── .✦ (🥥) who would've thought that a late night tutoring sesson with the schools biggest nerd, soobin, turned into a night even more exciting. turns out, he has an even bigger surprise than his brain.
pairing: big dick virgin!soobin x fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
"content warning 18+ [ MDNI! ], switch!soobin, fem reader, big dick virgin!soobin, nerdy dirty talk, he researched ab sex, nerd!soobin, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, riding, creampie, aftercare”
you invited him over because you were failing math.
there wasn’t anything romantic or flirtatious about it at first — just a silent cry for help written in red marker across your test papers, the kind of desperate slope only someone like choi soobin could pull you from.
he was quiet in class, but always had the right answers. you’d never seen him speak above a whisper, never seen him look anyone in the eye for more than a second, and yet he always left the lecture room with perfectly annotated notes and the air of someone who carried his self-worth in decimal points and weighted averages.
so you messaged him one night — a simple, “can u tutor me?” — and he agreed with alarming speed.
showed up three days later at your apartment like a boy heading into battle, papers in one hand and a mechanical pencil tucked behind his ear, even though you weren’t going to a classroom.
he barely spoke as he stepped inside, his oversized hoodie swallowing his frame and his backpack clutched so tightly in his hand you worried the strap might snap.
“hi,” he said, voice soft, and then added, “i brought… some topic breakdowns. just what i thought would be most helpful.”
you took the stack of papers from him, letting your fingers brush his as you did — just enough to make him freeze.
“thanks, soobin. you’re a lifesaver.”
“it’s no problem,” he replied, though his voice cracked a little halfway through, and he cleared his throat like it embarrassed him.
he stood awkwardly in the middle of your room until you gestured toward the bed. “we can work there. my desk’s a mess right now.”
he nodded too quickly, walking over with that stiff, careful posture that always made him look like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs.
he perched on the very edge of the mattress, knees pressed together, bag in his lap like a shield.
you were already sprawled out beside him, legs crossed, chin in your hand, flipping lazily through the printouts he brought. he’d highlighted things in different colors — pink for formulas, green for common mistakes, blue for examples — and even used sticky tabs to mark each section.
you smiled a little. “damn. you really prepped for this, huh?”
“i didn’t want to waste your time,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “i mean, you’re busy. i figured i should… y’know. make it count.”
your gaze lingered on his profile for a second — the soft curve of his cheek, the glasses sliding slightly down his nose, the way his lashes caught the light like they didn’t belong on a boy. “you’re cute when you’re nervous,” you said.
his ears flushed pink immediately, and he opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t find the words.
instead, he ducked his head and pulled out a worksheet from his bag, mumbling something about “starting with derivatives.”
for a while, you worked. or at least, you tried to. he was focused, explaining things in his soft, careful voice, gesturing with a pen as he talked.
but the more you listened, the less you heard — your brain slowly replacing the numbers and variables with the warm hum of his voice, the gentle slope of his mouth, the way his fingers tapped the edge of the paper like he needed the rhythm to keep from spiraling.
you weren’t sure when it shifted.
maybe it was when he leaned in to correct your equation, his shoulder brushing yours, and didn’t pull away. maybe it was when your knees touched under the blankets, and neither of you moved. maybe it was the way the air felt heavier now — less like study session, more like waiting for something to happen.
soobin must’ve felt it too. his words started stumbling. he explained one formula three times and still got lost halfway through, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated.
his hand hovered a little too long when he passed you the pen. when your thighs pressed together again, he sucked in a breath and didn’t let it out for four seconds.
you turned slightly to face him, setting your notes aside. the room was quiet now.
just the soft tick of the wall clock and the low buzz of tension coiling between you like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter.
he was looking at your mouth.
you didn’t speak. neither did he. the moment didn’t need narration — it just hung there, charged, inevitable.
and then it snapped.
your lips met his like gravity had pulled them there — sudden, unspoken, too natural to be a mistake. his breath hitched immediately, eyes fluttering shut like a reflex.
he tasted like vanilla and nerves, soft and shaky against your mouth, and when your hand came up to cup his cheek, he made a sound, barely audible, like the beginning of a whimper, and leaned into it like he’d been waiting all night.
you deepened the kiss slowly, letting it unfold, letting him adjust. he responded with this aching softness, fumbling but eager, his fingers curling into the bedsheets like he didn’t trust himself to touch you yet.
he wasn’t practiced, his lips moved like he was still learning. but he kissed you like he meant it. like he felt it.
you pulled back just slightly, breath tangled with his, your foreheads nearly touching.
his eyes stayed shut and he swallowed hard. “is this okay?” he whispered.
you nodded, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek. “mmhm.”
he opened his eyes then, wide and vulnerable, and you could feel how hard he was trying to stay calm. how the tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully left. like he was waiting for the next step but terrified to ask for it.
but you didn’t rush. you just leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed him like there was nothing else you wanted to do tonight.
and this time, he kissed you back like he believed it.
but the kiss had unraveled something in both him and you.
he was still leaning into you like he hadn’t realized it was over, lips parted, breath catching at the edges, glasses slightly fogged from how close you’d been. you could see the color bleeding up his neck in slow-motion, creeping past his collar like his whole body was flushing from the inside out. he looked dazed. pink. utterly stunned.
you wondered, for a moment, if he’d ever been touched like this before.
but then he blinked, slow and heavy, and something in him cracked open.
he kissed you again, unsure, but full of need. like he’d been holding it back for too long. his hand twitched, then moved up — resting on your waist like he was afraid he’d break something, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.
you climbed into his lap without thinking. not rushed. not performative. just a natural shift, a quiet surrender to gravity and tension and everything that had been simmering between you all evening.
he made a noise, sharp and startled when your weight settled on him, and his hands flew to your hips like instinct.
you could feel him underneath you already, half-hard and growing fast, and the realization sent a low throb through your stomach.
“fuck,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
you stilled. “hm?”
he looked horrified. “n-no, i mean— i wasn’t— that wasn’t—”
you tilted your head, amusement curling at your lips. “you okay, soobin?”
his throat bobbed. he didn’t answer. just stared at you like you were something holy and terrifying.
then, voice barely a whisper: “i’ve never done this before.”
you blinked. “like… never?”
he shook his head. “n-no. not even close.”
you felt your expression soften, and you leaned in to kiss him again, gentler this time. “you want to stop?”
he hesitated — not with fear, but with something more fragile. like he was trying to trust himself to speak.
“…no. i want to—” he paused, breath shaky. “i want to. just— it’s my first time, not my first time… knowing.”
you blinked again and chuckled slightly. “what?”
he turned bright red. “i… studied.”
you stared.
he flailed. “not in a weird way! i just— i didn’t want to be bad at it. s-so i read stuff. books. forums. diagrams— i even watched videos sometimes but only for like— like educational purposes—”
you blinked again. slowly. “…so you watched porn. like, for science.”
“i wanted to take notes,” he said, sounding genuinely defensive.
you laughed. couldn’t help it. he looked so earnest about it — like he’d genuinely sat down with a browser tab open and a pen in his hand, analyzing thrust angles.
“you’re unreal,” you said softly.
“i just didn’t want to disappoint anyone,” he mumbled, eyes downcast.
you reached down and took his hand, guiding it under your shirt. he froze, mouth open slightly, and his fingertips trembled against the skin of your waist.
“you won’t,” you promised. “you’re already not.”
his breath hitched. he looked up at you like you’d just rewritten the rules of the universe.
you started to grind your hips, slowly, experimentally — not enough to overwhelm, just enough for friction.
just enough for your shorts to tug against his sweats and for the growing heat between you to become unmistakable.
and god, he was big.
you could feel it — not in a vague, flattering way, but in a real, holy-shit-how-are-you-expected-to-fit-inside-me way.
every roll of your hips brought him further into focus, your body reacting before your brain could even catch up. he was so hard already, twitching beneath you, and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.
“s–shit,” he gasped, eyebrows scrunched. “this— this isn’t in the articles—”
you snorted. “what, grinding?”
“n-no— i mean— yes, but not— not like this—”
you kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing the way his voice caught in his throat. your hands pushed his hoodie up slowly, palms skimming over warm skin, and he shivered when you reached his chest.
he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. like every second of contact was tripping a wire in his system.
you whispered against his lips, “you’re gonna let me ride you, right?”
his eyes rolled back so fast it was almost funny. “god— y-yeah. anything. anything you want.”
you reached between you, slipping your hand under his waistband — and what you found made your breath stutter.
he was thick. heavy. the kind of size that made your thighs clench just imagining it. no wonder he’d studied. no wonder he was scared.
you looked at him, slightly stunned. “jesus christ, soobin.”
he blinked, confused. “w-what? is it— is it weird? i read that some people have curve—”
you cut him off with a kiss, messy and open-mouthed, and his hands clutched at your waist like he was trying not to fall off the earth.
“it’s big,” you muttered. “like… really fucking big.”
he made a sound you couldn’t describe — somewhere between a choke and a moan.
you stripped slow, teasing, sliding your shirt off and watching his eyes widen as more skin revealed itself.
he stared like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look. like he wanted to memorize it but felt guilty for trying.
you helped him out of his clothes next, pulling his hoodie over his head and tugging his sweats down far enough for him to spring free.
he gasped when the air hit him. flushed deep pink from tip to base. twitching slightly in time with his heartbeat.
and yeah. huge.
he tried to say something, but it came out garbled. you didn’t let him speak — just kissed him again, sweeter this time, pressing your body against his until he was whining into your mouth.
“lie back,” you whispered, and he did.
you climbed on top of him slowly, positioning yourself, and when the tip nudged against you, both of you gasped.
you took your time, letting him feel every inch of you — the stretch, the slide, the warmth — and his jaw dropped like it was all short-circuiting him.
“ohmygod,” he moaned, hands flying to your thighs. “ohmygod, it’s so warm— it’s— fuck—”
you bottomed out and paused, letting him breathe. he was gripping you like he was afraid he’d float away, eyes glassy, hips twitching up just barely.
“you okay?” you whispered, brushing his sweaty hair from his face.
he nodded, but he looked wrecked already.
“i-it’s so much,” he choked out. “i d-didn’t think it’d feel this good— i thought— i thought i’d last longer—”
you started moving, and he whimpered.
“oh— oh fuck—” he cried, head falling back against the pillow. “you’re s-so— it’s too good— oh god— i’m gonna— i’m—”
you weren’t even bouncing yet. just rolling your hips, slow and deep, letting his cock drag against every inch of your walls. his eyes fluttered, his chest heaved, and he let out a sound that didn’t even sound human.
“such a good boy,” you whispered, to which he moaned in response. the prettiest noises leaving his mouth as you praised him.
he couldn’t stop shaking underneath you. soobin was all heat and trembling muscle, wide eyes flickering open only to shut again in dazed desperation.
his chest heaved with every shallow breath, slick with sweat, lips parted in a silent plea as your hips rolled down again — slow, deliberate, like you were memorizing the way he stretched you open.
his hands had settled at your waist, not gripping, not guiding — just holding, fingers splayed across your skin like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you. like he wasn’t sure this was real.
every time your cunt dragged down his cock, his stomach fluttered, tightening like a wire being wound tighter and tighter with no end in sight.
he was deep. impossibly so. every inch of him filled you, pressed inside with this perfect fullness that made your vision blur. the curve of his cock nudged something devastating with each movement, and yet the stretch never dulled — not even as your walls grew slicker, your legs trembling from the slow pace.
you rode him with patience. not because you needed to go slow — but because he looked so wrecked.
his eyes glassy, his thighs twitching, mouth caught in a half-moan that never made it out. his expression was nothing short of reverent. overwhelmed. ruined.
you leaned over him, skin sliding against his as your hands braced at either side of his chest. the shift made your angle deeper, pulled a broken sound from his throat that made your core throb.
he tried to lift his hips, just a little, just to chase the feeling, but he couldn’t get the rhythm right, too stunned, too overstimulated, too caught up in the sheer reality of you.
the head of his cock dragged against your walls again, and your mouth fell open with a gasp — because he filled every inch, every curve, as if he was shaped for you alone. he was pulsing inside you already, and you hadn’t even given him permission to move yet.
his hands twitched, your body ached for more, and so you let him.
you shifted, just barely — lifting your hips until only the thick head remained inside you, holding there for a breathless second, watching his jaw slacken as if he’d lost something vital — and then you dropped down again, full weight, taking him all the way in one smooth thrust.
his back arched.
the sound that broke from him was nothing short of guttural — low and soft and strangled at the edges, like he didn’t know what to do with the sensation.
“mmh, i-it… it feels so good… don’t stop… please”
his fingers finally tightened on your hips, not hard, just grounding — and you felt him thrust up.
it was shaky. clumsy. but the strength behind it was unmistakable. he met your next roll with a sharp buck of his hips, and it landed deep, sudden, deliciously raw. your breath caught. his face contorted, eyes fluttering closed, lips trembling.
he did it again. and again.
beneath you, soobin moved like he didn’t even know he could. the soft whimpering boy who’d watched porn for research was gone — replaced by something unfiltered, frantic.
he thrust up into you with so much need, so much pure instinct, that you nearly collapsed against his chest.
he was so warm. so deep. every time you sank back down on his cock, it filled you to the hilt. every motion sending waves of heat through your spine, your stomach, your lungs.
you clenched around him without meaning to — too full, too sensitive — and he gasped like he’d been punched, arms tightening around your waist. he sounded like he was breaking. like it was too much.
you rolled your hips down hard, once, and he cried out.
not loud. not dramatic. just this fragile, broken sob of pleasure that slipped out past gritted teeth as he tried to keep fucking you through it. tried to keep his pace even as his body started failing him.
he was close. you could feel it. his whole body trembling beneath you, stomach fluttering, cock twitching deep inside like he was aching to let go.
“w-wait… im gonna cum… p-please… don’t stop…”you ground down harder, deeper, faster — and he fell apart.
his hips jolted once, then twice, then lost all rhythm. his cock pulsed violently inside you, and then you felt it — thick, hot, the warmth of him spilling into you as his body seized and shuddered.
he buried his face in your neck, arms clinging to you like a lifeline, thighs shaking uncontrollably beneath yours as he came.
every pulse of his cock pushed his cum deeper, filled you more, the mess gathering between your thighs like he couldn’t help it.
his breath hitched, his mouth opened against your skin, and then the tiniest sob escaped — cracked and soft and overwhelmed.
he was crying again.
you held him through it, rocking your hips just slightly to ease him through the aftershocks. he twitched inside you, whimpering, helpless beneath the weight of it all. his hands gripped you like you’d disappear.
his cock throbbed inside you, overstimulated and soaked in your slick, and he just kept whimpering.
you pulled back to look at him.
his eyes were glassy, unfocused. his cheeks damp. he looked like he’d been cracked open from the inside out.
you leaned in and kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then finally his lips — soft and slow, grounding him.
his voice was barely there. “i— i didn’t mean to—”
you shushed him. “you did perfect.”
his lashes fluttered. his arms loosened. his body finally relaxed beneath you, sinking into the mattress, flushed and tear-streaked and filled to the brim.
he looked at you again, and you held his cheek. “you wanna go again?” you said, brushing your thumb across his face, catching a tear that fell earlier.
he nodded slowly, and he was still inside you when he started to move again.
his cock hadn’t even softened fully—still thick, still flushed a deep pink at the base, still twitching inside you from the overstimulation, but now he was shifting, testing, thinking through the daze. and that was the moment you knew, he wasn’t done.
his breath still caught every time your walls clenched, but he was moving—hips subtly lifting, grinding into you in soft, sticky rolls. the cum from his first release had made everything slick, slippery, messy—your thighs wet, your inner walls coated.
he was still nestled so deep you could feel him twitch against your cervix, and when he pulled back a few inches, a broken gasp slipped from your lips.
he froze, like he didn’t expect that sound. you felt his hands tighten at your waist.
“…i wanna try something,” he whispered.
before you could ask, he pulled out with a soft squelch, and you both moaned at the loss. but he didn’t waste time—didn’t even stop to overthink it—he just reached for you and flipped you, slow but firm, until your cheek was pressed against the pillow and your back arched, hips raised just enough.
you turned to glance over your shoulder, heart thudding.
soobin was flushed all the way down to his chest, hair stuck to his forehead, lips pink and parted—but his eyes had sharpened. still soft. still shy. but there was something new there now.
something focused.
his hand settled on your lower back, then drifted down to your ass, squeezing once like he was testing a theory. when he spoke again, his voice was low. almost dazed. “theoretically… this angle should stimulate the anterior wall more consistently.”
you blinked.
“…are you quoting a textbook right now?”
he pushed back in without warning—one slow, gliding thrust, his cock stretching you open again with a wet slide—and you choked on your own breath.
the stretch burned now, fucked-out and sore, but god, he felt so full. the second his hips pressed flush to yours, you felt your arms go weak.
“yeah,” he whispered. “i read about this. from the back, hips raised… it’s supposed to— oh fuck—”
he started moving before he could finish the sentence.
his thrusts were deeper this time. not rough, not fast—intentional. heavy. every motion angled slightly upward, every roll of his hips hitting that same devastating spot, over and over again.
you realized—somewhere between gasping into the sheets and gripping the pillowcase like it might save you—that he meant to do that.
“feels… right?” he panted, voice breathless. “am i… hitting it right?”
you couldn’t speak. could barely even moan. your body was melting around him, dripping slick and cum with every push, your mind already fraying at the edges from how deep he was.
his cock dragged against your walls with obscene precision—too precise, like he was adjusting his angle mid-thrust to line up with your reactions.
every time your thighs trembled, he leaned in further. every time you gasped, he whispered a frantic, “there—like that?” and did it again.
“fuck,” you managed, voice hoarse. “you— god, you feel so fucking good—”
he moaned behind you, and then his fingers curled around your hips to pull you back onto him harder.
the pace stuttered for a moment, but when he found it again, it was relentless. sloppier now, louder. the wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, each thrust jostling you further up the bed.
“read once,” he gasped, “that the g-spot’s like… five centimeters in… angled toward the belly button—f-fuck, wait—”
he adjusted again, slightly upward, and this time you cried out, legs buckling beneath you.
“there,” he whispered. “t-there it is. fuck.”
your entire body clenched. he felt it, gasped again, and leaned over you. now his chest was against your back, his breath warm and fast against your ear, hips still pistoning into you as he pressed you down with the weight of his body.
“you’re so—tight,” he breathed. “s-so warm— i can’t— i c-can’t stop—”
you weren’t stopping him.
your brain had shut off halfway through his nerdy monologue, somewhere between “g-spot location” and “angle of friction”. all you knew now was the way his cock dragged against your walls, the obscene squelch of your mixed arousal leaking down your thighs, the sound of his voice trembling as he kept going, even as his rhythm began to falter.
you could feel him close again. his thrusts started to stutter—less controlled, more desperate.
every breath came out choked. his grip on your hips turned vice-like, and his weight pressed you harder into the mattress.
“g-gonna cum again,” he whimpered, voice cracking. “inside, please, i can’t— i want— fuck, please—”
you let him. you even tightened around him on purpose. and that broke him.
his hips slammed forward one final time—deep and hard, burying himself to the hilt—and then he snapped, groaning into your shoulder as he came again, harder this time.
hot and messy, cock twitching wildly as his cum spilled out in thick spurts, dripping back down your thighs with every shudder.
he didn’t move for a long moment. just panted against your neck, body trembling, arms around you like a blanket.
still buried deep, still twitching from the aftershocks, still too full of sensation to pull out.
you were shaking too. used. sore. stuffed.
he kissed the back of your shoulder, then your spine. slow, reverent.
“…did i do good?” he asked softly, voice hoarse and breathless.
you turned your head enough to look at him.
he was flushed. swollen. smiling—barely.
you cupped his cheek, pulled him down into a kiss, and let him melt into you again.
you didn’t move for a while.
your body felt… gelatinous. boneless. like you’d been poured out, reshaped, and forgotten on warm sheets.
your thighs were trembling, too slick to close properly, your breath still shallow as you stared blankly at the headboard, brain empty except for the faint memory of being absolutely ruined.
and behind you—still pressed close, still inside—you could feel him twitching softly. Soobin’s arm was curled around your waist, his forehead damp against your shoulder, and his chest rose and fell in uneven waves as he tried to catch his breath.
