About Story: An ordinary vacation on a different continent, a stranger you don’t recognize — and a situation slowly slipping out of control.
You’re pessimistic, shaped by experience, and not looking for a K-drama. Asia feels unfamiliar and distant from anything you’d call romantic.
To you, he’s just another rude, suspiciously intense stranger.
The problem is: he’s not ordinary. And you’re one of the few who treats him like he is.
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics, emotional intensity, alcohol use, strong language. Adults only. Minors DNI.
Bad Ratio Playlist created by @jiyongsangel 💜
Thank you! 🖤
🎧 [Spotify link] 🎧
Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction, written for entertainment purposes only. It contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adult readers (18+).
The story is fully completed. New chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday.
English is not my native language.
I’ve never been to South Korea; the locations and settings are fictional and based on imagination and research.
Thank you for reading and for your comments.Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Synopsis: It was supposed to be just a vacation. Not a dream trip, not a fantasy — just time away from routine, responsibility, and real life. You’re on a different continent. In Asia. In a culture that isn’t yours, where everything feels unfamiliar. You didn’t even plan the trip yourself. You came along because of your BFF. You’re sarcastic, ironic, and more observant than hopeful. You don’t know who he is. To you, he’s just a stranger. You have no idea he’s a public figure.
Bad Ratio is a story about a holiday that slips out of control.
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics, emotional intensity, alcohol use, strong language.
Adults only. Minors DNI.
BAD RATIO = This is not a K-drama. You’ve been warned.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 01
Word Count: 6,184
The plane touched down with such a jolt that for a split second, you were convinced your four-week vacation was over before it even began. When the pilot announced, with borderline aggressive enthusiasm, “Welcome to Seoul!” (as if he didn't repeat it several times a day), your friend was sitting next to you with a beaming grin. If you didn't know her better, you’d think you’d just landed in some fairy-tale kingdom.
Meanwhile, you were seriously considering booking a return flight right then and there. For the last hour of the flight, you’d been subjected to her non-stop excitement about finally tasting "authentic" Korean food and visiting cafes that look "just like in the K-dramas."
But you—the realist and lifelong pessimist—knew better. You knew that by the second bite of some street food served in a plastic bowl, your stomach would be doing somersaults, and anything local would cost you at least a kilo in unplanned weight loss. ‘Fine, maybe I’ll finally get thin. Four weeks of starvation is basically a free diet,’ you thought.
The airport was a chaotic mess orchestrated by someone who had clearly never heard the word “organization,” and it was grating on your last nerve. Blinding lights everywhere, a jet-lagged brain struggling to adapt, rushing crowds, and an incomprehensible language…
Your friend, acting like she was the lead in some indie movie, dragged you along by the hand like a rag doll. It took three tries just to find your suitcases because apparently, "things just take a time here." Yeah, everything here takes a time…
Then came the next level of hell: the taxi. The driver’s English was so non-existent that you just gave up. Your friend gestured wildly, pointing at the map on her phone while he nodded and mumbled something. You had a nagging suspicion he wasn’t saying anything polite.
By the time you stepped out of the taxi near your Airbnb, the sun was blazing so hard that your shirts were sticking to your backs within five minutes. Your friend trotted two steps ahead, her ponytail bouncing furiously, phone at the ready to photograph every colorful sign she couldn't read, every food stall, and every stray dog that crossed her path.
“This is amazing!” she blurted out as you passed a stall emitting the pungent, sharp scent of kimchi. “Do you see this? Food on every corner! And everyone is so handsome!”
You grimaced, hitching your backpack higher on your shoulder. Handsome, sure… whatever you say. The smell of fermented cabbage stung your nostrils so sharply you felt like you’d never be clean again. Your friend knew you too well. She caught your expression and immediately read your mind.
“Don't look so miserable, this is going to be the best trip ever. We’re going to a bar tonight, and I swear, you’re going to meet the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen. A total… drama moment.”
That was the breaking point. You stopped dead in your tracks and crossed your arms. “Yeah, sure. A ‘drama moment.’ And then you’ll find out that gorgeous guy has a girlfriend, or worse, he’ll steal your wallet. Or hey, maybe both at once.”
“You are such a pessimist,” she said, rolling her eyes and dragging you toward another stall.
“No, I’m a realist,” you snapped back. “And the reality is that no K-drama prince is coming. And if one actually shows up, you’d better check if he has a wife and two kids back home.”
She just laughed, completely undeterred. That spark in her eyes was still there—the one you knew all too well. It was obvious you’d end up in a bar tonight, but you’d be the one sitting in the corner, nursing a drink you’d probably hate, watching her flirt with some "prince."
You finally made it to the Airbnb without any further arguments. You had to admit, it was the first positive thing that actually surprised you—for its low price, it was decently equipped and spacious. Maybe you’d survive these four weeks and her jam-packed itinerary after all.
***
Hongdae after dark was pulsing. The neon signs flickered so violently you wondered how they didn't burn people's retinas. The air smelled of fried food, alcohol, and something you’d describe back home as “festival dumpster fire.”
But your friend was glowing, just like the signs. She dragged you from one bar to the next until she finally settled on a half-empty spot playing some bizarre underground music. Every table was a mess of empty glasses, soju bottles, and bowls of half-eaten food.
“This is perfect!” she cheered, nodding as she scanned the room and pulled you toward a free table. “We’re definitely meeting someone here!”
You sat down and ordered a beer. To your European taste buds, accustomed to actual premium lager, what they brought out looked like beer that had been through a filtration system one too many times. You leaned in toward her, your voice dripping with cynicism.
“You know this is the district everyone warns you about online, right?” you said, almost amused. “Korean guys come here specifically to pick up foreign girls, feed them fairy tales, sleep with them, and then ghost. It’s a literal sport to them.”
She rolled her eyes theatrically and sighed. “You ruin everything.”
You smirked. “Just be careful you don’t bring home a nice STD as a souvenir. Since you’re not exactly a magnet for pretty faces, maybe a case of gonorrhea will be the only thing to remind you of this ‘wonderful’ vacation.”
Before she could even snap back, a guy appeared at the table. At first glance, he was the textbook version of everything you’d read about—perfectly styled hair, a shirt that was a size too small, and a smile that was meant to be Hollywood but looked more like a commercial for overpriced whitening toothpaste.
“Hello,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “Where… from?”
Your friend lit up. “[Y/C]!”
The guy nodded as if he’d never heard the word before. “Ah, [Y/C]. Beautiful.”
You took a sip of your beer—which tasted even worse now that he was here—and grimaced. Yeah, beautiful. And in an hour, he’ll be telling you he loves you while waiting for you to take him home.
Your friend dived into the conversation with peak enthusiasm. Her “prince” responded in English made up entirely of one-word phrases. You watched their ridiculous pantomime, realizing that every warning the internet had given you was 100% accurate.
Minutes ticked by, and the guy was still there, elbows propped on the table, acting like he had the situation completely under control. In reality, English was leaking out of him at a rate of one word per minute, but apparently, that was enough for her. She laughed, she nodded, she played her part in that innocent game you’d seen her play five times before—the smile, the light touch on the shoulder, the flattery…
Her voice suddenly pulled you out of your thoughts. “He could… come with us,” she said in your native language, leaning in close. Her eyes were sparkling. She looked like a co-conspirator.
You choked, nearly spitting out your beer. “Excuse me?! Like… to our Airbnb?”
“Come on, [Y/N], it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve seen me with a guy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And besides, it’s not for the whole night. Just for a bit. You could… go somewhere else for a while? I don’t know, take a walk, stay here, have another beer…”
“Right,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “So I’m supposed to wander around night-time Seoul alone like an idiot while you play K-drama princess? Let me just remind you: we are in the exact neighborhood where guys pick up foreigners just to screw them and disappear. Congrats, you really picked a winner for our first night.”
She sighed and gave you a pleading look. “Don’t be like that. This is my vacation too—mostly mine, considering I spent six months begging you to come… Just a few hours, please. Then we’ll do everything together, just us, but right now… please.”
You could feel a dozen sarcastic comebacks piling up, and the alcohol wasn't exactly helping your temper. A string of insults for her was forming in your mind, but… she was your best friend. And you didn't want to be a total cockblock.
“Fine,” you hissed eventually. “But if you bring home syphilis as a souvenir, I’m going to remind you exactly who called it.” You pointed a finger meaningfully at your own chest.
She burst out laughing, knowing full well that as long as you were still making snarky remarks, it didn’t mean the end of the friendship—and that you weren’t quite as pissed as you looked.
The guy just kept nodding, having no clue what was being said in your fast-paced native tongue, but acting like he understood every word.
She stood up first, and he followed her like a loyal puppy. She shot you one last apologetic wink as they walked away.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to entertain myself without you two,” you muttered in your native language, flashing a strained smile at the departing “prince” and your friend while waving them off. If your erection doesn't go down in ten minutes, I might actually shoot myself…
You were left alone at the table with a nearly empty glass of beer. You reached for your phone to check the time. “How long can a horny Korean guy even last?” you whispered to yourself. “Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?” The thought of having to wander the night streets until it was safe to return to the Airbnb was more depressing than the idea of getting mugged along the way.
The music thumped, people laughed, drank, and danced around you, while you sat there like the ultimate social pariah with an ironic gaze that screamed I’m only here as a punishment.
And that’s when you noticed him.
He was sitting a few tables away—black hoodie, cap pulled low over his forehead. There was a strange empty space around him, as if people instinctively felt it was better to keep their distance. On the table in front of him sat a bottle of soju and a glass he kept refilling himself. His eyes were cast down, but only until he raised his head, and right at that moment, your eyes met.
You felt a strange sting in your stomach. It wasn't anything romantic—no K-drama spark, as your friend would call it. It felt more like getting caught in the act—caught in your own irony, caught in your mental betting on how long a horny guy would last with your friend.
He didn't smile, he just watched you. For a long time. So long that even with the alcohol providing its usual bravado, you were the one who had to look away first.
“Great,” you grumbled to yourself, finishing the last sip of lukewarm beer. “A stalker. Just what I needed.”
You decided to stop torturing yourself with the beer and order something else. Your eyes caught the name “Soju Bomb” on a translation app, and you waved over the server. He arrived in seconds. His English wasn't great, but then again, neither was yours after the drinks. You managed with the word “drink” and a finger pointed firmly at the menu. The guy nodded enthusiastically and vanished.
Within a minute, a glass, a bottle of soju, and… another beer landed in front of you. The server smiled, bowed, and was gone.
“Right,” you sighed. “A tourist trap, obviously.” You took the glasses and mixed your own drink. You took a sip and blinked hard. The second sip went down easier, and a pleasant warmth began to spread through your stomach and settle in your cheeks.
You looked up. He was still there, cap on, soju in hand. Just watching you. Uninterrupted. His gaze felt heavier than the alcohol you’d just swallowed.
You dropped your eyes to your glass, but the corners of your mouth twitched. “What are you staring at, stalker?” you muttered in your own language. But you couldn't help it – after a moment, you looked up again, only to find your gazes locked once more. It annoyed you, truly.
You looked away and focused on your glass. The soju bomb—or rather, the parody of one you’d mixed—wasn't terrible, but you were starting to feel like your legs might give out.
“Bad ratio,” a voice suddenly said beside you.
You flinched. Black hoodie, cap. The stalker. He had moved his soju bottle and was now sitting across from you at your table, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Sorry?” you breathed, even though you’d heard and understood him perfectly.
“Too much soju. If you don’t want…” he gestured with his hand, mimicking someone stumbling on all fours, “…I show you.”
He didn't smile. He just reached for your glass without waiting for permission and began mixing a proper soju bomb. He tapped the table. “This is balance.”
You stared at him. Your expression shifted from surprised to irritated. The sheer audacity of a stranger touching your drink and lecturing you was humiliating.
You picked up the glass, took a sip, and had to admit—the taste was definitely better than your previous attempt.
“Thanks,” you muttered, raising an eyebrow. “But still… total stalker move.” Your English was slurred thanks to the alcohol, starting to resemble the "prince’s" English, but your tone was crystal clear.
He offered a faint smirk—more ironic than friendly—remained seated, and slowly refilled his own glass. You set your glass down, leaned back, and crossed your arms in a defensive gesture. This was your space.
“You know… I didn't invite you,” you said slowly, emphasizing each word so he’d understand. You pointed between yourself and the table. “Personal space. I thought Koreans respected this… more than Europeans.”
He looked at you. You couldn't tell if he was bored or amused, but you did notice that as he leaned slightly across the table, you caught a whiff of his cologne—not sweet, but sharp, spicy, and heavy.
“Respect?” he repeated quietly, adding another smirk. “You sit alone… drink wrong. Respect is boring.”
You stared at him for a moment. The nerve. Everyone around was having fun, laughing, dancing, and you had a stranger at your table who had crashed your space uninvited and was now patronizing you.
“So what?” you snapped. “You sit here… because… what? No manners?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged and took a calm sip. “Or maybe because you look… not boring.”
You’d be lying to yourself if you said his answer didn't surprise you. His strategy was clearly different from the guy your friend had left with. You stayed leaned back with your arms crossed, tilting your head to the side.
“So… tell me,” you began slowly. “You come here often? Pick up tourists?” Your gaze was searching, almost mocking. “You do it better than… your colleague.” You gestured with your chin toward the door where your friend had disappeared with that weird guy. “He caught my friend. And now… she is probably very… happy.”
You spat the last word with such a heavy dose of sarcasm that you even surprised yourself. He watched you for a moment, then slowly rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin on his hand. A glint of something between amusement and a challenge appeared in his eyes.
“Happy?” he repeated softly. “Fifteen minutes. Not more.”
You choked, nearly spitting out his precisely mixed soju bomb. “You said… fifteen?”
He just shrugged, drank from his glass, and didn't break eye contact.
“You still didn't answer me,” you prodded, narrowing your eyes when he remained silent for a while. “Do you come here often? Catching tourists… with a nice face-trap?” You pointed a finger at his face and smirked. “Because maybe it works. But not on me.”
He watched you, motionless, with just a flicker in his eyes that was starting to both annoy and fascinate you. You leaned in closer, mimicking him by resting your elbow on the table and propping your chin.
“I have time. And I don’t believe my friend is… ‘happy’ after fifteen minutes. No. She will try to…” you searched for the word, then spat it out with theatrical emphasis, “…use him. To make her first K-drama erotic moment last… at least one hour.”
Over the noise of the music, your use of the word "use" sounded surprisingly sharp. He stopped leaning on his hand, took a drink, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. It wasn't a smile, more like a silent, ironic agreement—a sign that he’d heard and understood you perfectly.
“One hour…” he repeated under his breath, slowly, as if weighing the words. “Too long… if boring. Too short… if good.”
Your heart skipped a single beat. You didn't know if he’d just insulted you or if he was continuing the game you’d both unknowingly started at the table. You ran a finger along the rim of your glass and nodded. You leaned in again, your eyes flashing with malice.
“You are very good at… avoiding. My question. Do you come here often… or not?” you said firmly, clipping the syllables. You let him watch you for a moment, and when the answer still didn't come, you just waved your hand dismissively. “But… your thinking. About sex… boring or good, long or short… interesting. Maybe true.”
Your tone held everything—irony, mockery, but also a tiny trace of recognition you weren't quite ready to admit. He kept measuring you with his gaze, not flinching for a second; instead, he leaned in even closer.
“I don’t avoid. I choose.”
You furrowed your brow and swirled the empty glass in front of you, watching the leftover foam cling to the sides.
“I don’t understand what you choose,” you said eventually, deciding to pivot. “But… I want to choose the next drink.” You tilted your head. “Problem is… what can I mix with this?” You gestured to the remnants of the soju bomb. “Not in my interest to… vomit on the table.”
Without a word, he reached for your empty glass and slid it to the edge of the table before you could even object. He gave a sharp nod to the server. A brief exchange in Korean followed—words you didn't understand paired with a quick gesture. Within moments, a fresh bottle of soju sat between you.
You watched his self-assured movements and smirked. “Wow. So… now you’re my personal bartender?” You leaned back into your chair, tilting your head again. “You sit here without an invite, you drink my drinks, and now you choose my drinks. Very polite.”
He ignored your commentary, steadily pouring soju into clean glasses. He slid one toward you. “Drink,” he said calmly.
Without blinking, you shot back, “And if I say no?”
You stared at him, but he remained ice-cold. “You won’t.”
You rolled your eyes. His composure—the way he spoke with almost no trace of emotion—was starting to grate on you. You loved provoking people, pushing them off balance, but here, you were failing. You shook your head, but you drank anyway.
“Fine. Maybe you are a good bartender. But still… a rude stalker. So, tell me. Do you always sit alone, watching people?”
“Sometimes,” he replied simply.
“And today… me.” You pointed a finger at yourself.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You look… not boring.”
“That’s not an answer. Are you a politician? Always avoiding?” You were getting annoyed. His stillness was making you nervous. “I’m just not a liar,” he answered before taking a sip.
You laughed. “Good line. Do girls here actually believe you? When you say you’re the ‘honest, mysterious man’?”
“I don’t talk with the girls here,” he replied.
“Ah, so only with tourists,” you smirked, raising your glass. “Lucky me.”
You took another drink and fixed your gaze on him again. You needed to get under his skin, to force some kind of emotion out of him, to break that maddening confidence. “Tell me—what do you think my friend is doing right now?”
The alcohol was starting to burn in your cheeks, and your tongue felt looser. He poured another glass, slow and deliberate, as if your question wasn't worth rushing for. “Trying too hard,” he said finally.
You couldn't help but laugh, and it was louder than you intended, drawing a few looks from the neighboring table. “You’re terrible, but maybe right.” You propped your elbows on the table and leaned in.
The alcohol gave you a boost of courage you wouldn't normally have. “So… who are you? Not your name. But… what kind of man comes here… alone… drinking soju like it’s water?”
He remained unshaken, taking a sip and shrugging. “A man who wants quiet.”
“Quiet?” you laughed. “In Hongdae? In a bar? Bad choice.”
He didn't answer.
“Okay,” you continued. “So, if not the girls here… then why sit? Look around? Wait for… tourists?”
“No,” he said simply.
“So what then? You like a challenge?”
“Maybe,” he said after a pause. The simplicity of his answers was getting on your nerves more than a lie would have. You rolled your eyes and locked eyes with him. “You’re really bad at small talk, you know? For a man who wants ‘not boring,’ you don’t give much.”
“But you stay,” he countered, his pace suddenly much faster than his usual drawl.
You leaned back in your chair. “So… you think I’m staying because of you? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m staying because my friend is… busy. Trying to squeeze a one-hour drama sex scene out of a poor boy who’s probably finished already. Better company here than being alone outside. That’s all.”
He watched you for a moment, analyzing your expression, then replied, “If that were true… you would have moved tables. Not stayed with me.”
You scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “You’re cocky. Maybe I just like a fight. Better than a silent drink with a boring face.”
“Then don’t fight. Just drink,” he said, perfectly calm.
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You sound like a fucking fortune cookie. ‘Don’t fight. Just drink.’ Very deep. Very Korean wisdom.”
The corners of his mouth visibly twitched into a smirk this time. “Better than your sarcasm.”
“Ha! So you do listen. Not just stare like a stalker,” you blurted out, pointing a finger at him.
“Staring works,” he replied dryly, but that smirk-like grin lingered. It settled you slightly, knowing he wasn't a robot and that your sarcasm wasn't scaring him off.
“Fine. Keep staring. Maybe I’ll let you buy me another drink. If you’re a good boy.” You raised an eyebrow.
He studied you for a second, then shrugged. “I’m not a good boy.”
“Oh, really? So what are you then? A bad boy? A bartender? A stalker? Or just a man with an ego too big for his hoodie?”
He didn't answer. He just raised his hand and signaled the server. A few more words in Korean, and another bottle with two clean glasses landed on the table. You rolled your eyes. “See? Exactly what I said. Bartender mode: on.”
“I don’t care what you call me. You’re still drinking with me.”
There it was again. That calm. You needed to provoke him, to drag him out of his comfort zone. You pulled your glass closer and swirled the liquid. The alcohol was buzzing in your head now.
“So tell me,” you began slowly, your voice dripping with irony. “If you’re so honest, such a non-liar… what about in bed? Do you lie there, too? Or do you talk… like this? Short words. Long silences… because if so, no wonder girls fall asleep under you.”
The sentence dropped between you like a stone. This was your final play. If he reacted to this with that same icy calm, he probably wasn't human. Every man’s ego had a breaking point.
He paused for a heartbeat. He poured you a drink and set the bottle back down. A sharper glint appeared in his eyes—something you hadn't seen all night.
“Fall asleep?” he repeated quietly, almost offended. “Not under me.”
You smirked, opening your mouth to add more, but he didn't let you speak.
“No woman ever sleeps. They scream. Or beg. Or both,” he said without hesitation.
You caught your breath, but fought to keep your face like stone.
“Nice line. But easy to say. Harder to prove.”
“I don’t prove,” he said, leaning in. “I show.”
You wiped the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand, as if trying to brush away the creeping tension sitting on your tongue. The alcohol was fueling your imagination—and your audacity. You’d always loved to provoke, to push people into corners, to force them into uncomfortable situations. You raised an amused gaze to him.
“With your strong words,” you began slowly, emphasizing every syllable, “I guess you’re not… the type who lets a woman climb on top. Ride you.”
The last words spilled out before you could stop them. You never would have said that to a stranger while sober. His eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, as if he were sizing you up, weighing how much of your bravado was the alcohol and how much was your actual character.
“I let her,” he said quietly. “But only when I decide. And no woman ever rides me without me fucking her deeper back.”
You felt a strange tightening in your stomach. The alcohol was surging through you now, not numbing you, but heightening every sensation. You tried to hide your momentary flicker of embarrassment, raising your glass to cover the way the corners of your mouth twitched.
“Arrogant,” you hissed before taking a sip.
He watched you, without a trace of a smile, and corrected you: “Honest.”
You set the empty glass back on the table and leaned in closer. “Talking is so easy. Every man says the same thing: Scream, beg, deep… blah blah.” Right then, you decided to pull another ace from your deck. You raised an eyebrow, crinkled your nose, and said with a toxic smile: “But maybe you’re just hiding… a small Korean size.”
He didn’t move at first, but you noticed his fingers tighten around his glass.
“Small? You can find out. But if you do… you won’t walk straight tomorrow.”
His calm voice and those words made your stomach do another somersault. You would have bet anything that he could see your heart slamming against your ribs through your shirt. Still, you fought to keep your expression bored and cool.
“Big words again. Still just words.”
A faint smirk ghosted across his face. “Not words. A promise. But not here.”
You raised your eyebrows. You knew you’d been talking to this stranger far too long, and you’d crossed the line of a "safe conversation" ages ago. But in that moment, you didn't care. “Where then? Another bar? Or your… quiet place?”
“Outside,” he said, cutting you off before you could finish the sentence.
You were silent for a moment, your drunken brain trying to analyze the situation. You had the chance to tell him to go to hell, to get up and walk away. But that felt like a retreat, and retreating was against your principles.
“And if I say no?” you breathed finally, because it was the only thing you could think of.
His answer came instantly, as calm as if he were telling you tomorrow’s weather forecast: “You won’t.”
You gripped your glass, drained the last of the alcohol, and set it down firmly on the table. “Fine. Show me your outside.”
The bar doors swung shut behind you, muffling the chaos inside. The street was deserted, the middle of the night. It was humid out, but cool enough that the fresh air felt like it might actually help with the inevitable hangover. The streets were slick with rain, neon signs bleeding into the wet asphalt. You pulled your jacket tighter around you.
“Great,” you said ironically. “It’s cold, my friend hasn't texted me to say I can go back yet, and here I am… middle of the night, in Seoul, with a stranger who bought me drinks, paid the bill, and is probably waiting for a reward.”
He took off his cap and pulled up his hood. In the dim reflection of the streetlights, you could finally see his face a little better.
“Reward? I don’t wait. I take what I want,” he said without a hint of nerves. A pure statement of fact.
You tilted your chin up. “Arrogant again,” you snapped, though you noticed your voice wasn't quite as steady as it had been in the crowded bar. He took a step closer.
“Honest,” he corrected, closing the distance between you.
A gust of wind down the narrow street blew a strand of hair across your lips. You went to brush it away, but you felt his hand first—cool fingers, a firm touch. He tucked the hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your neck a second longer than necessary. Then, his palm slid down to your wrist, gripping you—not with force, but firmly enough that you couldn't step back… even if you wanted to.
“Congratulations. First contact. Still boring.” You said.
He didn’t respond with words. His fingers just tightened on your wrist, and with a single tug, he pulled you flush against him. Your faces were only inches apart. You could smell the scent of him—sharp alcohol and the faint hint of cigarettes clinging to his hoodie. His other hand pressed against your hip without hesitation, you could feel the pressure even through your jacket. Your stomach knotted with tension, maybe even a little fear at what you’d just volunteered for.
The hand on your hip gripped you tighter, and without warning, he pulled you that last inch closer. No space, no questions, no “may I?” He simply leaned down and kissed you hard.
There wasn't a trace of gentleness in it. It was a collision—breath, heat, and the taste of alcohol still lingering on both your lips. His mouth was hungry, claiming you with the same casual dominance he’d used to pour your drinks earlier. For a heartbeat, you froze, but then you kissed him back. Your teeth grazed his, your breath hitching as his tongue pushed past your lips.
When he finally pulled away, you stood there, eyes wide. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and let out a huffed laugh. “So… not only arrogant, but fucking rude, too.”
He studied you for a moment and returned the smirk. “You like rude, I guess.”
You blinked and took a step back. You weren't sure exactly how to react, you needed a second for your slowly sobering brain to process this.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. The screen lit up. Still no message from your friend. Nothing.
“Perfect,” you muttered in your native language, shoving the phone back. You dared to look up at him again—he was standing there calmly, hands back in his pockets, as if he knew there was no rush.
“My friend… she didn't text. It’s late. Too late. So what now?”
For a moment, it looked like he was considering something, but then he just said: “Now… you come with me.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and shifted nervously. You had nowhere to go, and this guy didn't look like a criminal. If he’d wanted to kill you, he probably would have done it already instead of put on this whole performance. You took a deep breath and exhaled.
“You know… my parents always said… never go anywhere with strangers. Especially not at night. In a city I don’t know.” It was another attempt to rationalize the situation, to weigh your options out loud.
He watched you in silence, his smirk suggesting just how ridiculous your childish excuse sounded. “Good advice. But you’re not a child. And you already broke it.”
His words hit you right in the gut. You knew he was right—you were standing in the middle of the night with a man you’d met an hour ago. And instead of running, you were still playing the game.
“Maybe I’m a bad student,” you muttered, looking down at the pavement.
You heard him let out a short, breathy laugh. “Good. I don’t like good students.”
You rocked back on your heels, and without looking up, you said: “But bad students… usually end up badly.” It sounded like you were reading a moral proverb off a chalkboard.
You saw him mimic your movement, rocking forward as he said firmly: “Or bad students learn the fastest. They just need a hard teacher.”
It annoyed you that he had an answer for everything. You snapped your head up to look at him. “And you? You think you’re a… hard teacher?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t think. I know.”
You felt like a tightrope walker high above the ground—on one side was your fear, hidden under layers of irony, and on the other was his calm, dark certainty.
He didn’t even look at you again. He just shoved his hands into his pockets, turned, and started walking down the night street. His pace was steady, certain, without a single backward glance.
You stood there, frozen. Your heart was pounding in your throat, your fingers gripping your phone inside your pocket, while all the safety warnings your parents had drilled into you as a kid echoed in your head… But he was already pulling away—twenty paces. Forty. Sixty. You looked around, there wasn't another soul in sight.
“Damn,” you hissed in your native language and broke into a run to catch up. Your shoes clicked against the wet asphalt, and as you reached him, you slowed down to match his stride.
“So?” you panted, trying to hide how out of breath you were. “Where we go?”
He smirked, clearly satisfied by your decision to follow him. “You’ll see.”
The further you walked, the more the city hummed around you—laughter echoing from distant bars, cars passing a street away, the neon glow… But your footsteps seemed like the loudest thing of all.
You walked side by side, both with hands in pockets, shoulders occasionally brushing. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and turned your face toward him as you walked. “You don’t even say where. You just walk. Maybe you are… kidnapper.”
“Maybe,” he said calmly, without slowing down.
“Good plan. Take tourist, drunk, easy target. Sell organs.”
He finally turned his head to you, his gaze sharp and seemingly sober. “You’re too noisy. I need you awake. Not cut open.”
You couldn't help it, you let out a laugh and shook your head. “Fuck… you’re terrible.”
You walked on. The noise of the main boulevard faded, and the street narrowed. The lights grew sparser, and the crowds thinned out—nothing unusual for this time of night.
“By the way,” you said softly, “What’s your name? You know… just a practical thing. So when I sit at the police station later… I can tell them who was the maniac I escaped from.”
“Name,” he repeated quietly. He stopped for a moment and turned his head to you, as if searching to see if you were serious. “Doesn't matter. You won't escape.” He said it without emotion, then started moving again, his step sure, as if everything had been decided long ago.
You swallowed hard. “Good. Then at least I save one question at police.”
A tall building loomed ahead of you. It rose above the dark street like a sharp wall of glass and metal. A hotel. The lobby was bathed in dim, muted light, silent, with a reception desk behind glass and a guard in an expensive uniform who barely even noticed you. You slowed your pace and looked around. “This doesn't look like cheap hotel. So maybe you are not stalker… maybe rich stalker.”
The polished elevator doors slid shut, and your mind began to panic in the sudden silence. You stood a short distance from him, your eyes fixed firmly on the button panel. You couldn't hold it in for long and turned to him. “I’m serious now. Name. I want to know your name.”
“Jiyong,” he finally said—shortly, and this time without hesitation.
“[Y/N],” you replied quietly, giving a barely perceptible nod. After a moment, you continued: “So… still chance to change my mind, right? I can just walk out next floor.”
He turned to you and nodded. “Yes. You can walk out. But you won't.”
You remembered his hard kiss outside, just for a fleeting second. You raised your eyes to his reflection in the elevator doors and curled your lips into a smirk. “Arrogant as always. Maybe I just like to see you wrong.”
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content including multiple sex scenes (intimate and rough/desperate), vaginal sex, emotional intensity, heavy angst, arguments/conflict, discussions of separation, crying during sex, grief, possessive language, strong language, emotionally difficult goodbye scenes. Potentially distressing content. Adults only. Minors DNI.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 14 - S(e)oul Mate — Disconnected
Word Count: 11,742
The light slipping into the bedroom through the not-quite-closed curtains was soft, golden. You woke up first. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Jiyong’s calm, steady breathing. Your body ached in places you hadn’t even known existed, your muscles were tired, but in your chest there was still a pleasant warmth—not heaviness, more like peace.
Slowly, you turned onto your side. Jiyong was asleep, his face relaxed, lips slightly parted. His hair was a mess, black strands falling over his forehead. You watched him for a while. You never would’ve admitted that one day you’d want to stay in a moment like this longer than necessary. And yet now you caught yourself wishing time would pause, just for a little while.
You carefully slipped out from under his arm so you wouldn’t wake him. As you did, the necklace around your neck caught briefly on his hand and you froze. Your gaze dropped to where the small pendant rested against your skin, catching the light. Your protests from the night before—that you couldn’t accept it—suddenly felt almost ridiculous.
You got up and walked slowly to the bathroom. The cold water on your face woke you up a little, and when you came back, you noticed Jiyong stirring. His hand reached for the empty space beside him and he mumbled something in his sleep. You smiled. You slipped back into bed and let him pull you toward him again, half-asleep. His body was warm, his breathing calm. Whatever was waiting for you, right now you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
You slowly lifted your hand and let your fingertips trace along his arm. His skin was warm and solid, and even though he was asleep, he shifted slightly. You hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and brushed a light kiss against his shoulder. When you kissed his jaw a moment later, he moved more. He opened his eyes, heavy with sleep, and stared at you for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. Then the corners of his mouth lifted.
“Morning,” he whispered.
You smiled softly. “Morning,” you echoed. Your voice sounded gentler than you were used to—even to yourself.
Jiyong pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. “That’s not how you usually wake me up,” he mumbled.
You laughed and placed your palm on his chest. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”
He laughed, tired. His hand slid over your back, fingers stopping at the chain around your neck. He held it there for a moment, letting the pendant run between his fingers before he spoke. “So… last night…”
You tensed slightly but didn’t look away. “Yeah. Last night.”
