop for murdered parents. And it certainly doesn’t stop either for the traumatized children of syndicate leaders.
So you do the sensible thing and place your hand on the small of her back, rubbing it in arcs, before you whisper to the wind. “One step at a time, ok? Take it easy. I’ll … I’ll help you.”
You tell yourself this is part of the plan. You want to help get her out of the house so you can kidnap her, take her somewhere more isolated, and shoot her there.
Instead, you’re doing anything but that.
Because you have to deal with with two things.
First, the goons. They’re everywhere.
When you start visiting Jaehwi’s daughter earlier than four in the afternoon, you see for the first time what happens in the first half of her days.
The different thugs and lowlifes under the employ of her father visit her for some reason. They greet her, make small talk with her, ask her for ‘her blessing’ before they go around and do god-knows-what. Nothing untoward. Nothing slimy. They treat her more like an idol to be worshipped than a dainty daughter they needs to be taken care of. They tell her about their exploits, about their ventures, hoping she would support them with a few kind words. But she isn’t much for words. She just nods and thanks them for stopping by.
You worry some of them would recognize you—because oh boy, do you recognize a good amount of them. Like Eyepatch, who came to her bragging about the new businesses he contracted into the Clan’s protection scheme—you’re pretty sure you’re the reason he’s only got one eye now. Or Mohawk, who showed her the brand new watch he bought with the money he made through Clan work—you could have sworn that was a fake; you broke the real one two months ago when you broke his wrist too.
Instead of worrying, you try not to think too deeply into it and let them pass.
Second, her trauma. Or whatever this is that she’s experiencing.
You think it might be some adverse reaction to disobeying her dad’s command to stay at home. But when you hear Areum actively supporting and encouraging you to help her, you begin to wonder if it’s something else.
You start by getting her used to standing by the open door. That seems easy enough to do. But even then, she’s already clinging to the hem of your track pants every time like she’d seen a ghost.
Once she’s pinching your clothes a little less, you accompany her in taking her first few steps outside. Just on the sidewalk. She’s trembling like she’s about to collapse, but you stay by her side the entire time, reassuring her, letting her know you were right there. If she could clear Woodland Mansions by herself, surely standing on the sidewalk was no challenge for her.
Then she’s able to cross the street. Then she’s able to head down to the other end of the road. Then she’s able to head towards the bus station, and down into the subway.
One step at a time, you managed to help her conquer her fear. And she insists she is only able to do so because you held her hand the entire time. You don’t even notice you were doing that, but hey—if it helps, then it helps.
Nothing more to it than that.
Come the day you both agreed on to go to the mall together, you arrive at the estate on time this time around. But the gorilla at the gate stops you once again.
“Really? How many times are we going to do this?” you ask, stuffing your hands into your pockets. “Just let me in. I have a d—I have somewhere to be with her.”
He raises a brow at your change in tone. “Like always—I.D.. No I.D.? No entry.”
“You’re impossible.”
Half hoping Areum would show up again, you give it a few minutes. Sure enough, a head pokes out of the door to greet you.
But it isn’t Areum’s.
“H-Hi …” she meekly greets, taking one shy step after the other as she meets you outside the gate. “Sorry, I was … already waiting for you here. Do I look ok? For the mall?”
Your eyes don’t even hesitate to look her up and down. She’s wearing a lovely little frilly dress with ruffles that flowed downwards to her knees and a trench coat over it to keep her warm. You look away to avoid the eagerness in her eyes as you nod. “It looks fine. Yeah. Good enough.”
She pouts and rubs her nape. “Maybe I overdressed—.”
“No. You um, you look great. You really do,” you push out of your lips, feeling the heat rising from your chest. It didn’t help that the gorilla was eyeing you very carefully. “Although I think you should put a disguise on. Or something.”
“A disguise?” she asks, covering her lower face with one hand. “Who am I hiding from? My father?”
“No, it’s just … do you even follow the news? Your face was everywhere just two weeks ago. Even if you aren’t the talk of the town anymore, someone’s bound to recognize you,” you lie to her. You know damn well why you’re telling her to put on a ‘disguise’.
You don’t want anyone else to fawn over how beautiful she looks right now.
Pursing her lips, she looks like she wants to refute you, but caves to your request anyway. She asks Areum to give her a face mask and a cap to wear. “How about now? Is this better?”
It’s not. It’s worse. Way worse. For you, at least.
Because now that half her face was covered, all you can focus on are her eyes, on how soft and elegant they are—like a cat’s. A cat who knows how to crush your ribs and squeeze the air from your lungs with just one look. With every look. Now, they’re all you can see when you look at her, and it’s getting harder to think of anything but her damn eyes.
“Um, so …?”
It was the gorilla who answered on your behalf with a chuckle. “You look beautiful, young lady. Don’t let this dumbass tell you otherwise.”
You roll your eyes and take her hand. “Let’s go.”
To be clear, this is not a date. You’re just taking the syndicate leader’s daughter to the mall to buy gaming gear. That’s it. That’s all it has to be.
To whom you needed to clarify that with, you aren’t so sure. But it’s good to keep in mind as the day goes on.
She’s never taken the train, so you teach her everything she needs to know. You get her a card and tell her to keep it for future use. You show her how to use it, how to squeeze into a packed train, how to know when it’s your stop.
But you get the idea she’s not really paying attention because her eyes are glued on you the entire time.
You do your best to keep her from bumping into the other passengers, positioning her next to the doors, but as the train continues to fill, you’re left with no choice but to encroach on her personal space.
One arm above her head, your face hovering above hers, you wince every time some idiot bumps into your back, making you press up closer to her. But she doesn’t look away.
All she looks at is you.
When you reach your stop, you show her the directions to get to the mall from here. You hope she was at least paying attention this time, so she could get here by herself in the future. But her eyes would not meet anyone’s. She keeps her head down, hand tightly squeezing yours, as the two of you walked down the bustling city streets to get to the mall.
Once you’re there, she lightens up a little bit.
Her doe eyes widen in amusement as she’s exposed to the different sights within a mall: the different stores, the scattered stalls, the occasional advertiser, the free samples, the nonstop escalators, the oddly placed water fountain, the annoying kids—all of it. She takes it all in with a sense of wanderlust.
And you can’t help but smile.
You take her to the gaming store you used to frequent years ago. You hardly recognize the staff, so a discount was out of the question, but you do find what you promised to buy her. You’re set to pay for the black Logitech mouse and matching black earphones with your own money—the money you scrounged up after yesterday’s marks. But she’s holding this pink Hello Kitty designed mouse close to her chest, and then she’s looking at you with those eyes, and before you knew it, you’re returning what you had picked out and instead slid her pink mouse and pink earphones towards the cashier. You are not safe from a mechanical keyboard either, and when you try to reason with her saying her laptop already has a keyboard, her eyes droop just the slightest bit and it was all over for you once again.
You curse underneath your breath, but she’s next to you, holding your arm as she watches her new gear get bagged. And for some reason, seeing all that was more than enough to make it up to you.
She wasn’t sure what else she wanted to buy because she wasn’t sure what else existed in the mall. So you take her around.
She has no reason to be shoulder-to-shoulder next to you. She has no reason to lean into you whenever she was avoiding passers-by. She has no reason to still be holding your hand either since you had no intent of leaving her behind. But you let her. You let it happen. You both continue to play the role of the soon-to-be-married couple.
Because damn it, it was starting to feel … nice.
If being a couple meant you could get away with hearing her whimper and throw a tantrum whenever she loses against you at the arcade, if it meant getting an excuse to wipe the crepe filling from the corner of her lips, if it meant allowing you to press your cheek against hers at the photobooth, or sitting her on your lap when all the benches are full, or even fixing her hair when it gets messy underneath her cap, then damn it—who the hell wouldn’t cash in on this experience?
The least you can do with your predicament is enjoy it.
Once her stomach is filled, and her legs are tired, and you’re carrying more paper bags than either of you would have expected, she gives you a certain smile with her eyes that signals that she’s satisfied now, and that she’s ready to go home.
“Thank goodness we’re done. I don’t know how much I can still carry,” you tease, lifting up one hand, showing how each finger was connected to a separate bag. “You went wild with my money, didn’t you? Shopping always feels better when you’re not the one paying for it.”
She chuckles and leans into you, nuzzling her head. “You’re always going to be paying for me when I go shopping.”
“There’s going to be a next time?” you genuinely ask. A part of you dreads it, but a greater part of you is somehow looking forward to it.
“Of course. When we get married, we’re doing this every week.”
“Every week?” you repeat, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m filing for a divorce before our first anniversary then.”
She leans in to punch you, but her attention is caught by something else.
It’s about half an hour to closing time, and as you both circle around the atrium to get to your exit, you notice some sort of event ongoing.
The circular central area has been converted into a makeshift dance floor. Scattered around it, couples are locked in a slow dance, swaying to the beat of the songs that the mall speakers were playing.
You want to say something funny about their masquerade theme, but her eyes are heavily trained on the dancing couples that glided across the improvised dance floor. She watches as they pull apart, come together, twirl around, and bow before one another—all while remaining connected the entire time.
When she returns to you, her eyes fall between her feet. So you stop in your tracks.
“Let me guess—you want to dance?”
“I … I was just …”
You smile and lift her chin up. “You want to dance, don’t you? Go, I’ll hold our things.”
But she pouts and shakes her head. “I can’t dance alone. Dancing like that is for two people.”
You’re confident you can list the different ways someone could dance alone, many of which would probably end up with you sounding stupid. But as she holds your hands and tugs you towards the music and dancing, you take a deep breath and reluctantly nod.
“Ok, I guess we can dance for a song or two.”
You grew up with two left feet. Dancing was the last item on your bucket list of things to learn when growing up. You imagine she’s got no experience with it either.
But damn, does she make it feel easy.
She puts on her face mask again to try and keep to the theme. You know it’s probably a bad idea, but you pull out the crow mask you always keep tucked away behind you and put it on. She stares at you and can’t help but laugh. “You look stupid. Where were you hiding that?”
“I … let’s just say I always want to be ready to join a masquerade ball.”
Her hands move when yours can’t. They slide up your elbows, towards your shoulders, and find purchase around your nape. Clinging to you, she smiles with her eyes and pulls you closer. Meanwhile, your hands are awkwardly resting by her hips, bags swaying with every motion, fingers afraid to dig too deep into her skin.
And you dance. The two of you, in your own little spot on the dance floor, swaying each other to the rhythm of the songs. It isn’t complicated. It isn’t intense. You both just allow yourselves to feel the rhythm against your combined bodies, and hold each other as you dance.
“I had fun today,” she mutters through her mask, looking into your eyes. You can almost see the crow mask looking back at you through the reflection on her irises. “I … I always seem to have fun when I’m with you.”
“And here I thought I was the only one enjoying this arranged marriage situation of ours,” you fire back, and it earns a soft giggle from her.
“You know, it made me … it made me think,” she continues with a whisper, pulling you even closer, so that now, the tip of your crow mask was dancing around her own protected nose. “If we met under different … circumstances, would we … would we still be like this?”
Your fingers twitch against her waist. “What do you mean? Would we still be getting married?”
“Would we have really fallen in love?”
You never considered this—whatever you two were doing, whatever you two had—as love.
In fact, you have never thought about love for the past eight years. You thought every last notion of such a feeling left you the moment your parents died. Since then, nothing’s really been the same anyway. And between chasing after goons with bullets or avoiding being hunted yourself, there was never really a pause—a space—where you can breathe and think about anything other than surviving, other than revenge.
But right now, confronted by such a question, you allow yourself the space to think about it.
“I … don’t know. If I didn’t sign up to be your husband, I don’t think I would have ever done … any of this—any of what we did—with someone else. I don’t think I’d make a good partner, really. If … if only you knew …”
She reaches towards your face with one hand and plucks your mask off you, holding it by the tip of its nose. “Then show me the real you. Not the you that’s trying to just … make me happy with our situation. I want to see who you really are, and … I want to see if I can fall in love with that. Please?”
You bite your tongue and try to control your breathing. Your physique isn’t this terrible—you’re not supposed be left sweating and out of breath by just a few circles around a dance floor. But somehow, you are. You’re utterly weakened by her words, and you’re absolutely ensnared by her eyes.
Just like how she pried your mask off of you, you dig your fingers between the strings of her face mask and pull it off her too. “Then I want to see the real you too. The you you want to become outside of your dad’s shadow. The you that’s beyond the Devil Cat Clan. The you that’s been there all along, waiting to come out.”
And just like that, she blushes like a flower learning to blossom for the first time, reddening like a tomato in a heartbeat.
There are two pistols hidden inside the length of your pants, each with about sixteen bullets loaded in. You have your hwando strappedagainst your chest, underneath your jacket, waiting to be unsheathed. And you have two separate garrotes hidden inside the heels of your shoes.
But despite all that, you don’t even think about killing her—or her father—for even a second. No. All you can think about is how you can keep sharing moments like this with her.
Because god damnit—it feels great.
It feels unreal.
==
Yeah, it’s safe to say the plan has fucking changed right about now.
You’re on the third week towards your upcoming marriage with Jiwon and you have made zero progress on your little revenge plan. If you aren’t going to do anything soon, you might find yourself married instead to the very organization you swore to burn to the ground.
But somehow, that idea doesn’t bother you anymore.
Your days with Jiwon begin to change. Since your vow to each other that night at the mall, your lives start to bleed into one another.
Jiwon asks you about the your track suit get up, your crow mask, and the weapons you always bring around with you. You just tell her it’s for safety purposes, but she’s not buying it. She begs you to stop bringing them around with you. And if she hadn’t asked you of it, you never would have. So you stopped packing them—for her sake. But the track suit agenda persisted.
Jiwon introduces you to her garden. This is the first time she formally does so. She tells you each of their names, recalls which years she started taking care of them, how much to water each of them, and what songs she likes singing to them on the daily. You tell her you want to hear one of her songs, and at first, she’s rather meek about. But when she realizes you spent five hours of your day just hearing her yap adorably about her beloved plants, she believes a song wouldn’t hurt—and oh boy, does she have such an angelic voice. You’re almost envious of the plants for hearing her sing every day.
Jiwon requests you to tell her about your life outside of her, about what you do for a living, about what you do for fun. You can’t exactly tell her you kill people for money. Instead, you tell her about the distant past. About how you used to study finance in college. About the sleepovers and all-nighters you used to pull with friends. About the times you would just jog early in the morning to help clear your head. And even about the times you crushed on certain girls around campus. And she listened. Jiwon listened to every last story of yours like they’re tales about another world. For you, they very well might have been given how long ago they were now, but you found some comfort in sharing your past with her.
You eat dinners together now. You spend hours at night laying next to her in bed talking about the silliest things. You greet her ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ each day. You get her little gifts and trinkets whenever you can. You even count the time left until you have to go, and the time remaining until you can see her again.
Is this what it means to be really dating? You’re not quite sure. But the things that are bouncing around in your head, making your chest feel all sorts of different things—they feel very real to you.
“Im Kyung-Mi—forty-six, married, one of Jaehwi’s hoobae’s from his short time in university, now handles several laundering fronts for the Clan.”
“Bo Hana—twenty-nine, unmarried, operates phishing scams in six different online chatrooms, blackmails and extorts victims daily.”
“Mun Youngjae—thirty-one, married, moved from insurance fraud to loansharking, opened up a new lending business in preparation for his firstborn due in four months.”
But you let them all slide. You let those marks go for today like you have been doing for the past few days—much to Yujin’s surprise and dismay.
Why? Simply because you didn’t want to be late for your time with Jiwon.
Promising Jiwon not to bring guns around anymore changed the way you saw daily life again. For once, you don’t have to be always on your guard. For once, you don’t have to be in hiding. For once, you’re not living day to day between one chase to another. You can actually look forward to things. You can actually plan things farther than just a day at a time.
You can actually live.
So as you hand the paper bills towards the florist who helped assemble a lovely and fragrant bouquet for you, purchasing flowers for the very first time, you believe this was a better way to spend your money—better than a new pistol or a shiny new blade.
You hold the bouquet close to your chest with a smile. You feel stupid. You guess you look stupid. But right now, it hardly matters.
Because you are about to go on your very first date with Jiwon.
The two of you felt that it was only right that you both should properly have a date before getting married. So, you ended up scheduling a date today. As you walked towards the entrance of the estate with the flowers in hand, you briefly think about your impending deadline. Your impending need to resolve the shit you have in the background. But once the thought passes, you file it away and try not to think about it for now.
Everything’s going well. Why ruin that?
Before you can even greet the gorilla, and before he can even ask for your I.D. again, Jiwon’s head pokes out of the door and she greets you with the widest smile. “You’re here! You’re early.”
“And you’re already dressed,” you note, immediately noticing the black mini-dress she has on. It showcases her bare shoulders, her slender legs, and her collarbone draped with a small silver necklace. “You look amazing.”
The gorilla scoffed and turned away. “Kids these days. Just go on your bloody date already.”
Jiwon blushes and peeks inside. “Could you wait for a moment? I have company right now, but I’ll be ready to go in a few.”
“Not at all. Take your time,” you say as you follow her indoors.
She rushes away from you, and you wonder why she’s in a hurry. It’s only when you arrive at the courtyard and you see another beautiful young lady exiting Jiwon’s home that you realize what she meant.
This girl didn’t resemble Jiwon at all: jet-black hair, oval face, sharper eyes, flirty smirk, cropped top, concerningly short skirt.
Yeah, she was nothing like Jiwon.
This new girl approaches you with a grin that says she already knows what is going on. She eyes the flowers, then you, then chuckles behind a raised hand. “So you’re the man unnie’s getting married to.”
Unnie? Is this her sister?
“Yeah. Well, I guess this is me,” you raise, extending both hands to the sides. “It’s not much, but I guess it works.”
“It really does. For her,” she teases, smirking wider. “You’re all she ever talks about these days, you know? I had to come here and see for myself what you were all about. I think I can see where she’s coming from.”
You park that thought as you get all flustered holding your flowers for Jiwon. “I …”
The girl chuckles one final time before winking at you. “Take care of her, oppa. Don’t break her heart. She’s the only sister I have, so … make her happy.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you proudly announce, lifting your chin. Finally, you regain some of your confidence back.
As the girl disappears into the hallways behind you, you trudge up to Jiwon to ask what that was about.
You catch her in the middle of touching up her lipstick. She wears lipstick now, apparently. When she sees you, she immediately closes her hand mirror and hides both behind her back. “I-I … I told you to wait for me.”
You crinkle your nose, and doing so almost makes you want to die. “You look pretty enough as you are. Who was that, by the way?”
“That’s Hyunseo. She’s my half-sister. She’s … the closest sibling I have among many others,” she explains, putting her makeup all into one bag before walking towards you. “And those?”
You extend your hand forward. “These are for you. It’s normal to give girls flowers on dates, right? I uh, I wasn’t sure if this was overboard.”
She leans into you to smell the flowers, letting out a blissful exhale. “Their lovely. Thank you. I’ll have Areum-unnie place them in a nice vase for me.”
Finally, you pop the question. “So um, are you … are you ready? For our first date?”
Jiwon bites her plump and freshly reddened lips and nods. “Yeah … yeah I’m ready.”
So you extend an arm out towards her, and she takes it, and you’re both giggling like teenagers over how silly you two are at your age over a simple stupid date.
The date was anything but—simple, maybe; stupid, not at all.
Going to the mall again felt derivative, and Jiwon isn’t sure if she can handle going to a crowded place again this soon. So you had the brilliant idea to take here somewhere you have always wanted to take a date to.
A cafe.
It had an interesting name. An alliteration of sorts. But what caught your eye was the ambience.
As the bell chimed when you open the door, you’re greeted by the barista at the cashier. You hold Jiwon’s hand as you both approached him and start to order.
“New couple?” he asks, trying to make small talk as he keys in things on the monitor.
Neither you nor Jiwon can respond right away, refusing to look at each other or the barista. The man chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry if I got that wrong. I just see a lot of couples come by around this time of the day. Although … someone as cute as you, miss, would surely have no trouble finding a date around town—.”
Your hands moves before you can even think. You wrap an arm around Jiwon’s slender waist and pull her closer to you. “She’s mine. She’s my girlfriend. We’re getting married next week.”
You don’t know if the blush is from your cheeks or hers, but Jiwon leans into you and rests the back of her head against your collarbone. “Yeah … he’s my boyfriend. We’re on a date … n-not our first though! We’ve dated many times before um, before now. For sure …”
The barista swaps between looking touched to looking confused. “Ok miss … I was just teasing.”
A female barista elbows him as if to tell him off. “Don’t tease the customers like that! Sorry about him, he can get a little carried away sometimes. Drinks are on me.”
“For real?” you ask, and before the male barista can protest, the female one takes control of the situation with a nod. “Yes sir, please enjoy your stay!”
With that, you take your free drinks and sit yourselves towards the back. Jiwon looks like she wants to sit next to you instead of across from you, so you indulge her and drag your heavy chair towards her side of the table.
“Ahh~ Free drinks taste better than paid ones,” she hums between sips, knees bumping together.
“You never had to pay for any of your drinks before, what are you talking about?” you retort, taking a long sip of your iced americano.
You banter a bit before talking about other things. About her Minecraft world. About her sister. About your refusal to wear anything but tracksuits. And about makeup brands.
And it’s perfect. This is perfect. She’s perfect.
You once dreamed of something like this. You don’t remember the exact details, but the feelings are warmer. The sensation is cozier. And the girl across you is more beautiful than you ever imagined—even when she has coffee shooting out of her nostrils after you make her laugh.
She’s unreal.
And then the topic goes to marriage. Your marriage. Next weekend.
The atmosphere surrounding you both tightens to a standstill. No one wants to make the first move towards that discussion. But somehow, one of you needs to speak up.
“So it’s next week,” you raise, taking one for the team as you set your cup back onto the ring it formed on the table. “How do you feel about it?”
She hesitates for a moment, pondering her words, but when she finds the right thing to tell you, it comes out without hesitation. “I still don’t like our arrangement, but … I can still like you, right?”
Damn she is really knocking you out of the park with every little thing she says. “That … I don’t think that’s a problem at all.”
She smiles, and so do you. But it fades away the moment she sees something behind you. “Oh no … oh no that’s …”
You turn around and see a flock of six men in suits and shades entering one after the other into the cafe. They don’t give the bell a break, ringing it continuously. They don’t stop for the greetings of the baristas either. Instead, they head right for you and Jiwon.
Once they surround you like a wall, they bow to their waists. One of them speaks up and says, “Lady Jiwon, the Master has requested your presence. He wants you and your fiancé to meet him right now. He’s already at the restaurant.”
You can visibly see Jiwon’s muscles tighten and lock in place upon hearing this. “My … my father? Why now of all times? I-I’m in the middle of—.”
“It’s his request, my lady. We’re just the messengers,” he explains as if in apology. “Please don’t delay this any father. You know how Master Jaehwi can get when he’s … kept waiting. We already have a car prepared for you.”
She glances towards the henchmen, then to you, then to her unfinished drink. Standing up carefully, she nods and holds out a hand shyly towards you. “Then I don’t have a choice … Please, lead the way.”
You take her hand and walk with her towards the parking lot, where a sleek black Mercedes-Benz awaits you.
The ride to the restaurant is a short one, but the silence throughout it made it feel like forever. Jiwon says nothing to you—in explanation, in apology, in request—almost like she’s already assented to the situation. You recall how docile she was previously with Areum and the other staff. You can only imagine how pious she is towards her father.
You’re brought to a large Chinese restaurant. The signboard, carpets, and staff uniforms were all a blinding shade of red. You were never one for Chinese cuisine, but you can tell this restaurant was different—more refined, more elite, more extravagant.
You are proven right almost immediately when you are lead towards a private room on the second floor, where an all-too-familiar figure was seated at the opposite end of the round table surrounded with dishes and meals.
Kim Jaehwi.
Your hand clenches so hard around Jiwon’s hand that she winces from the pain. But you can’t help yourself. You curse your better senses for coming here without any weapons on you. Had you known you would have been in the same room with Jaehwi this afternoon, you would have ditched the pleasantries and snuck at least a small knife in with you.
He’s there. He’s just over there. And you haven’t got a single way to kill him.
So you choose to instead bow to him submissively, feeling your stomach curdle at the thought of showing deference to this wretch. Jiwon does the same but lower than yours. Once you both stand upright once more and are allowed to take a seat, you stiffly sit on the edge of your chair and keep your back straight the entire time.
Jaehwi sips from his tea cup and sighs. “So. Jiwon, this is the man you’ve chosen to marry?”
His voice is coarse. His words are grating and repulsive like a fork scratching against a chalkboard in your head. His gaze is the worst. Those yellowing eyes scan your figure as if to evaluate you, as if to judge you, and you can’t help but feel sick at the thought of allowing this man to appraise you like another business opportunity. “He seems decent. Good-looking. Well-off? That I do not understand. Why marry someone without a notable background? Is it for love? You’re not making it any easier for yourself if you don’t start thinking about what’s best for you and your future.”
Jiwon makes no attempt to tell her father otherwise.
Sighing, he uses his chopsticks to pluck up a pair of chicken feet, slurping on it like you two weren’t there. Jiwon doesn’t motion to get anything, so you hold yourself back from eating as well. Besides, you lost your appetite the moment you saw his pathetic face.
“The marriage is next week, so I want to make sure everything is in order. Including your readiness,” Jaehwi raises, gesturing to Jiwon with his chopsticks. “Are you sure about this? I do not want to deal with the aftermath of your indecision on the day of your marriage.”
He doesn’t sound like a father ensuring his daughter wouldn’t be making a mistake. He sounds more like a syndicate leader gauging whether his biological investment has finally matured—has finally been secured.
You turn to Jiwon, only able to offer your hand in support. You aren’t completely sure yourself either—especially not after seeing this bastard’s face again. But for now, an answer to placate him will do.
But Jiwon doesn’t say a thing even in the face of such a life-changing decision.
Her father shrugs once more and continues stuffing his bowl of fried rice with more steamed fish. “If you’re not going to say anything to me, then at least enjoy the food. And the wine. Help me finish it, you two. It was very expensive.”
