mix up your soul with mine @luvfae - Tumblr Blog

NAVIGATION

— fae | she/her —

LETS DIVE DEEPER ↓

“ amateur writer, scorpio, infj-t, slytherin, bisexual, swiftie 4 life, arianator, elliot apologist, eddie munson’s gf, in love with zendaya, daisy jones & the six groupie, tom blyth enthusiast, wicked fan, player 230’s señorita ”

💿 LISTENING TOO… hampstead, [ ariana grande ]

🫧 @-whorecrux on wattpad

MY MASTERLISTS — 🤍

FYI — 👼🏼

this blog does not support discrimination, homophobia, transphobia, racism, sexism, or hatred of any kind.

my requests are CLOSED

dialogue prompt list

scenario prompt list

my blog is 18+ content, proceed with caution.

my timezone is aedt

WHO I WRITE FOR — 🕊

euphoria

elliot, rue, maddy, fezco, lexi, cassie, jules, faye

stranger things

steve, eddie, robin

daisy jones & the six

eddie, warren, graham, karen, daisy, billy, camila

billy the kid

billy

squid game

choi su-bong/thanos

WHAT I WRITE — 👒

smut, fluff, angst

WHAT I DON’T WRITE — 🪷

sexual assault, beastiality, pedophilia, scat play, piss kink, fics about real life people (actors, influencers, ect)

MY TAGS — 🦢

search the following hashtags on my profile to see:

#faes thoughts — my thoughts, duh!

#faes favs — my fav fics from other writers

#fae folk — conversations with you guys <3

#faes masterlist — all of my masterlists

do not plagiarise, modify or reupload my work anywhere.

Well hot damn congrats queen 😭

ty! i am half baked 🥰 something i didn’t clock until this very moment is if baby is a girl the name we like is faye, which is a full circle moment considering my blog is called luvfae 😭 im subconsciously thinking of u guys all the time 🫶🏼

#fae folk

Mommy where u at😢😢😢

this is so funny cus i’m actually pregnant 💀 so yeah… that’s where i’m at

#fae folk

Decided to reread the greatest piece of modern literature today (bad investment) 🤩🙏

greatest piece of modern literature is insane 😭🫶🏼 thank u bby

#fae folk

hey babe, are you okay? it’s been a while

i’m alive dw!!

#fae folk

GIRL WE MISS YOU

I miss u too im sorry 😭😭🫶🏼

#fae folk

Hiyaaaa ! Its been a long time since i saw ur account so happy it popped back in ly feed ♡

thank u!! 🩷

#fae folk

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi subong smut

Pls update Lost in translation

soon 🫶🏼🫶🏼

#fae folk

is there gonna be a lost in translation pt4? 🥺👉👈

i’m like halfway through it! i want it perfect lol

#fae folk

DEVOURED

summary: your big brother’s best friend offers you a helping hand… and tongue.

parings: brother’s best friend!thanos x f!reader

warnings: swearing, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering

You've known Choi Su-bong since you were fourteen.

Back then, he was just your brother's loud, cocky best friend — all muscle and buzzcut, always stealing beers out of your fridge and playing fight videos too loud in the living room.

He used to ruffle your hair. Call you kid.

Never looked at you. Not really. Not like a girl. Not like anything he wanted.

That was years ago.

Now you're grown. Quiet. Still live at home, sure — but you're not that girl anymore.

And Su-bong?

He's still around. Still close with your brother. Still sleeping on your couch after late-night parties and showing up for dinner uninvited.

But the way he looks at you now — when your brother's not watching —

It's different.

You don't act like you notice.

But you do.

It's late when it happens.

You think the apartment's empty — your brother gone, Su-bong out with him, probably drinking or gaming or being loud somewhere else.

You lock your door. You think you lock it.

The lights are low. Your phone is face-down.

You're on your bed, curled in soft sheets and nothing but a tank top and panties, legs parted just enough.

You're not even thinking about anyone.

Just needy. Quiet.

Fingers brushing slow between your thighs, breath catching with every press.

You roll your hips, toes curling, your free hand fisting the sheets.

You're just getting there—

Click. Creak.

The door opens.

Your head snaps up. You freeze.

And there he is.

Su-bong.

Framed in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, his dark eyes catching the full scene — your knees bent, panties pulled to the side, fingers wet and glistening under the soft light.

You gasp. Scramble.

"What the fuck—!"

You yank the covers over yourself like it's going to undo what he saw. Heart hammering. Face on fire.

His eyes are still on you. Heavy. Unmoving.

And he doesn't shut the door.

"Are you kidding me?" you snap, breathless with humiliation. "Do you know how to knock?"

He doesn't answer. Just steps inside, slow.

"Su-bong, I swear to god—"

"Relax." His voice is low. Careful. Smug. "Didn't mean to catch you like that."

You clutch the blanket harder. "Get out."

But he's already leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Smiling like the devil.

"Didn't know you got that needy when no one was home," he murmurs. "Pretty little thing like you, moaning into your own hand."

You flinch. "Don't say shit like that—"

"Why not?" he cuts you off, voice soft and dangerous. "'Cause I caught you?" His eyes flick down. "You weren't thinking about me, were you?"

You glare. "No."

He smirks. "Shame."

You sit up straighter, the blanket clutched to your chest. Your skin is still buzzing — from the near-orgasm, from the shock, from him standing there with that look in his eyes.

Then, casually, he nods toward the bed.

"Well. You look like you could use some help."

Silence.

You blink. "You're disgusting."

"And you're still wet," he says, already stepping closer. "So I'm guessing you didn't mean stop. You just didn't wanna get caught."

You should scream at him. Tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs are still warm.

Your pulse is still thudding.

And when he gets close enough to touch — his voice low in your ear — you don't pull away.

"C'mon," he murmurs again, voice hot against your cheek. "Let me help you finish."

You should say no.

You do say no. Almost.

But then he leans in, mouth brushing the curve of your neck, and breathes—

"Bet you taste better than you sound."

Your breath catches. Your pulse stutters.

His lips touch your throat—soft at first, then rougher, open-mouthed, hungry—and he kisses down, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring it.

And you panic. A whisper of clarity through the heat.

You tilt your head away, whisper:

"My brother would kill you."

Su-bong laughs against your skin.

Not like it's funny.

Like it's nothing.

"Don't give a fuck." His teeth scrape your collarbone. "Should've knocked, huh?" Another kiss, just below your ear. "Should've kept your legs closed."

Your whole body jolts.

"Stop," you whisper, but it's breathless. Weak. "Su-bong, I—"

He cuts you off with a quiet hum, hands moving.

One drags the blanket down, slow and mean.

You clutch at it instinctively, but he's stronger. He peels it away like it was never yours to hold.

You're bare under it—barely clothed, panties damp, tank top rumpled, skin flushed with shame and want.

He looks down at you like he's already won.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke. "All that attitude, and you're still lying here with your legs open."

"I'm not—"

But you don't finish the sentence.

Because his hand slides down. Between your thighs. Fingers brushing over the soaked cotton of your panties.

You moan. Sharp and soft. Eyes fluttering shut.

He grins. "There she is."

Two fingers press against the wet heat, slow and teasing, rubbing lazy circles over your clit through the fabric.

"Thought you didn't want me," he murmurs. "Thought I was disgusting." He dips his head lower, mouth at your neck again. "But you're soaking through for me, baby. You really expect me to stop now?"

Your hand fists the sheets. You're not looking at him. You can't.

But your legs shift. Part wider.

And he sees it.

He hums again—low, satisfied.

"That's it." His fingers push harder. Just enough to make you gasp. "You want it slow, don't you?" His lips are at your shoulder now, warm and trailing. "You want me to make you feel good. Like you were trying to do all by yourself."

You nod.

Barely.

And his voice drops lower, almost reverent.

"Then look at me."

You open your eyes.

And his mouth crashes down on yours.

Hot, rough, claiming — his hand still pressed between your thighs, your body trembling under his touch. You kiss him back without thinking, whimpering into the way he sucks your bottom lip, teeth scraping, tongue deep and searching like he needs to know everything.

Then he pulls away. Just enough to speak.

His breath is warm against your mouth.

"Take these off," he says, fingers tugging at the hem of your panties. "Let me see what you were hiding under the covers like a good girl."

You hesitate. But not because you want him to stop.

Because this—

This is real now.

And he's looking at you like he's starving.

You lift your hips, shaky, and he slides them down slow. Leisurely. Like he's unwrapping something precious. Or dangerous.

The fabric sticks a little — slick from earlier — and he huffs a dark little laugh when he sees it.

"Look at that," he mutters, voice low, reverent. "You were making a fuckin' mess without me."

You bite your lip, embarrassed. Your thighs twitch, instinct trying to close.

He grabs your knees. Firm.

"Don't even think about it." He pushes your legs apart. Wide. Until you're bare and open in front of him, laid out like an offering. "You're gonna let me look. Gonna let me taste."

You moan. "Su-bong—please—"

"Please what, baby?" His voice goes soft, like mock concern. "Please don't stop? Please don't tease? Or please put my fuckin' mouth where it belongs?"

You whimper, hips lifting.

His breath ghosts over your inner thigh as he leans in.

"You ever been eaten right?" he murmurs. "Or you just fuck yourself with your fingers and hope for the best?"

You shake your head, overwhelmed, back arching.

And he grins against your skin.

"Good," he breathes. "Means I get to teach your pussy how it's supposed to be treated."

Then he kisses your thigh. Slowly.

Once.

Then again.

Higher. Higher.

But not where you need him.

Not yet.

His lips keep missing.

Kissing just beside where you need him. Featherlight brushes. A drag of tongue over your hipbone. A slow bite to the sensitive skin near your crease that makes you gasp, jolt, tremble.

You're soaked.

Thighs twitching. Stomach fluttering. Every inch of your skin begging for contact.

But he's patient.

A predator with his prey laid bare beneath him. Calm. Controlled.

His fingers stroke slow along your inner thigh as he presses another kiss to the curve just shy of your heat.

"Relax, baby," he murmurs, breath fanning over your slick cunt. "We're gonna take our time."

You squirm. Moan.

"Please, Su-bong—"

"Shhh." His hands spread you wider. Thumb brushing where you're wettest, not touching your clit. Not yet. "You've waited this long. Don't fall apart on me now."

Your head falls back. You want to scream.

But then—

He licks.

One slow, warm stripe from your entrance to your clit.

And your breath shatters.

"Oh—fuck—"

You barely register the way your thighs jump, the way your hips buck against his mouth. His hands slam back down on your waist, anchoring you.

"You stay still," he growls against you. "Let me eat."

And eat he does.

It starts soft. Methodical.

Little kitten licks, teasing the edges, circling your clit but never quite landing on it.

He's building you up. Watching you writhe. Listening to the breathless, broken sounds you try to swallow.

"You're fuckin' dripping," he says, voice raw and wrecked. "Did I do that? Just from talkin' to you?"

You nod, desperate.

"Words, sweetheart."

"Y-Yes. Yes. Please—just—don't stop—"

He hums. Licks again, a little firmer now. "That's better." A pause. A smile against your skin. "You taste like everything I've ever wanted."

And then?

He devours.

Tongue flat, lips parted, sucking your clit into his mouth with filthy, focused greed. He licks in patterns — circles, flicks, long strokes that make your back arch. Every movement sends you higher. Every second his mouth stays on you, the more your brain unravels.

"Fuck—fuck—Su-bong—"

You cover your mouth with both hands as the moans rip out of you. You're shaking. Eyes wide. Vision blurring.

He slides a finger inside. Then two.

Curling. Pumping.

Tongue still working your clit, flicking it mercilessly as his fingers fuck you deep and rough.

You choke on a sob.

"Gonna cum—oh my god—please—"

"Do it," he growls. "Right on my tongue. Don't fuckin' hold back."

You don't.

You can't.

You come with a cry so loud you nearly scream.

Legs shaking. Thighs clamping around his head.

And he doesn't stop.

He moans into you, keeps licking, keeps fucking you with his tongue like he wants to feel every twitch, every squeeze, every goddamn drop.

You sob into your palms, gasping for air. “C-Can't—Su-bong, I can't—"

He growls again. Drags his mouth lower. Licks up your release like he's starving.

His voice is low and vicious when he says, "yes you can. Give me another."

You try to protest, but he's already there again.

Tongue right back on your clit, mouth tighter now, sucking with obscene pressure while his fingers thrust harder, deeper.

"You wanna tell me to stop?" he pants. "Tell me. Say it. I fucking dare you."

You shake your head wildly, hips chasing every flick of his tongue.

"That's what I thought."

He licks you through another orgasm.

And another.

Your voice is gone. Your hands have gone limp. You can't even speak — just moan and twitch and cry out every few seconds as he breaks you open again.

You come four times before he finally slows. Mouth dragging soft now. Gentle.

But then—

A single kiss to your clit.

You sob. Nearly beg.

"One more," he whispers, kissing your thigh. "That's all I need. Then I'll stop. One more, baby."

You nod, barely.

And he makes it count.

Takes his time. Licks you slow and soft until you're begging him to finish it, until you're grinding into his mouth with everything you have left.

"Gonna make you forget your own name," he murmurs, licking slow and lazy.

You arch your hips with a soft, gasping sound, desperate for more.

And that's when it happens.

The door creaks open.

"Yo, have you seen—“ Your brother's voice cuts off like a blade. The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy.

Su-bong doesn't move. His mouth is still pressed against you. His fingers flex against your hips.

You turn your head just enough to see your brother — frozen in the doorway, bag of chips half-raised, expression curdling into horror.

"What the fuck?"

Your heart lurches.

You shove at Su-bong's shoulders, panicked and red-faced, trying to sit up and cover yourself, but his hands tighten around your waist.

He doesn't let you go.

Instead, he looks up at your brother — while still between your legs — and smirks.

"Close the door unless you wanna watch."

Your brother's voice explodes into the room. "What the actual fuck, man?! That's my sister!"

You're covering your face with your hands, mortified, the shame crashing over you in hot waves.

But Su-bong?

He laughs.

A low, dirty sound that vibrates through your skin.

"Why are you so mad?" he says, cool as anything. "I'm helping her out."

"Helping— you're—!" your brother stammers, rage crawling up his throat.

But Su-bong turns back to you like he's already forgotten the interruption. One hand slides under your ass, the other pins your thigh open again, and then—

He dives back in.

Mouth to your cunt. No hesitation. No shame. Just wet, filthy need.

You gasp. Arch. Try to muffle your moans as your brother groans somewhere near the door and mutters something like "fuck this," before backing out and slamming it shut behind him.

Gone.

But you can't even process the horror.

Because Su-bong is devouring you.

No teasing now. No gentle licks. He's tongue-deep, moaning into you, licking like it's his last meal. Long strokes from base to clit, messy and loud. His nose nudges your mound, his mouth locked around you.

"Su—fuck—Su-bong, we should stop—" you gasp, voice trembling.

He doesn't lift his head.

"We should," he growls against your pussy, the vibration making your hips jerk. "But you don't want me to."

You whimper. He's right.

Every word makes your thighs tremble harder.

"You're gonna get me killed—"

"Let me finish and I'll stop," he says, voice dark and cruel. "One more. One more and I'll leave you alone."

He licks you again. Sloppier. Deeper. Fingers now curling into your thighs as you melt back into the mattress.

You don't fight it.

You can't.

You give in, head tipped back, arms splayed out, moaning so loud your throat burns. He fucks you with his tongue until your legs shake, until you're crying out every few seconds, until you grab his hair and grind against his face like your body doesn't care who just walked in — it just needs.

And when you finally break, again—

It's like falling.

You come hard, shivering and wet, his mouth sucking every drop from you as you twitch against the sheets. His grip never loosens. He licks you through it, moaning into your cunt, tongue slow and greedy even as your body begs for mercy.

You're gasping.

Whining.

He finally pulls back — face soaked, lips swollen, smirk carved into his mouth like sin.

He drags two fingers up your slit, collects what's left of you, and sucks them clean.

Then leans over you, cocky and unbothered.

"See?" he whispers. "Helped you out."

You blink up at him, barely able to think.

And he grins wider. "Tell your brother I accept thank-you cards."

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi subong smut

FAVOURITE QUOTE

summary: you, a journalist walk into thanos’ private studio for an interview — and leave with more than just a story.

parings: thanos x f reader

warnings: swearing, smut

The building is half-hidden down a quiet alleyway, wedged between a dumpling shop and a boarded-up convenience store. The kind of place you'd walk past twice before realizing you were in the right spot. There's no sign, no logo. Just a matte black door, a buzzer, and a single red light overhead.

You check the time. You're ten minutes early.

You press the buzzer. A few seconds later, the intercom crackles.

"Yeah?"

You clear your throat. "I'm here for the interview."

A pause. Then a sharp click. The door unlatches.

