LOST IN TRANSLATION, PT 2
summary: you were meant to see palaces and eat street food in korea, but instead you got addicted to a local man who fucks you like a sin and holds you like a secret.
parings: thanos x foreigner reader
warnings: swearing, alcohol, weed, smut, choking, creampie, fingering, slight language barrier, romanised korean
< part one | part three >
It's hot, crowded, and the guide is cheerfully pointing at some historical palace while your friend is elbow-deep in a convenience store snack haul next to you. You should be into it. This is why you came to Korea, right? Culture. Memories. Adventure.
Instead, all you can think about is his mouth on your throat.
Your thighs are pressed together. Not because you're cold — it's 25 degrees and humid — but because the seat vibrates just enough to remind you what you're missing.
And you are missing it. God, you're missing it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
One night. A hot, reckless mistake.
You weren't supposed to think about him every time you close your eyes.
You think about how he tasted. How his voice dipped when he called you yeppo.
How he fucked you like he was mad at time itself.
How you came so hard your knees gave out after.
Your phone's in your hand before you even realize it.
You open Instagram. Find his DM.
He hasn't messaged you. You haven't messaged him. Not once.
Because you both assumed it was a one-time thing.
You both acted cool the next morning.
Now you feel like you're going to lose your mind if you don't get your hands on him again.
you home? bc i'm not doing this tourist shit anymore, i'm thinking about your hands and it's annoying. fix it
You hit send before you can regret it.
And then the little typing... bubble pops up.
somewhere in insadong. kill me.
come here door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.
You're already standing up.
Your friend blinks up at you mid-crunch, a shrimp chip half-hanging from her mouth. "Where are you going?"
You don't even try to play it cool. Your phone's still in your hand, your pulse already spiking. You say it like a confession. Like a sin.
She chokes on her chip. "Excuse me?"
You glance out the window, squinting like you might spot a cab just by willpower alone. "I'm serious. I can't do this right now. I don't care about some 14th-century scroll or—whatever. I need him."
Her jaw drops. "Oh my God. You mean the club guy?"
She breaks into a grin so smug you almost turn around and throw her snack bag out the window.
"You little slut," she says, delighted. "This is your first holiday romance."
You whip your head around. "It's not a romance."
She fake gasps. "Right. Sorry. My mistake. Just casual, totally impersonal, post-tourism cultural exchange dick."
You shoot her a glare. "There's nothing romantic about the way he fucked me last time."
She wiggles her eyebrows. "Exactly. That's what makes it romantic."
You groan, dragging a hand through your hair. "I hate you."
"You love me," she sing-songs. "And I love this for you. You really are experiencing all of Korea, huh? Palaces, hanbok selfies, spicy noodles, and now a hot local rearranging your guts."
You flip her off with both hands.
She cackles. "Go get wrecked, bitch. I'll tell the tour guide you got food poisoning."
You're already on your phone again, pulling up the taxi app.
Your legs bounce as you wait for a driver. It can't come fast enough. Every minute feels like a test of your self-control, and right now? You have none.
The second that cab pulls up, you're gone.
You don't even look back.
You've got one destination.
And if Su-bong still has his door open?
You're not leaving until your legs stop working.
You're breathless by the time you reach his door.
Not from the stairs. Not really.
From anticipation. From heat crawling up your neck. From the buzz of your phone screen still echoing in your mind.
door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.
Three short raps. Not shy, but not cocky either. Like you're daring him to make this real again.
The door swings open almost immediately.
Leaning one shoulder against the frame, shirtless, wearing a pair of black sweats that hang just low enough to wreck your concentration. Hair messy. A faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone, like he was already pacing before you got here.
His eyes drag over you slowly — from your flushed face to your bare legs — then back up.
And that smirk appears. Lazy. Confident. Fucking lethal.
"You ran here?" he says, voice low and teasing. "So... desperate."
You roll your eyes, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. "I was already nearby. Don't flatter yourself."
He lets you pass — but not without his fingers brushing the small of your back as you do.
"Ahh," he murmurs behind you, shutting the door. "Yes. Okay. No flattering."
You spin on your heel, raising a brow. "Don't act like you didn't like that."
His grin widens. "I like everything. You. The way you look at me. The little skirt. The..." — he gestures vaguely, searching — "face you make when I touch you."
You snort. "You're terrible at compliments."
"I'm amazing at compliments." He corrects, pointing at himself. "My English—ehh..." — he wobbles his hand — "so-so. But my eyes?" He taps his temple, then lowers his voice, "my eyes say... fuck yes."