The food is fresh and well-cooked. It’s incredibly rich and flavorful—your opinion of Chinese cuisine has changed. But the wine is too strong for your taste. Just one sip and you know you’re going to regret drinking more than one glass of this. Unfortunately, you’re made to help finish the whole bottle along with Jiwon, who already reddens at the face with just a few sips.
By the time your dinner with Jaehwi is over, you are one dead body, one decent plan, and one responsive fiancée short. As much as you curl your fingers into the arms of your chair at the sight of Kim Jaehwi fleeing your presence still alive after weeks, months, and years of striving to get to him, the only one you can think of right now is the girl next to you.
Once the door closes behind you two, Jiwon lets out an audible gasp like she’s been holding her breath like she’s held her tongue against him this entire time. “Thank god he’s gone … I don’t think I can drink wine anymore either …”
You lean to rest your forehead against hers in an act of comfort. You’re pretty buzzed yourself, so you’re not sure why you thought physical intimacy like this is a good idea. But you roll with it. “Are you ok? You weren’t saying anything the entire time. I was worried.”
Jiwon nods, rubbing her temple against yours. “That’s just … that’s just how I am with my father. I can’t say anything against him … to him … He just does what he wants to anyway.”
“Don’t think about him” you say. Whether thats to Jiwon or to yourself, you’re not entirely sure. “Let’s get you back home. You look redder than I’ve ever seen you before.”
She turns to you and giggles in an uncharacteristic manner. You chalk it up to the alcohol in your systems. “Really~? I feel … light. But also … numb? Is that a thing?”
She flicks your nose and chuckles again. “Are you going to carry me? I don’t think I can walk like this.”
As if to prove her point, Jiwon stands up and immediately loses her balance, swaying unsteadily as her hands come flying around her. You catch her by the waist and ground her before lifting her into your arms and carrying her.
She gasps and clings to your neck as you bring her down the stairs towards the car that’s been waiting for you both.
When you’re both dropped off at the estate, it’s already well past midnight. Jiwon’s humming different melodies to herself as she’s in your arms once again. It’s only when you lay her down in her bed that she calms down from her alcoholic high and turns to face you with more sincerity on her face.
Tapping the free space on the bed, she invites you to join her. You waste no time tucking yourself into bed with her again. Like you always do.
She stares up at the ceiling, and so do you. You think you might stay like this for a while until both of you fall asleep. But it’s when Jiwon asks you a question that you realize she’s not in the mood for sleep just yet.
“Can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest with me,” she starts, still talking to the ceiling. “Why are you still doing this? Why are you still … trying to get married to me?”
You shrug. “The food here’s pretty good. I get free car rides once in a while. Get to relax some and fool around. But most of all? I get to see a pretty woman each time I visit. I think that’s the real kicker to this arrangement, honestly.”
She rolls her eyes. You can tell from your peripheral. “You always call it that. An arrangement. Our predicament. Our situation. Is this all it will ever be to you?”
You never really thought of it deeper than that before.
What were you two?
Outside the upcoming marriage. Outside the awkward beginning. In between the stolen moments here and the genuine instances there. What exactly were you and Jiwon?
You don’t know at this point. You don’t fucking know at all.
“I could ask you the same thing. Why are you still tolerating me—?”
“I’m not tolerating you. I never was,” she replies sharply, turning to face you now on her side. “You’re … you’re not what I expected.”
“What exactly were you expecting from someone who’s supposed to be your future husband?”
“I … I don’t know. Someone weird? Desperate? Just … not this. Not this at all.”
You smirk, nodding at her. “I’ll take that as a compliment then. But you’re asking all the questions—let me ask you some too.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Why did you choose me?”
The question catches her off-guard as you see her staring past you in thought. “Why did you choose me that day? Your dad, Jaehwi—he had a point earlier. Why me? You could have picked someone richer or more influential to help you run this syndicate better. You could have chosen someone smarter or more capable than me to support you in the future and give you a stable life. But me? I’m … I’m just a no one. I’ve got nothing going for myself or to my name. All I can give you … all I can do for you … is this.”
You lift your hand in an arc across the air. With just that motion, you point at all the things that have been added to Jiwon’s room over the weeks that you’ve been together.
But Jiwon shakes her head in defiance to your self-deprecation. “Do you remember what I told you the last time you asked me that?”
“Sort of. Something about not being threatening enough. Something about feeling safe,” you recount, hoping it was right.
Smiling, she wiggled her way towards you and pressed her face into your chest. She waits for you to wrap an arm around her, and when you finally do, she whispers, “I chose you because you had this look in your eyes. Like you were just as lost and … broken … as I was. And it just … it just sort of clicked in my head.”
Jiwon looks up at you and asks, “Tell me … do you think broken people can ever be fixed again? Do you think … do you think we can still feel complete?”
You take a long and deep breath, let the air fill your lungs, and watch as your chest rises and falls with the exhale, before attempting to even answer that question.
“I … I used to think some of us are broken beyond repair. Some things … some people … they ruin us. Immensely. Like we’re distorted beyond recognition. Like we’re … warped beyond the point of return. And it’s not our fault. Life’s cruel like that. But lately? Lately I’ve been thinking that maybe … just maybe … we only believe we’re broken beyond repair because we can’t see the whole picture. Something or someone might walk into our lives and … remind us of who we once were. What we can still be.”
You don’t notice you’re embracing her tighter now. You can feel her struggling to catch her breath beneath you, so you loosen up a bit. But even then, she chases after your touch and nuzzles against your chest. “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard you say something almost … poetic like that.”
You chuckle, pushing away the stray strands of her hair. “Just speaking what comes to mind. Just speaking my truth.”
After sharing a few more moments together like this, Jiwon pulls away and moves towards the edge of the bed, sitting up. This scares you for a moment, and it occurs to you that you don’t like the feeling of seeing her leave like that. Instead, she takes several deep breaths before finally doing what she meant to do.
She saunters over towards the foot of her bed, kneels down, and withdraws something deep underneath the bedframe. Once she pulls out what appears to be a small wooden box, she trembles as she walks over to your side.
You sit up and join her, placing a hand on her thigh. “I … I wasn’t always like this. The me you see right now? It’s … it’s broken. It’s missing. Not that I’m lying to you or anything, but … I’ve just felt incomplete since … since my mother died.”
The weight of her words presses against your chest. “Your mom? You never talked about her.”
She nods, acknowledging it, but not without the first few tears escaping from her eyes as she recalls what she must have been keeping locked up for so long now. “My mother … my eomma, she … she was the person I loved most in the world. She used to live with me here, you know? We did everything together. She taught me everything I know—how to take care of plants, how to sing, how to … how to carry myself in front of my father. It was just … me and her. Me and her against the world. That was until … until she died.”
Jiwon opens the box on her lap and takes out a necklace that sat on top of the other trinkets inside. She holds it up towards her collarbone, and you see how it forms a matching set with the necklace still wrapped around her neck.
“This was my mother’s … We wore it together whenever w-we went out,” she pushed out between sobs. “You … You reminded me of her. She would always be the one guiding me, showing me around, taking me places … It wasn’t too often, a-and I never really paid attention, but … to me, those moments were what I treasured the most.”
Then she hunches forward and lets out a sharp whine as she takes out the remaining contents of the box. They’re pictures—pictures of a young Jiwon with her mother. Some were in full color while others still had that nostalgic paint of aged film. “These … these are all that I have left of her because … because … she died. Just … just last month.”
You feel a heavy chill drag across your spine as you stare at the woman in her photos.
“They said she was killed on the way home from the airport b-by … by an unknown attacker.”
You think back to the three bullets. The skidding car. The blood on the ground.
“She was gone for months … abroad … and I was so excited to see her come back a-a-and tell me about her trip, but … but …”
Then you think back to your final mark as they exited the vehicle, crawling, pleading, begging for mercy.
“Now … she’s dead … And I’ll never get to talk to her again …”
Like a moment frozen in time, you remember now what that woman said to you as you pressed your blade into her neck.
“Please … mer … -cy … I have a daughter … a child … let me see her again first …”
And you remember what you told her in reply.
“I had parents once too. And your godforsaken clan never gave me the chance to save them. So why should I spare you?”
Before she could even sob, your blade had already done its work.
How cruel is the world?
How cruel is fate to have made your path intertwine with Jiwon only to end up with this scathing realization? You couldn’t even think about the marriage. You couldn’t even think about comforting her in your arms. Because all you could think about right now was how wrong you had been.
How wrong you have been this entire time.
For the past eight years, you’ve been bitterly chasing after your revenge. You believed that each kill, each murder, each slaughter, was another step closer to avenge your dead parents. Did it never occur to you that these people had hopes and dreams too? That these people had families too? That these people might have also been like you—victims of the system, other cogs affixed into this bloody, relentless machine?
Did it ever occur to you that, with each life you took, you were possibly ruining another’s?
And what did you hope to gain after each kill? What did you hope to achieve after murdering every last member of the Devil Cat Clan—even Kim Jaehwi himself? Would that have made you happy?
The emptiness inside you says otherwise.
Jiwon collapses into the crook of your neck, sobbing into your shoulder, but you remove herself from you and gently push her away. She stops for a moment and glances at you. “Wh-what …?”
You shouldn’t. You know you goddamn shouldn’t. But you go against your better senses and cave towards your conscience that’s screaming blasphemies into your mind.
You should have kept quiet. You should have just let the moment pass. But you feel sick to your very core, and you can’t in good faith continue on with this—whatever this is—with Jiwon any further.
Not without telling her the truth.
“You asked about the guns … and the blade … and the weapons,” you start, staring between your feet, unable to look her in the eye anymore. “You asked me what I did outside of you … what I did in my free time … what I did for work. Jiwon, I-I … I’m a vigilante. I put justice into my own hands because the system has failed me before. I kill people for money, Jiwon … I-I-I kill people because I want my revenge. On your father. On your clan. Because they killed my parents eight years ago and left me broken like this …”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and begin to weep. “She was … just another mark to me. I didn’t care—I never cared for them. I just … wanted them gone. Wanted them all gone. Jiwon, I … I’m … I’m sorry. I’m the one who killed your mother that day.”
Silence. Nothing but silence.
Then it comes one at a time.
First came the slamming of knees to the ground. Then the shattering of a wooden box against the wall. Then hair being tugged accompanied by screams and wails of pain. Then, you hear crying. Endless, volatile, heavy crying. As Kim Jiwon comes completely undone on the floor.
You look away. But you can’t. You force yourself to look at her—at the mess you made.
At the life you ruined.
“Get … get out …”
You hold your breath and reach a hand towards her. “Jiwon, I—.”
“I said … get … OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!”
Like a ghost dragged out from your dead carcass, you float past her and through her door without a heft of weight to you. Behind you, her door slams shut as her wailing and shrieking continue to echo into the night.
Like Jiwon, you fall to your knees, slam your forehead against the floor, and continue bashing your head against the cold hard surface.
Over, and over, and over again. Not until the darkness takes you.
Not until the crying stops bleeding into your ears. Not until you have punished yourself enough.
At some point in the night, you are roused from your sleep. Whether you passed out from the fatigue or the pain, you find yourself stirred awake now and into a sit.
It was Jiwon.
You rub your eyes and blink rapidly in surprise and confusion. “Look … please, just let me—.”
She interrupts you by pushing a glass of water towards your lips. “Drink. We just had alcohol in our systems … that’s all. Nothing … nothing happened, ok? Just forget it.”
Not wanting to argue, you drink the water slowly down to the very last drop. You notice Jiwon has already drunken hers—her glass settled off to the side. As you finish your drink, you can’t help but feel an odd sense of warmth engulfing you, swallowing you, smothering you.
It’s only then that Jiwon gives you a defeated smile.
“It’s fast acting isn’t it—the poison?” she states calmly, body swaying from side to side like she’s still intoxicated. “Who knew that the kiss of death could feel this … warm?”
You start to choke and gag on instinct, feeling your veins start to swell and your lungs start to burn. “What … what did you do to me? What did you put in our drinks?”
But Jiwon shakes her head, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her eyes anymore. “We’re both broken … You thought we could still be fixed … You thought we could fix each other, but … all we did was break one another all the more … My family hurt yours, so you hurt mine … Let’s end this cycle of hatred right here.”
She reaches forward to caress your face one final time, and all you can see as your vision grew hazy is her scared and tired eyes looking back up at you. “Thank you for trying … but it’s ok now. This is it for us, so … just let it happen. Let it take you.”
You wait a minute. Then five. Then ten. But when you expect to die, you instead grow warmer by the moment. “What … what exactly did you mix into our drinks?”
Jiwon, who is completely flustered and beginning to sweat, replies, “I-I … I found a bottle in my father’s bathroom while you were asleep. I thought … I thought it was some kind of poison. It was labelled ‘aphrodisiac’—”
Your eyebrows twitch. “Jiwon that’s … that’s not a poison … that’s …”
You don’t even get the chance to laugh at her mistake. The warmth and the pressure that’s been building up from the aphrodisiac now spread downwards and made your nether region throb with need. “That’s for arousal …”
Jiwon eyes your growing need that’s straining within your pants. She can feel that growing need inside her too—you can tell from the way her breaths grow more ragged and intermittent. “I-I … I didn’t know … God, I-I-I can’t even kill myself properly … I’m such a failure …”
But her tone spoke nothing of regret. Her eyes indicate nothing of remorse. Instead, her quivering lips, and the way her tongue dances across them as she eyes you, spoke of another sensation altogether.
Desire.
She’s on you now, climbing your laying body on all fours. You try to push her away, but you knew better than to hurt her any further. Once she’s straddling your hips, unknowingly grinding circles against your crotch, she leans forward and whispers into your ear. “Let me just make one more mistake … please …”
And just like that, you’re both a maelstrom of lust and unbridled desire.
Her hands tear through your clothes, stripping you off your last remaining ounces of dignity. She stares at the chest and abdominals you’ve been hiding underneath your stupid jacket, traces your scars with a finger, then immediately, she’s running her hands all over them.
You can’t resist her yourself either. Hands flying towards her minidress to pluck the strings off her tight figure one by one. Once she’s sliding out of it, you peel her underwear off her like you’re plucking petals from a flower. When you’re both aligned in the right way, you waste no time turning into a mess of bouncing, licking, and thrusting as you consume one another.
Neither of you have been this hungry before. Neither of you would feel sated until you had gone the whole way.
And so you see it through. All. Night. Long.
Come the morning, you find yourselves naked on Jiwon’s mattress. Somehow, at some point in the night, you both managed to make it here. Both pillows were now on the floor along with the comforter that usually came above your bodies. She’s laying on her stomach next to you, eyes struggling to stay open.
You get one last glance of her bare form—not an inch of her left uncovered—before she screams at the top of her lungs.
Screaming that you had soiled her in her sleep.
==
“Chwe Yeonseok—.”
Bang.
“Han Yongjin—.”
Bang.
“Tang Jisu—.”
Bang.
“Lee Min-ah—.”
Bang.
“Chae Woojin—.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
As you drop the bloody insignias on the bar counter and shove it towards Yujin, you expect the payment for hitting your marks. That’s thrice your daily usual—just like the previous days this week. But when the wads of cash arrive, you simply flit through each bill with a soulless gaze before stuffing it into your pockets.
You should have been fine.
The Devil Cat Clan kicked you out of their property as soon as Jiwon cried wolf. It was a miracle they didn’t beat you to death then and there. The proof was undeniable with how both of you were naked. The aphrodisiac turned out to be useful somehow.
Jaehwi said nothing about your alleged assault of his daughter. He let you keep your head, so you used it to keep going and going and going.
You’re back at The Requiem again. You’re taking jobs left and right. Murdering without question. Killing without doubt. Earning paycheck after paycheck. No longer worried about goons on your back—at least, goons from the Devil Cat Clan. You told Yujin no more of those marks—not for now, at least. You no longer have to contemplate an arranged marriage either. You were finally free.
But something was missing. And Yujin points this out as she offers you another glass of whiskey.
“Rough week? What the hell happened this time? Shouldn’t you be happy you made an entire month’s checkout in just a few days?” she prods, polishing a glass she just rinsed. “What’s up with you? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“When have I ever been myself since I showed up at your place, An Yujin,” you sigh after your chug your drink, smudging the back of your hand against your dried lips. “Just let me make my money in peace.”
“But what are you doing it for?”
The question comes out of the blue, and you could have sworn you heard another voice asking you that. But when your gaze returns to Yujin, who’s now bent over the counter, she continues, “What is it even all for? I took you in here eight years ago thinking you would have sorted out your life by now if you found your purpose. But what is your purpose?”
You shrug, demanding another drink. But Yujin refuses.
“Do you know why you’re the oldest hitman here?” Yujin raises, staring at the several other lowlives gathered at The Requiem alongside you two. “That’s because everyone else who’s come before you already found their shit in life. They made peace with their inner demons. They’ve moved on. So when will you?”
Her words burn your throat more than the whiskey does.
Before you can think of a reply, you hear something on the TV. “—duled this weekend. It will be held—.”
You snatch the remote from the spectacled bloke next to you and struggle to return the channel back to the news station.
It’s a segment about Jiwon. She’s still getting married this weekend. Although, right next to her now is a picture of a familiar lion-looking fellow in a tight white suit.
“You know that guy?” Yujin asks, gesturing towards Alex. “Have you bumped into him before?”
“Could say that,” you slur, feeling the alcohol get to your head. “Met him once.”
“You’re insane. You’re absolutely insane,” she lauds, shaking her head. “That’s the son of the Golden Dragon Gang’s boss. He’s larger than you think. And now, he’s going to marry the legitimate child of the Devil Cat Clan. That smells like trouble.”
You raise a brow. “Why? Won’t that mean our marks get easier to find now that they’re merged?”
But Yujin shakes her head. “The Golden Devil Gang’s a bunch of menaces. If they merge with the Devil Cat Clan, they’ll have more goons under their control to do their dirty work. Even if the Clan’s done some terrible shit in the past, they don’t resort to violence first. But the Gang does.”
The man you stole the remote from whistles. “Bummer. Feel bad for the old man—Jaehwi? Once his daughter gets married, she’ll likely take control of the Clan. But since she’s marrying into the Gang, the Gang will likely take control on her behalf. Reshuffle staff and personnel. Relocate their bases. Might even force Jaehwi to fully retire.”
You think back to how Jiwon fits into all of this. You think of how she’ll lose the only people in her life because of this merger—because of this marriage.
You think back to her crying face. To how she punches you whenever you tease her. To the way she curls up in her sleep.
You think of all the time you spent together. Those numbered days counted against less weeks than you have fingers. You think about how you once look forward to meeting her at four in the afternoon each day—everyday. And you think about how disappointed you felt every time you had to leave.
You think of her beautiful eyes, of the scent of roses and elegance, and of her warm gentle smile.
And you watched it all vanish from view.
But then, you hear her voice in your head.
“Tell me … do you think broken people can ever be fixed again? Do you think … do you think we can ever feel complete?”
And then it hits you.
What was your life for?
That’s something you have thought a lot about now that you were alone once again. You thought it was the quiet moments when you could sleep with a comfortable mattress beneath you and a cozy blanket around you each night. You thought it was the unspoken moments when you can blast into criminals with your pistols or slice them up into bits and pieces with your hwando. You thought it was about chasing after your revenge, letting violence lead the way, until you’ve spilled every last drop of their blood against your feet, until you’ve squeezed every last ounce of your sorrow from your shallow little heart.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You clung to this path of yours like a vice. It rid you of your misgivings, but did it fill the emptiness that remained within you?
No. It left you empty still.
So what filled your life?
It was the color. The color she brought into your world.
Through the recollections of your past, through the little moments you shared, through the warmth of her cheek, through the tightness of her fingers against yours, through the echo of her laughter in your mind, and through the tightness in your chest when you are away—Kim Jiwon has not only brought glorious technicolor into your life once more.
She’s taught you how to live again. She’s taught you how to love again.
To love each day. To love yourself. And most importantly, to love her.
So when you realize all this, and you stand up to finally tell Yujin your answer, you realize what you have to do. She has given you your life back, and now, it was time for you to give back hers. “Yujin, give me rolls of hand wraps, pepper spray, a taser, and your finest suit. I’m … I’m going to need it.”
She doesn’t even question your request. She just smiles at whatever you’ve come to realize and nods. “I thought you’d never ask. I have just the right suit for you.”
And so you do it—you go chase after your purpose.
You chase after her.
Tugging on your tightened tie, dressed from head to toe in this sleek secondhand suit Yujin lent you—which she claims was from some renowned assassin, John Something-or-Other—you beat your wrapped up fists together to bolster yourself before you crossed the road and head towards La Luce Wedding Hall at Myeongdeong.
The entrance is crawling with goons from both the Devil Cat Clan and the Golden Dragon Gang alike. But you don’t care. You’re not here for them. You’re not here for any of them at all. You’re only here for one person and one person alone.
Kim Jiwon.
No bullets. No lethal weapons. Just carrying enough with you to get past some trouble.
You take a deep breath, put the crow mask back on, and charge right in.
Of course you’re stopped before you even get to the front steps.
The Clan henchmen are the first to recognize you. They wouldn’t miss your mask even with their eyes closed. They chase after you, pin you down, and start beating you up, eager to grab a piece of you as they threaten to rip you apart.
But you resist. You break free from their grasp and start sacking them in their pathetic faces. Throwing punches left and right with your wrapped up fists. Knocking them out cold but not dead.
This strategy of yours quickly falls apart the moment the Gang goons join in to stop you. So you whip out your pepper spray and taser and go ham on them. Leaving behind an ocean of tearing and paralyzed fully-grown men in your wake.
By the time you pushed into the lobby, you were out of spray and charges, so the moment the goons with blades and brass knuckles lounging around on standby spot your intrusion, you begin to panic.
Well, shit. This could get bloody. Now you’re starting to wish you had your pistols with you.
Boom.
Like a stampede that cascades past your vision, you see a hulking figure tackle all of them out of the way, clearing your path forward. This same burly figure sacks some of the Gang goons and grapples some of the resistant Clan thugs who are looking at him in shock.
You’re in shock yourself too when you realize who this is.
“Gorilla,” you mutter as you see the familiar bodyguard wrestle a dozen other Clan and Gang lackeys, keeping them in place. “You—.”
“Enough about me! I won’t ask for your goddamn I.D. again,” he quips even while his face is being beaten in. “You came. So do what you have to do. Go to her!”
You nod and waste no time taking advantage of this opportunity.
You check each and every function room just to make sure, but after crashing more than a handful of parties and celebrations with a roundhouse kick to the door each time, you’re certain that the wedding you’re looking for was down the corridor—at the grand hall.
You should have known from the way the guards stationed outside of the hall were holding guns this time.
One of them presses a finger into his earpiece and receives some sort of missive. When he sees you, he beckons to his comrades and they take aim towards you.
Well, shit. This isn’t good.
But just before your life could flash before your eyes, a circular object imposes itself before you, interposing between you and certain death.
“Young master, so you really did return,” Areum grunts, smiling down at you as she holds up her tray like she’s Captain fucking America, deflecting their bullets and holding them at bay. “Lady Jiwon is just up ahead. The ceremony is already under way but you still have time. Don’t waste it!”
When the rain of bullets stops and the men begin to reload, you give Areum a solid nod before darting towards them.
They try to reach for you with their empty weapons, trying to tackle you, trying to pin you down or smack you with their guns, but you’re too fast for them. You’re zigzagging through the traffic until you manage to burst through the doors of the grand hall.
You’re a mess.
Your mask is askew on your face. Your bandages are bloody and tattered. Your suit is anything but straightened. But here you were. You finally made it.
And immediately knives are being thrown your way.
You duck behind guests, shamelessly using them as meat shields, but they’re smart and immediately flee your vicinity. You curse under your breath as you have to kick over tables and chairs to protect yourself from the mixture of blades and bullets. You’re left wondering if this was the end of the line. If this is as far as you’ll get.
It isn’t until you see a princess in a lilac dress duck next to you behind your table that you see a spark of hope. “Hyunseo?”
“You promised to take care of my sister, didn’t you?” she recalls, loading up the gun she’s holding before shoving it towards you. “Then prove it. Don’t let that bloody Golden Dragon Gang’s son take my unnie away. Aim for the ones in white!”
You nod, and when you hear the clicks and clacks of reloading guns, you grab the opportunity to get back up and start firing at them one by one.
Bang. Between the shoulder and clavicle.
Bang. Right to the solar plexus.
Bang. Against the ankle.
You fired your gun only at the members of the Golden Dragon Gang who were dressed in white—and you didn’t shoot to kill. The moment the Devil Cat Clan noticed this, they ceased their assault towards you and watched as you cleaned up the last of the Gang men with weapons, rendering them all immobile.
And now, it was finally time.
Unaware of where the ceremony’s already at, you come bursting onto the aisle and lean forward on your knees to catch your breath. When you glance back up, you see Jiwon holding hands with Alex the Lion, wearing the most beautiful pure-white dress you have ever seen, her veil already pulled back to reveal her face.
You came just in time to stop the kiss.
Guests on either side of the aisle stand up in a mix of awe, surprise, and condemnation. Some try to boo you away from getting any further. Others murmur and gasp at your insolence for intruding. But you don’t worry about them. They’re either potbellied pigs who have fattened themselves up from crime money or senile veterans who showed up just for the ceremony of it all. They weren’t capable of harming you at all.
Towards the front, you see Kim Jaehwi standing now, watching you, not interfering whatsoever. You see Alex the Lion staring you down like a predator would another who dared to interrupt his hunt. Then, you see Jiwon glancing at you with those eyes that you’ve seen before—the look she has on her when she’s asking you to buy something or to get her something or to take her somewhere.
This is it. Everything has lead to this moment.
You undo your bandages and reveal your swelling fists. You take your hwando blade from behind your back and unsheathe it, making the blade shine underneath the yellow hall light. Tossing the casing aside, you do the unthinkable before the crowd.
You kneel before Kim Jaehwi—your sworn goddamn enemy—press your forehead between his polished shoes, and offer up your own weapon towards him.
“What is the meaning of this? What the fuck are you doing in MY WEDDING?” Alex growled from the altar, threatening you with nothing but words. “If you want to make a fool out of yourself, do it else—.”
“Ceremonial eviction.”