Inside, the hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by strips of red LEDs tucked beneath the baseboards. The air smells like clove cigarettes, warm leather, and something vaguely herbal — incense, maybe. Music hums faintly through the walls: deep bass, no vocals, something raw and unfinished that vibrates through the soles of your boots as you move.

At the top of the stairs, a man in black joggers and a fitted t-shirt waits for you, arms crossed, expression blank. He's clearly not the artist.

"You the journalist?"

You nod, shifting your tote bag higher on your shoulder. "Yes."

He doesn't smile. Just tilts his head toward the hallway and turns without another word. You follow, notebook tucked under your arm, recorder in your coat pocket.

This isn't your first artist interview, but you already know this one's different.

Choi Su-bong — or Thanos, as the world knows him — isn't like the rest.

You've done your homework. The boy with a police record and a mixtape that went viral for all the wrong reasons. The breakout artist who turned a diss track into a fashion deal. The man who lit his last press pass on fire during the interview.

He's impossible to pin down. Arrogant. Sharp. Unfiltered. And yet—there's something about his music, his words, that cuts through the chaos. You came here for that.

The manager stops at a heavy steel door. Doesn't knock. Just pushes it open and gestures you inside.

"He's in there. Good luck."

You blink. "Thanks...?"

But he's already gone.

You step inside.

The room is dark. The kind of dark that's curated — mood lighting, no overheads, just soft gold from scattered sconces and the glow of a soundboard across the room. The walls are padded, the floor is black tile, and speakers hum low with static and bass.

And there, on a leather sectional that looks like it cost more than your rent, sits him.

Su-bong.

He doesn't stand. Doesn't smile. Just leans back, one thick arm slung over the backrest, a half-lit blunt dangling between his fingers. Tattoos crawl up his forearms, rings glint on both hands, and his tank top clings to a body built like someone who takes out his frustrations in the gym and the booth.

His eyes land on you like a fingerprint. Slow. Intrusive.

Then he smirks.

"Damn," he says, voice low and rough, "they're sending cute ones now?"

You keep your expression neutral, professional. You've dealt with worse. You cross the room with steady steps, set your notebook down on the low coffee table between you, and offer your hand.

"I'm not here to be cute. I'm here for the interview."

He looks at your hand for a beat before taking it — warm, dry, strong — and holds on a second longer than necessary. His eyes don't leave yours.

"That right?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your palm before he lets go. "Guess we'll see how long that lasts."

You ignore the way your stomach flips and sit down across from him. Not too close. Just enough to show you're not intimidated.

The silence stretches.

Then he tilts his head, lips curling again. "So?"

You blink. "So...?"

He gestures toward your recorder. "You even like my music, or you just here for the paycheck?"

You meet his gaze without flinching. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Mm." He takes a drag from the blunt, exhaling slow. "That's not an answer."

"I think your work is smarter than people give it credit for," you say. "Violent. Angry. Vulgar, sure. But thoughtful. Intentional."

He raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face.

You go on, steady. "You use sex and power like metaphors. You never rhyme the same word twice. And half your bars sound like you're either in love with someone or trying not to kill them."

There's a beat.

Then he laughs — a short, low sound that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His shoulders relax slightly as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You actually fuckin' listen."

"I do."

He stares at you a moment longer, something quiet flickering behind the curve of his mouth.

"Well," he says, eyes dropping briefly to your legs before dragging back up, "this might be fun."

You reach into your pocket and set your recorder on the table between you. Click record.

But you already know: this interview is going to be anything but easy.

And maybe... that's exactly what he wants.

Your recorder blinks red on the table between you. The hum of low bass still bleeds through the studio walls, steady and hypnotic. Su-bong shifts lazily on the couch across from you, knees wide, shoulders loose, smoke curling from the lit blunt still pinched between his tattooed fingers.

At first, he plays nice.

Or his version of it, anyway.

He answers your questions with a kind of raw, unfiltered honesty that throws you off balance—direct, sharp, but laced with the kind of cocky asides that remind you he's not performing for you. He's toying with you. Picking which truths to offer like he's feeding scraps to a dog just to see if you'll bite.

You ask about his process.

"How do you know when something's finished?"

He snorts. "It's never finished. Just gotta decide when to stop bleeding on the mic."

You write it down, jaw tight.

You ask about control—about how much of his image is curated, how much is chaos.

"I don't curate shit," he says. "People just like when I act like a problem."

You nod, note that too.

Then—like a blade sliding in sideways—he tilts his head and asks, "What's your name?"

You blink. "...Y/N," you say, guarded.

He repeats it once, slow. Testing the shape of it in his mouth.

Then something shifts.

Su-bong leans forward, arms braced on his knees, and starts talking again—but this time, it's not about the music. Not about the art. Not about the carefully-prepared list of questions you've drafted and memorized.

It's about you.

"So, Y/N," he says, voice low, almost thoughtful, "what kind of guys you into?"

You blink. "That's not relevant."

He smirks. "Didn't ask if it was."

You sit up straighter. "I'm here to talk about your career, not my love life."

His eyes narrow slightly, predator patience settling behind the heat in his gaze. "Love life?" he echoes. "Mm. I didn't ask who you're dating. I asked what kind of guys you like."

You clench your jaw. Stay calm. Steady. Unshaken. Or at least that's what you want to project.

But Su-bong's eyes are locked on you now, and you can tell—he sees it.

The slight shift in your posture. The press of your thighs. The way your breath drags a little longer through your nose when his voice dips at the end of your name.

He leans back, draping one arm over the couch again, and lets his eyes drag over you slow. "What?" he drawls. "You never been asked a real question before?"

"I ask real questions," you say tightly.

"You ask safe ones."

You fold your arms over your chest, biting back a retort.

He laughs under his breath, satisfied.

Then: "You ever fucked an artist before?"

Your stomach drops.

The audacity in the question is surgical. Sharp. Casual enough to pass as teasing, but deliberate in the way it slices through the professional boundary you've been trying to maintain.

You feel your skin go hot.

"That's—completely inappropriate."

"Didn't say no," he murmurs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You say nothing. You can't say anything, not when your silence is already saying too much.

His gaze lingers, watching the way your jaw clenches, the way your legs cross, the way your fingers tighten around your pen even though you haven't written a word in the last five minutes.

Then, soft and slow, with that dangerous smirk:

"Don't worry," he murmurs, "I'll let you finish your little article before I ruin you."

You freeze.

The air in the room shifts—again. Thickens. His words drop like a stone in water, the ripples reaching every part of you. He's not flirting. Not really. He's circling.

Testing.

Your tongue flicks against your lower lip, and his eyes catch the motion instantly. He leans forward again, tapping ash into the tray without breaking eye contact.

You should shut it down.

You should steer it back—back to the questions, the structure, the job.

But you don't.

You're still staring.

And he's still watching you like he already knows how you taste.

There's something heavy about his gaze now — not just sexual, but curious. Dangerous. Like he's wondering how long you'll let him circle before you bolt, or worse: before you lean in.

Your skin feels too tight.

You try to breathe through it, dig deep for the professionalism you pride yourself on — the mask you've worn into boardrooms and backstage green rooms and hotel lobbies at 2 a.m.

So you sit back, clear your throat, and steady your voice.

"Let's get back to it," you say. "The album."

Su-bong doesn't blink. But his smirk deepens, amused by your attempt to reclaim the wheel.

You ask the next question. "What's the first thing you write? Beat, hook, or verse?"

He leans forward again, elbows on his knees. His eyes dip down your frame before sliding back up like he's barely listening — or maybe he's just waiting to see if you'll flinch.

"Depends," he says. "Sometimes it starts with a beat. Sometimes I hear a line in my head, gotta get it out before I lose it."

You nod. Scribble something, even though you're not sure you're going to be able to use any of this.

He keeps talking, voice low and rhythmic. "But usually, I start with tension. Build it up. Wait until it's fuckin' unbearable."

You pause mid-word. Your pen stutters across the page.

He sees it. Sees you.

"And then," he continues, eyes heavy-lidded, "I let it snap. Loud. Messy. Always hits harder that way."

You exhale through your nose. Force a smile. "Right. Okay. Let's—move on. You've talked before about being self-taught. No formal training, no mentors. Do you think that shaped your sound?"

He hums, like he's giving the question real thought. Then—

"Nobody taught me shit," he says. "I learned everything from watching people fuck up."

A pause.

He grins. "And fucking them."

Your throat tightens. "Is that a metaphor?"

He shrugs. "Do you want it to be?"

Your heart's thudding against your ribs now, too fast, too loud. Your legs are crossed, but his eyes keep tracking the way your heel bounces just slightly. You shift in your seat — not enough to move away, just enough to breathe.

But he notices. Of course he notices.

And then, like he's testing gravity, his hand drops from the couch to rest just barely on the edge of your knee. Not gripping. Not pulling.

Just resting there.

Like he has every right.

Your breath hitches. You look down at his hand, the tattoos on his knuckles, the weight of it against your leg.

"Is this... part of the interview?" you manage, voice thinner than you want it to be.

"Nah," he says, smiling like the devil. "This is extra credit."

You straighten abruptly. Close your notebook like a gavel.

"Okay. I think we're good here."

He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.

Instead, slow and deliberate, he reaches forward — and plucks the notebook right out of your hands.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He flips it open lazily, scanning the page. "You take pretty notes," he murmurs, eyes still on the ink. "Nice handwriting. Real neat."

Then he looks up.

"Off the record," he says, voice deeper now, low and private like he's confessing something. "I've never fucked a journalist before."

You freeze.

It's not the words — not exactly. It's the way he says them. Soft. Sure. Like he already knows your answer.

And before you can think, before you can stop yourself—

"I've never fucked a rapper."

It escapes your lips like a slip, like a secret.

Silence swells between you.

He watches you, something feral curling slow behind his eyes.

And then—

He's up.

Fast. Fluid.

He leans across the table, notebook dropped, recorder long forgotten, and catches your mouth in his.

Rough. Hot. Deliberate.

His hand fists in your hair before you can react, tilting your head, angling your mouth open as he kisses you like he's been thinking about it all fucking hour. Like he knew exactly what you'd say before you said it. Like your lips were just another thing he was waiting to claim.

Your hands are still frozen, breath caught, heart hammering.

But your mouth—

Your mouth moves back.

You kiss him like you were starving for it and didn't realize until now.

Like all the tension that's been twisting between you for the past hour has nowhere else to go but into the heat of his mouth, the cut of his teeth, the drag of his tongue across yours.

His lips are rough, his mouth greedy, and he kisses like a man who always takes what he wants — no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. One hand is in your hair, tugging sharp until your scalp prickles, while the other snakes around your waist, dragging you closer, flush against the hard line of his body.

You don't even realize your hands are gripping his arms until he growls softly into your mouth.

And then—

The kiss turns messy. Fast.

He bites your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp, swallows the sound, then pulls back just enough to see your face.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice low and ragged. "Knew you'd taste like that."

You barely have time to process it before he's standing — rising to full height like a shadow overhead — and yanking you up with him. His hands are everywhere, dragging down your body, over your ass, around your hips, as he spins you toward the nearest wall and pushes you up against it with his whole weight behind it.

Your back hits the padded soundproofing with a dull thud.

"Quiet now, huh?" he breathes, mouth pressed to your ear. His hand slides up your side, groping your tits over your shirt. "All that shit you were saying earlier, and now you got nothin' to say?"

Your mouth parts. You try to speak — anything — but his hand wraps around your throat before the words can come out. Not tight. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel how big it is. How easily he could squeeze.

He leans in again. Lips brushing your jaw.

"You gonna write about this too?" he murmurs, dark amusement threading through every word. "Make this part of your little article? Call it a fuckin'... 'immersive profile'?"

Your legs wobble.

"Bet no one ever made you cum on the clock before."

He presses his thigh between your legs, grinds up once — hard — and your head tips back against the wall with a gasp.

His hand tightens, just slightly.

"I'll be your favorite quote, baby," he whispers. "Just gotta ask the right questions."

You're speechless.

Silent.

A mouse caught in the jaws of something that likes to play with its food.

His lips are back on yours, and this time there's no teasing. He devours you. Biting, licking, sucking your bottom lip until it's swollen. His hands drag up under your shirt, skin on skin, cupping your tits and squeezing, thumbs rubbing over your nipples through your bra until you whimper.

He pulls back. "You like that?"

You nod, too fast, too desperate.

His hand tightens around your throat.

"Use your words, sweetheart."

"Yes—fuck—yes."

He chuckles, mean and low. "That's better."

You barely register him dragging your shirt over your head, your bra following in seconds, exposing your chest to the cold studio air. He palms both tits, squeezes hard, leans down to bite one — not gently — and you cry out before his other hand smacks your ass sharp and fast.

"Keep your fuckin' voice down," he hisses. "Wanna get caught?"

You shake your head, trembling now.

But he's not slowing down.

He spins you around, face pressed to the wall, hands braced on either side of your head.

"Think I could fuck you right here?" he mutters behind you, dragging his fingers down the back of your skirt. "Right up against the fuckin' soundboard? Let you moan into the mic so you can hear how wrecked you sound?"

You whimper. He yanks your skirt up roughly, panties soaked, and groans when he sees.

"No wonder you've been so quiet," he breathes. "You've been wet since the second I touched you."

He slides a hand between your thighs and rubs your clit slow, just once — and your whole body jolts.

"Yeah. That's it."

He undoes his belt, drops his pants, and without warning—

Spits on his fingers and drags them between your folds before grabbing your hips and dragging the head of his cock against your entrance.

You try to brace, but he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and growls in your ear:

"Look at me while I fuck you."

And then—he slams into you.

Rough. Deep. Immediate.

You cry out, choked, and he slaps his hand over your mouth before anyone can hear.

"I said keep fuckin' quiet," he pants, hips snapping forward again, again. "Don't make me gag you with your own shirt."

He starts fucking you hard, hands gripping your waist tight, hips brutal. Every thrust slams your body against the wall, makes your tits bounce, your mouth fall open in silent screams.

And he won't shut up.

"Bet you never thought you'd get ruined by your own interview subject, huh?"

"Bet you picked this outfit on purpose, came in here hopin' I'd do this."

"Fuckin' dripping. Jesus. This pussy was made for me."

You're clenching around him, struggling to breathe, legs shaking.

He snakes a hand around again and starts rubbing your clit in messy circles, not stopping, not slowing, even as your body locks up.

He feels it. Laughs.

"Oh, you're close," he growls. "Gonna cum all over my cock, aren't you?"

"Please—" you whimper.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

Your orgasm hits hard, ripping through you like lightning. You moan into his hand, body twitching as he keeps fucking you through it, no mercy, slamming into your overstimulated cunt like he's trying to mold you around him.

And just when you think he's about to finish—

He pulls out.

You sag forward, dizzy, fucked out.

But he's not done.

"On your knees."

You blink. "What—"

His hand grips your hair again, drags you down.

"I said get on your fuckin' knees."

You sink, trembling. Knees on cold tile, mouth open, staring up at him.

He jerks his cock in front of your face, fist tight around the shaft, tip angry red and wet. His other hand grabs your chin, makes you look up at him, eyes locked.

"You wanted a quote?" he pants. "Here's one. 'Thanos made me swallow his cum in the middle of a fuckin' interview.'"

You moan.

And then he finishes.

With a groan, a shudder, a low, "Fuck—" as he paints your tongue, your lips, your throat.

You swallow, like he told you to.

Eyes still locked on his.

And he grins.

The room is quiet now.

Almost too quiet.

The only sound is the faint crackle of the speakers in the booth, the occasional clink of Su-bong's chain as he moves — or paces, more like — a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.

"Fuckin' hell," he grumbles, like he's still not fully recovered.

You're on the floor, still catching your breath. Your mouth tastes like him. Your thighs are slick and sore. Your pulse hasn't settled.

You try to breathe through the rush of heat still clinging to your skin.

Try not to think too hard about what just happened — and fail instantly.

You move on autopilot, hands shaking slightly as you pull your bra back on, tug your skirt down. You keep your eyes down, focused on each small motion like it's going to help you reassemble your brain.

Across the room, Su-bong exhales a low laugh. You glance up, sweat drying across his forehead, jeans unbuttoned, hair a mess.

He's watching you.

Like he's still hungry.

Like if you don't get the fuck out of here in the next five minutes, he might go again.

You shove your notebook into your tote, clip the recorder shut, grab your pen from the floor. You can feel him behind you the whole time, staring like he's trying to remember the shape of your spine under his hands.

You pause at the door, hesitate.

Turn.

He hasn't moved. Just sitting now, legs wide, arms spread across the back of the couch, eyes heavy, mouth smug.

"You won't tell anyone about this, right?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be. You hate that it even comes out like that — unsure. You clear your throat. "I have a job. A reputation. I can't—"

"Relax," he cuts in.

Then smirks.