His smile shifted into something more thoughtful, more searching. “You said it was the best you’ve ever had.” It wasn’t a question—more a statement, a reminder.
You bit your lip, then nodded. “I did. And I meant it.” Your voice was calm. “Nothing… nothing was ever that intense. I don’t think anything ever will be.”
Jiyong was quiet for a moment, his fingers still brushing the pendant. Then he pulled you closer, his forehead touching yours. “You have no idea how that sounds to me,” he murmured.
You smiled, softer this time. “Then maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”
That familiar smile, with that particular spark in his eyes, returned. “Touché.”
You lay there in silence for a while, until you spoke again, lighter this time. “So… breakfast? Am I supposed to feed you as a thank-you for completely destroying my body last night?”
Jiyong laughed, ran a hand over his face, and shook his head. “That’s one way to put it.”
The laughter slowly faded. Jiyong stretched and leaned back against the headboard, while you stayed on your side, your gaze drifting aimlessly around the room. Your fingers brushed over the chain at your neck.
“You know,” you said after a moment, “there isn’t much time left. My trip’s almost over.”
Jiyong turned to look at you, his expression hard to read. He didn’t answer right away—just rubbed his temple and exhaled through his nose. “Yeah,” he said finally.
That single word hurt more than you expected. You moved closer again, resting your hand on his chest. “I keep thinking about it,” you admitted quietly. “That when I go back, it’ll be like none of this ever happened. Like it’ll just… vanish.”
His hand slid instinctively to your back, tracing along your bare spine down to your waist. “It won’t vanish,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “You’ll remember. I’ll remember.” A short pause. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be easier.”
You swallowed. “That’s the thing. Part of me wishes I’d never met you... Because then I wouldn’t have to think about what happens when I leave.”
Jiyong was silent for a moment, watching you. “You don’t get to choose the timing,” he said calmly, almost resigned. “Life doesn’t work like that. You got this, I got you. For now.”
The silence grew thick, broken only by your breathing and the sounds of the city outside the window. You pressed your face into the space between his neck and shoulder. You felt like if you stayed quiet, you’d explode.
“I don’t want this to end,” you finally said. The words were quiet, but there was no trace of your usual humor or sarcasm in them. Just raw truth you’d been trying to keep buried.
Jiyong froze. His hand on your back stopped moving.
“Y/N,” he started softly. “You know it has to. You’ll leave, I’ll stay. That’s reality...”
“I know,” you cut in quickly, almost desperately. You pulled back so you could look at him. “I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could stay. Just… longer. Just enough to know what this really is.”
Jiyong’s gaze stayed on you—long, intense. Finally, he exhaled, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Maybe it’s supposed to be hard, maybe that’s the point,” you whispered.
Jiyong leaned back down, resting his forehead against yours. “If you keep going like this… it’s going to hurt like hell when you leave.”
“It already does,” you admitted.
Jiyong was still looking at you, his forehead resting against yours. With a slow, calm movement, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to yours. It wasn’t like the kisses from the night before—no hunger, no power play. It was soft, long, painfully aware. His lips and tongue moved slowly. You shivered, closed your eyes, and pressed your whole body against his. The air around you was charged with something that couldn’t be explained or stopped by reason—or fear.
The kiss was still lingering on your lips when the room was suddenly filled with the harsh buzz of your phone. Sharp, intrusive—a sound that cut between you like a cold blade. You opened your eyes and froze, but didn’t move. The phone vibrated on the nightstand beside the bed, persistent, relentless.
Jiyong turned his head slightly in that direction and frowned. Then he looked back at you, his hand settling on your hip.
“You should get that,” he said quietly.
“No,” you answered firmly, without pulling away. You stayed pressed against him, forehead still against his, your breath mixing with his. “Not now. I don’t care who it is.”
“Could be important,” he said, but he didn’t move either. His hand stayed on your hip.
You shook your head. “It can wait. I’m not moving.”
The phone kept buzzing, annoying and insistent, until it finally went silent. The room filled with quiet again—heavy, but different than before. Your decision to stay, to ignore the outside world, created a bubble around the two of you, fragile and yet solid.
Jiyong studied you, his gaze sharper, more searching. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You’re impossible,” he whispered, his voice vibrating right at your lips.
“Maybe,” you purred. “But I’m still not moving.”
Instead of answering, he kissed you again. This time more urgently, like he needed to reassure himself that the outside world could wait a little longer.
“If I don’t make breakfast now, you’ll blame me for starving you,” you said after a moment, pulling away. You got up slowly and walked into the kitchen. You found a few things—stuff Jiyong had probably bought. Eggs, toast, some vegetables. Nothing fancy. It didn’t really matter. You just wanted to bring a bit of normalcy into this very un-normal situation.
Jiyong appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hair still messy. He just watched you, arms crossed over his chest.
“What?” you turned toward him when you noticed his stare. “Never seen someone cook before?”
He didn’t answer, just kept watching you with that knowing smile. You toasted the bread, flipped the eggs in the pan almost automatically. Jiyong moved to a bar stool by the counter, propped his elbows on it, his chin resting in his hand. He watched you, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered over your shoulder without turning around.
“Like what?” he asked innocently.
“Like I’m about to burn your kitchen down,” you shot back—though you were smiling (which he obviously couldn’t see).
“Am I wrong?” he said with mock seriousness. “I saw the way you fought with the frying pan.”
You rolled your eyes, scooped the eggs onto a plate, and set it in front of him.
“Eat before I decide to throw it at you.”
“Romantic,” he chuckled. “Breakfast made with sarcasm and violence. My favorite combination.”
“Just shut up and eat,” you laughed, sitting down next to him and reaching for your own plate.
You ate in silence for a while. The silence felt… normal. Ordinary.
“Not bad,” Jiyong muttered after a moment, his mouth full.
“Excuse me?” you turned to look at him.
He swallowed calmly, smirked, and raised a finger to emphasize his words. “I said… not bad. For someone who almost destroyed my kitchen.”
“One more word,” you raised your own finger—this time as a warning, “and next time you’re back to instant noodles.”
After breakfast, you lingered in the kitchen for a bit longer. Neither of you seemed eager to grab the dishes and start cleaning. Jiyong leaned back against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand. You were still sitting across from him, bare feet tucked up on the chair, his T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. It was calm.
Then his phone vibrated on the table.
You both looked at it at the same time. Jiyong sighed, picked it up, and brought it to his ear. The conversation was short, in Korean—quick, clipped. You didn’t need to understand the words. His expression said everything.
He set the mug down and looked at you. “Manager. I need to get to the studio.”
You nodded, even though it stung. “Of course.”
“I’ll try to be back as soon as I can,” he continued. He stepped closer, placed a hand at the nape of your neck, and leaned down to press a brief kiss into your hair. “You can… you can stay here if you want. Wait for me. Unless you’ve got some… tourist plans more interesting than me.”
You returned his smirk, slipped his hand out of your hair, and laced your fingers with his.
“I think I’ll risk the boredom. I’ll wait.”
A moment later, Jiyong grabbed his jacket and keys. Right before leaving, he turned back to you one last time.
“Don’t get lost here,” he said lightly—and before you could reply, he was gone.
You stayed sitting in the kitchen for a while, absorbing the silence that spread through the apartment after his departure. At first, it felt silly to stay there alone—you were just a guest, a stranger, really—but with your return home drawing closer, it somehow felt right… simply waiting for him to come back.
Eventually, you stood up and slowly walked into the living room. The couch was rumpled and untidy, so you draped a blanket over it and stood there for a moment, running your hand over the fabric as if you were trying to memorize its texture, every thread.
You moved on, peeking carefully—almost shyly—into corners you hadn’t seen before, places that might tell you more about their owner. The apartment felt bigger than you had expected. The bookshelf held a few old, well-worn volumes in Korean, a handful in English.
You stopped at a shelf filled with small objects. Framed photos, little figurines—just personal things. Your eyes lingered before you allowed your hand to move closer. One photo caught your attention: five young guys—boys, really—grinning from ear to ear. You tried to imagine what that time must have been like for him, how he might have felt then, and how different it must be now. He had never talked about it. Not once. And it had seemed impolite to ask. You figured he’d bring it up himself if he wanted to.
You sat down on the couch, resting your head against the backrest, lost in thought. Everything around you smelled like him—or at least it felt that way. Your hand drifted to the pendant at your neck. You closed your eyes and, for a moment, let yourself imagine that you belonged here. That this wasn’t just a temporary stop between these days and your flight home—but a place you returned to.
You laughed quietly at yourself. It was childish. Naive. That’s not how the adult world works. But in that moment, you decided you would stay. You would wait until he came back. He’d promised he would, as soon as he could.
The clock on the wall ticked on, time stretching longer than usual. You tried to keep yourself occupied—put on some music, flipped through books on the shelf, even stood by the window for a while, watching the city move below. But as minutes turned into hours, it became clear that Jiyong’s return was being delayed.
Your phone lay on the table. You glanced at it now and then, but no message came. Images from the night before mixed with the laughter over breakfast—and with what you’d said to him. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he was laughing about it now. But it couldn’t be taken back.
You walked through the apartment one more time, then finally curled up on the couch. Your eyes kept closing, no matter how much you fought it. Waiting exhausted you more than any day spent exploring the city. In the end, you fell asleep, wrapped in a blanket, your head on a pillow that smelled like him.
***
The door unlocked quietly long after midnight. Jiyong stepped inside, took off his cap and jacket, and paused in the hallway. He was exhausted—today had been more than he’d expected. He’d assumed you would’ve left after waiting a few hours, but still, a part of him had hoped that maybe…
He walked into the living room and saw you asleep on the couch. Curled up in a blanket, your head buried in a pillow. He stood there for a moment, just watching. Then he set the bag of food he’d picked up on the way home on the counter. He returned to you quietly, crouched down, and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
“You really waited,” he murmured, more to himself than for you to hear.
You didn’t move. You were fast asleep, your breathing calm and steady. Jiyong hesitated, then took another blanket from the back of the couch and lay down beside you. His eyes were closing from exhaustion, but before he fell asleep, he looked at your face. For the first time all day, he felt like he’d come back somewhere he actually wanted to be.
***
Morning light filtered in softly. The city had been awake for a long time—it never really slept—but inside, there was a strange stillness. You stirred first. Sleepily, you blinked as you realized where you were. You turned your head slightly and nearly screamed when you saw Jiyong asleep beside you. His breathing was deep and calm. You had no idea when he’d come home—you’d slept hard.
A moment later, Jiyong woke up too.
“Morning,” he murmured, still half-asleep.
“Morning.”
“I’m sorry. You didn’t have to wait,” he said quietly as he slowly surfaced back into reality.
“I wanted to. Even if it meant falling asleep on your couch,” you tried to smile. After a moment, you sighed lightly as you stretched. “By the way… your couch is terrible for sleeping. You should really consider getting a new one.”
Jiyong slowly turned his head toward you. For a second, he looked confused—then he grinned.
“Really? You pass out drooling on my pillow and now you’re criticizing my furniture?”
“I did not drool,” you shot back instantly, defensive—though you could feel your face heating up.
“Oh, you did,” he added calmly, amusement clear in his voice now. “I should’ve taken a picture. For evidence.”
You rolled your eyes and hit him with the pillow. Jiyong laughed, grabbed it, and hugged it to his chest.
“Maybe next time I’ll just take your bed and you can sleep on this death trap,” you muttered irritably, trying to get up from the soft couch.
“We’ll see about that,” he replied casually, resting his head back on the pillow.
Your stomach tightened. Time was racing, and you knew you had to go back to the Airbnb—to your friend. She’d been calling, texting. There was something reproachful in her tone, mixed with concern. She knew you well. She knew you’d tell her everything—just not now. Someday.
You declined breakfast and told Jiyong you had to go, that you needed to start getting ready and pack at least some of your things. You promised it wouldn’t take long.
***
You sat silently on the bed at the Airbnb, your open suitcase beneath you. You and your friend managed to pack the essentials—clothes, boxes of small souvenirs that took up far more space than they should have. Everything you wouldn’t need before the flight was packed and ready. That was one of the reasons the heavy stone settled in your chest, impossible to shake.
You’d tried to stay cheerful the last few days, acting like everything was fine. You hadn’t told your friend anything—certainly not Jiyong. But the closer your departure came, the harder it became. Your mood hovered near freezing, even as you hid it behind smiles and irony.
It was already getting dark when your phone vibrated on the table.
J: I’ve got the night off. That’s all we’ve got left. Come over. Let’s make them ours.
You stared at the screen for a long time, your finger trembling above the keyboard. You knew saying no would be easier. That it might hurt less. But it didn’t feel fair to leave without saying goodbye… and you knew how it would haunt you later, how you hadn’t said everything you wanted to.
Y/N: Okay. I’ll come.
You told your friend you were going for a walk, maybe to look for something interesting to buy. She nodded—but she didn’t believe you. She knew you’d come back empty-handed, with an empty look on your face.
You stepped outside. The evening air felt colder than usual. The noise of the city blended together, but it felt like you were walking through a tunnel, hearing nothing but your own thoughts.
When you reached Jiyong’s place, he was already waiting. He looked different than usual—or maybe you were just telling yourself that. He reached out his hand without a word, and you took it without hesitation. Words weren’t necessary.
“You’re here,” he said finally, after a long silence.
“I am,” you replied, then added, “But not for long.”
He tightened his grip on your hand. You didn’t show anything on the outside—the worst of it was happening inside you. It was your second-to-last evening. You both felt the weight of it, even if neither of you could name it out loud.
Before Jiyong sat down, he opened a bottle of wine. You broke the silence. You were standing next to the couch, still wearing your jacket. You hesitated for too long. You reminded yourself that what you were about to say might sound foolish—but you couldn’t leave without saying it. Too many times in your life you’d regretted not speaking your truth, not saying what you felt. That regret was still lodged deep inside you.
“I haven’t met many people like you,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Actually… I don’t think there are many people like you at all. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s true.”
Jiyong paused for a moment and slowly set the bottle down on the table. He looked at you as if he were waiting to see how your words would end, where you were going to take this.
“I want to say this now. Thank you. For… for everything. You probably don’t even realize it, but I’ve learned a lot from you. Even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside,” you continued.
For a moment, complete silence settled between you. Jiyong walked over slowly, slipped your jacket off your shoulders, and placed it over the back of the couch. He cupped your face between his fingers and gently forced you to look up at him.
“You think I don’t see it?” he asked. “Every time you push back. Every time you laugh at something stupid I say. Every time you look at me like you’re not sure whether you want to slap me or kiss me. I see it. And I’ve learned too.”
You were standing so close that you could feel his breath on your face, but you didn’t look away.
“You know,” you said softly, your fingers brushing over his cheek, “it doesn’t even matter anymore what I say. I’ll be gone soon. I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to pretend.”
Jiyong stayed completely still, his eyes locked on yours.
You took a deep breath. “I really… I really like you. More than I should. You feel like a pure soul to me. Untouched, unspoiled, like…like the world hasn’t broken you yet.” Your voice faltered slightly, but you didn’t stop. “And maybe that’s why I can’t stop… caring.”
It was a confession that would have terrified you before, but now you weren’t afraid. You had nothing left to lose.
Jiyong stayed silent. After a moment, he sat down on the couch and tugged your hand so you sat beside him.
“Pure?” he asked almost incredulously, shaking his head. “If only you knew. You see me more clearly than I see myself,” he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, never breaking eye contact. He paused, his jaw tightening before he continued. “I’ve lied to people I loved. I’ve hurt people who trusted me. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes because I was too selfish to see what they needed. And I’ve built this whole image everyone knows me by—the strong, unshakable, untouchable version of me. But that’s not me. Not all of me...”
The words came slower, heavier than anything he’d said before.
“You think I’m unspoiled?” he went on. “The truth is… I was spoiled a long time ago. By fame. By expectations. By mistakes. Sometimes I don’t even know who I’d be without all of it.”
You listened quietly, not interrupting him. Just letting him say everything he needed to—just like he had given you space to do.
“But then you show up,” he added softly, “and you look at me like I’m still that kid who wanted nothing more than to make music and laugh with his friends. Like you see something I stopped believing was even there.”
When he fell silent, the air between you felt heavy with truth—confessions that could no longer be taken back. Jiyong bit his lip and looked at you as if he expected judgment, as if the “purity” you saw in him would finally crumble.
“You talk about mistakes like they’re written all over you,” you said quietly. “But you know what? I’d have to look for them. Really look. Because when I look at you… that’s not what I see.”
Jiyong held his breath for a moment. He stared at you as if he didn’t quite believe you—and yet wanted to believe you more than anything.
“I see someone who works harder than anyone else. Someone who… yes, maybe hides behind masks, but still finds a way to make people laugh. To inspire them. You think that’s being spoiled? To me, that’s strength. That’s the part of you that’s still unbroken, no matter what’s happened.”
You lowered your gaze for just a second, then looked back at him. “And if you’ve hurt people, if you’ve lied… so what? Everyone has. But you—” you placed your fingers against his chest, “—you’re not defined by that, not for me. For me, you’re still one of the most real people I’ve ever met. And I wouldn’t change that. Not even if I could.”
Jiyong’s eyes were dark, his expression tense—maybe conflicted, maybe overwhelmed. Then he exhaled sharply, and his lips curved into a smile so soft it almost didn’t seem real.
“You’re either blind,” he murmured as he leaned closer, “or the bravest person I know.”
He kept that strangely sincere smile, but didn’t kiss you yet. As if there was still more that needed to be said. He took your hand—still resting on his chest—and squeezed it gently.
“Do you know why I don’t talk about this? About me. About what I’ve done? Because people don’t want to hear it. They want the picture. The perfect version. Anything less ruins the illusion.”
You watched him, your head tilted slightly.
“And then you came along,” he continued steadily. “You didn’t ask for the picture. You looked at the mess and didn’t run away. That… scared me. Still does. But maybe… maybe it’s the only real thing I’ve had in a long time.”
You smiled—openly, honestly. “Good. Because I didn’t want the picture. I wanted you. Even if I didn’t know what that meant at the beginning.”
You sat there in silence, hands intertwined. The atmosphere was different now—not easier, just more honest. You felt Jiyong’s thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand. A simple, repetitive motion that sent warmth through your entire body. When he turned toward you fully, your eyes met. He leaned in and kissed you—gently, almost restrained. You leaned into him, feeling your body finally relax. You’d said everything you needed to say. At least a little weight had lifted. His hand moved to your face, the other to your back, pulling you closer until you shifted onto his lap.
Your kisses deepened—lips, tongue, teeth, breath—but they stayed slow. Your fingers slid into his hair as you breathed him in. His lips moved to your neck and then back to your mouth.
You made your way to the bedroom. This time it wasn't a storm—it was a wave. Slow. Intentional. Every breath, every touch, every squeeze of fingers carried meaning. At least that's how it felt to you.
The bedroom was dim, only the city lights filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. Jiyong closed the door behind you with a quiet click that felt too final. For a moment, you both just stood there, facing each other in the half-light.
"Come here," he said softly, reaching out his hand.
You took it, letting him pull you close. His other hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone as he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was trying to memorize every detail.
"What?" you whispered, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.
"Just... looking… making sure I remember."
Your throat tightened. "Jiyong—"
He kissed you before you could finish, cutting off whatever you were about to say. The kiss was slow, achingly tender, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn't.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head, then immediately returned to you, his fingers working at the buttons of your blouse with careful precision.
"I want to see you," he murmured against your lips. "All of you. I want to remember every inch."
Each button he undid felt deliberate, unhurried. When your blouse finally fell open, he pushed it off your shoulders and let it drop to the floor. His hands traced the path it took—over your shoulders, down your arms, across your collarbone.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly, like it was a fact he needed to state. "I don't think I've told you that enough."
"You have," you managed, though your voice was unsteady.
"Not enough… Never enough."
His hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning them with the same careful attention. Every movement felt significant, weighted with the knowledge that this was one of your last times. When you were finally naked, standing in front of him in just the necklace he'd given you, he stepped back slightly.
"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect."
You reached for him, needing to touch him, needing to ground yourself in something physical. Your fingers worked at his belt, his jeans, until he was bare too. When you were both naked, you stood there for a moment, just looking at each other in the dim light.
"I don't want to forget this," you whispered. "Any of this. The way you look right now. The way you're looking at me."
"You won't," he said, pulling you back against him. "And neither will I."
He guided you to the bed, his hands gentle but sure. When you were both lying down, he hovered over you, propped on one elbow beside your head, his other hand roaming over your face, your neck, your chest.
"Look at me," he whispered, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw.
"I am. I haven't looked away once," you whispered back, then pulled him down by the nape of his neck and kissed him.
The kiss deepened slowly, your tongues moving together in a rhythm that felt like a conversation—questions and answers, promises and regrets, all without words. His hand moved from your chest down over your stomach, fingers trailing across your skin with reverent slowness.
When his hand finally moved between your thighs, you gasped into his mouth. He touched you gently at first, just exploring, relearning the geography of your body like it might have changed since the last time.
"You're already wet," he murmured against your lips, his fingers sliding through your arousal. "Does this mean you want me as much as I want you?"
"More," you breathed. "I want you more than I can say."
His fingers circled your clit slowly, applying just enough pressure to make your hips lift off the bed. "I want to take my time," he said. "I want this to last."
"Then take your time," you managed, even though your body was already screaming for more. "We have all night."
But even as you said it, you both knew it wasn't true. You had hours, maybe. Not enough. Never enough.
He continued his slow exploration, his fingers moving between gentle circles and deeper pressure, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. Your hands roamed over his back, tracing the muscles there, feeling them flex beneath your palms.
"I love the sounds you make," he murmured, his lips finding your neck. "Every little gasp, every moan. I want to remember all of them."
"Jiyong," you breathed, your fingers sliding into his hair. "Please."
"Please what?" His fingers stilled, waiting.
"Please... I need you. Not just your fingers. You. All of you."
He lifted his head to look at you, and in the dim light, you could see something raw in his eyes—vulnerability mixed with desire, tenderness mixed with desperation.
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. "Because once I'm inside you... once we do this... I don't know if I can let go."
"Then don't," you whispered, pulling him closer. "Don't let go. Not tonight."
He kissed you again as he positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. For a moment, he just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.
"I'm going to remember this," he said softly. "The way you feel. The way you look at me. Everything."
"So will I," you promised.
Then slowly—so slowly it almost hurt—he pushed inside. You both let out shaky breaths as he filled you, your bodies joining in a way that felt like more than just physical. Your eyes stayed locked on his, neither of you looking away.
"God," he breathed when he was fully inside you. "You feel... perfect. Like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was…" you whispered, and even though you knew it was dangerous to say things like that, you meant it.
He started moving, his thrusts slow and deep, each one deliberate. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, pinning your hand to the pillow beside your head. The intimacy of it—the eye contact, the joined hands, the gentle rhythm—was almost overwhelming.
"I don't want to be anyone else right now," he whispered against your neck as he moved inside you. "No one but the man in this bed with you. Just... this. Just us."
"Then don't be," you breathed between moans, wrapping your legs around his hips as if trying to anchor him to you. "Just be here. With me."
Your free hand wandered over his back, stroking, scratching lightly, feeling every movement of his muscles as he thrust into you. When your nails dug in a little deeper, Jiyong's pace picked up slightly, and you met him with every movement.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so perfectly. Like you never want to let me go."
"I don't," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I don't want to let you go."
His rhythm faltered for just a second, and when he pulled back to look at you, his eyes were glassy. "Don't say that," he whispered roughly. "Don't make this harder."
"I'm sorry, I—"
He kissed you, cutting off your apology. "No. Don't be sorry. Just... feel this. Feel us. Right now. That's all we have."
He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and his next thrust hit that perfect spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.
"There?" he asked, even though he clearly knew the answer. "Right there?"
"Yes—god, yes—"
He maintained that angle, his thrusts still slow but hitting deep every time. The pleasure built gradually, not the sharp spike of rougher sex but a slow, rolling wave that threatened to pull you under.
"I can feel you getting close," he murmured, his hand releasing yours to cup your face. "Your body's trembling. You're clenching around me so tight."
"I'm—I'm so close—"
"Look at me," he commanded softly. "When you come, I want to see it. I want to watch you fall apart."
You forced your eyes to stay open, locked on his, even as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. His thumb brushed across your cheek, and you realized with a start that you were crying—silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair.
"Hey," he said gently, his rhythm never faltering. "It's okay. I've got you…God... you make it hard to think," he whispered shakily as he moved inside you, his own control starting to slip.
"Then don't think. Just breathe with me," you moaned at his lips, lifting yourself to kiss him again.
The combination of his tender words and the steady, deep thrusts finally pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm rolled through you like a wave—not violent, but all-encompassing, every nerve ending lighting up as you came around him. You kept your eyes locked on his the whole time, letting him see everything you were feeling.
"That's it," he breathed, his own rhythm becoming less controlled. "That's so beautiful. You're so—fuck—"
His thrusts grew more chaotic, his breathing uneven. "Y/N—" he groaned as he got close.
You dug your nails into his back and tilted your head back, feeling him hit that exact spot that made you moan louder. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm right here with you."
He came with a broken sound, burying his face in your neck as he thrust into you one final time. You felt him pulse inside you, felt his whole body shudder, and held him through it, your fingers gentle in his hair now.
You came almost at the same time. You kept Jiyong inside you, close to you, returning every kiss he gave you. It was intimate. Deep. More than just physical—it felt like you were trying to merge souls, to become so intertwined that separating would be impossible.
For a long time after, you just lay there, bodies still joined, neither of you willing to break the connection. His weight on you was comfortable, grounding. Real.
"I don't want to move," he murmured eventually. "If I move, time starts again."
"Then don't move," you whispered, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. "Not yet."
But eventually, he did. He carefully pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss, and rolled to lie beside you. Immediately, he pulled you against him, arranging your body so you were tucked perfectly into his side, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.
"That was..." you started, but couldn't find the words.
"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It was."
You lay in comfortable silence, your fingers absently playing with the pendant around your neck. His hand came up to cover yours, stilling your movements.
"You're still wearing it," he said softly.
"Of course I am. I haven't taken it off since you put it on me."
"Will you..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the question. "Will you keep wearing it? After?"
You turned to look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "Yes," you said firmly. "I'll wear it always. So I never forget this, never forget you..."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said anything else, but you both knew—this night, this moment, this feeling—it would stay with you forever. You knew you would carry this night with you as one of the strongest memories of your trip. Not just the physical act, but everything surrounding it—the tenderness, the desperation, the love neither of you dared to name out loud.
***
You woke up far too early—something that had become your new routine these past days. Your body seemed determined to squeeze everything out of each day: waking early, falling asleep late. For a while, you didn’t dare move. The room was still dim. Jiyong was asleep, deeply and peacefully.
You turned onto your side and watched him for a long time. Thoughts ran through your mind, one after another. Last night’s words. His touch. That quiet, slow rhythm… and then the thought you could no longer push away: there was one last day, one last night left. In the morning, you would have to leave. Not for a few hours. Not for a few days. Forever.
You took a deep breath and clenched the blanket in your fingers. You knew you’d never say it out loud, but from the moment you crossed his threshold, you’d known this moment would come. And now it was here.
You closed your eyes for just a second—until Jiyong stirred slightly, reached for you in his sleep, and pulled you closer. He was still asleep.
You let yourself be drawn into his arms, let yourself be surrounded by him. For a moment, you allowed yourself to pretend this wasn’t the last day. That time had stopped right here, right now.
You lay in his arms, but you didn’t fall back asleep. You focused only on keeping your breathing calm. When Jiyong finally woke, your eyes met. You didn’t need to say anything—both of you knew exactly what tomorrow would bring.
“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely, his fingers tracing your back. There was no usual lightness in his voice—just an attempt to hold something back.
“Morning,” you replied softly, forcing a small smile.
Getting out of bed felt hard. Deciding what to do with the day felt hard. Even speaking felt hard. The space suddenly felt too small. In the end, you got up first and went to the kitchen to make coffee. You had no appetite for breakfast, and Jiyong clearly didn’t either.
He watched you, then asked calmly but directly, “So what do we do with the time we have left?”
You set the mug down in front of him and paused mid-motion, as if thinking it through. After a moment of silence, you answered, “Anything. Everything. Or nothing. It doesn’t matter, does it? Tomorrow it’s over anyway.”
You turned back to the counter to make your own coffee. The words hung between you like smoke. Jiyong stepped up behind you, took the mug from your hands, and set it aside. He turned you to face him and wrapped his arms around you.
“Then let’s not waste a second,” he said into your hair.
You decided you couldn’t stay trapped between four walls. It would be too heavy, too suffocating. So despite the obvious risk, Jiyong suggested you go out.
You chose a quieter neighborhood, away from the rush. Narrow streets with small cafés, bakeries, a few little shops. You sat together in the corner of a tiny café, cradling your mug with both hands as if you were trying to draw all the warmth out of it. Jiyong sat across from you, slowly stirring a plain black coffee. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.
After the café, you walked to a park. You sat on a bench tucked between bushes, watching people pass by. You felt like you were running on autopilot, like your body had decided to shut down for a while.
“I’ll miss this,” slipped out of you suddenly. Maybe you’d meant to keep it inside, but the words escaped before you could stop them.
“This?” Jiyong looked at you. “Or me?”
You turned your head toward him, your eyes glistening. You shrugged and answered simply, “Both.”
You kept walking, though not far. You stopped at a street stall where you bought fried pancakes wrapped in paper. The food was hot, greasy, and completely wrong for a delicate goodbye. Or maybe it was exactly right for reality.
When you headed back to Jiyong’s place in the late afternoon, your steps were slow, like you were trying to stretch every second. The last night.
When the door closed behind you, the silence felt different than usual. Heavier. Final. Jiyong turned to you, his eyes dark and restless. He didn't speak. He just grabbed your waist and pressed you back against the door. The kiss he gave you wasn't gentle. It was hungry. Raw. Desperate. His tongue tangled with yours so fiercely you forgot to breathe. And still, you met him just as hard, fingers sliding into his hair, letting him take the lead.
But this time there was something else underneath the hunger—anger. Grief. The knowledge that this was the last time, and nothing either of you could do would change that.
"I fucking hate this," he growled against your lips, his hands already working at your clothes. "I hate that you're leaving. I hate that I can't stop you. I hate—"
You grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. "Then show me. Show me how much you hate it."
Something snapped in his eyes. He spun you around roughly, pressing your front against the door, his body pinning you there. "You want to see how much I hate this?" His voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. "Fine."
His hands were everywhere—yanking your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, shoving your jeans and underwear down your legs until you kicked them off. Every movement was urgent, almost violent, like he was fighting against time itself.
When you were naked, he spun you back around and immediately his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, marking you. "Everyone's going to see these," he said between bites. "Everyone's going to know someone claimed you before you left."
"Good," you gasped, your nails digging into his still-clothed shoulders. "I want them to."
He pulled back just long enough to strip off his own clothes, and then he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you harder against the door. His cock was already hard, pressing against your entrance.
"Last chance to tell me to slow down," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Don't you dare slow down," you hissed. "Don't you dare treat me like I'm fragile. I'm not. Not tonight."
He thrust into you in one hard motion, burying himself completely. You both cried out—not from pleasure alone but from something deeper, more painful.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You feel—god, you feel so good. Too good. How am I supposed to—"
"Don't think," you cut him off, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling hard. "Just fuck me. Like it's the last time. Because it is."
The reminder seemed to break something in him. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace that had you gasping. The door shook with each thrust, and somewhere in the back of your mind you hoped his neighbors couldn't hear, but mostly you didn't care.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "You wanted it rough? Wanted me to fuck you like I'm angry?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
"I am angry," he said, punctuating each word with a particularly hard thrust. "I'm so fucking angry I can't see straight. Angry at you for leaving. Angry at myself for caring. Angry at—"
"I know," you gasped, wrapping your legs tighter around him. "I'm angry too. So use me. Take it out on me."
His rhythm became almost punishing, each thrust driving you harder against the door. Your back would be bruised tomorrow—red marks from the door, finger-shaped bruises on your hips, bite marks on your neck. You'd carry the evidence of this night on your skin.
"You're going to leave me marked up too," he said, reading your thoughts. Your nails were raking down his back hard enough to leave angry red lines. "Fair's fair, I guess."
He suddenly pulled out, and before you could protest, he was setting you down and spinning you around again. "Hands on the door," he commanded. "Spread your legs."