With those two words alone, you command the entire room in an instant as the grand hall falls silent to listen to you. “Ceremonial eviction. I read about it—about your Clan. When someone decides to quit without any good reason or is forced to leave due to misconduct, you perform a ceremonial eviction. You cut off a finger. Or a toe. Sometimes you even cut off an ear if it’s that bad. To make up for their insolence. To leave a mark on their bodies—a mark they can never forget.”
You raise your blade up higher. “I’ve used this weapon to kill hundreds … thousands of your Clan. I used this same weapon to … to kill your main wife, So Gowon. So I offer it to you, Kim Jaehwi. Use it to end my life, but just … just promise me that in exchange for doing so—for getting rid of the largest thorn in your side—you set her free. You let Jiwon go and allow her to live a proper life outside of this syndicate bullshit. That’s all I ask.”
You can’t see Jaehwi properly, but you don’t need to to envision the face he makes as he picks up your hwando. “You have the guts to murder my men, my people, and even my own wife … you even pretended to be interested in my daughter, then assault her, and then now … you have the gall to come waltzing back in here begging for her freedom? You sure make a lot of demands for a pathetic little wretch.”
With a deep breath, Jaehwi wastes no time. “Die. Die knowing your sacrifice will mean nothing in the end.”
Slink.
When you expect the blade to sink and tear through the skin of your neck, you instead feel the tickle of cloth and lace against your cheek along with the smell of roses.
You glance up and see Jiwon kneeling in front of you, interposing between you and her father—arms stretching out to the side, face drowning in tears, trembling in body but unwavering in spirit. “Stop, father … please don’t hurt him … If you want to let your frustrations out on someone, then … then let it be me. But not him. Not him. He’s already gone through so much in his life … more than I could ever hope to bear alone. He just … he just wanted to get revenge on the people who hurt him … on us … like you want revenge on the person who killed eomma … on him … Let me—let me take his punishment instead …”
Jaehwi spends a moment to take it all in, to take in the sight of his eldest daughter willingly throwing his life over a nobody like you instead of being wed to someone as well-off as Alex the Lion.
With a chuckle, he stabs the blade into the wooden pew and crashes back onto it. “Who the fuck are you, huh? Who the fuck are you to my daughter that she comes bursting out of her shell to confront me just for you? You … you’re one lucky man—having such a fine young woman stand up for you so boldly like this,” he says, turning to his daughter now. “And you—I asked you once before, and I’ll ask you again: are you sure about this man?”
Jiwon helps you up to your feet and holds your wrists tightly. She doesn’t look anywhere else but right into your eyes as she asks you, “Did you … did you mean what you said to me that night? After we got drunk and got home? You said … you said broken people like us could still be fixed—could still feel whole—with other people. In other people. Because … because, god—I’ve had this hole inside of me ever since I could remember. Even before my mother. Even before her death … So please, tell me, did you mean it? Do you really mean it? Because … because you’ve managed to fill this aching hole of mine bit by bit ever since I met you, and now, I don’t know what else to fill it with—who else to fill it with—other than you.”
You take a step forward, and then another, and then a final one before you press your forehead against Jiwon’s and nuzzle into her. “Kim Jiwon, I meant every single word I said to you that night because you do the same for me. You made me … think of a future. You made me look forward to waking up again. And … you helped me find a purpose. Even if it meant just protecting you. Even if it just meant being with you and keeping you safe. Even if it just meant making a beautiful woman like you happy for the rest of her days. It brought me joy—a joy so overwhelming it’s filled more than just the hole in my heart.”
“Kim Jiwon, you gave me my life back … and I can’t thank you enough for it. With you, I feel complete. I feel whole. I feel … like me again. So please … let me help give you your life back too.”
Jaehwi seems satisfied with this. He takes out his pistol from his pocket and aims at Alex. “Get out of there, boy. This wedding’s continuing, but not with you.”
Flabbergasted, he strokes his mane back in place and glares at the old man. “Oh no, that isn’t happening, Jaehwi. My father and I struck a deal with you—.”
Bang. Jaehwi shoots him right in the knee, sending him crumpling forward and howling in pain. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that now. Someone get him off the bloody altar.”
In mere moments, a mix of Clan and Gang thugs help escort Alex off the altar and into the front pews to lay him down and stop his knee from bleeding out.
Jaehwi turns to the both of you now, smiling. “Go, sweetheart. Get married to him like you were supposed to. And, son—don’t fuck it up this time.”
So you hold Jiwon’s hand, and she holds yours. You walk her down what little stretch of aisle is left until the altar. You both giggle when you realize that’s what father’s do with their daughters—not what future husbands do for their future wives.
You pull her veil down, only to pull it back up. When your eyes meet again for the first time in what feels like ages, you can’t help but get lost in them. The priest, who is absolutely still in shock over everything that just happened, asks you. “Do you accept this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
You think back to the time you two danced slowly, holding each other, masks off, just staring genuinely into each other’s eyes.
“Yes. I-I mean, I do. I do.”
As Jiwon chuckles, she gets asked the same thing. “And do you, in turn, accept this man to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forward, to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honor, and cherish him for as long as you both shall live?”
“Even if I have to die all over again and be reborn the next day, even if I have to find him through different biomes and different versions of reality—I will find him. And I will love him. I do. I really do.”
“Hey, wait, did you just make a Minecraft—.”
Before the priest can tell you to kiss the bride, your bride kisses you first. She drags you in with a need that’s more than passion or lust, and you respond in kind by pressing her lips against hers and holding her oh-so-close.
And as the organ begins to play the song of victory, and as the guests gathered here today cheer nonetheless for a successful wedding—some way, somehow—you dip Jiwon forward as you continue to kiss each other. Only when you break away to chuckle and nuzzle your noses together does that thought ever come to you.
“After all that’s happened to me, after all that we’ve been through, I still … can not believe that this is happening right now. This is absolutely unreal.”
Jiwon chuckles into your lips as she steals another kiss from you. “You know, we’re supposed to have our first kiss before we have sex for the first time. You got the order all wrong.”
You just shake your head against the teasing girl. “You’re unreal.”
But Jiwon shakes her head in reply as well. “No—we’re real now, my love.”
~Le Sserafim's Chaewon (x Male Reader), 4k words, new series
You start working at a new cafe, and your adventures with the cafe cuties begins
You poured over your emails hoping to find what you wanted, what you needed. It had been over 2 months of searching the job market, day in and day out. Hoping for anything, you applied yourself to a couple hours of applying each night.
“Nothing”, you thought disappointedly as you threw your phone on the bed. Rent was due in just over 2 weeks and you had just emptied the last of your savings on groceries. Getting up from your desk chair, you decide to go for a walk, thinking it best to pry your mind off of the issue; you had just spent the last 2 and a half hours applying and desperately needed a break.
Throwing on a jacket and cursing the January weather, you head out of your one bedroom apartment. A short walk through the busy city did nothing to diminish your stress. All these restaurants and shops, bustling with customers even on a Tuesday evening, surely they needed employees, right?
You’d been walking around for about 20 minutes when you realized you were in an area you’d never been in before. Looking to your right, the cosiest cafe shone through all the noise. Not because it was particularly bright or fancy. It was just such a cozy cafe, quite narrow and looked to have seated no more than 12 people. It was also empty, save for a girl sitting at the very last table who seemed to be studying, and the barista.
“What the hell”, you thought, walking inside. What was the difference between having 12 dollars and having 9 in your bank account? Might as well get a coffee, as you walked up to the front counter still deep in thought.
“Sir… um Sir! What do you want!”, the lady at the register yelled as you snapped back into reality.
“Oh… sorry”, you muttered as you apologized awkwardly, ordering an iced americano, but also noting how cute the barista was. Short black hair cut into a bob at her jaw accentuated her sharp eyes and soft features as she stared at you.
“Name?”, she asked sharply.
”What’s with her attitude”, you thought. Surely she wasn’t actually mad that you spaced out right?
Giving her your name, you stood back, taking in the cafe. An assortment of cakes, all fancily frosted, lined the display fridges around the counter. The menu displayed a good selection of drinks, and the tables were wide and spacious despite the narrowness of the store, accompanied by cushioned seats. “This wouldn’t be a bad place to work”, you thought. “Especially if I get to work with cu-“
“Here you aree–, thanks!”, the barista smiled, handing you the americano cutely, as if she had not rudely asked for your name a minute before.
“Thanks”, you muttered, taking a sip before heading for the door, when right before opening-
“Sir!”, the cute barista called as you turned around. “Come again!” she called as she made a half heart in each of her hands, then placed them on her cheeks as she smiled. Nodding quickly, you left.
“That was an… interesting girl” you thought as you left, not before stealing a quick glance at the store one more time. Cozy Coffee and Cakes, maybe you’d go there again. After all, three dollars for an americano wasn’t bad in the downtown of a huge city. But the simple thought of money soured your mood as you walked back home, sipping on your coffee.
—----------------------
You awoke the next morning, prepared to do your usual morning routine, when you checked your phone. An email from [email protected] caught your attention. ‘APPLICATION STATUS’, the title of the email read. Nearly dropping your phone, you open the email, completely forgetting that last night, after visiting Cozy Coffee and Cakes, you had looked them up on Indeed and found they were hiring.
The email seemed to release all of your pent up stress over the past 2 months. Offering a trial shift in place of an interview this afternoon at 2pm, you joyfully reply, saying you’d be delighted to try for the position and thanking the company.
The slow anticipation of getting the chance to finally have some income, 2pm felt so far away. But as the time drew nearer, you threw on some grey sweats and a black T-shirt. After all, that cute cashier dressed pretty casual, so you could only assume these clothes were appropriate.
Opening the door to the cafe, you noticed the same customer that was there last night standing near the entrance. With short blond, slightly curly hair which extended to just past her jaw, she looked like you felt, slightly nervous but doing her best to remain calm and look professional. She too, was extremely pretty, and though appearing nervous, her large brown eyes brightened her entire face, brightened the whole room, and as she looked over to you, making eye contact with you, you noticed her lips curl into a small friendly smile.
“Hi hi, welcome!”, a familiar voice called. The same cashier with the odd attitude from yesterday came out of an area you could only assume was a small kitchen behind the barista counter. “Good you're both here for your trial shifts, come on back and we’ll get started!”.
You guessed the blond girl was also trying out for the job. “Hopefully not as competition”, you thought. You stole a quick glance towards her as she did the same, before approaching the small gap in the counter. You quickly followed, not, however, missing the swaying of the blond girl's hips as she walked, in a tight pair of black jeans which seemed to hug the girl's curves perfectly.
Behind the counter, the cashier introduced herself as Chaewon. “I’m so glad you both came. I hired you two specifically because you're both attractive hehe~”, Chaewon winked. “Hopefully you two will help draw in more customers, although I can’t understand why I’m not pretty enough to cause a line out of the doorway…”, she said as she scrunched her face up into what was undoubtedly the cutest pouting face you had ever seen. “Hold on, let me get some paperwork for you two” she said as she disappeared behind a door near the washrooms”.
Now alone with the cute blond, you both shared a bewildered look.
“How did she know what we looked like?” The girl said. “I mean, I was here yesterday but I applied on indeed…”. You laughed awkwardly. “Anyway, I’m Eunchae”, she introduced herself, as you did the same.
The rest of the training shift went as well as you would have hoped. It was nice to have someone else to be there with you, alleviating some of the pressure. Chaewon, you noticed, had similar outbursts of anger to the one you saw last night. Simple things, like spilling a bit of coffee on the counter would cause her to sigh angrily or scrunch her face up. In one bizarre moment, Chaewon, while showing you the cafe’s selection of cakes, paused at a particularly well decorated one, and seemed to suppress a fit of anger while staring at the cake. This did nothing to turn you away though. It was actually quite cute the way she expressed herself, and you and Eunchae stole smirks at each other whenever it happened. Still, Chaewon’s cheerful attitude overpowered these seemingly random outbursts.
“You’re both hired!”, Chaewon shouted as your 1 hour trial shift came to an end.
You couldn’t help but smile, and you weren’t the only one, Eunchae lit up at this, turned to you and raised her hand. You high fived her before she celebrated (quite unprofessionally) with Chaewon as they jumped up and down holding hands.
Finally, after 2 months, you had a job. And it didn’t hurt that it was with two very cute, very outgoing girls.
—--------------
The next week went by smoothly.
”Pretty soon you and Eunchae can probably work together without me” Chaewon told you as she showed you how to make a drink. “You guys both have made just about every drink on the menu. Maybe I’ll finally get a day off” she sighs.
”We could’ve probably worked alone last week, nobody ever comes in anyway” you remark. It was odd, throughout your last week here, customers barely entered. “Anyway, you’ve worked every day since I got here. And me and Eunchae are the only employees, what, were you working day and night before we got here?”
”Mhmm. I know, I'm so tireddd~~” Chaewon exclaimed, stretching her arms in the air revealing her slim belly.
“You deserve a break, you know. Go on, why don’t you go home, we close in an hour anyway, I’ll close up and you can get some rest.”
”No, it's fine. I still have this marketing report the owner wants me to do”, she says, as her shoulders slump down. “Plus, it’s been fun working with other people for a change”
”Then at least let me do something for you”
Chaewon looks up at you, almost hesitant, her sharp eyes growing soft as you lock eye contact with her. “You know…actually nevermind”
“Just tell me, you work so hard Chaewon, let me do something for you”.
”Then… if it’s alright”, she turns around showing her back to you. “My back is killing me, I’ve been working morning to night every day for weeks. Think you can just rub my back a little?”
Almost as a reflex, your hand jerked up as if to dig into her slender shoulders,half exposed as her shirt drooped. “Wait, but she’s kinda my boss…” you thought, stopping your hand. A pang of guilt overtook you in your moment of clarity. Was this okay?
Even aside from the fact she was your boss, wouldn’t this be betraying her. No, you guys had been broken up for over a month now. Plus, it wasn’t like she had a problem touching other guys… girls even, all while you were still together.
Chaewon’s head turned back, and you saw her expression shift, from tiredness and want to almost… disappointment? Her shoulders started tensing up as the lack of back rubs revealed your hesitation. But cmon… here, now, in this moment, not even god could stop you, let alone trivial titles like ‘boss’ or distant memories of ex-girlfriends. What were you thinking? You weren’t going to rub this poor, exhausted girl’s back? When she’s practically begging? Well, she didn’t beg per se, but the smoothness of her shoulders, the definition in her neck as she turned towards you… they definitely called to you. “Oh… sorry I aske-“
Your hands shot up, grasping her slender shoulders. Part of your hands could feel her skin, almost silky in their softness. Of course you were going to do this.
”Mmmm”, she moaned, as all semblance of tension in her body left at your touch, and her head rolled back a little. “Yeah, right there” she said as if suppressing a groan.
’Shit, might as well try’, you thought as you slid your hands lower down her back.
”MMmph”
”Sorry, I thought that-“
”Shut up and keep going”, she blurted out between deep breaths. Your hands crept under her shirt, using your thumbs to dig into her soft skin. Chaewon leaned back so that her shoulders rested upon your chest as your hands explored her smooth back. Your thumbs dug into her flesh, before slowly moving to the dip, the smooth arch that sloped towards the middle of her back. As she leaned her head back, eyes closed, her slow breath wafted onto your face.
”Fuck”, you thought, looking down at her face, eyes closed in bliss. Your hands instinctually wrapped around her waist to hug her stomach, pulling the rest of her body on you. Her eyes slowly opened, locking with yours as she reached up to touch your face when-
*RING*, the bell which signalled the front door rang. Chaewon’s eyes grew into the sharp glare you had come to know so well after working with her for a week. Pushing off of you, all the tension back in her shoulders, Chaewon stood up straight as you followed, albeit much more awkwardly. “Welcome to Cozy’s cafe!~~”, Chaewon said, in a pseudo-cute voice, barely containing the awkwardness. As the customer approached the counter, Chaewon turned, giving you the sharpest glare before approaching the customer.
”Hmmm, what a cute cafe”, the customer, in a soft voice, but one that exuded confidence and elegance. The voice, you thought, could only be described as luxurious. And her clothes did nothing to contradict her extravagant voice. A long overcoat covered her black dress. Classy for sure, but revealing enough to peek your interest, and pure gold hoop earrings to finish the rich girl look. Chaewon, still clearly flustered, seemed to soften at this, assuming the girl did not catch the two of you in the act, but the mysterious girl caught your eye, and with a wink, a slight smile revealed a perfectly placed dimple on her left cheek, before she placed her order.
“Name for the order?”, Chaewon asked, with the restored vigor of her usual cheerfulness.
”Liz.” She said. After a few moments she took her drink from Chaewon. “Hmm”, stopping at the door, she turned around and glanced around the cafe, then back at the two of you. “Think I’ll be back here often”, she remarked before turning around and leaving.
————-
“What were you thinking! We could’ve been caught! If that lady saw she could’ve left a bad review and then-”
”Then…we’d get even less customers than we normally do?”
Chaewon’s fists balled up and her usual fiery temper took over. “You’re missing the point! And I’m still your boss so you could do without the attitude”
”Just like you could’ve done without that massage right?” An icy glare from your manager stopped you from further teasing. “Plus, it’s fine, I don’t think she noticed anything”, you snapped, choosing to omit the fact that, from the wink she gave you that she most certainly did. “You know rich girls, always in their own world”
Chaewon let out a deep sigh, leaning back on the counter. “You’re not seriously staring at my shoulder right now are you?”
”Well, we didn’t get to finish”
”Go clean the toilet”, she rolled her eyes, playfully throwing a plastic cup lid at you. “And pick that up.”
——-
“You’re not seriously staying are you?”. You had just finished closing the store, and Chaewon dismissed you as she pulled out her laptop and sat at one of the tables.
A tired sigh escapes Chaewon’s slim lips. “I have to. This marketing stuff is important. If we don’t increase our foot traffic the store will close in about a month”, she said while leaning her eyes on the palms of her hands, Chaewon sat up. From your short time working with Chaewon, you could tell why she was a manager. Goofy, a little clumsy at times, and definitely hot tempered, every day was interesting with her. But more than that, it was her work ethic. She could lead a team, put her head down and work when she needed. “Go on and go home, I’ll see you on Friday”.
”But don’t you work early with Eunchae tomorrow morning? At least let me do something for you.”
”Oh, like last time?”, she said, her tempestuous voice rising.
You chuckled. “Well… the store’s closed now, nobody can interrupt us this time.’
She looked up from her laptop at you, face unreadable, then back down, before landing back on you after a few moments.
”Fine. You can massage my back while I work. But just my back. I don’t know where you were reaching last time, but keep em on my back this time.
It seemed like she didn’t mind when your hands were wrapped around her waist before, but decided against pointing that out. You pulled up a chair behind her and started on her shoulders.
”I’m thinking of hiring a- mm yeah right there- a marketing specialist, maybe design some posters to put around the city, and maybe establish an online presence” Chaewon droned on as she worked on her laptop. “Hopefully by next month we’ll have a good- mmm, a little higher- a good stream of regulars”.
“Maybe you can stand outside. I’m sure the boys would come flocking”, you joked. “You know half the reason I applied was cause I thought you were cute right?”
“Still your manager”
“Oh, like you didn’t call me and Eunchae attractive in, what, the first minute of our trial shifts?”
”I hired you based on your capabilities, your looks were only a plus. Plus Eunchae’s cuter than you.”
”Oh yeah? That’s why you were leaning into me so hard when my hands were wrapped around you?
Chaewon’s head turned, not in her usual anger, but a face that asked, “wanna keep going?”.
You returned her gaze with a smile. “Yeah”, you thought. “Yeah, I do”. You grabbed the back of her chair, pulling it so it rested on its back two legs, her head drooped, once again onto your shoulder, and Chaewon’s eyes sharpened, but still never let up her gaze. “Mhm, and what you gonna do about it, boss”.
Chaewon’s gaze softened, and she closed her eyes. “Hmm, nothing. This is actually kinda comfortable, keep holding me here will you? I needed to catch up on my sleep anyway”. Oh the games you two play. But, with no reason to stop, and admiring her soft features, you held her there. They were a stark contrast to the sharp features of your ex, but the soft hums Chaewon exuded as if to flaunt her comfort pulled you from those thoughts. After a moment, Chaewon opened her eyes, and seeing your eyes still locked onto her, her lips parted slightly, and your eyes flicked down to them.
”What are you looking at?”
”Your eyes did the same.” You said, inching closer to her face. Her chin tilted up as she continued to lean on you, pushing her lips closer to yours. By now you could feel her slow, rhythmic breath on you. You stole one last glance at Chaewon’s eyes before taking her lips in yours. The soft lips remained still at first, but soon enough the two of you were entangled, both passionately exploring each other's mouths. Your hands moved to wrap around her, still balancing the chair up on its two hind legs. Her hot breath, mingled with the sweet taste of her saliva pulled you in, engrossed you, and slipping your hands under her shirt, your hands slowly climbed up to her chest.
”Wait..”, Chaewon panted through heavy breathing, before locking her lips with yours again. “Wait, there’s still the front windows… people will… people can still see us”, but you had no plans of stopping any time soon, and from the way her lips clung to yours, she didn’t either. Your hands, finally reaching her supple breasts and slid under her bra discovering a whole new area to explore. Finding her soft nipple seemed to reinvigorate Chaewon’s insistence. After running your finger over her hard nipple a couple times, Chaewon broke from your lips again, and through her increasingly ragged breathing, said “Wait, lets just move to… the supply closet”.
”Oh, but if we move now, you’ll never finish your marketing report”
With a dirty look, Chaewon playfully pushed your face away, stood up and, with a grab of your arm, nearly dragged you to the supply closet. As soon as you crossed the threshold of the closet, without even closing the door, Chaewon lunged at you, relocking her lip with yours. Grabbing her waist, you lifted her up, and her legs wrapped around you. With Chaewon now firmly in your grasp, you positioned her on the door, and using her, slammed it shut, pushing your bodies even closer together. You could feel her tits pushed up against you, the warmth of her crotch on your hardening member.
“Hey Ms. Manager?”, you said.
”What?” She said, rather impatiently.
”I’m gonna fuck you on our supply closet door”, you whispered in her ear.
”Mmm, fuck. Fucking do it” She said. Your hands reached down to her waistband, and Chaewon’s hips dug deeper into yours, allowing space for you to slide her pants halfway down her thighs. She unclasped her legs, just a bit to allow her to reach between the two of you to unbuckle your pants. Your pants hit the floor, exposing your cock. With one hand still on your shoulder, her other hand grabbed your cock, and with a couple strokes, she positioned it at the entrance of her cavern.
“Fuck, Chaewon”, you moaned. Still grabbing your cock, she rubbed the tip up and down her entrance, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Your cock, though soaked with precum already, could feel how dripping wet she was. You could feel the slick liquid coating the head of your dick with every rub. Her hand still clung to it, squeezing even more precum out of it as the two fluids mixed. ”Fuck… put it in Chaewon.”
”I’m… fuck, I’m still your boss, we’re still at work. Don’t tell me what… mmm, don’t tell me what to do”, she managed, still rubbing your tip at her entrance.
”Fuck…you”, you managed.
”What was that?”, she said, the hand on your cock stopping its movement.
”Fuck you… fuck you Ms. Manager”, you said in defeat.
”Good, your finally learning, maybe-“
But her renewed smugness didn’t sit right with you, so taking advantage of her positioning your member at her entrance, you thrust in. Chaewon’s head rolled back as she gasped in ecstasy. In fact, it was all you could do to stop from toppling over. Her tight walls completely enveloped your piece, tightly hugging it as if it was made to be here, right inside her. Slowly pulling back out, you thrust again, and again, slowly figuring out the rhythm as her legs tightened around you. Not that you had much trouble with the rhythm, every time you pulled out, her hot sex pulled your member back in. Her hot liquids were now in prime flow, and with every thrust, they dripped down your member onto your pelvis.
You reached up to her face, and Chaewon took your wrist in your hands, guiding it up to her mouth. Taking your two fingers in her mouth, she started sucking, as if she needed something, some place else to express the pleasure she was feeling. And the place she chose was your two fingers. As you fucked her, her back arched against the door. Faster and faster you grew as the pleasure grew less and less manageable, all while her tongue explored your fingers, and the soft suction of her mouth kept them in place
.
Her grasps grew more and more frequent as she grew closer to her climax, and your fingers slipped out of her mouth. “Fuck, I’m so close”, she moaned, wrapping her arms around your shoulders so that her breasts were up against your chest. “Fuck, keep going” she moaned.
Her whole body tensed up as she came on your cock, but it did nothing to stop your thrusts, and soon her body quivered, shaking as you continued to pound her.
”Fuck, I’m close too.”
”D-don’t cum inside” she whimpered, still shaking from her orgasm. But that was easier said than done. Luckily, as your seed welled up inside you, your thrusts grew more sporadic, and your tight hold on her weakened. Seizing the opportunity, Chaewon climbed off of you, getting down on her knees and taking the entire length of your member with her mouth.
”Fuck..”, you muttered, as her mouth rested at the base of your cock. The moments after that were a blur of pure bliss as you released inside of her mouth. Grabbing the back of her head, you secured her head in place as you came. Her head instinctively pulled back at the volume of your seed, but your hands kept her right where you needed her. After a few short moments, she released your cock, mouth still slightly open as she looked up at you with her soft eyes. Her hair, much disheveled now, looked so sultry as she continued staring up at you, her eyes still unfocused from the pleasure. As her eyes flitted back into focus, you regained your composure, and took in the sight. Your new manager, kneeled in front of you with your still hard member in front of her, leaking fluids was one sight you didn’t expect to see so soon after getting this job.
“What the fuck did I just do”, you thought.
——
A few moments later you and Chaewon sat at the table as she typed away on her laptop as if nothing happened. Your head remained down as the realization hit you. “I just came in my manager's mouth at work”. Your horny ass put this job on the line by fucking your manager. And it’s not like you could afford to lose this job. Your bank account certainly knew that.
”I’m making changes to the schedule next week.” Chaewon said, devoid of all emotion.
”Shit… she’s taking me off the schedule”, you assumed.
”Maybe I was wrong about leaving you alone to watch the store… I’m sure one or two more training shifts wouldn’t hurt.”