"Give me your number and I won't, señorita."

Your heart kicks in your chest — from the nickname, from the deal, from the way he says it like he already knows he'll use it later.

You hesitate.

Then sigh.

You cross the room slowly, dig a pen from your bag, and scribble the digits on the edge of a page from your notebook. You tear it off, fold it once, and hand it to him without meeting his eyes.

"You ever call me that again and I'll block you," you mutter, trying to sound in control.

He grins, teeth sharp. "So you want me to call you."

You roll your eyes. "Goodnight, Su-bong.”

"Sweet dreams, baby."

You open the door.

Step into the hallway.

The bass hum still echoes faintly from the studio behind you, but everything else is dead quiet.

You walk out into the night, heart still thudding, thighs still trembling, brain screaming.

You'll process later. You'll write something. Not the full story.

Just enough.

But for now, you just need to get out of here before you do something stupid.

Like turn around.

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi su bong smut

I love how we are feral for Thanos in ´Lost in translation’ been needing some down bad MC 😫

always feral for my bby 💋

#fae folk

bwounce

my glorious king just posted

LOST IN TRANSLATION, PT 3

summary: after four months apart, you finally make it back to seoul—back to su-bong .

parings: thanos x foreigner reader

warnings: romanised korean, slight language barrier, smut, creampie, oral, swearing

part two

It's been four months since Korea.

Four months since his hands were on your skin, his breath in your ear, his voice in that low, growling tone that made your knees give out.

Four months since you left — suitcase overstuffed, heart wrecked, promising yourself you wouldn't cry at the airport.

You did.

And you haven't really stopped.

You used to be the fun one.

The one who sent drunk texts at 2 a.m.

The one who dragged everyone out on Tuesday nights for karaoke.

The one who said yes to everything.

Now you ghost through your days.

Gray skies. Cold coffee. Emails you delete without reading.

Your job feels like static. Your friends feel like strangers, even when they're right beside you.

Your body is here, but your soul?

Your soul's still somewhere in Seoul, pressed against a boy who kissed you like it was a language.

Your phone lights up.

Su-bong:

밥 먹었어?

(Did you eat?)

You smile.

Not because you're happy.

But because it's him. Because even miles away, he still finds a way to ask if you've eaten.

He doesn't say "I miss you." Not directly.

You don't either.

You keep it casual. You have to.

Because neither of you is dating.

You're not his.

He's not yours.

You just... talk.

Every day.

Morning check-ins. Nighttime calls. Shared playlists. Memes.

You've even started learning Korean — clumsily, but with effort. He teases your pronunciation over FaceTime, laughing when you butcher things and grinning when you get one right.

You say "jagiya" once as a joke. He goes silent for five seconds. Then asks you to say it again.

You do.

Twice.

Just to hear him groan and cover his face like he's trying not to fall.

Your friends have noticed.

You're quieter. Distant. Always somewhere else.

"You okay?" they ask.

You lie. Every time.

Because what would you even say?

No, I left part of myself in Seoul. I think I'm haunted. I still feel his hands on me like ghost limbs.

No one would understand.

Except him.

And right now, he's on your phone again.

Su-bong:

오늘 너무 춥다. come keep me warm.

(It's cold today)

You:

don't tempt me.

You don't hit send.

Not yet.

Because the truth is, you're tempted.

All the time.

It's past midnight when your phone buzzes again.

You're lying in bed, curled up in an oversized hoodie that doesn't belong to you — because of course it's his. You've worn it so many times it barely smells like him anymore, but you pretend it does. You pretend everything does.

Su-bong [FaceTime Incoming]

You swipe to answer before it finishes ringing.

The screen lights up with his face — hair messy, shirtless, laying on his side with his cheek half-pressed to a pillow. His voice is slow, a little gravelly. Eyes low-lidded and pink at the corners.

"Jagiya..." he drawls. "You look cute."

You snort. "Are you high?"

He doesn't deny it. Just grins. "Little bit."

You roll onto your back, tucking the blanket under your chin. "Is this going to be one of those weird stoned calls where you tell me philosophical shit and then ask what clouds smell like?"

"Yes," he says, completely serious. Then, "Also you're glowing."

"I'm literally under a ceiling fan."

"No, no." He waves a lazy hand. "Different glow. Seoul-missing glow."

You narrow your eyes. "Is that your way of saying I look depressed?"

"Sexy depressed," he clarifies, nodding solemnly. "Like... tragic romance movie heroine. I like it."

You laugh — real and warm. "You're so fucking weird when you're stoned."

"And still handsome." He grins. "Very unfair."

You tilt your head. "You been thinking about me?"

"All day," he says. "Every day."

You chew your bottom lip, and for a minute, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full.

You watch him blink slow, eyes a little unfocused. Then he murmurs something so soft you almost don't hear it.

"Saranghae."

You freeze.

Not because it's the first time he's said it.

But because it's the first time you understand it.

He's said it before — in bed, whispered into your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. At the airport, when you hugged him like you'd never see him again. Once, at the end of a late call just like this one, slurred and casual.

Back then, you didn't know what it meant.

But you've been studying. Practicing. Listening.

And now?

Now you know exactly what he just said.

I love you.

Your breath catches.

"...You love me?" you ask, voice small. Unsteady.

His eyes snap open. He stiffens on screen, fully alert now, blinking like he's just woken up.

He stammers, "I—no, I mean—fuck—" Switches to Korean, muttering under his breath, "aish... shibal... michigesseo..." Then louder, "aniya, I mean—ahh, it slipped, I'm high—"

You cut him off. "I know what it means."

He stares at you, frozen.

You smile. A little shaky. "I know what it means now. And I'm not freaking out. You don't have to panic spiral or whatever the hell this is."

He doesn't speak. Just keeps blinking, lips parted, the tips of his ears turning red.

You exhale, then whisper it back, "saranghae."

His breath hitches so sharp it sounds like pain.

"Are you sure?" he says, barely audible.

You nod. "I've been sure for a while."

A beat.

Then another.

And then he exhales a shaky breath and drops his forehead into his pillow, groaning. "Ahhh, fuck. My heart. My heart is dying."

You laugh, tears stinging behind your eyes.

He lifts his head again, eyes impossibly soft now. Serious. Real.

"Come back, jagiya," he says. Voice quiet. No teasing. No smirk. Just him. "Even just for a little."

Your heart aches.

Because you want to.

God, you want to.

But you don't answer yet.

Not because you don't want to — but because you're already looking at flights.

You're scrolling with your thumb, barely listening as he keeps talking. The usual airline sites. Budget tabs. Currency converters. You've done this dance before, but this time?

This time it feels different.

The lowest fare you find is still gutting. Almost $1,200.

You wince.

Your bank account is already limping from that two-month whirlwind trip across Asia. Seoul was your final stop, but it ended up costing you more than just travel expenses — it cost you your peace of mind, your sense of direction, your emotional stability.

You frown, chewing your lip as you squint at the total.

"I don't think I have the money right now," you admit softly.

That makes him go quiet.

You glance back at the screen.

His expression is unreadable for a beat — then his brows lift. "How much?"

You narrow your eyes. "What?"

"How much is flight? I'll help pay."

You snort. "Su-bong—"

"No, I mean it." He shifts on the pillow, suddenly sitting up straighter, more serious. "Why not? I want you here. If I had a passport, I'd be there already, but I don't. So I'll help you come. So you be in my arms, hmm?" He smirks like he thinks this is romantic.

You groan, shaking your head. "Absolutely not. I'm not taking your money."

"Why?" he protests. "I buy girls drinks in club all the time, and they don't even call me after. You? You say you love me and don't even let me buy airplane?"

You glare. "That is not the same thing and you know it."

He pouts dramatically. "But jagiya—"

"No," you interrupt, laughing now despite yourself. "No pouting. No charming. I'm not letting you. I'll pick up a few more shifts, okay? A couple doubles. I'll be there soon."

He squints. "You promise?"

You nod. "I promise."

A beat of silence follows.

His voice softens. "Okay. I wait."

You grin. "You better."

He holds up his pinky to the camera.

You link yours to the screen. "Pinky swear." Then, quieter, "soon."

—

TWO WEEKS LATER

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, sorting through a pile of laundry that's been haunting you since last week, when your best friend kicks open your bedroom door with a full iced coffee in hand and zero regard for boundaries.

"You look like you're gonna cry again," she says casually.

You blink up at her. "I'm not."

She sets the drink on your nightstand. "Are you gonna tell me why you've been humming Korean love songs under your breath for the last five days?"

You bury your face in your hoodie. "No."

She sits next to you and yanks your hood back. "Try again."

You sigh, voice small. "I'm saving to go back."

Silence.

Then—

"Thank fuck," she breathes. "I thought you were gonna rot here forever."

You blink. "Wow. Thanks."

She shrugs. "I'm serious. You've been a ghost since we landed. I watched you go from hot girl summer in Seoul to sad girl winter in this hellhole, and frankly? It's been depressing."

You can't help but laugh — a little hoarse, a little helpless. "I've just... missed him. All of it. Him, the city, the food, the way I felt there."

She nudges your knee. "Then go back."

"I'm going to." You nod. "Soon. Just need to work a little more—"

Ding.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

$500.00 deposited.

From: Sugar Mommy

Memo: "For your dickdown fund."

Your eyes widen. "What the fuck."

She sips her coffee, cool as ice. "Consider it an investment in my sanity."

"Take it back," you hiss, already opening your banking app. "I'm not taking your money—"

"I'm rich," she snaps. "Well, technically my parents are, but still. I wouldn't even notice if I set $500 on fire."

"Girl—"

"Shut up."

You glare. She glares harder. Eventually, you groan and fall back onto the carpet. "You're such a bitch."

"You're welcome," she sings, tossing a sock at your face. "Now shut up and book the damn ticket."

You check your balance.

She just knocked off nearly half.

And you already had the rest.

You could book a flight right now.

Tonight.

And still cover your rent, your bills, your life.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

And your heart?

Your heart's already halfway to Seoul.

So you do it.

No overthinking. No hesitation.

You scroll back to the cheapest ticket. Direct flight. Leaves tomorrow night.

You hit purchase with trembling fingers, your friend watching you like you just launched a missile.

"Did you—"

"I booked it," you breathe, staring at the confirmation screen. "Holy shit. I actually booked it."

Your friend shrieks, launching herself at you like she's the one about to get laid across the Pacific. "Bitch! You're going back! You're going to get your back blown out by your Korean boyfriend!"

"He's not my boyfriend," you say automatically, already pulling out your phone.

"Mhm. Sure. Keep lying to yourself."

You tap FaceTime before you can second-guess it.

It rings once. Twice.

And then it connects.

You're met with a blur of flashing lights, noise, and a very familiar voice yelling:

"JAGIYAAA!"

The screen stabilizes just long enough to show Su-bong's grinning, flushed face — cheeks pink, hair messy, his chain catching the neon from somewhere offscreen. He's clearly out, clearly tipsy, and clearly ecstatic to see your face.

"Wait, wait," he slurs, already moving the phone. "Look who it is!"

He pans the camera wildly to the chaos around him — and you see them all:

Nam-gyu, double-fisting drinks.

Min-su, throwing peace signs like it's a photoshoot.

Gyeong-su, yelling "HELLO!!" like it's the only English word he knows.

Se-mi, who leans into the camera and goes, "You are glowing, babe. Is that love or just good lighting?"

You laugh, and then flip the camera to your friend, who's waving wildly.

"Annyeo... annyeo-noseyo?" You cringe. She shrugs. "Close enough."

Su-bong's voice cuts through the noise again, sharp and warm. "You okay? You look happy."

Your smile widens, your face starting to ache from how hard you're grinning.

You look at him — at this glitchy, beautiful man in a bar across the world — and say, "I leave tomorrow night."

The camera shakes. A chorus of "WHAT?!" erupts behind him.

His jaw drops. His eyes go wide. "Tomorrow?!"

You nod, biting your lip. "I land in Seoul two days from now. Save me a bed. Or don't. I'm not planning on sleeping much."

Su-bong is blinking, laughing, blinking again.

"Jinjja?" he asks breathlessly. "You're really coming?"

"I'm really coming."

—

TWO DAYS LATER

Su-bong wakes up with a hangover and a mission.

Your flight lands tonight.

And for a man who swore he wasn't the romantic type, he's losing his entire mind in the privacy of his tiny ass apartment.

His morning starts reckless.

He shaves — twice — because the first time he fucks up his jawline from nerves.

Mumbles "Shibal..." under his breath when he cuts himself.

Stares in the mirror for five solid minutes like: Is this enough? Am I enough?

Then changes shirts three times.

A black tee. No, too casual.

A button up. Who am I, Nam-gyu?

Back to the black tee. Silver chain, simple cologne, no bullshit.

Except his heart is racing like this is bullshit.

Like he didn't just spend the last four months playing it cool on FaceTime, smirking every time you called him sexy, making fun of your Korean.

Like he didn't fall in love with you anyway.

By the time he gets to Incheon Airport, he's pacing.

Hands in his pockets. Hood pulled up. Mask on.

Not because he doesn't want to be seen — but because he needs something to hide behind.

He checks the arrivals screen so many times the security guard starts side-eyeing him.

Estimated Arrival: 7:32 PM

Status: Landed

His stomach drops.

The kind of drop that has him chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at the sliding arrival doors like they personally insulted his ancestors.

And the second they start opening—

His whole brain empties.

Blank.

Nothing.

Just—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

There you are.

Dragging your suitcase. Messy hair. Sweatshirt too big. Eyes searching the crowd with that tired, travel-wrecked look.

And still?

Still the most beautiful thing he's ever fucking seen.

His heart kicks hard.

Hard enough to knock all the nerves out of his body and replace them with something else.

Want.

Need.

Yours.

When your eyes find him — hood up, mask on, but eyes soft, wide, locked only on you — you break into the biggest fucking smile he's seen in his life.

You jog the last few steps.

Drop your suitcase.

And before he can even think you're in his arms.

Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, like this was always inevitable.

Like Seoul was always waiting for you to come back.

You pull back just enough to look at him — to really look at him.

His hood's fallen back, mask hanging loose around his chin, and god — he looks wrecked in the best way. Eyes dark and soft, a little pink like he hasn't slept, like this moment's been keeping him awake for days.

You cup his face in both hands, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

And before you can even think twice—

You kiss him.

Slow.

Sure.

Like four months of late-night calls and I-miss-you smiles and unspoken please waits all crashing into this one second.

Your lips brush his as you whisper, honest and small, "I missed you."

His breath catches.

And then?

It's over for him.

Completely.

He leans in again — kissing you deeper, slower, like he wants to taste every syllable you just said.

"Jagiya..." His voice is rough against your mouth. "You kill me, really..."

You laugh softly, still not letting go. "Good."

He smiles — wide and a little shy — and then shakes his head, leaning back just enough to stare at you like you're impossible.

"Ya," he says, almost scolding, "You're not allowed to disappear for four months ever again."

"Geureol su eopseo," you reply — shaky, grinning.

His brows shoot up. "Wahhh—look at you."

"Can't," you clarify in English, cheeks warm. "Geureol su eopseo... I can't. Right?"

His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile way too big for his face. "Ahh... perfect. Perfect Korean. Perfect girl."

"Ani," you tease, shaking your head. "Perfect boy."

He snorts. "Perfect man." He corrects, cocky as hell.

"Ya, crazy man," you shoot back without thinking — the Korean slipping out too natural.

He laughs so loud people glance over.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "You're really here."

Like he can't believe it.

Like he's scared you'll vanish if he looks away too long.

Finally — reluctantly — he slides you down from his arms, setting you gently on your feet. But he stays close. His hands smoothing down your arms like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your skin all over again.

Without missing a beat, he grabs your suitcase in one hand like it weighs nothing.

And with the other?

He laces his fingers through yours.

Warm. Certain. No hesitation.

"Come on, jagiya," he says, tugging you with him through the crowd, his thumb brushing slow over your knuckles. "Let's go home."

And god — home.

Home doesn't even feel like a place anymore.

It feels like him.

The walk to his car is a blur.

You trail behind him, hand in his, suitcase rolling clumsily over sidewalk cracks because neither of you are really paying attention.

He opens the trunk, tosses your suitcase in — but when he shuts it?

You don't move.

Neither does he.

You just... stare at each other.

Like the weight of the last four months finally caught up.

Like touching him wasn't enough.

"Hey," you murmur — quiet, teasing — "why're you staring?"

He huffs a small laugh, already stepping closer.

"Because I missed you like crazy," he says, honest and low. "I look at you because I couldn't for four months."

And that's all it takes.

Your hands are in his hair.

His mouth is on yours.

Right there against the back of his car — messy, slow, hungry — like neither of you can wait until you're inside or alone or anywhere else. His hands grip your waist like he still can't believe you're real, thumbs rubbing beneath your sweatshirt.