You laugh despite yourself. "Jesus Christ."
He shrugs. Steps closer. "Not Jesus. Just Su-bong."
You shake your head, biting back a grin. "You're ridiculous."
"Mm. What is... ridiculous?" he repeats slowly, the word heavy in his mouth.
You wave your hand. "You. Your ego. The fact that you think I came here just for your dick."
You hesitate. Then shrug. "...Okay. Yeah. I did."
"Ah-ha." His smile turns devilish. "So honest today. Honesty is sexy."
He's standing right in front of you now. Close, but not touching. His eyes flick to your mouth, then your collarbone, then back up.
"Three days," he murmurs. "No message. I thought you disappear."
You arch a brow. "You didn't message me either."
He nods once. "Because if you want it, you come back." His gaze sharpens. "You are the kind of girl who decides."
You blink. Caught off guard. "That a compliment or a read?"
He watches you — pleased — then speaks in Korean, smooth and fast, something that sounds like a string of soft consonants and rolled vowels.
You stare at him. "What?"
He chuckles. Repeats it — slower this time.
You throw your hands up. "I have no idea what you just said."
He leans closer. "Then just say 'ne.'"
He grins. "Good. Now you agree to everything."
You narrow your eyes. "You're dangerous."
The silence stretches for a beat — thick with everything unspoken. Everything you came back for.
You break it first. Quiet, honest. "You thought I wasn't coming back?"
He lifts one shoulder. "Not many people come back. Not for me."
You tilt your head. "Why not?"
He considers. "Maybe I fuck too good."
He laughs, then gestures to the couch. "Sit. Talk. Or do you want me to take your clothes off now?"
He taps his temple again. "Not just a fuck. I like... your voice. Even when I don't know your words."
You sit slowly, eyes still on his, heart racing with something that's not just lust.
You let the tension sit between you.
You lean back on the couch, eyes dragging over his bare chest — the way his muscles shift when he moves, the tattoos that disappear beneath the waistband of his sweats, the lazy, dangerous way he watches you like he already knows you're about to break.
You don't try to hide your stare. You let your gaze trail down his torso, slow and obvious, then back up to his face.
Then — without warning — he leans forward and hooks a finger in the neckline of your crop top, tugging it down in one smooth motion.
Your chest bounces free. No bra. No warning. You gasp, eyes wide, heart hammering.
"No bra?" he laughs. "Crazy girl."
His eyes linger for a moment, greedy but amused, then flick back to your face.
"What?" he shrugs. "You can see me shirtless but I can't see you shirtless?"
You arch a brow, sliding closer — slowly, intentionally — your thighs brushing his.
"Mmm," you hum, tilting your head. "It's not the same."
He narrows his eyes, playing along. "How?"
You lean in, voice dropping just enough to make him tense. "You shirtless is a threat." You drag your nails lightly down his chest. "Me shirtless?" Your fingers dip lower, teasing the waistband of his sweats. "That's a promise."
His lips part — like he wants to say something cocky, something smug — but nothing comes out.
Instead, he just watches as you reach back and tug your shirt off fully, letting it drop behind the couch. The air hits your skin, your nipples already stiff from anticipation, and his eyes go dark.
You straddle one of his thighs now, close enough to feel the heat of him, your hands resting lightly on his chest.
"You know what I was thinking about," you murmur, voice thick, "on that boring-ass tour today?"
He swallows, eyes locked on your mouth. "Tell me."
You graze your nails down his stomach, slow and teasing.
"You. Your hands. Your mouth." Your fingers curl into his waistband. "The way you didn't even let me finish catching my breath last time before you had me coming again."
He exhales hard through his nose.
You press your body closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, "I want you to fuck me on this couch. I want your dick inside me so deep I forget my own name. I want you to make me beg in English, in Korean — I don't care. Just... make me say something."
He growls — low, rough — and grips your hips. "Jesus."
"Still not Jesus," you tease against his jaw. "Still just Su-bong."
That makes him laugh — hoarse and wrecked — and before you can say another word, his hand is on the back of your neck, pulling you in.
No warm-up. No hesitation.
His mouth crashes into yours like it's necessary — like he's been starving for the taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair immediately, your body pressing against his bare chest, and he groans into your mouth, deep and low.
Your thighs tighten around his leg as he shifts, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down your back to your ass, gripping like he can't decide whether to lift you or pin you down.
You bite his bottom lip — just enough to make him gasp — and he retaliates by sucking on your tongue like he owns it. The kiss turns filthy fast, spit-slick and breathless, your hips rolling without even realizing it.