“…i think i broke you,” he whispered.
his voice was so soft, so tentative, that you let out a shaky laugh despite yourself.
“maybe just… a little,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.
he didn’t respond right away. just let out a breath that was almost a whimper, and very slowly, he pulled out.
the sound was obscene—wet and slow and too much. his cum spilled out in thick, creamy rivulets, already smeared down your inner thighs, soaking the backs of your legs and your sheets.
he groaned under his breath the second he saw it, like even looking was too much for his nervous system to handle.
“oh my god,” he said, eyes wide. “i—fuck, i didn’t mean to—there’s just—so much—”
you flopped onto your back with a wince and watched him sit up on shaky legs, completely naked, flushed red from head to toe, hair a mess. his dick was still red and slightly twitching, glistening at the tip from whatever hadn’t managed to stay inside you.
he scrambled for his hoodie, dragging it on clumsily and then half-tripping as he grabbed his backpack off the floor.
“d-don’t move,” he babbled. “i’ve got—uh—one sec—”
you blinked. “soobin… what are you doing.”
he held up a pack of wet wipes.
“…why do you have those?” you asked.
he looked mortified. “i-it’s for glasses! and, um. keyboard dust.”
but he was already kneeling between your legs, gingerly nudging them apart with the back of his hand.
his face flushed impossibly deeper at the sight—your swollen folds, the sheer amount of cum, the fact that he put it there.
you watched his throat bob as he took a breath and started cleaning you.
gently, carefully.
he touched you like you might break, using slow, soothing strokes, barely applying pressure.
when the wipe brushed over your entrance and another trail of cum spilled out, he made a tiny noise in his throat and mumbled, “oh my god—i’m so sorry—”
you couldn’t stop smiling, too wrecked to be shy, too full of affection to care. “you’re apologizing for fucking me now?”
“i-i just—i should’ve warned you. or slowed down. or—” he paused, looking deeply concerned, “—maybe done a few more warmup exercises—”
you reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping the endless spiral of his thoughts. “soobin.”
he froze. eyes wide.
“you were perfect.”
he blinked, like you’d just told him he aced an exam he forgot to study for.
“…r-really?”
“really.” you tugged him closer. “come here.”
he climbed onto the bed clumsily and wrapped his arms around you.
you let your head rest on his shoulder, body melting into the warmth of him as his fingertips gently traced circles over your spine.
he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. then your cheek. then, with shaky hesitation, to your lips.
“…you feel okay?” he murmured against your mouth.
“sore,” you admitted. “but in a good way.”
his ears went pink. “i didn’t think it’d… i mean, you were so tight, and i thought—i mean, i calculated it before, but actually being inside—”
you laughed again, too tired to tease him. “soobin.”
he looked at you, dazed and flushed and in love with you, probably.
you kissed him again.
and this time, he smiled against your lips. soft. warm. nerdy.
“…can i write about this in my notes?” he asked suddenly, like he couldn’t help it.
the four times tubatu didn't realise their maknae had a real girlfriend and the one unfortunate time that they did
pairing : hueningkai x fem!reader
word count : 10.7k
warnings : hueningkai is referred to as kai, freaky moments but like its not freaky cause they just kiss ??? but the members thnk they did sm freaky and kai doesn't correc them becuase theyre kinda dumb , dumb but loving txt , reader is describe to be shorter than kai (sorry!) doesnt have to be super short jsut enough to look slightly up at him
playlist : blue by yung kai, echoes by enhypen, honeymoon avenue by kasper, roller coster by tomorrow x together , dance with you by tomorrow x together , i love u by yuni
author's note: we need to normalize calling men pet names cause wtf am i supposoed to address them as but its okay i love hueningkai hes so cutesy + wrote this instead of studying for my math exam tomorrow 〒▽〒
Kai Kamal Huening wasn’t good at hiding secrets.
It was something his sisters never let him forget—especially when he accidentally let it slip that a boy had been talking to them, right in the middle of family dinner.
Kai would only shrug in response, because it always ended the same way anyway: with him being rewarded with extra gummies for dessert.
It was a trait he had kept into adulthood, mostly because he found lying to be far too much effort.
But times had changed.
Kai had changed.
He was no longer the little boy who played the recorder while his sisters ‘traded’ his plushies for one of their uglier ones.
He was a man now—one who still played the recorder, but who also got to keep all his plushies to himself. And somehow, impossibly, he had something no one in his life ever thought he would have: a girlfriend.
Him having a girlfriend wasn’t entirely out of this world, but it was something everyone around him seemed convinced he couldn’t manage.
Maybe it was his lack of social activity.
Maybe it was his tendency to stay in his room.
Maybe it was his complete disregard for “trendy clothing.”
Regardless of all these very real factors, Kai had managed to get a girlfriend—you, to be specific.
He had met you on one of the rare occasions he decided to go on a solo trip around Seoul. Everyone else had a schedule that day: Yeonjun was busy working on his solo, Taehyun and Beomgyu were at the gym—mostly because Beomgyu was tired of being thrown around by the members—and Soobin was probably getting lectured about his lack of media training. After all, who publicly admits they can eat a watermelon in three seconds and expects the internet to forget about it?
Which left Kai all alone—and, for once, ready to go outside.
The plan was simple. Kai wanted to visit the café down the street from the HYBE building that had been temporarily converted into a Pokémon lover’s dream. While the fact that it was a manga café by design had always interested him, it wasn’t until the Pokémon theme that finally pushed him to go.
Which is exactly what he did.
Kai messaged his manager, put on his mask, and embarked on his journey.
The walk there was about as nice as a walk could get. The weather was good, his playlist was playing every song he wanted it to, and—most importantly—he hadn’t stepped in dog shit yet.
All in all, it was pretty good.
It was safe to say Kai was in a good mood when he stepped into the café.
Only for his good mood to be ruined by a sign plastered across the cashier area that read, with zero remorse: Out of Pokémon Trinkets / Merch.
Kai couldn’t help but slump in on himself.
He sighed as he checked the time on his phone. It was 3:24 in the afternoon, which meant that if he made the fourteen-minute walk back to HYBE now, he’d be stuck doing work—something he very much did not want to be doing.
Which left him with only one option: to suck it up and enjoy the ambience of the café.
It wasn’t as if he was deprived of Pokémon merchandise, or that this was his only chance. He was an idol, for crying out loud—he’d been to the Pokémon Center more times than he could count. Still, he had to admit it would’ve been fun to get something from a place just down the street from HYBE.
Kai allowed himself to wander into the café, taking in the posters plastered on the walls and the cute Pokémon-themed drink series.
He figured he should probably find something to do before ordering a drink—he didn’t want to risk juggling one hand holding a drink while the other flipped through manga, something he had learned inevitably ended with at least one item hitting the floor.
Which left him wandering into one of the aisles lined with manga. He soon found himself scanning for Gintama, a familiar favorite.
Kai walked up and down the aisle, hoping to see the familiar spine.
Kai was so focused on finding his manga that he didn’t notice he wasn’t the only one in the aisle. He didn’t realize you were only four steps away—until he walked right into you and sent your drink spilling all over his hoodie.
He looked down at his comfiest blue hoodie, now soaked in iced coffee.
“Oh—oh my gosh!” you exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”
Kai froze, trying to understand what was happening. He watched you pull your purse forward and dig for napkins, a small smile of relief appearing once you found some. He hesitated, unsure if he should say anything as you raised the napkins toward him, silently asking if it was okay to touch his hoodie.
You were pretty, really pretty.
Which made him want to curl up in a ball and never leave his room again because the one time he did he made an absolute fool of himself in front of the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
You cleared your throat, shaking the tissues as a reminder of the situation, snapping Kai back to reality. He quickly grabbed them from your hands and started dabbing at his hoodie, employing the method Yeonjun had once taught him when he was sixteen and utterly incapable of doing laundry.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
Kai could only nod.
You nodded back.
Kai decided he was finished trying to salvage the hoodie. If the stain survived the wash, it would simply be downgraded to a pyjama hoodie rather than an outdoor one.
You held out your hand, silently gesturing for him to give the tissues back, which he did without a word.
It was then that he truly saw your face for the first time.
His heart skipped. Your mouth slowly formed an ‘o,’ and a spark of recognition lit up your eyes.
Kai couldn’t help but tense. He remembered practicing scenarios like this during media training seminars: if a fan recognizes you in public, you simply say hi, maybe sign something—but never give personal information or take pictures. Stay calm. Stay calm.
And yet, you didn’t react with excitement or demand anything. You simply closed your mouth, quietly took the tissues from him, and held them with that calm, easy grace.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” you replied.
Kai decided then and there that you were precious—because your voice sounded just as charming as you were.
The two of you stood in that aisle, quiet, each trying to think of something to say.
It was then that he noticed the orange keychain hanging from your purse—a Charmander, to be exact.
“Is that…” he cleared his throat, “the Charmander keychain from the café?”
Your eyes lit up, and Kai silently thanked the fact that his mask hid just how pink he’d gone at the sight of you.
“Yeah!” you exclaimed. “I got it last week, actually!”
You looked at him directly. “Did you get one too?”
Kai shook his head, smiling at how infectious your excitement was. “I wanted to, but they were out of all Pokémon stock by the time I got here.”
He noticed your small frown, as if you were a little disappointed he hadn’t gotten one.
Then, carefully, you unclipped the keychain from your purse. “Here,” you said, holding it out toward him.
Kai’s eyes widened. “Oh… I couldn’t take this—”
“It’s okay,” you said with a small smile. “Consider it an apology for spilling my drink on you. I mean, it’s not every day you spill something on a famous idol.”
Kai nodded, bringing his hands forward to accept the precious gift. “Are you sure?” he found himself asking.
He found himself fumbling with the keychain, looking up to see if you had seen that.
“Take it,” you insisted. “Seriously, just take it.”
He placed it in his pocket, already imagining where he would put it in his room.
Then his eyes drifted to the manga you had been holding before the incident, and he froze at the familiar spine of Gintama.
“Wait… is that Gintama?” he asked, a spark of excitement cutting through his embarrassment. “You like Gintama?”
You nodded, and just like that, the conversation fell into easy territory. The two of you traded favorite arcs and characters, Kai gesturing animatedly, completely forgetting the wet patch on his hoodie, the spilled drink, and even the passing time.
Then his phone rang, and the name on the screen made him groan: Soobin.
“Where the hell have you been?” the voice demanded, half-angry, half-panicked.
Kai shot you a glance. “Uh… just a sec,” he said, still distracted. You smiled and scribbled something on a piece of paper.
“Here,” you said, handing it to him. “You’ll probably need it for… you know, emergencies.”
He looked down. Your number. And even though his stomach did that weird fluttery thing, he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.
“Right. Got it,” he said softly, tucking the paper into his pocket. “I’ll… uh, text you.”
Soobin continued whining in the background, but Kai, manga in hand and Charmander keychain safely pocketed, realized that maybe spilling his hoodie wasn’t the worst thing that could happen on a solo trip to a Pokémon-themed café.
After all, it was where he met his girlfriend.
His girlfriend, who would listen patiently while he ranted about whatever he was watching at the moment.
His girlfriend, who would sit prettily on her couch as he came over to show her something he helped create.
His girlfriend, who, over time, grew bold enough to tease him relentlessly, because in your words, “You're too pretty to not be appreciated.”
Because of you, Kai finally got to do all the “couple things” he had watched Lea gush about on the phone with her friends.
He could hug you whenever he wanted.
He could formally “adopt” plushies together with you.
He could talk about anything he wanted, knowing you’d always listen and respond.
He loved having a girlfriend.
In fact… he loved you.
He told you on your three-month anniversary.
You responded by showing him matching figurines of Plusle and Minun holding hands in a heart-shaped box you’d painted.
Was it quick? Probably.
Did the two of you care? Absolutely not.
It was on your four-month anniversary that you asked the question that made his stomach flip:
“Do your members know about us?”
He watched as you slowly lifted yourself off his chest, the two of you still sprawled on the bed, watching Team Rocket get absolutely destroyed by ten-year-olds.
He hated to admit it, but he always missed you—even if you were only ten centimetres away.
He shook his head, silently saying ‘No’.
“Why not?” you asked.
Kai opened his mouth, then closed it again. The only answer he could come up with was… weird. How do you tell the people who had practically raised you since the age of thirteen that you’re dating at twenty-three? How do you explain to the four people who had traveled the world with you, who had suffered with you, that you were no longer the kid with plushies that they had to take care of? That the kid remained a loser with plushies… but also now made out with the prettiest girl in the world every other weekend?
How do you even begin to explain that?
So all he could manage was, “It just… hasn’t come up in conversation.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you expect it to come up in conversation?”
Kai groaned and let his head fall back. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed dramatically, which made you giggle.
He turned to look at you, voice exasperated, “How do you tell people who’ve taken care of you—and shared diarrhea with you—that you’re suddenly dating someone?”
You made a face. “Too much information,” you muttered.
Kai shrugged. “Besides, what if they don’t like it? It’s not like I can run away from them—I’m legally required to spend the next seven years with them!”
You hummed, weighing his words. Then you moved back to your spot on his chest. “Fine,” you said, “don’t tell them—but don’t hide it from them either.”
Kai nodded.
“They’re important people in your life,” you continued, smiling down at him. “They deserve to know that we’re together.”
Kai nodded again.
You leaned up and planted a soft kiss on his lips—a kiss he gladly returned.
Regardless of his members, Kai simply loved his girlfriend.
THE FIRST TIME: WHY DO YOU HAVE HADILAO ON SPEED DIAL?
Yeonjun loved eating.
When it came to deciding the group’s archetypes, he had claimed the “foodie” title immediately—and no one argued. He would eat anything. Everything.
But he knew his limits. After three consecutive days of takeout, a hand-made meal became necessary—even if it meant risking death by Taehyun’s glare. And he knew every other member shared this belief.
Which was why he was utterly confused when he saw the maknae frantically searching for the fastest route to Haidilao from their photoshoot location.
It was a photoshoot for something—he wasn’t exactly sure what—but all Yeonjun had to do was pose and post it on Instagram. Simple enough.
And yet, there was the maknae, plotting a route to hotpot like his life depended on it.
There was nothing wrong with it. It was just… peculiar. Yeonjun could have sworn Kai had gone to Haidilao three days ago. And wasn’t he supposed to be dieting?
He narrowed his eyes at the maknae, trying to decipher the master plan.
“Hyung?” Kai’s voice broke him out of his trance.
Yeonjun blinked, looking up. “What?”
Kai shook his head, smirking. “Why are you looking at me like I drew three-dot YJ again?”
Yeonjun squinted at him. “You’re a brat, you know that, right?”
Kai simply smiled and nodded, as if this accusation was an everyday occurrence. (It was.)
Unsatisfied, Yeonjun glanced around, searching for backup.
Soobin was being debriefed by the photoshoot director about the promotion plan.
Taehyun was getting his outfit refitted—his arms having somehow grown overnight.
Beomgyu was in the makeup chair, half asleep and fully unhelpful.
Which left Yeonjun alone, forced to interrogate the maknae’s sudden devotion to hotpot by himself.
The plan commenced with a subtle shift—moving from standing in front of Kai to sitting beside him. Then leaning in, peeking over the maknae’s increasingly broad shoulder, and glancing at his phone screen.
Kai was scrolling through the Haidilao menu. Specifically, the soup bases.
“What’cha doing?” Yeonjun asked casually.
Kai flinched and immediately locked his phone.
“Nothing,” he stammered.
Yeonjun froze.
Now this was interesting. He had never seen Kai this shaken before.
“Are you sure?” he asked again.
Kai nodded—but it was far too frantic to be convincing.
“Because it looked like you were searching how to get to Haidilao from here.”
Yeonjun watched as Kai visibly slumped, like a man caught red-handed.
“I promised someone I’d eat with them there today,” Kai admitted.
Yeonjun’s curiosity sharpened immediately. Kai never mentioned meeting new people—ever.
“Who,” Yeonjun pressed, “are you planning to meet there?”
Kai muttered something under his breath and turned his head away.
Yeonjun bit back the urge to roll his eyes. Why was he suddenly this difficult?
“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun said sweetly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “I couldn’t hear you.”
Kai straightened, as if bracing himself, and forced eye contact with his hyung.
“My girlfriend.”
Yeonjun stared at him.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Kai sighed, turning fully toward him now, resignation written all over his face. “My girlfriend. I was trying to figure out the quickest way to get to Haidilao because I promised my girlfriend we’d eat there together.”
Yeonjun blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Did the word girlfriend just come out of Kai’s mouth?
No. It couldn’t have.
It had to be something else. A misunderstanding. A joke. A lie. A very elaborate excuse involving hotpot.
The sheer absurdity of the idea hit him all at once, and Yeonjun burst out laughing—loud enough that Beomgyu jolted awake in his makeup chair.
“What—what’s happening?” Beomgyu croaked.
Kai remained entirely unimpressed, staring at Yeonjun like this reaction was deeply offensive.
“If you wanted to go to Haidilao,” Yeonjun wheezed between laughs, “you don’t have to make up some fake girlfriend just to do it.”
Kai blinked at him.
Once.
Slowly.
And then—
“She’s not fake.”
“Sure,” Yeonjun said, very close to ruining his eye makeup from how hard he was laughing.
Kai only sighed and went back to scrolling on his phone.
It took three full minutes—and two increasingly concerned side-eyes from nearby staff—for Yeonjun to finally calm down.
“I’m so happy that the idea of me dating someone makes you want to pee your pants,” Kai said dryly, already tired of bowing apologetically to staff members who looked genuinely worried about the two of them.
Yeonjun snorted. “You know you don’t have to make up a whole fake girlfriend just to go eat hotpot.”
He pushed himself upright, having nearly folded in half during his laughing fit. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat Taehyun’s cooking today,” he continued, reaching out to pinch his maknae’s cheeks. “I’ll tell him you got called away by the producers or something. It’s not like he’s going to murder you for skipping one healthy meal.”
Kai nodded along, deadpan, wondering if the concept of him having a girlfriend was truly that unbelievable that his members’ most logical conclusion was that he was lying just to avoid eating clean.
“Yep,” Kai said quietly. “That’s exactly what’s happening.”
Satisfied with the maknae’s answer, Yeonjun turned around and went to his phone.
Kai has a girlfriend?
Yeah right!
When Kai finally spotted you waiting in a booth, scrolling on your phone, he felt the weight of the day melt off his shoulders.
You were sitting there in one of the hoodies that existed in joint custody between the two of you, your bag resting on your lap. A Plusle keychain dangled from it—perfectly matching the Minun clipped to the belt loop of his pants.
He couldn’t help but stand there for a moment, silently debating whether he should wait for you to notice him or poke you into acknowledging his presence.
The decision was made for him the moment you realised there was a 183-centimetre shadow looming in front of you, prompting you to look up.
“You know, if you keep standing there, someone might think you’re haunting me,” you said, trying to get him to sit down.
Kai let himself slide into the seat—not across from you, but beside you.
He couldn’t help it. You were comfort personified, and why would he want a table between the two of you when he could sit right here?
He wrapped an arm around you, slowly letting himself melt into your side.
Photoshoots weren’t new to Kai, but they were always just exhausting enough to make him want to curl up into a ball afterward.
Now, he could curl up with you beside him—and that made everything better.
“Are you ready to eat?” you asked, leaning into him just as easily.
As his head slowly drooped to rest against your shoulder, Kai briefly thought that this must be what people meant when they complained about couples being disgustingly affectionate in public. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to care if anyone was watching.
His thoughts were interrupted by a small nudge. He followed your finger to the tablet displaying the menu.
He straightened up and ordered with you, making sure both of your cravings were met. He listened as you talked about your day—about the new anime you were watching, about your friend’s upcoming birthday—and he realised he felt full in a way food had nothing to do with.
He really loved you.
When the food arrived, he made sure you ate first, even though this was the first proper meal he’d had all day.
It was halfway through feeding you your seventh bite that you asked, “So… how was the photoshoot?”
Kai made sure the chopsticks were perfectly loaded with everything you liked. “It was okay,” he said. “We filmed some TikToks—you’d probably like them. The outfits were fine.”