You bite his bottom lip just enough to make him groan.

"Shibal..." he mutters against your mouth.

"Missed me?" you tease.

"Jugeul geot gata," he exhales. (Feels like I'm dying.)

You grin. "Me too."

Eventually, he pulls himself back with a curse and a wild, wrecked grin.

"If we don't stop now, jagiya..." he warns, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Later," you promise.

"Fucking later," he agrees, breathless.

The car ride is quiet at first.

Not awkward — just soft.

Your legs are tucked up in the passenger seat, your face turned toward him like you can't stop staring. The city lights blur past outside the window, but it's him — the profile of his face, the line of his jaw, the little scar near his eyebrow — that's got you hypnotized.

At every red light, he glances at you.

Like he's checking.

Like he's making sure you're real.

His hand slips over your thigh halfway through the drive — casual at first.

But then it stays.

Thumb stroking slow circles into your bare skin like it's second nature.

Like it belongs there.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Yeah." Then, almost shy: "Na... na jom hangug-eo haeboilkkayo?" (Can I... can I try speaking Korean?)

He blinks — surprised — before his whole face lights up. "Wahhh..." He grins. "Of course. Try."

You clear your throat, cheeks warm.

It's clumsy — the words awkward in your mouth — but it's yours, "Neo... neomu bogo sip-eoss-eo." (I missed you so much.)

He actually groans, like the sound physically punches him in the chest.

"Ahh, jagiya... kill me now," he laughs, shaking his head like he's helpless.

"Was that bad?" you ask, nervous.

"No," he says immediately. "Perfect. Fucking perfect."

At the next red light, he leans over the console just to kiss you.

Soft. Sweet. Like it's nothing. Like it's everything.

"Tell me more," he teases when he pulls back.

You giggle, still a little shy. "Neo..." You try again, thinking hard. "Jal saeng-gyeoss-eo." (You're handsome.)

He bursts out laughing.

"Aishhh, stop, stop—" he groans, clearly loving every second. "Dangerous girl."

"Saranghae," you whisper, bold this time.

His hand tightens on your thigh like you flipped a switch inside him.

"Geurae?" (Yeah?) He says it low, soft, almost smug — but his eyes are so goddamn warm. "Me too, jagiya. Saranghae."

The rest of the drive is full of sleepy kisses at stoplights. Soft little touches — his thumb tracing your knee, your hand playing with his silver chain.

And every once in a while?

That small, dangerous smile he keeps sneaking your way.

Like he's already planning all the ways he's going to ruin you once he gets you home.

By the time he pulls into his neighborhood, your heart's in your throat.

Everything feels hazy. Dreamlike. Familiar in the most dangerous way.

The second he parks the car, he's already moving — grabbing your suitcase with one hand, grabbing you with the other.

It doesn't feel like enough.

Not even close.

His apartment looks the same.

Dim lights. Shoes at the door. The faint scent of whatever cologne clings to him like skin. Your stomach twists at the sight of it — this stupid, messy, too-small place that somehow feels more like home than your own bed ever did.

But you barely step inside before he's kicking the door shut behind you with a dull thud — and then?

Then he's on you.

Suitcase forgotten, dumped haphazardly by the wall.

His hands on your face, your waist, everywhere at once like four months of patience just snapped clean in half.

"Shibal," he mutters against your mouth, already kissing you like he means to leave bruises. "Fucking missed you."

You gasp into him, fingers tangling in his hair. "Show me then."

That's all it takes.

Big hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight.

And in one quick, almost reckless motion he's lifting you — like it's easy, like you weigh nothing, like he's never letting you stand on your own again.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, breath catching as he presses you back against the door for just a second — hips tight between your thighs, mouth moving from your lips down the line of your neck.

"Missed this mouth," he groans, kissing lower. "Missed this body. Missed... fucking everything."

"Su-bong..." you breathe, already dizzy.

"Mmm, neomu yeppeo..." (So fucking pretty...) he mutters against your skin, kissing over your pulse.

You whimper, your hands fisting in his shirt. "Bed. Now."

He pulls back just long enough to look at you — flushed, messy, so fucking his — and laughs, low and wrecked. "Anything you want, jagiya."

And then he's carrying you straight through his apartment, not even sparing a glance for your suitcase, the door, the world outside.

Nothing matters.

Not anymore.

Just you.

And him.

And four fucking months of wanting.

He carries you into his bedroom like it's instinct — like muscle memory — but once the backs of his knees hit the bed, you press your hands flat against his chest.

Firm.

Stopping him.

His eyes flash — dark, curious — but he doesn't fight you.

Doesn't have to.

Because you're already shoving him backward until he drops down onto the edge of the mattress, legs spread, shirt rumpled, hair wild like he doesn't even remember how to breathe without you.

And fuck — the way he watches you?

Head tilted back slightly, lips parted, hands loose between his thighs like he's ready for whatever you're about to do?

It lights something sharp and dangerous in your chest.

Slowly, you start peeling your clothes off — top first, tossed somewhere near the door, then your sweats, until you're standing in front of him in nothing but your panties, flushed and hungry.

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

"Aish... fuck, jagiya..." His voice is low, wrecked already. "You wanna kill me tonight?"

"I want you wrecked," you murmur. "I want you stupid for me."

You step between his legs, straddling that heat pouring off him like you own it, hands curling behind his neck as you kiss him — slow at first, sweet — but it turns messy quick.

Because his hands?

Immediately full of you.

Palming your tits through your bra, thumbs brushing your nipples until you arch into him, whimpering into his mouth.

"Shibal... missed these," he groans, tugging the bra down to expose you fully. "Missed your sounds. Missed your taste."

Your fingers slip under his shirt, dragging it up — rough, impatient — and he lets you tear it off over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Broad chest.

Tan skin.

Tattooed, scarred, sweat already beading along his collarbone like he's overheating from just this.

And then — slowly, deliberately — you sink to your knees between his legs. His breath punches out of him.

"Shibal..." he mutters like a prayer, running a hand through his hair, watching you with that razor-sharp look that makes your thighs ache.

Your hands slide up his thighs, slow, teasing, nails dragging over the rough denim of his jeans.

And when your gaze drags up to meet his?

Dark. Wanting. Ready?

His big hand reaches out — gentle, reverent — curling under your jaw, thumb hovering over your bottom lip like he's thinking about ruining you right here.

You don't even hesitate.

You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth.

Slow.

Deep.

You suck, tongue swirling over the pad of his finger.

He groans deep in his chest. "You tryna make me come from that mouth?"

You pull back with a filthy pop, grinning up at him like sin incarnate. "Pants off," you whisper.

He's already moving — unbuttoning, shoving them down — his cock heavy and hard, leaking at the tip like you've already won.

"Hold my hair up," you mutter, crawling closer.

His breath catches.

"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked. "Fuck yes, baby... gimme that pretty mouth."

His hand slides into your hair, gentle but sure, gathering it into a loose fist, holding it off your face like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And you don't waste time. Your mouth is on him.

Hot. Wet. Filthy.

Your tongue drags up the thick vein on the underside of his cock, swirling the tip before sinking down, taking as much as you can — slowly at first, moaning low in your throat just to feel the way he twitches in your mouth.

"Ahh... fuck, fuck..." His head drops back. "Look at you... pretty fuckin' mouth made for me, huh?"

You hum around him — teasing, daring — bobbing your head a little faster now, hand wrapped tight around the base, stroking everything your throat can't take yet.

"Shibal... look at me," he groans.

You glance up.

Eyes glossy. Drool slicking your lips. Face wrecked in the most perfect way.

And Su-bong?

He looks absolutely gone.

"Fucking... perfect," he rasps, voice shaking. "My good girl... takin' me so deep... so greedy for my cock."

You pull off just long enough to catch your breath — panting, lips swollen, chin slick.

Your hand stays wrapped around him, stroking him slow, teasing, watching the way his cock twitches, flushed and angry and wet from your mouth.

Then you do something that makes his entire body lock up.

Without breaking eye contact — without even fucking hesitating — you gather every bit of spit in your mouth and let it drip from your tongue right onto his cock.

Slow.

Heavy.

Messy.

"Holy fuck..." he rasps — voice low, completely wrecked, almost shocked. His hand tightens in your hair automatically, eyes dark and blown wide. "Ya..." he mutters in disbelief, shaking his head slow. "Jinjja... what the fuck..."

Like no one's ever done that to him before.

Like no one's ever looked at him like this before.

"Fucking crazy girl," he groans — but it's full of awe, full of want, like he's not even mad about it — like he might never recover.

"Mine tonight," you murmur, thumb sliding through the slick mess coating him, teasing his tip until his stomach tightens. "Want it messy. Want it everywhere."

His jaw flexes hard — Adam's apple bobbing.

"Aishh... fuckin' evil," he hisses through his teeth, watching you like you're the most dangerous thing alive. "Come here... come here right now..."

Like he can't take it anymore.

Like if you don't get back on him this second he's going to lose his goddamn mind.

You watch him fall apart like it's the prettiest thing you've ever seen.

Chest rising fast. Abs tight. Thighs tense beneath your palms. Still staring at you like you're doing shit to him he's never even imagined before.

And you're not done.

Not even close.

You lean back in — slow at first, teasing him with kitten licks over the flushed, leaking tip — and his whole body jerks.

"Shit, jagiya..." His voice breaks — deeper now, almost fucked-out already. "Gonna fuck your throat properly next time... but right now?"

You wrap your lips around him again — sink deeper, hollow your cheeks — and he groans, so guttural it vibrates through your core.

"Wanna come on that tongue... fuckin' deserve it after this..."

His hand tightens in your hair, not rough, not forcing — just there, shaking a little from the tension rolling down his spine.

And you give it to him.

Take him deeper. Throat tighter. Sucking hard, spit and slick everywhere now, dripping down your chin, messy and perfect.

"Shibal... fuck, fuck, fuck..." he curses in rapid, broken breaths — hips twitching helplessly as he fights not to just lose it completely.

Your throat clenches around him, spitting and swallowing him like this is worship, like he's yours to ruin tonight.

And judging by the way he's cursing in both languages, tugging your hair just enough to feel the sting?

He fucking loves it.

He's gone.

Absolutely fucking gone.

His thighs are shaking now, breath ragged, hips starting to stutter — instinct trying to fuck into your mouth even as he fights it.

"Jagiya..." His voice breaks. Pleading. "Gonna... fuck, baby... gonna come..."

You moan around him — filthy, encouraging — hollowing your cheeks harder, your hands tightening on his thighs to hold him still.

That's what does it.

His whole body locks.

His head snaps back, mouth open, voice spilling out rough and ruined:

"Shibal... ah fuck, fuck—naneun... Cumming, fuck—eat it up, pretty mouth—"

And then he does.

Hard.

Deep.

Hot and messy against your tongue, spilling into your mouth like he's giving you every last bit of himself.

"Jagiya... shit... fuck—" His hand fists tighter in your hair but he doesn't pull — just holds — watches, half-terrified and half-worshipping, as you swallow every drop.

Slow.

Greedy.

Eyes locked on his.

Like you own him.

You pull off with a wet, filthy pop, licking your lips like he's the best thing you've ever tasted.

He stares at you.

Wrecked.

Stunned.

Silent for a beat too long.

"Fuck me..." he mutters, voice gone, dragging you up without warning — hands on your face like he's scared to even touch you too rough. "C'mere—c'mere—fuckin' unreal—"

And then he's kissing you.

Tongue tasting himself from your mouth like he's never going to get enough of you as long as he lives.

"Nae geoya..." he whispers against your lips. "Jagiya... fuck... how the hell am I supposed to let you leave again?"

You barely have time to answer — barely have time to breathe — before he's grabbing your hips, hauling you onto the bed like you weigh nothing, like you're his fucking prize and he's finally taking it.

You crawl forward on shaky limbs, heart hammering, every nerve ending on fire — but Su-bong's already behind you.

Already yanking you back by your hips.

Already tearing your panties down like they offended him.

"Look at this," he mutters under his breath — rough, reverent — palming the curve of your ass, spreading you open with both hands. "Four months..." His thumb drags through your soaked folds. "Shibal, four fucking months and still this wet for me."

You whimper, arching back into his touch, desperate.

"Say it," he growls, eyes burning into the slick mess between your legs. "Say who makes you like this."

"You—" your voice breaks, breathless. "You, Su-bong. Nobody else. Nobody ever."

"Geurae?" A harsh groan rips from his chest. "Fucking mine, huh?"

"Yours," you whimper. "Always yours."

He fists his cock at the base, dragging the thick head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, watching it drip down.

"Look at this pussy..." he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Made for me."

Then — one slow, brutal push — he sinks inside. You gasp, body arching, thighs shaking.

He feels too big like this.

Too deep.

Too perfect.

"Oh my god—Su-bong—"

He groans, guttural. "Shibal... so fucking tight, baby... ngh, I missed this—"

He pulls back — not all the way — just enough to make you feel the stretch of every ridge, every vein — then slams back in, rough enough that your knees nearly give out.

You cry out, clinging to the sheets.

He leans over you — chest grazing your back, mouth hot at your ear.

"You think you can leave me after this?" he rasps, hips snapping up into you with filthy, punishing thrusts. "You think anyone else can fuck you like I do?"

"Nobody," you whine. "Nobody."

His hand curls in your hair — not yanking, just holding — while his other palm presses flat to your lower back, keeping you arched perfect for him.

"Neomu yeppeo..." He's losing it. Groaning curses in Korean between filthy praise and rough thrusts, fucking you deep, fucking you slow just to feel all of you. "Nae yeoja..." (My girl)

Your arms shake. Your legs are gone.

And when he slips out — accidentally — mid-thrust, thick and dripping against your inner thigh?

You sob — raw and wrecked.

"Put it back—" your voice breaks. "Put it back in, Su-bong, please— need it—need you so bad—"

He curses, grabbing your hips harder, dragging you back, lining himself up like he's losing his mind.

"Greedy girl," he growls, pushing back inside with one brutal, perfect thrust that makes you wail. "You missed this fucking cock so much, huh?" he pants, snapping his hips. "Couldn't wait, couldn't forget it—"

Your eyes roll back, moaning so loud you swear the walls shake.

"I'll fuck it in deeper then..." he groans. "Make sure you never forget me."

His pace turns ruthless.

Devastating.

Skin slapping loud, the whole room filled with nothing but gasps, moans, the filthy sound of him ruining you from behind.

Your orgasm builds fast — burning hot, white, your body on the edge of breaking.

"You gonna come, baby?" he rasps, breath shaking. "Come all over my cock like a good girl?"

"Yes—yes—fuck—Su-bong—" You choke on a sob, dizzy, shaking .

He loses it. "Aishh... fuck... geurae, jagiya, that's it—"

Your whole body locks up — splintering apart — climax crashing over you like a goddamn storm, shaking, crying his name out like a prayer.

"Shibal... there it is..." he groans, hips jerking — "That's my girl... fuck—"

He follows you seconds later — spilling inside you so deep, so hard, you swear you feel him in your stomach — his moan low, broken, hot against your shoulder.

"Mine," he whispers — rough, sweet, reverent.

Your body is still shaking.

Still folded beneath him, legs spread wide, knees half-giving out, your skin burning from every place his hands touched, every place his mouth had been.

He stays pressed to your back for a moment longer — chest rising hard, breath hot against your shoulder — before he finally pulls back.

Slow. Careful.

His cock drags out of you with a wet, filthy sound — thick with both your releases, messy and perfect — and it's only then you feel it.

The way it leaks out of you immediately.

Sticky. Warm. Dripping down the inside of your thighs.

You whimper — not from embarrassment.

From want.

And when you glance back over your shoulder at him — eyes still glossy, lips swollen, face flushed and ruined — Su-bong looks like he could lose his fucking mind all over again.

Because without thinking — without even hesitating — you reach back.

Fingers dragging down between your thighs, slow, gathering the messy spill of his cum that's already starting to slide down your legs.

You bring those fingers straight to your mouth.

Suck them clean.

Slow.

Filthy.

Eyes never leaving his.

Su-bong blinks, like you just killed him dead.

"Shibal..." He breathes it out like he can't believe what he's seeing. His voice goes rough — thick — softer in a way that sounds dangerously close to fucking adoration.

"Jagiya..." His eyes are dark, blown out, full of something deeper than lust now. "You are my best foreigner."

You pull your fingers free of your mouth with a soft pop, your smile wrecked and lazy. "I hope i'm your only foreigner, Su-bong."

He's quiet for a beat.

Staring at you like you're not real.

Then — soft. Small. Honest like it slips right out of him, "Saranghae."

Your heart flips. You blink. Breathe shaky.

And the way he looks at you after he says it — fuck — like he's helpless, like it's just the truth, like of course he loves you — it knocks the wind out of you more than any orgasm could.