You obeyed, bracing yourself against the door. You felt him behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other running possessively down your spine.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough with desire and something darker. "So fucking perfect. So ready for me. Your cunt is dripping down your thighs."
The crude words sent a shock of arousal through you. "Then stop talking and do something about it."
He thrust back into you from behind, the new angle even deeper than before. You cried out, your hands scrabbling against the smooth door for purchase as he pounded into you.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked so hard you can't walk tomorrow? So every step on that plane reminds you of me?"
"Yes—god, yes—I want to feel you for days—"
His hand came around to your throat, not squeezing but just resting there—a reminder of his control. "Say my name," he demanded. "Every time I thrust into you, I want to hear my name."
"Jiyong—" you gasped as he slammed into you.
"Louder."
"Jiyong!" you cried out, louder this time.
"Again. Like you mean it. Like you're never going to forget it."
"Jiyong—fuck—Jiyong—please—"
He released your throat and grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, mixed with your gasps and his rough breathing.
"I hate that I need you," he said suddenly, his voice breaking slightly on the last word.
You turned your head, trying to see him. "Say it again."
"I hate that I need you," he repeated, slower this time. "I hate that you got under my skin. I hate that losing you feels like—" He cut himself off with a particularly vicious thrust that made you both groan.
"Feels like what?" you pushed, even though your voice was barely coherent.
"Like losing a part of myself I didn't know I had."
The admission hung in the air between you, raw and honest. You pushed back from the door, forcing him to adjust, and then reached behind you to grab his hip, encouraging him to keep moving.
"Then take it out on me," you said again. "All that hatred, all that anger—give it to me. I can take it."
He practically carried you to the bedroom, never fully pulling out, stumbling together in a tangle of desperate limbs. When you reached the bed, he threw you onto it hard enough that one of the pillows fell to the floor, and in the next second he was over you.
"I don't want to forget this," he breathed as he positioned himself between your legs again.
"Then don't," you answered quietly but firmly, the same fire burning in your eyes.
He thrust back into you, and this time there was no slow build-up. He fucked you with single-minded intensity, his whole body focused on driving you both toward something that felt less like pleasure and more like exorcism.
Your bodies collided violently, every touch and movement raw, soaked in desperation and need. You writhed beneath Jiyong—needy, loud, unfiltered. Your moans were constant, broken only by gasps for air.
"Don't look at me like that," Jiyong growled as he pounded into you, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them wider.
"Like what?" you breathed, your hand sliding into his hair and pulling hard enough to make him groan.
"Like you're already leaving," he panted as he bent down and kissed you without stopping his rhythm. "Like this is already over."
"It is," you stated, tugging his hair again, making him hiss. "Tomorrow I get on a plane and—"
"Fuck you," he cut you off roughly, one hand leaving your thigh to wrap around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding. "Say you don't care then. Say this meant nothing."
"I can't," you breathed helplessly, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I can't say that because it's not true."
"Then stop pretending this is fine," he hissed, releasing your throat to brace himself on both arms, driving into you with renewed force. "Stop acting like you're not fucking destroying me."
"I'm not pretending," you moaned, your voice breaking. "I'm surviving it. That's all I can do."
"Well it's not enough," he said, his voice raw. "Nothing about this is enough. Not the time we had. Not this last night. Not—" His words cut off as you clenched around him deliberately.
"Stop talking," you demanded, pulling him down for a bruising kiss. "Just feel this. Feel me. That's all we have left."
He kissed you back violently, his tongue dominating yours as his hips maintained their punishing rhythm. When he finally broke the kiss, you were both gasping for air.
"I hate that I need you," he breathed into your ear, the words a confession and a curse.
"Say it again," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him impossibly deeper.
"I need you," he groaned. "I fucking need you and you're leaving and I—" His voice cracked. "I don't know how to do this. How to let you go."
"Then don't," you sobbed, and realized you were actually crying now. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair as he fucked you. "Just pretend we have forever. Just for tonight, pretend—"
"I can't," he said, and you saw his own eyes were wet. "I can't pretend. All I can think about is that this is the last time I'll be inside you. The last time I'll hear you moan my name. The last—"
You grabbed his face and kissed him hard, tasting salt—his tears or yours, you couldn't tell. When you pulled back, you looked directly into his eyes.
"Then make it count," you said fiercely. "Make me feel it so deeply I carry it forever. Ruin me for anyone else."
Something in his expression shifted—from grief to determination. "You want to be ruined?" His thrusts became even harder, more purposeful. "Fine. I'll make sure no one else ever compares."
He pulled out suddenly and flipped you over onto your stomach. Before you could adjust, he was pulling your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees.
"I'm going to fuck you until you can't think straight," he said, his voice dark with promise. "Until the only thing in your head is me. My name. My cock. The way I make you feel."
He thrust back in without warning, and from this angle it was almost too much. You buried your face in the sheets, crying out.
"No," he said, his hand fisting in your hair and gently pulling your head up. "I want to hear you. Let the whole fucking building hear you."
"Jiyong—fuck—it's too much—"
"It's not enough," he countered, his free hand coming around to find your clit. "It'll never be enough. But I'm going to try. I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."
His fingers worked your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you from behind, and the dual stimulation was overwhelming. You were making sounds you'd never heard yourself make before—desperate, animal sounds that had no resemblance to language.
"That's it," he encouraged roughly. "Fall apart for me. Give me everything. I want it all—every moan, every tear, every fucking piece of you."
"I'm—I'm going to—" you couldn't finish the sentence, the pleasure building to an almost painful peak.
"Come," he commanded. "Come on my cock, let me feel you."
And you did. The orgasm tore through you with devastating force, your whole body convulsing as you screamed his name into the sheets. He didn't slow down, fucking you through it, drawing it out until you thought you might actually pass out from the intensity.
"One more," he growled. "Give me one more."
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers on your clit never stopped, and despite your protest, you felt another orgasm building impossibly fast on the heels of the first. "You're going to come again, and when you do, I'm coming with you. We're going to fall apart together."
"Jiyong—please—I can't take—"
"Yes you can," he said, and there was something almost desperate in his voice now. "You're taking it perfectly. Taking me so well. Your pussy is gripping me so tight—like it doesn't want to let me go."
That image—your body physically refusing to release him—was what pushed you over the edge again. The second orgasm was even more intense than the first, ripping through you so violently you actually sobbed.
Jiyong groaned as he felt you clench around him, his rhythm finally losing all control. "Fuck—Y/N—I'm—"
He came with something between a groan and a shout, burying himself as deep as possible as he pulsed inside you. You felt every throb, felt him filling you, and somewhere in your barely-functioning brain you thought: this is it. This is the last time.
He collapsed over your back, both of you shaking, struggling to breathe. You could feel tears—his or yours, probably both—hot on your shoulder blade. For a long moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.
Finally, with obvious reluctance, he pulled out and rolled to the side. Immediately he pulled you against him, arranging you so your head was on his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he could physically prevent you from leaving if he just held tight enough.
“I hate that this is the last night,” Jiyong said quietly later, lying beside you as his breathing slowly settled.
“So do I. That doesn’t make it any less real,” you replied, eyes closed, trying to calm your breath.
“You’re going to haunt me,” he said after a moment, dragging a hand over his face.
“Good. You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you whispered.
“Come here,” he whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not yet,” you said, pressing yourself against him.
After the shower, you went back to bed and lay there in silence. The only sounds in the room were your breaths—heavy, worn out. It was long past midnight, and sleep came painfully slowly. Neither of you knew how you’d find the strength to get up in the morning.
***
The morning was brutal, like a hammer blow. There was nothing gentle or soft about it—none of those quiet awakenings where you could curl up under the covers and postpone reality. You were woken by your phone alarm. You had to get up early to make it back to the Airbnb in time, grab your luggage, and leave for the airport with your friend.
You sat on the edge of the bed, hair still messy, your neck marked with Jiyong’s traces. Your phone vibrated again on the nightstand—another message from your friend, telling you to hurry up. Reluctantly, you stood and started getting dressed.
Jiyong was already awake too. You didn’t know whether your alarm had woken him or if he’d slept at all. He moved toward the window and finally broke the silence.
“So that’s it? You’ll just leave? Pack your little souvenirs, smile for airport selfies, and pretend this didn’t happen?”
“Don’t,” you breathed as you pulled your sweater over your head. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Harder?” he scoffed. “Do you even realize what you did? You walked in, turned everything upside down, and now you’re just… walking out. Like nothing.”
“Like nothing?!” You straightened up as you fixed your jeans. “You think this was nothing to me? You think I can just forget—like it was some stupid holiday fling? I can’t. I won’t. But I don’t have a choice, Jiyong. I have to get on that plane.”
He turned from the window and crossed the room in a few sharp steps, grabbing your arms and shaking you.
“Then say it. Say you’re leaving me here to rot in this fucking mess while you fly home and—”
“Stop it!” you cut him off, shaking his hands off your arms. “You know I’d stay if I could. But we both know this isn’t possible. Not here. Not now. Not for us.”
You stood inches apart, chests rising and falling like you’d just run a race. The air between you was thick with desperation, something you couldn’t turn into anything but shouting and pain.
The city roared outside the window. Your phone vibrated again—this time in the pocket of your jeans. Time was slipping through your fingers. You put on your jacket. Jiyong stayed silent, and that hurt the most. You couldn’t leave like this.
"I have to go," you said finally, your voice barely audible. "If I don't leave now, I'll miss—"
"Then go," he said suddenly, his voice hard. He moved away from you, putting distance between you. "Go. Get on your plane. Go back to your life. Pretend this never happened."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" He laughed bitterly. "Nothing about this is fair. But you're right about one thing—you have to go. So go. Before I—" He stopped, clenching his fists. "Just go."
You stood there for a moment, frozen. This wasn't how you wanted to leave. Not with anger between you, not with these bitter words as your last memory.
"Jiyong," you started, your voice breaking. "Please don't—"
"Say something," you whispered desperately. "Anything… before I walk out that door."
For a long moment, he just stood there, his back partially to you, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping. Then he took a breath—sharp, shaky—and finally turned to face you.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was raw, stripped of all the anger from moments before. "That I understand? That I'm okay with this? I'm not. I'm so fucking far from okay that I don't even know—" He stopped, dragging a hand down his face.
"I don't need you to be okay with it," you said quietly. "I just need... I need to know that you don't hate me. That when you think about this—about us—you won't only remember how it ended."
He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—anger, grief, frustration, and underneath it all, something that looked like resignation.
Then he crossed the room in three quick strides. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into him. His kiss was full of everything—anger, desperation, love, grief. He poured into it everything he wouldn't get the chance to say. Everything you wouldn't get the chance to hear.
You pressed into him, arms wrapping around his neck, kissing him back with the same force. Your chest tightened painfully, everything inside you breaking at once. When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead rested against yours.
"I could never hate you," he breathed, his voice wrecked. "That's the problem. It would be so much easier if I could."
"I know," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. "I know."
"Don't forget me," he said suddenly, pulling back to look at you properly. His eyes were glassy, threatening to spill over. "Promise me. Whatever happens—wherever you go—don't forget this. Don't forget me."
"I couldn't," you said, tears finally breaking free and sliding down your cheeks. "Even if I wanted to. Even if it would hurt less. I couldn't forget you."
He pulled you in again, this time not kissing you but just holding you. His face buried in your neck, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you could barely breathe. You held him just as tightly, feeling his heart racing against your chest, matching your own frantic rhythm.
"I have to go," you finally whispered, even though every part of you was screaming to stay. "If I don't leave now—"
"I know," he said into your neck. He took a shaky breath, then slowly—reluctantly—loosened his hold. He pulled back, his hands sliding from around your back to your arms, then to your hands, holding them between you. "I know you do."
You looked down at your joined hands, memorizing the feeling. Then you slowly pulled away, and the loss of contact felt physical.
"Goodbye, Jiyong," you said, your voice barely a whisper.
"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't say goodbye. Just... " He swallowed hard. "Just go. Please. I can't—if you say goodbye, I won't be able to let you leave."
You nodded, not trusting your voice anymore. You grabbed your backpack with shaking hands, shouldering it without looking at him. You couldn't look at him. If you looked at him, you'd break completely.
You walked to the door, each step feeling like moving through concrete. Your hand was on the doorknob when you heard him speak one last time.
"Take care of yourself," he said quietly. "Be happy. Even if it's not with me."
You squeezed your eyes shut, a sob catching in your throat. "You too," you managed.
Then you opened the door and stepped through it. Into the hallway. Into the rest of your life. Away from him.
The door closed behind you with a soft click.
That small sound—that quiet, final click—felt louder than any slammed door ever could.
You stood in the hallway for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, frozen. Part of you wanted to turn around, go back in, tell him you'd stay—consequences be damned.
But you didn't.
Instead, you forced yourself to take one step forward. Then another. And another. Each one feeling like betrayal, like abandonment, like the worst kind of self-preservation.
Behind that closed door, Jiyong stood exactly where you'd left him. He stayed there for a long time after your footsteps faded down the hallway. Stayed there even after he heard the building's front door close. Stayed there in the terrible silence that filled the space where you'd been.
The silence you left behind was deafening.***
You were sitting with your friend in the airport terminal. She brought you a paper cup of coffee—something to wake you up, to help you look at least a little like a functioning human being. Your suitcase was leaning against your leg, your eyes glued to the departure board.
You reached into your pocket for your phone. The screen lit up, and your heart gave a small, sharp twist when you noticed the signal bars dropping. Automatically, without really knowing why, you opened your messages. Jiyong’s name was still there. The last conversation. The last words. No new message had come—and soon, no new message would be able to.
You pulled the small metal SIM tool from your back pocket. You knew you should take the SIM card out and replace it with your European one, already waiting in its holder alongside your boarding pass and passport.
Instead, you just stared at the thin piece of plastic inside your phone.
A Korean number. The number you’d had for the duration of your trip. A number that would never ring again.
You slipped the SIM tool back into your pocket and locked the phone.
Not today. Not yet.
Your other hand moved to the necklace at your throat, thumb running over the smooth surface of the pendant. Two pieces of Korea you were carrying home. One that would stop working the moment you landed. One that wouldn't. The necklace felt like the only tangible proof that the past four weeks had been real. That he had been real.
“Boarding in thirty minutes,” your friend said gently, resting a hand on your knee.
You nodded without looking at her. Your eyes went back to the departure board. Your flight was there, glowing bright and merciless. Gate. Time. Direction. Everything was decided.
Only one thing remained open—the small piece of plastic inside your phone.
Soon it wouldn’t work, but it still felt heavy, as if you were carrying proof with you. You’d keep the SIM card. At least for now. Because some things aren’t thrown away at the airport. Some things have to be taken home first, and only then do you decide whether you can live with them.
***
Jiyong stayed where you’d left him. For a while. Maybe longer—he couldn’t tell. Time behaved differently after you walked out. It stretched and thickened, as if it had a single purpose: to remind him that now, he was alone.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. The sheets were still rumpled, the air still saturated with you. In a way that couldn’t be aired out.
He reached for his phone. Automatically. Full signal. Everything working exactly as it should. He opened the conversation, and your name lit up on the screen. The last message. The last night.
He typed a few words. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would weigh on you. His thumb hovered over the send button for a moment.
He didn’t send it.
He locked the phone.
He understood then that some messages aren’t a question of signal. That sometimes you have a connection—and still, there’s nowhere left to speak to.
He set the phone down beside him, screen facing down, and leaned his elbows on his knees.
Seoul hummed outside the window, indifferent to his silence. Planes took off. People arrived and left. And somewhere over the ocean, you were flying away—with a number that no longer worked, and memories that worked far too well.
Jiyong stayed seated. The phone beside him. On. Ready.
Just without a recipient.
He'd never believed in the idea of soulmates. It was too neat, too easy—a concept for people who wanted fairy tales instead of reality.
But he understood now why that word existed. Not because two people were destined. But because sometimes you meet someone who makes you feel less disconnected from yourself. Someone who doesn't complete you—but who sees you clearly enough that pretending becomes impossible.
He understood why people needed that word. Why they reached for it when nothing else fit. Not because what you had was meant to be. But because losing it felt like losing a language only the two of you spoke.
S(e)oul mate... He smiled faintly at the thought. The pun would've made you laugh—definitely. He almost typed it into a message. Almost.
Connections sometimes break—not because they disappear, but because they haven’t yet found a new way to exist...
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content including oral sex (male receiving, deep throat), power dynamics, emotional conflict, jealousy, possessive behavior, degradation, strong language, emotional intensity, public confrontation. Adults only. Minors DNI.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 08 - Breaking Point
Word Count: 7,495
You woke up after dark. You reached for your phone on the nightstand. You scrolled through social media, clicking through articles and pictures without really paying attention.
Eventually, you ended up on Jiyong’s profile—and then on the rest of his band. Most of the photos were older. You smiled. It was strange seeing him among the others.
You stopped at one photo. The group was posing with some award. Your eyes went straight to Jiyong out of habit—but then you paused. You zoomed in, focusing on the guy standing at the edge. He was smiling like he’d inhaled the happiness of the entire world. That warmth practically radiated through the screen.
You opened your chat with Jiyong and typed:
Y/N: You know, a few days off gave me time to do some research.
You attached a screenshot of the group photo, circled the guy on the edge, and sent another message:
Y/N: So tell me… who’s the one in the black shirt? He looks cute.
The reply came faster than you expected:
J: Daesung. Why?
You smiled, your thumb gliding over the screen as you typed:
Y/N: Just wondering… maybe I should broaden my horizons. You’re not the only handsome one in your band, you know.
This time, the answer didn’t come right away. You watched the three dots appear, disappear, then come back again.
J: Keep talking like that and you’ll see what happens.
You bit your lip and replied:
Y/N: Relax. For now, you’re still my number one. But competition suits you.
Your phone vibrated again just as you turned off the lamp and decided to go back to sleep:
J: Number one? That’s what you call me after riding me like you’d die without it? Really?
Before you could respond, another message followed:
J: Don’t ever compare me to them.
You answered:
Y/N: Relax. I just asked a simple question. You don’t have to be so territorial… unless you’re afraid I might actually like him.
The pause was longer this time. You almost thought he wouldn’t reply, when another message appeared:
J: You wouldn’t survive him. You wouldn’t even look at him the way you look at me.
You smiled and typed back:
Y/N: Maybe. But I kind of like how you sound when you’re jealous. Makes me wet.
J: Stop playing games.
Y/N: Why? You’re the one who keeps replying. Looks like you enjoy it.
J: I enjoy fucking you, not watching you drool over someone else.
Y/N: No drooling. Just… curiosity. You should be proud. Your band is full of pretty boys.
J: Say another name and I swear, the moment I see you, you won’t be able to walk for days.
Y/N: Then maybe I should test how serious you are. Who else is on your blacklist?
J: All of them. Everyone but me.
You laughed. Jiyong was like a child. It was just a game—petty teasing—but deep down, his reaction warmed you, even though you knew it probably shouldn’t have.
Before you could reply, a voice message icon appeared. You quickly checked that the door was closed and that your friend couldn’t hear anything. You turned the volume up and played it.
J (voice message): You really want me to spell it out? Fine. Picture this: you come back to me, all smug, still teasing me. I drag you into the first dark corner I find. No talking. Just your knees on the floor and my cock down your throat until you forget every other fucking name but mine.
You covered your mouth with your hand as you typed your response.
Y/N: Wow, calm down. You’re making me wet just from listening to that.
J: Good. Keep your fingers out of your panties. That’s my job when you’re with me.
Y/N: Too late.
Of course it was a lie—you just wanted to provoke him more.
J: Then you’ll lick them clean when I see you. Every drop. And you’ll thank me for letting you taste yourself while I fuck you raw.
Your phone nearly slipped from your hand. Your throat was dry, and you realized you’d stopped breathing while reading. You exhaled sharply and closed your eyes. You didn’t have the strength to reply anymore. You set the phone aside and tried to fall back asleep.
***
The next evening, Jiyong sent you another message. New coordinates again. You had the impression he always chose places that were easiest for him to reach. For you, it was a bit of a problem—maps had never been your strong suit, especially not in a language you barely understood.
You walked down a busy street, phone in hand. Your eyes flicked between the crowd and the map. The screen lit up:
J: Second floor. End of the hall.
Your heart pounded as you climbed the stairs of an older building, peeling paint on the walls, nothing but worn plaster around you. If you didn’t trust Jiyong, you’d have thought you’d wandered into a building waiting for renovation… or demolition. At the end of the hallway, there was a door—slightly ajar.
You knocked, then stepped inside.
Jiyong stood by the window, the curtains pulled tight. He shifted them just enough to look outside, as if he were worried someone might have followed you.
You glanced around. The place was sparsely furnished—clean, but cold. Clearly not somewhere anyone spent much time.
Jiyong finally turned toward you. “Close the door,” he said quietly.
You did, then walked toward him. He met you halfway, not even greeting you this time. One hand stayed in the pocket of his black pants, the other slid to the back of your neck. The kiss came so fast it knocked the breath out of you.
“So,” he hissed against your mouth, “knees, wasn’t it?”
You laughed nervously, your eyes darting away, your forehead still pressed to his.
“Maybe I need a reminder.”
"Don't test me." He shoved you against the nearest wall. His kisses were rough, his hands wasting no time as they traced your thigh. His grip on your neck stayed firm. Then he pulled back, burning holes into you with his eyes. "On your knees," he hissed.
Your throat tightened, but you didn't hesitate. You held his gaze as you slowly sank down onto the cold floor. Your hair fell over your shoulders as you tilted your head back, looking up at him. In that moment, nothing else existed—just you and him, towering over you.
Jiyong ran his tongue over his lips. His eyes were dark as his fingers moved to his belt.
"Remember what I told you?" he asked calmly.
"That I'd thank you," you nodded, answering softly.
He smiled and unzipped his pants. Your hands moved on instinct to help him, but he caught your wrists.
"No," he said firmly. "Hands behind your back. I didn't say you could touch."
You obeyed, clasping your hands behind you. The position made you feel even more vulnerable, more exposed. He finally freed himself, and your eyes flicked down for a moment before returning to his face.
"Open," he commanded.
You parted your lips, and he brushed the tip against them—once, twice—before pulling back when you tried to take him in.
"Eager," he observed. "But I didn't say you could have it yet."
He traced your lower lip with the head of his cock, watching you with dark fascination. Your tongue darted out instinctively, tasting him, and he made a low sound in his throat.
"Who do you want?" he asked quietly.
"You," you breathed.
"Say my name."
"Jiyong."
"Again."
"Jiyong," you repeated, your voice breaking slightly. "Please."
He smiled—sharp and satisfied—and finally pushed past your lips.
The taste of him flooded your mouth as he slid in slowly, giving you time to adjust. Your eyes watered slightly, but you kept them locked on his face, watching the way his jaw tightened.
"That's it," he murmured. "Look at me. I want to see those pretty eyes while you choke on my cock."
He pulled back, then thrust in deeper. Not brutal yet, but firm enough to make you gasp around him. Your hands stayed clasped behind your back even though every instinct screamed to grab onto something.
"You know what I kept thinking about?" he continued, his voice rough as he set a steady rhythm. "All day, while you were texting me about Daesung, I kept thinking about this. About shutting that smart mouth up the only way that works."
He thrust deeper, and you gagged slightly. He held there for a moment, then pulled back enough to let you breathe.
"Tell me," he said. "Who's the only name you're thinking about right now?"
You tried to answer, but your mouth was full. He pulled out enough for you to speak.
"Yours," you gasped. "Only yours."
"Good," he growled, and pushed back in. "Keep it that way."
His hand slid into your hair now, gripping firmly but not painfully. He controlled the pace—sometimes slow and deep, sometimes faster, shallower thrusts that had you breathing hard through your nose.
Every time you thought you had the rhythm, he changed it. Kept you off-balance. Kept you focused entirely on him.
"Fuck," he breathed, his control starting to slip. "You look so perfect like this. On your knees, tears in your eyes, completely mine."
You moaned around him, and the vibration made him curse again. His grip in your hair tightened.
"You want more?" he asked. "Want me to fuck your throat until you can't think straight?"
You tried to nod, difficult with him in your mouth, but he understood. His hips snapped forward harder now, deeper, and you had to fight your gag reflex with each thrust.
Tears slipped down your cheeks. Your jaw ached. But you didn't pull away, didn't try to stop him. You surrendered completely to his rhythm.
Just when you thought he was going to finish like this, he pulled out abruptly. You gasped for air, confused, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"Not yet," he said, breathing hard. "I'm not wasting this in your mouth."
Before you could protest, he grabbed you under the arms and hauled you up. He pressed you against himself and kissed you—hard, messy, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands were everywhere—pulling your top over your head, unclasping your bra and tossing it aside. He yanked your jeans and panties down in one motion.
"I need to be inside you," he growled. "Right fucking now."
He guided you toward the couch, stripping you completely along the way. When you reached it, he turned you around.
"On your hands and knees," he commanded.
The couch cushions were soft under your palms. You felt him behind you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling them back, positioning you exactly how he wanted.
"You thought about him today?" he asked, his voice rough as he dragged himself through your wetness, teasing. "Thought about anyone else when you texted me?"
"No," you gasped.
"No?" He gripped your hair and pulled—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to arch your back. "Then why did you say his name?"
"To…fuck…to make you jealous—"
"It worked," he growled, and thrust into you in one hard stroke.
You cried out, your body trying to adjust to the sudden fullness. But he didn't give you time—just started moving, hard and deep, each thrust pushing you forward into the cushions.
"This is what you do to me," he said through gritted teeth. "Make me lose my fucking mind. Make me want to mark you so everyone knows you're mine."
One hand gripped your hip while the other stayed tangled in your hair, controlling your position, the angle, everything.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded.
"You," you gasped.
His pace turned punishing—rough, deep thrusts that had the couch creaking beneath you. Your arms gave out and you collapsed forward, face pressed into the cushions, ass still in the air as he took you.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say who you belong to."
"You," you sobbed into the cushions. "Jiyong, you, only you—"
"Damn right," he growled.
You could feel him getting close—his rhythm breaking, becoming erratic. One hand left your hip and reached around, fingers finding your clit. His touch was deliberate, relentless, working you with the same intensity as his thrusts.
"I want to feel you come on my cock," he growled. "I want to feel you lose control while I'm buried inside you."
His fingers circled your clit with precise pressure, matching the rhythm of his hips. The dual sensation—him filling you completely while his fingers worked you—was overwhelming.
"Jiyong—I can't—"
"You can," he hissed, his fingers pressing harder. "Come for me. Now."
The combination tore through you. Your body seized up, muscles clenching hard around him as you screamed his name into the cushions. The orgasm crashed over you in waves, your entire body shaking.
"Fuck—" Jiyong groaned, the feeling of you pulsing around him pushing him over the edge. His fingers dug into your hip, his other hand leaving your clit to grip you with both hands as he thrust deep one last time. He came with a raw sound, his body shuddering against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just stayed there, connected, both trying to catch your breath.
Finally, he pulled out slowly, gently. You collapsed fully onto the couch, boneless and spent. You felt his cum starting to leak out of you, but you were too exhausted to care.
Jiyong sat beside you, breathing hard. His hand found your hair, stroking it gently—such a contrast to how rough he'd been moments before.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You managed a weak laugh. "You're asking that now?"
"Yeah," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Now."
You turned your head to look at him. His hair was messy, his face flushed, his eyes still dark but softer now.
"I'm okay," you said. "Better than okay."
He leaned down and kissed you—soft, careful, apologetic almost.
"Come here," he murmured, and helped you sit up. He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around both of you, pulling you against his chest.
You curled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow under your ear. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back.
"You know I didn't mean—" he started, but you pressed your fingers to his lips.
"I know," you said softly. "I was just messing with you. I know."
He kissed your fingers, then pulled your hand away to kiss you properly.
"Good," he said, still breathing hard. "Because after those texts…after you threw his name at me like that…I needed to make sure you remembered who you belong to."
You smiled faintly against his lips. "Message received."
"Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing along your jaw. "Don't test me like that again. I don't share. Not you."
You nestled closer into his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear. For a moment, his hand moved gently through your hair—almost tender, completely different from minutes before.
"You're impossible," he whispered, but there was no edge in his voice now. Just exhaustion. Maybe something softer.
"So are you," you murmured back.
He kissed the top of your head—brief, almost careful—before pulling the blanket tighter around you both. For a moment, you felt something shift. Not in his touch—that was still possessive, still claiming. But in the way he held you after. Like you were something he wanted to protect, not just own.
His breathing evened out, and you thought he might be drifting off to sleep. But then he spoke again, quieter this time.
"I meant what I said," he murmured into your hair. "You're mine. But..." He paused, and you felt his chest rise with a deeper breath. "But maybe that goes both ways."
You didn't respond—couldn't, really. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implications neither of you was ready to unpack. Instead, you just pressed closer, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into something close to peace.
"For now, anyway," you thought, already drifting toward sleep.
But that was Jiyong—all contradictions, all intensity, all yours.
For now.
***
Morning crept in quietly, but fast. You woke up to soft, almost lazy light — as if the sun had decided to go easy on you, not to pull you out of sleep too roughly. You stretched and, after a moment, opened your eyes, still groggy.
The first thing you saw was Jiyong stepping out of the bathroom. He was wearing nothing but loose sweatpants, a towel in his hands as he lazily dried his damp hair.
“Morning, trouble,” he murmured when he noticed you were awake and watching him.
You smiled and reluctantly pushed yourself upright. The couch was big enough, sure — but way too soft for your liking. Everything hurt. You felt sore, irritable, ready to take it out on the entire world. And your first victim was standing right in front of you.
“You know…” you started innocently, “we still didn’t finish our little talk.”
“What talk?” Jiyong narrowed his eyes. He tossed the damp towel aside and moved toward the small kitchen area to make coffee.
You watched his bare back and smirked. “About your friend. Daesung, wasn’t it? The one in the black shirt…”
You caught the exact moment his back stiffened, his movement stopping halfway.
“Don’t start,” he growled. He grabbed the mugs and walked back to the couch. You took one from him and hissed softly as you took a sip — the coffee was hot.
You kept going anyway. “Come on. You can’t blame me for being curious. He’s cute. That smile? Adorable.”
“You think this is funny?” he shot you a look, though the corners of his mouth twitched.
“A little,” you admitted, blatantly letting your eyes roam over his bare chest. “I like jealous you. It’s sexy.”
Eventually, you dragged yourself into the shower. The cold water woke you up properly. When you came back, Jiyong was moving around the small kitchen with surprising ease. His hair was still slightly messy, his expression focused.
You climbed onto one of the bar stools, leaned your elbows on the counter, and watched him with amused interest.
“I still don’t get it,” you drawled lazily. “You’re this… superstar. And yet you actually know how to make breakfast.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he replied without looking up. “I can do normal things too.”
“Define ‘normal.’ Because last night didn’t exactly scream normal.”
His hand paused for a brief second before he turned toward you. He walked over with two plates and set one in front of you, then sat down across from you.
After a moment, he said quietly, “That wasn’t normal. That was necessary.”
You took a bite of eggs and looked at him with mock confusion. “Necessary, huh? And what’s breakfast then? Compensation?”
“Fuel,” he muttered, hiding his smile behind another bite.
You finished eating slowly. You were planning to leave — even though, truthfully, you didn’t really feel like it. You and your friend had planned a lazy day, and you had absolutely nothing you had to do.
Jiyong seemed to read your thoughts. After a moment, he asked, “So… how about we actually go out today? Daylight, fresh air… shocking, I know.”
You froze and nearly choked on the last sip of coffee. “Out? You mean out-out? Because I should probably show up at my Airbnb at some point. My friend might already think I’ve been kidnapped or something.”
“Text her,” he replied calmly, grabbing the empty plates and rinsing them under the tap. “Or tell her you got lost in a souvenir shop. She’ll survive.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that simple. She’ll ask where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with — and somehow I doubt ‘with a guy who can’t be seen in public without starting a riot’ will sound convincing.”
Jiyong dried his hands and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.
“That’s why I asked. What would you like to do, if going anywhere with me is basically impossible?”
You thought about it, but nothing came to mind. “I don’t know. You’re not exactly… anonymous.”
He looked like he was thinking too — though his eyes betrayed the fact that he already had a plan.
“Yeah… so… something private. Hidden. No crowds. Just us.”
You raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You’re making it sound like a drug deal.”
“Depends on the addiction,” he replied evenly, placing the empty mug in the sink.