He lifted the chopsticks again, waiting patiently for you to open your mouth. “The only weird thing was that Yeonjun laughed at me when I told him I was meeting you here.”
You immediately choked on your food.
Kai rushed to grab a glass of water, holding it up to your lips and steadying it as you drank.
Once you finally signalled that you were okay, he set the glass down and watched you try to compose yourself.
“He—” you started. “You told him?”
Kai nodded. “Yeah. I said I was meeting my girlfriend here, and then he laughed like the Joker for twenty minutes.”
You snorted.
Then you started giggling.
Was he secretly a comedian? Why did everyone keep laughing at him?
“Well,” you said between laughs, “I guess they wouldn’t believe it even if you told them you had a girlfriend.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. “Are you saying that, in my members’ eyes, I am eternally bitchless?”
You nodded, still laughing.
“It’s okay,” you said, finally calming down. “I’ll still be with you—even if the entire world thinks you can’t pull.”
Kai couldn’t help but smile, because he knew the same thing.
No matter what anyone said, he’d choose you every single time.
THE SECOND TIME : SINCE WHEN WERE YOU INTO SHOUJO ANIME?
Soobin practically knew everything about Kai.
He knew his likes and his dislikes. He knew which of Kai’s many plushies was his favourite. He knew the small, subconscious habits Kai carried without realising—things Soobin had memorised over years of shared dorms and overlapping schedules.
Which was why this felt wrong.
Maybe it was because they’d been busy lately—the new comeback, the sudden surge of solo schedules, or simply the lack of proper one-on-one time—but Soobin never imagined walking into the living room to find Kai willingly watching Kimi no Todoke.
For fun.
Not ironically. Not because someone else had it on. Not because he’d lost a bet.
No—Kai was curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the screen, fully immersed as Sawako awkwardly fumbled through her feelings.
Soobin stopped walking.
He stared.
Since when was Huening Kai into shoujo anime?
Soobin knew Kai had been trying to get more into anime lately—but he distinctly remembered nineteen-year-old Kai declaring that he would rather get abs than watch shoujo.
Soobin blinked, needing to confirm whether what he was witnessing was real or simply the result of his horrible sleeping habits finally catching up to him.
He closed his eyes.
He opened them again.
Kai was still there. Still watching Kimi no Todoke. Still wearing an expression of genuine focus that couldn’t possibly be faked.
Soobin couldn’t help himself.
“What the hell are you watching?”
Kai flinched, whipping his head around to find Soobin standing behind him.
Soobin slowly raised a hand and pointed at the TV. “Want to explain this?”
Kai tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Hyung, you’ve known I watch anime. Why is this weird?”
Soobin did a double take.
Why was this weird?
Oh. Right.
“Are we looking at the same thing right now?”
Kai turned back to the screen and paused the episode, then patted the space beside him, gesturing for Soobin to sit. “Do you want some water?” he added seriously. “Maybe all those media training lectures messed with your head.”
Soobin gaped at the maknae—yet somehow still found himself sitting down moments later, a newly acquired glass of water resting in his hand.
Kai turned to face his leader, a blanket draped over his lap and his comfiest hoodie pulled on, looking painfully at ease.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Soobin searched for the right words. “Why?”
Kai tilted his head. “Why what?”
“Why are you watching—” Soobin gestured vaguely toward the TV, fingers flailing, “this.”
Soobin nodded slowly, as if that explanation made sense.
It didn’t.
“But you said you’d rather get abs than watch a school romance,” Soobin shot back.
Kai chuckled at the reminder. “I did,” he said, then gestured vaguely to his body. “But, uh—look at what happened to me.”
Soobin stared.
Abs were one thing. This? This was slander.
His brain began to whir. Loudly.
This wasn’t the Kai he knew. The Kai he raised. The Kai who once abandoned a drama five minutes in because ‘why are they staring at each other for so long?’
He looked at the screen again. Sawako was blushing.
Kai was smiling.
Oh no.
He’s changed, Soobin thought, dread curling in his stomach. Someone did this to him.
Slowly, carefully—like he was approaching a wild animal—Soobin leaned forward.
“Kai,” he said quietly. Dangerously calm.
Kai hummed, eyes still fixed on the paused screen.
“Who,” Soobin continued, pointing once at the TV, then very deliberately at Kai, “made you do this?”
Kai finally looked at him. Blinked. “…Hyung?”
“C’mon,” Soobin said. “You mean to tell me that all of a sudden, you’re changing your personality.”
“Personality?” Kai shot back. “I’m watching one anime and now you’re saying my entire DNA has changed?”
Soobin nodded. “Exactly. So what’s happening?”
Kai sighed, already knowing his hyung wouldn’t let this go. “You want the truth?”
Soobin nodded.
Kai exhaled. “My girlfriend told me it was good, so I decided to watch it.”
Soobin stared at his maknae.
Kai stared back at his leader.
“Girlfriend?” Soobin echoed.
Kai nodded, like this was the most normal sentence he’d ever said.
Soobin stared at the boy he’d known since he was fifteen—the kid he’d practically raised. He lifted a hand and pointed straight at him. “Girlfriend?”
Kai nodded again. Still calm. Still normal.
Too normal.
Which could only mean one thing.
Kai was lying.
A big, fat liar.
Soobin blinked. “You know,” he said carefully, “it’s okay to admit your tastes have evolved.”
Kai frowned. “What?”
“You don’t have to make up a girlfriend for it.”
Soobin watched as Kai closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a long sigh.
“You’re telling me,” Kai said, locking eyes with him, “that just because I said I have a girlfriend, you think I’m making up an excuse to watch a romance anime?”
Soobin nodded—completely serious.
Kai pursed his lips. “You’re right,” he surrendered. “You’re absolutely right.”
Soobin nodded, satisfied with the explanation he’d decided on for Kai.
“Go on,” he said, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Have fun watching Kimi no Todoke.”
Kai opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it, allowing Soobin his moment of victory.
Soobin settled back into the couch, proud of the conclusion he’d reached.
Kai can’t have a girlfriend, he decided firmly. He’s just getting introduced to girls.
Kai’s favourite part of the days when he couldn’t see you was when he got to call you.
It was always late at night, after he’d settled into his room and made sure he’d said goodnight to all the members. He would send you a simple message—something like i’m free ~ —and then go about his nighttime routine, already anticipating the sound of your voice.
Sometimes you called while he was still in the shower, and he would speedrun through it just to call you back as soon as possible. Other times, you’d call when he was halfway through skincare, and the two of you would talk about your days while Kai carefully applied one of the Pokémon face masks you’d insisted on buying him.
To him, these calls were peace.
Relaxation.
The thing that made long, exhausting days at the company feel worth it.
And he knew that for you, they were a break too—a pause from daily stress, from everything that weighed on you.
Maybe that was why he cherished these calls just as much as he cherished seeing you in person. Because when the two of you were talking through a screen, it felt like your own small world— one that couldn’t be disturbed in the slightest.
Tonight’s call came while he was finishing his skincare. He’d already said goodnight to the members after eating Taehyun’s homemade food—the same food he’d missed earlier when he’d gone to Haidilao to meet you.
He accepted the call and smiled immediately when your face appeared on the screen. It looked like you were just starting your own nighttime routine.
The conversation began the way it always did: small, simple questions.
How was your day? Did you eat? Are you tired?
But they were never small between the two of you.
Kai genuinely wanted to know everything you’d done, and he knew you loved hearing about the tiny moments that made his day special.
Tonight’s main story?
Soobin questioning him over watching Kimi no Todoke—and then outright refusing to believe him when he told the truth.
It sounded ridiculous when Kai said it out loud. But the way you reacted, laughing softly into your hand, made it worth it.
As much as he loved the sound, Kai couldn’t stop the pout that formed on his lips.
“Why do all the members think there’s no possible way for me to get a girlfriend?” he complained.
Your laughter slowly faded.
“Maybe,” you said gently, “it’s because you’re always their baby who hates romance?”
Kai let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sulk. “But it’s not funny anymore.”
You tried—and failed—to contain another quiet laugh.
“Imagine if you give them our wedding invitations and they still don’t believe you.”
Kai looked horrified at the thought.
“No!” he exclaimed, face-palming as he pulled his blankets up and over himself like they could shield him from the idea.
That finally set you off, but when the laughter faded, Kai found himself just watching you—your smile warm and fond in a way that made his chest ache.
“It’s okay,” you said softly. “That just means when they finally do figure it out, it’ll be even funnier.”
That was something Kai could agree on.
It went quiet for a moment. Comfortable. Unrushed.
And before he could stop himself, he said, “I miss you.”
You shifted in bed, getting more comfortable before smiling back at him.
“I miss you too, bubba.”
Kai wrinkled his nose. “Bubba?”
You nodded. “It’s cute.” You leaned your head against your hand. “Like you.”
As much as Kai wanted to argue that you were much cuter, his cheeks were already turning pink.
“Shut up,” he mumbled weakly.
Your small laugh echoed through his headphones.
“I love you.”
Kai muttered the words back, quieter—but no less certain.
He really wouldn’t mind being married to you.
THE THIRD TIME: DID THE GHOST OF SHAKESPHERE POSSESS YOU?
Beomgyu had always admired Kai.
From the moment he learned that the group’s maknae had originally come to the company to produce—not sing, not dance—Beomgyu found himself genuinely impressed by the thirteen-year-old trainee. It wasn’t just talent. It was instinct. Kai heard music differently.
Whenever it came time to write lyrics or build a track, Beomgyu gravitated toward him without thinking. Beats, melodies, second opinions—Kai was always the one he trusted. The one who listened carefully before speaking. The one whose feedback actually made things better.
So when the producers suggested that the two in-house producers of the group sit together to brainstorm for the new album, Beomgyu didn’t hesitate.
He already had expectations.
Kai would write about friendship.
Or youth.
Or chasing dreams with that soft sincerity he was known for.
What Beomgyu did not expect—
Was a romance song.
And not even the safe kind. Not a vague, abstract I like you from afar track that could be brushed off as fanservice or metaphor.
No.
Kai wanted to write about wanting to dance with someone.
The lyrics he showed Beomgyu made him think Kai might want to do more than just dance.
Beomgyu stared at the lyric sheet in silence.
Then, slowly, he looked up.
“…Who possessed you?”
He stared at the maknae—who stared back at him with wide eyes.
“What do you mean?” Kai asked.
Beomgyu looked back down at the paper, skimming over lines like this long, sweet dance that can’t be done alone.
He blinked.
“When did the ghost of Shakespeare possess you?”
Kai frowned. “I don’t follow.”
Beomgyu gestured at the lyric sheet.
“What made you write—” he paused, repressing both a shiver and a gag, “—sensual stuff?”
His face twisted. “Sensual stuff?” he repeated, like the word physically hurt.
Kai frowned—not offended. Just… confused. Genuinely so.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
Beomgyu froze.
That was worse than denial. Worse than embarrassment.
That was indifference.
The maknae was absolutely indifferent to the fact that he had written something meant to be sung to someone.
“Kai,” Beomgyu said carefully, “you don’t just accidentally write lines like this long, sweet dance that can’t be done alone.”
Kai shrugged, rolling his chair a little closer to the desk. “It’s just honest.”
Beomgyu’s eye twitched.
“Honest.”
“Yeah,” Kai said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Dancing isn’t just moving. It’s timing. Trust. You have to listen to the other person. You can’t rush it—and you can’t do it by yourself.”
He spoke gently. Thoughtfully.
Like he’d rehearsed this explanation long before Beomgyu ever asked.
Beomgyu stared.
This wasn’t poetic nonsense.
This was a thesis.
“So,” Kai continued, eyes flicking briefly back to the lyric sheet, “I wanted it to feel close. Like you’re aware of every step the other person takes.”
Silence.
Beomgyu’s brain began to short-circuit.
“…You’re aware,” he said slowly, “that this is a love song.”
Kai nodded. “Yeah.”
Immediate. No hesitation.
Beomgyu swallowed.
“And you’re aware,” he pressed, “that this is supposed to be hypothetical.”
Kai tilted his head. “But it’s not?”
Oh.
Beomgyu looked at him again—really looked this time. The calm posture. The steady tone. The lack of deflection. No jokes. No embarrassment.
“…Who,” Beomgyu asked quietly, “are you dancing with?”
Kai blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then his ears turned red.
Something in Beomgyu’s soul cracked.
“Kai,” he whispered, pointing accusingly, “don’t you dare tell me this is about a real person.”
Kai shrugged, turning back to the soundboard and fiddling with a beat.
“God forbid a man wants to write a song about dancing with his girlfriend.”
Beomgyu blinked at him.
Girlfriend?
“…And by girlfriend, you mean a really hot actress, right?”
Kai turned around, eyes wide.
“Why would I lie about having a girlfriend?”
Beomgyu scoffed. “When would you ever leave your room long enough to get a girlfriend?”
Kai nodded slowly—less in agreement and more because he was still processing the audacity of that statement.
Beomgyu, meanwhile, seemed perfectly satisfied with his conclusion. He leaned forward and grabbed Kai by the shoulders.
“So,” he said teasingly, eyes sparkling, “care to tell me which actress made you want to finally become a man?”
Kai grimaced. “That’s gross, hyung.”
Beomgyu gasped, recoiling like he’d been personally offended.
“You’re disgusting! I didn’t mean it like that,” he protested, then pointed accusingly at Kai. “I just wanted to know what made you want to be all sensual,” he sang, dragging the word out obnoxiously.
“She’s not an actress!” Kai exclaimed.
Beomgyu clutched his chest and gasped once more.
“Is it one of our sunbaes?”
Kai opened his mouth to defend himself—but nothing came out.
“Is that why you want to dance with them?” Beomgyu giggled, a new theory forming mid-sentence. “Is it because you want a collaboration?”
Kai sighed and nodded along.
“Sure,” he said, patting Beomgyu as the older boy laughed himself silly. “Whatever floats your boat, hyung.”
Beomgyu continued to giggle.
The maknae having a girlfriend before him?
As if.
No matter how many times TXT released new music, it never stopped being nerve-wracking for Kai.
Questions always raced through his head—what if the fans didn’t like it? What if the directors butchered the music video? What if the company uploaded the wrong file and the wrong video went live?
Release day always left his stomach twisted into knots.
Today was no different.
If anything, it was worse.
Today was the day you would watch—and listen to—Dance With You for the first time.
Kai paced back and forth across your apartment, hands running through his hair, stopping only to glance at your laptop every few seconds as you refreshed the page again and again. Meanwhile, you just watched him with quiet amusement, unfazed by his spiraling energy.
“It’s okay,” you called out gently.
And the practical part of his brain agreed. It was fine. Totally fine.
It’s not like he’d written a song about you.
Not like it was basically dedicated to you.
And it’s not like this was your first time hearing it, considering the song had been out for weeks—weeks you’d spent waiting only because he’d begged you not to listen until the music video dropped.
Really. No big deal at all.
Then he heard you gasp.
Kai snapped his head toward you just in time to see you click on the thumbnail—him, mid-dance, holding a mop.
He physically cringed.
What if you hated it?
What if you hated seeing him like this—more grown, more intentional, more romantic?
Oh my god… what if you broke up with him because you thought he was getting too close with a mop?
The thought was ridiculous. Completely irrational.
And yet Kai suddenly became very afraid that, in some distant future, he’d be remembered only as the ex who danced with cleaning supplies—a cautionary tale you’d tell on dates because you hated the music video that much.
Kai was so consumed by his panic that he completely missed watching your reactions. It wasn’t until your voice cut through his thoughts with a weary, “Kai?” that he snapped back into reality.
“Yes?” he answered too quickly, silently begging his stomach to keep down the egg and toast he’d forced himself to eat that morning.
You were looking at him—not at the screen, not at the paused video, but at him. There was something in your expression that made his chest tighten, something Kai could only describe as awe.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the lump forming in his throat.
“…Did you like it?” he asked quietly, almost meekly.
You held your hands out to him, and when he placed his in yours, you gently tugged him down until he was sitting beside you.
“Like it?” you echoed, disbelief woven into your voice. “Sweetheart, I loved it.”
Kai felt his body finally relax, like everything snapping back into its proper place. “Really?”
You nodded without hesitation. “What’s not to like?”
You reached for the laptop, replaying the music video as you continued, “My boyfriend looking all pretty and handsome on screen, showing the whole world that he’s capable of incredible things.”
A small giggle slipped out of Kai before he could stop it, warmth blooming in his chest as he let himself soak in the praise.
He shifted closer, eventually settling into your lap, eyes fluttering shut as your hand instinctively moved to run through his hair.
“Did you read the lyrics yet?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. “Considering I heard the song for the first time, like, seven minutes ago? I don’t think I’ve had time to properly digest the lyrics you wrote.”
“Well, you should,” he said, almost sheepishly. “They made Beomgyu think I’m crushing on a sunbae.”
You snorted. “What?”
He nodded seriously. “He read the lyrics and straight-up refused to believe I’m capable of writing about girls.”
You laughed, already following his logic. “Another girlfriend reveal gone wrong?”
Kai hummed in agreement. “It’s obvious too. I’m not even hiding you from them anymore, and they still don’t believe me when I tell them.”
He glanced up at you as you tried to think of a solution.
“Maybe they’d believe it if they saw it?” you offered.
Kai considered that. You weren’t wrong—but a small, anxious part of him worried they’d just ask if he’d hired you as an actress.
“I’ll think about it,” he said instead.
Which, in Kai-speak, really meant: I don’t want to think about this right now, but I’ll file it away as a potential Plan B.
You resumed playing with his hair, fingers gentle and familiar. “Hey, Bubba?” you asked softly.
He looked up, expecting a question.
Instead, you kissed him.
He melted into it immediately, relaxing as he pressed his lips back against yours. When you pulled away moments later, you stayed close, your words barely a whisper against his mouth.
“I would love to dance with you.”
Kai kissed you again without hesitation, heart swelling in his chest.
And as he held you there, he couldn’t help but think that he’d dance with you every day—every lifetime—if he could.
THE FOURTH TIME : IS YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE ABS?
Taehyun knew he was very different from Kai.
Taehyun hated being called cute.
Kai embraced it.
Taehyun hated watching romance.
Kai was—apparently—getting into it.
Taehyun didn’t mind showing skin.
Kai avoided it as much as he possibly could.
But Kai had been Taehyun’s first friend on the team.
One of the people closest to him.
Taehyun listened. He always did. He would sit beside Kai and let him talk—about his day, about melodies stuck in his head, about ideas for projects that never quite left his thoughts. Taehyun didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush him. He just stayed.
Which led to another realisation, another difference between them.
Taehyun loved working out.
Kai would rather do just about anything else than step into a gym.
Which was why Taehyun found himself surprised— and, admittedly, a little scared— when Kai asked if he could help him get abs.
Taehyun had agreed.
That decision led to a two-hour session at the HYBE gym, where Taehyun spotted the maknae and discovered—much to his disbelief—that Kai was putting in a full, unwavering one hundred percent effort. No complaints. No excuses. Just stubborn focus and slightly shaky arms.
That alone was alarming.
It wasn’t until after the workout that Taehyun decided he needed answers.
They were seated at the HYBE café, taking full advantage of the free food benefit they earned by metaphorically breaking their backs for the company. Taehyun watched as Kai ordered his usual mango drink— then added one scoop of protein powder.
As if that single scoop made all the difference in the world.
Taehyun cleared his throat.
“So,” he began carefully, “what exactly made you want to get—” he paused, searching for the least awkward word possible, “—abs?”
Across from him, Kai slurped his mango concoction thoughtfully, eyes unfocused as he considered the question.
Taehyun waited.
This better be good.
Kai blinked. “Well… we had them for Love Language, so I thought I should keep them.”
Taehyun nodded slowly, not fully buying it.
“If I remember correctly,” he said, “you were always the first person to leave the gym the second the trainer said you were good to go.”
Kai hummed in response, leaning forward to take a bite of the egg tart he’d grabbed.
“So?” Taehyun pressed, crossing his arms.
Kai finished chewing and let out a sigh.
A deep sigh.
That immediately worried Taehyun.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Kai said quietly.
Taehyun’s mind started racing.
What does he mean I wouldn’t understand?
He ran through every possibility—every reason Kai might suddenly change one of his most fundamental habits.
“…Are you getting hate comments about your body again?”