"You really love me?" You whisper — small, awed, smiling even as your voice wobbles.

His smile curves — soft, shy, the tiniest dimple threatening to appear. "Yes. Fucking crazy for you."

It takes him a second to get his legs under him, but when he does, he's already moving — already sinking to his knees in front of you, palms on your hips, thumbs stroking your bare skin like he needs to touch you or he'll lose his mind.

"You kill me," he murmurs — kissing the inside of your thigh, right where his cum is still dripping. "But I'll die happy."

You laugh — breathless — running your fingers through his messy hair. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so perfect," he counters, grinning against your skin.

But then — tender — he grabs a towel from his drawer, wiping you down with the gentlest hands you've ever felt from him. His palms cupping your thighs as he cleans you up, kissing every inch of skin like a silent apology for fucking you that hard.

He helps you onto the bed after, tugs his shirt over your head — drowning on your frame — before dragging the blanket up over both of you.

And then?

Then he pulls you into him.

Tight.

Chest to your back. Arms wound around your waist like he's scared you'll disappear again. His face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

Your fingers trace his forearm lazily. The scar on his wrist. The tattoo peeking from under his sleeve.

"You okay?" He mumbles against your shoulder.

"Mmm," you hum. "Perfect."

"You're crazy," he says, voice rough but full of so much affection it makes your stomach flip.

"You love it," you tease.

"Saranghae," he says again — like a promise this time.

Your heart squeezes. "I love you too, Su-bong."

His arms tighten around you.

And right before sleep pulls you under, you swear you hear him whisper it again — quiet and sure — right against your skin.

—

The morning comes slow.

Warm. Heavy. Tangled in limbs and heat and the soft weight of Su-bong's arm slung low across your waist like even in sleep, his body refuses to let you go.

You stir first — barely — eyelids fluttering against the faint spill of sunlight leaking through the thin curtains.

It's quiet.

Seoul hums somewhere outside, the distant sound of traffic, life, morning routines—but here? In his bed? It's a world away.

You shift just slightly, enough to feel the soreness between your legs — a slow, delicious ache that makes you shiver when you remember why.

That's when you feel it.

His lips.

Soft at your shoulder. Barely there at first, like instinct. Then again — firmer this time — the lazy, half-conscious drag of his mouth down to the curve of your neck.

"Mmm..." His voice is rough, low, heavy with sleep. "Morning, jagiya..."

You smile without opening your eyes. "Morning."

Another kiss. Another. Between your shoulder blades now. Slow and greedy.

"Wake up," he murmurs, words brushing your skin. "I miss your face."

"You saw it all night."

"Not enough."

You laugh — sleepy, wrecked — rolling over just enough to peek at him.

His hair is a mess. Sticking up on one side. Face soft with sleep, jaw shadowed, lips swollen from too much kissing, not enough rest.

He looks like sin and safety all at once.

"How'd you sleep?" you whisper.

He hums, pulling you closer until you're almost fully draped over him. "Like shit."

You blink. "What?"

He grins — small, lazy. "Kept waking up... had to check if you were real."

Your heart stutters.

He noses at your temple, another slow kiss landing right at your hairline.

"I thought you were dreaming about me again," you tease.

"Nightmare," he teases back. "You left for four months again."

You go quiet.

Because yeah.

That's still hanging between you.

And after a beat, he asks it — soft, hesitant.

"When do you have to leave?"

Your stomach drops.

You shake your head immediately, curling tighter into him. "Don't," you murmur. "Don't talk about it yet."

His chest rises slow beneath you. Heavy sigh.

Then — quieter — rougher —

"Geurae..." (Okay...)

But he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder anyway — long, lingering — like he's already dreading whatever day that's going to be.

Like he's kissing you now to make up for all the mornings he didn't get to.

Minutes pass like that.

Quiet.

Safe.

Until he speaks again — low, rough, words spilling out between lazy kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your cheek.

"Jagiya..."

"Hmm?"

Still half-asleep, still kissing down the line of your jaw, like maybe he's been holding this question in for weeks.

"When you go home... are you still mine?"

Your breath catches.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are so soft.

Hopeful.

Raw.

"Be my girl, hmm?" he says quietly. "Official. Mine. Everywhere."

It knocks the wind out of you.

Because it's not even a question, really.

It's just true.

Has been since you met him.

"Of course," you whisper, smiling like your heart might burst. "I'm already yours, Su-bong."

His grin curves slow — wide — eyes dark and so fucking warm.

"Good," he mutters — pulling you back down, mouth already finding yours again. "Cause I'm never letting you go."

You lose track of time after that.

Lose track of everything except him.

The warmth of his chest beneath your cheek. The slow stroke of his palm up and down your spine like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again. The way he kisses you now — slow and lazy — like you've got forever. Like he's trying to convince himself you do.

Eventually, hours later — after more kisses, more teasing, after he feeds you ramyeon straight from the pot in his lap like an absolute menace — the sun's dipped low enough that the city outside his window glows that hazy, Seoul-orange kind of light.

You're standing by his window now — his shirt drowning on you, his chain hanging loose around your neck because he slipped it over your head like it belongs there.

Like you belong here.

He wraps his arms around you from behind — chin hooked over your shoulder — and stares out at the skyline with you.

"You gonna tell me when you're leaving?" he asks finally. Quiet.

Your throat tightens.

"Not yet," you whisper. "Let me just... be here a little longer."

He hums low.

You feel his smile against your skin.

"You're here now," he says.

Simple. Sure.

And maybe that's all that matters.

Because right now?

Right here?

You're his.

And Seoul doesn't feel a holiday destination anymore.

Seoul feels like home.

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi subong smut

LOST IN TRANSLATION, PT 2

summary: you were meant to see palaces and eat street food in korea, but instead you got addicted to a local man who fucks you like a sin and holds you like a secret.

parings: thanos x foreigner reader

warnings: swearing, alcohol, weed, smut, choking, creampie, fingering, slight language barrier, romanised korean

< part one | part three >

You're on a tour bus.

A fucking tour bus.

It's hot, crowded, and the guide is cheerfully pointing at some historical palace while your friend is elbow-deep in a convenience store snack haul next to you. You should be into it. This is why you came to Korea, right? Culture. Memories. Adventure.

Instead, all you can think about is his mouth on your throat.

Your thighs are pressed together. Not because you're cold — it's 25 degrees and humid — but because the seat vibrates just enough to remind you what you're missing.

And you are missing it. God, you're missing it.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

One night. A hot, reckless mistake.

You weren't supposed to think about him every time you close your eyes.

But you do.

You think about how he tasted. How his voice dipped when he called you yeppo.

How he fucked you like he was mad at time itself.

How you came so hard your knees gave out after.

Your phone's in your hand before you even realize it.

You open Instagram. Find his DM.

He hasn't messaged you. You haven't messaged him. Not once.

Because you both assumed it was a one-time thing.

You both acted cool the next morning.

But now?

Now you feel like you're going to lose your mind if you don't get your hands on him again.

So you type:

you home? bc i'm not doing this tourist shit anymore, i'm thinking about your hands and it's annoying. fix it

You hit send before you can regret it.

You stare at the screen.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

And then the little typing... bubble pops up.

where are you

You bite your lip.

somewhere in insadong. kill me.

Another pause.

Then:

come here door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.

You're already standing up.

Your friend blinks up at you mid-crunch, a shrimp chip half-hanging from her mouth. "Where are you going?"

You don't even try to play it cool. Your phone's still in your hand, your pulse already spiking. You say it like a confession. Like a sin.

"To get fucked."

She chokes on her chip. "Excuse me?"

You glance out the window, squinting like you might spot a cab just by willpower alone. "I'm serious. I can't do this right now. I don't care about some 14th-century scroll or—whatever. I need him."

Her jaw drops. "Oh my God. You mean the club guy?"

You nod once.

She breaks into a grin so smug you almost turn around and throw her snack bag out the window.

"You little slut," she says, delighted. "This is your first holiday romance."

You whip your head around. "It's not a romance."

She fake gasps. "Right. Sorry. My mistake. Just casual, totally impersonal, post-tourism cultural exchange dick."

You shoot her a glare. "There's nothing romantic about the way he fucked me last time."

She wiggles her eyebrows. "Exactly. That's what makes it romantic."

You groan, dragging a hand through your hair. "I hate you."

"You love me," she sing-songs. "And I love this for you. You really are experiencing all of Korea, huh? Palaces, hanbok selfies, spicy noodles, and now a hot local rearranging your guts."

You flip her off with both hands.

She cackles. "Go get wrecked, bitch. I'll tell the tour guide you got food poisoning."

You're already on your phone again, pulling up the taxi app.

Your legs bounce as you wait for a driver. It can't come fast enough. Every minute feels like a test of your self-control, and right now? You have none.

The second that cab pulls up, you're gone.

You don't even look back.

You've got one destination.

One objective.

And if Su-bong still has his door open?

You're not leaving until your legs stop working.

You're breathless by the time you reach his door.

Not from the stairs. Not really.

From anticipation. From heat crawling up your neck. From the buzz of your phone screen still echoing in your mind.

door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.

You knock anyway.

Three short raps. Not shy, but not cocky either. Like you're daring him to make this real again.

The door swings open almost immediately.

And there he is.

Su-bong.

Leaning one shoulder against the frame, shirtless, wearing a pair of black sweats that hang just low enough to wreck your concentration. Hair messy. A faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone, like he was already pacing before you got here.

His eyes drag over you slowly — from your flushed face to your bare legs — then back up.

And that smirk appears. Lazy. Confident. Fucking lethal.

"You ran here?" he says, voice low and teasing. "So... desperate."

You roll your eyes, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. "I was already nearby. Don't flatter yourself."

He lets you pass — but not without his fingers brushing the small of your back as you do.

"Ahh," he murmurs behind you, shutting the door. "Yes. Okay. No flattering."

A pause.

Then — quieter, smug —

"But you came for me."

You spin on your heel, raising a brow. "Don't act like you didn't like that."

His grin widens. "I like everything. You. The way you look at me. The little skirt. The..." — he gestures vaguely, searching — "face you make when I touch you."

You snort. "You're terrible at compliments."

"I'm amazing at compliments." He corrects, pointing at himself. "My English—ehh..." — he wobbles his hand — "so-so. But my eyes?" He taps his temple, then lowers his voice, "my eyes say... fuck yes."

You laugh despite yourself. "Jesus Christ."

He shrugs. Steps closer. "Not Jesus. Just Su-bong."

You shake your head, biting back a grin. "You're ridiculous."

"Mm. What is... ridiculous?" he repeats slowly, the word heavy in his mouth.

You wave your hand. "You. Your ego. The fact that you think I came here just for your dick."

He raises a brow. "No?"

You hesitate. Then shrug. "...Okay. Yeah. I did."

"Ah-ha." His smile turns devilish. "So honest today. Honesty is sexy."

He's standing right in front of you now. Close, but not touching. His eyes flick to your mouth, then your collarbone, then back up.

"Three days," he murmurs. "No message. I thought you disappear."

You arch a brow. "You didn't message me either."

He nods once. "Because if you want it, you come back." His gaze sharpens. "You are the kind of girl who decides."

You blink. Caught off guard. "That a compliment or a read?"

He shrugs again. "Yes."

That makes you laugh.

He watches you — pleased — then speaks in Korean, smooth and fast, something that sounds like a string of soft consonants and rolled vowels.

You stare at him. "What?"

He chuckles. Repeats it — slower this time.

Still nothing.

You throw your hands up. "I have no idea what you just said."

He leans closer. "Then just say 'ne.'"

"Ne?"

He grins. "Good. Now you agree to everything."

You narrow your eyes. "You're dangerous."

He nods solemnly. "Ne."

The silence stretches for a beat — thick with everything unspoken. Everything you came back for.

You break it first. Quiet, honest. "You thought I wasn't coming back?"

He lifts one shoulder. "Not many people come back. Not for me."

You tilt your head. "Why not?"

He considers. "Maybe I fuck too good."

You snort. "Oh my god."

He laughs, then gestures to the couch. "Sit. Talk. Or do you want me to take your clothes off now?"

You smirk. "That eager?"

He taps his temple again. "Not just a fuck. I like... your voice. Even when I don't know your words."

You sit slowly, eyes still on his, heart racing with something that's not just lust.

And for now?

You let the tension sit between you.

Coiled.

Breathing.

Hungry.

You lean back on the couch, eyes dragging over his bare chest — the way his muscles shift when he moves, the tattoos that disappear beneath the waistband of his sweats, the lazy, dangerous way he watches you like he already knows you're about to break.

You don't try to hide your stare. You let your gaze trail down his torso, slow and obvious, then back up to his face.

He smirks, pleased.

Then — without warning — he leans forward and hooks a finger in the neckline of your crop top, tugging it down in one smooth motion.

Your breath catches.

Your chest bounces free. No bra. No warning. You gasp, eyes wide, heart hammering.

He grins like a wolf.

"No bra?" he laughs. "Crazy girl."

His eyes linger for a moment, greedy but amused, then flick back to your face.

"What?" he shrugs. "You can see me shirtless but I can't see you shirtless?"

You arch a brow, sliding closer — slowly, intentionally — your thighs brushing his.

"Mmm," you hum, tilting your head. "It's not the same."

He narrows his eyes, playing along. "How?"

You lean in, voice dropping just enough to make him tense. "You shirtless is a threat." You drag your nails lightly down his chest. "Me shirtless?" Your fingers dip lower, teasing the waistband of his sweats. "That's a promise."

His lips part — like he wants to say something cocky, something smug — but nothing comes out.

Instead, he just watches as you reach back and tug your shirt off fully, letting it drop behind the couch. The air hits your skin, your nipples already stiff from anticipation, and his eyes go dark.

You straddle one of his thighs now, close enough to feel the heat of him, your hands resting lightly on his chest.

"You know what I was thinking about," you murmur, voice thick, "on that boring-ass tour today?"

He swallows, eyes locked on your mouth. "Tell me."

You graze your nails down his stomach, slow and teasing.

"You. Your hands. Your mouth." Your fingers curl into his waistband. "The way you didn't even let me finish catching my breath last time before you had me coming again."

He exhales hard through his nose.

You press your body closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, "I want you to fuck me on this couch. I want your dick inside me so deep I forget my own name. I want you to make me beg in English, in Korean — I don't care. Just... make me say something."

He growls — low, rough — and grips your hips. "Jesus."

"Still not Jesus," you tease against his jaw. "Still just Su-bong."

That makes him laugh — hoarse and wrecked — and before you can say another word, his hand is on the back of your neck, pulling you in.

He kisses you.

Hard.

No warm-up. No hesitation.

His mouth crashes into yours like it's necessary — like he's been starving for the taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair immediately, your body pressing against his bare chest, and he groans into your mouth, deep and low.

Your thighs tighten around his leg as he shifts, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down your back to your ass, gripping like he can't decide whether to lift you or pin you down.

You bite his bottom lip — just enough to make him gasp — and he retaliates by sucking on your tongue like he owns it. The kiss turns filthy fast, spit-slick and breathless, your hips rolling without even realizing it.

His hands are everywhere. Palming your tits. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they ache. One hand dipping between your thighs to press against your panties, groaning when he feels how soaked you already are.

"Fuck," he mutters, his accent thicker now, voice rough. "Already so wet?"

You moan into his mouth. "Told you I've been thinking about you."

He pulls back just enough to look at you — lips swollen, eyes dark.

Then switches to Korean, something low and sinful that you can't understand.

You blink. "What?"

He smirks. "I said..." He leans in, lips brushing your neck. "You drive me fucking crazy."

You grind against his hand, head falling back. "Good."

And then he's kissing you again — deeper this time, slower. His fingers push aside your panties and slide between your folds, slick and hot, and he groans at the feel of you. One finger, then two — curling just right, just enough to make you gasp and clutch his shoulders.

You rock against him, messy and desperate, moaning into his mouth as his fingers work you open, his thumb circling your clit with maddening control.

"You feel this?" he whispers. "My fingers..." He pumps them deeper. "Soon, my cock. Right here. On this couch."

You're panting now, lips swollen from his, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. "Su-bong—"

"Say it again." He kisses your throat. "Say my name like that again."

You do.

Between gasps, between kisses, between the moans he pulls out of you with every filthy touch.

His couch creaks beneath you, the air thick with sweat and breath and everything you swore this wasn't supposed to be.

And neither of you gives a damn.

You've soaked through your panties, your chest bare, his fingers inside you and his mouth wrecking your throat in slow, filthy kisses. You can't stop moaning, can't stop moving — your hips rocking against his hand like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

And then it's too much.

You want more.

Not fingers. Not teasing.

Him.

Your hand slips between you — grabbing the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down hard enough that he grunts.

He lifts his hips, helps you, lets you strip them down just enough to free his cock — thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath stutters.