“My studio,” he added casually as he turned back to you.
“Your studio? Isn’t that… I don’t know… your workplace?”
“It’s more than that. It’s private. No interruptions. Just music, walls… and me.”
“Sounds almost romantic,” you scoffed.
“It’s not meant to be romantic,” he snapped, turning back to the counter. “It’s meant to be mine. And I want you to see that part of me.”
For a moment, you were at a loss for words. It sounded different coming from him — more serious than usual.
“Okay,” you exhaled finally. “But if I get bored, I’m blaming you.”
“You won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”
You washed the dishes together, got dressed, and prepared to leave. Jiyong bent down to tie his sneakers and said casually, “I parked pretty far away. We can’t just walk out like that…”
You zipped up your jacket and shifted your bag from one hand to the other. “Why not? You’re not that recognizable, are you?”
He straightened up abruptly and shot you a sharp look. “You really don’t get it. If you want to be seen, go ahead — but don’t expect me to save you.”
On the last word, he handed you a face mask. “Put this on. Walk two steps ahead of me. Don’t look back.”
He pulled on a cap, black sunglasses, and his own mask.
You stared at the mask in your hand for a moment, wondering if this was really a good idea. Nothing would happen to you… but to Jiyong?
“Well… feels like I’m in a spy movie,” you said as you put the mask on. “Should I have a code word too?”
“Just don’t trip,” he replied as he opened the door and headed down the stairs. He let you go first as you moved through a narrow alley toward a busier street.
The longer you walked, the more people appeared around you. You hadn’t exactly chosen the best time of day for these little “adrenaline experiments.”
Your heart was pounding. You could feel Jiyong behind you, even though you didn’t dare look back. Adrenaline rushed through your body.
You turned into a side street, his hand briefly touching your elbow to guide you.
“You look like you’re enjoying this,” he murmured quietly behind you.
“Maybe,” you replied, tilting your head back just slightly. “Feels like I’m your dirty little secret.”
“You are,” he said. “And I intend to keep it that way.”
The walk felt endless. You had the paranoid sense that everyone was watching you, and you hesitated, wondering if this had really been a good idea. If you’d known most of the distance was already behind you, you probably would’ve turned around and suggested going back.
You trusted Jiyong. You trusted that he knew what he was doing — and what he could afford.
Then you heard something you hadn’t expected.
“Jiyong-ssi?”
You froze, stumbling half a step. In your peripheral vision, you saw a girl holding her phone, looking in your direction.
You slowed instinctively, like you’d been caught in the act — but Jiyong immediately moved ahead of you, placed a hand on your back, and pushed you forward.
“Keep walking,” he hissed.
“But—” you tried to protest.
“Keep walking. Now.”
You quickened your pace. His hand guided you into a narrow side alley, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest as it pounded wildly.
Once you made it safely into his car, you pulled off the face mask and let out a sharp breath. You glanced back, then forward through the windshield.
“Wow! That was intense! We literally ran and hid like fugitives. I really felt like I was in a spy movie.”
He looked at your excitement like you were insane — like you had no idea what could’ve happened.
“Really?” he said flatly. “You’re insane. If even one photo leaks, you’ll understand what dirty little secret really means.”
***
Jiyong parked in front of the studio building. The hallways were empty and quiet, you didn’t run into anyone. He unlocked the door at the end of the corridor with a code and let you inside.
You couldn’t exactly call it cozy. It felt charged instead — full of some kind of energy you couldn’t quite put into words.
Monitors glowed on the desk. The console was covered in tiny lights, buttons everywhere, headphones, microphones… In the corner, a couch with pillows and a throw messily scattered across it. And next to it — a ridiculous number of empty coffee cups.
You looked around, then exhaled softly. “So this is it…”
Jiyong slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “This is where I spend most of my nights.”
You walked closer to the console, brushing your fingers lightly over the buttons, like you were afraid you might trigger an alarm. “Looks… complicated,” you murmured.
“It is,” Jiyong replied as he took off his jacket. “But it’s the only place that makes sense.”
He was quiet for a moment as he hung up both his jacket and yours. Then he grabbed a can of soda from the small fridge and handed it to you.
“So… welcome to my second home.”
You lifted the can and clinked it against his. “To your… complicated buttons and way too many empty coffee cups.”
“Careful,” he warned in mock seriousness. “Every button has a purpose…”
He stepped closer, his hands settling on your hips. You rolled your eyes and slipped out of his grip, raising your hands dramatically.
“Okay, mister. Tour guide mode on. Show me the magic buttons.”
He groaned as you moved away. “You’re impossible.”
“You already said that,” you reminded him, running your fingers along the edge of the mixing console. “But I want details. Which one launches a rocket? Which one makes your voice less annoying?”
“That one,” Jiyong said, pointing at a random button.
You laughed. “So you’re admitting you need a machine to sound good?”
“Careful,” he said, stepping closer and pressing against your back. “Push the wrong one and you’ll delete a month’s worth of work.”
“Mmm,” you felt his chin rest on your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist. You stretched your hand toward the biggest button, deliberately hovering your finger just above it.
“This one?”
His hand instantly closed around your wrist. He bit lightly at your neck and whispered,
“You really want to test me?”
You laughed — it tickled. You twisted out of his hold and moved toward the microphone.
“Okay, what about this? Do you sing here? Rap? Whisper dirty stuff so it sounds artsy?”
“Sometimes,” he replied calmly, never taking his eyes off you.
“So if I say something into it, it stays here forever?” you asked — but didn’t wait for an answer.
You leaned toward the mic and whispered with exaggerated seriousness, “Daesung…”
Jiyong choked on his coffee and shot you a murderous look. “You’re dead.”
You laughed and wandered over to the couch. “Relax. I just wanted to test the echo. But it sounds good. Instant hit. You should hire me.”
He leaned against the console, arms crossed, watching you with amusement. “You were out of tune just standing there.”
“Rude,” you replied, your gaze drifting to the empty coffee cups. “So this is what keeps the legend alive. Not talent — just caffeine.”
“Better than cheap cocktails in tourist bars,” he said, eyebrow raised.
You laughed and stretched out on the couch, dramatically covering your eyes. “Fine. I’ll just lie here until inspiration strikes you. Maybe write a song about me? Call it Annoying Foreigner Who Drinks Your Soju.”
“Too long,” Jiyong said seriously. “Needs something shorter. Trouble.”
You lowered your hand and looked at him. “Okay. I’ll give you that. That’s actually good.”
“Of course it is,” he replied calmly as he walked over and sat beside you. “I don’t waste lines.”
“So I really am your muse now?” you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Should I start charging royalties?”
“You’re already expensive,” he shot back — faster than he meant to.
You sat up, smiling softly at him. “Fine. I’ll settle for free breakfast instead.”
“Deal,” Jiyong said, moving closer. His gaze lingered on your lips, his arm resting along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.
A kiss. Light. Gentle. Unrushed. It was obvious where it would lead if you were alone.
But then — the click of a door. Voices approaching.
You jolted, pulled away from Jiyong, and turned toward the entrance. Two figures appeared in the doorway.
One in a black hoodie, wearing a wide grin. The other taller, a cap pulled low over his forehead.
“Hyung?” the first one said, his voice tinged with surprise.
“Shit,” Jiyong swore, straightened up, and walked over to the two men. He switched from English to Korean almost instantly. You stayed frozen on the couch, your eyes darting between them.
You didn’t understand a single word — but the tone was clear enough.
Jiyong was saying something animated to the man in the cap, gesturing wildly, while the other one — Daesung (the only one whose name you actually knew) — made himself comfortable at the console, grinning broadly, like he’d just walked into the comedy of the year.
Or maybe a tragedy.
After the exchange, Jiyong rubbed his face and finally looked back at you.
“My… bandmates,” he said. “This is Seunghyun. That’s Daesung.” He nodded toward Daesung, then added, “They weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Oh,” you managed, because you had no idea what else to say. You didn’t know what they’d just been arguing about, and it didn’t feel right to say more.
Jiyong sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and gestured vaguely toward you while you were still sitting stiffly on the couch.
“This is… [Y/N],” he said shortly.
Daesung looked like he’d been waiting for this moment the entire time. His grin widened even more as he pushed off the console and reached out his hand.
“Nice to meet you!”
You shook it and smiled awkwardly. “Me too. Hi.”
Seunghyun didn’t step closer. He just nodded in greeting and turned back to Jiyong. Their conversation in Korean resumed.
You turned slightly toward Daesung, who had now dropped down next to you on the couch.
“I’m guessing I’m the topic of the day?” you asked.
Daesung burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Congratulations!”
Your cheeks burned. You didn’t feel comfortable — you couldn’t understand the conversation between Jiyong and Seunghyun, and Daesung looked way too smug while listening to it for this to end well.
Maybe Daesung sensed your discomfort, because he waited until Jiyong and Seunghyun paused their verbal sparring. Then he turned to you with that same grin, like you’d just stepped onto a game show.
“So… where are you from?”
“[Y/C],” you replied lightly. “Far away.”
“Ahhh,” he dragged it out, clearly pleased that you were talking. “Far away girl… come to Korea… meet trouble.” He pointed at Jiyong and laughed.
“Trouble indeed,” you agreed, without looking at Jiyong.
Seunghyun, who had been quiet, leaned against the doorframe and said something in Korean to Jiyong. His voice was deep and calm, but the tone carried a clear question. Jiyong answered briefly, sharply. Their eyes locked.
You turned to Daesung like he was your only ally in the room. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Jiyong answered before Daesung could.
Seunghyun added something else — shorter this time, maybe just a remark. His eyes flicked to you for a second, then back to Jiyong.
“What now?” you exhaled. You felt like you were watching a foreign movie without subtitles.
“He said nothing,” Jiyong cut in again, before Daesung could speak. His clenched jaw made it obvious that this “nothing” involved you more than he was willing to admit.
The atmosphere in the room shifted minute by minute.
“So, [Y/N],” Daesung started, turning fully toward you and clearing his throat for attention. “Why Korea? Holiday? Or… man?”
“Holiday,” you said with a smile. “Definitely not a man.”
“Mmmm,” Daesung narrowed his eyes. “But now… maybe man too?” He glanced at Jiyong, clearly waiting for the reaction.
“Yah,” Jiyong threw his hands up, like it was taking real effort not to hit him.
Daesung laughed. “Okay, okay, I stop. But really… you like Korea?”
“I do,” you nodded. “Though… I hate kimchi.”
There was a split second of dead silence.
Then Seunghyun spoke. When he addressed you, a chill ran down your spine at the depth of his voice. “You tell that to wrong people.”
“Why? Is that a crime?” you asked with mock seriousness, turning toward him.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Kimchi is… life.”
Daesung reclaimed the spotlight immediately. “So… what you eat then? Pizza? Hamburger? Only beer?”
“Beer is food,” you replied seriously.
Daesung laughed and shook his head. It looked like he didn’t want to get dragged into that argument, so he switched topics.
“So,” he said again, leaning toward you, “ [Y/N],… what you like man to do? Cook? Dance? Sing?”
It felt like some bizarre audition. You smiled.
“Cook is good. Dance… maybe. Sing… not necessary.”
“Not necessary?” Daesung repeated, sounding personally offended. “But I sing very good… Well, never mind. Then… smile? You like man who make you smile?”
“Definitely. That’s the best,” you nodded without hesitation.
Daesung clapped his hands and flashed his wide grin. “Then I win!”
You laughed and turned your head toward Jiyong. He was watching you — jaw tight, eyes dark, his hand gripping a bottle of water far too hard.
“You don’t agree?” Daesung turned to him. “Hyung, she say smile is most important. I have best smile.”
“Shut up,” Jiyong snapped in English — his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it before.
Daesung completely ignored the warning tone. “So if smile is best… what is second?”
You narrowed your eyes, thought for a moment, then answered, “Hmm. Maybe… someone who listens.”
“I listen. I’m very good listener,” Daesung said seriously.
“Do you?” you asked, feigning surprise.
“Yes. Example — you don’t like kimchi, you like beer, you like… trouble.” On the last word, he shot a pointed look at Jiyong and burst out laughing.
You laughed out loud and covered your mouth.
Daesung added, “Also… you are very pretty when you laugh.”
You froze, your cheeks warming slightly. “Thank you. That’s sweet,” you murmured, almost too quietly.
“See? Good smile, good ears, good words. Perfect package.”
Daesung turned to Jiyong and said something in Korean.
“What did you say?” you asked.
“Nothing bad,” he replied easily. Then he continued, “So… do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” you answered simply.
“Girlfriend?”
“Also no.”
“Pretty girl like you… no boyfriend?”
“Not everyone wants to be tied down,” you replied lightly, a hint of amusement in your voice.
“Then maybe… you find one here?” Daesung tossed out.
“ [Y/N],” Jiyong said curtly. “Come.”
He didn’t explain, didn’t add anything — he just walked toward the door of the smaller room next door. You followed him, closing the door behind you.
You were alone in a tighter space now, dimmer lights, closer walls.
“What the fuck was that?” he snapped the second the door shut. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was sharp.
“Calm down. He was just being funny. That’s it.”
“Funny?” he repeated incredulously. “He was two seconds away from asking you out right in front of me.”
“And I laughed,” you shot back. “Because it was a joke. Just a game. Nothing more.”
“This isn’t a fucking game.”
“Well, I know that. But Daesung is funny. That’s all. He’s harmless. I laughed because it was funny — and because if I’d just stared at him in silence, wouldn’t that have been more suspicious?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. His shoulders were still tense.
You reached out and placed your hand on his chest. “Relax. I’m not here for him. Or anyone else. Only you.”
There was a knock on the door.
You stepped back from Jiyong just as Daesung’s head popped into the doorway.
“Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “We thought… maybe you die in here.” He paused, unfazed by the tension still hanging in the air. “We order food — you want?”
You went back into the room with Daesung and Seunghyun.
“Sit,” Jiyong muttered, gesturing toward the couch. He sat down beside you. You could hear the tension in his voice. It annoyed you — all this pointless drama.
You ate quietly for a while, until Daesung spoke up again.
“So you meet our Jiyong. Why him?”
Jiyong lifted his head from his food. “Daesung—” he started warningly.
“No, really! So many people, so many places, but you look at him. Why?”
“Why him?” you echoed, then answered before Jiyong could shut it down. You wanted to end Daesung’s questions once and for all. “Maybe because he looked like the kind of guy who would ruin me in bed and not even say sorry. I wasn’t wrong.”
Daesung froze mid-bite, then burst out laughing, covering his mouth.
“You’re brave. Or crazy.”
“Same thing,” you replied calmly.
Your voice was steady — your gaze wasn’t when it met Jiyong’s.
Jiyong didn’t even look up from his bowl. “I’m fine.”
The atmosphere loosened a little, at least on the surface. Daesung stretched out his legs and pulled out his phone, scrolling through photos to show you. He flicked through them quickly — a chaotic mix of snapshots from nights out, rehearsals, backstage moments.
“See? Fun, right?” he asked proudly as you gave him your full attention.
“It looks amazing,” you said when a photo from the stage popped up. “You look like you enjoy every second.”
“Always,” he nodded, then swiped to another photo — all of them together. He pointed straight at Jiyong, microphone in hand, eyes locked on the crowd. “And this one… he looks so serious, but girls scream like crazy. You see that?”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I can imagine…”
Daesung looked up at you. “So… you scream too?”
“Not in the crowd,” you replied evenly, hoping he’d drop it.
He didn’t.
“Ahhh… then maybe somewhere else?”
You stayed quiet, only shrugged. You knew this wasn’t a road worth going down.
Dinner ended. Empty boxes piled up on the table. The air felt heavy — food, tension, unspoken things. Daesung stretched and said something in Korean to Seunghyun. They said their goodbyes quickly, and soon it was just you and Jiyong.
The door closed.
Silence.
Jiyong moved toward the table, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. His shoulders were still tight, his jaw clenched. You stayed seated on the couch.
“You think that was funny?” His voice cut through the silence.
“It was just fun. I just… played along.”
“Played along?” He stepped toward you. “In front of them? Talking like that?”
“Jiyong—” you started, but he cut you off.
“Do you have any idea what that looks like? What they think now? You think Daesung’s gonna shut up about it? You think Seunghyun didn’t notice every fucking word?”
You felt like a kid who’d been caught stealing a classmate’s candy.
“I told you,” he hissed. “You’re mine. Not their entertainment. Not their fucking joke.”
You clenched the napkin between your fingers, your heart hammering. You lifted your head to him.
“Maybe I just like pushing your buttons,” you said quietly.
He leaned in. “Then congratulations. You just pushed too far.”
You’d had enough. You didn’t need a moral lecture — not from someone like Jiyong. You stood up from the couch and faced him.
“You know what, Jiyong? We don’t even know each other. Not really. I don’t owe you anything, you don’t owe me anything. We’re strangers who happened to meet in a bar. And in a few weeks, I’ll be on a plane back home. I’m not spending my holiday taking orders from some guy who thinks he gets to tell me what to do.”
You let it all spill out — everything that was sitting on your tongue and in your head.
His eyes narrowed. “Strangers?” he repeated. “That’s what you call this?”
His finger touched your chin, lifting it toward him.
“Because when you were spread out under me, moaning like a fucking slut, you didn’t feel so foreign to me.”
Your cheeks burned — with anger and shame. You pushed back.
“That was my choice. Mine. Not because you ordered me to.”
“Choice…” he scoffed. “Funny, because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like you were begging for it. Again and again.”
“And what?!” you snapped. “So now you think you own me because I said yes a few times?”
“No.” He stared at you sharply. “I think you just want to go home with as many notches on your bedpost as you can get. That’s your goal, right? Collecting fucks like cheap souvenirs.”
The words hit you like a hammer to the head.
“You bastard,” you hissed. “You don’t know a fucking thing about me. Cheap souvenirs? You think that’s me? Maybe look in the fucking mirror, Jiyong. You collect women the way other people collect sneakers — limited edition, show them off, then shove them in the back of the closet when you’re bored.”
“At least I don’t pretend,” he shot back. “At least I know what I am. You? You come here playing innocent, pretending you’re just some naive tourist who stumbled into this… but underneath? You’re desperate. You want it, you crave it — and you hate yourself for it.”
“Fuck you,” you spat, stepping closer. “You think you’ve figured me out after what — a few nights? You’re pathetic. Some world-famous superstar who can’t handle a joke at dinner without throwing a tantrum.”
“That wasn’t a joke!” he barked. “That was you showing everyone you’re just like every other bitch who wants a piece of me!”
“No,” you growled, your voice breaking. His words hurt — too much. You lifted your chin.
“I’m worse. Because I don’t want a piece of you. I don’t want your fame, your fucking empire. I just wanted you — the arrogant asshole in a bar who knew how to mix my drink. But congratulations. You just proved why nobody should want more.”
He clenched his fists. “Get the fuck out.”
You swallowed, standing across from him, your throat tight. Then you answered, “Gladly.”
You grabbed your jacket, flung the napkin angrily onto the table, and headed for the door. You opened it and turned back one last time. Jiyong stood exactly where he’d been, frozen like a statue.
“I hope I never see you again,” you said — clear, firm, without hesitation.
You slammed the door.
The studio hallway was silent, filled only with the sound of your footsteps. Your heart was racing — not from fear, but from the adrenaline pumping through you after the fight.
His words — cheap souvenirs, desperate slut — kept looping in your head, like they’d been burned there.
“Idiot,” you muttered under your breath as you left the building.
You were sure you’d done the right thing by walking away. You weren’t about to spend another minute listening to his outbursts. He was a stranger. Nothing more. That was all.
Jiyong, meanwhile, stood motionless in the exact same spot. The muscles in his neck were tight, strained. Your words stabbed at him over and over again.
I hope I never see you again.
Why did it hurt this much?
You were right — you were strangers. A few nights, a few conversations, some laughter, a lot of sex. Nothing that should’ve meant more.
And yet it felt like someone had just torn a piece out of him.
“Fuck,” he growled into the empty room.
He grabbed the first thing within reach — an empty plastic food container — and hurled it at the floor. A ridiculous, weak gesture. Meaningless compared to what was tearing through him inside.
He dropped onto the couch and buried his head in his hands. He saw your face when you yelled at him. When you slammed the door behind you.
Strangers.
That word burned the most.
Because in the moments he was with you, you never felt like a stranger. You were more than anyone he’d had beside him in months.
“Shit,” he breathed, leaning back and tilting his head up. Eyes half-closed, jaw still clenched.
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If you were her, would you have walked out?
If you were him, would you have let her go?
I need to know what you're thinking 🖤
________________________________
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content with BDSM themes including consensual spanking, verbal degradation/humiliation, power exchange (dominant/submissive dynamics), orgasm control, rough sex, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, emotional vulnerability, and aftercare. Strong language. Reader discretion strongly advised. Adults only. Minors DNI.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 13 - Marked by You
Word Count: 7,261
You were woken up by the unpleasant sound of a phone ringing. Jiyong sat up, still half-asleep, and reached for it. You couldn’t understand exactly what he was saying, but from the tone of his voice, you could tell well enough. He ended the call and stared ahead in silence for a moment. He rubbed his temples and finally turned to you, realizing the ringing had woken you up too. He sighed.
“Today I have to go to the studio,” he said quietly, his voice still heavy with sleep.
You nodded. There wasn’t really anything else you could do. It made sense, of course—and yet you still felt hurt. Just like every day that brought you closer and closer to your departure.
Jiyong reached out, ran his fingers through your hair, and added, “But tonight I’ll be free. You could come here again. I’ll grab something on the way—food, drinks… we can just stay in.”
For a moment, warmth spread through your chest. There was nothing dramatic in his tone, no grand gesture. Just a simple suggestion—and yet it meant so much to you. That he wanted to spend time with you, even though you had less and less of it left.
“Okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, so you cleared your throat to cover it. “That sounds good.”
Jiyong smiled, pulled you closer, and kissed your forehead.
“Good,” he whispered. “Then it’s a plan.”
A moment later, he got out of bed completely. He found the pants folded on the chair and started getting dressed. You stayed lying there, quietly watching him. Your mind kept circling back to what you’d said last night in the café—how it might have ended if you’d actually left. Or if Jiyong had.
His voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” he said as he pulled on his hoodie. He didn’t look at you, focused on the zipper as if it required all of his attention.
“Okay,” you replied again, simply. You didn’t want to sound accusing. Or weak. You kept your tone neutral, even though everything inside you was screaming.
Finally, he turned his head. For a brief moment, it seemed like his eyes softened. He walked back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you quickly on the lips.
“Tonight,” he added quietly—and only then did he straighten up and leave.
After a while, you forced yourself to get up. The shower woke you up a little, but the feeling of emptiness and quiet desperation didn’t go away. You stood in Jiyong’s kitchen, looking around. Suddenly, it felt strange to be there alone. It wasn’t your space. It wasn’t your world. You were just a guest. And guests shouldn’t take up space when the owner isn’t home.
You got dressed and took one last look around. An empty glass on the table, blankets scattered in the living room. Your throat tightened for a moment—like you were leaving a чуж life you’d slipped into for a few days.
You returned to the Airbnb quickly, trying not to think about the strange feeling that lingered after leaving that morning. Your friend greeted you with a wide smile. She didn’t ask anything. For days now, she hadn’t asked where you were spending your nights, why you looked worse every day, or why you seemed constantly absent. She knew you—and she knew interrogation was the last thing you needed right now.
Excitedly, she explained today’s plan: another tourist route, a bit more challenging this time, but with a beautiful view. Nature. You put on a smile and nodded.
“Sounds good,” you said, even though you felt exhausted and underslept.
The hike was long, the climb steep. Your friend stopped every few steps to photograph flowers, trees, or just some “interesting” stretch of the path, while you followed quietly behind her. You tried to stay present, to focus on the nature around you—the smell of damp earth, the sound of birds.
At the top, you sat down on a bench and unpacked the small snacks your friend had prepared that morning.
“Isn’t it amazing? It’s a shame we’re flying home soon,” she sighed a little sadly, still staring at the view.
“Yeah… it is,” you murmured, paying more attention to the food than the scenery. When you finally looked out at the city spread beneath you, only one thought crossed your mind: How many hours are left until evening?
The sun was already high when you and your friend stopped at a small kiosk near the trail. They sold a bit of everything, and you let yourself get carried away. You bought several pointless souvenirs—proof that you’d been here. The biggest proof of all, no one would ever believe anyway.
You left your friend inside the shop and sat down on a bench outside as the place filled with people. Your phone started vibrating in your pocket. You looked at the screen—Jiyong calling.
You nearly fell off the bench. He never called. He always just texted. You hesitated for a second, then answered.
Y/N: Hello?
His voice came through the line, slightly muffled, like he was talking while eating.
J: Hey. Lunch break. Thought I’d check if you survived another tourist day.
You laughed.
Y/N: Survived, yes. But barely. We’ve been climbing for hours, and guess what—I’ve already bought like ten useless souvenirs. Cheap plastic junk that’ll probably break before I get home.
J: Hmm, sounds like quality shopping.
He said it dryly, but you could hear the amusement in his voice.
Y/N: Exactly. You should see our bags. Full of lucky cats, tigers, dragons, keychains… If customs stop us, they’ll think we’re opening a street stall.
You nodded, even though you knew he couldn’t see it.
Jiyong laughed.
J: At least you’re enjoying yourself. I wasn’t sure you’d want the tourist part after last night.
You went quiet for a moment, then quickly recovered.
Y/N: It’s part of the deal, right? You can’t come here and not take the clichés home.
J: Hm. Keep one for me. The cheapest, ugliest one you find.
He muttered.
Y/N: Deal.
You said, smiling.
You heard a rustle as he set something down on a table.
J: Alright, I have to get back. Tonight?
Y/N: Tonight.
You repeated—and then the call ended. You stared at the blank screen for a moment longer. Your thoughts were interrupted only when your friend finally came out of the souvenir shop, arms full of yet another batch of nonsense. We really should start thinking about the luggage weight limit…
The trip back from today’s hike felt endless. Your friend was still full of energy, showing you photos, trying to plan what you absolutely had to see in your last few days. You tried to listen—nodded here and there, laughed at the right moments—but your mind was elsewhere. Every step downhill brought you closer to evening. Everything else blurred.
When you got back to the Airbnb, you were exhausted, but instead of resting, you went straight into the shower. Your phone vibrated just as you were brushing out your hair.
J: I’ll be home in an hour. Come over.
You didn’t reply right away. Only once you were on your way did you text him back:
Y/N: On my way.
The city still fascinated you. Even though you’d taken this route several times already, it felt like you were constantly running into new people, new sensations.
You rang the bell. The door opened quickly—almost like Jiyong had been standing right behind it. He was wearing loose pants and a dark T-shirt, his hair still messy and damp from the shower. At first glance, you could tell you wouldn’t be the only exhausted one tonight.
“Come in,” he said simply.
On the table behind him, there was already a bag of food and two bottles of wine. The place smelled like a mix of spices and fried dough, layered with his cologne.
You watched as he unpacked the boxes—noodles, fried dumplings, pieces of chicken, kimchi… so much food you barely stood a chance of finishing it all. By now, though, you understood his logic: he always ordered more than necessary.
“You look exhausted,” you said when he sat down next to you on the couch and poured the first glass of wine.
“Long day,” he nodded. “But this makes it better.”
“Food and alcohol always make things better.”
You started eating—quietly at first, then slowly filling the space with comments between bites. You told Jiyong about today’s hike with your friend, about how you’d ended up with a bag full of plastic nonsense.
“I swear, my bag is now fifty percent souvenirs,” you said when you finished.
“Show me later,” Jiyong said, adding with a smirk, “I want to see what kind of garbage you spent your money on.”
You rolled your eyes. “Deal—but only if you promise not to judge.”
The atmosphere kept loosening. Food disappeared from the boxes, wine glasses filled and emptied again, and the silence between you was no longer heavy or empty—just filled with the unspoken awareness that your time together was limited.
Only empty containers remained on the table. Your cheeks felt warm, you were definitely drunk. You didn’t usually drink so much wine—it tended to hit you worse than other alcohol—but tonight, you didn’t really care. You were willing to accept the morning hangover. Jiyong, meanwhile, seemed thoroughly entertained by your laughing fits over nothing and your cute little verbal slip-ups.
Suddenly, you remembered something. You reached for your backpack beside the couch. When you’d bought it, it had felt awkward and silly—but right now, it felt like the best idea in the world.
“Oh, attention please,” you said, raising one finger. “I almost forgot. I got you something.”
Jiyong raised an eyebrow warily and set his wine glass down. “You got me something?”
“Mhm.” You smiled, holding up a small plastic bag between your fingers. Inside was a plastic keychain—ridiculously colorful, with a tiny blinking light that turned on when you shook it. It was some kind of hybrid between a dragon, a tiger, and maybe a cat. Pure nonsense. The kind that had made you laugh earlier today with your friend.
“This one’s yours,” you said with theatrical emphasis. “I picked it especially for you. Ugly enough, but still kind of… perfect?”
Jiyong stared at it for a moment when you dropped it into his hand. You eagerly gestured for him to shake it, which he did. When the ridiculous little light started blinking, he couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing.
“This is… horrible,” he said finally. “But… I’ll keep it.”
You laughed and took a sip of your wine. “Good. That way, you’ll think of me every time you grab your keys.”
Jiyong rolled the keychain around in his palm, made it blink again, and then said with mock seriousness, “I’m going to hang this on my bag. Front pocket. Everyone will see it. Paparazzi included.”
You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Don’t you dare,” you said, poking him in the chest with your finger. “That thing does not belong anywhere public. It’s—it’s shameful.”
Jiyong examined it again, then looked up at you, amused. “Shameful? I think it’s… iconic.”
“Iconic? It’s cheap plastic with a lightbulb that’ll die in a week. Trust me, it’s not iconic. It’s destined to live on keys—or in the back of a drawer. That’s the only dignified place for it.”
“So… you’re saying I should treasure it secretly? Hidden from the world?”
“Exactly,” you nodded far too emphatically. You lowered your voice. “Like a guilty pleasure. Nobody needs to know you own it.” You paused, pointed at your own chest, and added, “Except me.”
Your laughter filled the room—easy, natural, almost domestic. You understood each other not just as people, more and more, it felt like you were meeting in too many areas of life. And that was the dangerous part. You caught yourself looking at him longer than you should, longer than you meant to—helped along by the alcohol.
After a very serious debate about whether cats or dogs were better, Jiyong suddenly stood up.
“Wait here,” he said simply.
He disappeared into the bedroom, and before your slightly drunk brain could fully register that he was gone, he was back. In his hands was a box—dark, simple. But at first glance, you knew the box alone was probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. He handed it to you without a word and stayed standing in front of you instead of sitting back down.
“What’s this?” you asked suspiciously, lifting your eyes to his.
“Since you keep giving me ridiculous keychains,” he said calmly, though a spark flashed in his eyes, “I figured I should give you something too. But mine’s a little different.”
You opened the box and sucked in a sharp breath. Inside was a delicate piece of jewelry—a small pendant on a thin chain, understated but unmistakably expensive.
You felt sober in a second. You snapped the box shut and shook your head firmly. “No. I can’t. This is too much. I was giving you cheap souvenirs, not— not this.”
Jiyong watched you with an unreadable expression. “I didn’t ask if you can,” he said evenly. “I’m telling you it’s yours.”
You held the box tightly. Opened it again, like you needed to make sure you weren’t imagining it, then closed it once more.
“No,” you shook your head more emphatically and looked up at him. “I can’t take this. It’s too much.”
He was still standing in front of you, hands in his pockets. His hair was still messy, the lamp behind him casting sharp shadows across his face. The black T-shirt stretched over his shoulders—but it was his eyes that froze you in place. Dark, steady, focused so intensely it felt like he could see straight through you.
“I was joking with you,” you continued when he stayed silent. “Those keychains… they don’t mean anything. They’re just stupid plastic. This means something. I don’t want to take something I can’t give back.”
Jiyong stepped closer. Stopped right in front of the couch, pulled his hands from his pockets and placed them on the backrest behind your shoulders. He leaned down until your eyes met at close range.
“You don’t get to decide what it means,” he said firmly, calmly—but there was no room to argue. “I do.”
His gaze pinned you in place. You tightened your grip on the box. “Why?” you asked, exhaling.
He shrugged lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Because I wanted to. That’s all you need to know.”
You leaned back into the couch, trying to put a little distance between you and him. Your eyes flicked between the box and the pendant inside.