His hands are everywhere. Palming your tits. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they ache. One hand dipping between your thighs to press against your panties, groaning when he feels how soaked you already are.
"Fuck," he mutters, his accent thicker now, voice rough. "Already so wet?"
You moan into his mouth. "Told you I've been thinking about you."
He pulls back just enough to look at you — lips swollen, eyes dark.
Then switches to Korean, something low and sinful that you can't understand.
He smirks. "I said..." He leans in, lips brushing your neck. "You drive me fucking crazy."
You grind against his hand, head falling back. "Good."
And then he's kissing you again — deeper this time, slower. His fingers push aside your panties and slide between your folds, slick and hot, and he groans at the feel of you. One finger, then two — curling just right, just enough to make you gasp and clutch his shoulders.
You rock against him, messy and desperate, moaning into his mouth as his fingers work you open, his thumb circling your clit with maddening control.
"You feel this?" he whispers. "My fingers..." He pumps them deeper. "Soon, my cock. Right here. On this couch."
You're panting now, lips swollen from his, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. "Su-bong—"
"Say it again." He kisses your throat. "Say my name like that again."
Between gasps, between kisses, between the moans he pulls out of you with every filthy touch.
His couch creaks beneath you, the air thick with sweat and breath and everything you swore this wasn't supposed to be.
And neither of you gives a damn.
You've soaked through your panties, your chest bare, his fingers inside you and his mouth wrecking your throat in slow, filthy kisses. You can't stop moaning, can't stop moving — your hips rocking against his hand like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.
Not fingers. Not teasing.
Your hand slips between you — grabbing the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down hard enough that he grunts.
He lifts his hips, helps you, lets you strip them down just enough to free his cock — thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.
"Fuck, look at that," you whisper, wrapping your hand around him, giving him a single stroke just to feel the weight of it. "So hard. Did I do that?"
He groans, head tipping back.
"Yes, you," he mutters, accent deepening with every breath. "You're—shibal—you're evil."
You press your forehead to his, grinning, wild. "No, baby. I'm starving."
And then you're lining him up — no hesitation — sinking down onto him in one slow, devastating motion.
"Shit—" you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, I missed this. Missed how full you made me."
He hisses through his teeth, hands gripping your hips like a vice.
"You're insane," he growls. "Three days and you come back like this?"
You roll your hips, slow and filthy. "You think I could do that tour shit knowing this cock exists? You think I gave a fuck about palaces?"
He groans, watching your tits bounce as you start to ride him — hard, fast, no patience. Every sound you make is high and desperate and ruined.
"Crazy girl," he mutters. "So needy. So fucking wet. You want me to break you?"
"Do it," you pant, nails dragging down his chest. "Choke me. Fuck me. Spit in my mouth. I want everything. I want to feel it tomorrow."
His hand flies to your throat in one swift movement — not tight yet, just enough to make you still.
"You're sick," he whispers.
You lick your lips. "So make me worse."
His grip tightens. Your breath stutters.
He pulls you in for a kiss — tongue deep, filthy, biting your bottom lip until you whimper — then pulls back just enough to stare at you.
"Say you're mine," he growls.
"I'm yours," you gasp, hips still working.
"Say you're my good girl."
"I'm your good girl—fuck—Su-bong, please—"
"I'm your good girl. I'm your good little slut, please—"
Then he's grabbing your ass, guiding your thrusts, his hips bucking up into you now — fucking up into you so hard you bounce. His hand finds your throat again, tighter now.
"You're perfect," he growls. "So dirty. You were made for this."
"Tell me you'll come inside me," you whine. "Please. Please, Su-bong— I need it, I want to feel it leaking out of me—mark me—please—"
He groans, visibly hesitating. "I shouldn't—"
"Do it. Ruin me. I'll come so fucking hard if you do—please, fill me up like you own me—"
His thrusts go brutal — deep, fast, punishing. He's growling in Korean now, things you can't understand but feel, one hand choking you, the other gripping your thigh so hard it might bruise.
And then he lets go of your throat just long enough to pull you down and kiss you — messy, gasping, all teeth — as he spills inside you.
You moan loud into his mouth, your whole body locking up as you come with him, your pussy milking him so tight he groans again, head falling to your shoulder.
Bodies glued together with sweat and cum.
He leans back, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his breath finally slowing.
"You're..." he starts. "Fucking dangerous."
You kiss him again — soft this time. Sweet.