"Fuck, look at that," you whisper, wrapping your hand around him, giving him a single stroke just to feel the weight of it. "So hard. Did I do that?"

He groans, head tipping back.

"Yes, you," he mutters, accent deepening with every breath. "You're—shibal—you're evil."

You press your forehead to his, grinning, wild. "No, baby. I'm starving."

And then you're lining him up — no hesitation — sinking down onto him in one slow, devastating motion.

"Shit—" you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, I missed this. Missed how full you made me."

He hisses through his teeth, hands gripping your hips like a vice.

"You're insane," he growls. "Three days and you come back like this?"

You roll your hips, slow and filthy. "You think I could do that tour shit knowing this cock exists? You think I gave a fuck about palaces?"

He groans, watching your tits bounce as you start to ride him — hard, fast, no patience. Every sound you make is high and desperate and ruined.

"Crazy girl," he mutters. "So needy. So fucking wet. You want me to break you?"

"Do it," you pant, nails dragging down his chest. "Choke me. Fuck me. Spit in my mouth. I want everything. I want to feel it tomorrow."

His hand flies to your throat in one swift movement — not tight yet, just enough to make you still.

"You're sick," he whispers.

You lick your lips. "So make me worse."

His grip tightens. Your breath stutters.

You fucking love it.

He pulls you in for a kiss — tongue deep, filthy, biting your bottom lip until you whimper — then pulls back just enough to stare at you.

"Say you're mine," he growls.

"I'm yours," you gasp, hips still working.

"Say you're my good girl."

"I'm your good girl—fuck—Su-bong, please—"

"Say it again."

"I'm your good girl. I'm your good little slut, please—"

His eyes darken.

Then he's grabbing your ass, guiding your thrusts, his hips bucking up into you now — fucking up into you so hard you bounce. His hand finds your throat again, tighter now.

"You're perfect," he growls. "So dirty. You were made for this."

"Tell me you'll come inside me," you whine. "Please. Please, Su-bong— I need it, I want to feel it leaking out of me—mark me—please—"

He groans, visibly hesitating. "I shouldn't—"

"Do it. Ruin me. I'll come so fucking hard if you do—please, fill me up like you own me—"

He snaps.

His thrusts go brutal — deep, fast, punishing. He's growling in Korean now, things you can't understand but feel, one hand choking you, the other gripping your thigh so hard it might bruise.

And then he lets go of your throat just long enough to pull you down and kiss you — messy, gasping, all teeth — as he spills inside you.

You moan loud into his mouth, your whole body locking up as you come with him, your pussy milking him so tight he groans again, head falling to your shoulder.

You both go still.

Shaking.

Breathing hard.

Bodies glued together with sweat and cum.

You think it's over.

He definitely does.

He leans back, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his breath finally slowing.

"You're..." he starts. "Fucking dangerous."

You kiss him again — soft this time. Sweet.

And then?

You start moving.

Rocking your hips again, slow and tight, still full of him.

He blinks. "Wait—what are you—?"

You whimper. "Again."

He groans. "Jagiya, I don't—fuck—I don't know if I can—"

You roll your hips harder, clenching around him, kissing his jaw. "You can. You will. I need you again. I want to feel you break me this time. Please, Su-bong—don't stop—"

He exhales like he's in pain.

Then grips your waist again.

"Fuck it," he mutters. "One more."

And he gives you everything.

Again.

—

You didn't leave.

Not right after.

You ended up tangled in Su-bong's sheets, bruised and boneless, your thighs aching, your lips swollen, your body still clenching around the ghost of him. You fell asleep with his hand on your hip and woke up that same afternoon to the lazy weight of his arm still draped over you like he hadn't meant to fall asleep there either — but didn't regret it.

Now?

You're walking next to him in a back alley that smells like meat and oil, the sun too bright, your body still buzzing. You're wearing one of his shirts — oversized, sleeves rolled — and he's in a black tee, slouched into it like he owns the whole city and you're just tagging along.

Which, to be fair, you are.

He's leading you somewhere.

You don't ask where.

It's not a date — no one said the word — but you're both acting like it is.

Eventually he stops at a street cart wedged between two storefronts, the kind with plastic stools and an auntie already stirring sauce in a bubbling pot. He talks to her in quick Korean, hands moving with it, and you catch none of it.

She hands him two steaming paper bowls of tteokbokki. He passes you one. "Eat. Don't cry."

You eye it. "You think I can't handle spice?"

He smirks. "Most tourists die."

You take a bite. Immediately regret everything.

"Jesus—" you wheeze, coughing as your eyes water.

He laughs. Hard. "Ya! I told you! Ganjang yes, gochu-noona no!"

You glare. "What does that even mean?"

He grins. "Don't worry. Language lesson starts now."

You fan your mouth, tears threatening to spill. "What, so you can mock my pronunciation like a dickhead?"

He just smirks harder. "Say thank you. For food. For me. Ready?"

You groan. "If I survive this."

He taps the table, slow and deliberate. "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."

You blink. "Gahm... sa... ham... knee... dah?"

He winces. "Oof. That was murder."

You narrow your eyes. "Say that again."

He leans closer, smug as hell. "Gamsahamnida."

Slower now: "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."

You try again, biting the syllables out like you're chewing them. "Gamsa... hamnida?"

He nods, pleased. "Not bad. Cute."

You tilt your head. "That a real compliment, or more of your bullshit?"

He shrugs. "Little bit of both."

Then he mutters under his breath, "Jinjja, neomu gwiyopda..."

You squint. "What does that mean?"

He smirks. "Maybe nice. Maybe dirty. Maybe insult. You'll never know."

You gasp. "Excuse me?"

"You don't know Korean," he teases. "I could say anything."

You lean in closer, voice low. "You keep teasing me like that and I'll drag you into that alley and prove I'm not too tired to ride you again."

He freezes. Blinks at you.

Then groans, dragging a hand over his face like he's praying for strength. "Shibal... don't say things like that in public."

You grin. "Why? Gonna get hard in front of the tteokbokki lady?"

He huffs a laugh and tosses a piece of rice cake at your bowl.

You catch it with your chopsticks. Smug. Victorious.

The breeze picks up, and your thigh brushes his under the tiny table. His eyes flick to the contact but he doesn't move away.

He leans back, staring at you like he's trying to figure you out — and failing.

"You're different," he mutters. "Not just sexy. Something else."

You tilt your head. "Something good?"

He pauses, then nods once. "Yeah. Gamsahamnida."

You laugh. "For what?"

He doesn't answer.

Just looks at you.

And eats like he didn't just say something kind of fucking real.

You stare at him for a second longer than you should.

Not because he looks good — though he does, with sauce on his thumb and sweat curling at his temples and that silver chain glinting at his collarbone.

But because that line — that "something else" — hit you harder than expected.

You're still chewing it over when he speaks again. Casual. Low. Like he's talking about the weather. "Stay over tonight?"

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. "My friend—"

"Gets to see you every day." He doesn't even look up as he says it. Just picks up another piece of rice cake and pops it in his mouth. "Me?" He shrugs. "Only three more days."

He says it like it's the obvious choice.

Like staying over is the only thing that makes sense.

Like it's already been decided.

You swallow. Hard. That number echoing in your chest.

Three.

And somehow, it already feels like not enough.

You don't answer Su-bong right away.

Instead, you pull out your phone and call your friend — the one who's been more than patient, the one who covered for you, teased you, practically pushed you off the tour bus.

She answers on the second ring, breathless and probably mid-shopping spree. "You're alive."

You roll your eyes, even though you're smiling. "Barely."

You glance at Su-bong, who's sipping from a water bottle now like he didn't just emotionally blackmail you into staying over. You lower your voice.

"Hey, uh. So... he asked me to stay the night."

"Obviously."

"Are you mad?" You hesitate. "You sure you're okay with that? I don't wanna ditch you—"

"Babe," she cuts in. "You're being dicked down by the hottest man in Seoul. Live your dream. Just don't forget I exist."

You exhale. Relief and something warmer curling in your stomach. "You're really not mad?"

"Mad? I'm living for this. But." Her voice sharpens — mock-serious. "One condition."

You wince. "I knew that was coming."

"He has to take us somewhere tonight. Somewhere local. No tourist traps. I want the real Korean experience. Party style."

You glance at Su-bong again.

He raises a brow.

You cover the mic. "My friend says if I stay over, you have to take us somewhere tonight. A real Korean party. Not tourist shit."

He grins immediately. "Easy." Pulls out his phone like it's already handled. "I know place."

You mouth, "Where?"

He's already scrolling through his contacts. "Nam-gyu's house. My friend." Beat. "He throws parties. Loud ones."

You raise a brow. "Like, music and drinks or...?"

"Yes. Food, games, music. Se-mi, Gyeong-su, Min-su will be there." He looks up from his phone. "You'll see. It's not club. It's... better."

You pull the phone back to your ear. "He's calling one of his friends now. House party. Locals only. You in?"

There's a beat of silence, then your friend practically shrieks, "fuck yes I'm in."

You grin.

Su-bong's already got the phone to his ear, speaking rapid Korean — casual, animated, confident. You can't understand a word, but the tone is easy. Familiar.

He glances over at you mid-call, expression warm.

And you realize...

He's not just including you.

He's folding you into his life, piece by piece.

And you don't know what that means yet.

But for tonight?

It means one thing.

You're staying.

—

The apartment is already alive when you arrive.

It's tucked on the top floor of an older building near Hapjeong, the hallway narrow, the stairwell painted in peeling beige. But the second Nam-gyu's door swings open, it's like stepping into another world.

Warm lights. Music pulsing low from someone's Bluetooth speaker. The smell of fried chicken and alcohol already thick in the air. Shoes scattered at the entrance. A couch that's clearly seen too many bodies. Someone's jacket draped over a plant. A stack of soju bottles on the table like decoration.

The second you and your friend step in behind Su-bong, heads turn.

Everyone's already buzzing — loose-limbed, flushed cheeks, laughter bleeding from every corner. The music dips just low enough for voices to cut through.

"Yaaaa, Su-bong-ah!" a voice calls from the kitchen.

A guy with a snapback and an unbuttoned shirt jogs over — tall, lean, grin already in place.

"This him?" your friend whispers.

You nod. "Nam-gyu i'm assuming."

He greets Su-bong with a one-armed hug and claps him hard on the back before turning to you and your friend.

"You must be the foreigners," Nam-gyu says with a thick accent, grinning wide. "Welcome to my house-slash-party-slash-chaos."

You laugh. "That's exactly what we were promised."

He bows slightly. "Nam-gyu. I speak English, good... well, good enough to get you drunk, bad enough to never say sorry."

"That's perfect," your friend chirps. "That's all we need."

Nam-gyu waves someone over. "Come, come — meet everyone."

From the kitchen, another guy appears with messy dark hair, dressed in a striped tee and cargo pants. He looks about five seconds out of military service and ten seconds into a buzz.

"Gyeong-su," Nam-gyu says, pointing.

"Hello," Gyeong-su says with a polite bow. "Nice... meet... you."

He looks like he used all his English in one go and immediately retreats with a red-faced smile.

Then a girl with black hair and perfect winged eyeliner steps out of the hallway, holding two soju bottles between her fingers like claws.

"Se-mi," she says before Nam-gyu can introduce her. "And yes, I speak English."

"Fluently?" your friend asks.

"Fluently enough to flirt with your friend," Se-mi smirks, eyeing you playfully before winking at Su-bong. "But I won't. Su-bong is scary."

Su-bong snorts. "You're scared of me but not Nam-gyu?"

Se-mi shrugs. "Nam-gyu buys me food."

Last to appear is a guy with a loose sweatshirt that reads "K-Drama Ruined My Life." He holds a bag of chips in one hand and a soju shot glass in the other.

"I'm Min-su," he grins.

You end up cross-legged on the floor with the others, a full circle formed around a pile of drinks. Your friend is already chatting animatedly with Se-mi and Min-su, while Su-bong sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours.

Nam-gyu claps his hands once. "Okay. First game — easy. Baskin Robbins sam-sib-il!"

You blink. "Isn't that an ice cream brand?"

"Also a game," Nam-gyu grins. "Here's how it works: You take turns counting from 1 to 31. On your turn, you can say one, two, or three numbers — but only up to 31. The person who lands on 31 has to take a shot."

"It's evil," Se-mi adds, pouring the soju. "There's strategy. Betrayal. Drama."

"And shots," Gyeong-su says solemnly.

You catch Su-bong's eye and smirk. "I'm screwed."

He shrugs. "Maybe. But cute when drunk."

The game starts.

"One," Se-mi begins, smirking.

"Two, three," your friend says confidently.

"Four," Min-su grins.

And around it goes.

The numbers fly fast. Everyone starts laughing when Nam-gyu and Su-bong try to sabotage each other by jumping numbers. Gyeong-su has no idea what's going on but yells numbers proudly anyway.

When the count hits the twenties, tension spikes. Every number feels like a death sentence.

You land on 27.

You hold up one finger. "Twenty-eight."

Su-bong next to you smirks. "Twenty-nine... thirty."

"Shibal..." Nam-gyu blinks. "Thirty-one!" Everyone bursts out laughing as Nam-gyu throws his head back with a groan and downs the shot. "You did this to me," he glares at Su-bong.

"You deserve it," Su-bong mutters back.

Nam-gyu wipes his mouth and turns to you.

Leans just a little too close.

His grin goes playful. "So. Foreigner. You got a name or should I just call you yeppeun geunyeo?"

You blink.

Su-bong doesn't.

His hand on your thigh tightens. His jaw flexes.

"Ya," he snaps. "Geumanhae."

Nam-gyu lifts his brows innocently. "Mwo? Joke-joke. She's hot."

That's when Su-bong really lets go — in Korean first, voice low and rough. "Ya, jinjja—geuman. Ije jeongmal—aniya. Nae yeoja, molla? Apeseo—geunyeo nae—"

He cuts himself off. Then glances at you.

And switches to English. "My foreigner. My girl."

The group goes quiet for a second — half amused, half unsure if a fight's about to happen.

But you?

You laugh.

Full, delighted, tipsy.

You look at him, still smiling, your hand finding his thigh now under the table.

"That's hot," you murmur, leaning into him. "You being all angry and growling in Korean. Getting possessive. It's so fucking hot."

Su-bong blinks, caught off guard.

Then his mouth curves. That slow, dangerous smirk. "You like that?"

"Uh-huh." You lean in closer. "Next time you wanna yell at someone for flirting with me, whisper it in my ear instead."

His eyes flash.

He says something under his breath in Korean again — quick and sharp — you don't ask what it means.

You don't need to.

Because the way he grabs the soju bottle and pours your glass again, hand brushing your thigh like it's second nature?

You already know.

Half an hour later, the party's deeper.

The music's louder. The soju's hitting harder. Your friend is dancing barefoot in the living room with Se-mi and Min-su, laughing so hard she almost knocks over a lamp. Gyeong-su is passed out against the wall, a peace sign still up in one limp hand. Nam-gyu is pretending he isn't watching the chaos unfold with pride.

And Su-bong?

He's been watching you for twenty straight minutes.

Not in a creepy way. Not even overtly.

Just... watching.

You've been sitting on the couch, sipping on a beer someone handed you, laughing too loud and tugging at the hem of his shirt — the one you're still wearing, oversized and falling off one shoulder.

And maybe it's the lighting. Or the weed. Or the way your lips are curved just slightly, like you're always about to say something filthy.

But whatever it is, he snaps.

"Yah," he mutters, tapping your thigh. "Come here."

You blink. "What?"

He doesn't repeat himself. Just grabs your hand, and the next second, you're straddling him on the couch, his hands firm on your waist like he was always going to put you here eventually.

Your knees sink into the cushions on either side of his thighs, your beer forgotten on the floor.

He leans back, one hand sliding around to your lower back. His other hand? Fishing something out of his pocket.

You raise a brow when you see it — a slim pre-roll and a cheap lighter. "Seriously?"

He shrugs. "Nam-gyu's stash. Said to share it."

You smirk. "And you're just such a generous guy."

"I am," he mutters, lighting it. "Very giving."

The smoke curls between you in the dim light.

He takes the first drag. Holds it. Exhales slow.

Then presses it to your lips, watching as you inhale, slow and cautious.

The burn slides down your throat — smooth, warm. He watches you like he wants to record the way your mouth curves around the joint, the way your eyes soften when the high settles.

"Feel it?" he asks, voice rough.

"Mmhm," you hum. "Feels nice."

He nods. Then—

"Why'd you come to Korea?"

You blink.

It's not flirtatious. Not shallow.

Just—genuine.

You lean back slightly, fingertips resting on his chest. "I don't know. Needed a break. Wanted something... not mine for a while."

He studies you. "Not yours?"

You shrug. "Home feels... small. Heavy. You ever get that?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then takes another hit, passes it to you again. "Every day."