“It’s too much,” you whispered. “This is… too expensive. I can’t accept something like this.”
Jiyong straightened again and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you.
“You don’t like it?” he asked after a moment.
“I do,” you said too quickly. “I really do… But that’s not the point. I just… can’t.”
“That’s a weak argument,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“It’s not weak, it’s—”
“It is,” he cut in. “And if you keep refusing, I’ll actually get mad.” His voice was more directive than usual. Then, after a beat, he added, “And then I’ll spank you. Hard.”
Your eyes widened—and then you burst out laughing. You covered your face with one hand before the words fully sank in. “You’re insane,” you breathed between laughs, watching him with amused disbelief.
Jiyong returned the look—not amused, more like proof he meant every word.
“I’m serious. Take it… or I’ll have to prove my point.”
You were still laughing, though something heavy lingered in your chest. The laughter eased the moment, cracked the tension just enough to let you breathe again. You peeked at him through your fingers.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered, shaking your head.
After a moment, your laughter faded. You looked at the open box, then held it out to him.
“Fine,” you said, tilting your head. “Put it on me.”
Jiyong smiled, victorious. He took the box from your hand, removed the pendant and chain, and walked around the couch. He stood behind you as you sighed, brushed your hair to one side, and leaned forward slightly.
His fingers touched the skin at the back of your neck—cool metal, warm hands.
For a moment, there was only silence. His breath close to your ear. He fastened the chain, let it settle against your collarbone, and brushed his fingers briefly along your neck before stepping back.
You straightened and looked down at the pendant resting against your skin. You waited until Jiyong sat back down beside you, then asked with a drunk little grin,
“So tell me… is this your new side? Or some weird kink—spanking good girls when they misbehave? Or did you just say that to mess with me?”
Jiyong smirked and topped up your wine. Then he slid an arm behind your back and pulled you closer.
“You think I was joking?” he said quietly.
You laughed again, though a chill ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if it was him—or the alcohol. Your fingers kept brushing over the pendant, like you needed to prove it was real.
When you didn’t respond, he continued. “You’d deserve it,” he said softly, his voice rougher now. “After all that weak arguing. Refusing my gift… you only took it on the third try.”
His lips moved dangerously close to yours, but he didn’t kiss you yet.
“Good girls don’t talk back. And tonight… you were cheeky. Too cheeky.”
You swallowed. The pendant suddenly felt heavier between your fingers. The corners of your mouth trembled.
“So… I’ve been bad?” you asked.
The alcohol gave you courage you wouldn’t normally have.
“Very bad,” Jiyong confirmed, placing his hand firmly on your thigh. “And if I decide to do something about it… you won’t be laughing anymore.”
You felt your stomach tighten. You couldn’t look away. You stared at him openly now, no longer trying to hide anything. Your lips parted slightly.
“Maybe that’s what I want,” you whispered. You cleared your throat softly and shifted on the couch. “So what else would I have to say or do for you to actually spank me? Tell me. I’m listening.”
Jiyong’s gaze kept drifting from your eyes to your lips. He leaned closer until you felt his warm breath against your mouth. He bit your lower lip—without kissing you—and said, “You could start by being honest about why you’re so defiant. Say it. Admit you like being pushed. Say you want me to prove you can’t handle it.”
You shivered lightly, your thoughts spinning faster than the wine you’d had.
You laughed and shook your head, like you needed to make sure this was real. “Admit I like being pushed? That’s hardly poetic. Alright…” You moved closer to him. “I admit I like it. I like the idea of you forcing me to behave… Happy?”
His hand slid into your hair, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Not enough. Tell me something you’d do if I asked. Something real.”
You bit your lip. Different answers raced through your head, but you realized you weren’t drunk enough to say them out loud. Curiosity and impatience were working against you.
“What would you make me say? Or do? I won’t be boring, Jiyong. I can be obedient when I want to be. Or very bad. Your choice.”
He studied your expression, like he was trying to decide how serious you were. You could see the internal struggle in him. He laughed softly, then said, “Okay… Kneel. Say my name and beg nicely for whatever you want. And if you try to be clever, I’ll make you regret being clever.”
You hesitated for a moment. You didn’t know whether it was curiosity or alcohol giving you courage. You stood up, lifted your eyes, and slowly knelt in front of him.
“Jiyong,” you said quietly but clearly as you placed your palms on his thighs. “Please. Make me yours, make me beg for it. Tell me what I earn.”
His hand reached out and caught your chin, lifting it slightly so your gazes locked. “You’ve earned a lesson,” he whispered, leaning closer. “But you’ll be rewarded for honesty. Say it. Say you want me to take you now, that you want me to be the one who decides.”
You lowered your eyes slightly, unable to stop a small smile. You answered everything he wanted to hear, steady and certain. “I want you to take me. I want you to decide. I want you to make me forget everything else tonight.”
He watched you for a moment, then pulled you in by the chin and kissed you. The kiss was hard, stealing what little breath you had left.
“Good girl,” he whispered as he pulled back. “Come.”
He stood up from the edge of the couch and walked slowly into the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed. You followed him but stopped in the doorway. The lamp light was dim, highlighting your features while leaving parts hidden in shadow.
He motioned with a finger for you to come closer. Your pulse raced, but you obeyed. Slowly, step by step, until you stood between his knees.
“Over here,” he said.
He grabbed your wrists and pulled you toward him in one swift motion. Before you could react, you were bent over his thighs. Without waiting, he lifted your dress up to your waist in one smooth move. The cool air hit your skin as his hand settled firmly on your ass.
At first, gently—his palm sliding over the curve of your body, his thumb tracing the line of your hips.
“Do you know,” he began calmly, his voice sounding different now, “what you did wrong tonight?”
You swallowed.
“You argued. Again and again,” he continued without waiting for an answer. His hand circled your ass, deceptively gentle. “Good girls don’t argue when they’re given something. They don’t talk back.”
He pressed his palm against you, just enough to remind you who was in control.
“Tell me,” he leaned down and whispered, “how badly you think you behaved. How cheeky you really were.”
You stayed silent. Words failed you. Your breathing was fast and shallow. You knew you should say something, but you were completely frozen.
He looked down at you. His hand continued to move over you—slow, firm—then stopped. The next second, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear. With one quick, practiced motion, he pulled them down to your knees and left them there, no way to hide anything.
You gasped, heat flooding your face even though he couldn’t see it.
Before you could say a word, his palm came down hard against your bare skin.
The sharp sound echoed through the room, and your body jerked in response.
“You think silence is an answer?” His voice was low, calm, but unyielding. You didn’t know him like this. His hand settled on your ass again, still hot from the last strike, his thumb pressing lightly.
“Not answering when I ask you something… is very rude.”
He leaned closer until you felt his breath against the back of your neck. “Good girls don’t stay quiet. Good girls don’t ignore me.”
Another slap—harder than the first. You exhaled sharply, a moan slipping out, but you still didn’t answer.
“Tell me,” he hissed near your ear. “Are you going to keep testing me? Or are you ready to behave?”
His fingers kept moving over your burning skin, stroking the spot he’d just hit. The contrast between pain and gentleness was unbearable.
You clenched your hands into fists and, after a moment, turned your head slightly, hair falling into your face. “Maybe… I just like testing you…” you whispered.
There was a brief silence—then his hand lifted and came down again, harder this time. You couldn’t stop the sound that escaped you, halfway between a cry and a moan.
“Cheeky girl,” Jiyong growled. “You’re not supposed to enjoy punishment. But you…” his grip tightened, his thumb tracing over hot, reddened skin, “…you sound like you want more.”
You closed your eyes and breathed out. “Maybe I do,” you snapped back, trying to sound defiant, even though your body was already betraying you. “So what are you going to do about it?”
His hand struck again, so sharply your heart jumped into your throat.
“I’ll make sure you remember what happens when you talk back.”
He left his palm resting on your burning skin for several seconds, letting the sting sink in. You tried to breathe steadily, but your chest was rising and falling too fast.
Then his hand moved. Slowly sliding down from the curve of your ass, lower, between your thighs. His fingers spread you apart—firmly, without asking—and found exactly what he expected. You were soaked.
You could hear the smirk in his voice when he said quietly, sharply, “So this is what my punishment does to you… You’re dripping. Not even pretending anymore.”
His fingers moved through your wetness slowly, deliberately. Each stroke made a sticky sound that filled the room, making you squeeze your eyes shut, heat flooding your face. Every time he pressed inside you or dragged his thumb over your clit, your breath broke in short, helpless gasps.
“Listen to that,” he whispered as he ran his fingers between you again. The sound was wet, almost obscene. “That’s how wet you are just from me spanking you. You love it, don’t you?”
You clenched your fists, your body shaking. You didn’t answer right away—and that gave him reason to push his fingers harder, deeper, until your slick coated his knuckles.
“Fuck, you’re soaking,” he went on, his voice lower now, raw. “Every sound you make, every time you squirm… that’s you begging without words.”
You moaned, trying to hold yourself together, but every press, every word tore another sound from you. Your body trembled, completely exposed.
The defiance was gone. The armor was stripped away. All that was left was this—need and surrender and the terrifying freedom of letting him take control.
“Pathetic little slut,” he growled, pressing his thumb firmly against your clit while his fingers moved through you hard enough to make you jerk helplessly. “So wet just from my hand on your ass. You want me to keep punishing you, or do you want me to fuck you until you can’t breathe?”
You writhed, whimpering, hands clenched tight. Every movement, every wet sound stole your breath. You couldn't speak—could only focus on breathing and the building pressure in your core.
His fingers stopped. His thumb stayed pressed to your clit but didn’t move. The tension built until you thought you might lose your mind.
“Still quiet?” he said softly, almost mocking. “Even when you’re soaking my hand? You really think silence will save you?”
He pressed harder, still without rhythm, like he was punishing you for every second you stayed quiet.
“Say it,” he hissed, his other hand gripping your hip tightly. “Tell me exactly what you want, or I’ll stop right now—and you’ll lie here wet, shaking, begging me in your head but not in reality.”
The threat broke you. The idea of him stopping—of being left empty and aching—was worse than any humiliation.
You sobbed, your voice breaking as you finally forced the words out. “I want you…”
“Louder,” Jiyong ordered.
“I want you to fuck me,” you blurted out desperately, no filters left. “Please.”
His fingers drove into you again, hard enough to tear another cry from you. “Good girl,” he whispered.
Before you could catch your breath, he lifted you sharply and threw you onto the bed beneath him. His eyes were dark, unyielding—different from the man you knew. You watched, breath held, as he stripped off his pants and underwear.
He leaned over you—but instead of giving you what you begged for, he placed his hand between your thighs again. You lifted your hips toward him, hoping he’d finally take you, but he only smirked.
He bent down and kissed you while his fingers slid along your wet folds again, slow and torturous. Then he pushed one finger inside you, then another. You jerked and moaned—you were too sensitive, too worked up.
He paused for just a moment, then started moving again, steady and firm. His face was close to yours, his gaze burning straight through you.
“Listen to yourself,” he hissed between sharp, biting kisses, his eyes locked on your face. “Every sound you make, every time you twitch under my fingers… you’re squirming like a desperate slut.” His fingers pushed deeper, his thumb circling your clit.
“Tell me,” he pressed harder until you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed out against his mouth. “Do you think your pussy deserves me? Do you think you’ve earned my cock?”
You threw your head back and nodded. You couldn’t find the words right away.
“Not good enough,” he growled, thrusting his fingers harder, a wet sound filling the space between you. “I want words. I want to know exactly how much you want me.”
You opened your eyes and whimpered, your breath broken. “I want you so fucking bad. I can’t—I can’t take it anymore, please…”
Jiyong watched your expression like he was completely absorbed by it. “Say it better,” he ordered, relentless. “Make me believe you deserve it.”
Your hips lifted toward him on their own. You had no strength left to stay quiet. Your body had betrayed you long ago—now the last scraps of your pride gave in too.
“Please,” you breathed urgently, your voice shaking. You heard yourself saying things you’d never allow yourself to say out loud. “I want your cock. I need you inside me now. Please, Jiyong, don’t make me wait anymore.”
A satisfied look crossed his face. His fingers suddenly slipped out of you and you whined at the empty ache they left behind.
“That’s better. That’s how a good girl begs.”
He held your hips with one hand and braced himself with his knees against the mattress. Without warning, he slammed into you. Your body arched, a cry catching in your throat before melting into a gasp.
“Fuck,” Jiyong hissed as he felt you around him. Your walls clenched so tightly he shut his eyes. “You’re so fucking wet, I can hear it every time I push inside you.”
He thrust again, hard, the sound of your bodies colliding filling the room. Your hands found his hips, nails digging into him as you pulled him closer, your hips meeting his movements.
“That’s it,” he growled, breath heavy, voice rough. “That’s your pussy begging for me—every squeeze, every twitch—” he slammed into you harder until your vision blurred, “—you’re gripping me like you never want me to leave.”
You whimpered. The combination of his movements, his dirty words, the depth of his voice sent you spiraling. Jiyong didn’t stop, every thrust punctuated with raw commentary.
“You hear that? That’s how messy you are for me. You wanted to be fucked like a slut—and look at you now, taking all of it, so fucking needy.”
He lifted your hips and drove into you harder, growling at your reaction. “God, you’re so tight when you moan like that. Clenching on me like your pussy’s trying to milk me dry.”
Your body trembled, every word running down your spine just like his thrusts. You didn’t protest—you just gave in and let the moment take you.
You felt yourself getting close, and Jiyong must have felt it too, because suddenly he slowed down. He stayed buried deep inside you, moving so slowly it was unbearable. Every motion was drawn out, torturous, like he was savoring your tension more than the act itself.
You whimpered, head thrown back. Your hips tried to meet his rhythm, but he held you firmly, not letting you speed up.
“Please,” you breathed, your voice shaking, so close to the edge. “Don’t stop… don’t tease me, I can’t—”
Jiyong leaned over you, his forehead touching yours. “You can,” he whispered. “You’ll take exactly what I give you. And you’ll beg for every second of it.”
You moaned desperately. You couldn’t hold back anymore—at that moment you were thinking only about yourself and your own pleasure. You slipped one hand between your thighs, found your clit, and started touching yourself. Desperate, faster than his slow rhythm allowed.
“Fuck,” Jiyong hissed when he felt your inner muscles tightening, reacting to your own touch. Your body wrapped around him like it didn’t want to let him go. “You’re squeezing me so tight, fucking yourself while I’m inside you…”
You had long since stopped controlling your moans. Every movement of your fingers made you writhe under him, your body trembling. “Please, Jiyong, faster… I need you, I need it so bad.”
Jiyong looked at you, breathing hard. His eyes locked onto your hand between your thighs. The sight of your fingers on your clit while he was slowly pushing into you darkened his voice. He thrust sharply, finding your rhythm—matching his movements to the pace of your circling fingers.
“That’s it,” he hissed. “Touch yourself for me. Faster. Keep up with me.”
Another thrust, even harder. Your body clenched, your inner muscles gripping him so tightly he cursed. “Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight while you rub your little clit… You’re gonna make yourself cum all over my cock, aren’t you?”
You moaned uncontrollably. Your fingers moved in a rhythm Jiyong only intensified with his thrusts. Every movement pushed you closer to the edge, every thrust accompanied by the sounds of your bodies.
“Listen to that sound,” he hissed torturously as he made you look at him. He kissed you, his tongue finding yours and taking it over. “That’s your pussy begging. Messy, wet, fucking desperate. You’re a dripping slut for me and you love it.”
Your hips met his instinctively, his words driving you closer and closer to orgasm. “I’m so close, don’t stop…”
“I won’t stop until you scream my name. Loud enough so everyone knows whose slut you are right now.”
Your body tensed, clenching around him so tightly he gasped. “Jiyong,” his name slipped from your lips as the wave of orgasm tore through your whole body.
“That’s it. Cum for me. Don’t you dare hold back.”
You gave yourself to him completely. You moaned, shook, fell apart so hard you couldn’t stop it. You gasped for air like you’d just run a marathon. But Jiyong didn’t stop.
“No, no,” he said. “You’re not done. Not even close.”
You thought you couldn’t take any more when Jiyong kept thrusting, your hand slipping uselessly onto the sheets, gripping them tightly.
“Feel that? That’s me using you until you can’t even think. Until all you know is my cock pounding this greedy little pussy.”
You gasped for breath, feeling like you might pass out. You grabbed his forearm tightly with one hand as Jiyong kept driving toward his own climax.
“Look at you… still clenching on me, still dripping, even after you came. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you? You can’t help it.”
He knew exactly what he was doing—and he was right. You felt another wave building inside you, stronger, more crushing than the first. Your body writhed, trying to escape and pushing into it at the same time.
“Say it,” Jiyong growled, never slowing his pace.
“I’m gonna cum again… fuck, Jiyong,” you breathed before your words broke into a desperate cry. You clenched around him so hard he growled.
“Good girl,” he whispered, silencing your cry with a kiss.
He held you firmly until your body stopped shaking uncontrollably. You couldn’t slow your breathing. Only when he felt your body finally relax in his hands did he pull you close, holding you tightly, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
“Shh…” he whispered into your hair, resting his forehead against your temple. “That’s enough. You did so good, sweetheart.”
Jiyong lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest. You pressed into him, still trembling. Your muscles were tense, your chest rising and falling too fast. You kept your eyes closed, burying your face into his shoulder. You felt something strange and layered all at once—exhaustion, satisfaction, and at the same time, safety.
Jiyong held you tighter. His hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently. The way he looked at you was focused, quiet, maybe even caring. There was something in his expression you'd never thought to look for in him.
"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."
You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his gaze. His expression was gentle now—completely different from the man who'd just pushed you past every limit you thought you had.
"You okay?" he asked, searching your face.
You nodded, not trusting your voice yet.
"Use words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it."
"I'm..." Your voice came out rough, broken. You cleared your throat and tried again. "I'm okay. More than okay."
His thumb continued its soothing circles on your neck. "That was intense. I need you to tell me if I went too far. If anything—"
"You didn't," you interrupted quickly. "It was... it was perfect." You felt your cheeks heat even after everything you'd just done. "I've never... I didn't know I could..."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I could tell. The way you responded..." He trailed off, his hand sliding down to rub slow circles on your back. "You were incredible."
The praise made something warm bloom in your chest. You shifted closer, if that was even possible, your leg hooking over his.
"I need water," you admitted. "And maybe... I don't know. My brain isn't working right."
Jiyong smiled. "That's normal. Stay here."
He carefully disentangled himself and got up. You watched him walk to the kitchen, completely naked and unselfconscious. When he came back, he had a bottle of water and a damp cloth.
"Sit up a little," he said gently.
You obeyed, and he handed you the water. You drank gratefully while he sat beside you, the cloth in his hands.
"This might be cold," he warned before gently pressing the cloth against your skin.
You hissed at the contact, the cool fabric soothing against your heated skin.
"I know," he murmured. "Just breathe. Let me take care of you."
He was so gentle now—such a stark contrast to minutes ago—that you felt tears prick your eyes again. Not from pain or regret, but from the tenderness of it.
"Did I hurt you too much?" he asked, his voice concerned as he continued carefully cleaning you.
"No," you said honestly. "It hurt, but... in a good way. In the way I needed."
He nodded, setting the cloth aside. His hands moved to your thighs, massaging gently. "You're going to be sore tomorrow. The spanking, the... everything."
"I don't care." You reached out to touch his face, fingers tracing his jaw. "It was worth it."
He caught your hand and kissed your palm. "You scared me for a second there," he admitted quietly. "When you stopped talking during the spanking. I thought maybe I'd pushed too hard."
"I couldn't talk," you explained. "My brain just... shut off. In a good way. I was feeling everything so intensely that words just... weren't there anymore."
"That's called subspace," he said, resuming his gentle massage of your legs. "It's normal. But it's also why aftercare is important. You need to come down slowly."
You absorbed this information, realizing how much thought he'd put into this. How much he understood about what you'd just experienced.
"Have you..." You hesitated. "Have you done this before? With someone else?"
He met your eyes steadily. "I've explored this dynamic before, yes. But not like this. Not with someone who..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Not with someone who mattered."
Your heart clenched. "I matter?"
"You know you do." His hand moved back to your face, cupping your cheek. "I wouldn't have done any of that if you didn't. This kind of trust... it's not something I take lightly."
You leaned into his touch, feeling the weight of his words. The pendant around your neck suddenly felt heavier, more significant.
"Come here," he said, pulling you back down to lie against him. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. His arms wrapped around you securely.
"Rest," he said softly, his hand moving slowly over your back in soothing strokes. "I've got you."
You nodded, pressing your forehead against his neck. Your hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your palm.
For a few minutes, you just lay there in comfortable silence. Your breathing gradually slowed, your muscles relaxing as the intensity of the experience faded into a warm, satisfied glow.
"Jiyong?" you murmured against his skin.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
You felt him smile. "For what?"
"For pushing me. For not letting me hide. For..." You struggled to find the words. "For showing me that part of myself. I didn't know I could let go like that."
His arms tightened around you. "You don't need to thank me. You gave me your trust. That's..." He paused. "That's everything."
You were drifting now, half-asleep, when you murmured, "I've never had anything this intense. This… good. And I don't think I ever will again."
Jiyong stayed still, his hand continuing to trace slow circles on your back.
"Don't say that," he said quietly after a moment. Maybe he knew you were speaking half-asleep, but he still needed to answer. "You don't know what's waiting for you out there. Maybe there's more… maybe something different. But right now…" his fingers slid through your hair down to your neck, "right now this is ours."
He paused, his hand stilling on your neck. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, more raw than you'd ever heard it.
"And for what it's worth... I don't think I'll ever have this again either. Not like this. Not with anyone else."
Your eyes were too heavy to open, but you managed to press a soft kiss against his neck. "Good," you whispered. "I want to be the only one who gets to see you like this."
"You are," he murmured. "You're the only one I've ever let in like this."
His confession hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you were too exhausted to fully process. You made a small sound of contentment and let yourself drift.
"Right now," you murmured, already almost asleep.
Jiyong pulled the blanket higher around you, tucked it carefully around your shoulders. He shifted closer, wrapped himself around you gently, protectively.
"Sleep," he whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. "I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."
And for the first time since you'd arrived in Seoul, you fell asleep feeling completely safe. Completely seen. Completely his.
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics, emotional intensity, strong language. Adults only. Minors DNI.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 02 - Crossing The Line
Word Count: 6,745
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. Jiyong leaned in closer, until only a few centimeters and shimmering tension remained between you. "Then try. Prove me wrong."
The hallway stretched ahead—quiet, dimly lit, soft carpet muffling your footsteps. Jiyong went first, you followed, your heart pounding faster than you cared to admit.
This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. You don't know this man. He could be anyone—a psycho, a trafficker, someone's husband. And you're just... following him.
But you kept walking anyway.
You stopped at a door at the end of the hallway. Jiyong unlocked it and opened it without a word. He stepped aside, one hand gesturing for you to enter first—like a gentleman.
Inside, you were welcomed by a space that definitely didn't look like a standard hotel room. More like a luxury apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of nighttime Seoul, dark minimalist furniture, everything expensive and cold and perfect. The kind of place that costs more per night than your monthly rent.
You moved through the room with slow steps, taking it in. A slight smile crept onto your lips despite yourself. "Yeah, definitely not cheap. Stalker with style."
Behind you, the door clicked shut. The sound made your stomach drop.
You turned to face him, ready for another verbal match. Ready to throw something sharp and clever that might salvage whatever dignity you had left. But Jiyong was faster. He pulled down his hood, revealing his face fully under the warm lighting.
He took a few long strides toward you. Before you could step back or remember that you were supposed to have boundaries, his hand wrapped around your wrist. Firm enough to make your heart do a somersault. He pulled you to him, and your bodies collided.
"Now no bar, no street, no excuses." His free hand slid down without questions or hesitation, grabbing your ass hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and whatever remained of your self-respect.
You lifted your chin toward him anyway. The corners of your mouth twisted into what you hoped was a grimace but probably looked more like someone who'd just realized they'd made a terrible mistake but was too committed to back out now. "So fucking rude. Again."
"Rude?" He laughed—low, dark, the kind of sound that sent heat straight between your legs and made you question every life choice that had led to this moment. "You haven't seen rude yet. This?" His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh like he was testing whether you were real or just another figment of his imagination. "This is me being polite."
His other hand came up, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head back. His mouth hovered millimeters from yours—close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath and wonder Just his gaze—hard, direct, challenging. The look of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and knew you knew it too.
You didn't let yourself look away.
"You talk too much," he said quietly, almost a whisper. "Outside. In bar. On street. Always words, words, words." His hands pulled you closer, as if he wanted to press you into his body and eliminate every molecule of space between you. "Here... no words. Only scream or beg." His lips brushed your ear. "Move? You don't move unless I want. Understand?"
One of his hands slid down to your thigh, gripping it. The weight of his touch unmistakable. Your breath hitched. You lifted your chin higher, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "You're really arrogant... teacher."
His smile was brief, dark. "And you're about to learn why." His fingers traced up your thigh, stopping just before where you needed them. "You'll be a good student. Soon."
Then he moved—abruptly, violently. Like someone had fired a starting pistol you hadn't heard.
Before you could even exhale or remember your own name, you landed on your back on the couch. Your body sank into the dark upholstery. Your bag slipped from your shoulder and fell to the floor with a dull thud. He was over you instantly. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice noted that you'd officially crossed the line from 'bad decision' to 'story you'll either never tell anyone or tell everyone depending on how much alcohol you've had.'
The kiss hit your mouth like a physical blow. Like he was trying to prove a point or win an argument or maybe just shut you up, which—fair. It wasn't slow. It wasn't gentle. It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget your own name and remember why people write bad poetry. His tongue took what it wanted, his teeth closing around your lower lip until sharp pain flared. The kind that blurred the line between hurt and pleasure and made you wonder if you were secretly more fucked up than you'd previously thought.
You gasped against his mouth. Your hands clutched instinctively at his hoodie like it was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways. Your heart was pounding wildly, but you didn't pull away. You kissed him back with the same ferocity—because showing weakness would have been worse than his dominance. And also because apparently you'd decided that dignity was overrated anyway.
When he pulled back for a second to let you breathe—which was generous, really, considering—you stared at him, breathless. Lips already swelling like you'd been in a fight. "Cheeky bastard. Arrogant and now a rapist."
Jiyong didn't move far. He was still above you, knees pressed firmly into the couch on either side of your thighs. Breathing hard but controlled, his eyes calm and dark and entirely too satisfied with themselves.
"Rapist?" He tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly interesting puzzle he was enjoying solving. "Then why did you follow me?" One hand slid from your hip across your chest, pressing deliberately against one breast through the fabric. "You don't run now. Not here."
You swallowed. Your crooked smile tried to mask the tension tightening in your chest. "So... I'm fucked now. Literally."
He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "Yes. And you can't stop it." A pause. Then, quieter, almost gentle: "Unless you want to. Do you want to stop?"
The question hung in the air between you like smoke. Heavy and unavoidable. You could say yes. You could end this right now. Stand up, grab your bag, walk out with whatever shreds of dignity you could scrape together.
But you didn't.
"No," you whispered. The word felt like jumping off a cliff—terrifying and exhilarating and completely irreversible.
His smile was slow, satisfied. The smile of someone who'd known your answer before you did. "Good girl."
His hand returned to your hip, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. Hot and firm against your sensitive skin. Another hard kiss drove you deeper into the couch, his body pressing you down with the weight of inevitability. His teeth caught your lower lip again—because apparently once wasn't enough. Breath and heat closed in on you so tightly it felt like you were running out of air. Drowning in someone you barely knew and loving every second of it.
You gripped his hoodie instinctively. The only solid thing you had to hold onto in a situation that was rapidly spiraling beyond your control. His hands dug into your skin beneath your shirt—rough, possessive. Mapping your body like he was memorizing territory he'd just claimed. He pulled back only long enough to lift you slightly and tug your shirt over your head. The cool air hit your skin making you shiver. Though whether from cold or anticipation you couldn't quite tell anymore.
"Fuck," you breathed. Your fingers dug into his hoodie as you pulled him closer despite yourself. His weight shifted, pressing you deeper into the couch. He forced himself between your thighs, prying them apart with his knee. You let him—because at this point, pretending you had any control would have been laughable.
His hand slid lower—over your pants, over the fabric. Fingers pressing exactly where he knew it would hit you. Which was either very experienced or very intuitive or possibly both. The pressure was bold, deliberate, possessive. As if you already belonged to him completely.
"Here," he rasped, his lips brushing your jaw. "Already hot. Even through clothes." His fingers circled slowly, testing your reactions like he was conducting some kind of scientific experiment on how quickly he could make you forget your own name. "I guess you're wet already. Did you think about this? In the elevator? In the hallway?"
You tried to answer. Tried to say something sharp and clever that would prove you still had some functioning brain cells left. But the only sound that came out was broken and desperate and completely mortifying.
"See?" His fingers paused only for a second. "You don't need words now. Your body talks loud enough."
Slow, deliberate pressure. A circling movement that made you exhale sharply. Your hips moved instinctively into his hand, your body deciding to betray you completely. He laughed—actually laughed, dark and pleased. You would have been annoyed if you weren't so busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"There she is. Honest girl."
You barely registered him undoing your pants and pulling them down. Your brain had apparently decided that modesty was no longer a priority. You actually lifted your hips to help him, shame forgotten somewhere between the elevator and this moment of complete surrender. Your pants hit the floor with a soft sound that felt suspiciously like the last of your resistance dying a quiet death.
Before you could settle back, he'd already tugged his hoodie off in one smooth motion. One that suggested he'd done this before—many times before, probably. Which should have been a red flag but instead just made everything worse in the best possible way.
You watched his bare chest—lean muscle, smooth skin. The kind of body that didn't come from a gym but from genetics and good luck Your fingers itched to touch him. To confirm he was real and not some fever dream your sex-deprived brain had conjured up.
Before you could gather yourself, his hand slid back between your thighs. This time over the thin barrier of your underwear, First his palm, flat and sure, testing your reactions. Then his fingers slipped beneath the fabric with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he'd find. Touching you exactly where you needed it most and making you question why you'd ever thought self-control was important.
"Better," he whispered, lowering himself closer. His bare chest now pressed against yours. Skin on skin and heat on heat. "Now I feel you. Wet already... and I didn't even try." He slipped one finger into you, then a second. Your world narrowed to just that sensation—just his fingers and your body
You closed your eyes against the overload of sensation. Too many feelings at once, too much heat and pressure and desire. Your hips moved against his fingers involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything. You wanted to say something sharp, something ironic, something that would prove you still had some dignity left. But only a broken breath escaped your lips—needy and wanting and completely honest.
"Good girl. Finally quiet."
His two fingers moved inside you now—not gentle, not slow. Relentless and precise, curling just right until a louder moan slipped from your mouth before you could stop it. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold it back. Trying to maintain some semblance of control. But he heard it. Of course he heard it.
"There it is," he murmured against your neck. "That's the sound I wanted."
Your hand lifted almost of its own accord. Slid to the fabric of his pants with more confidence than you actually felt. You touched him—gripped him through the fabric—firmer than he expected, judging by the way his breath hitched and his movements faltered for just a second.
"It's not fair," you breathed, your voice shaky but steady enough. "I don't want to be... behind. I want to know what waits for me."
For a brief, glorious moment, you felt like you'd regained some power in this situation. His hips shifted instinctively against your palm. The look he gave you was darker than anything before—dangerous and hungry and entirely too knowing.
"Behind?" His laugh was breathless when it came. "You were already behind the moment you followed me here." His fingers thrust harder inside you, making you gasp and remember exactly who was in control here. "But nice try, smart girl."
"Fuck you," you managed.
"Soon." He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. "Careful. If you touch... you'll know soon. Too soon."
His fingers moved again—harder, rougher. As if punishing you for your boldness. They worked stronger now, with hard rhythmic pressure. Your hips lifted to meet them despite your best efforts at maintaining some dignity.
"Hear that?" he murmured. "That's your body begging. Not your mouth. Not your sarcasm. Just this."
Your soaked underwear landed on the floor beside the couch. Your pants joined the pile on the floor. Your hand was still gripping him through his pants, but your hold weakened as pleasure started building. Coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too tight.
"Fuck—" you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. Head falling back against the couch. "Fuck, Jiyong—"
You didn't even realize you'd said his name. Didn't remember deciding to speak. But suddenly it was there, hanging in the air between you like a confession. You'd said his name. Made it real. Acknowledged what was happening in a way that couldn't be taken back.