Rocking your hips again, slow and tight, still full of him.
He blinks. "Wait—what are you—?"
He groans. "Jagiya, I don't—fuck—I don't know if I can—"
You roll your hips harder, clenching around him, kissing his jaw. "You can. You will. I need you again. I want to feel you break me this time. Please, Su-bong—don't stop—"
He exhales like he's in pain.
Then grips your waist again.
"Fuck it," he mutters. "One more."
And he gives you everything.
You ended up tangled in Su-bong's sheets, bruised and boneless, your thighs aching, your lips swollen, your body still clenching around the ghost of him. You fell asleep with his hand on your hip and woke up that same afternoon to the lazy weight of his arm still draped over you like he hadn't meant to fall asleep there either — but didn't regret it.
You're walking next to him in a back alley that smells like meat and oil, the sun too bright, your body still buzzing. You're wearing one of his shirts — oversized, sleeves rolled — and he's in a black tee, slouched into it like he owns the whole city and you're just tagging along.
Which, to be fair, you are.
He's leading you somewhere.
It's not a date — no one said the word — but you're both acting like it is.
Eventually he stops at a street cart wedged between two storefronts, the kind with plastic stools and an auntie already stirring sauce in a bubbling pot. He talks to her in quick Korean, hands moving with it, and you catch none of it.
She hands him two steaming paper bowls of tteokbokki. He passes you one. "Eat. Don't cry."
You eye it. "You think I can't handle spice?"
He smirks. "Most tourists die."
You take a bite. Immediately regret everything.
"Jesus—" you wheeze, coughing as your eyes water.
He laughs. Hard. "Ya! I told you! Ganjang yes, gochu-noona no!"
You glare. "What does that even mean?"
He grins. "Don't worry. Language lesson starts now."
You fan your mouth, tears threatening to spill. "What, so you can mock my pronunciation like a dickhead?"
He just smirks harder. "Say thank you. For food. For me. Ready?"
You groan. "If I survive this."
He taps the table, slow and deliberate. "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."
You blink. "Gahm... sa... ham... knee... dah?"
He winces. "Oof. That was murder."
You narrow your eyes. "Say that again."
He leans closer, smug as hell. "Gamsahamnida."
Slower now: "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."
You try again, biting the syllables out like you're chewing them. "Gamsa... hamnida?"
He nods, pleased. "Not bad. Cute."
You tilt your head. "That a real compliment, or more of your bullshit?"
He shrugs. "Little bit of both."
Then he mutters under his breath, "Jinjja, neomu gwiyopda..."
You squint. "What does that mean?"
He smirks. "Maybe nice. Maybe dirty. Maybe insult. You'll never know."
"You don't know Korean," he teases. "I could say anything."
You lean in closer, voice low. "You keep teasing me like that and I'll drag you into that alley and prove I'm not too tired to ride you again."
He freezes. Blinks at you.
Then groans, dragging a hand over his face like he's praying for strength. "Shibal... don't say things like that in public."
You grin. "Why? Gonna get hard in front of the tteokbokki lady?"
He huffs a laugh and tosses a piece of rice cake at your bowl.
You catch it with your chopsticks. Smug. Victorious.
The breeze picks up, and your thigh brushes his under the tiny table. His eyes flick to the contact but he doesn't move away.
He leans back, staring at you like he's trying to figure you out — and failing.
"You're different," he mutters. "Not just sexy. Something else."
You tilt your head. "Something good?"
He pauses, then nods once. "Yeah. Gamsahamnida."
And eats like he didn't just say something kind of fucking real.
You stare at him for a second longer than you should.
Not because he looks good — though he does, with sauce on his thumb and sweat curling at his temples and that silver chain glinting at his collarbone.
But because that line — that "something else" — hit you harder than expected.
You're still chewing it over when he speaks again. Casual. Low. Like he's talking about the weather. "Stay over tonight?"
Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. "My friend—"
"Gets to see you every day." He doesn't even look up as he says it. Just picks up another piece of rice cake and pops it in his mouth. "Me?" He shrugs. "Only three more days."
He says it like it's the obvious choice.
Like staying over is the only thing that makes sense.
Like it's already been decided.
You swallow. Hard. That number echoing in your chest.
And somehow, it already feels like not enough.
You don't answer Su-bong right away.
Instead, you pull out your phone and call your friend — the one who's been more than patient, the one who covered for you, teased you, practically pushed you off the tour bus.
She answers on the second ring, breathless and probably mid-shopping spree. "You're alive."
You roll your eyes, even though you're smiling. "Barely."