You hold his gaze as you inhale. Exhale. Pass it back.

"You ever been in love?" he asks.

The question hits harder than the smoke.

You let out a soft laugh. "You're really asking that right now?"

He shrugs. "Just wondering."

You glance down at his chest, at the silver chain resting against his shirt.

"Once. A long time ago." You pause. "You?"

He tilts his head. Considers.

Then shakes it once, eyes still locked on yours. "Nah. Not yet."

Not yet.

You wonder what the hell that means, but you don't ask. You're too high. Too warm. Too tangled up in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out your edges — like he's searching for something under the skin.

"You think about it?" he asks after a beat.

You blink. "Home?"

He nods.

You take the joint again. Inhale slow.

Then—

"Every minute." You meet his eyes. "And somehow... not at all."

He doesn't say anything right away. Just slides his hand up your back, fingers curling around the nape of your neck like he needs to anchor himself to something.

"You're not what I expected," he says finally.

You raise a brow. "What did you expect?"

"One night," he says honestly. "Tourist. Tipsy. Quick fuck. Forget your name in the morning."

You nod slowly. "That's fair."

He leans forward. Kisses you. Soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing yours, lips warm and patient. The kind of kiss that says I want to remember this.

When he pulls back, his voice is a whisper against your mouth. "But you keep staying."

You press your forehead to his. "Maybe I'm not done yet."

The words hang between you like smoke.

Your hands resting against his chest, the smell of soju and weed in the air, the music still thumping faintly from the other room. You can hear your friend laughing with Se-mi again, someone shaking a bag of chips way too aggressively.

But here, on this couch, in his lap, everything else fades.

And then Su-bong says it.

Soft. Certain. Like it's obvious. Like it's easy.

"Extend your stay."

You pause.

Just for a second. Just long enough to feel it land somewhere deep in your chest.

You run your fingers absently along the edge of his shirt, biting the inside of your cheek before answering.

"I can't."

He doesn't speak, just watches you.

So you explain, voice low and honest.

"I've been traveling for two months. Around Asia. Korea's the last stop before I go back to real life."

A small smile, a shrug. "All my money's already gone. My job's waiting. I don't have the luxury of... disappearing here. Even if I wanted to."

He doesn't like that.

You see it on his face — in the way his brows pull together, in the way his lips twist into a pout that's more genuine than dramatic.

"Aish..." he mutters, exhaling hard. "Geureom eotteokhae..."

You blink. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"No, seriously. What'd you say?"

He just sighs, voice heavier now. "Geureom eotteokhae, jinjja..."

You smirk, fingers running along the collar of his shirt. "If you're gonna say something dramatic in Korean, at least help me understand."

He groans. You laugh. And then you shift in his lap, grinding just slightly — slow enough to make his jaw flex, his hands automatically tightening on your hips.

"Why don't we take my friend home..." You lean in, lips brushing his. "...and crash at my hotel tonight, hmm?"

Your voice drops, all heat now. "It's a two-bedroom. And she's a very heavy sleeper after alcohol."

He huffs a quiet laugh, lips curling. "You dangerous woman."

You kiss him. Just once. Firm. Confident.

"So?" You raise a brow. "Are we doing this, or what?"

He leans in, mouth grazing yours as he mutters, "try and stop me."

—

You're not even sure how you made it back.

The city is a blur — neon lights bleeding into pavement, car horns echoing like background noise to your tipsy, giddy laughter. Su-bong walks between you and your friend like some reluctant guardian angel, one arm curled securely around your waist, the other guiding your friend with the patience of a saint.

You and her are drunk, high, and useless.

She keeps singing part of a Blackpink chorus on loop, swaying into parked scooters. You keep mumbling about how good Su-bong smells and how unfair it is that his jaw looks like it could cut glass.

He doesn't say much.

Just keeps you both moving, steady and warm.

By the time you get to your hotel, your friend is half-asleep on her feet. Su-bong helps her into bed, tucks a blanket over her with surprising gentleness, and sighs as she starts snoring immediately.

You sway behind him in the doorway, eyes glazed, hair messy, shirt halfway off your shoulder.

"Well," you mumble, grinning, "she's done for."

He turns to look at you — and you swear you see the shift.

That slow melt from patient babysitter to something hotter, heavier, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows where this night ends.

You walk past him without a word, grab his hand, and pull him through the adjoining door into your room.

The second the door clicks shut, everything turns electric.

There's no finesse. No warm-up. Just hands yanking clothes, breathless kisses, mouths crashing together like you've been starving for each other all night — because you have.

You fall into the bed, Su-bong over you, both of you still laughing through the haze, drunk on everything: the party, the weed, each other.

Your shirt's gone. His pants are gone. His mouth is on yours like it belongs there.

"You smell like smoke," you whisper between kisses.

"You taste like beer," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck.

"You gonna fuck me or just make fun of me?"

"Both," he mutters. "Geurom... let's start now."

There's no foreplay. Just a mess of limbs and gasps and mouths.

He enters you in one slow, thick push — no teasing, no warning — and you both groan like it's a relief. Like finally, finally, you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

"Oh my god—" you gasp, eyes fluttering. "Su-bong, fuck—"

"Shh..." he soothes, kissing your jaw. "Shhh... neomu areumdawo... you feel so good, baby..."

He rocks into you, slow but deep, his chest pressing down against yours, one hand cradling your jaw, the other gripping your thigh. His thrusts aren't polished — they're messy, needy, soaked in sweat and urgency — but every one hits just right.

"You're so warm," he groans. "So wet already... god, I will miss this—"

You clutch at his back, legs wrapping around his hips as he drives into you again, again, again.

"Say something else," you whisper. "In Korean. I don't care what."

His breath catches.

Then he leans close, brushing his lips against your temple.

"Saranghae," he murmurs.

You smile, drunk and unaware, letting the word wash over you like music. "What's that mean?"

He just kisses you and keeps moving inside you like he wants to imprint himself under your skin.

His hips roll into you with slow, dragging thrusts, every inch stretching you open, making you feel like you're unraveling from the inside out. There's no rhythm anymore, not really — just this desperate push and pull, his body molded to yours, skin slick and flushed, breath tangled between kisses.

You cling to him, your legs locked around his waist, arms around his shoulders like you'll fall apart if you let go. His forehead is pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough and low and broken in your ear.

"You're perfect," he whispers. "Fuck... you're mine, jagiya. This pussy—" he groans, dragging himself deeper, "made for me, yeah?"

You nod, whimpering, so gone you can barely breathe. "Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop, please—"

He kisses you then — deep and messy, all tongue and heat, biting your lip between gasps.

"You feel so good, baby," he pants. "So fucking tight, so warm... I don't wanna leave. I wanna stay right here—inside you—just like this—"

Your nails dig into his back, your hips rolling up to meet him, chasing that edge, your body clenched around him so tight it's a miracle he's still holding on.

"Gonna come," you gasp. "Fuck, I'm so close—Su-bong, please—"

He doesn't answer. Just drives into you harder, deeper, groaning every time your walls flutter around him.

"Come for me, jagi," he whispers. "Let me feel you. Give it to me."

And you do — everything inside you coils tight and then snaps, white-hot, blinding. You cry out, your whole body shaking as you clench around him, gripping him like you're trying to pull him even deeper.

"Oh my god— fuck—" you gasp, voice breaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.

"Geurae, geurae—" His hips stutter, and then— "Shibal—"

He buries himself to the hilt and comes, his entire body tensing as he spills inside you, hot and deep, hands gripping your waist like he's anchoring himself to this moment.

He moans into your neck, voice ragged and low, "jugeul geot gata... saranghae..."

You don't understand the words.

But you understand the way he says them.

The way he holds you after, lips brushing your cheek, hand sliding into your hair. Still buried inside you, still panting like he's never coming back down.

And neither of you says anything for a long time.

Because right now?

Words don't mean nearly as much as this.

Eventually, you both slow. Your limbs tangle. The sweat cools. Your breath returns.

He doesn't pull away.

Just lays there on top of you, face tucked into your neck, hand still cradling your jaw like he's afraid to let go.

You run your fingers through his hair, soft and slow.

"You okay?" he murmurs.

"Perfect," you say. And you mean it.

He kisses your cheek. Then your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Just little things. Little touches that say stay.

He helps clean you up gently — wipes between your legs with a warm towel he grabs from the bathroom, kisses your thighs afterward like an apology. Pulls the blanket up over both of you.

You're curled into his chest when it happens.

Suddenly. Quietly.

You start to cry.

Not a breakdown. Not dramatic.

Just silent tears leaking from your eyes as your fingers grip his shirt.

"Hey—hey," he says softly, pulling back to look at you. "Why cry?"

You sniff. Wipe your cheek.

"I don't want to go home," you whisper. "I want to stay with you... just a little longer."

His face softens. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing another tear away.

"Don't cry, jagiya," he murmurs. "We will meet again, hmm?"

You don't know if it's true.

But you let yourself believe it — just for tonight.

And fall asleep in his arms, still warm from his body, his breath steady in your hair, wrapped in a feeling you're too scared to name.

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi su bong smut #subong smut #subong x reader

LOST IN TRANSLATION

summary: you, a tourist meet a stranger in a club and end up in his bed, not knowing he won’t want to let you go.

parings: thanos x foreigner reader

warnings: slight language barrier, romanised korean, smut, swearing

part two

The bass was a living thing.

It thudded through your chest, your heels, your throat. Sweat clung to the curve of your back as you danced with your friend, laughter spilling from your lips as the DJ shifted into something with just enough grind to it. Everything felt unreal — the flashing neon lights, the scent of alcohol and perfume, the blur of bodies pressed too close together.

Seoul was already a whirlwind of a trip, but tonight? Tonight felt like something out of a movie.

“Another round?” your friend shouted over the music, nodding toward the bar.

You gave a half-dazed thumbs up, still swaying to the beat, your head tilted back to let the music soak into your skin. You were tipsy — not drunk, but warm. Lightheaded in a good way. The kind of good that made you close your eyes and dance like no one was watching.

Someone was watching, though.

You didn’t notice the guy at first — not until a hand slipped a little too low on your waist. You flinched, spinning to find some random dude grinning down at you like he belonged there.

“Hey,” he said — a little slurred, his breath smelling like soju. “You’re not from here, huh?”

Your smile was polite. “No, I’m not.”

“I can show you around,” he added, leaning in. “Real Korean experience. You into Korean guys?”

You stepped back. “No thanks.”

But he followed. His hand came up again — not quite touching this time, but hovering, insistent. You glanced around, searching for your friend, but she’d drifted toward the bar. You were alone in the crowd.

“No,” you said again, louder. “I said no.”

“C’mon, just one dance. You’re so pretty—”

You turned, trying to slip away, but he cut you off with a hand on your arm. Not tight, but firm. Enough to piss you off.

“Aniyo,” you snapped, shaking your head. “Aniyo. Hajima.”

He laughed. “Ah, you know some Korean? Cute.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to fuck off — in English, in Korean, in every language you could manage — when a new voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“Ya,” the man barked. “Geumanhae.”

The guy froze.

So did you.

The voice didn’t belong to anyone you recognized — deep, commanding, with just enough edge to sound like a warning. You turned and saw him for the first time.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black with silver jewelry glinting under the strobe lights. His hair was messy, his jaw clenched, and his eyes — dark and unreadable — were locked on the guy gripping your arm.

Your breath caught.

The guy sputtered, backing off like he’d just realized he was being watched. “Chill, man. Just talking.”

“She’s not interested,” the man said, this time in slightly accented English. “Go.”

A few beats passed. The guy looked between you both, then scoffed and disappeared into the crowd.

Your heart was still racing when the stranger stepped closer.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now. Lower.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked at you for a second longer — like he was checking to see if you were really fine — then gave a short nod. “He was annoying.”

“That’s one word for it.”

His mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “You said ‘aniyo’ good.”

You smiled, still trying to catch your breath. “I’m learning. Kind of. Slowly.”

He tilted his head. “Foreigner?”

You nodded. “Tourist. Just visiting with a friend. And you?”

“Local,” he said simply, then added, “I’m Thanos.”

Your brows lifted. “Like… Marvel Thanos?”

He shrugged, amused. “Nickname.”

You laughed — a real one this time. “Well, I’m glad this Thanos doesn’t seem like the ‘snap-half-the-world’ type.”

His smile widened just a little. “Only snap creepy guys away.”

That made you laugh again. You glanced toward the bar — your friend still hadn’t returned.

He followed your gaze. “Your friend?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just watched you. The lights pulsed again, casting color across his face — red, then blue, then soft pink. He looked out of place here. Too intense. Like he belonged in a darker place, a quieter room, with fewer people and more shadows.

You liked that.

“Well,” you said, unsure why your voice suddenly felt breathless. “Thanks again. For stepping in.”

Thanos gave a small nod. “You want me to stay?”

You blinked. “Stay?”

He motioned toward the crowd. “In case he comes back.”

Oh.

That shouldn’t make your stomach flutter. But it did.

You hesitated — only for a second — then smiled.

“Yeah. Stay.”

You hadn’t expected to say it. But it slipped out like it belonged — like the bass had shaken it loose from your chest before you had time to think.

Thanos didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a small, satisfied nod. Then he extended his hand — fingers slightly curled, palm up — and gestured toward the dance floor.

You blinked. “Are you… asking me to dance?”

His lips twitched. “I thought that’s what people do here.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes a little as you slipped your hand into his. His fingers were warm, calloused. He didn’t grip too tight — just enough to anchor you as he led you back into the pulsing crowd.

The music had picked up again, a slower, sensual rhythm with a deep beat that hummed in your chest. Bodies moved all around you, but somehow, in the middle of it, you found a rhythm that was just your own.

Thanos didn’t press in close at first. He gave you space — respectful, almost casual — but his eyes never left yours.

You swayed together, his hand resting lightly on your waist, your fingers laced with his. It wasn’t sexual. Not yet. Just… comfortable.

Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough to notice the way he watched your mouth when you smiled.

“Your name?” he asked, leaning in just enough to be heard.

You told him. His head tilted slightly as he repeated it, slower — testing it out on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it. Softer. Sweeter.

“Pretty,” he said, voice low and sincere.

You smiled, leaning in closer. “You said Thanos, right?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound barely audible over the pulsing beat. “Nickname. My real name’s Su-bong.”

“Su-bong,” you echoed, trying it out.

He nodded, pleased. “Mm. You say it well.”

“I mean… that one’s not hard. You didn’t give me a 15-syllable name with three silent consonants.”

Su-bong laughed — really laughed — and the sound curled through your chest like warmth in winter.

“You’re funny,” he said, still grinning. “Most people hear my name and forget it in two seconds.”

You shrugged. “I won’t.”

Something flickered behind his eyes at that — subtle, but real. His hand moved a little more securely to your waist, but his touch was still gentle, not assuming.

“How long are you here?” he asked, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“A week. Maybe a little more.”

“Just vacation?”

“Yeah. First time in Korea. Came with a friend. She’s currently flirting with the bartender, I think.”

He followed your gaze toward the bar and smirked. “She’s doing good job.”

“I’m sure she’ll come back with free shots,” you said, laughing.

“Maybe two,” he offered, raising a brow. “One for me?”

You mock-gasped. “Are you trying to scam free drinks off a tourist?”

He gave a slow shrug, eyes glinting. “Only if she’s cute.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Smooth.”

He leaned in again, just a little — enough to make you feel the heat of him under the neon lights.

“Was it working?”

Your lips parted, heartbeat stuttering just a bit.

“…Maybe.”

The space between you shifted.

Still dancing — still swaying — but your body moved closer. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the silver chain at his collar. He didn’t move at first. Just watched you. Waiting.

So you set the pace.

Your hips rolled into his — slow, easy, like testing the water — and his hands found your waist again, firmer this time. Not rough. Not greedy. Just present. Like he was waiting for you to decide how far this would go.

You didn’t grind. Not really. Just moved in time with him, letting the music carry you both. Your body brushing his. Heat curling in low, electric waves.

And then — right as your chest brushed against his — a voice sliced through the mood like a drunk missile.

“Bitch, I got drinks—oh shit—”

You turned just in time to catch your friend stumbling through the crowd with two cocktails in one hand and two shots in the other. Pink liquid was already sloshing over the rim as she barreled toward you.

She shoved one cocktail and one shot into your hands without ceremony, nearly spilling both. “Here. Don’t ask how I got these. Just—drink.”

You blinked. “What about you—”

“I’m fine,” she said, and promptly downed her own shot like a pro. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

She squinted at Su-bong, her face already flushed, hair wild, still dancing a little in place.

“Su-bong,” you said smoothly, glancing up at him as you tossed back your own shot.

The liquor burned your throat — harsh and cheap and exactly what you needed.

Your friend tilted her head as she looked him up and down, clearly evaluating.