You smirked. “Please train me well, Ms. Manager”.
——
A/N:
Thank you all for reading my first piece! I’d been thinking of writing something for a while, but didn’t have any good ideas!! Some foreshadowing for future cafe cuties that might get featured *wink*, but let me know if you have any suggestions! Have a couple of character types in mind and haven’t locked in who those characters will be. Also, who do you all think this mysterious ex-girlfriend could be???
“Well… say something about me.” Somi suddenly stops drumming her fingertips on the counter and brings them to yours. The contact burns. It’s the tiniest arson ever committed.
Hey, you’re in a bar. It’s not supposed to be anything personal. You ought to drink and dance and hope you get tipsy enough to forget about everything. But you’re here, forced to cope with a dilemma of feelings, and the fact that beyond her loudness, she still cares about you.
It goes deeper than personal.
“I—” How do you say this? Hope this easy smile gets you out of trouble. Or in trouble, whichever is best. “I think you’re the hottest girl I’ve ever met. Kind of… a little wild, too. I like that, you know.”
Somi smiles, slowly and painfully. It’s killing you in a thousand different ways—by knife, by fire, by self, by her.
“Wow,” she says, looking down at your drink. What’s worth studying about that dull glass? “You’re a real charmer, y’know that? Just know how to make my heart melt.”
For whatever reason, there’s no sarcasm entangled in her words. It’s too much. You can’t deal with it. But you push it anyway.
“What about me? You say something about me.”
Somi blinks. Smiles for the first time in minutes. “You’re really my type, if that means anything.”
Your forehead wrinkles. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know.” Somi groans then downs another drink. This conversation makes her want to die of alcohol poisoning. She’s getting there—her ditzy eyes connect with yours and you know she’s pulling you down with her. “I talk a lot, don’t I? But you never really say anything. It kind of hurts.”
You don’t need the reminder. You’re so bad at communicating that you can’t even talk to your best friend. But then you look at her, and she’s just so pretty that you think it’s understandable. It’s understandable that you keep quiet rather than say the wrong thing, let her talk when her voice is like honey, silence your heart so that you won’t lose the sight of that pretty face.
Your shoulders slump. You’re never going to figure this out. These odd feelings for her. This whole college thing, too. The jobs you can’t take, the qualifications you don’t meet. You’re never gonna make it.
“So,” she begins, like she’s about to make a proposal. “What’s it gonna take for you to shut me up? Or, better yet—”
She lifts your chin before you could drink again. You can’t drink your way out of this. The last thing she’ll let you do is scamper away, like you always do.
“What’s it gonna take to get your cock in my mouth?”
-
Apparently, as you get older, you’ll finally have figured things out. People say it’ll fix itself, like the shore fills despite the waves, and they’re right: it’s all gonna be okay. You failed and succeeded. Got down and rose up again. Whatever happened—family issues, financial instability, lost friendships—they’ll make you stronger. You’ll be strong enough to handle what life dishes out. Having learned from all your past experiences, you’ll grow older, but all the wiser.
That apparently cannot be said for the decaying asshole of a landlady who’s playing a Taiwanese telenovela with the volume up to a hundred.
You glower at her. There’s the old burnout, sitting in her loveseat with frazzled graying hair and a mug that shakes as the show brings out revelation after revelation. The girl’s apparently fucking the charming boss, and her husband exercises every right to be angry. There’s the back-and-forth argument that you truly did not want to hear.
And still, you stay in torment, trying to make sense of your notes for another exam.
You could watch the telenovela from just her eyeglasses. The volume isn’t the only thing upped to a hundred; the brightness had to take a dip, too. It joins the loudness to bathe the woman in a colorful illumination, making her look like the Man himself was about to drag her from the cushions and into heaven.
Well, she certainly didn’t belong there.
It, of course, has to happen while you’re studying for your Korean exam. There’s a day to go before the official test and it’s going… great. What a good life. Really makes you want to keep on doing this shit.
The discussions you’ve printed out and the doc on your screen can’t be comprehended when all you hear is the wails of the voice-dubbed actress.
Honey! Think about me. If you don’t care about me, that’s… that’s fine. But think about the baby. How do I tell her our family is broken?
Object of the verb before the verb… (sometimes)? Right? Right? Oh, this is torture. You could really use a coffee right now so you could slosh it all over the open electricity lines trailing from your landlady’s room. Housefires would love this place. It’s got loser landlady, miserable Mina, shitty Sejeong, and you.
No, please, she says, stumbling over leaves and bushes. She reaches for the actor and turns him around. His steel gaze meets her desperate one. It’s a collision of dramatic force nurtured by the worst talents. I love you! Please believe me, I—it was a mistake, but I never hated you, not even once—
You bite your lip. Remind yourself that neo and no are, in fact, pronounced differently. Written differently, too. At least they both have the L-shaped character. That’s your favorite one.
“It’s over. Don’t make it hurt more.” A deeper voice. The husband? You can’t see him but you’re sure you’re right. After all, the boss has a rather more steady tone. Why can you recognize that, by the way? “I’m sorry. We’re just, it’s just not right.”
You scribble down harder in your ruled notebook. Almost write a suicide note instead of a Korean sentence.
No, please! Don’t leave me! I’m never leaving you again, I promise, please love—
Your teeth grit. You slap your palms over your ears. Your hands are thick enough yet the high tantrums of the broken television couple reach you, a story you never want to hear again. It’s gossip that’s not even worth listening to.
“Honey!”
You don’t care about the house rules. “No slamming doors” your ass. You paid for this door, and you’ll be damned if you aren’t using it.
The thud of wood against wood almost blares out a ding from your phone.
Your eyes open for the first time. Open your phone for the first time, too, once you lift your back from the door.
Stare at her profile picture seated next to her messages. You can’t remember the last time she sported black hair. The yellow on her is just… so right. It’s the way things have always been, something immovable and unchangeable, like the sky being blue. She pulls off the look so well even with her blinding white skin, which she isn’t afraid to show off in the circular avatar.
Somsom 👀👺: yo
you done reviewing for the exam yet ??
Yep, it’s her.
Somi. She's like an Asian Rapunzel—long golden locks pouring down her shoulders, round eyes, fashionable even in casualwear. Still a princess in her cropped uni sweater.
Behind fake black glasses, she puts up a peace sign, coupled with a flirty wink. She’s beautiful. Honestly. She’s got that shining smile, thick hair, and fine body that catches attention despite the modesty of her clothes. The sweater is conservative enough, right? So why are your eyes falling out of their sockets?
You’re her friend; you have been for almost all the years you’ve spent in university—but you can’t deny how attractive she is.
That’s a secret you’ll never admit, not even anonymously.
Gulp.
Me: I fuckin wish
Somsom 👀👺: LMFAO, poor baby
You can picture her wicked smile from behind the screen, streets away from your rented place. You shake your head fondly. Somi loves teasing you, and you love teasing her. So, you reply.
Somsom 👀👺: have you tried pulling an oli london
Me: the fuck are you talking about
Somsom 👀👺: idk, maybe if you paid a hundred thousand to become korean, you wouldnt be suffering in hangul 101
Just my two cents
You’d rather strip naked in front of the school than admit this, but talking to Somi—it’s a natural thing, like breathing, like blinking, like everything else. Even if you force yourself to stop, you’d go back to doing it. She’s always got something clever to say. You talk, she listens. Maybe flirts, but that’s who Somi is. She’s young, wild, and free. You’re kind of envious of how she doesn’t restrain herself from doing what she wants, saying what she wants, getting what she wants.
Me: i don’t want your two cents.
Somsom 👀👺: :P
What? She can’t come over. Somi is a distraction. Instead of speaking wobbly Korean fragments to your language learning app, you’d be talking to her about anything. Funny things that happened in class. Weird freshman down the hall. Who knows what? Rather than keeping your eyes down on your notebook, you’d be looking at her.
Me: Im never passing this. i cant study because deafass Halmeoni’s watching her stupid show w the volume on 100
I need to go missing so I dont have to answer the test
Youll see me on the news
And b4 that
ill post a video saying you kidnapped me
Somsom 👀👺: jesus lol
i’ll put up the missing posters o7
BUT
you’re not going missing jackass, by me or someone else
NOT ON MY WATCH.
so i’m coming over. ill be there in like five…..?? see you later k? ;)
And oh, she’s a lot more interesting than whatever it is you’re trying to get a hold of.
No one can keep their composure around Jeon Somi. You’re not an exception.
Five minutes feel like a decade. If the foreign words on your laptop screen didn’t make sense to you before, they still don’t now. Your mind’s a flood of thoughts that relate to anything but studying. Pretty, pretty girl with a smile that could attack your heart and a body that could finish the job. What are you even thinking? Even five minutes away, she’s a distraction already.
Such a distraction that you close your laptop, and inch your hand to your crotch—
Rapid knocks that rush into ruining your door fill your ears.
Guilt, a clarity-inducing drug, follows after you were supposed to jerk off to your friend. She’s just being herself. That shouldn’t elicit a lewdness in your head that twists itself into your idea of her.
Or maybe Somi’s just lewd.
You sigh and open the door.
“Hey, look at that,” she says with a beam, “you finally have a girl over!”
Trying to look bored upon seeing her gorgeous face is a one-way road to failure. You’re always happy to see Somi, yet you groan, “Get out.”
Somi holds up two plastic cups of milk tea. You immediately give in.
The footfalls of her heels echo, each click reminding you that she’s getting closer and you don’t know how to react.
“I know I come here like everyday,” she says humbly, “but your place is really nice.”
She observes the space you try to call your own. Cheap commissioned paintings on the wall; modest furniture that minimize cluttering; some closet that serves as your hideout in the combined living room/bedroom/dining room. Then there’s the piles of clothes, clean and dirty, surrounding you. That’s all your own doing.
You sit in front of your laptop and open it. Back to work, even if she’s here. “You don’t have to lie.”
“It’s good for a cheap apartment is what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, because I pay with my fucking sanity.”
Somi scoots beside you, thighs uncovered by shorts pushing against yours, and loops an arm around your shoulder. Her eyes scan the document you’re annotating before she clicks her tongue disapprovingly.
She pokes your cheek. Her warm touch makes you burn up. “You look all the sane to me, gorgeous.”
She rips a page out of your notebook, pen in her mouth. It’s not designed to look like a rose but she looks like a lovergirl to you. If she swung the other way, girls would already be at her doorstep. Hell, you aren’t even one and your eyes cling already to the ends of her skirt.
You watch as the black fountain pen slips out from between her lips and writes the title of your lesson on the top. Why do you keep staring? She somehow makes everything look straight out of a film. Somi would be the beauty, the one whose role is deservingly main and the one they’d post on social media talking about how she was beautiful then and she still was now. Newer generations would yearn to be alive in her prime years so they’d bask in the moment they shouldn’t even have nostalgia for.
Yeah. In your head, Somi’s lived a thousand lives. The most impossible one is the part where she loves you.
On this campus in a galaxy that made everything seem small, she’s your friend. That’s both enough and too little for you. But she’s here, and that’s all that matters.
“What happened to ‘dickhead’?” you ask. In this universe, you’re also an asshole. Sip mildly on your milk tea. You expected it, but the sweetness is over the top. You have to set it down on the counter.
“My names for you change depending on my mood, so don’t take whatever for granted.” She starts to copy down the reviewer. “Like, not even a ‘Thank you Somi for the amazing milk tea’? Right now, my name for you is, and I quote, ‘an ungrateful pain in the ass.’ End quote.”
Conversational Korean fills the lines of your notebook. The subjects and verbs are underlined as well as the figures of speech. It doesn’t look like a headache when she’s writing it. The girl could use some penmanship coaching though.
You rest your arm on her shoulder and release a dramatic breath. “Thank you Somi for the amazing milk tea.”
“Where’s the part that goes, uh,” she begins, before clearing her throat, “‘Thank you Somi for being so pretty’?”
Oh, you thank her for that a thousand times. Not once have you said it out loud. But it’s sweet, telling someone they’re pretty. As if to thank that somehow, the world molded her into perfection, even if you’d stare just for a long while.
“You’re so self-absorbed.”
“Alright,” says Somi, dropping the pen. It slams on the glass. “If that’s what you want. Stop me from being Mother fucking Teresa and being so kind to help you out with your school life crisis.”
“Wait, you’re gonna do my stuff?”
“In exchange for mukbaps,” she offers cheerfully. She lifts her shoulders with a prudent nonchalance. “Math? Korean? Consider it done.”
She draws your laptop to herself and opens your canvas. Your missing assignment list isn’t exhaustive but there’s a reason why you can’t get to it immediately. These professors disguise their homeworks as short and simple, when in reality, their questions come with three bullets that require a fucking novel for an answer. You’re a writer but this stuff drains you.
She clicks your math task. Is Somi actually serious about this? She’s typing down formulas like a madman. Was she actually going to do it?
And are you… blushing?
“T-thank you.”
What else can you say? You’d say a lot of things. But when a vacant thought enters the flow—something about a deeper sense of gratitude, about how you’ll never have another friend like her—it’s all over. You don’t want the end to come. Uni can go on in your life for ages just as long as Somi keeps coming to your place.
So that’s all you say: thank you.
Because you can tell her anything, but at the same time, you can’t.
“Don’t thank me. Seriously, I never know how to respond,” she says, laughing. You wonder how she manages to change her laughs from shy and sweet, to loud and unkempt. She’s a versatile girl. “You’re gonna make bank soon, too. You’re showing up to that interview tomorrow, right?”
Thinking of it makes you a little uneasy. Sure, writing’s been on your side since forever, but what if they don’t think it is? This is your only hope—the tall building in the flier, the smiling employees, the coaxing font. You won’t settle for any other job. It was yours, just not right now.
You trace your fingers on the back of Somi’s hand. “Yeah.”
She smiles. “They’ll fall head-over-heels in love with you,” she says. A friendly(?) kiss to your knuckles is planted and bloomed. Hope she doesn’t notice the tension in them that comes right after. “I know it.
She’s so sure about it, too. How does she have this much faith in you? You don’t even believe that you’ll graduate.
“Seriously… thank you.”
“Hey, really,” Somi says again, “it’s no problem. Things can get real hard around here.”
Don’t you know it.
Fucking algebra starts to flood your screen while Korean occupies your papers. Staring at them, you yourself start to fill with an unnerving sense of doom. You can’t run away. They said in kindergarten the sun would explode in a billion years. It seems like you've been studying for longer. Why aren’t you dead yet?
You’re not even drinking the milk tea greedily but your throat constricts, like you’ve taken a medicine that would do worse than better for you. See? It even makes your eyes water and your mind spill with thoughts that prophesize inevitable, ugly failure. You’ll fail and fail like a doomed scratch project, and none of it will be worth it.
Somi pauses from explaining Korean grammar. It’s cinematic—the wind from your window brushes back her blonde locks as if they were drawn and animated, then presents a face that exudes natural beauty. Her large doe eyes—attentive, dancing with light—and slightly open mouth—pretty little mouth, impossibly soft lips—make you a little crazy.
“You okay?” she asks.
Swallow. “Yeah. Totally.”
“Sure?”
“I’m not your dad, you know,” you sigh. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
But it’s all you yearn for.
“Okay. I get it.” Somi rolls her eyes. “So, as I was saying, I suggest just saying the ‘neo’ character like you’re moaning. Like ‘ohhh—”
Balls of tapioca bounce from your mouth and on your keyboard. Somi’s shocked and noisy cackle bellows louder than the telenovela. You forget whatever your tears were for.
-
The tears come back a few days later. That’s when you remember you’ve got an interview and it’s not really ideal when the realization grips you like it wants you to die. You wake up that morning in a cold sweat, and the anxiety’s back—as if it ever left.
“You sure you got all your papers?” she asks. That’s Yunjin, and she probably shouldn’t be here. But she’s never played by the rules in her life. “I mean, you can’t rush back and tell them you forgot something. It’ll look pretty bad on your record.”
At least you don’t look bad. You rented formal attire off the local dress shop and it turned out pretty good. The jacket doesn’t smell and there aren’t wrinkles on your pants. Clothes, you’ve come to find out, leave a great first impression. For one: Somi thought you were a huge loser when you strolled into campus wearing a black shirt and loose pants.
(“No fashion sense at all,” you remember her saying as she laughed over a cup of coffee. “It was almost pitiable.”)
It’s funny how the borrowed suit looks better than the shoes you actually own. There’s flaws running on the leather as they pave the way to the building. You’re pretty sure the sole’s a bit fucked, too. But you wouldn’t give them away. They’re too special a pair, just like you and Somi—
“Damn, they take offense to everything.” You return to the conversation. There you are again, going off track. Isn’t that what you always do? “I can’t even pass a document without some kind of divine judgment?”
Yunjin laughs humorlessly. “Welcome to the real world, kid.”
She says it like it’s something to be proud of. The real world isn’t all that nice. The bills are expensive and so are the food you need and the medications prescribed to you by a doctor who’s also fucking expensive. You don’t win in this game.
“You’re younger than me, Yunjin,” you say. “I think you should leave that talk to the grown-ups.”
She scoffs. “I know another person younger than you, and you don’t complain when she talks.”
You hate how only one name comes to mind. Block it out, like you do to everything.
What better interpretation is there to make? You, a foreigner to vulnerability or you, being a foreigner to thinking about anyone but Somi? Yunjin gives you this funny look—brows curled, lips pulling to the side—that tells you exactly which.
You look away.
“Look,” Yunjin says, serious this time. “It’s gonna be alright. It might not seem like it but it will. You’re a good fucking writer, and you’re lucky enough to have people who believe in you.”
-
And if you don’t?
-
A good start: you ace the phys-ed class with your flexibility. Stretching really helps. You had to learn that the hard way.
You’re energized enough to pick up your things and go to class without dozing off on the bathroom floor. You’re optimistic about today. Let your positive thinking become reality: today, an actual step forward from the usual teaching. You’re speaking it into actual life when you say there will be no shitty professors, no bad encounters, and no loaded homework.
“Religion,” says your professor, a stout man whose beard opposes his actual age, “is a complex subject. You can divide it into polytheistic, meaning the belief of many deities, and mono-, the opposite.”
Your brow curls.
You look at the screen projected onto the empty space on the wall. The bright colors that border between unreadable and eye-scorching look familiar. Grumble softly through your teeth; yep, professor Chant taught this to you a week ago. Why is he repeating a lesson?
It’s funny how your first affirmation is transformed to mere wishful thinking. Nothing ever goes right here.
“There’s often a debate that sparks wars, as we can see from history.”
Obviously.
“We can trace it back to centuries ago, when the crusades still existed.”
Of course?
“Now, the rampage still goes on.”
Well, you never.
Psst.
Not from professor Chant, but from a soft tapping on your shoulder. You turn around—it’s Somi. Suddenly, your breath learns how to do a disappearing act. You swallow, but it’s still not there. Where's the wand?
Somehow, you don’t hear your professor start to identify different faiths. All the faith you need is hers in you.
The look on her face tells you she’s as tired of this shit as you are. She points to your professor then twirls her finger beside her temple. You stifle a giggle at the dizzied eyes she makes as well. Sometimes, (well, a lot of the time—it’s happened more than you’re brave enough to fess up), Somi makes this uninteresting life at least be something worth laughing at. It’s not even that funny yet you have to compose yourself lest you’re caught talking during class.
Her thumb jabs in the air in the direction of the door. You know exactly what she means. It’s been days of meaningless repetition in lessons, each with little to no difference than the last. Nothing’s pointing to the possibility of things taking a turn for the better today. You might as well do what she’s hinting at: leave with her.
You’re still hesitant although you’d go with her to a haunted house if she asked. “Can we?” you whisper.
Somi clicks her tongue. “If we can’t,” she says, weighing her head to the side, “would you let me go alone?”
You’re on your feet before you even have time to think.
She has this smug look on her face that you’d love to wipe off, but it’s so attractive on her that you let it stay. “That’s what I thought.”
Without bothering to make up a false excuse or trying to be discreet, you’re out of the classroom. It’s not your first time ditching classes anyway, and you only do those for the ones full of bullcrap. This class fits all the criteria for a shitty period that deserves abandonment.
“Remind me why I chose fucking ethics for my minor,” Somi says with a huff that inflates her cheeks. She steers you away from the clear windows of the other classrooms so that they don’t catch sight of your scholarly crime. Your cheeks burn as you feel her hold on your forearm. “It’s not like I wanted to be Socrates or some shit.”
Picture Somi’s face sculpted on a stone and her words taught to thousands. What quote would they like the best: “I’d rather jump off a cliff than wear flats” or “Food for thought? Where do they sell that?”?
“Yeah,” you say, “you already do enough corrupting of minds.”
At least it isn’t raining today. The sky’s gray, but only a soft wind blows by. It almost takes Somi with it. Must be why she’s gripping you so hard. That’s alright; you like her. A touch from her is exactly what you need after that hellhole.
“I get that professor Chant can’t teach, but the whole point was that Socrates didn’t corrupt those kids, right? He just didn’t shut up.” She looks down at her watch. After duly noting you’ve got plenty of time to kill, she looks back up. Her long lashes are like butterfly wings, rising and falling under her eyes as she blinks. “He had good ideas everyone was scared of. It was like the majority’s opinion after he made us pass those essays about it.”
“Oh, really?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do essays.”
“Of course.”
Somi twiddles her pencil between her lips. She’s always had that kind—the ones that are naturally full, naturally kissable. They just fit the rest of her small, beautiful face that returns the favor of beauty reciprocally with a button nose and large eyes. It’s like her parents talked before they did the deed and said, “Okay, let’s make one that’ll grow up to be the prettiest fucking thing anybody’ll ever see.” You’d confidently say they were successful.
That pencil tapped you on your shoulder earlier. And now, it’s touching the lipsticked brims of her mouth. That’s the closest connection you’ll ever make with her. The knowledge is as Parnassian as it’s melancholic.
“You wanna get breakfast?” One blink from her makes her rephrase. “Oh, what am I thinking? You’re in college; you don’t eat breakfast.”
“I could use some right now. Where’s the nearest spot?”
She hums thoughtfully as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her high-waist square pants. Even the width of the fabric can’t hide how full her thighs are. “You mind going down Denny’s?” she offers.
You snicker. “I don’t swing that way, Jeon, sorry.”
“What? What are you even—” Her brows knot before releasing, the pupils below them throwing themselves to the sky. “Oh, shut up.”
The victim of your dad jokes from the day you met, Somi’s the perfect girl to target. It doesn’t take a cleverly layered joke to get to her. She rolls her eyes so easily. But she’s been through it enough to bear the task of taking your wrist and walking to Denny’s.
You shiver at the cold wind when you welcome yourself through the doors. Maybe you should have brought a jacket. On the bright side, there’s no storm today. Look around warily—okay, no tornadoes around here either. You’re still a little traumatized by that vision you had.
The restaurant is nicely clear. Only a few people are around, here to work on their computers or catch a snack after jogging. If only it were like this everyday, you would have gone here for breakfast all those years ago.
Somi pulls out her Gucci wallet and peers through the bills inside, as if she'd ever run out of cash. Her allowance goes up to thousands. There's no need for her to worry.
“I’m paying," she says finally. She jerks her head to the menu up in lights on the tilted ceiling. “Whaddya want?”
You shrug. “Pancakes?”
Somi smiles, brightly and beautifully. “Pancakes.”
Pancakes indeed.
A string of honey drizzles all over your breakfast. Cream on the top, too. Oh, and also some iced coffee, tailored to your wants rather than needs. This is an excessive and probably lethal amount of sugar for a college student to be consuming. For breakfast, too, at nine-whatever. But who’s keeping note?
Definitely not Somi. She’s taking real advantage over the free syrup. Some of it gets on her lips and chin.
“You're having way too much fun,” you say, your forking through your breakfast a hypocritical act. “Slow down. You eat the food, not the other way around.”
“I’ll eat yours if you don’t shut up.” Somi squirts (huh?) an unholy amount of chocolate all over her pancakes. It’s like a sugar bomb exploded on her plate. “And probably you, too.”
That glint in her eye. Must be the sunshine refracting from the glass windows. “I won’t shut up then.” Not like anything bad’ll happen if you play along?
Your place in the restaurant is more secluded. It’s near the corner, sheltered by four walls that consist of a window and some posters, which isn’t a problem. Like you said, you like Somi’s company, especially when you’re alone. She can go from bright and jokeful to seriously meaningful. She plays her game on both sides, and it makes you laugh and cry.
And soon, you're talking like there's no one around. Perhaps the volume of your voices is too notched up, but you don't notice. Somi's so easy to talk to that you wonder if it would have been that way if she were any other girl. She knows when to listen, keeping silent (a feat you didn't know she was able to perform) when it isn't her dice to roll, and talks so freely.
You can't help smiling as she talks with crumbs on the sides of her mouth.
She's laughing when she says, “Oh god, I don’t wanna hear it. Spare us the pain. Like what my mom did when she said I dressed like a retired washed up supermodel in high school to first year.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I mean, it was.” Somi digs the prongs of her utensil into the pancake’s whipped cream heart and drives them through. “Senior year sours everything up.”
“I would've loved to be classmates with you back then.”
“Hah.” She makes a smug little sound. “I was an angry hormonal bitch, you wouldn’t want to meet me.”
“Eh. I could have handled you. Anything that happened before second year doesn’t count anyway.”
In the future, you’ll say that anything that happened before you were employed doesn’t count. Then it’ll move on to how the events before a certain age aren't judged, and so on. Life continues its run, its criterias and ideals change.
Surprisingly, you're still chasing after it.
“Fair. Everyone’s angry and miserable in HS.”
Painfully accurate. “We all have those little realizations later in life. Youth makes us angry at nothing.”
She snorts on her hot chocolate. “You know, you have a better shot at being Socrates than me,” Somi says. “All that shit about food eating me. Like who the hell comes up with that?”
“Socrates?”
“Really funny.”
“Hey, who said ‘food for thou—’”
“I’ll show you food for thought, fucker!”
Before Somi could pump a blastful of strawberry syrup into your hair, a soft cough makes itself clear just in your vicinity. Both of your heads turn.
Professor Jung. Statement vest and square pants, it’s impossible to mistake him for any other man. He’s always been asthmatic, so that phlegm-filled cough is a trademark for him, something you associate with the old man.