You glance at Su-bong, who's sipping from a water bottle now like he didn't just emotionally blackmail you into staying over. You lower your voice.
"Hey, uh. So... he asked me to stay the night."
"Are you mad?" You hesitate. "You sure you're okay with that? I don't wanna ditch you—"
"Babe," she cuts in. "You're being dicked down by the hottest man in Seoul. Live your dream. Just don't forget I exist."
You exhale. Relief and something warmer curling in your stomach. "You're really not mad?"
"Mad? I'm living for this. But." Her voice sharpens — mock-serious. "One condition."
You wince. "I knew that was coming."
"He has to take us somewhere tonight. Somewhere local. No tourist traps. I want the real Korean experience. Party style."
You glance at Su-bong again.
You cover the mic. "My friend says if I stay over, you have to take us somewhere tonight. A real Korean party. Not tourist shit."
He grins immediately. "Easy." Pulls out his phone like it's already handled. "I know place."
He's already scrolling through his contacts. "Nam-gyu's house. My friend." Beat. "He throws parties. Loud ones."
You raise a brow. "Like, music and drinks or...?"
"Yes. Food, games, music. Se-mi, Gyeong-su, Min-su will be there." He looks up from his phone. "You'll see. It's not club. It's... better."
You pull the phone back to your ear. "He's calling one of his friends now. House party. Locals only. You in?"
There's a beat of silence, then your friend practically shrieks, "fuck yes I'm in."
Su-bong's already got the phone to his ear, speaking rapid Korean — casual, animated, confident. You can't understand a word, but the tone is easy. Familiar.
He glances over at you mid-call, expression warm.
He's not just including you.
He's folding you into his life, piece by piece.
And you don't know what that means yet.
The apartment is already alive when you arrive.
It's tucked on the top floor of an older building near Hapjeong, the hallway narrow, the stairwell painted in peeling beige. But the second Nam-gyu's door swings open, it's like stepping into another world.
Warm lights. Music pulsing low from someone's Bluetooth speaker. The smell of fried chicken and alcohol already thick in the air. Shoes scattered at the entrance. A couch that's clearly seen too many bodies. Someone's jacket draped over a plant. A stack of soju bottles on the table like decoration.
The second you and your friend step in behind Su-bong, heads turn.
Everyone's already buzzing — loose-limbed, flushed cheeks, laughter bleeding from every corner. The music dips just low enough for voices to cut through.
"Yaaaa, Su-bong-ah!" a voice calls from the kitchen.
A guy with a snapback and an unbuttoned shirt jogs over — tall, lean, grin already in place.
"This him?" your friend whispers.
You nod. "Nam-gyu i'm assuming."
He greets Su-bong with a one-armed hug and claps him hard on the back before turning to you and your friend.
"You must be the foreigners," Nam-gyu says with a thick accent, grinning wide. "Welcome to my house-slash-party-slash-chaos."
You laugh. "That's exactly what we were promised."
He bows slightly. "Nam-gyu. I speak English, good... well, good enough to get you drunk, bad enough to never say sorry."
"That's perfect," your friend chirps. "That's all we need."
Nam-gyu waves someone over. "Come, come — meet everyone."
From the kitchen, another guy appears with messy dark hair, dressed in a striped tee and cargo pants. He looks about five seconds out of military service and ten seconds into a buzz.
"Gyeong-su," Nam-gyu says, pointing.
"Hello," Gyeong-su says with a polite bow. "Nice... meet... you."
He looks like he used all his English in one go and immediately retreats with a red-faced smile.
Then a girl with black hair and perfect winged eyeliner steps out of the hallway, holding two soju bottles between her fingers like claws.
"Se-mi," she says before Nam-gyu can introduce her. "And yes, I speak English."
"Fluently?" your friend asks.
"Fluently enough to flirt with your friend," Se-mi smirks, eyeing you playfully before winking at Su-bong. "But I won't. Su-bong is scary."
Su-bong snorts. "You're scared of me but not Nam-gyu?"
Se-mi shrugs. "Nam-gyu buys me food."
Last to appear is a guy with a loose sweatshirt that reads "K-Drama Ruined My Life." He holds a bag of chips in one hand and a soju shot glass in the other.
You end up cross-legged on the floor with the others, a full circle formed around a pile of drinks. Your friend is already chatting animatedly with Se-mi and Min-su, while Su-bong sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours.
Nam-gyu claps his hands once. "Okay. First game — easy. Baskin Robbins sam-sib-il!"