“…He’s hot,” she declared.

“I know,” you said under your breath, thinking — hoping — you were being subtle.

You were not.

Su-bong definitely heard you.

He didn’t say anything, though. Just raised one brow slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with quiet amusement.

Your eyes met his again. You could still feel the echo of your own words in your chest — he’s hot — and the fact that he was pretending not to hear it made it worse somehow.

Or better.

Depending on your level of self-control.

Your friend made a show of looking between the two of you, then smirked like she already knew everything.

“I’m going back to the bar,” she said, already turning. “Bartender’s from Busan. The accent is doing things to me.”

You laughed, watching her disappear into the crowd with the kind of determination that only came from free drinks and questionable choices.

Su-bong looked back at you, eyes flicking to the cocktail in your hand. “You gonna share?”

You raised your brow. “You don’t even know what’s in it.”

“Still want it.”

You held it out between you. “Try it.”

He took it without breaking eye contact, wrapped his fingers over yours on the glass — warm, slow, deliberate — and brought it to his lips.

A sip. Just enough.

“Sweet,” he said, tongue brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You like sweet?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I like this.”

Your stomach flipped.

You took the glass back, sipping slow, lips still tingling from the shot. The song shifted again — lower, heavier, the kind of beat that made everything feel like it was moving through water.

You were no longer swaying to the music.

You were swaying to him.

Su-bong didn’t say anything — he just took your hand.

No theatrics. No sweet talk.

Just fingers sliding between yours, firm and sure, as he turned and started moving through the crowd with you trailing close behind. You followed without hesitation, the music pulsing in your ears, the neon painting colors on his back as he led you away from the floor.

He found an empty booth tucked into a dim corner — half-shadowed, half-forgotten — and dropped into the seat with a low exhale, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he was grounding himself.

You stayed standing. Cocktail in hand.

His eyes followed you — slow, deliberate — from your lips to the drink to the hem of your skirt. And when you sipped again, you felt the heat of his stare more than the alcohol.

You raised a brow. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer. Slowly. Your drink halfway empty now, the sugar clinging to your tongue, the buzz rising under your skin like static. You stopped in front of him, just close enough for your knee to brush his.

He looked up at you, head tilted slightly, a hint of smug tension behind his eyes.

You didn’t speak.

Just held the glass out.

He blinked once — slow — and reached for it, but you pulled it back slightly, just enough to make him pause.

Then your free hand rose, fingers curling under his chin. Gentle. Intentional.

He stilled completely as your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, and with your other hand, you brought the cocktail to his lips.

His eyes stayed on yours as you tipped the glass.

He drank.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed — smooth, slow — and when he licked the corner of his mouth after, your stomach did an actual somersault.

You let go of his chin.

He didn’t move.

“I like you,” he said, voice low, heavy with that lazy drunken edge. His smirk was back, sharper this time. “A lot.”

You smiled, heartbeat pushing against your ribs, and leaned in.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You leaned down, one hand still holding the glass, the other braced lightly on the back of the booth — and kissed him.

Firm. Direct. One clean press of your lips against his.

His mouth was warm, slightly sticky from the drink, and he didn’t move. Not right away. Just let it happen — let you take the lead — his breath caught in that fraction of space between surprise and response.

You pulled back before he could react.

Just an inch.

Just enough.

The space between you vibrated with possibility, with the kind of tension that made time slow down. The song was still thumping behind you, but here — in this low-lit corner with liquor on your tongue and his breath on your cheek — it felt like silence.

Su-bong’s eyes were darker now.

No smirk.

Just hunger.

But still — he didn’t touch you.

He waited.

You tossed the glass on the table behind you, not bothering to look as it clinked down half-full. You didn’t need more of it — the alcohol already burning sweet and heavy through your blood, the weight of Su-bong’s stare more intoxicating than any cocktail.

Neither of you said anything at first.

You just stood there between his knees, and he just looked at you, one hand sliding up your thigh in a slow, deliberate line. Not high. Not greedy. Just enough to make your skin hum.

“You always this quiet?” you asked, lips curling.

He tilted his head. “Only when I want to listen.”

“To what?”

“You.”

That made you laugh — soft, breathless. “You’re smooth when you wanna be.”

He raised a brow. “Only when I like someone.”

You moved closer — just a step — letting your knee brush his again.

“I thought you liked sweet.”

“I do,” he murmured. “But I like bold more.”

You didn’t give him time to say anything else — not before your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and you leaned down again.

He didn’t wait this time.

He met you halfway, mouth crashing into yours with zero hesitation. This kiss wasn’t like the first — this one was messier, rougher. All tongue and teeth. Your lips parted under his, and he groaned into your mouth, low and guttural, like he’d been waiting to do that all night.

His hands slid around your hips, and then he was tugging you down — guiding you onto his lap with a firm pull. You let him. Sat sideways, one arm draped around his shoulder, your legs slotted along the booth, your chest pressing to his as he kissed you like he needed it to breathe.

You broke away first, gasping for air, your lips swollen and tingling.

He didn’t stop.

His mouth found your neck next — tongue hot against your pulse point, teeth grazing your skin as his breath came fast.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hand fisting in his shirt. “You’re—”

“Yeppo,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick and reverent. “Jinjja… neomu yeppo.”

You didn’t catch all of it — the Korean sliding off his tongue like honey — but the way he said it, voice rough and low, made your stomach clench.

“What does that mean?” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — eyes heavy-lidded, lips red. “Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you kissed down his neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing along his skin — and he hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the booth.

More Korean slipped from his lips, voice gone husky and broken:

“Eotteoke ireoni…”

How are you doing this to me…

“Shibal…”

Fuck…

You didn’t understand the words, not fully, but you understood the tone. The heat in it. The way his hand gripped your thigh tighter. The way his hips shifted beneath you, just slightly.

It was almost too much.

You pulled back, breathless, drunk, and grinning.

“Wanna take me home?” you mused, finger trailing slowly down the center of his chest. “Take me home, with you?”

He looked at you like you’d just given him permission to burn down the world.

“Please,” he said, voice low and full of promise.

That was all you needed.

You pulled out your phone with shaking hands, texting your friend [going with him, don’t wait up. I’m good. love you.] as Su-bong stood up from the booth, his hand already reaching for yours.

The club faded behind you as he led you toward the exit — lights flashing, music pounding, people bumping into you left and right.

You didn’t care.

Outside, the night air hit like a wave — cold, damp, real.

You laughed — breathless, dizzy — as he laced his fingers with yours, tugging you gently down the sidewalk.

Neither of you spoke much.

Didn’t have to.

You were drunk. Horny. Grinning like idiots.

Hands clasped, bodies brushing as you walked through dark streets and quiet alleyways, every step leading you closer to something you could already feel simmering just under your skin.

His place wasn’t far.

And your night wasn’t even close to over.

You barely made it up the stairs.

Su-bong fumbled with his keys like he was trying to race time itself, your breath ghosting against his neck as you leaned into him, fingers already undoing the buttons of your shirt with more urgency than precision.

“You’re too slow,” you whispered, teeth grazing his ear.

He cursed under his breath — finally getting the lock open.

The second the door clicked, he shoved it open, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you inside.

He kicked the door shut behind him — hard — then had you pressed against the wall before it even latched. Mouth crashing into yours again, his hands flat against your waist, gripping, pulling, like he didn’t know how to touch you without needing something from it.

Your shirt was halfway undone, hanging open, and he pushed it off your shoulders while your hands reached for his — tugging his black tee up, up — breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere you didn’t care about.

And fuck — he was built.

Broad chest, sculpted stomach, tattoos you hadn’t had time to admire in the club, all lit by the glow of a hallway light you barely noticed.

“God, you’re hot,” you breathed, running your fingers down his chest, nails scraping lightly over the muscle.

“Yeah?” he smirked — breathless now, voice deeper — but it caught when your hand slid lower, under the waistband of his jeans.

Your fingers found him already half-hard, hot and thick in your grip, and his whole body twitched.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “Shibal…”

“You like that?” you teased, stroking him slow, watching his eyes darken.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he growled, grabbing at his belt with one hand while the other braced against the wall beside your head.

He worked his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free, hard and flushed, and you didn’t even get a chance to react before his mouth was on yours again, rougher this time — all teeth and tongue, no air between you.

He pulled back just long enough to mutter, “You. Now.”

Then his hands were on your bra. No finesse. No patience. He unclasped it in one swift motion, and your gasp barely left your mouth before his hands were on your tits, warm and greedy.

“Neomu yeppeo,” he muttered like he couldn’t help it, eyes flicking over your bare chest. “Fuck… jinjja…”

“You gonna stand there talking,” you said, breath catching as his thumbs brushed your nipples, “or are you gonna fuck me like you mean it?”

That earned you a look. His hands squeezed harder, mouth dragging down to your collarbone.

You shimmied out of your skirt between kisses, the fabric sliding down your legs, pooling at your feet. You stepped out of it without breaking eye contact.

He stepped back just enough to look at you.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re—”

“Yours,” you said, cutting him off, dragging his hand back to your waist and slipping it under the band of your panties.

He didn’t need any more prompting.

His fingers dipped between your legs, groaning when he felt how wet you were. “So ready for me already?”

“I’ve been ready,” you breathed, rocking against his hand. “Ever since you sat there and stared at me like you wanted to eat me alive.”

His jaw clenched, eyes going darker.

“Cheonsa…” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ angel.”

You grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard, walking him backward now — toward wherever the hell his bedroom was — his fingers still between your legs, your thighs slick and shaking.

Neither of you cared about making it tidy.

You didn’t want perfect.

You wanted now.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind you.

Neither of you had even looked at it. Your backs had barely left the wall, mouths still locked, hands grabbing, groping, pulling like the other might disappear if you let go.

Su-bong turned you, backing you toward the bed, kissing you like he wanted to ruin your mouth — teeth catching your lower lip, tongue curling deep, slow, filthy. You felt him hard against your stomach, skin burning, breath ragged.

You hit the edge of the mattress and let yourself fall back, your thighs parting on instinct as you dragged him down with you.

He knelt between your legs, grabbing your hips roughly and yanking you down the bed, making you gasp as your back arched.

“You want it rough?” he growled, voice gone deeper — wrecked, desperate.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Yes. Hard. I can take it.”

His hand slid up your body, palm trailing over your stomach, your ribs, before wrapping gently — possessively — around your throat. Not squeezing yet. Just claiming.

“You sure?” he asked, eyes burning into yours. “I’ll ruin you.”

You smiled, lips parted. “Please.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your throat harder — just enough to make your breath catch — then leaned down and spit on your pussy. Watched it drip down. Then licked it up with a groan that vibrated through your bones.

You cried out, thighs twitching, one hand fisting in the sheets as he dove in — tongue working deep, slow at first, then rougher. His fingers gripped your thighs so tight you knew there’d be bruises later, and you loved that.

“Fuck—Su-bong—” you gasped, hips rocking up into his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You taste so fucking good.”

Then his tongue was back on your clit, one hand moving down to slide two fingers inside you, curling just right. The pressure was immediate. Dirty. Messy. Loud.

He didn’t stop until your whole body clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you came hard against his mouth, shaking under his grip.

But he didn’t give you time to recover.

“Again,” he growled, flipping you over like you weighed nothing, yanking your hips up beneath him.

You barely had time to gasp before he pushed into you — slow at first, then all the way in with one rough thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“Holy fuck—” you moaned, grabbing for the headboard.

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling hard, angling your head back so he could watch your face as he started thrusting — rough, deep, relentless.

“Listen to you,” he grunted, snapping his hips forward, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room. “So loud for me.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Don’t stop—fuck, yes—”

He spanked you once, sharp and satisfying. You moaned louder. So he did it again.

“You like that, huh?” he breathed, thrusts picking up. “You want me to fuck you stupid?”

“Yes—yes, god, yes—”

His hand was on your throat again, pulling you up so your back hit his chest, his other hand snaking between your legs to rub your clit, fast and rough and perfect. Your whole body was strung so tight you could barely breathe.

“Gonna come again for me?” he murmured against your ear, words hot and slick in both English and Korean. “Nae gwiyomi… ride me next, yeah? Let me feel you from the top.”

“I’m gonna—fuck—” you cried out, body locking up.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

You came again, harder this time, whole body shaking as you collapsed forward, a mess of moans and sweat and praise. You barely noticed him pulling out, flipping you with strong hands until you were flat on your back.

He climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows with a low grunt, cock glistening, hard and flushed.

“Ride me,” he said, voice gravel. “Wanna watch you ride me.”

You crawled into his lap, straddling him slow, your thighs still trembling from the last orgasm. He grabbed your waist, helping you sink down onto him — inch by inch until he was fully inside again, and you were gasping for air.

“Shit,” he moaned, head falling back. “So fucking tight.”

You started moving — rolling your hips slow, deep, taking him as far as you could — your hands planted on his chest, your eyes never leaving his.

“You like watching me?” you asked, voice wrecked.

“Love it,” he groaned. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

“Yeah?” you teased, speeding up, bouncing now. “You gonna come for me?”

“Almost,” he growled, gripping your hips tighter. “Keep going, baby. Keep fucking me like that—yeah, fuck—”

His eyes were locked on you, mouth open, sweat dripping down his neck. You leaned forward, kissed him once — filthy and deep — then pulled off of him without warning.

He groaned in protest, but you didn’t give him a chance to complain.

You dropped between his legs, took him into your mouth in one smooth movement — deep, wet, fast. He hissed, both hands flying to your hair, hips twitching as you sucked him with intention.

“Fuck, fuck, yes—” he choked out. “Gonna come, I’m—shibal—yeah—”

You didn’t stop.

You looked right up at him, locking eyes, watching his face twist with pleasure as you took every drop — swallowed it down like he belonged to you.

When he was done — when he slumped back, panting, fucked-out and speechless — you licked your lips and sat back on your heels.

He stared at you like you were unreal.

Like you were too good to be true.

You just smirked, wiped your mouth, and said, “Told you I could take it.”

You were still catching your breath when Su-bong reached for you — arms strong but gentle, pulling you up from between his legs and straight into his chest. His skin was warm, sticky with sweat, and he held you like he didn’t care.

Didn’t care about the mess. Didn’t care about the time. Just… you.

He kissed your shoulder, then your temple, slow and unhurried. His hand rubbed up and down your back — soothing, rhythmic — like he was trying to settle you down and keep you close all at once.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now. Low and wrecked.

You nodded against his neck. “More than okay.”

“Good.”

He kissed your cheek again, then slipped out from under you, muttering something in Korean you didn’t catch as he padded over to a dresser.

You watched him in the low light — naked, gorgeous, muscles rolling under his skin as he dug through a drawer — and then he turned, holding a shirt. It was black, oversized, and he walked straight back to you like he’d already decided:

“Arms up.”

You blinked. “What?”

He smirked. “Shirt. You’re gonna get cold.”

You raised your arms slowly, letting him tug the shirt over your head — his shirt. It smelled like him. Felt like him. It swallowed you whole, the hem falling to mid-thigh, sleeves covering your hands.

Su-bong looked at you like you were the last good thing in the world.

“Cute,” he muttered, voice gravel.

“You just want to keep me here,” you teased.

“I do.”

He pulled you down with him onto the bed, guiding you into the crook of his arm as he laid back, your legs tangling, your cheek against his bare chest.

The silence was comfortable now. Your heartbeat still slowly calming. The air warm from the radiator and your bodies, the sheets kicked half off the bed.

“Give me your Instagram,” he said after a minute, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

You gave it to him without question, watching him type it in with one hand, thumb scrolling through your profile.

“So you’re stalking me now?” you joked.

“Obviously.”

He liked three of your posts in a row.

You smacked his chest lightly. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“Don’t care.”

You snorted and curled into him more, the weight of the night finally hitting your limbs. His hand rubbed slow circles into your hip through the shirt, and when he spoke next, his voice was quieter. Thoughtful.

“You should move here.”

You laughed — not because it was a joke, but because of how casually he said it. Like it was just a thing you could do.

“What?” you teased. “Are you in love with me already?”

He smirked, turning his head just enough to look down at you.

“I could be,” he said, like it wasn’t even a stretch.

You stared at him for a beat. He was still smirking — but under it, there was something real. Something simmering in the way he looked at you like he wanted to memorize your face.

You bit your lip, hiding your smile. “I’ve got a week left. Plenty of time to fuck me out of your system.”

Su-bong exhaled, eyes closing briefly.

“Not enough time,” he said quietly. “Not even close.”

His arm tightened around you, hand smoothing over your hip. You didn’t say anything else, didn’t need to. You just let your head rest on his chest, heart syncing to his, skin still buzzing.

And in the quiet that followed — full of warmth and breath and everything unsaid — you let yourself fall asleep in his arms.

Knowing you weren’t going anywhere.

Not tonight.

Not yet.

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