Kai’s eyes widened. “What? No.”
Taehyun raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
Kai nodded. “I mean, I probably am. But I’m not reading them anymore.”
Taehyun looked down at the table and let out a small, relieved sigh.
Okay. Not that.
So what else?
He cleared his throat again. “Then what is it that I won’t believe?”
Kai took another sip of his drink.
Taehyun watched closely, silently praying that two hours at the gym hadn’t just gone to waste on a mango drink with a conscience.
Kai cleared his throat. “Well,” he trailed off, “my girlfriend really liked my abs during Love Language, so I thought I should try to keep them.”
Taehyun blinked.
Then rubbed his ear, just to be sure.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing it again, “can you repeat that?”
Kai looked like he was used to this. He slumped further into his seat.
“I’m trying to keep my abs because my girlfriend likes them.”
Taehyun stared straight into Kai’s eyes, searching desperately for a hint of humor.
There was none.
Which meant this had to be something else.
“You don’t have to use a girlfriend as an excuse to better yourself,” Taehyun said gently.
That had to be it. He must be embarrassed—starting now, when everyone else had been working out for years.
Kai looked exasperated. “What exactly are you talking about?”
Taehyun continued, “I understand that everyone around us has always pushed us to be fit, and you never listened—which was completely fine, because you looked great without the muscle.” He paused, meeting Kai’s eyes. “But you don’t have to be embarrassed to admit you want to improve yourself now.”
Kai stared at him.
Then leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, and took another sip of his drink.
“Sure, hyung,” he said dryly. “You caught me. I’m using a fake girlfriend as an excuse to get abs so I can keep watching anime and gaming in my room—but with abs.”
Taehyun nodded, satisfied.
“That makes sense,” he said. “I mean—whose love language is abs?”
Kai stared at him blankly. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “So weird.”
Taehyun opened his mouth to comment on the tone when his phone rang—a reminder for an interview he had to film alongside Yeonjun.
He stood, holding the phone up to Kai, who waved him off casually.
Taehyun walked down the hallway toward the makeup room, already shaking his head.
The maknae having a girlfriend?
There was absolutely no way.
When Kai was training, he always kept a small emotional-support plushie with him.
It wasn’t separation anxiety—he swapped them out often.
It wasn’t to stand out or earn points with the producers during training sessions, like some of the other trainees tried to do.
He simply liked having something small and soft nearby. A reminder that even when things felt overwhelming or bleak, there were still gentle, cute things in the world.
People teased him for it.
His sisters teased him.
His members teased him too.
But he always knew it came from a place of fondness, so he never took it to heart. It became just another thing about him—something he accepted with a shrug and a smile.
Which was why his heart had started beating faster when, during a video call, you noticed the plushies in the background.
And instead of commenting on how many there were, you asked if they all had names.
And stories.
You were the first person in his life who didn’t treat his plushies like something to laugh at—but like something that mattered.
What made it even better was that you had your own collection. A stash of stuffed animals you clearly adored just as much.
At the time, it felt like a small detail. Cute. Insignificant.
Later, it became something else entirely.
Something affectionately referred to as “ the co-parenting practice”.
This happened every two to three weeks.
The two of you would meet—usually at your place—and spend a few quiet hours together before exchanging plushies, so that you each left with a small piece of the other.
This week was no different.
In Kai’s hands was a Tuxedo Sam plushie you had given him, tucked carefully alongside the strawberry Molang plushie he planned to give you in return.
But that wasn’t all he was carrying.
In his bag were three of his comfiest hoodies—chosen specifically because, just the other day, you had complained about how the women’s section never stocked properly oversized fits.
Kai wasn’t stupid. He had watched enough dramas to know that this was a thing—something you were supposed to do. Give someone your hoodies. Let them steal your warmth.
So he had spent a full ninety minutes standing in front of his closet, narrowing it down to his top three. He picked his favourite cologne, sprayed each hoodie lightly, then folded them neatly into the bag, placing the plushies on top like they were guarding them.
And somewhere between zipping the bag shut and slinging it over his shoulder, it hit him.
This—this—was what love meant.
Because he knew, without a doubt, that he would never do this for anyone else.
He quickly unlocked the door to his apartment and let himself in, immediately kicking off his shoes and hanging his jacket and mask on the designated hook you kept just for him.
He set his bag at the foot of the couch before heading to the kitchen to find you. Instead of greeting you properly, he opted to surprise you with a hug.
He couldn’t hide his smile when you flinched at the sudden contact.
“You know I could’ve kicked you,” you said, even as you melted into his embrace.
“Yeah,” Kai agreed easily, “but then you wouldn’t be able to hug me, and you’d feel bad.”
You stopped stirring the pasta and turned to face him. “Well, that would be too bad, wouldn’t it.”
He smiled down at you. “Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi,” you smiled back.
“Are you ready for the exchange?” he asked, already looking forward to carrying another piece of you with him.
You nodded, placing a lid on the pot.
“Smells delicious, by the way,” Kai added as he followed you into the living room.
The exchange went on as it always did—soft smiles, familiar movements, comforting habits. In return for his Squirtle plushie, he received a bread plush with a tiny bow tie, accompanied by your quiet remark that it reminded you of him.
He, in turn, excitedly handed you the Molang plushie, which you immediately cooed over, praising how cute it was.
You were just as overjoyed with his hoodie selection, admitting that you’d been eyeing his closet for a long time. Kai felt his heart warm as he helped you pull them on, one by one.
The meal that followed was delicious. Because of you, he had learned how amazing it was to eat something homemade—something not packaged or ordered. He would happily eat your cooking no matter the consequences.
It was only when it came time to say goodbye that Kai found himself truly grateful for the arrangement the two of you had started. He couldn’t imagine not doing this with you.
He lingered in your doorway, procrastinating putting his jacket and shoes back on.
“One more hug,” he pleaded, making small grabby hands in your direction.
You smiled. “I’ve been hugging you all day.”
“That’s different,” he argued. “This is my goodbye hug.”
You played along. “You’re right. It would be unjust to let you go without one.”
He opened his arms, already accepting you the moment you stepped into his space.
You shifted slightly in his embrace. He didn’t think much of it—until your voice came out muffled against his sweatshirt.
“Have you been working out?”
He nodded, arms still wrapped around you. “You said you liked my abs, and I figured… if you liked them, I might as well try to keep them a little longer.”
You looked up at him. “You know you don’t have to.”
He hummed in agreement. “I know. But it’s for you—and it’s not a big deal either.”
“Are you sure?” you asked.
He smiled and nodded, pulling you even closer.
“It even let me tell Taehyun about you,” he added after a moment, loosening his hold just enough to let you breathe.
“Did he believe you?” you asked.
“No,” Kai said, a little dejected.
You giggled. “You’d think he’d be the one to figure it out.”
“You’d think,” Kai sighed, finally moving to put his shoes on.
“It’s okay,” you said, handing him his jacket. “We’ll tell them together?”
He nodded, slipping it on and grabbing the bag that held his children—read: plushies.
He paused, looking at you. “One more hug before I leave?”
You smiled and indulged him.
Kai decided he wouldn’t mind staying in your embrace forever.
THE ONE TIME : WHY WERE YOUR LIPS MOVING LIKE THAT ?
Kai decided that everyone around him was, frankly, dumb.
There was no other explanation. No universe in which four grown men could repeatedly fail to comprehend the very simple fact that he had a girlfriend—especially when he had spelled it out for them. Slowly. Clearly. Multiple times.
And yet.
They accused him of having everything but a girlfriend and moved on as if it never happened.
Which was why Kai decided it was time to test their cognitive skills.
By inviting you to the dorm.
The plan was simple. He’d call you over, the two of you would hang out in his room, and that would be that. Undeniable proof. Visual confirmation. Case closed.
It started well enough. Despite everyone having the day off, the dorm’s common areas were eerily empty, which made it easy for Kai to sneak you inside and coax you down the hallway to his room without running into anyone.
He’d planned the afternoon meticulously. Snacks were arranged neatly on his desk. His laptop was fully charged. His bed had been transformed into the coziest possible setup—plushies piled high, hoodies layered over the mattress for extra comfort. He was nothing if not prepared.
And honestly? The day went well.
It was a little awkward at first—Kai adjusting to the reality of having a girl in his room, you adjusting to the fact that you were in your boyfriend’s room—but somewhere between the soft giggles, the easy conversation, and eventually curling up together on his bed, the nerves melted away.
Two hours slipped by without either of you noticing.
You talked. You scrolled on your phones in companionable silence. Eventually, you settled in properly, choosing My Neighbour Totoro—a mutual favorite—and letting the movie play as you cozied closer together.
At some point during the film, Kai realized he had stopped paying attention entirely.
Totoro moved across the screen, the gentle music swelling and fading, but Kai couldn’t tell you what was happening anymore. His attention had drifted—quietly, naturally—away from the movie and onto you.
You were tucked into his side, knees drawn up slightly, your head resting against his shoulder like it belonged there. One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves covering your hands, fabric bunching up around your neck. Every now and then, you shifted closer without thinking, chasing warmth.
Kai swallowed.
He told himself to look back at the screen. He really did. But then you laughed softly at something—barely louder than a breath—and the sound settled right into his chest.
He glanced down.
Bad idea.
Your face was relaxed, eyes reflecting the soft glow of the screen, lips slightly parted in concentration. Kai felt something twist low in his stomach, unfamiliar and dizzying. He adjusted his arm around you, intending only to get comfortable.
Instead, you leaned into the touch.
Your head tipped just enough for your cheek to brush his collarbone, and Kai froze. His heart began to race, loud enough that he was convinced you could hear it. He held his breath, waiting to see if you’d pull away.
You didn’t.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Kai wasn’t sure anymore. The space between your faces felt suddenly noticeable—charged in a way that made his palms sweat. He could feel your breathing, slow and steady, syncing with his own despite his best efforts to stay calm.
You tilted your head up slightly, eyes flicking from the screen to his face.
“Kai?” you murmured, barely audible over the movie.
“Yeah?” His voice came out softer than he intended.
“I think you stopped watching,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He huffed out a quiet, nervous laugh. “I think I did.”
Your gaze lingered. Too long to be accidental. The air between you felt heavy, expectant, like it was waiting for something to happen.
Kai leaned in before he could overthink it.
Slowly. Carefully. Giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
Instead, you met him halfway.
The kiss was gentle—soft and hesitant, like the two of you were still figuring out how to exist in this moment. Your lips fit against his in a way that made his thoughts scatter completely, warmth blooming through his chest.
Someone on-screen said something profound.
Neither of you noticed.
The kiss lingered.
At first, neither of you moved—like you were both waiting to see if the moment would disappear if you shifted even slightly. Kai’s lips stayed against yours, warm and careful, his breath shallow. He could feel the way your hands tightened just a little in the fabric of his hoodie, like you were anchoring yourself there.
Then you leaned in again.
Just a fraction closer. Just enough.
Kai followed instinctively this time, his hand sliding from where it rested awkwardly at your side to your waist, fingers curling into the oversized hoodie. The movement was slow, almost shy, like he was asking permission with every inch.
Your lips parted slightly, and his heart stuttered.
The kiss deepened—not suddenly, not dramatically—but naturally, like it had always been meant to get here. It was still gentle, still sweet, but warmer now. More intentional. Kai tilted his head, kissing you again, softer this time, slower, like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
He pulled back just enough for his forehead to rest against yours.
You were close enough that he could feel your breath, hear the tiny sound you made when you inhaled.
“Sorry,” he whispered instinctively, even though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for.
You smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t be.”
That was all it took.
Kai kissed you again, a little more confident now, his thumb moving absentmindedly at your waist. The world outside his room—practice, schedules, his members, the whole ridiculous plan—felt impossibly far away.
Right now, it was just this.
You. Him. The quiet glow of the movie still playing, completely forgotten.
And for the first time since inviting you over, Kai thought distantly:
Yeah. This was a really good idea.
…Which was, unfortunately, exactly what happened.
Somewhere between kissing you and getting completely lost in it, Kai failed to register the footsteps outside his door. He didn’t notice the handle turning. Didn’t hear the door creak open. Didn’t even process Beomgyu’s voice starting to say something about practice being moved to today.
Not until the scream.
It was loud. Sharp. Horrified.
Kai froze.
Time stalled in the worst way possible—his lips still barely parted, his hand still at your waist, the world crashing back into place all at once.
Kai broke the kiss and looked down at you, trying to make sure you were okay. He was about to ask when another scream tore from Beomgyu.
“Can you stop screaming, hyung?” Kai said, annoyance creeping into his voice.
Beomgyu just stared, eyes wide. “You—” He pointed a trembling finger at Kai. “What the hell were your lips doing?”
Kai opened his mouth to retort—but was interrupted as Yeonjun appeared, dragging a half-asleep Soobin behind him.
“What happened?” Yeonjun asked, out of breath.
His gaze followed Beomgyu’s finger, landing on Kai… and you… in his bed. His eyes widened, and he dragged Soobin closer to see for himself.
The two eldest gulped, then simultaneously turned to Kai. “She’s real,” they said at the exact same time.
Eerie, Kai thought.
Then Taehyun appeared, peeked inside—and Kai watched the most unfazed member of the group’s jaw drop.
He was about to speak, but Soobin cleared his throat before he could.
“Group meeting… in the living room. Now.” His leader's tone made it clear this was going to be serious.
Soobin then turned to you. “You… should also come,” he stammered, clearly untrained in handling the concept of a girl in the maknae’s room.
Soobin quickly dragged the members to the living room, muttering something about “letting the youngest get a decent—” The words sounded pained as they left his mouth.
Kai wanted to yell back that nothing inappropriate was happening, but he quickly realized that wouldn’t mean anything to them.
He turned to face you, bracing for shock or awkwardness—emotions he knew he’d beat himself up for causing. Instead, he found your face carefully composed, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.
You let out a small burst of laughter. “Well, I guess they know now.”
Kai relaxed slightly. “I guess they do.”
You turned to him, smiling. “Shall we go?”
Kai nodded, helping you out of the cozy nest of his bed and holding your hand as you stood.
He led you to the living room, where his four older members were whispering and pointing at each other, clearly in the middle of a heated debate.
Kai cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention. “Hello,” he said, bowing slightly as if this were some formal interview. He held up your joined hands. “This is my girlfriend.”
You smiled, raising your free hand to wave. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so many things about you.”
The four boys stared at you as if you were a unicorn.
“You're real?” Beomgyu asked.
You nodded, “I would hope so,”
Soobin snapped back into reality.
“Sit,” he gestured to the couple that he could barely make eye contact with.
Kai let you sit down and settle first before sitting beside you.
Yeonjun cleared his throat, “You weren’t lying when you said you were going to Hadilao to see your girlfriend?”
Kai nodded.
Soobin chimed in, “And you were watching Kimi No Todoke because she wanted you to watch it?”
Kai nodded again.
Beomgyu looked Kai in the eye, “To be clear, you wrote Dance with You for her?”
Kai pursed his lips and nodded, remembering all the glances Beomfyu would give him any time they would pass a female sunbae.
Taehyun stared at him, “You were training to get abs because of her?”
Kai let out a hum of agreement.
A collective ‘oh’ let out by the group.
Beomgyu turned back to you, eyes wide. “So… she’s real. And he’s… yours?” His voice trembled slightly, as if this revelation were too big to process.
Kai, unfazed, simply nodded and gave your hand a small squeeze. “Yep. All hers.”
The room went silent for a moment, each member letting the information sink in. Then, almost simultaneously, Yeonjun and Beomgyu groaned in unison.
“This is so embarrassing for him,” Beomgyu muttered.
“And for us!” Yeonjun added, throwing his head back dramatically.
Soobin finally broke the silence, sighing heavily. “Alright. New rule: no more accidental walk-ins. And Kai… maybe give us a heads-up before your ‘romance escapades’ escalate again.”
Kai’s ears turned red. “That’s not what was happening!”
Beomgyu shook his head, pointing a finger at him. “No, that was exactly what was happening. I’m the one who had the misfortune of watching.”
Kai opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by Taehyun, who leaned forward with an unexpectedly serious expression. “Are you… happy with each other?”
You blinked, taken off guard by the sudden shift in mood. Clearing your throat, you smiled softly. “Yeah… I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been when I’m with Kai.”
Kai’s chest fluttered. He leaned forward and pressed a small, tender kiss onto your intertwined hands.
Then came the gagging noises.
Kai didn’t care.
Because no matter what the world—or his members—thought, he was very much in love with his (very much real!) girlfriend.
SUMMARY: Being trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful husband has led you to seek validation from others through your scandalous online persona. When an alluringly masked camboy keeps hitting your DMs, you can’t deny the undoubtable attraction you feel for a man you can’t have. And when a new neighbor sporting the same red hair and mole under his eyes moves into the apartment next door, you know you’re screwed. Is it really being unfaithful if your husband’s doing it too?
PAIRING: camboy!yeonjun x housewife!reader
WORD COUNT: 13k
GENRE: smut, angst
WARNINGS: nsfw, mdni, porn with plot, cursing, INFIDELITY, condom use, dacryphilia, mentions of financial abuse/lovebombing from the reader's husband, forced marriage, manipulation, dirty talk, soft(?) dom!yeonjun, big dick, overuse of the term ‘baby’, squirting, masturbation, filming during sex, slightly dubious consent, breeding kink (kind of), if i’m missing stuff feel free to lmk
A/N: Here is my magnum opus. Please follow if you enjoy reading and lmk what you think! I have some things cooking in my noggin for future stories… Anyway, enjoy! (I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING!!!)
This is the last time, you swear to yourself, that you would willingly participate in a conversation with the nosy middle-aged aunties in your apartment complex.
"You know you're running out of time," Mrs. Lee lectures. "It'll be good for you to have kids soon while you still have your youth."
Mrs. Park nods knowingly next to her as if her friend spouted something incredibly profound. What was supposed to be a quiet walk to retrieve a package from the mail room had once again turned into a conversation impossible to wiggle out of.
"It's not our place to pry," Mrs. Park chimes in. "Your husband would probably want you to have one sooner rather than later, right? Hell! At his age, he’s old enough to even be your father-"
Mrs. Lee punches her blabbering friend's shoulder lightly in an attempt to shut her up. Mrs. Park rubs her shoulder, flustered but taking the hint.
"Thank you for your wonderful advice," you muster a polite smile, "If that’s all, I'll be heading back up. I hope you two have a good day."
You walk past the two with a small package in hand, turning the corner of the hallway. Being curt with them would be the only way to escape their intrusive grasp. However, you find yourself slowing your steps when you hear bits and pieces of their lowered voices.
"You!" Mrs. Lee grumbles at Mrs. Park. “Why would you mention such a sensitive topic to that poor girl?! I’m sure she sees how big their age gap is! There's no need to bring it up.”
Mrs. Park grumbles.
“That’s the least of her worries when it comes to that husband of hers,” Mrs. Park scoffs. “You know, I heard from the security guy that he’s been coming home late every night, all disheveled with bruises all over his neck..."
You hear Mrs. Lee gasp, and you can’t help it when your grip on the cardboard box tightens.
"No wonder she's looked so out of sorts these days,” Mrs. Lee sighs. “She used to have such a bright personality. Much prettier back then, too…"
You grind your teeth, tempted to walk back and ask the two to continue their conversation in front of you instead. You save yourself the embarrassment and walk towards the elevator.
It’s not like anything they said was a lie. There was no use in getting angry about the truth being spoken out loud; you convince yourself.
You sit at the dinner table, watching as the clock strikes midnight. He probably won't come home tonight either, you think to yourself.
Dinner is laid out so meticulously, two perfectly cooked salmon glistening with soy sauce glaze at the center of the table. All done by you to appease a husband who doesn’t even want to be home most of the time.
It’s the third night in a row he's been staying over at his lover's place.
Married life with Kwon Sehoon, a man you met through your parents, was ultimately a passionless one.
Straddled in debt from starting a failed business, your parents had married you off to an older man who was willing to pay a pretty penny for a young and beautiful wife.
You remember that day clearly, with you coming back home from an evening lecture, standing in front of your kneeling parents who begged you to save them from their financial ruin. The parents you once thought were invincible to pain and suffering were groveling right in front of you. So afraid of what the loan sharks would do to your parents, of having to pick up the pieces of their debt if they up and disappeared, you agreed. It seemed like the easy way out.