“You have a mouth on you, miss Jeon,” he says bluntly. He offers her a subtly reprimanding expression.
Shit, you’ve just been caught cutting classes. What do you do now? There’s the evidence all out on the table to pick apart on: the food, the time on Somi’s watch, the conversation. Look around and see that the place has no bathroom to hide in, or a back window to jump out of.
"Hi, professor Jung," you mutter.
“Not to be rude or anything,” Somi tells him, “but what are you doing here?”
Trust her to always be honest with an air of feistiness. You purse your lips to muffle your groan.
“I could ask you the same thing," Jung replies pointedly.
You could hear a pin drop in the wordless silence in the booth. It’s like time froze here and went on everywhere else.
“Darn it.” Somi throws her gaze up to the ceiling. “Fine, we’re cutting. And you?”
"Teachers eat breakfast, too."
"Oh." She contemplates this. "Really?"
You whisper her name sharply, admonishing her: Somi, shut up, But she gives you her classic, disarming glare and twists her hand into a fist. It’s basically SSL (Somi Sign Language) for: Suck my dick and balls.
Your professor looks on, mildly… entertained? He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Normally, I’d cast a blind eye on absences.” He lifts his cup full of steaming black coffee to his lips, and somehow takes it in without wincing. “I was your age once, you know. But I need to talk to you.”
Now his eyes are directed at you. Yes, you, the only other guy in the conversation. His firm stare seals and locks on your face that there's no doubt whatsoever that he’s not referring to anyone else. The question is: why? Somi’s cutting, too—why do you have to take one for the team?
Swallow a chunk of honeyed pancakes. “Yes, professor?”
“Is it alright that I discuss this with you privately?”
Your nerves are getting the best of you. Maybe you shouldn't have ignored his message last night. What could he possibly be here for that's so urgent?
-
“Seventy percent, Jeon. Seventy percent.”
“I’m gonna make up for it!”
“Make up for it? Somi, there’s no going back from that! I’m failing!”
“Please?”
“No. No mukbaps for you.”
“Come on! It’s not rocket science,” she says, bundling herself over a book she “borrowed” from the library. She reads the text—all those symbols, large numbers, and complex formulas—and sighs. “But it’s not exactly ABCs either.”
It’s not necessarily up to you to try and make it easier for her to fix her mistake. You’ve got your own problems in a sack, and this one she made herself. But when she has those blonde brows creased together in frustration and a timer to keep herself accountable, you wish you were smarter. Tougher. Wiser. If you were, you would have figured a lot of things out before everything even happened.
But you’re not. You never have been. So, you say, “Something in the middle?”
"Huh.” Somi pauses. She gives you a look. “Is it?"
"I guess so."
You sip on your own cup, then wipe the smear of brown it left on your upper lip. You had coffee at Denny’s but another cup wouldn’t hurt you. At least, not unless you’re seventy-five with a heart disease or something. (Ah, see here, with the way your back hurts if you twist just a little, you could qualify as a senior. Gotta collect those discounts.)
Anyway, the setting is this: it’s only afternoon, but you wouldn’t have guessed with the rain. You’re at your place, as you always are, with a visitor who welcomes herself at any time of the day. That visitor is Somi, and she has your spare key for herself. Although she’s not exactly unwelcome, you do get tired of her ransacking your fridge at times. But that’s just you—your usual, pessimistic self.
And she’s… just Somi. Can’t be just Somi—another student among others—with a face like that. With all that beauty and wit going on for her, you don’t get why she isn’t hanging out with those sorority girls. You’re certain they’d be more than happy to welcome her. She’s better off practicing some witch rituals with them than studying with you.
Actually, there's plenty of things she could do rather than be here. She could drop school to be a model since she’s got the height and face for it. She could audition to be an idol, just like the ones you see on television, and make a bigger name for herself.
And yet she stays.
You'll never be able to solve that mystery. It'll become a cold case in your drawer, one that'll haunt you forever because although your fridge tires of being raided, you like having her over.
"Can I say something to you?" asks Somi. She shuts the book and smiles at you tightly. You can see the irritability lining her lips. Oh, whatever for? What did you do to deserve that?
You'll bite. Carefully. "Yeah."
"Ugh. That's what I'm saying, what I’m about to anyway. It’s… I swear to god, you and your useless answers.” She slaps a hand on your table. “It's a rhetorical question, you prick. You aren't supposed to say something."
As careful as you were, you end up saying the wrong thing. Somi’s eyes roll up to the ceiling and she lets out the biggest sigh you’ve ever heard. Goddamn it, another fuck up. You never know what to say to her.
“Apparently,” you start, huffing out a breath that collects itself in a cold dust in the air, “I’m not supposed to say anything.”
Slap the pencil you’ve been toying with on the kitchen table. Fuck this.
You hop off the stool and start to occupy yourself with collecting your dirty laundry from the floor. One article of clothing equals one of the many burdens off your back. You’ve been stalling bringing them to the laundry shop for ages, and now it’s biting you back in the ass. Hey, that’s always how it turns out: you keep something for another day, and when that day comes you call bullshit and not do anything. Old habits die hard—you’re still the same bum you were in senior high.
Somi smirks as she twirls the Mongol you’ve abandoned with a shake of her head. “And it’d be a lot better that way, trust me.”
She’s right. If speaking to Somi were a course, you’d be failing it. You either come off as trying too hard or aggressive. It’s already a blessing by itself that you can even attempt to respond properly.
Here you go again.
“You can either go fuck yourself, Jeon,” you throw a t-shirt at her that has coffee stains from weeks ago, “or you help me clean our house. You already fucked up my assignment.”
She’s surprisingly swift in grabbing it. Perhaps she’s realized that she has nothing better to do for she starts to clean up, too. Piles and piles of clothes disappear from the floor and into transparent laundry bags. Each gets filled to the zippers—that’s how long you’ve been winging it.
For the first time in weeks, your floor’s beginning to lose its mess. Save for the dust that’s accumulated in the corners, it’s relatively clean. As you and Somi pick up your clothes and paper bags, you come to your usual realization.. You see how easy it is to just clean up but still won’t learn from it. You’re a psychic—you can already see that this routine of avoiding your responsibilities will repeat itself in the future, until you learn and unlearn it again.
“Our house?” Somi folds a pair of denim jeans and slips it into a Ziploc. “If I remember correctly, I don’t even live here.”
You start to laugh loudly. What an absurd thing to take away from your remark. “You might as well be with how often you break and enter.”
“And I’m so glad you like my company.”
Well, it’s not like you initiate it. You’ve been friends with Somi since last year, and even from the beginning she was the one who made the plans, volunteered to be study buddies, all that shit about getting together. Your friendship grew and soon you made plans—
Oh.
So it wasn’t as one-sided as you thought.
You can’t bite back another commentary. “I should call the cops on you right now. I’ll file a restraining order and you won’t ever see me or my house again.”
You moron. What’s wrong with you? You always end up saying the wrong things, a guise for what hides beneath all that fake confidence you have up for you. It’s what’s gotten you into fights and arguments before, some severe. One might think that with a tongue like yours you would have figured out a solution. Nope, they’d think wrong.
“Please,” she says, smiling at you once more but with a tinge of sass on it now. Somi never lets anything get to her. In fact, she mirrors back whatever you say with a stronger refraction. “We both know you can’t go a day without me.”
You’d tell her she’s flattering herself. You’d say that she thinks of her position in your mind too highly, but you can’t bring yourself to even mutter it. The syllables form in the corners of your mouth but they already feel wrong from the get-go. It’s like the mere act of replying would be lying or something.
You’ve lied to Somi a hundred times before. You said you couldn’t stomach your ice cream though you just wanted her to have it because you saw her staring at it. You said you did your homework and teased her about it when she said she didn’t. You said she was an asshole after she drew on your face while you slept on the sofa.
But saying that you could go a day without her was something you didn’t have the heart to do.
Well, what if it isn’t a lie?
It melts in your mouth. Nope, you aren’t going to say anything stupid. You already have enough stupid falsehoods said and done.
“Didn’t I get this for you?” she asks, breaking your reverie and lifting up a hoodie.
You study it. It looks familiar so she must have. Observe the statement sublimation-printed on it: “BEST DADDY EVER.” It's gotta be weird morally, ethically, whatever category it falls under. But somehow, you grin when you see it. Not weird at all to you.
You look away, pretending to be very interested in the flowerpot by your window. "Yeah."
"It's on the ground,” Somi says, deep in her thoughts, “with all the stuff you wear.” A simper fights its way on her mouth.
"Uh huh."
“It’s with the laundry.”
“What are you getting at here?”
"So… that means you used it." Her cheeky Cheshire smile grows wider.
Reel back a few months, to the first Christmas you and Somi spent together. You were unwrapping your gifts from under the small tree of evergreen and red ribbons, and came to discover that she gave you that:
A hoodie, with the kind of print that doesn't fade so everyone knows loud and clear, till the day you move on to the unknown realm, that you're someone's best father.
But it’s how it has double meanings that makes you crack up.
"I'm not wearing this," you muttered, hardly containing your laughs. "What the fuck is this?"
Somi threw her head back and let out the most improper laugh ever. It bounced off the walls and echoed in your ears. "You like it!" she replied, bringing her hands together in satisfaction. “Come on, look me in the eyes and tell me you hate it.”
You jutted the hoodie out in front of you and looked at it in disbelief. It was an abomination—the color was a disgusting shade of red, the kind that tapered on the line between merry Christmas and murder, with a skeleton-like character on a motorbike below the words that declared you the best dad in the world. From the seams to the print, it was ridiculous, and you couldn’t stop laughing.
You scratched your head as if doing so would stop your healthy guffaws. "Somi. Somi, I'm serious, I'm not going out with this."
And yet here you are now, caught with the evidence of having worn it.
"I had *nothing else to put on that day," you defend yourself.
*(You had plenty. You had just ordered a bunch of shirts from the local store and pants so that the school dress code would allow you reprieve from the weather that switched constantly between numbingly cold and the kind of sunny that burned your scalp.)
Somi nods mockingly, and packs the hoodie away. She knows your truth, but she'll let you have this one.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, slumping on the floor with her back to the feet of your table, “I don’t really get what all this is for anymore.”
You're leaning against the cheap painted walls of your home. Sweat beads the sides of your faces and bags of clothes surround you. You look like a couple who just moved into a new home. Oh, what a fantasy. Not that you’d like it to actually happen. You swear with all the pinkies in the world that it’s just a stray, intrusive thought.
She chews on her bottom lip, the one that’s so much more glossed than the other that you’re not totally dismissing the idea you could use it as a mirror. You aren’t observing your reflection when you look at it, however. Why? Oh, just another cold case, and you’re the worst detective.
Suddenly, the fantasy twists itself into your heart and squeezes.
Oftentimes people are afraid of their thoughts, of themselves. That’s the reason why they lash out and say things they don’t mean. So you’re saying another line that comes off more aggressively than you think. You’re always like this around her: a sarcastic, stuttering, alliterate mess.
“Which one? You breaking into my house at midnight ‘cause your fan broke or… oh, you know, everything else?”
Well, it’s not like it isn’t true, despite the statement only being uttered since you got nothing else to say.
Maybe that’s why you and Somi are friends—her old habits take a lot of time before disappearing, too. One of hers is entering your house with no warning, not even a text that asks as politely as it could: hey, can i come over? or perhaps even crashing at yours 2nite,, just to let you know. Nope, none of that—what Jeon Somi does is fiddle with your doorknob like a scheming thief and let herself in like she owns the place.
And it always, always scares the shit out of you.
“I mean this school thing.” Somi twitches her mouth to the side as she looks at you. “It's like there's nothing going on anymore."
"Tell me about it."
"I came here thinking I'd finally have my life together," she declares. Head shaking, she smiles. "I didn't think I'd be just… older. Not stronger or wiser or tougher. Just old as shit."
"Yeah, well, I didn't think I'd have a brat who breaks in everyday."
"You’re not giving up on that, huh? You gave me a key, babe. Can’t keep a cow and not milk it.”
“That’s the worst way to say it. You haven’t even been on a farm.”
“Piss off,” she snarls, punching you in the gut. “Go fuck yourself in the ass or something. Whatever.”
She says all those things—things that basically tell you to fuck off, sodomize yourself, whatever you do, she doesn’t fucking care—but she’s smiling. Smirking? That tiny gesture has you confused again, like all the other times wherein you have no idea if she’s shitting you or not.
It’s what keeps you on the edge of your seat. Somi has that thrill about her that’s so entrancing that it’s only right that you’re dragged along. The road’s rocky, but the wind is amazing on your bruised heels.
“I would, but we have class, remember?” Point to the clock on the wall that tells you that there’s precisely twenty minutes until your next awful hour in a cramped classroom.
"Oh, alright, so you like it in there?"
"Nothing wrong with it, but not denying or confirming anything."
"There you go again." Somi glances at the time's thin hands, recognizes the schedule they foretell, then groans. She always expresses herself dramatically, so her eyes turn themselves north and her jaw drops to the floor exaggeratedly. “Oh, please, for the love of all that’s good, don’t tell me that it’s—”
“—Kim Chungha,” you finish, regretfully. You don’t like showing up to her classes either. She’s so uptight, so full of herself that her lectures turn into a grand narration of everything she’s achieved. You didn’t pay a tuition of thousands for that. You could eavesdrop on that for free whenever a TedTalk speaker goes to your mall.
Somi shares your hate wholeheartedly. Although the hour of the class isn’t too near by any means, she’s already hating it. She’s already living in what would be a hellish moment and deprecating herself for ever thinking to enroll in it.
You groan sullenly. Somi sighs instead.
“Sometimes, I like to think about if she came out of the womb talking about how successful she is.” Your friend pinches her nose and leans into your shoulder. “‘Something something the tight womb molded me into the conceited fuck that I am today.’”
“You forgot the part about how we haven’t suffered enough.”
“Oh, of course.” Somi plays with the ends of your shirt. “‘You kids got into this college because your parents paid for it. I had to go work for it and get paid.’”
“Of course she did. Tuition was like three dinosaur bones back then and a flame from her neighbor Prometheus.”
She busts out laughing. “She’s not that old!”
She’s right. Chungha isn’t old in any way. In fact, she’s a young prodigy for a professor, considering she’s training to be one. She’s only a mere couple years your senior, too.
“Well, she doesn’t fucking act like it!” you say defensively, but you’re laughing. You and Somi love to make fun of her and the rest of your teachers. “She’s like that kid who got spanked when she was a kid and talked about it like she was in the military or something.”
“Exactly. All that because she studied in America, what a fucking bitch.”
“A bitch who’s gonna torture us if we don’t pass that essay later.” You get to your feet. “We gotta get going.” You make a finger gun at her and wink. “Dibs on the shower.”
“Asshole.”
And just like that, you ram into the shelves. A bag of clothes rolls off one of them. You grab it before it ends up on the floor. Despite it all, you still have your spidey senses.
-
You didn't get the job.
It should've been obvious that you wouldn't. You're a college student. Your best bet was an intern position or a position lower than that. But seeing the rejection printed finely, cruelly on the paper slipped in your mail still stings. You reread it to check if it really was for you (as if anybody else in this godforsaken campus applied) and your name is still there.
We've written to inform you that you' failed again. They might as well just type that. Their paragraphs of formality and sickening professionalism won't lighten the blow.
You shake your head and blink away your tears. You won't let this dampen your day. Today will be better, mark your words.
You hope your optimism won’t be shattered. Things are going on well. You’ve paid Doyeon, the smartest girl in your class, to tutor you. She’s kind enough to give you a session for a student-friendly price, but when she starts to teach the math, you find that you don’t want fuckshit to do with it. You’re already regretting paying her with what you could have used to spend on a meal.
Because see, there’s Doyeon, beautiful and gentle, with her pencil top against her temple, asking: “Do you understand?”
And then there’s you, a big fucking liar: “Yep. Easy peasy.”
Alright. Maybe that went bad, but you won’t let one bad moment ruin the rest of your day. You still have more than sixteen hours to make the most of it. Let’s hope you won’t screw it up.
As you walk to your next class, you find that your head doesn’t stop spinning. That’s what math does to you. Again, it’s supposed to be stupidly easy—you mean, how difficult can counting be? But when those mathematicians added letters into it your whole word fell apart. Nothing’s been right ever since you were in middle school.
“Dude,” and there goes Somi, bouncing down the hallway and bumping into your arm. A beat. “Hey, you okay?”
You blink. Your cheek feels damp and Somi, for all her beauty, looks blurry. You don’t realize you’re crying.
Pathetic. You're fucking pathetic.
Open your mouth to deny the tears. She doesn’t let you. She wraps her arms around you and just… holds you. Doesn’t even say anything. For the first time, Jeon Somi doesn’t say something crass or out of line—doesn’t even giggle when you snort a little too loudly.
It’s in these little, tender moments that you’re reminded she’s your friend. And she loves you.
When she lets go, your throat feels tight. “Somi, I—”
“Shhh.” She presses a finger to your lips. “I’m not gonna ask. You know what’s gonna help you out?”
“What?”
“Drinks. On me.”
-
Somi always dresses like she's going to walk a fashion show. She doesn't dare show up with an outfit that doesn't reveal or at least show her curves.
That pretty much explains why she's dressed the way she is: a short, apricot crop top that could pass for a sports bra wraps around her impeccable bust while her long legs peek not all too shyly from the ends of a denim miniskirt.
You watch her try to keep the hem of her skirt right where they should be, but they steal your eyes to what shouldn't be revealed anyway—those full yet slim thighs pressed against each other making you jealous of the little space that gets to be squeezed between them.
But as always, you’re pretentious. “You do know it’s raining, right?” you say.
“And?” Somi cocks a brow. She smooths the top down her tummy, and you can’t look anywhere else. When the eye sins, you have to pluck it out, but you can’t. You want to keep sinning. “It’s not like a storm’s gonna stop me from being hot.”
You hate how she’s right. Through thick and thin, rain or shine, Somi remains the most gorgeous girl you know. She’s always pulled together, not one speck out of place. She walks with a strut a runway model would be jealous of. It’s not your fault that you lust after her when she’s… like that. Or maybe that’s another lie—maybe you don’t really want her.
And yet another.
Click your tongue. “Okay.”
Lift your bag. Stop in your tracks. You still have more to say.
Look at her. Look at the slopes of her curvaceous body, the smile in her lined eyes, the way the crop top shows too much but just right. Did she catch you?
Not even you with your artificial nonchalance and indifference can deny that—
“You look good today.”
She smiles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
-
So this is what happens: you drive, because (1) Somi can’t be bothered to, and (2) she can’t drive for shit. The last time you let her handle your car, she almost put you on the news. Oh, and (3) the bar is a little far from your college; you aren’t really planning to hike your way there.
Apparently, it’s a bad day for a lot of people here, too. A drunkard murmurs at the bar about how he loved her until she left him for someone better, and you could hear crying coming from the bathroom. Strangely fascinating how everyone’s here for different reasons, but for the same idea: some sort of relief.
“I’m very sorry about the way I…. you know, cried.” You make the first conversation starter. It’s an awkward topic, but you suppose she won’t have a problem with it. Somi’s your friend, isn’t she?
“Nothing to apologize for,” she says. Her eyes are lined with some sort of bright color that makes them look more enchanting. Makes the tears more apparent. “I’ve been breaking down too. Just in different ways.”
You wonder what’s beneath all that. All that blonde hair, flirty long lashes, the attitude. It only occurs to you now that you’ve never seen Somi cry. Maybe mockingly, when she doesn’t want to do her graphics, or for theater. But never in the raw sense of the word.
She’s stronger than one would think, you realize. Jeon Somi, more soldier than princess, though she doesn’t look the part. Perhaps her sword is the lipgloss ever present in her purse, the shield the smile she puts on everyday no matter the conflict. She deserves a lot more credit than what she’s given.
“What do you want?”
You can’t stop staring at the fake star tattoo on her chest. “You. Y-you can choose. It’s your money, not mine.”
You can’t tell if it’s the red, beaming lights or your imagination. You swear you saw her smirk. Quickly avert your gaze.
You don’t know how to go about these feelings for Somi. Are they romantic? Platonic? Whatever? You won’t deny that she’s pretty. Just look at her, gorgeous legs crossed on the stool, eyes magnetic. It’s a fact, forever undeniable, kind of like common sense at this point.
Yet there’s this: you’ve been friends for so long. You’d hate to ruin that.
“A martini, please.” Somi looks at you rather than the bartender, a glimmer in her eye as she adds, “Extra dirty.”
Okay, well-
You don’t speak for a while. It’s awkward, really, trying to divert the moment after you were pretty sure she had eyefucked you. Somi doesn’t seem to mind. She’s staring at her reflection in a nearby bottle, reapplying her lipstick. It makes her mouth look plumper. Poutier, too. You decide to discard that thought and train your eyes on something else.
But it’s hard not to look at Somi. You’re sure every heterosexual man in this bar/club/crying lounge is staring at her. Hell, even a few girls. But it somehow makes your heart squeeze a little more when you remember you are the one she brought out to have drinks. You’re the only one in this lonely place she considers a friend.
“So,” she says. “We’ve both been going through shit, huh.”
Just in time for the martinis to arrive. You laugh roughly, quickly drinking one up. ‘That’s one way to put it.”
"To surviving another week of academia," she raises her shot glass, a glint of defiance in her eyes. ‘And to us, for being the tough fucking shits that we are.”
You clink your glass against hers, the sharp crack almost lulling through the music. The martini burns a fiery path down your throat. You wince; yeah, you need some of that beer later. Martini’s never been your forte, but hey, it does the job. Your shoulders have already lost their tension. And Somi’s paying anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Seriously, I thought professor Jung was going to kill me,” you sigh, leaning back against the cool metal of the stool. “Maybe one of these days.”
“Don’t go yet. I’ll miss you too much.”
“Thanks for the sympathy. For that, I won’t write you off in my will.”
“Good boy.”
You gulp. Take another long sip of the martini. She knows exactly what she’s doing. You know her intentions too. Nobody just goes to a bar and wears an outfit like that for nothing. So why is it only you who’s shivering with anxiety?
She turns to you, her expression softening. For a few precious moments, her eyes look less striking. They’re more concerned, glazing over you slowly. "You look like you need more than just a drink, though. You look… hollowed out."
“Don’t I know it.”
“Hey, I’m just saying. We need to find a way to de-stress before we both lose our fucking minds and we die before graduation.”
The corner of your mouth twitches upwards. “One vice at a time, Somi. One vice at a time.”
She giggles. “That’s what I like about you.” Her golden hair tosses as she shakes her head and she’s back to nursing her drink. “You’re funny. Hot. Yeah, you’re weird sometimes, let’s be fucking honest. But you’re my bestest friend in the world.”
Your chest warms up. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s told you all week. And it was said to you in a noise-polluted bar, after crying your heart out, and by Somi.
You used to dream of meaning this much to somebody. All your life, you’ve felt discarded. The floater friend. It worsened when you enrolled in college. What they don’t tell you about this time in your life is that it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You survive or you don’t.
And now you’ve got your bestest friend in the world, telling you that you’re her friend, too. You mean something to her. You’re the only guy she’d take out to a bar like this and spend thousands on.
“Well… say something about me.” Somi suddenly stops drumming her fingertips on the counter and brings them to yours. The contact burns. It’s the tiniest arson ever committed.
Hey, you’re in a bar. It’s not supposed to be anything personal. You ought to drink and dance and hope you get tipsy enough to forget about everything. But you’re here, forced to cope with a dilemma of feelings, and the fact that beyond her loudness, she still cares about you.
It goes deeper than personal.
“I—” How do you say this? Hope this easy smile gets you out of trouble. Or in trouble, whichever is best. “I think you’re the hottest girl I’ve ever met. Kind of… a little wild, too. I like that, you know.”
Somi smiles, slowly and painfully. It’s killing you in a thousand different ways—by knife, by fire, by self, by her.
“Wow,” she says, looking down at your drink. What’s worth studying about that dull glass? “You’re a real charmer, y’know that? Just know how to make my heart melt.”
For whatever reason, there’s no sarcasm entangled in her words. It’s too much. You can’t deal with it. But you push it anyway.
“What about me? You say something about me.”
Somi blinks. Smiles for the first time in minutes. “You’re really my type, if that means anything.”
Your forehead wrinkles. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know.” Somi groans then downs another drink. This conversation makes her want to die of alcohol poisoning. She’s getting there—her ditzy eyes connect with yours and you know she’s pulling you down with her. “I talk a lot, don’t I? But you never really say anything. It kind of hurts.”
You don’t need the reminder. You’re so bad at communicating that you can’t even talk to your best friend. But then you look at her, and she’s just so pretty that you think it’s understandable. It’s understandable that you keep quiet rather than say the wrong thing, let her talk when her voice is like honey, silence your heart so that you won’t lose the sight of that pretty face.
Your shoulders slump. You’re never going to figure this out. These odd feelings for her. This whole college thing, too. The jobs you can’t take, the qualifications you don’t meet. You’re never gonna make it.
“So,” she begins, like she’s about to make a proposal. “What’s it gonna take for you to shut me up? Or, better yet—”
She lifts your chin before you could drink again. You can’t drink your way out of this. The last thing she’ll let you do is scamper away, like you always do.
“What’s it gonna take to get your cock in my mouth?”
You shiver.
A warmth spreads through your veins. It’s not entirely from the alcohol. You make that conclusion as you watch her tongue dart out, moistening her bottom lip. The air around you seems to thicken.
Her knee brushes lightly against yours. The contact is electric already. Nobody’s made you feel this way before. No, not before Somi. Her gaze drops, lingering on your lap for a beat too long before flicking back to your eyes.
Your breath hitches. The audacity of this girl, you swear. “Somi…”
“Not a lot then, huh?”
Somi’s hand continues its slow, teasing ascent. Her fingertips now brush against the sensitive fabric of your jeans. You feel the unmistakable hardening beneath her touch and honest to god groan.
“Good,” she whispers, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “I knew you'd like that.”
Her nimble fingers find the zipper of your jeans. A wave of heat washes over you.
“Are you sure?” Your voice is a ragged whisper.