His jaw tightened, his fingers speeding up. "Good girl. Louder. I want the neighbors to know my name too."
And then you broke.
The wave of pleasure hit you hard—harder than you'd expected, harder than anything you'd felt in longer than you cared to admit. Your body arched off the couch, hips pushing against his hand with a mind of their own. A loud moan tore through all your carefully constructed resistance. He watched you closely the entire time, eyes dark and focused. Drinking in every reaction like he was memorizing it for later.
You lay there afterward, sunk into the couch. Breath ragged, thighs trembling like you'd just run a marathon. But there was still a spark in your eyes—still some fight left, even though you both knew you'd already lost this particular battle.
"I guess it's not over," you said after a moment. Trying to sound casual even though your voice was wrecked.
You propped yourself up on your elbows with more confidence than you felt. Your hand moved again, deliberately returning to his crotch. You slid your palm over the fabric slowly, firmly. Feeling the hard curve beneath it and wondering if you'd completely lost your mind or if this was actually happening.
"You sure you can handle what you're asking for?" His mouth was slightly open, breath quickening.
You smiled—weak but defiant. "I don't want to be... behind. I want to know. Now."
Even though your fingers were still trembling from your own orgasm, you found the fastening of his pants with surprising certainty. Muscle memory from previous bad decisions, probably. The sound of the zipper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. Like the universe was commenting on your life choices.
Your hand slipped beneath the fabric of his boxers without hesitation. You touched him directly for the first time. Hot and hard and bigger than you'd imagined. Which was both intimidating and exciting in ways you'd probably examine more closely later when you weren't quite so occupied. You gasped softly, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile despite yourself.
"Oh... not small. Definitely not." You held his gaze, your breath quickening with every movement of your hand. "So fucking hard."
Jiyong tipped his head back for a moment. Eyes closing, jaw tight. His hips jerked instinctively into the grip of your palm. "You're a dangerous girl," he growled.
"Better than boring girl, right?" You laughed, throwing his own words from earlier back at him.
You watched his face—the tense jaw, half-lidded eyes, the raw almost animal sound of his breath. It was intoxicating, seeing him lose control even just a little. Seeing that you could affect him the way he'd affected you. You pressed harder, stroked faster, your eyes locked on his.
"I can make you beg too," you hissed.
For a brief, glorious second, you thought you'd won.
Then Jiyong inhaled sharply. Muscles in his neck tightening. His hand closed around yours with bruising force. He yanked it free from his pants, pinning it—along with your other hand—against the couch above your head with a grip that made it very clear exactly how much control you'd never actually had.
"Enough," he growled, his face inches from yours. "You don't get to finish me. Not now. Not like this." His eyes burned with something that might have been anger or lust or possibly both. "You think you can take control? Think you can make me beg?" He laughed—dark, breathless. "Wrong."
His other hand slid from your thigh to your ribs. Moving higher with deliberate slowness. Finding the last piece of fabric still clinging to you like the final shred of modesty you were apparently determined to lose tonight. You tried to lift your hips toward him—one last desperate attempt at maintaining some agency. But his thigh locked you in place with embarrassing ease. His thumb brushed over the thin barrier of your bra, dragging deliberately across your nipple.
He released your wrists only to lift you slightly and strip the bra away. And you were suddenly, completely naked beneath a stranger in an expensive hotel room in a foreign country.
Then his hands stilled.
His movement faltered for just a moment—not pulling back completely. Only enough to reach aside. Toward the table. Toward his pocket. Toward the place where something should have been but clearly wasn't. His fingers lingered on nothing. You noticed the hesitation, the first crack in his otherwise perfect confidence.
"I don't have one," he muttered—more to himself than to you.
Of course. Of course he doesn't have protection. Because this night wasn't already complicated enough.
You pushed yourself up slightly on your elbows. Breath still uneven, your body burning with need and frustration in equal measure. You knew you could end it right there. Should end it. Just say no, put your clothes back on, walk out with whatever dignity you could scrape together. Go back to your Airbnb and pretend this never happened. Chalk it up to vacation madness and jet lag.
The irony wasn't lost on you. How you'd lectured your friend just hours ago about STDs and safe sex and Korean fuckboys. Sitting in that bar sounding so wise and responsible and superior. And now here you were, lying naked under a stranger. Just as desperate, just as reckless, just as willing to throw caution to the wind for a few hours of feeling something other than bored.
You're a hypocrite. A stupid, horny hypocrite who apparently learned nothing from years of being cynical and careful. Congratulations.
But you didn't want to stop.
You watched him for a moment before speaking. Trying to sound calm and rational like you were discussing dinner plans instead of unprotected sex with a stranger. "I'm on birth control."
He didn't look surprised. He just studied you seriously, making sure you meant it. Actually checking for consent in a way that was almost annoying because it meant you couldn't blame him later for anything that happened. "You're sure?" he asked quietly.
You nodded. "Yes."
"And—" he paused.
"Clean. Careful."
He studied you for another moment. "Clean. I test regularly." A beat. "Not because I do this—" He stopped himself. "I mean, I test because it's smart. Responsible. Not because I..." He paused again, seeming to realize he was digging himself deeper. "I don't do this. Or—fuck." He ran a hand through his hair, the first crack in his otherwise perfect composure. "I'm not explaining this well."
You couldn't help it—a small laugh escaped despite the tension. Here was this confident, dominant guy who'd just made you beg, suddenly flustered trying to convince you he wasn't a man-whore. It was almost endearing. Almost.
"Relax," you said. "I get it. You're very responsible. Gold star for sexual health awareness."
He gave you a look—half embarrassed, half annoyed—but there was something like relief in his eyes too.
You studied his face, looking for signs of deception. Found only seriousness. Either he was telling the truth or he was a very good liar. At this point you weren't sure which possibility was more concerning.
After a moment that felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, you gave him a small nod. "Okay. Then... okay."
His expression shifted—darker, hungrier. He moved back in, pressing you into the couch with the weight of inevitability. Positioning himself between your thighs. His body was hard, heavy, unyielding.
He pushed into you hard—without warning, without restraint. Your body took him with a sharp breath that broke into a loud moan. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your head falling back.
"Fuck—" you breathed. "So... fucking big."
He stilled for just a second, buried deep. "Not small, hm?" His voice was rough, strained.
"Shut up," you gasped, but there was no bite to it.
His hips moved—slowly at first, then more roughly. Setting a rhythm that made it very clear who was in charge. He leaned down, forehead almost touching yours, eyes half-lidded and dark.
"Still think I'm not big?" he murmured.
You gasped, hips rocking into him despite yourself. "No. You fill me completely."
"Good." Another hard thrust made you cry out. "Every time you walk tomorrow... you'll feel me still inside."
Then his right hand slid between your bodies. Found your clit and began rubbing it, right where you were already painfully sensitive. Your head fell back, mouth falling open, breath catching. He worked you with fingers and cock simultaneously.
"Fuck."
"Good girl," he growled. His fingers circled harder while his hips kept moving. “Your pussy – fuck – so wet around me.”
He changed the rhythm—speeding up, then slowing down. Building you up, then denying you release. Keeping you perpetually on edge. And then suddenly—cruelly—he stopped. Completely still.
"No—fuck—don't stop!" you breathed helplessly.
Jiyong leaned over you. Kissed your mouth once—brief and hard—then moved to your ear. "Beg," he whispered. "Tell me what you want."
Your voice broke. "Please... Continue. Don't stop."
He didn't move. "Not enough. I want to hear it dirty."
You clenched your hands on his hips. "Please... fuck me."
"Louder."
"Fuck me. Hard. Please."
His breath was hot at your ear. "Say it like a dirty girl. Tell me how you love my hard cock inside you..."
The words came out broken and desperate. "I... love it," you breathed. "Your cock... inside me. Filling me. Fuck—just move, please!"
God, fucking listen to yourself. You're begging like a slut for a stranger. And the worst part is you mean every word of it.
"Good girl. That's how I want you." He pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes. "See? No more smart mouth. Just truth."
And then he finally moved—hard, brutal, merciless.
The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room. Wet and obscene and unmistakable. The kind of sound that would probably make you blush later when you remembered it in the harsh light of day.
"Hear that?" he said low, voice rough. "That's how wet you are. How open for me. You grip me so tight... like you don't want to let go."
His hand closed around your breast roughly, thumb working your nipple. You gasped and threw your head back and gave up entirely on being anything other than exactly what you were in this moment.
"Tell me—" he demanded, voice strained now. "Do you love how deep I am? How I stretch you so wide it hurts?"
You closed your eyes. "Yes—fuck yes."
He was breathing hard now, thrusting faster. Losing some of that iron control. "Good girl. Then you'll take more. Take it. Every. Fucking. Inch."
Something in you softened then—quietly, without fanfare, without resistance. Your hard sarcastic armor loosened and fell away. No longer needed, no longer useful. You stopped fighting and just accepted it. Accepted him. Accepted this moment for exactly what it was. And in that acceptance, there was relief. The relief of finally stopping trying to control everything. Of finally just letting go and feeling something real.
His hand slid between your bodies again. Fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. Working it in perfect synchronization with his thrusts. The pleasure built impossibly higher. Tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until you thought you might actually die from the intensity of it.
And then it snapped.
Your second orgasm hit you like a freight train. Violent and overwhelming and completely devastating. Your body arched off the couch. Thighs locking around his hips as if trying to keep him there forever. Never let him go. Trap him inside you for eternity. Waves of pleasure crashed over you so hard you forgot how to breathe. Forgot your own name. Forgot everything except the sensation of breaking apart and being put back together all at once.
"Jiyong—fuck—"
Jiyong hovered over you, watching you closely the entire time. Breath ragged, his forehead resting against yours as you came apart beneath him. He was still moving—slower now, gentler. Letting you ride out every last aftershock. Wringing every last bit of pleasure from your shaking body.
"Told you," he murmured against your lips. "You don't sleep tonight."
Your body was trembling. Chest rising and falling rapidly. Hair stuck to your sweaty forehead, lips parted in exhaustion. You were broken and spent and still clenched tightly around him. Your body apparently reluctant to let him go even though your brain had temporarily stopped functioning.
This is insane. You don't even know his last name. You're in a country where you can't speak the language, in a stranger's hotel room, and your body just—
But he wasn't done. His hips started moving again—harder now, faster. Taking what he needed. The rhythm shifted from gentle to relentless. Hard precise thrusts, each one deeper than the last. Holding your hips with bruising force.
You cried out. Your body twisting beneath his rhythm—exhausted but somehow still responding. Still yielding to him. It was too much, too intense. Bordering on pain but never quite crossing that line.
Jiyong held you firmly. His thrusts short and hard and merciless. No slowing down, no gentle buildup. Just raw power and single-minded purpose. His rhythm alone. His breath broke into a guttural growl, jaw tight. Eyes dark and fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world.
"Fuck, you're so tight—taking me—every inch—" His words were broken now, control slipping.
You had no strength left to answer. No energy for words or thoughts or anything beyond pure sensation. Your body yielded to him completely—trembling, open, without resistance. You let yourself just feel it. Just experience it. Just exist in that moment without thinking about tomorrow or consequences or what any of this meant.
His rhythm became more erratic. You could feel him getting closer. His breathing ragged, movements losing their precision.
"Where—" he managed between thrusts, voice strained. "Where do you want—"
You understood what he was asking. Despite your exhaustion, despite everything, you knew exactly what he meant. Your answer came out breathless but certain. "Inside. Inside me."
And then it happened.
His rhythm broke. Hips tensing in those final desperate thrusts, losing all pretense of control. He came inside you with a loud growl that sounded almost pained—raw and unguarded in a way he hadn't been all night. You felt the heat of his release filling you, the intimacy of it hitting you belatedly. You'd just let a stranger finish inside you. In a foreign country. Without protection. Your friend would murder you if she ever found out.
He stayed over you for a long moment afterward. Breath short and heavy, his weight pinning you to the couch. His forehead resting against yours, both of you too wrecked to move. Neither of you spoke because there was nothing to say that could possibly capture what had just happened.
You lay beneath him, shattered and spent. Your heart pounding, every muscle feeling like liquid. You knew with absolute certainty that every word he'd said in the bar had come true.
After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Jiyong slowly pulled out. You hissed at the sensation—oversensitive and sore in ways you'd never been before. The immediate feeling of emptiness was almost worse than the soreness. He leaned back against the couch, dragging a hand across his sweaty forehead. His breathing steadied gradually, but the look he gave you was still intense. Like he was memorizing you or deciding something.
You felt it then—the warmth between your legs. His release slowly leaking out of you, a wet uncomfortable reminder of what you'd just done. The reality of the situation started creeping in. You were lying naked and sticky on a stranger's couch at god knows what hour, in a country where you didn't speak the language. If this went badly, you wouldn't even be able to call for help.
Great life choices. Really stellar decision-making tonight.
You reached for the throw draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over yourself. Suddenly aware of your nakedness in a way you hadn't been moments ago. Funny how shame worked—completely absent during, showing up right on schedule after.
He pressed a folded tissue into your hand without a word. The gesture was oddly considerate for someone who'd just fucked you into oblivion. You took it, trying not to think too hard about the mechanics of cleanup or how many times he'd done this exact routine before.
"Next time," he murmured, voice dark. "I won't stop. I'll take you until you can't even speak."
It made you laugh softly—weak, unsteady, barely more than a breath. You brushed the hair from your face and looked at him. "You're so sure of yourself. How do you know there will be a next time? I actually came here to see this country—not just the inside of a hotel room."
His fingers slid over your thigh again. Possessive even now. "You'll see me again. Not maybe. Not if. You will."
You chuckled, your breathing gradually calming. "You sound like a contract. Sorry—I didn't sign anything. This was just... a vacation accident."
He scoffed softly. "Vacation accident?" His jaw tightened. "You didn't leave." He leaned closer. "And you know damn well your body will want it again."
You laughed, sinking deeper into the couch. One hand sliding to your stomach. "Fuck... you're exhausting," you breathed. "And maybe... right."
Silence stretched between you. Your eyes were closed, trying to process everything. Trying to find your footing again. Jiyong's grip on your thigh loosened, his hand pulling away. He leaned back beside you, pulling the blanket across his hips.
The city beyond the windows hummed distantly. But inside the apartment it felt as if time had paused for a moment. Like you were suspended in amber. Preserved in this strange intimacy with a stranger.
You were about to speak—ready to lighten the tense quiet with irony, maybe suggest a shared shower—but Jiyong spoke first.
"You look different now," he said quietly. No mockery. No hardness. Just a simple observation.
You opened your eyes and looked at him. "Different? What do you mean?"
"Before... all fire. All words. Sharp tongue, sharp eyes." His gaze was heavy, but calm. "Now you're quiet. Real, I guess."
You smiled faintly. Resting your head back against the couch again and closing your eyes. "Yeah, well... maybe because you just fucked me half to death. Hard to keep a smart mouth when I can barely breathe."
Silence again. Then you opened your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Really thinking about where you were for the first time since entering this room.
What the hell am I doing? Lying here naked with a stranger who could be anyone. You don't know anything about him except his first name and that he's really good with his hands. Okay—be honest. Not just his hands. And, well… he doesn't exactly look bad either.
But Jiyong didn't know you at all either. Nothing about your past or your present. He was a stranger—and maybe that made him safe in a weird way. As a foreigner, you could tell him anything. There was no one he could repeat it to. No shared friends. No consequences.
"Maybe you're right," you said quietly after a moment. Surprising yourself with the honesty. "I talk too much. I hide behind words. It's easier than... being real."
Jiyong kept watching you—no judgment, no criticism. He reached out, his fingertips brushing your forehead. Pushing a strand of hair aside. The gesture was surprisingly gentle.
"I like both," he said. "The fire and this quiet. But this..." He paused. "This is rarer, I guess."
You felt yourself softening despite your better judgment. "Why were you there?" you asked after a moment. "Alone. Sitting, watching. Not with friends?"
Jiyong lay back fully now. Pulling the blanket across his hips, hands folding behind his head. "Because sometimes I don't want friends. Just noise. Alcohol. Faces I don't know."
You turned your head slightly to see his profile in the dim light. "So you hide. Same as me. Different reason, but same game."
Jiyong smiled faintly, dragging a hand over his face. "Maybe. But I don't hide for long. Someone always finds me."
"Lucky me," you said quietly. Not fully understanding what he meant.
The conversation felt a little too serious, too intimate. You weren't entirely comfortable with that. You decided to lighten it.
"So... tell me something," you said. "What do Koreans think about girls like me? Foreigners. Running into your country expecting drama, happy endings, beautiful men with umbrellas in the rain."
Jiyong slowly turned his head toward you. A lock of hair fell into his forehead as he fell silent. As if weighing whether you really wanted the answer.
"They think you're easy targets, stupid girls, fast sex. Fast goodbye."
The bluntness stung, even though you'd expected it. "Nice," you grimaced. "So basically sluts with airplane tickets."
He shrugged, unrepentant. "That's how most men see it. Foreign girl comes here, they play hero. Buy drink, smile, fuck—and next day, gone."
You rolled your eyes. Smirking despite the sting. "Guess what. That's exactly what the internet warned me about. Reddit, YouTube, every damn travel blog. 'Watch out for Korean fuckboys.' And still... here I am."
"Here you are," he said quietly. His eyes finding yours. "But not with a hero. With me."
"What's the difference?" you challenged.
Before he could respond, the silence between you was broken by the sudden ringing of a phone. You startled, heart jumping. You reached for your jacket crumpled on the floor. Pulled out the buzzing device. Your friend's name flashed on the screen.
"Finally," you muttered in your native language and accepted the call. "Hello?"
Your friend's voice sounded cheerful but tired. "[Y/N], I'm sorry! It kind of dragged on, but you can come now. Where are you? We should go to sleep soon—we've got a full day planned tomorrow. Lots to see. So where are you? I don't hear any bar noise."
You laughed—lighter this time, slipping back into your normal self—and ran a hand through your messy hair. "It's a long story. I'm coming, just... give me a minute, okay?"
"Sure. Just don't get lost—you know I'm useless with maps. So... see you in a bit?"
"Yeah. In a bit."
You ended the call and set the phone on the arm of the couch. Then you turned back to Jiyong. You realized he'd been watching you the whole time. Head tilted slightly, trying to parse meaning from tone alone. He hadn't understood a word, but the expression on his face said enough.
"Friend?" he asked simply.
You nodded. "Yeah. She says it's time to go." You laughed softly. "My friend has big plans tomorrow—palaces, markets, food tours... full tourist mode. Unless, of course, she gets lost again because some Korean prince with a pretty face makes her forget about me somewhere."
You reached for your clothes. Suddenly aware of how exposed you were—and how little you liked that feeling.
You didn't want to leave. Not like this. Still, you refused to dress it up as something sentimental. You caught yourself wanting to leave a door cracked open. Just enough to suggest this hadn't been some forgettable one-night thing. It would be a waste not to.
"If that happens," you added lightly. Trying to sound casual. "Maybe I'll need... another drink. Maybe I'll find the same bar."
"Not maybe." His response was immediate, confident. "You will."
You stood up slowly, legs unsteady. Began to dress. Everything felt different now—your body sore in places you'd never been sore before. Your mind fuzzy with exhaustion and lingering pleasure. You slid the hair tie off your wrist and pulled your slightly damp hair into a loose bun.
You grabbed your jacket, then your phone. Your fingers traced the screen nervously as you watched Jiyong pull on his pants and stand up.
"So..." you began. Trying to sound casual even though your heart was hammering. "You give me some contact? Facebook, WhatsApp... something normal?"
"No."
The word hit you like cold water. Your heart skipped a beat.
"No numbers, no apps." He stepped closer. "Just me. Next time—same bar, same seat." A pause. "You found me once."
You exhaled—half relief, half surprise. "Seriously? That's your system? Very old-school."
He stopped just a pace away. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
"Not old. Just simple." His voice was matter-of-fact. "You want me? You know where. You don't?" He shrugged. "Then we're done."
"Arrogant as always," you smiled. Slipping your phone back into your pocket. You weren't getting any contact after all. You felt a little embarrassed for even asking. Like you'd just made yourself look desperate, clingy, like all the other stupid foreign girls.
"Fine. Your choice." You zipped your jacket up to your neck, armor back in place. "But don't cry when I don't show up tomorrow night," you said. Trying to sound detached, unbothered.
You walked slowly toward the door. Just as your hand reached for the handle, he turned you around and pulled you back to him.
The kiss landed hard—no warning, no gentleness. Teeth, tongue, breath—like he was taking you one last time. Like he wanted to leave his mark before letting you go. You felt heat flood through you again despite your exhaustion.
When he pulled back, his hand cupped your jaw. "Tomorrow," he said. Not a question. A statement. That was his last word before he released you. Stepping back and letting you leave.
You stepped into the hotel hallway on shaky legs. The fluorescent lights were too bright, too harsh after the dim intimacy of his room. You barely noticed your surroundings—your stomach buzzing with leftover alcohol, adrenaline, uncertainty.
The elevator doors closed. You caught your reflection in the mirrored walls. Messy hair. Swollen lips. A bruise already forming on your neck.
The thought came uninvited—what it would be like to go back.
You bristled at it. You weren't the kind of woman who chased. Who waited around for a man to decide.
If you went back and he wasn't there, that would say more about him than you.
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content including oral sex (female receiving, edging), vaginal sex, power dynamics, emotional vulnerability, discussion of past trauma, possessive language, strong language, emotional intimacy. Adults only. Minors DNI.
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 09 - Unfinished Business
Word Count: 9,649
You woke up to sunlight cutting through the narrow gaps between the curtains — sharp, relentless. You’d slept late. Your head felt heavy, your eyes swollen. For a while, you lay on your back, staring at the Airbnb ceiling while next to you your friend was already rustling through her backpack.
“ [Y/N]?” she called. “We need to go soon.”
You closed your eyes and pulled the blanket closer to you. “I don’t feel good,” you murmured. “My stomach… I think I need to stay here today.”
She looked at you with concern. “Are you sure? Maybe some medicine? Or we can go later?”
“No, just go. You’ll enjoy it more without me slowing you down.”
She watched you for a moment, then sighed. “Okay. But text me if you need anything, alright?”
“I will.”
The door closed, and you were alone.
You turned onto your side and took a deep breath. You felt awful. Awful about Jiyong, about the fight, about his words — about everything. Your heart was pounding even though you were lying completely still. Anger mixed with pain, with a sense of betrayal. The whole thing felt ridiculous when you thought about it.
You reached for your phone — the screen was empty. No messages.
You curled deeper into the blanket and decided you’d spend the day in bed.
Time dragged. The clock on the wall kept ticking, but it felt like everything in the room had stopped. You stayed under the covers all morning, drifting in and out of sleep, waking up only to realize nothing had changed.
Around noon, you forced yourself to get up. You went to the kitchen and made instant soup, but you still had no appetite, no hunger.
“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, as if trying to convince yourself it was fine. “No contact, no problem.”
But the problem was still there…
Evening came faster than you expected. City lights flickered on behind the windows. Your friend sent you a few photos — you replied with emojis and one-word messages.
Nice.
Nothing more.
***
Meanwhile, Jiyong spent almost all his time in the studio. Anywhere else, he couldn’t breathe. He pretended to work. Your voice kept echoing in his ears like a blade:
I hope I never see you again.
For a moment, he wondered whether it made sense to look for you, to text you — to say something. Then he remembered what you’d said to him, and his pride rose like an impenetrable wall.
“No,” he muttered. “She walked away. Let her.”
And in the silence where his best lyrics were usually born, only one name was suffocating him now.
Yours.
***
When your friend texted that she wouldn’t be coming back tonight, you decided to break your monotonous routine. You stood in the kitchen for a while, unsure what to do with yourself. Then you grabbed your jacket and went downstairs to the small convenience store on the corner.
You bought beer, soju, and a bag of chips.
You laid everything out on the small table next to the couch, turned on only the lamp, and opened the first beer. The metallic click. The hiss. A gulp of cold alcohol sliding down into your stomach.
Relief. Small, but noticeable.
You sat curled up with your legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone at first without purpose — messages from home, social media, a few photos from the past days.
Another can of beer.
You typed Jiyong’s name into the search bar — not deliberately, more automatically. Articles weren’t enough. You skipped through them, feeling like you’d already read some of them twice and they still made no sense. You tapped on Images.
And there he was.
Everywhere.
Smiling — so effortlessly that it made your stomach tighten.
“You fake bastard,” you muttered, your voice shaking.
Another click. Another photo.
The worst part was catching yourself dragging your thumb across the screen of one picture, like you were touching his face.
Ridiculous. Pathetic. And you still did it.
You were already too drunk to properly judge your actions — or the consequences they might have. You opened your chat with Jiyong and typed:
Y/N: I hope I never see you again. And if I do – I’ll spit in your face and walk away with a smile. Consider yourself warned.
You sent it.
There was more alcohol than sense in it. More emotion than plan. Somewhere deep down, you knew it was stupid — but at the same time, it felt like relief. Those uneven words were yours. You wrote them. You felt them.
You stared at the screen.
Delivered.
Your heart jumped.
Then another status appeared.
Seen.
A flicker of panic made you wonder whether you should apologize, call him, fix it somehow. Instead, you grabbed another beer and drowned the fire still smoldering inside you.
Your phone stayed on the table next to the empty cans.
Jiyong didn’t return to the message until hours later, when he was sure you were already asleep. Only then did he read your words again and type a short reply:
J: Read this again when you’re sober. At least you’ll understand why I’ll be laughing at you the next time I see you.
He put the phone down and forced himself back to work.
***
You woke up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Then it hit you — what you’d written last night. You reached for your phone. You stared at his message for several minutes before anger won over embarrassment. You typed back:
Y/N: Of course I had to be drunk. I wouldn’t be able to stand myself sober after everything I let you do to me. You ruined my vacation with my friend — congratulations.
You went to the kitchen for water, regretting every single can you’d had last night on the way back. While you were gone, Jiyong’s reply popped up:
J: Poor you. Blame me for everything — it’s easier than admitting you wanted all of it. If I ruined your vacation, maybe you should’ve stayed with your friend instead of coming back to me over and over again.
You sat on the bed, your head still aching, adrenaline surging through you again. He was mocking you. Your fingers flew over the keyboard faster than your thoughts:
Y/N: The pathetic one here is you. At first, it looked like I’d spice up my vacation and you’d spice up your boring routine. I’d disappear in a few weeks, everyone would be happy. That’s how it could’ve been — if you didn’t act like a possessive, jealous freak. No wonder every normal woman walked away from you if this is how you behave.
You sent it without rereading.
His response came a few minutes later:
J: Every normal woman? Funny. They didn’t walk away — I let them go. Same way I’ll let you go when I get bored. Until then, you’re mine, whether you like it or not. Stop pretending you don’t fucking love the way it burns.
You were furious — at least on the inside. Your friend came in to tell you she was heading out. Today, she didn’t try to drag you along. She probably sensed you needed to be left alone. While you were talking to her, another message came in:
J: Good girl. Finally learning when to shut up.
You waited until the door closed behind your friend before replying:
Y/N: You think silence means you won? No. It means I’m disgusted. I stayed here while my friend went out because of you. Because I can’t stop thinking about how you ruined everything. Maybe that’s exactly what you wanted — to make me miserable even here.
You sat down on the couch, nervously biting the nail on your pinky, staring at your phone until it lit up again:
J: Finally. That’s the honesty I was waiting for. Hate me all you want, but at least you can’t ignore me. I’m in your head, [Y/N]. And the more you fight it, the deeper I get.
Your hands shook. You hated his confidence, his cold certainty. You fired back:
Y/N: Then get out of my head! I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you. You’re just a mistake I let happen too many times. Stop acting like you own me — you don’t. You’re nothing but noise that fucked up my time here.
You paced nervously to the window, and before you could rethink your next move, another message arrived:
J: Noise? Cute. For someone who doesn’t want me, you’re pretty loud about it. Keep telling yourself I’m just a mistake… while you keep writing me paragraphs.
You could practically see the smirk on his face, almost hear him laughing at you. You clenched your phone so hard your knuckles cracked. You couldn’t ignore him:
Y/N: Fuck you. You think you’re clever? You’re pathetic. You’re not some goddamn king, Jiyong. You’re just a sad, lonely man who can’t keep anyone around for long.
His reply came fast — like he already had it ready:
J: Better lonely and sad than a whore who throws herself at my bandmate the first chance she gets. I’d rather live alone than live with that.
Your phone slipped from your hand. Your heart stopped for a moment. You read it again. And again. One thing you couldn’t deny — Jiyong always knew exactly where to hit to make it hurt the most.
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, you felt small. Not bad. Not defiant. Just hurt. And you hated Jiyong for being able to make you feel that way.
You flinched when you heard the door open and a cheerful, “I’m back!”
You pulled the blanket over your head and turned toward your phone. Your friend walked in with a bag in her hand.
“You have to come with me tomorrow — I need someone to suffer through my expert commentary,” she blurted out, sitting down next to you. She put the bag on the table. “I got you something sweet.”
You tried to smile, but she’d known you too long, too well. “You didn’t leave all day, did you?”
“I didn’t feel well,” you murmured. It wasn’t even much of a lie.
“You look like a zombie… Is there anything I can do for you?”
You shook your head and turned your back to her.
When it got dark outside, your friend was already asleep. You were lying on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, your head a mess of chaos. Your phone vibrated on your chest:
J: You still awake?
You turned onto your side but stayed where you were. Hair messy, eyes tired. Your fingers slid over the keyboard on their own, without thinking:
Y/N: Of course I’m awake. Whores never sleep, right?
You muted the sound so you wouldn’t wake your friend and watched the screen. He replied:
J: Good. At least you’re honest about what you are. Makes it easier for both of us.
Your eyes burned from lack of sleep and staring at your phone for too long. You wanted to answer, but Jiyong beat you to it with another message:
J: You were right. You’re not mine. Maybe you never were. But… do you even remember our first meeting?
You sat up sharply in bed, rereading his last message over and over. You couldn’t tell whether he was setting up another ruthless attack, whether he was drunk, or whether he just… wasn’t as heartless as he’d been acting all along.
You hesitated — this was it now. Either you walked straight into it, or you didn’t. You typed back:
Y/N: Of course I remember. That bar. Me pretending I wanted to be anywhere else. And you — sitting there like you owned the room, but still coming over to me. I remember every second…
J: I remember too. You looked like you wanted to disappear, pretending you were invisible. But you weren’t. You were the only one I noticed. Every guy in that place could’ve looked at you — but you looked at me, even when you didn’t mean to.
You thought for a moment about what to say. It felt like the endless stream of thoughts wasn’t tormenting just you anymore, but him too. You were about to reply when another message came in:
J: I walked over because you already had me. You pulled me in without a word.
And another:
J: I hated it. And still, when I sat down, you didn’t move. You let me stay. Maybe that was my first mistake…
You stared at your phone, lost in thought. Your friend shifted in her sleep and mumbled something. You got up and moved into the kitchen. Another message arrived:
J: Not a mistake. The only right thing you could’ve done that night. If you’d walked away, I wouldn’t have followed anyway. But you stayed — and that changed everything.
A moment later, another addition:
J: Maybe it wasn’t such a stupid thing after all…
And then another:
J: Don’t pretend you didn’t love how I claimed you everywhere I could. Playground, car, bed… You were mine the second you let me touch you.
Your chest tightened. You thought about how many mistakes you’d made in your life — and how much you regretted the things you never did, the ones that couldn’t be fixed anymore.
The idea of leaving this continent and leaving all this chaos behind weighed on you. Life had taught you that if you start something, you should also end it — not leave things open-ended.
It felt like Jiyong’s emotional state could use that too.
There was no point in continuing these battles through messages.
You bit your lip and started typing:
Y/N: Maybe I’m weak, but this trip is already half over and I don’t want to leave with regrets, thinking about everything I didn’t do. I know this will sound pathetic, but I need to say it — I’d like to see you again before I go. I have a lot to say.
The screen lit up before you even had time to put the phone down. No waiting. No games. It almost felt like he’d been waiting for those words:
J: Tomorrow night. 10 pm. Same bar where we first met. If you really want this, don’t make excuses. Show up. Otherwise, don’t bother writing me again.
***
The bar was the same — and yet completely different. You stood outside the entrance, the music seeping through the door. When you stepped inside, your eyes automatically scanned the room, and you saw him immediately.