Sehoon seemed nice enough during your first meeting. He told you almost immediately how he didn’t like women his age.
"Younger women don't drain you like the older ones do," he once said.
You remember feeling flattered at first, not knowing the gravity of his words until you really got to know him.
You got married shortly after completing your degree, and at first, Sehoon was absolutely fixated on you. He doted on you like a pet, showering you with gifts and compliments. He lived quite modestly for someone with an affluent job. His apartment, the one you live in now, was practically empty before you came into his life. He gave you free rein to decorate as you pleased and insisted that you buy anything you wanted with his card.
He asked very little of you in return; all you had to do was be a good wife for him. And as you sit by yourself tonight, pondering his return, you feel like you failed even in that regard. Four years into marriage, you noticed the signs of waning interest trickle into everyday life.
His initial gestures of kindness led you to feel something akin to love towards him, just thankful that he didn’t treat your parents badly, like the loan sharks did. Though now that you look back, your affection seemed more akin to Stockholm Syndrome.
Your parents had promised him a warm and caring stay-at-home wife. At the ripe age of 45, he expected a lot from you– more than you could possibly give in your early 20s. Inexperienced nights of lackluster sex would drive him into fits of annoyance, giving you days of silent treatment when you would reject his advances to explore unsavory kinks in the bedroom.
You always tried to pick up the pieces, changing parts of yourself to match his ideal type of girl. Pleasant, obedient, and doll-like. It never worked.
He started accusing you of using him if you bought too many pastries from a bakery, immediately regulating your credit card use to groceries and household items. He started murmuring insults in hushed tones, knowing full well you could hear him.
Everything you thought he was crumbled within the first year of marriage. Sehoon morphed into someone unrecognizable. You never fathomed being in a situation where a man who wanted you so badly now wanted to act like you never existed. You never thought he could betray you after all the hoops he went through to have your hand in marriage.
You remember that night, just a year ago, when you heard his quiet voice in the bathroom. He was talking to someone over the phone. You couldn’t help but listen by the door that was slightly left ajar. Sehoon had been in such a bad mood at the time, lashing out at you at every chance he got.
"I miss you," he sighs lovingly, and you feel your heart sink. You hadn't heard him talk in such a gentle tone in years. "She's such a prude, you know? Always tenses up when I touch her. She can't even get me hard. I wish I were with you instead."
He cackled as the pit that you've always felt in your stomach when you were with him expanded. Though the affection you had for him had already waned by then, your husband's infidelity still felt like a shot to the chest. You wasted so many years trying to be who he wanted you to be, only for him to toss you to the side like an old toy with no batteries.
You were ashamed to say you followed him once during his escapades, watching across a dark alleyway as he entered a seedy hotel with a young beauty in his arms. Though she looked nothing like you, she reminded you of yourself. She seemed so nervous, so eager to please that treacherous man. All you could feel was pity, unsure if it was more for her or for yourself.
"You know I can't leave her right now, my love," he hummed into the phone, and you couldn’t help but gag. "I took her parents' debt in my name. I'm still paying it off. I feel nothing with her, I promise! Bitch can't even give a proper blowjob. She’s nothing like you."
Disgust seeped through your whole body that night. You couldn't even bear to face him in the bed you shared, tears welling up at the thought of having to be with him for any longer.
Your parents pleaded with you to hold out until the debt was fully repaid, until he no longer had control over them. Sehoon, ever the calculating person he was, wrote a clause stating that if you were to ever ask for a divorce, you would have to pay him back the remaining debt he still owed the loan sharks.
With no job and no escape plan, you had fallen into his trap. Sehoon would be the one to decide whether he ever wanted to set you free.
You wait another 30 minutes, packing the leftovers on the table into the refrigerator when he doesn't show up. Your duties as a wife did not and could not stop even after finding out about his affair. Sehoon reported every mistake and any sign of resistance to your parents. He knew the power they held over you, about your unwavering need to appease them. They scold you over the stories they hear from him, and you attempt to right every wrong to mold yourself into what he wanted.
But he doesn't know one thing, you think to yourself as you head to your shared bedroom. You lock the door, just in case.
You pull your phone out and open Twitter without hesitation. Typing away, you draft up a post that reads like every other one of your complaints about your mundane life.
housewifeblues: husband left me home alone again… how can you leave your wife like this, feeling so lonely?
But you know that’s not why 2.4k people follow you.
You peel your shirt off your body, unclasping your bra and positioning yourself under the dim lights of the city outside your window. You let out a deep breath, psyching yourself up for what you’re about to do. You push out and accentuate the curves of your breasts as you arch your back forward.
You snap a few pictures with only the lower half of your face and naked chest visible.
You bite your nails as you hesitate to hit the ‘post’ button. You do it after a few seconds of indecisiveness. It’s not like it’s your first post, so why do you still feel so nervous? To Sehoon, you may be undesirable, but your online persona was worshipped like a goddess by so many.
The attention and validation of those who lusted after you on the internet filled in the hole of loneliness that Sehoon had opened in you.
The noticeable birthmark above your breasts was a point of self-consciousness since the start of your marriage. Sehoon always pushed you to have it removed, stating it was unsightly against your skin. But the thousands of followers who complimented it constantly led you to cancel that appointment. It gave you a sense of pride knowing that you could drown out your husband's harsh words with the positivity of your online fans.
Your followers enjoyed how openly you talked about your miserable marriage, your qualms about being a housewife, and your husband's infidelity. Your posts garnered traction from those who relate to your struggles and those who fetishize them. At some point, you stopped caring what kind of person interacted with your posts. You just wanted to bask in some flattering words for once.
The likes had started to roll in, but at an abnormal pace. Since when was your engagement this high? You see in your notification tab that someone named "yawnszn" retweeted your post almost immediately after you uploaded it.
yawnszn: if he doesn’t want you, i volunteer as tribute
You catch yourself chuckling. Who was this?
Clicking on his profile picture, a page pops up of a bright red-haired man with a mole underneath his right eye, wearing a black face mask. 300k followers? And he was reposting your content? You rub your eyes to check if you were seeing correctly.
Intrigued, you scroll down and you almost drop your phone from the shocking imagery that fills your screen. The pinned video on his feed was of him, stroking his perfectly curved length with such focused concentration. He was thick beyond comprehension, veins so beautifully etched on the underside of his heaviness.
You hesitantly click on the video, cheeks warming at the lewd sounds that start to echo through the bedroom.
"You like that?" he would say in between grunts of pleasure. "I bet you do, huh? Bet you wanna make a mess all over me."
His brows were furrowed, glistening chest heaving as he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into his large hands. If only you could see him with that stupid mask off.
The stranger was methodical with his strokes, slowing his relentless pace when he teetered too close to his high. He was edging himself into a stronger and more drawn-out climax, rolling his head back onto his chair as Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Though his eyes were covered by wispy bangs, you could feel their intensity through the screen. The way he squinted and scrunched his nose in pleasure, staring daggers into the camera. He could tell you to lick the bottom of his shoe and you would probably do it.
Wait–what?
You exit the app in a hurry, attempting to calm yourself. You were having very bad thoughts, ones you never even felt with your own husband. It wasn't right to think these things about another man, you tell yourself, as your thighs clench together from where you sat on your bed.
When Sehoon surprisingly comes home at 4 a.m., with his back turned towards you on the bed, you pretend to sleep. You replay the video of yawnszn in your head over and over again. You can't help but feel pathetic to feel so hot and heavy over a man retweeting you while your husband still reeks of another woman.
As Sehoon snores loudly next to you, you find yourself typing another post.
housewifeblues: he’s home with hickies on his neck... why does he even bother coming back?
It’s almost instant, the masked man’s reply. You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a gasp.
yawnszn: let’s make it even. i can leave some on your pretty neck, too
You suppress a giggle that threatens to leave your lips. You stare back and forth between Sehoon’s hunched back and your phone to this masked man’s profile. There’s no harm in flattery, is there?
It's like an addiction, scrolling through his page on your burner account. You don't even follow him back on your main, but you can't help but refresh for more content. He posts daily, with livestreams every Friday. You tune in when Sehoon isn't around, which is almost all the time. Guilt is etched into your heart whenever you see his notifications, despite your husband's own infidelity not affecting his own psyche.
"Such fucking sluts," Yeonjun would scold his chat with his red hair pushed seductively away from his forehead. He plunges a plush fleshlight roughly down his pulsing cock. "You wish this were you riding me, huh? Too fucking bad."
The urge to touch yourself worsens after each livestream, but you hold out. You couldn't let yourself stoop to Sehoon's level. It’s not like you enjoyed posting photos with racy captions, you promise! It’s just a hobby, one that elicited flirty responses from a man you were very attracted to. You admit, maybe some photos were posted for him. He just didn’t know it.
During a livestream, you remember him talking about his love for doggy style. The next day, you miraculously posted a photo of your face planted on a pillow with your underwear-clad body arched eagerly with your ass in the sky.
housewifeblues: never been fucked in this position.
You swear it isn’t just for him specifically, even when you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face at his comment the next day.
yawnszn: i think you need to take the picture at a better angle from behind… need help with that?
Even as you squirm in the shower and in the bed at the thought of a red-haired man plowing into you, you vowed to not be tempted to interact with him on your main account.
You were better than that, you convinced yourself. Better than Sehoon.
You're in the bed this time, lacy pink bra in full display on your phone’s camera. Your nipples are peaking through, and you lay your hand atop your chest to emphasize their shape. Tonight, you wanted to tease your followers.
yawnszn’s constant interactions with your page fueled you to post more frequently. You found different angles and poses, anything that would let you stay relevant (and always on yawnszn’s feed). At some point, you noticed his likes and retweets were filled with only you.
It made your heart flutter at the thought of him being just as obsessed with you as you were with him.
And even better, it was a Friday. You chuckle to yourself as you lie on your stomach, clicking on his profile like clockwork. His room looked emptier than usual, with boxes piled up in the corner. The red-haired man's toned body finally comes into frame, gleaming with sweat from the warm lighting of his floor lamp. He looked like he had just finished working out.
"Wow," he stares at the chat, voice muffled by his mask. "Must be real fucking horny to join so early."
You let out a chuckle. It felt like he was actually talking to you.
"Some new names in here," he says as he sinks into his chair, carefully unzipping his jeans. His abdomen glistened with sweat, white briefs peeking through his unzipped jeans. He reads comment after comment, palming his bulge almost mindlessly.
You groan in frustration, wishing he were quicker at taking his stupid pants off. You feel almost compelled to comment just that– and so you did.
You: you’re teasing us…
His eyes scan the screen, and you can tell he seems genuinely shocked by something despite his masked expression.
"Well, look who it is," he laughs darkly as he starts to grip his clothed member more roughly. "Thanks for tuning in, housewifeblues. I didn't take you for such an eager viewer, pretty girl."
Your blood turns cold. Did he just say your username? But that couldn't be possible. You were on your burner account. Unless-
You scroll up to your comment, clearly showing the profile picture of half of your face and cleavage as the commenter. Burying your face into your pillow to let out a scream of sheer humiliation, you kick your feet in the air.
This can't be real.
"I'm flattered," yawnszn continues, not knowing the stages of grief you were going through. "I've been thinking about those pretty tits all day."
He pulls out his throbbing cock. It looked painful, you thought. His fingers traced over his angry tip, red and beating like it ached for release.
You swallow, mouth watering at the view. His head was leaned back now, stroking himself languidly as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. You clench your pillow.
"Why don't we have some fun together, hm?" he asks teasingly, his hand pumping with half the force he usually uses. "I bet I could make you feel so good, baby. We can make your useless ass husband watch if you want."
You let out a small whimper, scanning over the comments from equally shocked viewers.
"god I'd pay good money to see you two fuck"
"me next?"
“is this ur kink?”
"stop talking about another bitch!!!"
He chuckles, reading the last one.
"My jealous babies," he teases, tugging his hair back with his unoccupied hand and showing his beautiful forehead. "There’s plenty of me to go around."
A wave of possessiveness washes over you, suddenly conscious that this wasn't just for you. He was selling his fantasy to all the viewers who watched him. There was no affection there, only the delusions of your touch-starved self. You feel a sudden pang of guilt in your chest. You wanted this stranger so badly, but you couldn’t have him. You're married. And it wasn't up to anyone else but Sehoon to change that.
"I'd fuck you on every surface I could get you on," he sighs out so sensually, pumping himself in a steady rhythm. "Have you begging for my cock until you're dependent on it."
Though tears well in your eyes from the mix of humiliation and regret, you rest your head on the pillow and grind against your mattress to the sounds of his arousal.
"And you'd thank me each time I give it to you, wouldn’t you?" he laughs dryly. "Because that's all you want, right? Want me deep down in your throat. In your pussy. You'd even let me fuck your ass too, huh, baby?"
The comments flood in with crazed sentences, and you are no better.
You whimper at the vulgarity of his words, back arched against absolutely nothing. You wish he were positioned right behind you with those long fingers of his curling inside your deepest parts, coaxing your climax out of you. You’re almost tempted to slide a hand up your shirt, until you hear a familiar jangling of keys.
Quickly standing up, you exit that God forsaken app. Smoothing out your clothes, you prepare yourself to be ignored by Sehoon once again. He moves past you to walk to the bathroom, no greeting exchanged whatsoever. Your cheeks warm with frustration.
"Dinner is in the fridge," you say plainly. You sit back down on the bed, grabbing the phone to make sure his livestream was no longer playing. A few minutes pass, and you mindlessly stare at the wall as you hear your husband grumbling and mumbling in the bathroom. A notification pops up on your phone.
yawnszn has sent you a private message.
You feel the acceleration of your pulse almost immediately and check it against your better judgment.
yawnszn: come back, baby. i wasn't done with you yet. was putting on that show just for you ;)
You cover your mouth to stifle a scream, but immediately straighten your posture and harden your expression when Sehoon comes out of the bathroom. He reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap motel sheets.
“Would it hurt you to smile once in a while?" he sneers. “Look so fucking creepy all the time.”
You muster up a small grin, one that doesn't meet the eyes. All he does is sigh.
"Can't even follow simple instructions," he grumbles, slamming the door behind him. "Just leeching off me like a fucking parasite..."
You purse your lips. Sehoon always knew which words would hurt you the most, like he practices them in the mirror before he throws them at you. At one point, you wanted to be good for him. Wanted to show him that you could be the respectable wife he always wanted you to be.
So, how the hell did it end up like this?
What were you doing, squealing like a teenage girl over some camboy on the internet? You shake your head rapidly, quickly deleting the message yawnszn sent. You didn't even get a chance to put your phone back on your lap when you heard another buzz.
It's him again.
yawnszn: i wanna show you how a real man could make you feel. won't you let me?
And though you wanted nothing more, you leave him on ‘seen’.
An entire week goes by, and it was another Friday you couldn’t help but anticipate. You tried to stop viewing his page, you really did. But when the nights got cold and loneliness seeped through your bones, you couldn’t help but reread the messages yawnszn would boldly send you.
Today, you vowed not to think about that red-haired devil.
As you walk past the boxes stacked in the hallway, you make your way towards the unit right next to your apartment with Sehoon. A new neighbor was moving in. From sandwiches to tea cookies, you had spent your entire day making treats for the new addition to the ever-so-nosy apartment complex. With a cautious knock at the door, you stand in front of the unit with a basket of your handmade foods.
Sehoon had conditioned you to be a good neighbor, never wanting Mr. Do's family on the second floor to look better than him after they gave everyone in the building a bottle of whiskey for New Year's. He forced you to greet new tenants and make cards for everyone's birthdays so he could soak in the compliments of having such a loving and kind wife. Meanwhile, he never even bothered to learn the names of the people on your floor.
He always assumed with your "immense amount of free time as a housewife" that all of these responsibilities would be handled by you. You roll your eyes at the thought. He couldn't even bother to take showers to get rid of his mistress's rancid scent. Did he really think people in this apartment thought he was a good husband?
You almost knock again until your new neighbor finally opens the door. He's tall, wearing a tight-fitting black hoodie. It wasn't zipped up fully, and his naked chest was slightly visible underneath. Was he wearing nothing under?
You look up and tense at the sight. Red hair and black face mask. Mole under his right eye. You blink rapidly, almost as if his face would morph if you did it fast enough. It can't be… But who else could fit his description much better? This had to be yawnszn.
“Hello?” he greets, confused. His voice sends shivers down your spine. Was it wrong to assume that every strikingly red-haired man with fierce eyes and wearing a mask was your online crush?
"Hi," you say, stomping down the stutter that wanted to come out. "I'm [Y/N], your next-door neighbor. My husband and I wanted to welcome you to the building with some treats."
He looks past the top of your head as if searching for someone behind you.
"Where is this husband?" he asks in a teasing manner. You bite back a frown. Wasn't it a little inappropriate to ask these things?
"He's at work," you say plainly.
"I'll only give my thanks to you then," he replies, resting his body on the doorframe. You feel electricity course through your veins as he brushes your hand softly, taking the basket from your tightened grip.
"I would love to repay you," he says, leaning his head toward your flustered face. You shy away from his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable that you're wearing a V-neck shirt as he looks down at you. You sense a flash of emotion in his gaze, quickly replaced by a gentle stare.
Did he know it was you?
No, that’s ridiculous, you thought to yourself. How could he even tell?
"No need," you reply, embarrassingly quickly as you take a step back. "We don't expect anything in return."
"I insist," he says slyly. "Once I'm all settled in, I'll come see you."
He looks around the hallway again before bringing his masked mouth to your ear.
“Hopefully, when he’s not home.”
You freeze at his words as he closes the door with a small wave and a mischievous glint in his eyes. As soon as you rush to your apartment, you cross-examine his profile picture with the memory you had of your neighbor’s features. He didn’t even tell you his name! You scream into your living room cushion. You shake your head.
Nothing will come out of this, you try to convince yourself. He was just being friendly.
You stand up, ready to busy yourself with chores around the house to distract yourself from the feeling of dread forming in the pit of your stomach. He said he was stopping by, and you couldn't tell whether the funny feeling in your stomach was butterflies or something far more sinister… You touch your ear from where you felt his warm breath. Perhaps desire?
Later that day, you wait anxiously for his stream to start. Your back was against the headboard of your bed, twiddling your fingers from anticipation. Triple-checking, you made sure you were on your burner account this time. You click the notification as soon as it comes, and his empty room comes into view.
You stiffen at the new format, not at all like his old set-up. In fact, the walls and floor were the exact same shade as your own room. You groan, looking at the wall that faced your new neighbor’s place. That guy was definitely yawnszn.
His masked figure is already naked, save for the white towel draped around his waist and his signature black mask.
"Moved into my new place," he says to the chat. "Like my new room?"
He scans the comments and sighs in disappointment.
"Did I scare my baby away?" Your eyes widen. Was he looking for your username?
You can tell he's pouting through the mask, and you can't help but smile. Fuck. Why was this man so irresistibly hot and annoyingly cute at the same time?
"I don’t wanna do solo streams anymore, guys," he whines, his bulge already evident through the thin towel. You wonder how he's able to get hard so quickly.
"Wanna show y'all a different side of me," he sighs, dropping his towel to reveal the growing heaviness underneath. "Show you I'm not just all talk."
You clench your thighs, tensing when his large palm finds his towering length. He was always so vocal during his sessions, and even now, as he has barely just started, he was a mumbling mess. He’s seated now, clenched eyes in full view as he strokes himself in drawn-out movements.
Your eyes widen. You can hear him, but not just on video. His sounds reverberated through the wall. It's like you’re in the room with him as he's hunched over, drowning in his own pleasure.
"Don't be jealous when I bring someone in, okay?" he teases the chat that’s filled with comments of disapproval. "Just think it's you that I'll be fucking. Imagine how I’d cum inside a real pussy. How I’d shove it all back in. Doesn’t that sound nice? Making that pussy full of me."
You bite your lip at the thought, clenching the sheets beneath you as you hear his dirty whispers from the wall.
You didn’t want that, you thought to yourself darkly. You didn’t want to see him, moaning and talking so filthy like this, with anyone. You couldn’t bear it. You were already suffering at the thought of your husband fucking his much younger mistress, you couldn’t lose yawnszn too. He was the only sense of freedom you felt in your dull, repeating life.