She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she slowly, painstakingly, pulls down your zipper. You flinch at the sound of the metal zipping against each other. Somewhere in those eyes you find a challenge. I dare you, Somi says, to tell me to stop right now. Tell me you don’t want me to blow you in a public place and make myself look like your cumslut. It’s your choice, you know. All up to you.
You don’t say anything.
Her fingers brush against the warm cotton of your boxers. You feel them wrap hard on the head of your cock. Somi starts stroking you slowly.
“So big,” she murmurs. You feel the rush of blood, the immediate hardening, your cock springing free from the constrains of your pants.
You close your eyes for a moment. This cannot be happening. Jeon Somi, your impossibly hot best friend cannot be jerking you off. Maybe this is all a dream. Yet when you open them, her very real gorgeous face is still there.
A hot wet warmth suddenly wraps the head of your cock. Her mouth works its magic. You grip your seat. You try to think about other things despite the obvious distraction in your lap. How warm the bar suddenly is. How nobody seems to care she’s throating you. How Somi, you come to find out, is a woman who lives by a method. First, her tongue dances along your base. Then it’s gone only to return with renewed vigor. She has her hands on your thighs, pushing you down her throat and letting your cock slap on the flat of her tongue.
You let out a shaky breath as the pleasure intensifies. Somehow, the place becomes nonexistent. There’s no setting to this story. The bar is gone and so is the shitty music and the dancers. There’s no plot either. All it dissolves down to is the climax: the suction of Somi’s plump lips on your dick and the sight of her tits bouncing as she takes you.
“Fuck. Somi, I’m gonna-”
Seemingly determined, she takes it all. Her intense gaze never leaves you. Even as she deepthroats you, she seems to be smiling wickedly. Almost as if she planned this for the entirety of the day.
She lets her tongue flick and it’s finally over.
You honestly black out for a few minutes. It’s hard to process it all. Just a few hours earlier you were crying about another essay and the cruelty of your professor. Now, you’re spilling your cum down Somi’s throat. And you’re watching her take it all, happily sucking the sanity out of you. Her hands are an oxymoron at this point, placed on your thighs to keep you from shaking so much yet her touch is too electric to make you stop. That’s just what Somi is: a walking contradiction. Too pretty to be tough but she’s stronger than you are. Too girlish to even pick up a tissue from a sidewalk but she got on her knees in this seedy bar for you.
“See?” Somi says, sounding very triumphant. “Didn’t take much.”
-
The Uber ride back to Somi’s apartment is a blur of streetlights. The moon doesn’t even look real. The warmth from the drinks and the kissing makes everything feel softer, closer. Her head rests on your shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh.
You don’t resist it. You’re both pleasantly buzzed. Tonight, you’ll forget about your shitty college and your overflowing canvas. It’s all about you and her.
“My place is a fucking mess,” she laughs. “Don’t judge me, daddy, will you?” Somi catches on to the tension in your body and smirks. Oh, she’s got you all figured out, from the inside and out. "Oh yeah, I'm calling you daddy."
"Shut up." You roll your eyes, embarrassed.
Somi smiles, eyes disappearing. "Make me, daddy."
The word hangs in the air like a question. It’s new, this game. It’s probably dangerous and holds a lot of repercussions you won’t be able to handle sober. But you find yourself following her inside, the door clicking shut to seal you both in the dim, cozy chaos of her living room.
It’s not even that much of a mess. Or maybe the obvious old, lived-in wealth distracts you from the numerous shopping bags and parcels. Somi tries to kick off her heels but stumbles. You catch her by the waist. She flinches in surprise. Her abdomen is firm beneath your touch, soft in all the right places.
“You know what?”
Somi smiles. “What?”
You hold her closer. For the first time in this little, little life, you’re confident to say: “I think I’ve got it all figured out now.”
But she knows what you’re talking about. Her smirk is so proud, so full of itself that it makes Jeon Somi more attractive than she is.
“I want you,” you confess. “I tried denying it, but I’ve always wanted you.” It wasn’t included in your initial script but it slips out anyway, boldly: “From the moment I saw you.”
“Yeah. I have to be honest first though.” She skates her hand under the curve of her chin before placing it gently on your wrist. “I don’t know how it happens, but when I look at you, I can’t think straight. You make my brain haywire, if you know what I mean. My thoughts… just don’t make sense.”
Perfectly aligned, the stars and your thoughts with hers. A spyglass can’t spot a singular difference. “Same here, blondie.”
“Well?”
“Well.” You’re leaning forward as well, because there’s something you want to do before the sun rises and beats you up again. “We ought to do something about that, right?”
“Oh, trust me. know a lot of things we can do.”
That’s all it takes. The kiss isn’t gentle by any means. Nothing like the playful pecks you shared at the bar. Come to think of it, they aren’t like the sloppy makeout sessions you shared once the drinks got the better of you. This one is hungry and deep. The way she shoves her tongue in your throat reads like she’s been waiting to do this for years, probably even before you thought of doing this to her. Her lipgloss tastes sweeter than sugar.
Somi doesn’t complain about her designer skirt being torn. You don’t complain that this is your last good pair of decent clothes for another three days. Nothing about the outside world matters—no responsibilities, no consequences. You’re completely consumed by Somi’s lips and how she feels as you bracket your bodies together.
Before you know it, you’re in her bedroom. It’s even larger than the living room, walls painted bright pink and the bedclothes made of the softest fabric. The vanity table in the corner looks like it’s worth a year of your tuition. Lights bedazzle its mirror and an expensive figurine sits in front of it. Jesus, what does her father do for a living? Does he know his daughter calls you daddy too?
Her lips are swollen. You kiss them one last time before you undo her bra. The soft, full curves of her breasts spring out immediately. Her nipples are hard under your hot mouth and tongue. Lord knows how long you’ve thought about doing this. Her tits are heaven on earth.
“Yes,” Somi hisses. “They’re all yours, Daddy.”
You give her a sharp, open-handed slap to the side of her breast—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp and the flesh bloom a beautiful pink. She moans, her head falling back. You do it again to the other side, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You lavish the stinging, reddening skin with desperate licks and sucks.
You wouldn’t dare put a finger on her if you were sober. You know that well. But the idea that she wants you to do anything you want to her is making your brain lose its logic. You’re operating like a broken machine on flimsy code.
That’s exactly why Somi smiles when she kneels again. “Remember when we talked about Socrates?”
You roll your eyes. “Why are you bringing him up now?”
Tipsy Somi is still Somi after all. Her breasts rise and rest as she breathes, slick from your mouth’s worshipful rituals.
“When you told me I was corrupting minds,” she says, blinking up at you deceptively, “did I corrupt yours, too?”
Turns out she doesn’t need you to answer. First contact: her soft tits squeezing around you. It extracts a groan from the depths of your throat. “Somi.”
“What's wrong?”
Nothing is. Not when she feels amazing wrapped tight around your shaft. The friction is incredible. It rides up from your base up to your swollen tip, then repeats in its overwhelming cycle. You’re already so close to the edge.
You can almost feel her heartbeat as she takes a deep breath in. Her deep cleavage welcomes you once more. You don’t know which is more explicit: the sounds of her flesh accommodating you and her soft pants, or the sight of it. Each low plunge ignites heat from the pit of your stomach. You can see light sweat form on her skin. She’s working so hard for it, so hard to make you cum.
It just might work.
God, everything about Somi is so erotic. It’s like for one night, she conjured herself to be a fantasy only for you. No one at the bar could experience this no matter how much they stared at her. They’re not the ones who can see her nails dig into her own chest as she works you, or her biting her lip to cope with the labor. All they see is the perfect, dolled up Jeon Somi, the gorgeous woman at the bar who looks too out of their league to approach.
Meanwhile, this is what you’re privy to:
Somi jerking you even harder, her nipples tight and her hair tossed to the side.
Somi asking you if you like it, although she knows very well that you do. How can anyone not like this? Only an insane man would deny it.
Somi looking like a doll although she’d look more a sex doll if you consider how she pressed her boobs together tighter. The pressure grows like a waiting tsunami.
You crash.
With a final, deep stroke and a stifled moan from her own lips, you cum all over her. It’s messy—it gets all over her collarbone, the lines on her throat, her chin. This doesn’t stop her movements from becoming more urgent. The embrace of her tits feels more like a choke now that she’s determined to drain every single drop from you.
After the last spurts come out, she gives you a teasing lick on your tip. She looks down at her skin covered with cum and gasps.
“Look at the mess you made,” she says. “Won’t you clean it up for me, daddy?”
-
Somi’s bathroom, as it turns out, looks straight out of a suite. You’re sure she had maids clean this regularly, with how the tub shone and not a tile on the walls were chipped. It smells like strawberries when you stepped inside. The porcelain is cool under your feet.
“College was just a getaway vacation for you, huh?”
Somi shrugs. “Pretty much,” she says. She doesn’t bother to deny it. She only joins in on your “I’m broke” jokes to make you less lonely. This was her reality. “Could’ve gone to some Ivy League un, but at least I met you, right?”
You reach past her to turn the knob. There’s a clunk, a hiss, and then the water crashes down. You watch how the droplets slip into the curves and arches of her toned back, down her perfect ass. Of course, she’s ever the movie star: Somi arches into it, eyes closed.
You move into the warm spray with her. She turns to face you.
Her face looks prettier without the makeup. As the foundation washes away along with each slicked contour, her bare face comes to view. In the steam, Somi looks like a goddess who made an apparition. No, actually. Her eyes are larger without the heavy lashes and her mouth soft without the lipliner.
“Yeah,” you agree. You’re still stunned. “I have that going on for me.”
You lift her easily. She giggles, wrapping her legs around your waist without a word. All part of Jeon Somi’s masterplan, and you’re checking off each step.
The water hammers down on your joined bodies, background noise as you thrust in her. Both of you gasp. She’s so tight it knocks your breath out. You’re forced to rely on anchoring her weight on the wall, as featherlight as she is.
“Jesus, Somi. You feel so fucking good.”
She’s all slick and tight around you. Her overwhelming wetness lets you know how hard she was working for this. Somi is speechless as you start moving. You don’t bother for any buildup. It’s rare to see her so pliant, so willing. The sensation of being filled up was too good for her to run her mouth.
You did say you were going to shut her up.
Her mouth hangs the whole time. Her doe eyes are large with want. Each time you enter her, her insides cinch tighter around you. You already came twice tonight; you want to hold out a little longer and make her feel good.
You place your other hand at the back of her head to dull the thrusts. Those gym classes were worth it after all. You have no problem hoisting her up with one hand and searching for the angle that’d make her shake.
It takes a few different approaches, all with your mouth smothering her chest and neck, before her eyes fly open in shock. You smirk. Somi squeezes your shoulders tighter. From there, the moans you revel in seem to amplify.
“God, yes,” she gasps, the blasphemy melting into steam next to your ear. She buries her face in your neck. “Don’ stop…”
A sudden rush of adrenaline runs through you, like you’ve downed caffeine instead of alcohol. Every sense is wide awake. You set a wild rhythm that you don’t think even you can keep up with. But each dip into Somi’s tight, weeping cunt makes it worth the effort. The lust melts into the steam of the shower, wrapping your endless moans and grunts into a hot bubble.
Her nails needle into your back like the spray from the shower. Somi’s moans border into shouts. You see the exact moment she cums. All of her being tenses up except her thighs, which stay at your hips, keeping you locked inside her. Each thud and stroke leads up to this very moment.
Honey drips down her legs. Somi whimpers while she cums around you. It’s sticky sweet. The water washes away both of your releases into the drain. You clutch onto one another for life. It might not be hyperbole either; the two of you are spent.
For a long moment, you just stay like that. You hold her up despite the weakness in your legs. You massage her hair through the shampoo. You wonder if this was the right thing to do. There’s still the possibility that you’ll regret it in the morning, when the alcohol and daze are gone. This was just a way to get it out of your systems.
“Wow,” says Somi, voice hoarse. “I knew you deserved that Best Daddy hoodie.”
She kisses you again, softer this time. You realize immediately it’ll be fine. While you’re young, you have a lot of time left to worry.
The summer before high school, you planned out everything: how you’d come out of your shell, how you’d make a name for yourself, how you’d become popular and well-liked and join the soccer team and maybe try to make it to the varsity team. By the time you accepted your high school diploma, exactly none of those goals came to pass: you made a couple of friends, none of whom were going to the same college as you; you only joined one club for one year for all of high school, and that was the math club in your senior year; you didn’t even try to run for any student council positions, although you did know a friend of the student treasurer in your senior year; you ended up chickening out before the soccer tryouts even started and ended up doing cross-country, which, to be fair, you quite enjoyed.
In other words, you were pretty much a nobody. You left high school having demonstrated exactly zero exceptional qualities about you, memorable traits or defining moments, that would make someone in your graduating class remember you. But honestly, you don’t really care; not because you don’t like your graduating class, or because you didn’t like high school, but because, by senior year, you realized how shallow those goals were.
So, you enter college with no such goals. All that’s on your mind is to study well, find a few friends that you can relax and hang out with, that you would feel comfortable drinking for the first time on your 21st birthday with, and have a good time. Nothing grand, no lofty ambitions. Just, have fun, learn a thing or two, and graduate.
It’s funny how the universe seems to always work against you.
“Oh! You’re…”
You thought no one from your high school chose to go to your choice of college. Then again, you didn’t really ask around for such information.
“…Alien-guy. The one who said, that one time, that to believe that aliens don’t exist is preposterous!”
So, maybe, apparently, there was something memorable you did. And to be remembered by Kang Seulgi, the person who achieved every single one of your self-set goals in high school by her junior year, is perhaps its own achievement.
Then again, maybe not; Seulgi was known to be the nicest girl in school. Nominated for Prom Queen and almost winning despite doing zero work for it, so you heard; making it to the varsity team for volleyball by sophomore year; known by and friends with students from all years, she did it all. Even you had your own positive experiences with her, being grouped together with her for an AP European History project on Rousseau and his impact on the Age of Enlightenment, and being smiled to and waved at a few times in the hallways on occasion afterwards. But that was it. Kang Seulgi was … well, Kang Seulgi. And you knew it. You had no delusions of her friendliness, of why she smiled and waved at you so much, why she sat next to you for the first few days of the math class you both took as seniors. She’s just Kang Seulgi, the nicest girl at school. There’s nothing to read into.
“Huh. Is that my legacy from high school?”
Seulgi laughs. “I’m so sorry! I’m terrible with names. I’m Kang Seulgi, by the way!”
As if you could forget. But you don’t say that. Instead, you remind her your name, and Seulgi apologizes for forgetting it in the same way she might apologize for accidentally kicking your dog, so you shrug it off by saying, “I didn’t know you chose this college.”
“And I didn’t know you chose this one! Why didn’t you tell me?!”
Although the smile never leaves Seulgi’s eyes, the slight bit of disappointment in the shift of the smile on her lips and her cheeks makes you wonder if she actually thinks it was reasonable for you to just walk up to her back in high school and ask her what college she chose, and then promptly inform her that you chose the same one. “Never really had the chance to.”
“I’m so glad that I know someone here. It’s so exciting to be someplace new, but also sorta scary, isn’t it?”
That, you have to agree on. Ordinarily, talking to someone so insanely attractive like Kang Seulgi would’ve been intimidating, but her friendly demeanor disarms any apprehension that might’ve otherwise frozen your vocal cords. “None of your friends came with you?”
“I knoow right?” You withhold a chuckle at Seulgi’s whine. “They’re so mean! I begged them so much too, but the ones who also got accepted here all said that it was too far away.”
“Yeah, but it’s sorta nice being far from home.”
“Yeah, yeah!” The way Seulgi’s eyes light up as she agrees with you … for a second or five, you forget how to breathe. “I think so too! And the campus is soo pretty!”
Fortunately, Seulgi doesn’t seem to notice your pause. “Yeah, it really is.” These kinds of girls, with their otherworldly beauty, who act like they don’t know how much a simple smile, especially such a radiant one, affects others. Well, actually, Seulgi is the only one you know that you would classify as an ‘otherworldly beauty’. Maybe it’s just a Seulgi thing. Still, she ought to wield that weapon more responsibly and intent.
“What do—”
“Alright, everyone!” The booming voice of the professor entering the massive lecture hall silences Seulgi, who turns her attention to the front of the room. You do the same. “Welcome to college! Unless, do we have any poor souls who have an earlier class?” A few hands shoot up, and a collective, sympathetic laugh-groan fills the lecture hall. “I’m so sorry to you all.”
“It’s ok, I’m a morning person!” shouts one amongst the raised hands.
“Oh.” The clear disdain in the professor’s voice and face brings about more laughter in the class. “Well then. I’m … even more sorry to hear that.” The professor’s response is met with more laughter. “Anyway, welcome to Biology 101!”
It doesn’t change anything, though. So what, Kang Seulgi, the most popular girl in high school and generally likeable human being, sat next to you in one of your classes? It doesn’t mean anything. Just like in your math class last year, she’ll probably sit next to you for the first few days, and by the second week, will migrate to sitting next to the friends she’ll have made. And the world will return to normalcy.
Except, it doesn’t. Because, later that day, you see Seulgi again. In one of your classes, again. This time, it’s you who notices her first, entering the classroom from the back and seeing the unmistakable side profile of Kang Seulgi, shuffling around in her orange backpack in search of something. Should you greet her? It’s almost inevitable that she’ll realize you’re in this class with her, right? It’s a relatively small class too, very unlike the massive lecture hall your previous class together was located in. Would she find it off-putting? Well, even if she did find it that way, she wouldn’t let it show on her face. Is there really a reason to say ‘hi’? To be polite, you presume, but…
You feel your body stiffen up as you see her turn around.
Shit. Did she notice me staring? She’ll definitely think I’m a creep.
“Oh!” You can’t say you’re surprised, really, by her friendly reaction. What you are surprised about is just how incredibly jubilant she is to see you again. “You’re in my Calc 3 class too?!”
No known force in the universe can stop the smile that blossoms on your face. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“No waay! Oh my gosh, I heard horror stories of Calc 3 from my college friends, but now I get take it with one of the smartest guys in our math class last year, I feel so much better!”
As you make your way to Seulgi’s seat, the guy sitting in front of her turns around. “Oh, really? So, you’re sorta the shit, huh?”
Maybe it’s you that’s looking at the glass half-empty, but you swear you can hear a hint of snark in his voice. Like he’s puffing out his chest, trying to size you up. Not that you really care about meeting his challenge, of course. He’s free to have Seulgi all to himself. “I don’t think so…”
“Oh please, he’s being humble. He got a 5 on the AP Calc BC test.”
“…how do you know that?”
“One of my friends heard from our teacher.”
So maybe that’s another, albeit slightly niche, ‘legacy’ of yours from high school. Or, maybe this is just Seulgi being the social butterfly she is.
“No shit! So did I!”
“Oh, really?”
Seulgi doesn’t seem to detect the chest-puffing that the guy, who you learn is named Justin, is doing. As you plop down next to her, the two of them blast off in conversation about the AP test, studying for it, and what they’ve heard about Calc3 online, with Justin eventually coming around and sitting on the other side of Seulgi. She pulls you into the conversation here and there, but you try to, as subtly as you can, stay out of it. It’s as clear that Justin has an interest in Seulgi as it is that he views you as a threat, so you try to make yourself as small as possible. You’re no threat, you want to tell him, you’re just someone who happened to have gone to high school with her.
It’s no surprise that, by the second week of your Bio101 class, Kang Seulgi is sitting next to a girl who she’s happily chatting up. What is a surprise is that, just as you’re about to slot yourself into a few rows behind her, she turns around, and, upon meeting your eyes, lights up.
“Oh! Over here!” The girl that’s sitting next to Seulgi, you learn, is named Irene, and it’s when you’re able to see her face-to-face that you realize you may have to update your list of ‘otherworldly beauties’. Irene is considerably more reserved than Seulgi, but is by no means a slouch when it comes to beauty, herself.
“Did you do the reading?”
“Hm? There was reading?”
“Well, the professor said it was optional, but I get the idea that it’s like, ‘optional’. You know? Like, how the reading in AP Euro was always ‘optional’, but how you could never understand what was happening in class unless you followed along?”
You laugh at that. “Right. Well, I hope the professor doesn’t expect us to be that studious, being only the first week and all.”
With Seulgi, you find it easy to speak freely. With Irene, it feels nearly impossible, not because she feels impossible to approach, with how soft-spoken and gentle she seems to be, but because she feels intimidating in another way. Like, it’s forbidden for you to speak to her, like she’s a high priestess or maybe even divinity itself, and you are not worthy to be in her presence. Maybe this would be how Seulgi would feel to talk to if that friendliness she positively exudes vanishes.
It also doesn’t take more than a week to confirm Justin’s intentions with Seulgi, and you can’t help but feel that Seulgi’s friendliness is feeding into it, too. Is it intentional? The way she speaks to Justin isn’t dissimilar at all to how she speaks with you. Or at least, from what you can tell. And upon the most barebones investigation, the possibility that Seulgi is intentionally leading Justin on is tossed out the window; she’s definitely too nice for that. At the tail end of the second week, when Justin recommends studying together for the upcoming exam in a month, Seulgi is the one who tells you that you’re coming along. Justin doesn’t let his dissatisfaction show on his face, but he doesn’t have to; you know he would rather you not be there.
To you, it’s crystal clear what Justin is trying to do. Seulgi, be it blissful or willing ignorance, doesn’t address it even slightly.
You consider calling in sick that day to give Justin some alone time with Seulgi. It’s more annoying than anything, how Justin seems so guarded around you. But, at the same time, you can’t really just tell him, especially since you two never talk just amongst yourselves. Also, who studies for an exam an entire month in advance?
But when you text Seulgi that you aren’t coming, she insists on coming over to help take care of you, so you have to awkwardly brush it off and tell her that, you know what, it’s not that bad, and in fact, you’ll come anyway, it’s no big deal. When you arrive, you see Seulgi happily waving over at you, and next to her at the table, sure enough, is an expression on Justin’s face that betrays his intentions. Seulgi briefly inquires about how you feel, and you play it off as no big deal. The hostility from Justin seems to dissipate slightly at that, but only slightly.
Two hours later, the three of you call it quits, and Justin invites Seulgi to eat at the nearby Mexican place with him. When Seulgi insists that you come along, Justin chimes in, saying that, since you’re sick, you ought to go home and get some rest, adding in that he’ll bring you dinner after they’re done. What he’s actually saying to you is clear as day: fuck off, and I’ll buy you dinner.
You have your concerns: you caught Justin unabashedly looking at Seulgi’s thighs, which are especially on display due to how obscenely short her shorts are, and how, despite Justin’s brazenness, Seulgi doesn’t even seem to notice. Is she just extremely studious, or is she oblivious? It’s not your place to know what’s best for Kang Seulgi, nor do you have any obligation to act as her ‘white knight’ … and, it’s not like Justin really seems like a rapist, either. Do you need to be worried about them? Plus, it is a free meal. Who are you, a broke college student, to deny a free meal?
So, you ultimately end up excusing yourself, deciding you don’t want to endure another hour or so of Justin trying to pretend like you don’t exist as politely as possible. It ends up being Irene that you end up hearing about it, of all sources. You’re a bit taken aback when she immediately starts talking as you take your seat, but as she continues, you can tell why.
“I saw Seulgi walking with a boy, so I went to greet her, and it turned out, they were going back to his apartment.” Oh. What the— “I was a little suspicious, so I asked him about his roommate, and he said something about asking him to be somewhere else for the next few hours.” Oh. Oh no. Did you misjudge Justin? “I was able to stop it, but … was Seulgi always so … oblivious?”
So, it’s not only you. On one hand, you feel vindicated for being right, at least somewhat, about Justin, but on the other hand, you’re kicking yourself. If you were suspicious of him, then you should obviously wedge yourself between them at any chance you get, especially since Seulgi doesn’t seem to mind. You even had another chance to do so, when Justin dropped the food off at your door, whispering a quick, “thanks, man,” before handing you the food and whisking off. And the result of that? If Irene hadn’t been there to interpose … you don’t want to consider it.
“I’m not really sure.”
“Hm? I thought you were friends with her in high school.”
“Not really, no. We sometimes waved to each other in the halls, but she waved at pretty much everyone in school.”
Irene pursed her lips. “Hm … I really got the impression that you two were close friends, at least.”
Leave it to Seulgi to talk to another person about someone like you as if you were her close friend. It isn’t much later that Seulgi herself arrives, and none the wiser either. The topic of Justin doesn’t come up again, and having Seulgi ask you where Justin is in your Calc3 class later that day affirms this for you: Seulgi is too pure for this world. You aren’t her ‘white knight’, and the idea that you, of all people, should protect her is cringe-inducing at best and pretentious at worst, but it’s pretty clear that it needs to be done. You can’t bear the thought of someone taking advantage of Seulgi’s kindness, and, selfishly, you don’t ever want this part of Kang Seulgi, her overwhelming friendliness that borders on naivete, to vanish due to someone using it for their own selfish purposes.
It doesn’t take long after Justin that it starts happening more and more: you acquire Irene’s aid, but it’s not like you two can babysit Seulgi forever. It doesn’t help that she’s living in a single, meaning you can’t even enlist the help of a roommate to your cause. Instead, it’s you happening upon her at the fountain near the science building, chatting away with some guy who is very clearly taking every chance he can to look at Seulgi’s exposed midriff, and going out of your way to greet her. Or, it’s you seeing her at a café she introduced you to second week after classes started and seeing the guy talking to her being a little too touchy, hands dangerously close to her torso, but Seulgi never seeming to really notice. Or, it’s a bunch of other stories from Irene, who you’ve had to exchange numbers with in this pursuit of protecting Seulgi, all of this slowly, but surely, leading up to you making any and all excuses to hang out with Seulgi so that you can keep an eye on her.
Of course, Seulgi doesn’t seem to catch on to your intentions, and in fact seems to be happy that you’re inviting her to eat lunch and chill at the nearby rec center before heading to your Calc3 class, that you’re looking for every single hang-out location downtown to bring her and Irene to on the weekends. You might’ve felt slightly self-conscious before, so shamelessly inviting someone like Kang Seulgi to all these places, but this isn’t about yourself. It’s about Seulgi, and making sure nothing undue happens to her.