You blink. "Isn't that an ice cream brand?"
"Also a game," Nam-gyu grins. "Here's how it works: You take turns counting from 1 to 31. On your turn, you can say one, two, or three numbers — but only up to 31. The person who lands on 31 has to take a shot."
"It's evil," Se-mi adds, pouring the soju. "There's strategy. Betrayal. Drama."
"And shots," Gyeong-su says solemnly.
You catch Su-bong's eye and smirk. "I'm screwed."
He shrugs. "Maybe. But cute when drunk."
"One," Se-mi begins, smirking.
"Two, three," your friend says confidently.
The numbers fly fast. Everyone starts laughing when Nam-gyu and Su-bong try to sabotage each other by jumping numbers. Gyeong-su has no idea what's going on but yells numbers proudly anyway.
When the count hits the twenties, tension spikes. Every number feels like a death sentence.
You hold up one finger. "Twenty-eight."
Su-bong next to you smirks. "Twenty-nine... thirty."
"Shibal..." Nam-gyu blinks. "Thirty-one!" Everyone bursts out laughing as Nam-gyu throws his head back with a groan and downs the shot. "You did this to me," he glares at Su-bong.
"You deserve it," Su-bong mutters back.
Nam-gyu wipes his mouth and turns to you.
Leans just a little too close.
His grin goes playful. "So. Foreigner. You got a name or should I just call you yeppeun geunyeo?"
His hand on your thigh tightens. His jaw flexes.
"Ya," he snaps. "Geumanhae."
Nam-gyu lifts his brows innocently. "Mwo? Joke-joke. She's hot."
That's when Su-bong really lets go — in Korean first, voice low and rough. "Ya, jinjja—geuman. Ije jeongmal—aniya. Nae yeoja, molla? Apeseo—geunyeo nae—"
He cuts himself off. Then glances at you.
And switches to English. "My foreigner. My girl."
The group goes quiet for a second — half amused, half unsure if a fight's about to happen.
You look at him, still smiling, your hand finding his thigh now under the table.
"That's hot," you murmur, leaning into him. "You being all angry and growling in Korean. Getting possessive. It's so fucking hot."
Su-bong blinks, caught off guard.
Then his mouth curves. That slow, dangerous smirk. "You like that?"
"Uh-huh." You lean in closer. "Next time you wanna yell at someone for flirting with me, whisper it in my ear instead."
He says something under his breath in Korean again — quick and sharp — you don't ask what it means.
Because the way he grabs the soju bottle and pours your glass again, hand brushing your thigh like it's second nature?
Half an hour later, the party's deeper.
The music's louder. The soju's hitting harder. Your friend is dancing barefoot in the living room with Se-mi and Min-su, laughing so hard she almost knocks over a lamp. Gyeong-su is passed out against the wall, a peace sign still up in one limp hand. Nam-gyu is pretending he isn't watching the chaos unfold with pride.
He's been watching you for twenty straight minutes.
Not in a creepy way. Not even overtly.
You've been sitting on the couch, sipping on a beer someone handed you, laughing too loud and tugging at the hem of his shirt — the one you're still wearing, oversized and falling off one shoulder.
And maybe it's the lighting. Or the weed. Or the way your lips are curved just slightly, like you're always about to say something filthy.
But whatever it is, he snaps.
"Yah," he mutters, tapping your thigh. "Come here."
He doesn't repeat himself. Just grabs your hand, and the next second, you're straddling him on the couch, his hands firm on your waist like he was always going to put you here eventually.
Your knees sink into the cushions on either side of his thighs, your beer forgotten on the floor.
He leans back, one hand sliding around to your lower back. His other hand? Fishing something out of his pocket.
You raise a brow when you see it — a slim pre-roll and a cheap lighter. "Seriously?"
He shrugs. "Nam-gyu's stash. Said to share it."
You smirk. "And you're just such a generous guy."
"I am," he mutters, lighting it. "Very giving."
The smoke curls between you in the dim light.
He takes the first drag. Holds it. Exhales slow.
Then presses it to your lips, watching as you inhale, slow and cautious.
The burn slides down your throat — smooth, warm. He watches you like he wants to record the way your mouth curves around the joint, the way your eyes soften when the high settles.
"Feel it?" he asks, voice rough.
"Mmhm," you hum. "Feels nice."
"Why'd you come to Korea?"
It's not flirtatious. Not shallow.
You lean back slightly, fingertips resting on his chest. "I don't know. Needed a break. Wanted something... not mine for a while."