As crazy as you felt, you sat up to press your ear against the wall to hear him better. Your fingers dangerously ghost over your pajama shorts.
"Wanna have sex so bad, baby," he whines out. "Won't you let me?"
You let out a squeak. You can't take your eyes off his perfectly sculpted body, nor could you take your ear off the wall that separated the two of you in real life. You feel like a sick, deranged pervert. Your twisted desires are egging you on as your hand trails down your stomach and into your underwear. Your fingers run up your slit, already so wet from just watching him.
"I'd have you on your fucking knees," he sighs out, letting out that grunting sound he does when he's nearing his climax. "Take you from behind. You'd have to beg me to get off of you. I'd be in that pussy every day, every fucking night."
Your eyes roll back at the thought. Your pace quickens with his, drawing rapid circles on your swollen bud. You're grinding down against your own fingers, searching for something that you knew only this intoxicating stranger could give you. In some way, the fact that you are masturbating next to your oppressive husband’s pillow made everything feel that much more erotic. He doesn’t need to know how another man makes you feel.
"Gonna cum," his nose scrunches. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."
As white, hot liquid spurts out of his beautiful cock, you let out a silent scream as you come undone yourself. With your right hand sticky with your climax, you feel tears well up in your eyes. What the fuck were you doing?
The next day, you see your mysteriously masked neighbor in the halls. It was instinct to give a small smile, tensing as he approached your cowering figure.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks. You blink back your confusion as he gestures at your fistful of groceries. You completely forgot you were holding them the moment you saw him.
“N-no,” you reply a little too quickly. “I’m almost at my door.”
He chuckles. He attempts to grab one of the heavy-looking ones from you, but you dodge him just in time. The red-haired man had no idea what you did last night because of him. You felt dirty just being in his presence.
“I’m happy to help, you know?” he insists. “You don’t have to carry that all by yourself.”
Your grip on the groceries tightens. In all the years you were married to Sehoon, he never offered to help you with anything once. If it had nothing to do with finances or working, the rest was handled by you. It was sad to feel so happy hearing such minuscule gestures of kindness come from your neighbor of all people.
“I’ll let you know if I ever need it,” you smile at him, genuinely. To your surprise, he ruffles you on the head affectionately. He leans down, his face at the same level as yours.
“I’m Yeonjun,” he whispers as if he were saying a deep, dark secret. “I forgot to tell you yesterday.”
His name. He finally told you his name. How beautiful it sounds on those unseen lips.
His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you just want to lean in and kiss him through that stupid mask. But he stands up straight, towering over you once again.
“Don’t be a stranger, [Y/N],” he says teasingly, walking away with his hands shoved down his jean pockets. Your heart flutters, and your attempts to push down the butterflies in your stomach were thwarted once again.
It’s like you see him everywhere now. From the convenience store down the street to the garden rooftop of your apartment complex. Yeonjun seemed to permeate every part of your existence, offline and online. Though he was probably unaware of how often you were posting in your underwear just to get a flirtatious response from him in your comments, you swore he was flustering you on purpose.
The way he would casually help you out of carrying heavy packages from your hands when you’d see him in the apartment lobby, or how he would casually talk about missing “housewifeblues” at the start of each stream. He was driving you crazy.
You weren’t an idiot; you knew his intentions. And though you keep your interactions as polite as possible, you find out a little too much about the man you’ve been lusting over for the past few weeks.
Yeonjun tells you he doesn’t have many friends. He moved back home recently after doing university abroad and working there for a bit. He’s close with his mother and talks to her over the phone every day. He volunteers at pet sanctuaries over the weekends and wants to get a cat of his own someday. But when you pry, asking him how he’s able to afford the high rent your husband was paying for this swanky apartment complex at such a young age, he avoids answering completely. Simply says “I work a remote job,” but you know better.
You know how he posts on OnlyFans daily, subscriptions increasing after every sensual stream where he gets paid thousands a night to pleasure himself on camera.
It’s one of those days when you run into him in the hallway. You’re wearing a tank top and yoga pants, and you just finished an at-home workout routine while you waited for your laundry to finish drying. You were exiting your place to make a quick run to the grocery store to prepare dinner for the night.
Yeonjun was walking back to his apartment, eyes scanning you as you gave him a weak greeting.
“Heading out?” he asks in a low tone, hands in his pockets. You nod, growing nervous at his intense gaze. He’s eyeing you over now, and you don’t notice how he hyperfixates on a certain area of your chest.
“My husband wants me to cook pasta tonight, and I forgot some ingredients,” you lie through your teeth, always feeling an urge to mention Sehoon in Yeonjun’s presence. Like you had to remind yourself that you still have one.
“Can’t he pick them up for you?” he asks inquisitively. You let out a small laugh at the suggestion.
“Dinner should be done before a husband gets home from work,” you say, as if it were routine. It’s what your mom would tell you. It’s what Sehoon would tell you. So why did you feel so small when Yeonjun looked at you with such pity in his eyes?
“If I were him,” he steps forward, brushing a stray hair from your flushed face. “I wouldn’t let my pretty wife cook all by myself.”
Your breath hitches as he looks at you. What you would give to have him. What would you do to keep that same expression on your face at all times? It wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself, that you should be subjected to a life of dissatisfaction when the one who could cure it was so near.
“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks, the feeling of his hand still lingering by your ear.
“I always am,” you softly reply. And to that, he smiles.
You couldn’t look away, even as he walked away.
“I’ll see you soon then.”
You hear the doorbell ring. Today was your deep cleaning day. You already washed the dishes, watered all the plants, and got dinner started. It was also the day after yesterday, which meant Yeonjun was coming over.
You open the door a little too eagerly. It was a little pathetic, you admit to yourself, how much you wanted to see him.
His livestream after your conversation yesterday was intense, more so than usual. He propped his phone on his bathroom counter, stroking himself in the shower. You searched for his moans in your walls, imagining his hands on you like they were just hours prior. You ached to hear him, addicted to the way he sounded since the last time you watched him live and heard him through the walls.
Shaking your head to prevent yourself from getting carried away by your thoughts, you finally open the door.
It was him, red hair and all.
"Hey," your masked neighbor greets you with a bag in his hand. "I brought some cake. I finally got around to finishing everything in the welcome basket. They were all so delicious, thank you."
"You shouldn't have," you say politely, holding back your giddiness. "My husband’s at work right now, but I'll save some for him later."
He holds the bag up to you, and you take it from him cautiously, careful not to touch him. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers quiver.
"Oh?" he looks past you at the empty apartment. "It's already dinner time, though?"
You smile sadly.
"He's not actually home that often," you say, trying to push down the bitterness in your voice. “He gets busy.”
You can't tell from his mask whether he feels sorry for you, but his eyes do seem rather intense.
"Shall we eat the cake together then?" he suggests. "I like sweet things."
Your heartbeat quickens. The only man who has ever set foot in your apartment was Sehoon and your father. It felt wrong to invite him in, but it felt even more wrong to say no to him. And so you take a step back as an invitation for this stranger (who isn't really a stranger) into your tidy space.
He's sitting next to you on the couch, a healthy distance away from you. He slices the cake evenly between you two, handing you the small plastic fork that came with the bakery.
"It's so rare for neighbors to greet each other these days," he commends you. "When you showed up at my door, I thought I was in a movie.”
“It’s just common courtesy,” you reply. “I’ve done it for everyone who’s moved into the complex.”
He chuckles.
“If I had known I'd be moving in next to someone so kind and beautiful, I would have signed my lease sooner."
You smile at his compliment, warmth seeping into your cheeks. You take a bite out of the cake. Strawberry shortcake. Your favorite. You notice that familiar gaze of his as it lingers on you. His foxy eyes scan you up and down slowly, and you'd never felt more exposed in your life despite being fully clothed.
"What a waste of a husband," he starts, leaning into you slowly, "to neglect you."
You freeze under his fiery gaze. His voice sounded different, unlike his playful teasing in the hallways. No, this was not Yeonjun. This was the camboy who moans out dirty words through unrelenting thrusts into his hand, biting back at viewers who command him to take it slow.
The fork falls from your mouth and onto your lap as he inches closer.
"You deserve a better man," he says closely in your ear. "Someone who doesn’t leave you lonely."
You hold a shaky hand against his chest, preventing him from getting closer.
“What do you mean?”
He’s grinning underneath the mask.
"[Y/N]," he draws your name out teasingly. "You're on a naughty part of Twitter, aren't you?"
You bring your hand down in an attempt to seem normal, but your nervous lip biting fails to make you look even remotely convincing.
"I have no idea what you're-"
"Don't worry," he interrupts, laying his arm around the couch behind you. "I'm not planning to dox you or anything."
He digs his phone out of his pocket with his other hand and shows you a sight you're already so familiar with: his Twitter profile.
"Look," he says, carelessly scrolling through his lewd content right in front of you like it was normal. "I know you know who I am. Like how I know who ‘housewifeblues' is.”
No, you tell yourself. This can’t be happening.
"Listen, Yeonjun," you start carefully. "I don't know what you're talking about or who you think I am, but I don't feel comfortable continuing this conversation with you."
You can sense a smirk behind that damn mask of his.
"You know you don't do a very good job of hiding who you are," he chides. “Not very quiet when you’re touching yourself either.”
Your eyes widen, and he lets out a muffled laugh.
"I didn't even have to see your beauty mark to know it was you, baby,” he continues lazily. “The way you looked when I mentioned your husband the first time I met you was enough for me to know. Reminded me about all the times you complained about him with those pretty pictures of yours."
His eyes fixated on your beauty mark and back up to your face, revelling in the way you nipped at your bottom lip anxiously.
"You don’t understand,” he whispers, his hand ghosting over your cheek. “How often I imagine it’s your hands on me when I go live.”
"Oh," you purse your lips, attempting to prevent noises of pleasure from coming out of your mouth.
"What's wrong?" he gazes into you. "Cat got your tongue?"
Yeonjun’s large hand hovers over your breasts, and you unknowingly arch your back toward him like it was instinct. When he sees nothing but lust clouding your vision, he takes a mound in his palm and massages you gently. You gasp at the feeling. It's been ages since you've been touched like this.
He kneads with both hands this time, intently watching your face for any signs of discomfort. But all he could see were your furrowed brows in pure ecstasy. He scoots closer to you, dragging his fingers across your abdomen as he lifts your shirt. Yeonjun's gaze darkens, your bare tits heavy in his hands. He massages, circling your nipples. They’re stiff from the cool air and his prodding fingers. Your head rolls back, moans coming out in meek bursts.
"I h-have a husband," you stutter out in between moans. It comes out like you’re reminding yourself more than to remind him. Yeonjun’s back rests on the couch, dragging you so that your spine is against his chest. He continues the push and pull of his eager hands on your breasts as you sit between his legs.
"According to you," he starts, burying his masked face into your cheek, directly whispering into your ear. "He's already cheating, isn't he? Is it fair that he gets to have all the fun?"
You rest your head back onto his shoulder as he continues to tease you, pulling at your erect nipples harshly and then soothing them with his soft thumbs.
It’s like he’s debating something in those furrowed brows of his, and when you roll your hips back into his, it feels like something snapped. Yeonjun pulls his mask down in one swift motion, and you almost moan out loud at the sight of his gorgeous face.
His features are simultaneously sharp and soft, his lips so full and so kissable. No wonder he kept his face hidden; he was too dangerous for the internet to see. Everyone would fall in love. He'd be swarmed on the streets. Wars would be waged over him.
"I wanna fuck you so bad," he says, his gaze following your parted mouth. His face hovers over yours, and you shut your eyes in anticipation. It's almost soft the way his lips meet yours, slowly molding you to follow his rhythm. He pushes his tongue into your mouth gently, prodding so deeply that your saliva mixes with his. He grinds up into you from behind, the tent of his pants meeting the curve of your ass at a perfect angle.
You kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor. You push yourself against him harder, eliciting a stifled moan from him.
Images of Sehoon flash in your mind, but are immediately erased as Yeonjun grounds your hips into his. He pulls down your pants hurriedly, his mouth never leaving yours. You spread yourself wide for him. You knew for the first time in your life what you wanted. He runs his finger through the wet spot of your lacy lilac underwear, latching his index finger to do small circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves just above your slit. His tongue clashing with yours as you attempt to stifle the low moans coming out of your throat.
He parts from your lips slowly, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. He looks down to where he's touching you, a shit-eating grin on his gorgeous face. So that’s how he smiles, you think to yourself, lost in the feeling of his fingers on the soft material of your cloth-covered clit.
His pace is slow and methodical, leaving you conflicted on whether you should grind down on his twitching cock or buck your hips into his coaxing ministrations. It's not enough for you, but you'll take anything he can give.
"You're so wet already, baby," he croons. "Your underwear is soaked."
You whine when Yeonjun stops his movements suddenly, searching for friction by thrusting up into his still palm. You whine in relief when he pushes your panties to the side, running a teasing finger up and down your bare slit.
"Fuck," he looks over your shoulder and past your chest, to get a better look at the effect he has on you. He inserts his middle finger in, your folds practically engulfing him with a loud squelch. In and out, it disappears into you with fervor and stretches you out so deliciously. Everything about him was so long, you couldn’t imagine what his dick would feel like.
"You swallowed my finger so well, baby. Think you can fit another?"
You nod, breathing so heavy you can't find it in yourself to quell your anticipation.
"Yes," you practically plead. Yeonjun chuckles.
"Lift your hips up," he directs you, planting another open-mouthed kiss on your lips as you follow him mindlessly. "I'm gonna take these panties off you, okay?"
You nod again, your feet high in the air so your godforsaken underwear could finally be removed. He pumps his finger, now slow and controlled. When he feels you loosen up a bit, he inserts his index finger in too, with slightly more resistance from your tightness. You groan, from both pain and pleasure. His hands were so big. So veiny. The way he curled his fingers up to reach a spot you never knew you had in you. Fuck, you felt so full already.
You don't know how it happens or how you got there, but you're on your back as Yeonjun hovers over you, pistoning his fingers in and out at a faster pace. His palm is grinding down on your mound, hitting every right spot as his fingers scissor into you. His tongue finds yours again, battling for dominance to distract you from the dull ache of being stretched out. He inserts a third finger in, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re not sure your body could take it, but you would. For him. His fingers, so thick and relentless, buried deeper inside your aching folds.
"I feel weird," you say as a bubbling and fiery sensation starts at your toes. You’re a muttering mess. "Never... felt.. this… good…"
Yeonjun chuckles, purposefully removing his fingers inside of you slowly, preventing you from reaching that elusive high you didn’t know you were chasing. Your hips meet the sky, mourning the loss of his touch. He traces featherlight kisses down your body, his face now directly in front of your pretty cunt.
"Your husband's never made you feel like this, baby?" he says, giving a few teasing kisses on your inner thigh.
"N-no," you cry out loud. "H-he's never even gone down there."
He stops his lapping to look up at you.
"He's never eaten you out?" he scoffs. "What a fucking loser."
Yeonjun dips his head between your legs and drags his tongue along your wet folds in one long stroke. He laps at you like a dog, addicted to your nectar on his lips.
“Oh my god, Yeonjun-”
Your toes curl as he buries his tongue in you. He pumps it in and out of you as his hands grip your ass so tightly, you start to think you’d bruise from it. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. The fiery sensation building inside you returns almost immediately.
He peppers kisses on your mound, his mouth finding its new target. He sucked your clit hard, tongue circling your bundle of nerves until your stomach starts to tighten. Yeonjun lifts your hips up, pushing his face deeper into your folds. You clench around nothing, whining at both the pleasure and the loss of his tongue fucking into you. As if he read your mind, Yeonjun’s fingers find their way back to your folds. Teasing the entrance, you push yourself up into him, burying his digits deep in you as he continues his attack on your clit. Yeonjun licks and prods like a man starved of food, relishing in the messiness coating his chin and the addicting melody of your moans.
Your hips stutter as you feel the waves crash down on you.
"Ahhh," you whine. Your body writhed underneath him, fingers clawing the couch armrest above your head.
You plant your heels onto the couch with shaky legs, and you cry out again. You feel something, whatever it is, building inside you. Your moans come out in panicked bursts until you start to see white, your juices spraying all over Yeonjun's face. He groans at the feeling, still burying his face into you. He lets you ride out your high as you grind languidly onto his nose. It takes him years until he pulls away, chuckling at your fucked out face and splayed out hair.
"You squirt, baby?" he teases, getting back on his knees to tower over your lying figure on the couch. "To think you couldn't get more perfect."
You shake your head, chest heaving up and down.
"I didn’t know I could do that," you confess. Yeonjun laughs in response, a little distracted. He pulls his hair back away from his face, his forehead glistening against your warm living room light. You want to kiss those pouty lips of his again. Your eyes travel downwards, to his strained gray sweatpants. Though you couldn’t see it, you knew. He was bigger, much bigger in real life.
“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he mutters to himself, his thumb finding your lips. “Can’t get you wet like I do, huh?”
You nod mindlessly, taking his thumb into your mouth as he pushes your tongue down with it.
“Probably fake your orgasms with him, hm?” His eye contact never broke away from your hooded lids. “Don’t ever need to pretend with me, baby. I can make you feel good.”
You barely notice it at first, but Yeonjun pulled his phone out. It’s quiet as he takes his thumb off of you to open the camera app. You stare silently as he props up his phone using the cake box he brought, sitting all neglected on the coffee table.
You say nothing, pursing your lips as you watch him put his face mask, soaked in your fluids, back on. He adjusts the camera. You look away in panic when he hits the red button to record a video.
“Don’t get my face,” you say hurriedly. You wonder why that’s the first thing you say. Not “stop”, not a refusal. Some part of you wanted this, craved it so badly your legs widened for him again. He chuckles, glad that you don’t seem displeased with him.
"Don't worry, baby," Yeonjun says as he strokes your hair affectionately. “I'll pixelize it."
He unzips his hoodie, the same one he wore the day you first met him, revealing his toned body underneath. He did not take it off, letting it hang from his body like an accessory. You couldn't take your eyes off Yeonjun and the way his chest gleamed with sweat.
"Fuck," he says breathlessly as he looks down at you, masked and still so hot. "I need to be inside you."
He pulls his pants down, and you bite your lip as a reflex. His cock was so pretty, standing tall as it slapped against his stomach. So big and so girthy, tip so vexingly red like in his videos. You've never taken anything his size ever.
"You want a taste?" he asks teasingly, slowly stroking himself up and down at the sight of you. You nod, but you don't know why. You hated giving blowjobs. The smell, the taste. You were even open about it on your account.
But here you are, climbing over Yeonjun as he lies down on the couch your husband always sleeps on when a football match is on. Your doe eyes were level with his pulsating length, mouth salivating in anticipation. Inhaling him, it was nothing like Sehoon's mustiness. He smelled clean, like fresh laundry.
"Need my help?" he teases. "Want to make me feel good?"
You nod. "Yes, please."
The voice you hear coming out of you doesn't feel like your own. Your eyes shift to the phone, shuttering at the lewd sight of you in between his naked thighs. What did Yeonjun turn you into?
His hand holds your head, wrapping your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He pushes your face down gently, closer to his cock. You take the hint and hold him in your hand, tightening your grip. You drag your tongue on the underside of his heaviness, and he lets out a hiss that makes you clench around nothing.
"Take it into your mouth," he commanded softly, propping you onto his shoulders to watch you more intently. "Use your tongue. No teeth. And stroke what you can't take, baby."
You listen to him without hesitation. Mouth enveloping his tip, you swirl your tongue around it. The further your head bobs down, the more confidence you gain as you hear Yeonjun curse under his breath. His hand gently guides you down deeper as you swallow around his throbbing length. You pump him up and down from his base, using your dripping saliva as lube. Yeonjun’s whines permeate the room, just like in his videos. Pride swells up in your chest to know that it was you who made him feel this good. He’s never had a video with anyone else. You were the first.
You want to make him feel even better, make him feel like how you did just minutes before. You take your hand off him and lower your mouth further down his length. You work your way up and down his cock to ease the stretch of him as he thrusts up into your mouth listlessly.