He was sitting at the same table as on the first night, his gaze fixed straight on you. He smiled — not friendly, but in a way that made your knees go weak. He nodded and lifted his hand, as if he honestly thought you might’ve missed him.
You took a step. Then another. And another, until you were standing right in front of him. You didn’t say a word.
He tilted his head up and looked you straight in the eyes. “You came,” he said quietly — and still, you heard him perfectly.
You swallowed and looked away. Then you sat down across from him. Still silent, you watched him signal the server and order. His face looked tired — maybe he hadn’t slept well since the fight at the studio. You couldn’t be sure.
When two empty glasses and a bottle of soju were set down in front of you, you finally spoke.
“I don’t want to fight with you. I just… I want to apologize. For the way I acted. For some of the things I said. I didn’t mean them the way they came out.”
You paused, took a breath, then continued. “That’s all I wanted. I don’t want to leave this place with something unfinished. Not with you.”
Jiyong stayed silent, studying your expression. Then he spoke. “Apologies don’t mean shit, [Y/N]. Words are cheap. If you really wanted to prove something, you’d show me. Not sit here and talk like it changes anything.”
He was provoking you — but you weren’t going to let him pull you back in. Not now.
“If I did that, we’d end up in the same cycle we’ve been spinning in this whole time. And you know it. That’s not the right way.”
Jiyong leaned back in his chair, rolling the empty glass between his fingers. He looked serious for a moment — then that hard, self-satisfied smirk appeared.
“There is no other way for me. That’s how I live. How I breathe. Chaos, fights, fucking… and then doing it all over again. You want something else? Then you came to the wrong man.”
You’d expected that answer.
You leaned closer, resting your chin on your hand. “And what does it actually give you? That way of living — the chaos, the fights, the endless cycle. What do you really get out of it? What’s in it for you?”
He frowned as he watched you, then laughed bitterly. “What do I get? Really? Don’t tell me you suddenly care about my happiness. This isn’t therapy, [Y/N]. You didn’t come here to fix me.”
You stayed quiet. He was clearly dodging the answer — you hadn’t expected anything else. You dropped your gaze to the empty glass. Neither of you had poured a drink yet. It seemed like you both wanted this conversation sober.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “Why do you keep coming back if it’s all so empty? What do you get from it?”
You looked up at him. You didn’t want to be like him — avoiding answers since your first meeting — so you answered honestly. “What do I get? I get the fire. The fucking burn I can’t find anywhere else. I hate it. I hate you half the time. But when I’m with you… I feel alive. Maybe that’s pathetic. But it’s the truth.”
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his eyes as he leaned across the table toward you.
“Exactly. That’s why you’ll never really walk away.”
You didn’t flinch at his closeness. You could almost feel his breath on your face. You met his gaze, your voice calm — but sharp.
“Is that really enough for you? Just me admitting my weakness while you play the lead role in it? If that’s all you expect from life, then your life is fucking sad.”
“Be careful what you say, [Y/N],” he started — but you didn’t let him finish.
“Careful?” You placed your hand flat on the table, a spark flashing in your eyes. “I’ve been careful so many times in my life, and it never paid off. Playing it safe never gave me anything. You of all people should know that — with your career, your risks. Without them, you’d be nothing.”
He didn’t respond to what you said. He just fixed you with a hard look.
“So tell me, [Y/N]… is being with me your risk? Or your… mistake?”
You hesitated for a moment, then answered. “It’s a risk. And whether it’s also a mistake… that’s being decided right now. By me sitting here. By listening to every word you say. Your next words will decide whether the risk is worth it — or whether it turns into the biggest fucking mistake I could make.”
He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “Biggest mistake, huh? You talk like I’ve got that much power. Relax. It’s just drinks, a table, two people who can’t seem to stay away from each other. Don’t turn it into some life-changing philosophy.”
He leaned back, shrugged, then added, “But hey… if you want to call it a mistake, call it that. You like your drama. Maybe that’s what keeps you coming back.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not a drama queen, Jiyong. I wouldn’t call this drama. But when I’ve let you between my legs and into my mouth, I’m not going to talk about it like we’re discussing the weather. If my emotions sound like drama to you, maybe you need to talk to people more often — so you can actually tell the difference.”
You noticed his hand tighten around the empty glass. For a moment, you thought he might crush it in his fist. Then he spoke. “Maybe… maybe I turn your feelings into drama because it’s easier. Easier than admitting I don’t know what to do with them… or with you.”
You dropped your gaze to the tabletop. The conversation wasn’t going the way you’d imagined. Minutes dragged on. When you’d been mentally preparing for this meeting, you’d expected to be back at the Airbnb by now. But things don’t always go according to plan.
You were tired.
One of your hands stayed on the table, the other rubbed over your face. Then you felt his touch on the back of your hand. It was the first moment since you arrived that wasn’t about words, but about action — about touch. It felt like an electric shock running through your skin.
You pulled your hand back and looked up at him. “Not here. Unless you want your face on every fucking headline tomorrow.”
“Fair point,” Jiyong nodded, lowering his gaze. He folded both hands into his lap under the table. For a second, he looked like you’d hurt him by pulling away — like a kicked puppy, desperate for someone to pet it.
You bit your lip.
“I don’t know if I’ll regret this,” you said quietly, “but can we go somewhere where we don’t have to worry about other people’s eyes?”
The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to slap yourself. Your weakness had shown. It always did. You’d always been like this — throwing yourself headfirst into traps you could see coming.
Jiyong lifted his head, didn’t say a word, just nodded in agreement.
He left cash on the table next to the untouched bottle of soju. Then he stood, pulled his jacket over his shoulders, and headed for the exit.
And you followed.
The door closed behind you, and there was no turning back.
Memories rushed in — your first meeting, the ride to the hotel. You could’ve sworn you were just as nervous now as you’d been that first night. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and walked one step behind him. Neither of you spoke.
Jiyong gestured toward the corner of the street, where his car was parked. He unlocked it and opened the passenger door for you. Inside, it was quiet. The engine started smoothly. The radio stayed off.
You drove through the city in silence, the atmosphere thick, almost claustrophobic.
You watched the road, but you didn’t recognize it. This wasn’t the way to a hotel. Or the loft. You inhaled, about to say something — and swallowed your words every time.
When the car stopped, you realized you were in front of a modern building with a private entrance. Clean. Closed off. Anonymous.
Jiyong got out first, walked around the car, and opened your door. Still without a word.
The elevator took you straight up.
And then—
The doors opened, and the space in front of you carried his signature.
It was the first time you were standing in his world. His real one.
Jiyong closed the door, set his keys on the table, and finally spoke. “Welcome to my place.”
You stopped walking — but your eyes didn’t. You took everything in. The view. The floors. The walls. Everything looked perfectly arranged, as if every object had an exact place.
Beyond the windows, the city stretched out — thousands of lights, streets that never slept. Seoul looked like a living organism, and you felt like you were standing at its center.
On the low table, two things stood out: an empty glass and an open notebook filled with chaotic notes. Beside it, an expensive pen lay discarded, like it had slipped from his hand the moment he didn’t want to continue.
Something tight clenched in your chest — a mix of fascination and unease. It was beautiful. And cold. Luxurious. And empty.
Like it mirrored exactly what you’d seen in him yourself — a perfect facade, hiding a hollow space he guarded more fiercely than anything else.
You walked slowly toward the couch. You felt restless, like you were in a gallery where you weren’t allowed to touch anything, afraid of disrupting the perfectly balanced order.
You took a deep breath and broke the silence. “Can I sit down?”
Jiyong watched you from the other side of the room, hands in his pockets. A brief smile crossed his face. “You don’t need to ask. It’s my couch — but tonight, it’s yours too.”
You set your coat over the backrest and sat on the edge of the couch. You looked around again, this time from his perspective — from the place where he probably sat often.
You lifted your gaze to him. He was still leaning against the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets. His body looked relaxed.
His eyes didn’t.
“It feels… cold,” you said carefully. “Like everything here is perfect, but no one really lives in it. It’s beautiful, but… empty.”
Jiyong pulled his hands out of his pockets and moved along the counter from one end to the other.
“Empty places just need the right company,” he said calmly as he pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “Wine? Or do you want something stronger tonight?”
He set the glasses on the counter and finally looked at you again.
“Wine is fine,” you replied evenly.
Jiyong walked over to you with the bottle and the two glasses, set them on the table, and poured. He stayed standing in front of you, extending one glass toward you and holding it just above your palm. You shivered when you took it, your fingers brushing against his.
You looked up and met his gaze, gave a small nod — thanks.
Jiyong sat down beside you. He rested one elbow on the back of the couch, turned toward you. He lifted his glass and lightly clinked it against yours. “To unfinished business,” he said calmly.
“Unfinished business?” you echoed, then took a sip. “That sounds more like you. You never leave anything unfinished… at least not with me.”
Jiyong smiled, amused. “You’re right. I don’t leave things unfinished. Especially not with you. Every time I touched you, I made sure you were done… completely.”
He drank without breaking eye contact. Slowly swirling the wine in his glass, he continued, “So tell me… is there anything left between us that I haven’t finished yet?”
Your thighs instinctively pressed together. You lowered your head, staring into the glass in your hand. “Oh, you finished plenty… but the thing with you, Jiyong—” you lifted your eyes back to him, “—is that you always want to start all over again. Maybe that’s what’s unfinished. The fact that you can’t leave it at done.”
You paused, then added quietly, “So maybe the real question is… what exactly do you still want to do with me tonight?”
Jiyong smiled and set his glass down on the table. Then he leaned closer, resting his elbow on the back of the couch behind you, his gaze locked on yours. For a moment, it felt like he was reading your eyes, testing how far he could go.
“What do I want tonight?” he said softly. “Isn’t it obvious enough?”
His gaze flicked to your lips for a brief second before returning to your eyes. “I want to hear you admit that no one fucks you the way I do. I want to remind you how easily you fall apart for me — in bed, in the car, on your knees, wherever I put you. And then I want you to hate yourself for loving it.”
You swallowed and had to look away for a moment. You set your glass down beside his. Your movements were slow, deliberate — buying yourself time to decide your next move.
You leaned back again while he didn’t move at all. You looked up at him, his breath was warm against your face. He was still waiting.
You closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, then lifted your hand to the back of his neck. Your fingers slid into his hair as you pulled him toward you and pressed your lips to his.
Your eyes squeezed shut. You were so weak — walking straight back into his trap, again and again.
Your kiss wasn’t careful or gentle. It was hard. Hungry.
Jiyong froze for a split second, clearly surprised. Then he smiled faintly and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He kissed you back just as raw, his tongue tangling with yours in a wild, reckless rhythm.
One of his hands stayed on the back of the couch, while the other slid to your thigh. His thumb brushed the inside of it, and you let out a soft moan into the kiss. Your breaths mingled, your fingers dug into his hair.
After a moment, Jiyong pulled back — slowly, reluctantly — as if testing how you’d react.
“I’ve never seen you this hungry before,” he murmured, sending a shiver down your spine.
Your lips stayed parted, still wet from the kiss, your eyes drifting back to his mouth.
“Are you satisfied now?” you asked, nearly breathless.
Jiyong nodded, dragging his thumb over his lower lip. “Tell me, [Y/N],… how long have you been craving this since the last time I touched you?”
Your gaze drifted from his eyes to his lips. You stayed silent, breathing faster, watching him. Jiyong seemed to understand immediately. His hand slid higher up your thigh and squeezed. He leaned in, his lips brushing along your jawline up to your ear. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered against your ear.
His hand was steady, his fingers deliberately moving slow along the inside of your thigh, just beneath the hem of your skirt. He was only teasing, and somehow that was worse than anything else.
He leaned back to your ear again and murmured, “You remember how wet you were before I even touched you properly last time? Tell me, [Y/N],… are you the same right now?”
Before he even finished the question, his fingers brushed over the fabric of your panties. You both exhaled sharply, almost in unison. He pressed through the fabric, his thumb moving in slow, torturous circles over your clit. You gasped, your body arching. Only a short, broken sound escaped your throat, but you still didn’t say a word.
“This silence of yours…” he growled quietly, “…it just makes me want to hear you scream louder when you finally break.”
His fingers slid the fabric of your panties aside and touched you directly. The pressure was firmer now, but still painfully slow, until your legs began to tremble. You opened your mouth and moaned.
Jiyong pressed closer, his breath mixing with yours. “Say it, [Y/N]. Tell me to keep going.”
Arousal clouded your mind. You needed him to continue, but you refused to admit your weakness, refused to beg. You needed to push him into action, force a shift.
You turned your head toward him and kissed him, breathless, just for a moment. When he pulled back and looked into your eyes, waiting for your answer, you pushed past the last of your embarrassment and said, "Do you think you could do better with your mouth than with your fingers? Because if you can…" You hesitated, your eyes dropping to his lips. "…then I can't even imagine how that would feel."
Your words hung in the air. You weren't begging like he wanted — you were provoking him.
Jiyong's fingers stopped moving completely under your panties. For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then his lips curved into something dangerous.
"Better?" he repeated slowly, his voice dropping lower. "You're really asking me that?"
You held his gaze, refusing to back down even though your heart was hammering. "I'm asking. Can you?"
He laughed—low and rough. "You have no idea what you just started."
His hand withdrew from under your panties entirely, and you almost whimpered at the loss. But before you could protest, he gripped your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "You're going to lie back on this couch. You're going to spread your legs for me. And you're going to find out exactly what my mouth can do." He paused, his eyes burning into yours. "But don't expect me to be gentle. Don't expect me to stop when you beg. You asked for this—you're going to take all of it."
Your breath caught. The satisfaction of getting what you wanted warred with sudden doubt about whether you could actually handle this.
"I'm waiting for an answer," he prompted, his grip on your chin tightening slightly.
You clenched your jaw and replied as calmly as you could manage, "Gentleness is the last thing I expect from you right now."
Something flashed in his eyes—approval, maybe. Or hunger. "Good girl," he murmured, then kissed you hard before releasing your chin. "Now lie back."
You kissed him once more, trying to steady yourself, then slowly leaned back against the couch. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. You bent your knees slightly, your skirt riding up automatically.
Jiyong stayed where he was for a moment, just looking at you. From your position lying back, he looked almost unreal—backlit, towering over you, his expression somewhere between predatory and reverent.
"Keep your eyes on me," he ordered quietly.
You watched, lips parted, as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His eyes never left yours. The movement was deliberate, unhurried—like he knew exactly what the sight of his bare chest was doing to you. Your gaze traveled over his skin, his muscles, before snapping back to his face when his hands landed on your knees.
He spread them apart slowly, watching your reaction. You fought the rush of embarrassment, your cheeks heating, but you didn't look away.
"That's it," he said softly. "Don't hide from me now."
He moved closer, kneeling between your thighs on the couch. The position forced your legs wider. You closed your eyes for just a second, trying to steady your breathing.
"Eyes open," he reminded you. "I want to see your face when I make you fall apart."
You forced them open again, meeting his gaze. He shifted his weight forward onto his hands, caging you in, and kissed you. Your mouth was dry, your lips trembling slightly. The kiss was deep, possessive, his tongue claiming yours until you couldn't think straight.
When he pulled back, his mouth didn't go far. His lips traced along your jaw, down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He paused at your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, before moving lower to your chest.
His hand came up to cup your breast through your clothes, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardened. Then his mouth followed—taking your nipple into his mouth through the fabric, the wet heat making you gasp. His other hand found your other breast, massaging, squeezing, while his mouth worked relentlessly.
"Jiyong…." you breathed, your back arching off the couch.
"Shh," he murmured against your skin. "I'm not even close to where I'm going yet."
His hand stayed on your breast while his mouth continued its path downward. You felt his breath move across your stomach, each exhale sending shivers through you. His lips pressed kisses along your ribs, your abdomen, getting lower and lower with agonizing slowness.
"You're already trembling," he observed, his voice muffled against your skin. His tongue touched just above the hem of your skirt, tracing along the edge. "And I haven't even touched you where you need it most."
"You're taking too long," you managed, your voice shaking.
"Am I?" He looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe I want you so desperate you forget how to speak."
Before you could respond, you felt him pull the fabric of your skirt higher, bunching it around your waist. His hands slid to your hips, fingers hooking into the sides of your panties.
"Lift up," he instructed.
You did, and he slid them down your legs slowly, watching your face the entire time. When they were off completely, he tossed them aside and ran his hands back up your thighs—still not touching where you needed him, just exploring your skin with deliberate patience.
"Please," you heard yourself say, hating how needy it sounded.
"Please what?" His thumbs traced circles on your inner thighs, so close but not close enough. "Use your words, [Y/N]. Tell me exactly what you want."
You moaned in frustration, your hips shifting restlessly. "You know what I want."
"Maybe," he conceded. "But I want to hear you say it. Beg for it properly."
"I already—" you started, but he cut you off.
"That wasn't begging. That was asking." His hands moved higher, spreading your thighs wider apart. "Try again."
You gripped the edge of the couch, desperate for something to hold onto. "Jiyong, please—"
"Better," he murmured. "But not good enough yet."
He leaned in then, and you thought he was finally going to give you what you needed. Instead, his mouth went to your inner thigh—dragging his tongue along the sensitive skin there, getting so close to where you were aching for him before stopping just short.
A whimper escaped your throat.
"That's more like it," he said against your skin. He repeated the action on your other thigh—licking, kissing, biting gently—each touch sending jolts through you but never quite reaching where you needed it most.
"I hate you," you gasped out.
He laughed quietly. "No you don't. You love this. You love being teased until you can't think straight." He looked up at you again, his face still between your legs. "Now. One more time. Beg me properly, and maybe I'll give you what you want."
Your pride was crumbling with every second. Your entire body was trembling, your breath coming in short gasps. You looked down at him—at his dark eyes, his knowing smirk, the way he was watching you fall apart without even really touching you yet.
"Jiyong… please," you whimpered, all pretense of control gone. "Please, I need your mouth on me. I need…fuck…I need you to make me come. Please."
His eyes darkened with satisfaction. "There it is," he said softly. "Was that so hard?"
"Yes," you breathed. "Now please—"
You didn't get to finish. His hands tightened around your thighs, spreading them even wider, and he finally—finally—put his mouth where you needed it.
The first touch of his tongue made you cry out. There was no teasing now, no gentle exploration. His tongue buried itself against you hard, mercilessly, exactly like he'd promised. No circling, no building up—just immediate, relentless pressure that knocked the breath straight out of your lungs.
"Oh god—" Your back arched violently off the couch, one hand flying to tangle in his hair while the other crushed the edge of the couch so hard your knuckles went white.
He didn't slow down. His mouth worked with confidence and aggression, like he was punishing you for every minute you'd made him wait. His tongue dragged over your clit with perfect pressure, then sucked it between his lips, and the sensation made stars burst behind your eyes.
You felt one of his fingers slide inside you—slow, deliberate, while his mouth never stopped its assault. Then a second finger joined, stretching you, and the dual sensation made you moan so loud you barely recognized your own voice.
"That's it," he growled against you, the vibration adding to everything else. "Let me hear you. Let the whole fucking building hear you."
Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling almost painfully, but he didn't stop. If anything, it seemed to encourage him. His fingers curved inside you, finding that spot that made your thighs shake, while his tongue maintained its relentless rhythm on your clit.
"Jiyong…fuck…I can't…" The words came out broken, barely coherent.
"Yes you can," he said, pulling back just enough to speak before his mouth was on you again. "You're going to take everything I give you."
You were already so close, the pressure building impossibly fast. Your whole body was tense, trembling, chasing that edge. Your hips started to move against his mouth, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more everything.
And then—just as you were about to tip over—he slowed down.
"No!" The protest tore from your throat as his tongue lightened its pressure, his fingers stopping their movement inside you. "No, please, don't stop."
But he did. His tongue moved lighter now, teasing, barely touching. He'd pull your clit between his lips gently, then release it. His fingers stayed inside you but didn't move, just filling you without the friction you desperately needed.
"Jiyong, please—" You were writhing now, your hips lifting off the couch trying to get more contact, but his free hand pressed down on your stomach, holding you in place.
"Not yet," he murmured. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips glistening. "I can feel how close you are—your thighs are shaking, you're clenching around my fingers." His eyes were dark, almost black. "Do you have any idea how good you taste? How hard it is not to lose control myself?" Then his mouth was on you again, lighter, teasing. "But I'm not done with you yet."
"I can't—" Tears of frustration were actually forming in your eyes. You'd never felt anything like this—being held right on the edge, so close but not quite able to fall over. "Please, I need…"
"What do you need?" He looked up at you, and the sight nearly destroyed you—his face between your thighs, his lips wet, his eyes burning with dark satisfaction. "Tell me again."
"I need to come," you begged, all pride completely gone now. Your voice was shaking, your whole body trembling. "Please, Jiyong, please let me come—"
"Louder," he demanded. "I want to hear how desperate you are."
"Please!" You were practically sobbing now. "Please, I'm begging you—I need it so badly—please don't stop this time—"
He smiled—actually smiled—and tightened his grip on your thighs. "That's what I wanted to hear."
Then he dove back in, his mouth working with renewed intensity. His tongue was everywhere—licking, sucking, the pressure hard and perfect. His fingers started moving again, thrusting deep, curving to hit that spot with every stroke.
The relief of finally getting what you needed after being denied was almost as overwhelming as the pleasure itself. Your back arched completely off the couch, your hand in his hair pulling so hard you knew it had to hurt, but you couldn't stop.
"Yes—oh god, yes—don't stop, please don't stop—" The words tumbled out in a desperate stream as he drove you higher and higher.
"Come for me," he demanded against you. "Come right now. I want to feel it, taste it—fucking come, [Y/N]—"
His words, combined with the relentless attention of his mouth and fingers, finally pushed you over the edge.
The orgasm crashed through you like an electric shock—sharp, violent, uncontrollable. Your whole body went rigid for a split second before it started shaking. You screamed his name, your head thrown back, your vision going white.
"Jiyong—oh fuck—Jiyong—"
He didn't stop. Even as you came apart, his mouth stayed on you, his tongue chasing every pulse, every tremor, drawing it out until you thought you might actually die from the intensity of it. His fingers kept moving inside you, working you through every aftershock.
"Too much—" you finally gasped when it became almost painful. "I can't—"
Only then did he slow down, gentling his touches as your body gradually stopped shaking. When he finally pulled back, you collapsed completely against the couch—boneless, wrecked, barely able to breathe.
You lay there, trembling, lost. Your lips were parted in helpless gasps, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your ribs. Every muscle in your body felt like liquid.
Jiyong's hand still rested on your thigh, stroking slowly, soothingly now. He shifted up, moving to hover over you, his weight braced on his hands beside your hips. You watched through half-closed eyes as he deliberately ran his tongue over his lips, tasting you there.
The only sound in the room was your ragged breathing trying to even out.
You lay motionless, trying to remember how to form thoughts. Your body was slowly coming down from the high, but there was still tension thrumming through you—and it had nothing to do with the orgasm.
That tension was entirely from the way Jiyong was looking at you.
His gaze was intense, dark, possessive. Satisfied. Like he'd just proven something to both of you.
The silence stretched. You expected him to say something sharp, something cocky, something that would turn this vulnerable moment into another battle between you.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
"You have no idea how fucking beautiful you look when you lose control."
You held your breath, waiting for the poisonous follow-up, the mocking observation about how desperate you'd been.
It didn't come.
Your cheeks heated despite everything that had just happened. An uncontrollable urge to kiss him took over—to close the distance, to somehow acknowledge what this had been without having to put it into words.
You slid your hands into his hair—the same hair you'd just been pulling and gripping—and pulled him down to you. You kissed him like it was the last kiss of your life, tasting yourself on his lips and not caring, pouring everything you couldn't say into the desperate press of your mouth against his.
When he finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, you found your voice.
"And you have no idea how fucking good that was." The words came out rough, honest, still breathless. You held his gaze. "If I'd known what you could do with your mouth… I would've made you do it from the very first night we met."
You didn't mean it as provocation this time. It was just the truth.
Jiyong looked at you for a moment, then pulled away. He knelt briefly and then stood beside the couch. He was still wearing his pants. You sat up nervously and drew your knees to your chest, suddenly flushed with embarrassment, wondering if you'd said something wrong.
You opened your mouth to add something, but Jiyong reached out his hand and said quietly, "Come."
You took his hand and stood up. You felt his touch, his grip, the way his thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand as he led you toward the bedroom. The gesture was so simple, so tender after everything that had just happened, that it made your chest tighten.
When you reached the bedroom, he turned to face you. For a moment, you just stood there—you completely bare, him still in his pants, the air between you charged but different now. Softer.
Then he kissed you again. The kiss was so different from the ones on the couch—slow, deep, gentle. It stole your breath in an entirely new way. His hands moved in slow circles over your hips, no rush, no urgency, just touch for the sake of touching.
You slid your fingers into his hair and deepened the kiss, your tongues tangling in a rhythm that was heated but unhurried. You kissed until your lungs burned, until the backs of your legs hit the bed.
You pulled away to sit down on the edge of the mattress, looking up at him. Your hands immediately went to his bare chest, tracing over the planes of muscle, feeling his heart beating beneath your palm. Then they traveled lower, fingers finding the zipper of his pants and opening it with more confidence than you felt.
You started to pull his pants down, wanting to touch him, but Jiyong caught your wrists gently. You looked up at him, confused, worried you'd done something wrong.
His eyes were dark but soft, his lips slightly parted. "Lie back for me, sweetheart," he whispered, releasing your wrists.
The word hit you like a physical touch. Sweetheart. He'd never called you that before. Never used anything but your name, and usually in moments of intensity or frustration. This was... different.
A shiver ran down your spine. You searched his eyes for a moment, trying to understand this shift, before doing as he asked. You leaned back onto your elbows and shifted to the middle of the bed, then let yourself fall back completely, your head sinking into the pillow. You never took your eyes off him.
Jiyong stripped off his pants slowly, then his boxers, never breaking eye contact. You held your breath watching him, taking in every detail—the lines of his body, the evidence of how much he wanted you, the unexpected softness in his expression.
He climbed onto the bed and moved toward you with deliberate slowness. When he finally hovered over you, your noses brushed. He stayed there for a moment, just breathing with you, before kissing you again.
His hips settled between your thighs, pressing down, and you felt how hard he was—the heat of him against you making you moan into the kiss. Your hands slid down his sides to his lower back, fingers pressing into his skin.
"Jiyong..." you breathed when he pulled back slightly. "Please..."
He shifted, one hand leaving your body to guide himself toward you. His eyes locked on yours—intense, unblinking—and you found you couldn't look away either. There was something in his gaze you hadn't seen before. Something more than desire.
You felt him at your entrance, dragging the tip deliberately through your wetness. The teasing touch made you gasp, your hips lifting instinctively. Your hands traced slow circles over his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself back.
"I want to watch you," he murmured. "Watch your face when I'm inside you."
Then slowly—so slowly it was almost torture—he pushed inside. You both inhaled sharply at the sensation. Your mouth fell open, a moan escaping as he stretched you, filled you. One of his hands gripped your thigh while the other braced beside your head, his thumb coming up to brush gently over your temple.
"God," you breathed as he sank deeper. "Jiyong..."
He stayed still for a moment once he was fully inside, letting you adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. You could feel him trembling slightly with the effort of holding back.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You nodded, unable to form words. Then he started to move—pulling back slowly before pushing in again with precision that made your toes curl. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Yes..." you gasped. "Exactly like that."
He maintained that rhythm—slow, deep, steady. It was so different from the intensity on the couch. This wasn't about urgency or desperation. This was about feeling every single second, every inch of connection between you.
Instinctively, you spread your legs wider, wanting him deeper, closer. Your hips lifted on their own to meet his movements, and the angle shifted just slightly—enough to make you both moan.
"That's it," he encouraged softly, his grip on your thigh tightening. "Take what you need."
You lifted your right leg, hooking it over his shoulder. The new position let him sink even deeper, and the intensity made you cry out. You reached up, finding his lips, needing to kiss him as he moved inside you.
"Fuck," you breathed against his mouth. The word came out shaky, overwhelmed.
Jiyong tightened his grip on your thigh and thrust harder—still controlled but with more force now. "That's it," he whispered. "Let me in... let me reach you."
Your body responded exactly the way he wanted, opening for him completely. Every muscle was tight, every nerve ending alive. You were shaking, taking everything he was giving you, and it still wasn't enough.
"More," you heard yourself say. "I need—"
You didn't have to finish. He grabbed your other leg and lifted it, draping both over his shoulders. Then he leaned forward, his body folding over yours, pushing your thighs toward your chest. The position left you completely open, unable to move, unable to do anything but take it.
The new angle made you cry out—loud, uncontrolled. He was so deep like this it almost hurt, but in the best way. A raw growl tore from his throat as he felt your muscles clench around him in response.
"Jesus," he groaned. "You feel…fuck…"
Once you adjusted to the depth and intensity, he started moving faster. His control was slipping now, his thrusts becoming more urgent. You watched his face—saw the moment he started to lose himself in it.
"You're so fucking tight like this..." he purred, one hand sliding over your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "I can feel you clenching, trying to keep me inside." His voice dropped lower. "Come on, sweetheart, let go for me... come on my cock."
The endearment combined with the filthy words, the angle, the relentless rhythm—it was too much. You felt the pressure building impossibly fast, coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"I'm close…" you warned, your voice breaking.
"I know," he groaned. "I can feel it. Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart."
A few more thrusts and you were gone. You cried out as your muscles clenched hard around him, your whole body going rigid before it started shaking. The orgasm hit you violently—wave after wave of sensation that seemed to go on forever. Your back arched as much as the position allowed, your hands clutching at his arms, his shoulders, anything you could reach.
"That's it," Jiyong growled, his own control completely shattered now. "Fuck—[Y/N]—"
You felt him thrust a few more times, his rhythm becoming erratic. He gripped your thigh hard, squeezed his eyes shut, and you felt him pulse inside you as his orgasm tore through him. The guttural moan he let out sent another aftershock through your oversensitized body.
Your legs slowly slid off his shoulders, muscles trembling, completely boneless. Jiyong collapsed over you, careful not to crush you with his full weight, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. His chest rose and fell in heavy waves against yours, both of you struggling to catch your breath.
Neither of you felt the need to say anything—not yet. There was just breathing, heartbeats gradually slowing, the feeling of being tangled together.
The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy, until Jiyong finally rolled onto his back beside you. You opened your eyes and turned your head toward him. His face was close to yours on the pillow—tired, flushed, but calm. Peaceful, almost.
"I didn't know it could be like this..." you whispered honestly after a moment, not sure exactly what you meant but knowing it was true.
Jiyong watched you quietly, like he was weighing his words carefully. Then he smiled softly—a real smile, not his usual smirk. "Maybe that's because we never stopped long enough to really see it," he said.
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. With the other, you reached for him, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble there. "Then maybe we should stop pretending it's only about fucking..." you said uncertainly.
You knew he could laugh at you. Tell you you'd lost your mind. Turn this vulnerable moment into something ugly. But you needed to say it.
Jiyong stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours. Then he turned onto his side too, mirroring your position, leaning closer. "If it were only about that..." His palm came to rest on your hip, the touch slow and gentle. "...we wouldn't be here like this. You wouldn't be looking at me the way you are now."
Your stomach tightened, something warm spreading through your chest. "And how am I looking at you?" you asked quietly.
Jiyong smiled and pressed his forehead to yours, like he was about to tell you a secret. "Like you're scared of what this really is... and like you want it anyway."
The words hung between you. You smiled despite the ache in your chest, because he was right. It was terrifying and you did want it anyway.
"Then don't let me wake up tomorrow and regret this," you whispered, exhausted in more ways than one.
"I won't," Jiyong said, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The gesture was so tender it made your throat tight.
After showering together—another quiet, intimate thing that felt significant in its ordinariness—you returned to the bedroom. You lay down, and without thinking, automatically shifted as close to him as possible. Your head found its place on his chest, your eyes closing as you breathed him in. His scent surrounded you, his body warm and solid against yours.
"Mmm... this feels dangerous," you murmured without opening your eyes.
Jiyong's hand moved slowly over your bare back in soothing circles, the touch almost lulling you to sleep. "Then let it be dangerous," he said quietly. "For tonight, at least."
You were already drifting off when you felt him press another kiss to the top of your head.
A/N: Did she show too much weakness by reaching out first? Or was this the only way forward for two people who can't seem to let go? 💔🖤
Pairing: Jiyong x Reader
Content Warning: Emotional intimacy, vulnerability, discussions of personal history, mild emotional distress, no explicit sexual content (emotional chapter). Adults only. Minors DNI.