He studies you. "Not yours?"
You shrug. "Home feels... small. Heavy. You ever get that?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then takes another hit, passes it to you again. "Every day."
You hold his gaze as you inhale. Exhale. Pass it back.
"You ever been in love?" he asks.
The question hits harder than the smoke.
You let out a soft laugh. "You're really asking that right now?"
He shrugs. "Just wondering."
You glance down at his chest, at the silver chain resting against his shirt.
"Once. A long time ago." You pause. "You?"
He tilts his head. Considers.
Then shakes it once, eyes still locked on yours. "Nah. Not yet."
You wonder what the hell that means, but you don't ask. You're too high. Too warm. Too tangled up in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out your edges — like he's searching for something under the skin.
"You think about it?" he asks after a beat.
You take the joint again. Inhale slow.
"Every minute." You meet his eyes. "And somehow... not at all."
He doesn't say anything right away. Just slides his hand up your back, fingers curling around the nape of your neck like he needs to anchor himself to something.
"You're not what I expected," he says finally.
You raise a brow. "What did you expect?"
"One night," he says honestly. "Tourist. Tipsy. Quick fuck. Forget your name in the morning."
You nod slowly. "That's fair."
He leans forward. Kisses you. Soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing yours, lips warm and patient. The kind of kiss that says I want to remember this.
When he pulls back, his voice is a whisper against your mouth. "But you keep staying."
You press your forehead to his. "Maybe I'm not done yet."
The words hang between you like smoke.
Your hands resting against his chest, the smell of soju and weed in the air, the music still thumping faintly from the other room. You can hear your friend laughing with Se-mi again, someone shaking a bag of chips way too aggressively.
But here, on this couch, in his lap, everything else fades.
And then Su-bong says it.
Soft. Certain. Like it's obvious. Like it's easy.
Just for a second. Just long enough to feel it land somewhere deep in your chest.
You run your fingers absently along the edge of his shirt, biting the inside of your cheek before answering.
He doesn't speak, just watches you.
So you explain, voice low and honest.
"I've been traveling for two months. Around Asia. Korea's the last stop before I go back to real life."
A small smile, a shrug. "All my money's already gone. My job's waiting. I don't have the luxury of... disappearing here. Even if I wanted to."
You see it on his face — in the way his brows pull together, in the way his lips twist into a pout that's more genuine than dramatic.
"Aish..." he mutters, exhaling hard. "Geureom eotteokhae..."
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"No, seriously. What'd you say?"
He just sighs, voice heavier now. "Geureom eotteokhae, jinjja..."
You smirk, fingers running along the collar of his shirt. "If you're gonna say something dramatic in Korean, at least help me understand."
He groans. You laugh. And then you shift in his lap, grinding just slightly — slow enough to make his jaw flex, his hands automatically tightening on your hips.
"Why don't we take my friend home..." You lean in, lips brushing his. "...and crash at my hotel tonight, hmm?"
Your voice drops, all heat now. "It's a two-bedroom. And she's a very heavy sleeper after alcohol."
He huffs a quiet laugh, lips curling. "You dangerous woman."
You kiss him. Just once. Firm. Confident.
"So?" You raise a brow. "Are we doing this, or what?"
He leans in, mouth grazing yours as he mutters, "try and stop me."
You're not even sure how you made it back.
The city is a blur — neon lights bleeding into pavement, car horns echoing like background noise to your tipsy, giddy laughter. Su-bong walks between you and your friend like some reluctant guardian angel, one arm curled securely around your waist, the other guiding your friend with the patience of a saint.
You and her are drunk, high, and useless.
She keeps singing part of a Blackpink chorus on loop, swaying into parked scooters. You keep mumbling about how good Su-bong smells and how unfair it is that his jaw looks like it could cut glass.
Just keeps you both moving, steady and warm.
By the time you get to your hotel, your friend is half-asleep on her feet. Su-bong helps her into bed, tucks a blanket over her with surprising gentleness, and sighs as she starts snoring immediately.
You sway behind him in the doorway, eyes glazed, hair messy, shirt halfway off your shoulder.
"Well," you mumble, grinning, "she's done for."
He turns to look at you — and you swear you see the shift.
That slow melt from patient babysitter to something hotter, heavier, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows where this night ends.
You walk past him without a word, grab his hand, and pull him through the adjoining door into your room.
The second the door clicks shut, everything turns electric.
There's no finesse. No warm-up. Just hands yanking clothes, breathless kisses, mouths crashing together like you've been starving for each other all night — because you have.