"So good," he says through muffled moans. "Fuck-"
Before you can bottom out, Yeonjun pulls you up haphazardly. Your mouth came off him with a small ‘pop’ that had you smiling slyly. His eyes are glazed over, dragging you up by your shoulders.
"Need to taste you again," he says through bated breaths, pushing you down where he was lying mere seconds ago. “Need this pussy all over my tongue.”
"Did I do good?" you ask, lips shimmering with his fluids, as he positions his face above your folds once more. He smiles up at you.
"Don’t ask dumb questions, baby," he says, lowering his mask down to plant a kiss right above your clit. “Was gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours from how good it fucking felt.”
Your thighs hide his face from view, hiding the brutal pace of his tongue on your wet cunt from the camera’s view. Yeonjun did not hold back, so different from earlier. His mouth was relentless on your clit, planting French kisses on it like his tongue was searching for something underneath. He grabs the plushness of your thighs, forcing you to wrap them around his face. Scared of suffocating him, you try to pull away, but Yeonjun keeps your legs locked in place with an unyielding grip.
Your eyes are blurry with tears from the sensitivity, eyes meeting the phone as you watch yourself get devoured so messily. You grasp at his red hair, pulling him away, but to no avail. You need him so bad it’s starting to hurt.
"Wanna cum with you inside me, please," you beg, already feeling that familiar coil in your stomach. "No more..."
He lifts his head up with a languid lick up your slit. Yeonjun licks his lips, his mouth and chin drenched in your fluids. He laughs as he looks up into your face, so eager and needy for him. Fuck, where were you all his life?
"You think you're ready, baby?" he asks, freeing himself from the cage of your supple legs that he willingly trapped himself in. He pulls his mask back on before crawling back up to you. His cock ghosts over the area below your belly button, guiding it down lower with his right hand.
“Think you can take all of me?”
He aligns his length atop your entrance, stroking it along your wet outer folds. He taps his angry, hot tip against your clit, and it’s enough to make you whine. Your tears threaten to spill over.
"Please," you cry out. "I want it so bad."
"Want what?" he teases.
"I can’t," you whine as you try to avoid his intense gaze. He laughs darkly.
“I need to hear you say it,” Yeonjun smirks. “How else am I supposed to know what you’re asking for?”
Your face contorts into a silent scream when you feel his rawness slowly sink into you. He holds it there, thrusting only the tip into you.
“I need you inside me,” you whine. “Please, I need you to fill me up with your cock and fuck me.”
Yeonjun smirks.
“That’s all you had to say.”
He digs out a condom from his hoodie's pocket. He rips the packet open with his mouth and hands it to you, chuckling at your confusion.
"Put it on me," he coaxes.
Your husband never ever used a condom, always assuming that you'd be okay with having unprotected sex and bearing his child. For the first time in your life, you wished a condom wasn't in the picture. You wanted to throw it to the other side of the room and beg him to fuck you raw and full. That you would be happy to carry his child and leave your husband for good.
But you push those twisted fantasies to the deep recesses of your mind and take the stretchy material in your hand anyway. He watches as you hesitantly run the condom down his pulsing length. You're slow and deliberate, like you’re waiting for him to change his mind and fuck you without it. All he does is smile, stroking your hair out of your face.
“Good girl.”
Yeonjun positions himself behind you in a sitting position, your legs draped over his thighs to give the camera a good view of your puffy folds. He lifts you up high as he grips the back of your knees from behind, rubbing his tip up and down your slit to pick more of your juices up.
“Look at you,” he whispers into your ear. “So fucking needy. Dripped all over my face, but all you wanted was this cock, huh?” You nod, mindlessly, whimpering in pathetic agreement.
Slowly, he impales you onto him.
You roll your head back onto his shoulder, biting down on his neck to distract yourself from the pain. Despite all the foreplay, you were still not used to his size. He was just too thick, still too large for you to take in. When you see his tip disappear into your folds, your tears start to fall down your face. It hurt, but you couldn’t have him pull away. You needed him right where he was. Inch by inch, you suction him in until-
"Shit," Yeonjun moans as the base of his cock hits your entrance. Fully engulfed in your folds, he steadies his breathing. You were so warm, so fucking irresistible in the way you clench around him in waves. He waits a few seconds until he starts to lift you up again. His hands are holding you from underneath your thighs, and with his support, you drop yourself back down on him. You cry out from the pressure you feel in your stomach. You can feel him against it, the small bulge visible underneath your belly button. He's hitting the deepest parts of you.
"Your pussy was made for me. So fucking tight.”
Yeonjun’s grip on you is tensing so suddenly. He bends you forward, so that your hands are on his knees as he pistons up into you. You can’t help but stare at the screen, moaning as you watch him push into you from behind.
"Oh my god," you cry out as he pulls your hips down against him. His length grinds against a spongy spot inside of you, and when he realizes he’s hit it from the way your mouth morphs into a silent O-shape, he smirks. What started as slow, cautious thrusts suddenly turned into a brutal and unforgiving pace of his monstrous cock within the deepest parts of your pussy. Yeonjun hit your G-spot again and again and again, his thrusts deep and unwavering.
"Look at how you’re letting me fuck you dumb," he groans out, grabbing your tits from behind as they bounce mercilessly in front of the camera. "So fucking wet for me."
You fall so forward that you're grabbing onto the coffee table now as Yeonjun stands up, while unrelenting in his thrusts into you. He kicks back the couch slightly, propping a leg up on it to have a better angle to fuck you. He pushes you down, having your back arched perfectly for the camera, as his thrusts quicken.
“Ngh— Ah— I can’t—”
You try to quiet your moans, afraid of who might hear. Afraid of who might come into the living room to see you getting railed so hard and so desperately by someone who isn't… Wait, who was he again?
"Taking me so well," Yeonjun grunts, pulling you away from your thoughts. "Like a fucking bitch in heat."
He slaps you hard on the ass, grabbing it right after, like you’d disappear if he didn’t. You squeal at the impact, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.
“P-please, Yeo-” He stuffs his fingers in your mouth, preventing you from saying his name. You forget what this was, you forget that he was recording.
“Shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl,” he snarls.
“Wha-”
Pushing you off him, Yeonjun throws you onto the couch. You let yourself be manhandled by him, reaching out for his shoulders desperately, wanting so desperately for his dick to find its way back inside you.
“You like when I’m mean, huh?” Yeonjun laughs as your mouth holds open at the absence of his fingers. “Like when I break you, hm?”
Inserting himself back in your wetness, Yeonjun holds you against the couch in a mating press. His eyes gaze intensely into yours.
"Let me hear you, baby," Yeonjun coaxes, his thrusts slow and shallow just to hear you whine. "Let them know who this pussy belongs to.”
You whimper, grinding up against him. You're desperate for him to be rough again, to put you in your place. To have your mind only clouded with thoughts of him and his cock only. God, he made a mess of you.
“Or am I not doing enough to hear you scream?” he pouts underneath his mask, clearly enjoying your desperation. “Maybe I should go harder…so I can hear you better."
He laughs, and you don't even have a chance to reply as Yeonjun pushes into you with a force so guttural that you feel his tip hit the entrance of your cervix.
Like he predicted, you screamed at the painful ecstasy of being filled to the absolute brim.
“Fuck–”
He continues his pace hard and fast, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your nails are clawing at his back, his head buried deep in your neck. His own moans rival yours.
“Yes, baby. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pussy for so long–”
You don't realize the cry you let out when he hits that inner spot again. He thrusts, grinding against it again and again and again until you start seeing stars.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” you breathe out. “I’m–”
“Louder, baby,” Yeonjun coaxes. “Need to hear you.”
Your mind breaks as the world comes undone around you. Your moans have devolved into ear-piercing whines, tears running down your face in pure ecstasy.
Your climax hits you in droves as he continues to fuck you through it. He did not stop.
"I'm sensitive," you cry out in between your unintelligible babbling. "Please..."
Yeonjun shushes you, bringing your head close to his chest. You're practically sobbing now, pleasure overriding every other emotion in your body. Even the one nagging you about what Sehoon would think of you right now. About what your parents would think of their precious daughter.
"It's okay," he whispers soothingly as he continues to slowly thrust into you. "You can do it again, right? Just give me one more, baby."
Your face is contorted into a million different expressions as he adjusts to pick up his pace. It never stopped feeling good, but it was too much for your body to handle. Were you ever supposed to feel this much pleasure in your lifetime?
"I'm so close," he whines, his masked face buried deep in your neck. The noises your bodies produce are sinful. Squelches and slapping of bare skin echo throughout the living room. Your tits bouncing against his chest, your nipples rubbing against his. You can feel his breath quicken, and you tighten the grip of your folds to push him towards it. You want to see it, want to see how he comes undone from someone other than himself.
Yeonjun’s thrusts become erratic, and his hold on your ass intensifies. You wanted to see it bruise the next day. He brings his left hand to your clit, and you yelp at the sudden intensity. His thumb circles you softly, so different from the brutal pace of his cock. The different sensations have you moaning into his neck.
“I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s–”
“Shh,” Yeonjun pushes out through his own whines. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel it.”
You never knew you could want someone so bad, to be so lustful over another. The way his brows contort, so focused on bringing both of you to your peaks. You wish you could kiss him, but his mask brings out a different desire inside of you.
You might be the only viewer of his to have seen him without it. A wave of pride consumes you; the thought of other people watching him fills you with rage mixed with lust.
You feel the dam of your floodgates come undone once again as you clench around at the thought. Wouldn’t it be so nice to have him all to yourself? No husband to worry about, no viewers to get jealous over. Just him and you, fucking every damn moment of your lives.
Your tears of hot pleasure surge once again, and he groans at the sight of you so fucked out by him.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans.
Your tightness propels him to grind into you harshly, the couch scratching the floor with his movements. One final thrust has him cumming hard into the condom, fully bottomed out inside you.
“Fuck-” Yeonjun moans as he buries his hair in the crook of your neck.
You milk him of his climax, your body grinding into his to soothe his comedown. What you would do to rip the stupid condom off him and let his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh. You think you’d be willing to actually be a mother if it meant that Yeonjun could fuck you raw.
He sighs as he rides out both your highs with small, steady thrusts. Shaking from oversensitivity, you stop his movement to pull him in closer.
Yeonjun collapses on top of you, not noticing the phone lying flat on its back from the impact of his roughness. You sigh out contentedly, petting his fiery hair.
'So this is what real sex feels like,' you think to yourself.
You felt like you were drifting on a cloud, with a man so beautiful lying on your chest. He scans your face, and a sudden wave of anxiety washes over you. Before you could push him off, Yeonjun removes his mask to plant a soft kiss on your flushed lips.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Yeonjun says with a sad smile, stroking your cheek. “Don’t ever let him think it’s the other way around.”
"Sorry for staying so late," Yeonjun apologizes, his plate fully cleaned out. "Your cooking is amazing."
You smile. He wasn’t wearing his mask anymore, as it sits in your laundry hamper desperately waiting for a wash. You couldn’t get over how glaringly beautiful he is. What did he do in a past life to be blessed with such features?
“It’s not all me,” you say, standing up from the dining table. “I had a great assistant.”
Yeonjun smirks.
“Cutting vegetables is the easy part,” he chimed in. “The fact you can season stuff perfectly without measurements is insane, [Y/N]. If he doesn’t come home to eat your dinners, I will gladly take them off his hands.”
You stand up, take the dishes, and put them in the sink. The guilt crept into the back of your mind. What were you doing letting this man fuck you in your home and help you cook dinner with you after?
This was not right. This is not the person you wanted to become. You can’t let this happen again.
‘I am married,’ you tell yourself over and over again. What would people think if they knew?
"Look, [Y/N]," Yeonjun stands up, making his way behind you. He dangles his phone in front of your face. The thumbnail of a pixelized girl and a masked man fucking on a pristinely white couch, one eerily similar to the one in your living room.
He uploaded the video. Without telling you.
"Yeonjun-" you gasp, your eyes widened with shock.
"Before you say anything," he starts. "I promise your face isn’t visible. But people may or may not have already picked up that it’s you– or at least the online version of you.”
56,000 likes and 5.4k retweets. You start to feel dizzy. Too many people have seen your body react in ways you hadn't even known it could until today. Although your face was pixelated, everything else was you. The way your toes curled when he fucked you with his tongue. The way your mouth wrapped around his big, veiny cock so willingly. The way you bounced on his dick, legs wide open just for him.
You felt your body turn cold at the thought of your husband finding out, of seeing you so intimate with another man. Would he tell your parents? Would you have to waste the years you spent with him by having to pay him back?
"You're at 20k followers now," Yeonjun continues, not noticing the inner turmoil you were going through. "I uploaded the full video on OnlyFans and we really raked it in. I'll send you the money we earned next week. So far we've made this much already."
Your eyes widen. Your whole body freezes when he turns the screen over to you. The amount of 0s had you doing a double-take.
"Like just from one hour?"
Yeonjun nods.
“More than usual for me, too.”
You weren't allowed to have a job. Sehoon said it would make him look bad to have a wife who works. You could never put your hard-earned degree to use, could never get some extra money to spend on yourself. He gave you nothing to work with. The money that Yeonjun showed you will be the first time you've had any type of income on your own since you got married.
"You like that, huh?" Yeonjun says teasingly, wrapping a hand around your waist from behind. He nuzzles his neck into your shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be living a good life in no time with what we're earning."
“What do you mean?” you ask cautiously. You can feel his face nearing yours.
“You know what I mean,” he starts slowly.
He brings his other hand to wrap around your neck, applying a soft pressure.
"I can satisfy your cravings," Yeonjun whispers darkly. "Make you forget all about that piece of shit.”
His hands trap you against the counter.
“Should we make more videos together, baby?" He draws out his pet name for you, and it almost makes you want to pounce on him.
Without your consent, he uploaded a video of you two having sex for the whole internet to see.
You should say no. Every part of you is telling you to say no, but you don't want to.
You don’t think you could live without his cock inside of you at least one more time. His attentiveness, his care for you… You wanted it all. Was it so wrong to be selfish?
"It's not cheating," Yeonjun assures you, filling in your silence. "We'd just be business partners after all."
He licks the back of your ear, coaxing you to look at him. His eyes are wide with expectation, so out of character for his usually hooded gaze.
“I won’t push your boundaries again,” Yeonjun insists. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
How could you say no to him with his fluffy hair and seductive eyes? He had you the moment he stepped through those doors. Hesitantly, you nod.
"Okay," you say shyly under his gaze. "Let's do it."
Yeonjun smiles through the mask. In swift movements, he reaches around you and underneath you to stuff his hand in your pants.
"You look good in this apron," Yeonjun whispers, pushing his sweats down with urgency. "Let's film another one right now."
summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.
warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,
wc: 19,1k
notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣
hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶
everything begins the day you turn twenty.
you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.
the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.
in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.
love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.
you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.
and yet—there is no other choice.
the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.
“please return home and prepare for assignment.”
you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.
sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.
three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.
you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.
your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:
assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.
a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.
you stare.
he’s... beautiful.
cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.
your throat feels dry.
beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.
you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.
it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—
yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.
a boy you’ve never met.
friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.
you’re early.
your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.
the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.
you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.
and then the door opens.
you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—
it’s hard to breathe.
he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.
choi yeonjun.
his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.
you feel like you’re being auctioned off.
“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.
you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.
“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”
it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.
you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.
the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.
you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.
then, the mediator clears her throat.
“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”
your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.
and just like that, you are alone with him.
just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.
yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.
“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”
you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.
“you don’t talk much, huh?”
you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.
“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”
he smiles. “that’s fair.”
a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.
“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”
you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.
“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”
your brows knit together, surprised.
he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.
“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”
and you look at him then, really look.
his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.
"you’re used to this,” you murmur.
his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”
there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.
you swallow, throat tight.
“i didn’t want this,” you admit.
he nods. “me neither.”
silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.
“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”
your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.
“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”
you blink.
he waits.
slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.
and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it—
you speak.
you tell him a little. not much. just enough.
and he listens. attentively. sincerely.
maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.
two weeks later.
the wedding is on a thursday.
you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.
you wear beige.
yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.
the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.
your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”
and that’s when you finally cry.
not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.
they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.
you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.
“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”
you don’t answer.
he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.
your boxes are already inside. so are his.
the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.
you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.
and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.
but now, days pass like fog.
there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.
you go to the hospital together a week later.
the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.
yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.
you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history—
you flinch.
yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.
“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”
his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.
on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.
“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.
“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”
and again—there it is.
that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.
nights are the hardest.
you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.
sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.
you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.
now, there’s only silence.
until one night, a knock.
not loud. not urgent. just... present.
“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”
you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.
“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”
you swallow. your throat feels raw.
after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”
you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.
you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.
you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.
that’s a first.
the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.
he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.
a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.
from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.
you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.
one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.
you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.
in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”
you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.
that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.
“so you don’t catch a cold.”
you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.
the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.
one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.
you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.
the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.
you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.
he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”
the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.
“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”
he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.
“i did,” he says finally.
your heart stirs.
“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”
you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.
“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”
you don’t say anything. you let him speak.
“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”
you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.
you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.
but you hate her a little.
you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.
and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”
he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”
the silence after that is heavy, electric.
you don’t answer.
but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.
the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.
you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.
you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.
“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”
you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.
“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”
you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.
you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.
and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.
you hate that it lingers.
you hate that it hurts.
that night, the rain starts late.
it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.
the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.
your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.
you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.
now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.
you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.
you don’t think. you just move.
barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.
he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.
“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.
you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”
there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.
his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.
he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.
“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.
yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.
you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.
“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”
you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.
“nothing’s going to break tonight.”
those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.
you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.
you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.
and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.
you slept like a baby.
it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.
it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.
you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.
and now you realize why.
yeonjun’s arms are around you.
not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.
your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.
you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.
but instead you stay.
you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.
his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.
you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.
he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.
“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.
neither of you moves.
there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.
“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”
you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”
he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”
you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.
“i felt safe.”
his eyes soften.
you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.
but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.
yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”
you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.
because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.
the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.
he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.
the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.
“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”
you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.
you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.
“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”
you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.
“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”
“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”
you shift in your seat. trials.
“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.
your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.
yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”
ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”
your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.
you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.
“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.
the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.
you don’t speak on the way home.
you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.
because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.
you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.
you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.
you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.
but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.
and now you can’t not think about it.
when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.
but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.
you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.
an hour passes. maybe two.
you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.
a soft knock at your door.
you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”
yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”
you nod. “it’s okay.”
he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.
“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”
your breath catches.
he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.
you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.
his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.
“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”
you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat.
and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.
but this time, it’s not outside.
it’s you. it’s him.
and it’s not fear anymore.
it’s something else entirely.
you don’t kiss that night.
you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.
he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.
after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.
in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.
you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.
when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.
it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.
“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”
you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”
he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.
but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.
and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.
you think about it too much. think about him too much.
and you think about her.
the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.
you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.
how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.
and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.
but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.
you’re not in love.
you’re not supposed to fall in love.
yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.
one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.
you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.
“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”
you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”
he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”
“yeah.”
there’s a pause.
“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”
you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”
the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.
“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.
you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.
“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.
your heart stumbles.
neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.
the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.
you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.
you don’t move. you can’t move.
it feels too good. too right.
his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
you stay there until the sun begins to rise.
you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.
but he doesn’t move either.
and neither do you.
because something’s changing. you both feel it.
you just don’t say it. not yet.
not until it’s too loud to ignore.
and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.
you try not to overthink the moments.
you try.
the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.
you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.
he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.
you nod, throat dry. “morning.”
neither of you moves.
and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.
whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.
but things are still complicated.
you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.
“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”
your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.
“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.
and then yeonjun.
his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.
“not yet.”
not yet.
those words echoed for hours after.
the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.
“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”
you had never wanted to disappear more.
the walk home was silent.
yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.
but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.
you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.
he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.
the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.
his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.
you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.
“is that mine?”
you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.
“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”
“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”
you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.
and things only build from there.
he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.
“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”
he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.
but your heart stutters anyway.
one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.
yeonjun finds you there.
he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.
“can’t sleep?” he asks.
you shake your head. “not really.”
“you okay?”
you nod, even though you’re not sure.
the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.
you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.
his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.
“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”
he’s quiet for a moment.