And so, the first year passes like that: Irene and you, along with a few other of Seulgi’s friends that were enlisted—all of whom were females, despite Seulgi having no shortage of male friends. You suspect it has something to do with Irene, who quickly established herself as Seulgi’s best friend but, for some reason, isn’t the one being asked to room with her in the following year. With her connections, Seulgi manages to snag one of the most highly-sought-after apartments on campus, and of all people, Seulgi asks you to be her roommate.
“Me? What about Irene?”
“She was the one who told me to ask you. She said she already has an apartment for next year, but she says that it’s close by, though!”
Over this year, you have learned all sorts about Seulgi that makes you realize how easy it is for her to, without meaning to, attract someone. Above all else, Seulgi is extremely affectionate and clingy, finding every excuse to hug and hold the hands of her friends. Of course, there’s her stunning beauty and her dazzling eye-smile that causes heart palpitations to all manner of people, but there’s also her outgoing, sunny personality that draws people in like a nickel to a super magnet. The way she dresses, too, tends to show off her nice figure: her slim waist, her toned midriff, her milky-smooth legs, and the number of tight shirts that she has, that you swear have been growing over the year … you really do try not to look, but are only mostly successful in doing so. Thankfully, you haven’t caught the ire of Irene, who somehow either hasn’t noticed you stealing a few glances, or is otherwise pretending not to notice, despite the number of guys you’ve caught her glaring at that were looking a bit too hard at Seulgi. You can’t really blame Irene for glaring, either; you’ve learned, over the years, to view every man as a potential threat to Seulgi, lest you encounter another scenario where you find a close male friend of hers getting a bit too close to a black-out-drunk Seulgi while clearly recovering from a hangover himself. Upon further questioning, Seulgi revealed that it was her who pushed them to drink so much, although she refused to disclose what they were talking about and why it warranted such alcohol consumption. Maybe it was just you being paranoid; from how it appeared, it did look like he was about to do something to her, but thinking back, you realize it’s also plausible that he was trying to check in on Seulgi.
“But … I’m a guy…?”
Seulgi laughs. “I know that, silly! The building is co-ed. Unless…” Seulgi’s voice diminishes real quick real fast, and you start to panic slightly. Is it some expression on your face that you aren’t aware of? Maybe you shouldn’t have said that? “…you don’t want to?”
What? That’s what she’s worried about?
This Seulgi woman … did you ever mention she’s too pure for this world?
“Well, I mean, I was thinking about getting into one of the dorms closer to the center of campus, but I haven’t really applied for any of them yet.”
“So?” Seulgi’s voice is back to the happy, chipper tone you’re used to. You breathe an internal sigh of relief. Whatever it was, it seemed to have passed just as quickly as it arrived. “You’ll join me?!”
It’s true that being Seulgi’s roommate will make it easier to keep an eye out on her. But the question remained: what about your own sanity? Spending this much time with someone who was gradually becoming well-known on campus, in various social circles and as an up-and-coming volleyball player on the bench of the university’s team, who has been confessed to so many times that Seulgi has stopped crying to you about how bad she feels about rejecting yet another person, you’ve gotten as used to her as any straight man can. But, the prospect of living with a woman so strikingly, dangerously attractive and effortlessly, obliviously alluring, in your mind, is a combination made in hell that’s designed to test your patience and restraint to the max.
You’ve already decided that you, of all people, will never do anything to Seulgi. For whatever reason, you seem to be the only man close to Seulgi that Irene tolerates, even to the degree that she’ll talk about Seulgi’s male friends to you behind their backs. To act on any impulses, to fall for her in any way, is a betrayal of Irene’s trust in you, and more importantly, is a betrayal of your own morales.
“Um…”
“Please, please, please, pleaaaase?”
When Seulgi uses those puppy-dog-eyes on you, there’s nothing you can do but to acquiesce to her request. And as Seulgi squeals and hugs you in celebration, you reinforce this idea in your head: you will never, ever, for any reason whatsoever, do anything to Seulgi. You’re just there to protect her. You’re there to chase off anyone who would have bad intentions with her. Irene is counting on you.
“Thank you!! Next year is gonna be soo much fun!”
Seulgi’s joy is infectious, and eventually, you find yourself grinning stupidly along with her. “You’re really that lonely, living by yourself, huh?”
She nods. “I thought it would be fun to do that at first, but…” you know. There have been no shortages of nights that Seulgi has spent at your, or Irene’s, or any of her female friends’, place. You live in a male dorm, though, and have repeatedly tried to get it into her head that her coming over to a place filled with men is a bad idea, especially since those men often give you shit for being so close to her, having been asked on more than one occasion, “So, how’s her pussy?”, a question you always shoot down with a glare and a following, “We’re just friends bro, what the fuck?” The night always ends with you walking her home and her begging you to stay at her place for just a little bit longer, and seeing her pleading with you almost always makes you freeze at the door, but this is the one line you told yourself you would never cross.
So much for that.
“…it’s just, there are times when I want to watch a movie with someone, you know? Or just, talk with about things, and whenever I’m doing homework, it’s nice to be able to take a break from it with someone or scratch their brain about it.”
“Well, you can always use ChatGPT.”
“But it’s not the same! I can’t hug ChatGPT after it helps me, I can’t look at ChatGPT in the eyes and know that it’s really, truly listening and empathizing with me, I can’t—”
“I know, I was kidding.”
“…oh…” Seulgi pouts again and lightly slaps your shoulder, “…meanie.”
“Well, do I have to sign a lease or something?”
“Yeah!” And just like that, Seulgi’s mood turned around completely. “I’ll email you the link for you to sign. Ooh, I can’t wait!!”
There are a few things that you’re worried about, first and foremost being how clumsy Seulgi is: it’s like the universe decided to balance out her insane attractiveness, her magnetically friendly disposition, her bubbliness that can always put a smile on even the most unwilling face, with this one fault, and it only makes her cuter. Her incredible knack for finding something to knock over, or to trip over nothing, is truly astounding; you sometimes wonder how she’s been able to get through life in one piece, not to mention how she manages to stay so positive and happy-go-lucky. Another is the two modes she has: her usual mode, in which she’s smiling and clumsy and very affectionate and caring; and her serious mode, in which she becomes completely unrecognizable, and one that you definitely don’t find sexy in any way, and it’s definitely not something you—
Yeah, this is going to be a problem.
And in the first week or two after moving in with her, your fears are validated. It turns out, there’s even more to learn about Seulgi, like how she seems to dress up at home at all times, wearing outfits that don’t seem particularly comfortable, and how she can’t stand not being in makeup, even going so far as to hide her bare face the few times you’ve accidentally caught her in the morning, walking to her bathroom. Even more so than last year, Seulgi intrudes on you, walking into your room and asking to watch a movie together or play a game together or try a dessert she bought on the way home together or just sit in the living room and talk about stuff together.
After learning about how you usually did your meals, Seulgi starts insisting that the two of you cook your meals for every dinner, with the expense for ingredients being split evenly. “Look at us, cooking together like a ma—”
A silence stretching almost a full minute follows. Why couldn’t you hear the rest of the sentence? Did the noise of the stove fan overpower her? “…hm?” You look over at Seulgi, who is chopping up some green onions at the moment. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear, what did you say?”
“Nothing!” Seulgi doesn’t turn to face you, but you swear you can see the tip of her ear being slightly pinker than usual.
It hasn’t even been an entire month, but it feels like these kinds of instances happen not infrequently. You don’t really know how to describe them: it’s like Seulgi tries to do something, or say something, but stops herself. Is she just being conscious of you? Because you’re a guy? You don’t know how to ask her about it, either, because you don’t even know what is it you want to ask. It does feel like Seulgi does get flustered more easily than you originally figured, although it’s more understandable to be flustered about the next incident. You’ve just finished taking a shower and, after getting out, realized you didn’t grab a new shirt. So, you dry yourself off, put on boxers and your shorts, and go to your room with your old shirt in hand, only to run into Seulgi.
“Oh!”
“Oh, Seulgi—” For a split second, you swear you could’ve seen her eyes bulge out of their sockets. Her gaze lingers for a brief second, or so it feels like to you, before she diverts her gaze to the side, then the ground. “—sorry, I just forgot a shirt, so…”
“A-Ah, really? Um, it’s ok.”
Again, Seulgi makes sure not to show you her face, but you swear you can just barely make out a slight bit of redness at the tip of her ears. But, that’s normal, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean anything. Any girl would react in such a way if they happened upon her shirtless male friend. Most likely, it’s just her reacting that way out of shock not anything else. Certainly not because she is impressed or attracted to you or anything.
You didn’t really think much of it. One of the reasons you decided to take on this endeavor is because you felt you were already accustomed to being close to Seulgi. Physically, that is: hugging, holding hands, feeling her chin resting on your shoulder to watch a video you’re showing her, even more mundane things like sharing utensils and getting a matching bag accessory. It has definitely not been good for your heart, but accustoming yourself to it has been more of a matter of survival than anything else. Whether you like it or not, Seulgi is going to be physically affectionate, so the question is simply: how soon can you get used to it? The answer turned out to be about eight months.
Or at least, that’s what the answer was. Now that you’re living with her, you’re unsure.
You can’t even blame summer break because, although few and far between, you still met up with Seulgi a few times in the two-month span, coming from the same city and all. It’s just … the increased frequency at which close-ness happens. You really did think that you had a grasp on how to calm yourself around Seulgi, but it turns out, seeing her sleepily wish you goodnight or grocery shopping with her or taking an occasional post-dinner walk together makes it really hard to keep a cool head at all times. Constantly reminding yourself your purpose in rooming with her and to keep your delusions in your head … it’s only been two weeks, but it already feels exhausting. How are you supposed to survive, what, nine more months of this?
Given that you and Seulgi are doing different majors, you’re at least given some reprieve during classes. However, you soon learn that, in fact, Irene is in a fair amount of your classes. How you didn’t know Irene was doing your major with how much time you spent with her and Seulgi, you aren’t sure. Thankfully, it does give the two of you some time to strategize in your protect-Seulgi strategy.
“Thank you, by the way.”
If Seulgi is an energetic puppy, Irene is a graceful cat. Seulgi’s energy bounces off the walls; she illuminates the room she’s in, and her smile inevitably gets transferred onto the faces of others. With Irene, she’s softer. More graceful, regal, even. Irene’s presence seems to calm everything around her down, to a point where one starts to realize how horribly out of place one is being so close to her.
“Hm? For what?”
“For agreeing to be Seulgi’s roommate.”
And when she smiles at you, you feel your heart skip a few beats.
These otherworldly beauties, so haphazardly using their absolutely radiant, heart-stopping smiles like it’s no big deal. First Seulgi, now Irene; they really needed to learn to reel it in, lest they give you heart problems. They really do ought to use them with more responsibility and intent. It’s just a smile, but you swear you almost fell for Irene right then and there.
“She’s a handful, isn’t she?”
You laugh. “A little bit. The other day, she forgot about the thing she was cooking and I swear, nearly set off the fire alarm. We had to open every single window in the apartment to vent out the smoke.”
Irene laughs. It’s a truly musical sound, and the sight is one to behold as well: her perfectly proportional, perfectly symmetrical features light up, with her eyes disappearing into slits and her lips parting into laughter, and it’s all but inevitable that you join in with her as well.
“That does sound like Seulg—”
“Hey, what are you talking about?”
Irene lets out a shriek, jumping as Seulgi pats her shoulder. Irene head whips around and sighs upon seeing her best friend’s face. “Oh my gosh, it’s just you.”
“It’s just me! So, what were you talking about?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing!” As Irene responds, she starts making some space between the two of you. Not that you mind, but you do notice it. “We were just studying for an upcoming exam.”
Seulgi guffaws. “Already?!”
Irene nods and pouts along with her best friend. “I know, right?”
“Well, if he’s your study partner,” Seulgi nods at you, “then you’re sure to ace the exam.”
Irene nods. “Yeah, that’s why I’m not that worried about it.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of pressure you’re putting on me there.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Hm?” Irene directs an inquisitive gaze towards Seulgi, who is looking at you.
“I want to study with you too, but Irene’s stealing you from me.”
It’s so difficult. It’s so damn difficult to not get the wrong idea when Seulgi says stuff like this, pouting like she’s genuinely jealous. Does the universe expect your heart not to skip three beats at that?
“Well, too bad~” Irene replies in a singsong voice, sticking her tongue out at Seulgi. “You have Wendy to help you study, anyway.”
“Yeah! Wendy’s really smart, too. You should be even more confident with her as your study partner.”
And you swear, Seulgi looks a little bit disappointed upon hearing you say that. Even though you’re one-hundred percent sure Wendy is much, much smarter than you. “…it’s not about that…” is what she responds to you with, or at least, that’s what you thought she said.
“Hm?”
“I said, you’re right about that!” Oh, so you did mishear.
But when Seulgi flashes you with a beaming smile, you feel like you can also see a similarly disappointed expression on Irene’s face.
You have more female friends than male friends—that is to say, you only have one male friend, the rest being female friends of Seulgi’s. That fact does come with some perks: they are more than willing to throw compliments around like it’s nothing, they always have your back when any issue arises, and they’re always ready to talk about anything and everything that you wanted to talk to them about. But this is one of the negatives: it feels like, sometimes, there are hidden motives, or secret messages or meanings in their words that you can never quite catch on to. It’s something that you have been desperately trying to get better at, which Seulgi gives you a fair number of late-night conversations to improve at, such two nights after the exam.
“You know Annie?”
“Yeah, the one who’s always asking you to join the dance team.”
“Yeah.” From just her tone, you can tell that something’s wrong. But that’s just the basics. In an effort to improve your mind-reading skills, you’ve started to play a little game: can you guess what Seulgi’s about to say just from the tone of her voice and the look on her face? Seulgi is a woman who wears her emotions on her sleeves, someone who can’t lie to save her own life, so it theoretically should be easy to get in the right ballpark, but your record is still pretty bad.
What would it be this time? Maybe it has something to do with the dance team? Did it disband recently?
“Terry, someone from the male dance team, asked me out earlier.” Well, looks like you were completely wrong again. “And I rejected him.” You reach out and pat her hand as she speaks. “But Annie, who has a crush on him, was with me when it happened.” It’s truly astonishing, how empathetic Seulgi is. Of course, there’s the obvious matter of having to reject the confession of the crush of one of your friends, but she also genuinely looks guilty. Like, as if she could’ve done something about it. “I … didn’t know what to do. I just…” a tear falls down her cheek, her voice warbles, and she lets out a sniffle. “…I just feel so bad. I was cheering for them so much, we even had a plan to set them up on a date next week, but…”
“It’s ok, Seulgi.” Your arm goes around her shoulder to pull her into a half-hug, and Seulgi buries her damp face into your chest. “It’s not your fault.”
“B-But, maybe it was because I insisted on being in charge of gathering information from him. I was so excited for Annie that I didn’t even realize…”
The more she speaks, the more uneven her voice becomes. It’s starting to tug at your own heartstrings, too. “It’s not your fault, Seulgi. Wanting to help your friends is never a bad thing.”
“B-But, but if I just let someone else do that job, maybe that wouldn’t have happened!”
If Terry spent so long with Annie but ended up falling in love with you from spending a handful of minutes here and there over the course of a few weeks, then the chances seemed pretty low for Terry to reciprocate Annie’s feelings. You don’t say that, of course. You may be slightly socially awkward, but you’re not that socially inept. “You don’t control how Terry feels, or who he falls in love with. And who knows? Maybe Annie and Terry’s bond will grow after this.”
“…I don’t want Annie to hate me, though.”
“Why would Annie hate you?”
“Because…”
You asked the question already knowing the answer, but you still ended up asking it. It’s not a very logical train of thought, to dislike your friend for being the recipient of a love confession from your crush, but you also know that love isn’t exactly logical. “But you worked so hard on helping Annie with Terry, didn’t you?” You can feel her nod against your chest. “Give her enough time, and she’ll realize that you were just trying to help. I don’t think she can be mad at you once she realizes that.”
“…really?”
You’re the one that nods this time. The entire time, you’ve been soothingly rubbing her back, but now that she’s looking up at you, from an incredibly close distance, mind you, not only does your hand stop, but so does your brain. Calm down. Get over it. “Yeah.” You can only hope that you aren’t blushing right now. What a wildly inappropriate response, considering how Seulgi’s literally crying in your arms. You try not to let the scolding you’re giving yourself show on your face.
“Promise?”
“I…” you tilt your head in confusion, Seulgi’s response breaking the spell of enchantment her teary eyes placed on you. “…if she doesn’t, then I’ll go talk to her myself.”
Seulgi giggles at that. “Don’t threaten her!”
“I never said I was going to do that.”
“That’s how you made it sound like though.”
You smile again and pat her back a few times for good measure. “But, don’t worry too much about it, ok? From the few times I’ve spoken with Annie, it seemed like she’s a good girl. If she’s mad at you, she’ll forgive you eventually.”
Seulgi nods and sits back up straight. “By the way…” Seulgi directs what you can only describe as an accusatory glare at you. “…Irene.”
“…What about Irene?”
“You see her a lot, don’t you?”
You nod slowly. What’s this about? Does Seulgi maybe want you to protect Irene against potential suitors, like you promised Irene regarding Seulgi? That would certainly be a humorous situation: both best friends asking a third-party, and a guy at that, to protect the other from undue advances from potentially sleezy guys. Although not as frequent, you’re not unaware at how many guys have shot their shot with Irene. “Yeah, I guess. We’re in a lot of the same classes, since there aren’t many people in our major.”
“Hm…” Seulgi, while lightly dabbing her eyes with a tissue to clear them of tears, maintains a steady gaze on you.
“If you’re wondering about if guys ask her out often, I—”
“You really haven’t noticed?”
“…noticed? I guess maybe guys ask her out when I’m not around her, but…”
“No, not that. Irene. About … you.”
Ok, this isn’t where you thought this was going at all. “What about me?”
“Are you serious?”
Did you forget something that happened recently? But, digging through your memory of the past few weeks, you’re coming up blank. “Seulgi, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Irene! She has a crush on you!”
You don’t mean to be rude. The thought of being mean to Seulgi is completely foreign to you. The most you would go would be to tease her, but that’s only because she gives such good reactions due to how simple-minded she tends to be. But, what can you do but laugh at such an outlandish hypothesis? “What?”
“Stop laughing at me like that! I’m serious! I’m her best friend, I would know.”
Is she mistaking all the time you spend together with Irene, strategizing about ways to keep Seulgi safe, as her having feelings for you? But you can’t just tell Seulgi that’s why you’ve been spending so much time with her: how would Seulgi feel if she found out that her friends have been doing this behind her back? She’d feel devastated, that her friends are secretly working so hard for her sake, and that’s not something you want to be on your conscience. “Why would you think that?”
“What do you mean? You two spend so much time together!”
There’s something in her voice, though. Maybe it’s leftover from the tears she was spilling recently. But there’s also something on her face, a lack of the sparkle that appears every time she’s talking about romance. Maybe it’s because it’s awkward, since she’s suspecting her best friend has feelings for another of her close friends? “Well, I mean, it’s just easier to do homework and stuff with someone else, and I know Irene the best out of everyone in our classes, so…”
“How about you? Do you like her back?”
Seulgi doesn’t seem to be listening to you, which seems … out of character? For someone like Seulgi, the very definition of puppy-dog friendliness, who even sat down with a homeless man to listen to his woes once, it isn’t like her to just disregard what you said. Maybe it’s just that she doesn’t buy your excuse.
“I…” Irene is insanely attractive, both outwardly and inwardly. If you just got past her somewhat icy exterior, it’s easy to start falling for her. For anyone else, it might’ve been a forgone conclusion that they fall in love with Irene. Were it not that your heart was already taken, so too might you have. “…I don’t like her romantically, no. But she’s a great friend…?” Ok, now it sounds like you’re friend-zoning Irene. Irene. Irene. Probably more beautiful than most celebrities, has one of the most pleasant voices you’ve ever heard, caring, gentle, kind, can cook, has a natural maternal instinct to take care of her loved ones without any prompting. That Irene. Is it even allowed to friend-zone her?
“Oh.” Seulgi does sound somewhat happy about that. Or perhaps it’s relief that there isn’t going to be anything awkward between two of her close friends.
“Why do you think that Irene has a crush on me?”
Seulgi shrugs. “I can’t really say, but I can just tell.”
In your eyes, it’s Seulgi that Irene so obviously has a crush on. You’re even relatively sure some of Seulgi’s friends suspect the same thing, too. But you aren’t confident enough to say it, so instead, you just say, “That’s not very convincing.”
“Whatever. I know my best friend.”
“…and even if Irene does have a crush on me,” you cringe slightly at that. Even saying it feels wrong. “…should you be telling me about it?”
“Why not? Is there something wrong with wanting two of my best friends to get together if they like each other?”
‘Best friend’, huh. Apparently, you’re the only one who hasn’t picked up on that, of being promoted to one of Seulgi’s best friends, as one of Seulgi’s male friends—the rare one that doesn’t seem to have any romantic interest in Seulgi, or Irene for that matter—asks you about it. Or rather, not that, but something adjacent.
“Are you and Seulgi dating?”
Are you just a rude person? Maybe you are. But honestly, who wouldn’t burst out laughing at such a question? Twice in two weeks has someone suggested something so unrealistic. It’s not like you’re a protagonist in some romcom manga. It’s just too preposterous of an idea to not laugh at.
“What? No, of course not.”
Mark shoots an inquisitive, unbelieving look at you. “I don’t believe you.”
“Wha—why? I swear, I’m not dating Seulgi.” Said woman is currently perusing Banana Republic with some other female friends while you and Mark, who have been dragged along as extra hands to carry bags most likely, are waiting outside. “Ask her, she’ll tell you.”
“Hm…”
“…why don’t you believe me?”
“Well, I mean, you live with her, and I heard that it was Irene who asked you to be her roommate.” Even amongst Seulgi’s friends, Irene has a reputation of being somewhat cold to even Seulgi’s male friends. That, of course, included Mark, although she’s less cold and more indifferent to him by now. “And you were holding hands earlier, and she seems pretty comfy leaning on your shoulder or hugging you out of nowhere…”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What?” What’s so unique about that? “Well, you know.” You intended to leave it at that, but from Mark’s expression, he does not, in fact, seem to know. “That’s just how she is.” And now, it doesn’t seem like Mark is buying it. “You know how physically affectionate Seulgi is.”
“Only to her female friends. And you.”
You frankly can’t believe it. You scan Mark’s face for any signs of teasing, or him trying to do a ‘gotcha!’, maybe to get you to admit your feelings for her. But, there’s nothing. “…really?”
“Yeah, really. I don’t think she’s even tried to hold my hand before, but she just reaches for yours like it’s the natural spot for her hand to be.”
“Ok, you’re exaggerating a little now.”
“What is Mark exaggerating about?”
The two of you jump at the sound of Seulgi’s voice. You’ve apparently gotten so engrossed in the conversation, your mind so blown at the revelation that Seulgi apparently isn’t physically affectionate to any of her other male friends, that you didn’t hear or see her approaching. “Nothing!” Unfortunately, the fact that both you and Mark say that at the same time only makes Seulgi more suspicious.
“No, tell me! Why are you leaving me out?” Seulgi whines, slipping her hands into yours and bumping her shoulder into you. But now that Mark said that tidbit, you’re suddenly a lot more self-conscious of Seulgi. You thought it was something you got over already, how clingy Seulgi is, but the thought that you’re somewhat special to her…?
“Nothing important. Just guy stuff,” Mark replies.
Are your palms sweaty? Oooh no. You can’t suddenly get so self-conscious of her. Not now, not this late into having committed to this whole ordeal, of being the only guy Irene trusted to protect Seulgi. What about Irene’s trust in you? Are you just going to betray her like that?
However self-conscious Mark’s comment makes you of Seulgi, she doesn’t seem to notice at all: not for the rest of the trip to the mall, not after dinner that day when she randomly hugs you from behind while you’re doing the dishes because ‘she was bored’, and certainly not when she’s cuddling up to you, a week later, watching a movie on the couch, with a glass of wine in her other hand.
“That guy … is so oblivious, it’s a little annoying, isn’t it?”
From hearing such a comment coming from Seulgi of all people, you can’t help but let out a little chuckle. “Yeah, it sorta is, huh?” You can feel Seulgi’s eyes land on you, but before you can look back, her eyes are already directed back to the TV screen, taking another sip of her wine. “Isn’t that your second glass? Are you gonna be ok?”
Seulgi nods. “My first class isn’t until 2:00 tomorrow.”
“Right.”
There’s a brief lull, in which you two return your attention back to the movie. Seulgi, for whatever reason, seems pretty dead-set on finishing her second glass of wine, and when she does, she sets it down onto the table and turns towards you. “Does that guy remind you of someone?”
“Huh?” Your eyes go back to the screen, but the more you rack your brain, the more confused you get. Is she trying to precede a story with that question? Maybe recounting something from high school? “Um … I don’t think so?” Seulgi sighs and turns away from you for a second. You watch her do something—collecting herself? “What—” the next moment, Seulgi has turned back towards you, cheeks flushed a deep red but a determined look on her face, and the next, you feel something warm and slightly moist on your lips. You open your eyes, and it’s only then that you even realized you closed your eyes. Seeing Seulgi’s gently closed eyes mere centimeters from yours, feeling the warmth of her face emanating onto yours, the velvety texture of her lips pressing against yours, quivering, a prominent taste of sweetness from her lipstick mixed in with the slight bitterness of the wine she was drinking filling your taste buds.
Wait. Seulgi is kissing…
No. This shouldn’t be how it is. You can’t do this. You’re supposed to protect her, not…
The thought is fleeting, though. You aren’t a lightweight by any means, but the taste of alcohol from Seulgi’s lips causes you to sink into a drunken stupor. Your brain feels like its melting. You can’t get a grip of your surroundings, but at the same time, it feels like every single one of your senses sharpened by a few degrees.
Fuck. Is this happening? Do I smell bad? How do I even kiss? Should I be—
When Seulgi pulls away, you’re still staggering from the sudden kiss. You can’t be drunk from that miniscule amount of alcohol you consumed, right? You didn’t even drink any tonight.