You fall into the bed, Su-bong over you, both of you still laughing through the haze, drunk on everything: the party, the weed, each other.
Your shirt's gone. His pants are gone. His mouth is on yours like it belongs there.
"You smell like smoke," you whisper between kisses.
"You taste like beer," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck.
"You gonna fuck me or just make fun of me?"
"Both," he mutters. "Geurom... let's start now."
There's no foreplay. Just a mess of limbs and gasps and mouths.
He enters you in one slow, thick push — no teasing, no warning — and you both groan like it's a relief. Like finally, finally, you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
"Oh my god—" you gasp, eyes fluttering. "Su-bong, fuck—"
"Shh..." he soothes, kissing your jaw. "Shhh... neomu areumdawo... you feel so good, baby..."
He rocks into you, slow but deep, his chest pressing down against yours, one hand cradling your jaw, the other gripping your thigh. His thrusts aren't polished — they're messy, needy, soaked in sweat and urgency — but every one hits just right.
"You're so warm," he groans. "So wet already... god, I will miss this—"
You clutch at his back, legs wrapping around his hips as he drives into you again, again, again.
"Say something else," you whisper. "In Korean. I don't care what."
Then he leans close, brushing his lips against your temple.
You smile, drunk and unaware, letting the word wash over you like music. "What's that mean?"
He just kisses you and keeps moving inside you like he wants to imprint himself under your skin.
His hips roll into you with slow, dragging thrusts, every inch stretching you open, making you feel like you're unraveling from the inside out. There's no rhythm anymore, not really — just this desperate push and pull, his body molded to yours, skin slick and flushed, breath tangled between kisses.
You cling to him, your legs locked around his waist, arms around his shoulders like you'll fall apart if you let go. His forehead is pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough and low and broken in your ear.
"You're perfect," he whispers. "Fuck... you're mine, jagiya. This pussy—" he groans, dragging himself deeper, "made for me, yeah?"
You nod, whimpering, so gone you can barely breathe. "Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop, please—"
He kisses you then — deep and messy, all tongue and heat, biting your lip between gasps.
"You feel so good, baby," he pants. "So fucking tight, so warm... I don't wanna leave. I wanna stay right here—inside you—just like this—"
Your nails dig into his back, your hips rolling up to meet him, chasing that edge, your body clenched around him so tight it's a miracle he's still holding on.
"Gonna come," you gasp. "Fuck, I'm so close—Su-bong, please—"
He doesn't answer. Just drives into you harder, deeper, groaning every time your walls flutter around him.
"Come for me, jagi," he whispers. "Let me feel you. Give it to me."
And you do — everything inside you coils tight and then snaps, white-hot, blinding. You cry out, your whole body shaking as you clench around him, gripping him like you're trying to pull him even deeper.
"Oh my god— fuck—" you gasp, voice breaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.
"Geurae, geurae—" His hips stutter, and then— "Shibal—"
He buries himself to the hilt and comes, his entire body tensing as he spills inside you, hot and deep, hands gripping your waist like he's anchoring himself to this moment.
He moans into your neck, voice ragged and low, "jugeul geot gata... saranghae..."
You don't understand the words.
But you understand the way he says them.
The way he holds you after, lips brushing your cheek, hand sliding into your hair. Still buried inside you, still panting like he's never coming back down.
And neither of you says anything for a long time.
Words don't mean nearly as much as this.
Eventually, you both slow. Your limbs tangle. The sweat cools. Your breath returns.
Just lays there on top of you, face tucked into your neck, hand still cradling your jaw like he's afraid to let go.
You run your fingers through his hair, soft and slow.
"Perfect," you say. And you mean it.
He kisses your cheek. Then your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Just little things. Little touches that say stay.
He helps clean you up gently — wipes between your legs with a warm towel he grabs from the bathroom, kisses your thighs afterward like an apology. Pulls the blanket up over both of you.
You're curled into his chest when it happens.
Not a breakdown. Not dramatic.
Just silent tears leaking from your eyes as your fingers grip his shirt.
"Hey—hey," he says softly, pulling back to look at you. "Why cry?"
You sniff. Wipe your cheek.
"I don't want to go home," you whisper. "I want to stay with you... just a little longer."
His face softens. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing another tear away.
"Don't cry, jagiya," he murmurs. "We will meet again, hmm?"
You don't know if it's true.
But you let yourself believe it — just for tonight.
And fall asleep in his arms, still warm from his body, his breath steady in your hair, wrapped in a feeling you're too scared to name.