Quick note: a reader put together a Bad Ratio playlist and it honestly made my day. It’s now linked in the masterlist 💜
🎧[Bad Ratio — Playlist]
[Bad Ratio — Masterlist]
Chapter 10 - Things You Take Home
Word Count: 6,843
You woke up to sunlight forcing its way through the blinds. You opened your eyes and it took you a moment to realize where you were. You lay there quietly, listening to Jiyong’s steady breathing. He was sleeping deeply.
Careful not to wake him, you slowly slipped out of his hold. His face was calm, lips slightly parted, hair messy. The sight made something sharp twist in your chest — something you were afraid to name.
You turned away quickly, grabbed one of his T-shirts from the edge of the bed, and pulled it over your head. Barefoot, you crossed the bedroom toward the bathroom. In the shower, you stood with your palms against the cold tiles and lowered your head, thinking about what you were supposed to do now.
For a moment, you imagined going back into the room and finding everything exactly the same — Jiyong still asleep, and you having to decide whether to crawl back under the covers with him… or get dressed and walk away.
After the shower, you pulled his T-shirt back on and quietly returned to the bedroom door. Jiyong was still asleep, curled on his side, one arm draped loosely over the pillow where you’d been lying not long ago. You decided this morning was going to unfold differently.
Barefoot, you walked into the kitchen. Daylight gave you a chance to really see the place. You’d expected chaos, surprises — but what you found made you laugh quietly.
On the counter stood an unfinished bottle of wine from the night before, a few empty beer cans, and a bowl with instant ramen. The fridge held only a few bottles of water, some sauces, and what looked like forgotten leftovers.
“Perfect,” you muttered to yourself. “So it’s either alcohol or a sodium overdose.”
You closed the fridge and stood there for a moment, doing nothing. It was obvious that if you wanted the morning to feel even remotely normal, you’d have to go out. To a store.
You gathered your clothes from the couch and grabbed your jacket, which Jiyong had hung by the door the night before. You slipped on your shoes and quietly closed the door behind you. The streets of Seoul were already alive — cafés opening, people rushing to work.
You headed to the nearest grocery store without a clear idea of what you were actually looking for.
“Breakfast,” you muttered, as if trying to organize your thoughts. You stood helplessly between packed shelves. Rice? Soup? Pastries? Fruit? Eggs? You had no idea — you weren’t that far along in understanding local habits yet.
In the end, you picked things that felt the most universal — fruit, eggs, toast bread, butter, and juice. You didn’t know if it was right, but you knew it was more normal than instant ramen and alcohol.
With the bag in hand, you stepped back outside. Your heart was beating in a strange, restless rhythm. You were honestly nervous about this “shared morning.”
At the door, you hesitated. You realized you weren’t completely sure you remembered the code. You bit your lip and typed it in. You’d only seen it once — last night, over Jiyong’s shoulder. You risked setting off the alarm, but your photographic memory didn’t fail you, and you got inside.
You slipped off your shoes and listened. The steady breathing from the bedroom was still there — no movement. Jiyong was still asleep. You smiled. First small victory of the day.
You changed back into his T-shirt — it was more comfortable than your own clothes (you told yourself you had to justify stealing it somehow). You set the bags on the kitchen counter and started unpacking. You looked around, searching for a pan, mugs, anything usable.
Some cabinets you opened for the first time, and each one surprised you with how empty it was. Hardly any dishes — just a few basic things that looked like Jiyong might never have used them.
Eventually, you found a pan with an unpeeled sticker still on it and a pack of wooden chopsticks, probably left over from take-out. Butter began to sizzle in the pan, the kitchen filling with the smell of frying eggs. It felt strange — standing in his apartment, making breakfast, while he slept just a few meters away.
Later, when you placed the first slice of toast on a plate and added the eggs, you felt a strange calm settle in your chest. You prepared two plates — eggs, lightly toasted bread, sliced fruit. You poured juice into glasses, and after an initial fight with the coffee machine, you even managed to make coffee.
You stood there for a moment, looking at what you’d made.
Behind you, you heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Jiyong was rubbing his eyes, yawning as he approached. His sleepy gaze landed on the table set for breakfast. He blinked a few times, looking genuinely confused.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered in a rough morning voice. “You made breakfast?”
You smiled and shrugged. “Well… unless you prefer alcohol and instant noodles at 11 a.m.”
He laughed and rubbed his eyes again. He sat down, studied his plate for a moment, then looked up at you in his T-shirt.
“You look… dangerous like that,” he said quietly. “Like you actually belong here.”
You held your breath for a second. Unsure whether to answer or run, you simply sat down across from him and said, “Eat before I change my mind and eat it myself.”
He took his first bite, closed his eyes, and said with mock seriousness, “Not bad. You might actually survive in this country.”
You laughed and reached for another piece of toast. “Oh, thanks. Coming from a man whose fridge is basically a bar and a museum of expired take-out, that means a lot.”
“Hey,” he protested, pretending to be offended. “Ramen never goes bad. It’s immortal.”
You just laughed, and after a moment he added, gesturing between the two of you, “You know this…isn’t just some one-night thing, right?”
You didn’t have the courage to answer. You only nodded slightly and took another bite of your toast.
“Exactly,” Jiyong nodded as well. “We crossed that line a long time ago.”
You swallowed before you dared to speak. “But we both know this will end. It has to.” You set your toast down, your gaze fixed on your plate. “The moment I go home, this disappears. I don’t belong here. So maybe… we shouldn’t forget that. Even now.”
After a moment of silence, Jiyong nodded. Short, almost emotionless. “You’re right. It ends when you leave…”
For a while, neither of you spoke. You focused on a piece of fruit on your plate, as if it might give you an answer to a question you weren’t brave enough to ask. There was a heaviness in your chest. You blamed fate for always putting you into situations with no real solution.
Jiyong seemed to sense it was time to lighten the mood. He leaned on his elbow and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “By the way,” he said in that low voice of his, “you do realize you just raised the bar, right?”
You looked up at him, confused. “What bar?”
“Breakfast,” he replied, reaching over to steal another piece of fruit from your plate. “I’m never eating ramen again after this. So unless you’re planning on abandoning me to starve… you’d better keep cooking while you’re here.”
You laughed and lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so now I’m your maid too?”
“Not maid,” he corrected immediately. “Just… mine.”
You lowered your gaze to your plate again. The words slipped out before you had time to stop them. “I don’t really have a reason to protest. Even if I had to make you breakfast every day… it doesn’t sound that terrible.”
The second Jiyong froze, you regretted saying it.
“Careful, [Y/N]. Words like that…” he said quietly, “…they sound a lot like staying.”
You held your breath for a moment. You needed to get the situation back under control, lighten it again. You smiled. “Relax. Don’t flatter yourself. I was just being polite. Making breakfast doesn’t mean I’m moving in.”
You reached for your glass of juice to hide your embarrassment and took a sip.
Jiyong narrowed his eyes and leaned toward you across the table. “Polite, huh? That’s what you call making me come hard several times and making me breakfast?”
You choked on your juice and quickly set the glass down, laughing. “Yeah. Where I come from, that’s just basic manners.”
He laughed too, shaking his head in disbelief.
You finished the last bite of toast and said casually, “I should probably get back to my friend at the Airbnb. She probably planned some sightseeing or cultural stuff for today.”
“Sightseeing?” Jiyong scoffed. “So you’d rather waste your day walking behind tourists, staring at palaces you’ll forget in a week?” He leaned closer across the table. “I could entertain you much better than your friend. And trust me, you wouldn’t forget it that easily.”
You narrowed your eyes and leaned toward him as well. “Wow. Arrogant and persuasive, all in one. What a package. Convince me, then. Why should I ditch my friend and stay here with you?”
Jiyong leaned back comfortably, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at you with that expression like he’d already won a battle that hadn’t even started yet.
“Easy. First — your friend will make you walk ten kilometers in shoes that’ll destroy your feet. Me? I can guarantee you won’t leave this place with blisters.”
You rolled your eyes and shook your head.
“Second — you’ll spend hours looking at buildings built by dead people. With me, you can spend hours doing something a lot more fun with someone very much alive.”
You laughed and covered your face with your hand. “Oh my god. You actually think that’s a good argument?”
“Best one you’ll hear today,” he shot back instantly, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “And third — your friend might know Seoul, but I know exactly how to make you scream louder than the traffic outside.”
You laughed. “Nice try, but… you’re forgetting something important.”
“Oh really? And what’s that?”
“I need at least one souvenir to take home. Otherwise no one will even believe I left the country. And since you don’t exactly fit into my suitcase… I’ll probably have to go buy one of those ridiculous waving cats or whatever they sell here.”
Jiyong stared at you for a second with his mouth slightly open, then burst out laughing. “A waving cat? You mean a Maneki-neko? That’s Japanese, sweetheart.”
You started laughing with him and covered your mouth, embarrassed by your ignorance.
“See? That’s exactly why I need to go outside. At least pretend I know something about this country when I get back home.”
“Pretend,” Jiyong repeated more calmly. “You don’t need a cat. You already have me. The perfect, authentic, one-of-a-kind souvenir.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m not sure customs would let me through with that. So? What else you got?”
Jiyong didn’t hesitate. He stood up, walked around the table, and stopped right behind you. His hand rested on your shoulder and slowly slid lower, over your chest, your stomach… He leaned in close to your ear. “I can think of a few things worth taking home,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your neck and leaving a dark mark behind. “But none of them are for display.”
You tilted your head back and closed your eyes. “You’re not making this easy…”
Jiyong stepped around to face you, lifted your chin, and made you look at him.
“Just stay with me today,” he said quietly. The provocation was gone from his voice.
You swallowed and managed a soft, “Okay.”
The space slowly settled back into silence. You watched Jiyong sit down again, lazily sipping the last of his coffee.
After a moment, you asked, “So… tell me. What exactly are we going to do with a whole day together?”
“Depends,” he said calmly. “Do you want the tourist version, or the one where you don’t leave this place until it’s dark again?”
You rolled your eyes. “Let me guess—the second one doesn’t include museums or waving cats?”
“No,” he said simply. “Just me and a very long day of making sure you regret teasing me last night—and this morning.”
You bit your lip and studied him for a moment. You knew exactly which answer he wanted to hear, but you decided to play a different card.
“I know the second option sounds tempting, but… I’d actually like to go outside. With you.”
Jiyong looked up, ready to argue, but you continued before he could.
“I know it’s not comfortable. Someone might recognize you. It’s risky. But… it would mean something to me. To see your city—with you. Not just wandering around with my friend.”
He watched you in silence for a little too long. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and exhaled. “You really don’t make things easy, you know that?” He looked at you almost reproachfully. “Most girls would kill for an offer to stay locked up with me all day… and you’re asking me to risk the circus outside.”
“Maybe I’m not most girls,” you shot back, sharper than you intended.
“You have no idea how dangerous it is to ask me for something when you look like that,” he said, still not giving you a clear answer.
You sighed as silence settled between you again. You’d expected more—either a firm no and his reasons, or his agreement.
“Fine,” you finally said, standing up. You picked up both empty plates and glasses. “If you’re not going to talk, I’ll at least make myself useful.” You tried not to sound annoyed.
You carried the dirty dishes to the sink, turned on the water, and started washing them.
The kitchen filled with the sound of running water and porcelain clinking against metal. It was absurdly ordinary after everything that had happened between you—but somehow, in that ordinariness, you found a small sense of calm and certainty.
Jiyong stayed seated at the table, watching you. He watched you standing at the sink in his shirt, your hands covered in soap as you brushed an unruly strand of hair off your forehead. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze on you.
The water kept running, plates slipping through your fingers. You let the foam slide down your hands and focused on the simple, mundane task.
Then you heard the chair move—a soft scrape of legs against the floor. Before you could react, you felt Jiyong behind you. His body pressed close, warm and solid, one hand sliding over your hip while the other settled on your wrist, still holding a wet glass.
“You know…” he murmured into your ear, “…watching you do dishes in my shirt is almost more dangerous than last night.”
“Really?” you smiled, not turning around.
“Yeah. Because it makes me think about things I really shouldn’t. Like what else I could make you do in that shirt.”
His fingers brushed the soap on your wrist, wiped it away with his thumb, then gently pulled your hand away from the sink. The water kept running. You sighed and closed your eyes. You felt his fingers glide over your wrist, his breath warm against your neck, soft kisses following.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you murmured.
“Of course I do. And you’re letting me,” he whispered between kisses.
You kept your eyes closed. His touches were slow, unhurried. Jiyong’s lips traced your neck almost cruelly slowly. One hand gripped your hip, his fingers slipping under the hem of the shirt, brushing your skin. You felt your body tremble, your breathing quicken.
And then it happened.
Your phone, tossed nearby, started ringing. Your friend’s name lit up the screen.
“Of course,” you muttered, slightly breathless.
Jiyong glanced at the ringing phone, then back at you.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his fingers tightening.
“If I don’t answer, she’ll think I’m dead,” you breathed reluctantly.
“Maybe you are,” he murmured, his hand sliding down your thigh so suddenly you almost dropped the phone into the sink.
Still, you answered and started talking to your friend in your native language. She sounded cheerful, full of energy, asking where you were and whether you’d join her—she had a packed plan for the day.
You stood pressed against the counter, Jiyong’s hands on your body, his breath at your neck… It was almost impossible to focus on the conversation. You ended the call as quickly as you could, saying you’d handle your own plans today.
“What did you tell her?” Jiyong asked when you finally hung up and set the phone back on the counter.
You found the last bit of strength in yourself and turned to face him. “Well, what did you expect me to say? ‘Sorry, can’t go sightseeing, I’m too busy being pinned against a kitchen counter’?”
“Exactly that,” Jiyong laughed, still pressed close.
You pushed lightly against his chest with your palms. “Don’t get me wrong,” you said quietly. “Last night was… unforgettable. And this morning too.” Your gaze dropped briefly to your hands on his chest. “But I’m not planning to spend the whole day locked inside with a maniac who thinks pinning me to furniture is a substitute for fresh air.”
You looked back into his eyes and added, “I need to go outside, Jiyong.”
He still didn’t let go. He held your gaze without moving an inch.
“Fine,” he finally muttered. “We’ll go out. But we do it my way.”
He stepped back just enough to finish the rest of his now-cold coffee.
“Your way?” you raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” He dropped the empty mug into the sink. “No wandering off. No tourist traps. No stupid waving cats. You stick with me. Got it?”
You smiled. “Yes, sir!”
Jiyong smirked and leaned in close to your lips without kissing you. “Good. Because if you break the rules, I’ll drag you back here and make sure you don’t even think about fresh air again.”
Before you could respond, he was already heading toward the bathroom. “Get ready,” he said over his shoulder. “We’re leaving in thirty.”
You stayed standing in the kitchen while Jiyong disappeared first into the bathroom and, after a shower, moved into the bedroom. You heard the door close softly and then—silence. You ran a hand over your face. It was strange—he seemed hard and unyielding, and yet this decision felt like a kind of compromise.
You got dressed slowly and fixed yourself up a little in the bathroom. Then you sat down on the couch, wondering if this was really a good idea.
After a while, the bedroom door opened and Jiyong came out. He was wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a light jacket. As he passed you, you caught a trace of his cologne—clean, subtle.
You watched him from the couch, and the sight of him felt unreal. The man who had left you breathless at night, your knees weak beneath you, now stood there fully dressed, ready as if you were just heading out for a casual walk.
“Well?” he raised an eyebrow, his voice calm. “Are you coming, or are you planning to sit there and think yourself into a coma?”
“I’m coming,” you said, standing up slowly and pulling on your jacket.
“Good. Because I’m not carrying you if you change your mind halfway,” Jiyong replied, already heading for the door.
You drove a short distance. You didn’t know where to, but you trusted that Jiyong did. You closed your eyes briefly as fresh air hit your face. Jiyong walked beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, hood pulled low, dark sunglasses hiding most of his face.
“So this is it,” you finally said, breaking the silence. “My grand tour of Seoul.”
“Don’t expect a guide with flags and maps.”
“Wouldn’t suit you anyway,” you shot back, amused.
The narrow alleys slowly opened into wider streets. The noise of the city grew louder—motorbikes weaving through traffic, the smell of fried pancakes and spicy soups drifting from small stalls. Jiyong stayed quiet, only lifting his head now and then, as if checking his surroundings.
After a while, he stopped and turned to you. “So, where do you want to go? This was your idea, not mine.”
You stopped—and suddenly didn’t know what to say. You weren’t someone who usually had control, who set the direction. You looked around and shrugged.
“Honestly? I don’t even know. I just… want to see. Streets, people, whatever’s real. Not postcard pictures.”
Jiyong didn’t comment, just started walking again. You looked around, taking it all in—the smells, the colors, the voices. People moved fast, while you tried to slow down, absorb everything, remember it.
You stopped at a corner where a small stall was selling trinkets—little toys, keychains, plastic figurines—and among them… a waving cat.
You laughed. “There it is. My proof I was here.”
Jiyong scoffed as you moved toward the stall. “If that’s all you wanted, I could’ve saved us the trip.”
You turned to him, lips twitching. “But then I wouldn’t see this. The noise, the smells, people yelling over fish and bread. This is what I wanted.”
Jiyong stood a little farther away. “I get it. More than you think. Places like this… they’re the only part of the city that still feels real anymore.”
You paused for a moment, then looked back at the hooks of souvenirs. You took down two identical keychains—cheap, ordinary. One for you. One… well, you’d see.
You paid and slipped them into your pocket, then went back to Jiyong. You smiled at him, even though you couldn’t see his eyes.
“I’m kind of hungry. I was thinking of getting something from one of those stalls.” You gestured toward the smell of street food.
Before he could respond, you added, “You should probably wait around the corner, though. Too many eyes here. But you have to tell me—what do you want? What should I get you?”
Jiyong stayed silent longer than you expected.
“Hotteok,” he finally said with a smile. “Sweet pancakes with sugar and nuts. You’ll like them too.”
You nodded, your smile widening. “So that’s your guilty pleasure?”
Jiyong shrugged. “Call it whatever you want,” he said calmly, then pointed toward a side alley. “I’ll wait there. Don’t get lost.”
You squeezed through the crowd at the stall, where the sweet smell filled the air.
“Two hotteok, please,” you said, holding up two fingers. The vendor smiled, nodded, and quickly wrapped two pieces in paper bags. Warmth spread through your palms immediately.
You turned to look for Jiyong. He was standing exactly where he said he would. No one was paying him any attention.
You walked over and handed him one of the bags with a smile. “Here. Breakfast number two.”
Jiyong took the hot bag, reached in, and took a bite—then hissed and laughed.
“Still too hot.”
You took a more careful bite of your hotteok. The sweet filling flooded your mouth instantly, the mix of nuts and sugar melting on your tongue. You exhaled, stunned. “Oh my god… that’s insane.”
“You really think I’d let you taste something bad?” Jiyong muttered between bites. “Please.”
“Oh, confident as always,” you rolled your eyes, following him as he finished the rest of his hotteok and slowly headed toward a busier street.
Jiyong stayed a step ahead of you, or right beside you the whole time. Quiet, but present. Every now and then he handed you a bottle of water, or grabbed your elbow when a motorcycle passed a little too close. He stayed alert, always aware of what was happening around you.
After a while, he didn’t seem as tense. He talked more, telling you about places that meant something to him. They weren’t memories exactly—they were reminders. Places where he’d been when things were at their worst, where he’d been when he was happy, places loaded with emotion. It felt far more interesting than palaces or museums. More real.
“I told you my reminders,” he said quietly after a moment. “So tell me yours. What do you go back to when you feel like you’re losing yourself?”
You hadn’t expected that question, and it caught you off guard. Very specific images flashed through your mind—home, small details, people who were no longer close to you.
“My reminder?” you repeated, buying yourself time. Jiyong nodded once.
You took a breath and leaned back against the wall of a narrow alley you were walking through. “It’s not a place. It’s… people. Or maybe just one person. Someone who held me together when everything else was falling apart. I don’t go back physically, but… I go back here.” You tapped your temple lightly. You looked up at him and smiled—maybe a little too sadly. “And every time I remember, it hurts. But it also reminds me that I can keep going.”
Jiyong stood across from you, watching you, clearly weighing what to say. This wasn’t playful teasing, or a game, or flirting. It was honest—and that made it more dangerous than either of you had planned.
“Who was it?” he asked.
A simple question. One you didn’t want to answer. You almost bit your tongue, angry at yourself for saying too much.
“Someone… from a long time ago. Someone who was there when no one else was,” you replied, probably too vaguely—so his follow-up didn’t surprise you.
“A man?”
You laughed, pushing yourself off the wall and continuing down the alley. You knew he’d follow, you just needed a moment away from his gaze.
“Of course it was a man,” you added without waiting for a response. “Who else do you think could break me enough to become a reminder?”
“And you still carry him with you,” Jiyong said as he caught up, walking beside you again.
You nodded. “Yeah. Not because I want to. Because I can’t forget.”
You stepped back onto a busier street. Your head was full of memories, and you needed a distraction—needed to loosen the tension.
“So,” you said after a moment, your voice lighter than you expected, “do I get a reward for being brave enough to answer your questions?”
Jiyong adjusted his sunglasses slightly and looked at you through the narrow gap.
“A reward? You’re already walking around Seoul with me. That’s more than most people could ever dream of.”
You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Humility is really your strong suit, huh?”
“I told you,” he replied dryly. “Confidence keeps me alive.”
You passed a small, tucked-away fruit stand. You bought strawberries dipped in dark chocolate on a skewer.
“Here,” you held it out to him. “Since you’re clearly starving for attention, at least eat something sweet.”
Jiyong lowered his head and took a bite, catching the strawberry between his lips.
“You’re spoiling me,” he murmured with a smug smile.
You wiped a smear of chocolate from his lip with your thumb, then kept walking.
“You know, I could get used to this,” you added, a teasing edge in your voice. “Feeding you like some spoiled celebrity.”
“You’ll ruin your tough image. Next thing I know, you’ll be cooking me breakfast again.”
“Don’t push your luck,” you shot back. “That was a one-time act of mercy.”
“Mercy, huh?” he smirked. “Pretty sure I remember it as the best breakfast I’ve had in months.”
You rolled your eyes and nudged him lightly with your elbow. The crowd at a crosswalk pressed in around you, and Jiyong caught your arm instinctively.
“Stay close.”
It was slowly getting dark. At times, you had the impression that you were just wandering aimlessly, that Jiyong didn’t really have a specific destination in mind—but that wasn’t entirely true. The farther you walked, the quieter it became. Ahead of you, a set of stairs appeared. Old and narrow. Jiyong stopped and tilted his chin upward.
“Come on,” he said briefly, without offering any further explanation.
You followed him. The stairs seemed endless, but the people gradually disappeared behind you. When you finally reached the top, the space opened up.
A lookout point.
A low stone wall, a few benches, a handful of locals—most of them gathered on the opposite side. The place Jiyong had led you to was empty. Almost the entire city of Seoul stretched out beneath you. Houses, roads, a forest of skyscrapers—and between them all, a current of life that felt endless from up here.
You leaned against the wall, still catching your breath after conquering that seemingly infinite number of stairs.
“Wow… it’s huge. Endless.”
Jiyong stood beside you, his hands in his pockets, his voice calmer now, quieter.
“That’s why people here never stop moving. If you slow down, the city eats you alive.”
You turned your head toward him. “And you? Did you let it eat you?”
Jiyong looked at you and smiled. “No. I learned how to bite back.”
You stood there in silence for a while. Just the wind, the distant hum of the city—no chaos like down below. Only quiet, distance, and the feeling that time had paused for a moment.
You rested your elbows on the stone wall and stared at the horizon as the lights slowly began to come on. The sky above Seoul shifted from gray to deep blue. Streams of cars stretched like veins, windows in skyscrapers lighting up one by one.
Visitors gradually left, and after a while, you were alone. In a more secluded corner, where the view felt the clearest.
The wind was colder now. You pulled your jacket closer around yourself, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you leaned slightly toward Jiyong. You glanced around a few times—benches empty, no one in sight.
Slowly, you turned to face him.
You reached out and gently touched his face. Your fingertips caught the frame of his sunglasses.
“You can take these off,” you said softly. “Just for a moment. No one’s watching now.”
Jiyong let you. He didn’t resist. He blinked lightly as you removed the glasses. After an entire day, your eyes finally met without any barrier between you.
A moment later, you lifted your other hand to his hood and pushed it back. Jiyong’s hair—flattened, slightly messy—fell into your palm. You smiled and slowly ran your fingers through it, adjusting it instinctively.
Jiyong watched you in silence, not saying a word, and when your fingers disappeared into his hair, he closed his eyes slightly. You set his sunglasses on the stone wall, your fingers lingered on the cold surface for a second before reaching for him again—this time with both hands.
You buried your fingers into his soft, lightly wavy hair and slowly combed through it. You stroked it, as if trying to memorize its texture, the feeling itself. Jiyong didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his breathing calm.
“This suits you more,” you whispered, never stopping. “No masks. Just you.”
Jiyong opened his eyes briefly, as if expecting something sarcastic to follow—but it never came.
Your fingers continued threading through his hair, then slid lower, to the back of his neck. You stopped there and gently kneaded the muscles beneath your thumbs—hard, tense ones. Almost as if he were carrying the weight of the entire city below you.
Jiyong exhaled softly when you pressed a little harder.
“You’re so tense,” you murmured, your thumbs moving in small circles against his skin. Then your hands returned to his hair again, separating strands, stroking them slowly. “It feels good. Being here with you. Like this,” you admitted quietly.
Jiyong stayed still for a moment longer—then, without warning, he caught your wrists and pulled them down. His hands slid to your hips instead. He gripped you firmly and pulled you against him, pressing you to his chest, forehead to forehead.
“Enough,” he muttered. As if he needed to break the silence before it became dangerous.
You stayed pressed against him. His embrace was firm, heavy—leaving you no room to defend yourself or escape. You rested your head against his shoulder, closed your eyes, and for a moment forgot everything else—boundaries, leaving, the two weeks you had left…
You felt your body relax in his arms, all the tension that had been building inside you over the past few days finally loosening. And it was in that release that it hit you.
In two weeks, you would be gone. You’d return to your ordinary life. And Jiyong would stay here—in this city, in this life you had never truly belonged to.
Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. You hadn’t meant to cry—not now. Still, your vision blurred and your breath broke in your throat. You quickly lifted a hand and wiped your face. When you lowered it again, you wrapped it back around his waist and hugged him tighter. You buried your head back into his jacket and breathed in Jiyong’s scent.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured into the fabric of his jacket. “I just… too many thoughts. And I’m tired.”
Jiyong didn’t move. He simply placed one hand at the back of your neck and pulled you closer. He didn’t ask, didn’t question, didn’t blame you—he just held you, as if that were the only response you needed.
After a moment, he leaned down toward your ear, as if he knew exactly what was running through your mind. “Stop thinking about after. All you need to do is breathe. Right here, with me.”
You nodded. Inhale. Exhale.
After a while, you pulled back slightly.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“Better,” you whispered, barely audible.
He was still holding you, but after a moment you felt his fingers shift slightly at the back of your neck—a gentle pressure that made you lift your head from his jacket. You resisted at first, wanting to stay hidden, but eventually you looked up at him.
His gaze was heavy. Focused.
Slowly, he lifted one hand from your waist and brushed his fingers across your cheek, wiping away the moisture at the corner of your eye.
“No more sorry,” he murmured.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was a slow kiss—soft, but weighted in a way that tightened your stomach. As if he’d poured into it everything he couldn’t say out loud.
You met him halfway, your arms tightening around his waist before sliding higher, up to the back of his neck. Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer.
“See?” he whispered when he pulled back slightly. “Breathing’s easier when you stop fighting it.”
You let out a small laugh and nodded. Then you kissed him again—this time on your own initiative. His lips were warm, but not demanding.
When you finally parted, you stayed close, forehead resting against his.
Footsteps echoed somewhere in the distance—loud, intrusive in the otherwise empty lookout.
Jiyong reacted instantly. He pulled his hood back up over his hair, and when you handed him his sunglasses, he put them on in one smooth, practiced motion. Neither of you said anything. You just looked at each other—and then turned away together, leaving the lookout behind.
With every step, the city crept back in. All the layers of reality you’d been cut off from moments ago.
You walked beside him. After a while, you took a breath and lowered your gaze to the pavement.
“Do you want me to come with you… or should I go back to the Airbnb tonight?” you asked quietly. “I mean… it’s been a long day. A lot. And if you want some time alone, I’ll understand.”
Jiyong stopped before you reached the crowds. His hands were in his pockets, his head slightly lowered. “I think I need to be alone tonight,” he said after a moment.
“I understand,” you nodded.
You continued walking down, slowly. When you stopped, you leaned toward him slightly.
“I just hope you like kitsch,” you said softly, smiling.
You slipped your hand into your jacket pocket and pulled out a small keychain—the one you’d bought earlier, in two identical pieces. You already knew you’d remember this day every time you looked at it. The other one, you’d kept for yourself.
You held it in your palm for a moment, hesitating—then stepped closer. You slid your hand into the pocket of his jacket, your fingers brushing against his hand. You placed the keychain directly into his palm and lightly stroked his fingers as you withdrew.
“It’s silly, but after a day like this… a little silly feels good.”
Then you pulled your hand back and tucked it into your own pocket. “Thank you. For today,” you said more seriously. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
Jiyong left the keychain in his pocket and nodded lightly.
You ran down the last set of stairs and the street swallowed you whole—car noise, the smell of food, footsteps of people heading home or out for the night.
You turned back once more when your paths finally split. You reassured him you’d get home safely and that it would be better if you separated.
By the time you made it back to the Airbnb, there was already a message waiting on your phone:
J: Home. Still alive. And yeah… I guess I do like kitsch.
You sat on the bed, still wearing your jacket. Your phone was warm in your hand, the screen still glowing with his message. You smiled and typed back:
Y/N: Next time I’ll get you a proper souvenir. Maybe a really kitschy hat. Though it’d be a shame to hide your hair… but hey, anything for styling, right?
Your finger hovered over the keyboard for a moment—then you typed one more message:
Y/N: Thank you again for today. Good night, sweet dreams.
You sent it and set your phone down beside you.
You sat there in silence for a while.
Your mind was full of chaos—and calm at the same time. It had been a long day. Heavy. Beautiful.
You felt like something thin but solid was being built between you. A bridge.
And that scared you.
This wasn’t the first time you’d felt something like this. You hated yourself for not being able to control your thoughts—or your actions. You’d always been like this. You went all in, every time. You put everything on one card. You gave everything you had.
And then… it hurt.
And you knew this time it would hurt too—because this time, you knew exactly when it would end.
***
You were woken by the hum of traffic from the street. You checked the time on your phone and noticed a message from Jiyong on the screen:
J: Morning. Slept like a log. Thanks for yesterday. You were right — sometimes kitsch is exactly what I need.
Still half-asleep, you replied without thinking:
Y/N: Yesterday was special. I hope today treats you kindly. I’ll be glad if you text me whenever you feel like it.
Then the phone went quiet.
You had breakfast with your friend, who enthusiastically told you everything she’d managed to see yesterday on her tourist itinerary and what she had planned for today. You headed out early, planning to have lunch somewhere along the way.
You slipped back into your role as a tourist surprisingly well. You bought another batch of souvenirs. For a moment, you even had the impression that with your introverted nature, you didn’t actually mind being surrounded by so many people (or maybe you were just trying to hide the fact that you planned to keep most of the things you bought for yourself).
Around noon, you and your friend came across a well-reviewed restaurant. After you ordered and had a moment to wait for the food, you checked your phone.
There was a message. Actually, two.
J: I’ve been thinking. Today should be calmer.
J: How about this — you come over. We order food, drinks, whatever you want, and we watch movies. All night, if you like.
You stared at the screen for a long time. You gave yourself time to think while you and your friend finished eating. When you finally left the restaurant, you replied:
Y/N: I’ll come. Just promise me you’ll pick the movies too. If it’s all up to me, we’ll end up stuck with cartoons and rom-coms.
The reply came faster than you expected:
J: Cartoons and rom-coms? Absolutely not. I’ll pick. Don’t complain when half of them are too dark or too weird for you.
You laughed and were about to respond, but Jiyong beat you to it with one more message:
J: Come around 5. Bring nothing but yourself. Food and drinks are on me.