“Sorry, did you not like it…?”
“Hm?” Oh. That brief, instinctual pulling back motion you did.
You move to explain yourself, but Seulgi has already turned away from you, dejected, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry…”
“No, Seulgi, it wasn’t—”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I-I, I just—” your palm on her cheek silences her. You turn her head to face you; the sight of the tears welling up in her confused eyes tugs at your heartstrings, but it’s enough conviction to follow through by tilting your head and capture her lips in another kiss.
You can tell you’ve caught Seulgi by surprise, but when she finally processes what just happened, she melts into your embrace. Her weight shifts onto you, which you’re ready for by using your free hand to brace her waist, and then starts to lean in to deepen it. The feeling of her soft, sweet, slightly bitter lips moving against yours, needy, desperate, as if she can’t get enough of you, of your warmth, your affirmation and your own desire for her, all of it on top of Seulgi pressing herself onto you, leaning into you, is pushing your senses into overdrive. Your lungs constrict and your chest tightens, and trying to keep up is all you can do from getting utterly consumed by Seulgi. It’s messy and sloppy and wet, and as much as it feels like you’re also melting into Seulgi’s embrace, you can’t help thinking: are you doing this properly? Are you kissing properly? Is Seulgi enjoying it too?
“Mmm…” her muffled moan assuages your doubts, doubly so when her hands loop back around your neck and pull you closer. Your other hand finds her waist, and with how close she already was to you, all that’s left to do is to pull her onto your lap. For a brief moment, Seulgi pulls away to swing her leg to the other side of your lap, straddling you with her legs, and for that brief moment, the two of you share an exasperated, breathless, but exuberant look.
Seulgi is stunning. Her hair slightly unkempt, a tear streaking down her left cheek, but she’s more beautiful than you’ve ever seen her. The ghost of her lips has you yearning for more, but the desire to bathe in her beauty overshadows everything else.
Then, Seulgi giggles. A musical set of notes that sets your heart aflutter. “You stole some of my lipstick.”
You grin back. “Mind if I steal some more?”
Seulgi obliges eagerly, pressing her lips back against yours and her chest against your chest. The warmth from her body, the warmth from her lips, seeps into yours, and as the two of you move in awkward synchronization, you slowly start to lose your sense of self. It feels like you’re melting under her touch, the way she’s pressing herself against you. Her body heat, her soft, warm lips, her eyelashes brushing against your face, puffs of air from her nose landing on your cheek, her legs, her arms, her torso mixed with yours, it’s making your head spin. When she finally pulls away, Seulgi looks as out of it as you are, cheeks dyed a deep red hue. “Should we…?”
Wordlessly, you pick her up and carry her to her bedroom.
Part 2 coming ... eventually! :D
(sorry, this might mean you might have to wait like, 2 months or more...)
What happens if you meet a girl you’ve only ever seen in a dream?
~~~
Includes: Fluff, smut.
a/n: Originally wrote this fic as a tribute to the wonderful @mintwithchoco and @woollypoison for their wonderful work with the latest prompt session. I promised a Yeji thigh-highs fic, but got enthralled by the idea of dreams and before I knew what happened, this fic was born! I hope you enjoy it.
Special thanks to the inspirational @ducktoo, the wise @eightsh8pe, the transcendent @starconstruction, and the patient @erospandemos for beta-reading this fic. I am nothing without your guidance :rukapray:
~~~
Some days you regret quitting your stable office job to become a writer.
You’re barely making ends meet with the near zero income, and you’re forced to take on copywriting and other freelance jobs to scrape enough moolah to continue living in a dingy apartment in the not-so-fancy side of town.
Some days though, it's not too bad.
Being an unwilling audience to raccoons tap dancing on the roof every night sucks, but it feels like the karmic balance of the world has swung ever so slightly in your favour when you’re kicking it back on a lazy weekday afternoon, crushing a couple cans of beer with your best friend and roommate.
“Cheers to your success, buddy!” Ryujin hollers as she slams her can onto yours with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary.
She’s the other reason why you’re able to afford rent. Though her own financial condition is precarious given her daytime job as a barista and her nighttime hobby as a drummer in a rock band.
“It’s really not a big deal, but thanks anyways,” you mutter wryly.
Why were you two having an impromptu drinking session? You just released your first novel, and Ryujin insisted on celebrating the milestone even as you played it down. Your best friend has taken on the role of cheerleader, hyping you up after every completed chapter and promising to take you out after finishing the whole book.
“You have to stop putting yourself down like that,” she nags, shaking her head as she tosses another can in your general direction. “The novel’s going to do great!”
You can only shake your head at her optimism. It was a rushed job, and you’re certain the editor greenlit the final copy just to get it off his docket. Desperate for further validation, you had posted snippets of the unfinished novel online under a pseudonym. The rush of comments were mixed. About what you should have expected, but the lack of clear affirmation still keeps you up at night.
The alcohol and vibes bring you into an introspective mood. It’s times like these when you think back to why you decided to take the plunge and chase after your childhood ambition – parents, colleagues, friends be damned!
Well, you made an exception for Ryujin, who’s three cans down and poking your shoulder while squinting hard at your face.
“C’mon,” she whines.
“No,” you reply, taking a swig of beer. Ryujin lets out a weary sigh (girl does a sick Chewbacca impression) and pokes your shoulder again.
“You never tell anyone.”
“There’s,” you pause to gulp down some more beer, “a reason for that.”
“But you tell me everything!”
That gets you thinking.
She’s right. The two of you have been friends since freshman year in college. You’ve supported her through her lesbian awakening and become a staunch ally. She’s nursed you through countless heartbreaks. The shared trauma was instrumental in forging an ironclad bond – two losers grasping at each other to stay afloat. So there’s very little the two of you don’t share with each other.
Which becomes a sore point for Ryujin when, on one fine day, seemingly out of nowhere, you announced very loudly in the living room that you tendered your resignation from your dead-end job at the tax office.
And then you declared that you will become, and she quotes, “The greatest writer since Frank Herbert.”
To say that it took her by surprise would be an understatement. Sure, you dabbled in some writing competitions back in the day and you loved to read, but your life trajectory afterwards was firmly arcing towards death by corporate.
There was a lot of screaming and shouting and shoving that day, and then a lot of crying and hugging and stuff like “bros for life” and “fucking hell yeah let’s follow our dreams” type shit as the night wore on.
But still no explanation as to why you did it. Taking on the mantle of a struggling artist isn’t for shits and giggles. Ryujin would know, since she’s treading a similar path. You know her reason: she’s been banging on pots and pans since she was a baby, and the obsession with percussive instruments had only grown from then on. For Ryujin, joining a rock band was less about wanting to make it big (though she wouldn’t mind if some groupies slid into her DMs) and more about staying sane in this mad, mad world.
So she pokes and prods and whines some more.
“Fine, I’ll tell you!”
Ryujin stops her tantrum and stares at you. “I didn’t think you’d actually fold, heh.”
You look away for a moment. “Just…just don’t laugh, okay?”
“Scout’s honour,” she replied, slamming a fist on her chest.
***
You think you’re underwater, but you’re not. The air is thick like jelly, making every movement slow and cumbersome. The sound of a horn blares in the distance and you swear you can see the sound waves ripple from the idling train. You check the soles of your shoes for scuff marks and find none, which is odd. You swear you’ve been walking for hours to get to the station. But then again, you don’t remember arriving here in the first place.
There’s a girl standing to your right. Her features ebb and flow like everything else in this aquatic-but-not space. But some things stay fixed in place – the short black hair and the cat-like slant of her eyes. She looks straight ahead, and you feel strings tightening around your heart as she turns to stare at you.
“It’s now or never, right?” You drag the words out of your mouth despite the pain in your chest.
“Yeah,” the girl replies. Her voice is smooth like velvet, quelling some of your discomfort.
“I’m scared.”
An easy smile spreads across her face. “That’s okay. Let’s be scared together.” She reaches out a hand and you grasp it.
The two of you step into the waiting train.
And then you wake up.
***
“So, was she hot?”
Ryujin yelps as you land a solid punch on her arm. Not her dominant arm, because you’re not an asshole. But definitely on the side with the freshly-inked sleeve.
“Get serious, I’m baring my soul here!”
She lets out a cackle and dodges some more punches.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Ryujin chuckles as she raises her hands in surrender. “So, if I’m getting this right, you dreamt about some hottie.” She shields her arm pre-emptively.
“And this inspired you to—”
“Yep, to become a writer.” You nod as you purse your lips, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
“I think that’s pretty fucking cool.”
“Yeah I know it's dumb— wait, did you say it’s cool?”
“Hell yeah, dude! I think,” she pauses to collect her thoughts, “dreams are important. Gives us a purpose in life, you know?”
For a second, you almost reach over to hug your best friend.
“And who’s going to say no to a dreamy baddie?” You fling the now-empty can of beer at Ryujin’s general direction. But she swats it out of the air mid-flight. Stupid drummer reflexes.
"Anyways, enough pre-gaming." Ryujin stands, tossing the empty cans into the cooler. "Why don't we hit the bar and get this party started for real?"
“You know I don’t do crowds,” you mutter as you help Ryujin clean up.
She nudges you with an elbow. “Just for tonight. And who knows, maybe we can find you a real girl to obsess over?”
***
Which came first: the chicken or the egg?
You find yourself seriously considering the riddle thanks to the rather loud couple initiating the discussion right beside you. Oh, and because you’d rather be anywhere else than this bar.
Once again, you wish you didn’t take Ryujin up on going out tonight, but your best friend was quite persuasive, dragging you via headlock over to this fine establishment. It’s not even a quiet and chill bar, but one of those ‘bars’ with an open dance floor heaving with a sea of bodies no thanks to the DJ currently nodding their head while playing some tunes to fit the theme for this evening.
Mambo Night. God, as if you can’t feel any older.
There you are, leaning over the bar table proper, gin and tonic in hand. Wincing every now and again as an overbearing guy (way to perpetuate the stereotype, buddy) bulldozes his way through his answer (egg), leaving his date silent and sporting a thin-lipped smile that seems to slip down her face with every word.
Not that discussing the question would ever amount to anything useful. You bet you could argue either side and come out on top. You stir the tiny plastic stick in your cocktail glass round and round. The chicken and egg question is ultimately a circular question – the egg has to be laid by a chicken. Sure. But the chicken has to come from an egg, right?
And just like neither the chicken nor the egg truly comes ‘first’, you’ve found joy in putting your all in the rather circuitous writing journey, rather than focusing on the destination. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself as your editor hounded you over deadlines on an almost daily basis for a year.
And look where that got you.
It’s definitely not the way you envisioned yourself celebrating finishing your first novel, but you try to put a positive spin on things. You learned to find peace and happiness in the act of writing itself, so the fucking amazing win – as Ryujin eloquently puts it – doesn’t really feel like such a big deal in your mind.
Speaking of your best friend. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Ryujin, ever the party animal, throwing back what her mother had given her with a group of women who seem inebriated enough for the night’s proceedings. A couple of the women are even giving her some cheeky slaps on her behind. Now there’s someone having fun. Ryujin arches her back teasingly and throws a wink in your direction. You reply with a half-hearted wave of your drink.
A light buzz starts forming in your head, and you’re pretty sure the couple beside you are starting to get as tipsy as you are, if their floaty voices and slurred vowels are any indication. And the girl is now taking the upper hand in the debate – thank fuck – with a frankly inspired point about a possible ancestor to chickens, rendering the guy speechless.
You give yourself a mental pat on the back for predicting the outcome of the conversation. The couple disappears into the dance floor, and your eyes follow them until you turn your head to—
See her.
Wait, her?!
The redhead with the thin waist and wide hips is pretty, swaying along to the beat of Rick Astley’s ‘Together Forever’. But she’s not the one that has your soul in a death grip.
It’s the girl right behind the redhead, grinding on her ass.
Black hair, tousled and messy, though each strand looking like they were placed just right by some unseen stylist. Bright red lips curled into a smirk, tongue blepping out as she focuses on gyrating in time with her dance partner.
Those eyes. Shaped like a cat’s, and they flick to train onto yours. Like a chicken hunting an egg.
…which came first again?
***
“Ryujin, Ryu, oh god, fucking fuck—”
Slap. “You need to chill out.”
“But Ryu, how the fuh,” you stumble over yourself as words continue to pour out of your mouth, “how the fuck is the egg coming before the chick—”
Another slap. Harder this time, your best friend winding up for the second one like prime Nic Cage in that one indie movie. You almost fall over the chair, that slap bringing you to your senses, though you swear your ear is now ringing to the tune of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor.
You remember scrambling over to find Ryujin, flailing arms knocking over the bodies on the dance floor as you sought your best friend to tell her about the girl. Then you realised that it was probably a bad idea to tell Ryujin that you saw someone who you only ever knew from your dreams. She would have laughed in your face and told you to stop drinking.
Because it’s not possible, right? Dreams are based on our own experiences – what we’ve seen, what we’ve heard, what we’ve done, and what’s been done to us. There is no way that this person can share the exact same face and—
Ryujin raises her arm again and the threat of a third slap derails your train of thought. So you take in a couple of deep breaths and nod as Ryujin mentions something about heading outside to cool off.
But surely the gods are playing a cosmic prank on you, because as you get halfway up from the chair, she emerges out of thin air and grasps your shoulder gently.
“Everything okay?” Wow, even her voice is the same velvet rushing into your ears, making you shiver. She gives you a once-over, a look of concern etched on her face. Right, she did see you have a mental breakdown in the middle of a fucking bar. What a wonderful way to be introduced to the literal girl of your dreams.
“Yeji?! What are you doing here?” Ryujin stares right past you as her face lights up with recognition.
Dream girl – Yeji, because of course she has a name – looks up and her face brightens. Ryujin pulls her into a big hug. You squint at them both, wondering whether this is all an elaborate prank by your roommate. Probably not, but you wouldn’t put it past her.
“I was just dancing with Yuna earlier, it’s her birthday,” dream girl – Yeji, you remind yourself again – answers, slightly out of breath as she extricates herself from Ryujin’s bear grip. Your best friend must have sensed the confusion in your look because she turns Yeji to face you and smiles brightly.
“Yeji, meet my bestie! Bestie, meet Yeji. She’s the lead guitar player in our band.” You give your best attempt at a friendly smile and grab her outstretched hand. Honestly, you’re still reeling at the fact that Ryujin and your dream girl know each other.
So when calloused fingers wrap around yours, it takes all of your willpower to not melt into a puddle in that very spot. Then you realise you’ve been holding onto her hand for way too long, so you hastily let go. On her part, Yeji keeps staring at you with a weird look in her eyes as you blush deeply.
“Can you, like, make sure my friend doesn’t die?” Ryujin asks, pushing you towards Yeji. “I’m gonna head back to the dance floor.” She spares you a final glance. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands!”
So much for being a best friend, you think to yourself, as Ryujin skips happily back to the gaggle of women who cheer at her return.
“You don’t have to go outside with me. I just need some fresh air,” you mutter, unable to quite meet Yeji’s gaze.
“That’s alright. I think I need some fresh air too.” Yeji smiles at you, and you swear you will do anything to keep that smile on her face.
***
If only you realised sooner that Yeji’s idea of fresh air is pinning you to the wall of the alleyway beside the bar and sucking all the breath from your lungs.
You’re learning a lot about someone who, until this very night, only existed in your dreams. For one, she’s a very good kisser. She nibbles on your lower lip and flicks her tongue teasingly inside your mouth. You don’t even have the presence of mind to kiss back because one of her hands digs into your scalp, the pleasing burn doing unholy things to your sanity as the other hand presses on your stomach.
She rolls her hips, the friction on your crotch making you moan into her mouth. Yeji pulls away from the kiss, a thin string of saliva linking your lips to hers.
“Do you—,” you let out another moan as Yeji’s hand lowers to cup your painfully tight bulge. “Do you do this to everyone you meet?”
She considers the question for a moment, before leaning forward to whisper into your ear. “Only the cute ones.”
You want to push her off, to ask if this is all real, if she is real. But another embarrassing moan escapes your lips as Yeji tightens her grip on your scalp. And all rational thought flees.
“My place?” You nod.
***
There are a few stereotypes about musicians and their houses, and Yeji ticks all the boxes. Warm lighting, band posters blu-tacked onto the walls, a turntable with a slowly spinning vinyl crooning some HONNE. Of course, you only notice these details after the deed was done.
As much as Yeji is in a rush to pull down your pants and slurp the soul out of your balls like a slushie through a straw, you need to take some control of the rapidly escalating situation before you go insane. With all the willpower you can muster, you push an amused Yeji onto the bed and proceed to pull her skirt off — not an easy feat given they clung to her thighs like a second skin.
Those strong, rough fingers dig again into your scalp as you flatten your tongue against her clothed core and lick slowly. It isn’t like you to take your time when eating a girl out. But then again this isn’t just any girl. You were determined to show Yeji a good time, and an aching jaw is a sacrifice you’re willing to make to make it happen.
You pull the soaked fabric to the side, but you pause to look up for approval. Yeji’s eyes shone with eagerness – as good a green light as any. She slaps a palm to her mouth to muffle a moan as you settle into an unrelenting pace, alternating between licking and sucking her slick faster than she can handle.
Whimpering at the taste of her arousal, you grind your hips downwards to get any sort of friction to relieve the effect it has on your erection. But there's nothing but soft sheets beneath you – hardly an ideal surface. So you remain untouched and painfully throbbing.
She keeps pulling and moaning and you decide to finish her off. Your fingers slip inside rather easily as you curl them upwards and continuously hit a spot that seems to agree with her. You can tell by the way she squeezes your head between her slim thighs – gosh, those muscles are to die for.
You suck strongly at her clit and that has her bucking upwards while squirting all over your face. Her climax lasts for a bit and you gently lap your tongue against her as she rides it out, hips shaking and thighs clenching.
It takes you a while to stretch out the kinks that had formed in your neck while you ate Yeji out, but it was so worth the view in front of you. Splayed out over the bed, chest heaving, arms covering her face, legs spread open in an M-shape, thigh-high stockings rounding off the heavenly vision.
A flash of pride surges through you as you realise – yeah, you did that.
Yeji peeks from between her arms and lets out an airy laugh. “Do you do that to every girl you meet?”
“Only the cute ones,” you wink as you wipe her release from your chin. She gives you an odd look before laughing again.
“You’re making a very good first impression.” And with that, she pulls off her mesh top and unbuckles her bra.
For the second time that day, you find yourself pinned by Yeji – this time against a headboard instead of a mossy brick wall in an alleyway. She kisses you with urgency, and this time you respond in kind, keeping her flush against you with one arm around her back.
Yeji pulls away briefly as her hands undo your belt and you help by lifting your hips up, kicking off your pants. She dives back in with an open-mouthed kiss and you meet her pace, your lips slotting into hers. She pulls away again as she leans to the side, ripping open the cupboard beside the bed and fishing out a condom.
You shamelessly stroke yourself to full hardness as you ogle her taut abs, admiring the product of undoubted self-discipline and hard work. She rips open the packaging with her teeth and rolls the condom expertly down your length, humming in satisfaction at the way you twitch in her hands.
Wanting to distract from how responsive you are to her touch, and definitely not wanting to finish so quickly inside her, you settle your fingers against her core, rubbing tight circles over her clit. Yeji slaps your hands away, or she tries to, but you got that dawg in you (as your best friend would put it) and it wants to show your dream girl an amazing time in bed.
“I’m more than ready,” she huffs, but it falls on deaf ears.
“Just a little longer.” You slip your fingers inside her once again, and she quickly rides your hand, face pressed into the crook of your neck as you curl your fingers rhythmically. When she starts to press her thighs together, you pull your fingers away and lift her hips down onto your swollen member.
You can’t help but observe the way she bites her lip to stifle a moan as she stretches around you. Her arms wrap around your neck as she sinks deeper. And while it feels so, so good for you, you’re worried about hurting her, so you rub her back and whisper quiet comfort into her ear.
As if reading your mind, Yeji rests her chin on your shoulder and whispers, “M’fine, just go slow, please?” Of course you’ll go as slow as she wants to. So you wait for a couple of beats before slowly rocking your hips.
Shallow thrusts, slow enough to not cause pain but just enough to make the pleasure mount. By the small gasps into your ear, it seems to be working. It’s so tender, so different from the fiery kisses earlier, but no less pleasurable and exciting for you.
It’s also unreal. It’s like Yeji has walked out of the train station dreamscape and right into your life in the most insane way possible. And now she’s slamming her hips down while you meet her with upwards thrusts.
“This…this is real, right?” Her hips slow for a moment, head cocked to the side as she raises a hand to cup your cheek. She clocks the desperation in your voice and smiles gently to ease your mind.
“So—,” Yeji grunts as she picks up the pace, “so fucking real, writer boy.” You gasp at the nickname, and gasp again as her hips settle on a brutal rhythm, her words temporarily forgotten.
You tighten your hold on her hips to thrust harder, intent on chasing your own pleasure. She grinds down in reply, twisting her hips, her face a study in focus as her tongue bleps out in the same adorable way as it did on the dance floor earlier.
Then it’s finally your turn to break, thighs shaking as you spill into her at the same time as she clenches hard around you, flooding your crotch with more release.
***
“Can we talk about it?”
“...”
Yeji doesn’t quite meet your eyes, electing to run a hand over one of the many band posters that cover the walls of her living room. Her fingers trail over the Arctic Monkeys, detouring downwards to UFO, before grazing against Dire Straits.
“Yeji…”
More silence.
“...please?”
She finally turns to look at you with a sigh. The tightness in your chest just won’t go away, and you desperately need some answers from the person who just blurted out something she couldn’t have known.
The post-nut clarity has transformed the initial shock of meeting Yeji and the high of sex into a devastating crash. You feel like you’re back in that dreamscape from long ago, thrust into deep waters and sinking helplessly toward the bottom.
Her voice pulls you out of your reverie. “W-would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been crushing on you for a while now?”
“What?!” You try to keep the incredulity from your voice.
“Let me explain,” she sighs shakily as she sits cross-legged on the other end of the sofa in the living room. The two of you had hastily donned some oversized t-shirts and shorts from Yeji’s wardrobe after the abrupt end to the bedroom tryst.
To call it awkward would be an understatement, the two of you barely able to look at one another until you broke the ice. And you sure as hell are not planning on leaving until you get some answers.
So Yeji spills the beans. For some reason, Ryujin had appointed herself as your unofficial publicist, yapping to her bandmates about you and your novel. She even shared some draft chapters, the very ones she swore up and down to keep a secret. That little shit.
“And, umm, please don’t judge me too hard for this…” You raise an eyebrow at her. If what she says next tops the previous stuff, your heart rate might go into the quadruple digits.
“I’ve been writing my own stuff. Songs, I mean. For a while now,” she admits while staring a hole into the Dire Straits poster.
“The band thing with Ryujin is great, but we only ever perform covers. It’s a safe and fun thing to do, and I’ve been telling myself that’s all I’ll ever amount to – that I’m not good enough to branch out solo and play my own songs. That it’s stupid to even try.”
You keep quiet, because her insecurities sound painfully familiar to yours. You remember a time when you would doubt your writing skills, hell, your ability to string together letters into coherent words and sentences that others would want to read. A nagging voice in your head, always making you second-guess yourself.
Dream Yeji was the one who dispelled that voice. Dream Yeji held your hand, expressed her own fears, and believed in you anyways. Dream Yeji spurred you to start on your first novel. And now, the real Yeji is pouring her heart out to you.
“Then Ryujin showed me your drafts. And I had to read more, so I found some snippets you posted online a while back,” she mutters as her voice trails towards the end. “Loved those.”
She even read the shitty snippets. The ones you uploaded during a moment of weakness when you craved external validation. You feel like crawling under a rock and dying from shame, but Yeji powers on.
“I’ve been – God, this sounds so parasocial – I’ve been lowkey obsessed with you, the idea of you. This guy who had the guts to do what I’ve been too scared to do.”
Her eyes now shining, she scoots closer to you and her words now hold a hint of pleading. “Don’t you get it? You’re someone who quit the safe thing and went all in on your dreams. And I thought, who the fuck does that?”
She swallows, her voice now quivering as she speaks faster. “And then I thought, I want to do that too. So yeah. And then you were right there, in the bar, and Ryujin said your name and—”
“You decided to invite him over to your apartment to fuck his brains out,” you tease gently, and that seems to have eased her mind. Yeji giggles softly, and you feel the tension in your chest slowly release.
“Yeah, that. God, I’m crazy, aren’t I?” She dabs her eyes with the hem of her tee.
You inch closer, laying a hand over hers. “Umm, I have an even crazier story to tell you.”
So you tell her about the dream you had a long time ago. About the train station. About the girl who was the spitting image of her and how she smiled at you with radiant eyes pressed into cute crescents as she stepped into the train with you.
And most importantly, about the words she said to you.
The two of you are now sitting face to face. Yeji’s fingers intertwined in yours as she leans forward, drinking in your every word.
“I think about it. Every time. What you— I mean, what the dream version of you said to me.” You squeeze her hand gently. “She was scared too, but she chose to move forward. And I thought that if she believes in me, then maybe I can believe in me too.”
“Wow, dream me was a badass. ‘Let’s be scared together’? Now I wanna meet her too,” she jokes.
“You have no idea. Real you is pretty badass too.”
“Back at you. So happy you turned out to be cute,” she giggles, squeezing your cheek gently.
“Hah, I got lucky. I knew you were cute even before I met you!”
Yeji pouts. “Touché. But now I know you’re really good in bed.” That got you blushing hard.
The two of you sit in your shared feelings for a while, appreciating the comfortable silence that settles over the living room. Yeji then stretches her limbs, yawning as she checks the time on her phone. “So what now, writer boy?”
“I don’t know.” You pause, looking down at your hands. “Chicken or egg?”
“Excuse me?” Yeji blinks.
“You know, that chicken or egg question. Which came first?” You look up expectantly.
“Chicken. Because I love me some fried chicken and soju,” Yeji replies, patting her rumbling belly.
“Now you’re making me hungry.”
“Good.” She puts in an order for some food on her phone. “While we wait, I want to learn more about my mysterious writer crush, and you can learn more about your dream girl.”