“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”
“like what?”
he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”
you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.
you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.
this is the moment where maybe everything could change.
but you don’t kiss. not yet.
you breathe in together.
and for now, that’s enough.
the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.
you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.
then the soft sound of rain begins again.
but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.
yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.
he joins you without asking.
“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.
you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”
“don’t tempt me,” he grins.
the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.
your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.
you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.
“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.
yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”
“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”
he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”
“the girl you were in love with.”
his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”
that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”
you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”
“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”
but you don’t smile back.
you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”
yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.
“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”
you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.
“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”
he leans closer.
“you make me forget her name.”
you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.
“yeonjun…”
“can i kiss you?” he breathes.
you nod.
slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.
you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.
it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.
when you finally part, you’re breathless.
he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper.
“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”
you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”
“me too.”
you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.
you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.
you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.
and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.
you feel chosen.
the next morning, something has changed.
it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.
you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.
when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.
“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.
he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.
and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.
at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.
you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”
“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”
“you asked first.”
“still counts.”
the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.
the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.
until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.
you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.
he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.
you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.
a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.
it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.
the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.
he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.
“so, are you pregnant yet?”
you freeze.
your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.
“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”
“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”
your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.
yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.
“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.
he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”
“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.
“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.
you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.
and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.
the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.
and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.
the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.
you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.
and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.
you break the silence first.
“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”
he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”
you turn to him, a little surprised.
“really?”
he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”
you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.
“thanks,” you whisper.
you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.
“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”
you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”
“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”
“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.
his eyes flick down to your lips.
“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.
your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.
you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.
and then he pulls over.
not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.
you feel your pulse in your throat.
“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”
you nod, heart racing.
“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”
you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.
“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”
he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.
“do you think i’m not happy?”
your throat dries.
“are you?” you whisper.
he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.
“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”
and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.
it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.
you melt into it.
your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.
“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”
you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.
and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.
you’re not lovers. not yet.
but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.
you fall asleep like that.
and neither of you says a word.
you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.
“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.
walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.
“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.
he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”
you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.
the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.
at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.
he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.
your breath hitched.
you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.
he said nothing.
neither did you.
but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.
the light turned green.
he drove on.
his hand didn’t move.
the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.
you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.
by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.
inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.
you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.
“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.
you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.
his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.
and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.
“thanks,” he said, voice still low.
you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.
that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.
your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.
later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.
you thought he’d say something.
he didn’t.
he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.
“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.
you turned your head toward him. “about what?”
he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”
you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”
silence again.
and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.
it felt dangerous.
he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.
your pulse roared in your ears.
his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.
you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.
his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.
his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”
his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.
and then—
his phone rang.
the sound shattered the moment like glass.
you both froze.
you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.
you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.
after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.
“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.
you blinked. “oh.”
he didn’t explain.
he just walked away.
and something cold settled in your chest.
you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.
you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?
you couldn’t take it anymore.
you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.
but then you froze.
because you heard it.
soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.
a low groan, deep and drawn out.
then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.
your breath caught.
you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.
then, you heard it.
“y/n...”
your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.
your knees weakened.
another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.
and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.
he was close.
he was touching himself.
thinking of you.
you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.
you didn’t know what this meant.
but you knew one thing.
he wanted you.
and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.
you didn’t mean to lean closer.
you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.
but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.
and then—thud.
a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.
then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.
“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.
before you could react, the door swung open.
and there he was.
yeonjun.
bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.
on the floor.
his shirt up around your waist.
your bare thighs. your panties exposed.
your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
time froze.
he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.
you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.
“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”
“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.
you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.
“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.
your breath hitched.
“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”
you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.
he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”
you couldn’t speak.
“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”
“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”
his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”
your lips trembled. “me too.”
something inside him snapped.
he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.
you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.
“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”
“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”
his eyes burned into yours.
his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.
“maybe i want you to.”
his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—
a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.
you both froze.
his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
another knock. then a voice from outside.
“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”
“fuck,” he hissed.
he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.
you looked at each other.
your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.
you wanted to scream.
but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered.
you didn’t respond.
because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.
you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.
his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.
you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.
every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.
"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.
he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.
you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.
just him. just you.
and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.
his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.
"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"
"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.
he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.
and then.
he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"
you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."
every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.
his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.
“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.
the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.
it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.
the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”
you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”
your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”
you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”
when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.
"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.
"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.
and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.
his.
yours.
the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.
the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”
your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.
“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”
you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.
“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”
you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”
“perfect. when was your last period?”
you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”
you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”
“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”
you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.
the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.
finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”
his hands stilled on the steering wheel.
“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.
“oh.”
another silence.
“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”
“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”
but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.
and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.
“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.
yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”
“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.
he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.
you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.
“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”
his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”
your breath caught.
the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.
this wasn’t just about reproduction.
not anymore.
and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?
set your blood on fire.
you didn’t even make it past the front door.
as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.
your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.
you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.
"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.
"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.
he didn't need more encouragement.
he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.
you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”
you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.
“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”
he didn’t make you ask twice.
he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.
"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.
you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.
“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.
“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”
“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”
he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.
"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.
“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”
you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.
“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”
“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”
but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”
he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.
his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.
neither of you said anything for a long time.
but you both knew.
there was no going back.
the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.
the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.
and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.
sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.
it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.
you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.
“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”
you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.
later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.
and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”
the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.
he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.
“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”
your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.
back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.
he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.
and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.
“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”
the world stilled.
you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.
the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”
you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.
the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.
a baby.
your baby.
with him.
“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”
“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”
you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.
he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.
and it did.
you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”
the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.
when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”
you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”
he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”
you’d never felt more seen. more loved.
later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.
and now it had shifted again.
you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.
you were parents.
you were a beginning.
and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.
of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.
but now, it was here.
growing inside you.
growing between you.
and it was love.
the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.
she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.
your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.
it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.
now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.
“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.
you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”
he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”
“barely.”
you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.
you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.
“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.
“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”
“or jumping each other.”
he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”
you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”
“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”
“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”
he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”
“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.
he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”
“then take me,” you breathed.
you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.
“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”
you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”
he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.
“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”
he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”
you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.
“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.
“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”
“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”
your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.
“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”
you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.
he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”
you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.
and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.
because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.
and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.
⌗drunkinlove — soobin comes home drunk and needy …
( c. soobin x fem!reader ) • warnings. drunk soobin, face sitting, language, lowkey sub!soobin 𓄵 word count. 682 { back to library }
( yeni’s notes ). when is talking about drunk soobin im always talking about the picture about 😭
the sounds of the continuous banging on your door ripped you completely from your slumber; getting up , barely putting your slippers on before making your way to the door.
“baby!”
you could hear your boyfriend through the door. “baby open up!” he was drunk. you opened the door , the taller boy flew into your arms. “no!” he yelled out , probably waking up a few neighbors in the passing. “no don’t look at her.” he stared down at you. “why are you in your underwear baby?”
“well i was sleep before you started banging on my door , waking up the building”
his friends looked confused; “he’s been drinking all night.” taehyun said. “we told him to calm down , but obviously he doesn’t listen.”
he started mumbling incoherently ; swaying your bodies back and forth. “yeah i can see that.” they scratched the back of their necks awkwardly. they said their goodbyes and you dragged you boyfriend to bed.
“baby , baby i missed you.” his words slurred , you stood in between his legs , taking his flannel off. “i missed you all day.”
his face was red; his cheek pressed against your bare stomach as he pushed your shirt up under your boobs. “soobin you’re drunk , you’re crazy if you think we’re having sex tonight.”
“why?” he kissed your stomach. “don’t you want me to eat your pussy?” he licked your stomach , you felt a tingle , lightly tugging on his hair , pulling him back to look at you — his eyes blown out.
“behave.”
“please.” he whined , pulling you down on top of him , you straddled his waist. “i’ve been thinking about you sitting on my face all night.” he left sloppy kisses along your collarbone. “i could practically taste you all over the soju baby.”
you bit down in your lip to not fuel him anymore , but he wasn’t letting up ; he wasn’t even looking you in your eyes anymore ; zoned in on your covered pussy — you could’ve sworn you saw him drooling before you lightly slapped his face. “come on let’s get you to bed.”
“not until you sit on my face.”
“soobin.” he pulled you on his chest , he could practically taste your cunt. “you’re unbelievable when you’re drunk.” your protest slowly stopping though , soobin taking notice of that , pulling you even further , his mouth so close you can feel him breathing on your pussy.
“fu-fuck soobin,” his stuck his tongue on slightly , teasingly licking your cunt through your panties. “shit.” getting a little taste , setting him off , pulling you fully on top of him , opening his mouth and engulfing your clothed cunt.
he held you down on his face , suffocating himself as he messily ate you through your panties , like the barrier didn’t matter to him , he was getting his fill regardless. “fuck bin i’m gonna cum.”
your body folded over , holding yourself up as you came , moaning his name loudly; but that didn’t stop him , he kept going , still hungry for more. “fuck so-soobin i came.”
he moaned , finally pulling away. “i’m sorry i got carried away.” he sounded even drunker than before. “you just taste so sweet i cant help myself.”
soobin was hard as a rock; palming his cock through his jeans , moaning shamelessly. “i’m so hard , i need you.” he whimpered pathetically. “please can i put in?”
knowing he’d just fall asleep , you came up with a different solution , helping him take off his shoes and pants. you laid down on your back; taking your panties off, inviting him into your arms. “good boy.” whispering in his ear.
“please.” he whimpered , you pulled his cock out from his boxers , jerking him off , feeling him rut into your hand. “please just let me put it in.”
you guided his cock into your hole; he let out a loud whimper; pushing himself all the way inside. “fu-fuck , don’t move.” you moaned , he obeyed. “good boy”
you ran your fingers through his hair softly; he sighed , his eyes fluttering closed , his red drunken face falling still. “i-i love you.” his words slurred , you kissed his forehead.
dilf 최연준 𝓍 fem reader ˖ ꯭𓂋 smut, sugar relationship, vacation ༢ pretty heavy on the age gap, 16 year gap, dilf yeonjun, smut, size diff kink, spit, choking, brat taming, he gets off on spoiling, he also gets off on scent and perfume, fingering and mirror sex, dirty talk, lots of pet names, he’s 36, a bit of jealousy from both, a trip to hawaii, (barely) underage drinking, happy trail mention, unprotected sex, reader rlly is spoiled, financial domination
ash⦂ i rlly just have been in a dilf kick in my soul lately so i hope everybody’s on the same page or else that would be reaaaaal awkward… anyway, this is so fun and tropical and i hope everyone is ready for some summer!! this is a leftover from last year’s summer event so thankfully it’s with us finally >_<
Choi Yeonjun is a man. In a broad pair of shoulders, the sharp coffee and black pepper that clings to his skin that lingers in the warm pulse points when you press your face into them, and how he keeps himself put together in clothes without the wrinkles of a twice-worn thing off the carpet like the guys your age, who you could ask if they do exactly that and they would shrug and tell you that they did. Not Yeonjun. None of that was what truly set him apart, nor the things that put that stamp of ratified man on his integrity.
That was in the opening doors for you. He insists on it. He doesn't want your hands on any car door handles, only wants to hear the click of the heels bought on his dime hitting the ground when you step out after him. And he wasn't afraid to tell you it, either. It was in how he took the burden of ordering for you at the diners he took you, with the warm crystal lights that hung low over your table as he'd thumb the back of your hand. In how that card of his was yours, too.
You were sitting in bed after a thorough, all brand new, skincare routine, when he proposed the flight to Hawaii. A face mask seeped into your skin as you gawked into the glow of the screen. If he had only see your face. He tells you it's the best part.
11:00pm [Yeonjun]: We have a suite booked in O'ahu for this weekend. Do you need anything for it, baby?
11:00pm [Yeonjun]: Pack light, you'll be coming home with more than you came.
11:01pm [Yeonjun]: How does that sound?
It was that part that made your stomach twist up like it was in there jump-roping. It always is the way he talks to you; because, what kind of question is that? He knew exactly how it sounded. His texting mannerisms scream older, succinct with an air of a man who knows exactly how off-guard this all still leaves you. He is so cruel, in the most savory way. It has long since been decided that men age like wine. They sit on a shelf and mature, until they're more rich and deep. Or at least until they've had their fun, their money, and are left with an itch to funnel it all into making something bloom pretty at his attention and spoiling.
Honolulu is so much alike the post cards, and in the same vein, so much different. It's a bustling metropolis with buildings that scrape the turquoise sky. The beach is within walking distance from your hotel, and that is just as peppered with tourists in cover-ups they probably bought right from the ABC store along the strip.
"Waikiki looks nothing like I thought it did," you say. A piña colada daiquiri sweats in your hand under the thick sun. It's hot here. Not like the bone dry heat of summer back at home, but instead it's thick on your skin like a layer of salt off the breeze. You fiddle with the tropical ribbons of your bikini bottoms at the swell of your hip. Lazy and pampered, and nobody could deny it. You wouldn't.
With his arms tucked behind his head on a tanning chair adjacent to yours, he grins. "What did you think it was?" He runs his finger around the rim of his own drink. He'd made you sip off it and found the wrinkle of your nose at the burn humorous.
Not full on city with the same beeping cars and traffic as home, perhaps. Your shoulders have long since turned pink. Your cheeks, a radiant burn to match. It tugs every time your face moves like the skin's just a bit too tight. "Like… When you think of Hawaii, the first thing you think of. That." It's about time you roast your other side. Or else you'll be glowing red on your front and springtime pale at the back. The cheeky bottoms of your bikini's ridden up with all your lounging, the soft spot where your ass meets thigh turned up this way around. Yeonjun doesn't look away when you catch him getting an eyeful. "That guy didn't even ID me." The spot where your nose presses to your pillow of crossed arms smells like sweat and coconutty sunscreen.
"He's not gonna ask you while I'm there," Yeonjun says. He holds one hand up like a visor over his eyes, looking at you under it. The shirt he'd changed into as soon as you hit the room There's a healthy glow set deep in his skin that leads you to suspect that, even if this is the first time he's taken you on a pretty penny vacation, it's not his first. It's a deep, bronze that speaks of a tan that's built on. You're not his first sugar baby. That's something you've come to terms with. It gets a little easier with a swipe of the card.
"Why…?"
Thumbing the crease of your bottom, he supplies his answer with a hum. "It's his job to sell it. This whole city loves a dollar bill." Lifting his own glass, he adds, "And that kid's not trying to offend me by asking."
That kid. A guy somewhere near your age, give or take. It's always those little things that send a furious, brilliant storm of butterflies through your belly. The little ways he reminds you exactly what he is. They never come in grand gestures. More in the way he just moves through the world, and how it bends around his shape to meet him. He didn't ask the associates in the luxury stores he takes you shopping in to perk up and run to serve him, knowing he'll buy. They just do it.
A handful of girls three rows down laugh with one another over the holistic sound of the resort pools. Lifeguards, kids here on vacation with parents glad they're cannon-balling into the pools and bothering the group of twenty-somethings with palms over the mouth of their tumbler glasses to save themselves the misery of discovering how teal, chlorine water mixed with margarita. Sweat has glued your cheek to where it squishes against your upper arm. You keep your head oriented to watch him. "But can't they get in trouble for that?" Talking comes difficult. The heat makes you too lazy. You can hardly even summon the words.
Smiling at that, he answers, "If they get caught, yeah." The muscles dormant in his biceps ripple as he crosses his arms about his chest. He didn't hit the gym; not that you knew of. But he maintains that like he does. Another thing that seems to just come with the whole matured, better, older man package.
That felt topically ironic. Especially considering that you never do intend to be caught. You dread the thought so hard that you've learned to banish it the moment it springs up. It's easier this way. And way more fun. It's not like you never thought about it; toeing the line in the sand without ever really letting the tide rush in on you. "This stuff is so sweet. Should I have another one?"
That gets a kick out of him. "Yeah? You like it?" Yeonjun says. There's a languor dripping off the way he does, sticky like the air. "That's because it's rum, babygirl. All sugar."
Your throat goes all tight. Fumbling after words, you quickly say, "It taste like a smoothie."
"That's why you don't need another one." He laughs. "It hits you faster than you think it will. Especially with the heat." Then, picking up the drink, he drinks down what you hadn't gotten to you. Those expressive brows twist. "Shit, that's sweet."
You only smile and watch him cross his arms back. They look fit to throw you any which way, or even to carry all the bags he would snatch from you before you even got to try and carry yourself. "Okay, it's not that sweet."
Not in any hurry, never in any hurry, he gets that look on his face that you've come to know to mean that he's guiding the conversation a different way. He corrals you so easily that you tend to not even notice that you're on the next topic. He takes control of any conversation with such ease. On your first date, you had been a shaking, shy thing sat across from him. It didn't matter much. With a little steering you and a handsome smile as he listened to you answer his questions, the burden of even carrying conversations was off your shoulders. That was his job, he'd told you later on when you told him how terrified you were.
"I was thinking about heading back to the suite," he starts. The sharp lines of his eyes linger on you like he's plotting it all out in real time, and there's a prospective smoothness to his voice. As if he'd already playing it all out in his head, and he knows exactly what he has in store for you. "Getting dressed. No need to rush, we have all night. We're here to enjoy ourselves. And then head down to the beach walk, shop around, get you some things to try on for me." He doesn't even smirk. Nothing to justify the way your stomach swoops quick. "And I put a reservation in at this nice, low-key grill for us after. If we need to come back real quick to drop off your stuff, we can." Taking one last drink off his glass, he says, "Sound good, baby?"
Sound good? How could you have any objections? You blink at him for a moment. Up until yesterday, you'd never even flown overseas. Vacations meant twelve hour drives and scrapping with your siblings and the blankets and luggage for space in the car, just to end up squished against the door anyway. You were half lead to believe that things like this happened only on T.V. or for faceless people in a tax bracket you knew you'd never touch. And yet…
"What? Do you have something else in mind?" His lips do quirk now, perhaps because he knows exactly what. "We can do whatever your sweet heart wants. No need to be shy with me. We're here for you. Me and Hawaii are good friends."
You rush to correct yourself. "No, that's, like, perfect." Pressing up to your elbows, still baking your backside, you say, "I've just never done this before."
He's heard that before, that first time you were intimate with him. You never imagined your first to be a man with sixteen years on you, who was not your boyfriend but instead something suspended in an awkward space between that and something else. Something that makes your blood rise to your ears and lie to everybody you know. A year ago, two, you would've turned your nose up at another girl for sitting in Hawaii on a man's money. After all, down to its core, it's only a trade, isn't it? The sugar in sugar daddy is the tan in your skin and the necklace at your throat studded, in the shape of a 'Y', in true diamonds. And in sugar baby, it was something much more coveted. Well, you couldn't sneer at yourself now; couldn't have known that it could come like him, and not in a sixty year old man who had to pay for sex because he wouldn't get it otherwise.
"Good." He leans back into his low pool chair, the perfect image of the leisure that is company to what he is. But he's got an airy, soft thing going on with his mouth as the sun rushes back over it. "Maybe we'll go out on a boat tomorrow, too."
He doesn't even have to ask to know the answer.
When Yeonjun means get whatever you want, he means that. Not metaphorically. Not loosely, not a ceiling that you might accidentally brush if you got overeager. There wasn't a budget. Not on you. You have your questions concerning where, exactly, he might have all this money. His Seeking profile didn't even tell. And when you asked, he kissed you and said, "I'm old enough to know that you don't really care about my job. You'd get bored to hell of it eventually. So let's not open that door anyway."
Whatever that meant. You gleaned enough from the dress shirts and ironed slacks that it wasn't anything too mystifying. It was, maybe, a bit overdramatic in the way he said it. Or maybe it was your own head that did the work of imagining some big secret.
Bushes with a deep, waxy green up against pink and white Plumerias with yellow blooming at their centers, stand opposite to the glowing warm storefronts which stud the sidewalk. Your hotel is right in the heart of it all. You step out, and you're right there in downtown Honolulu. Clearly, you two had the same idea as everybody else did. It must be the season back home. The streets are packed. Groups of girls walk with their elbows linked with Leis around their necks, probably coming from a restaurant where they were handed out, couples with kids and couples here hoping to get away from theirs, they all have the same essence about them as you feel in your chest. You feel like you're just gawking at stupid things with stars in your eyes like you've never seen a bush, or a lit-up tourist trap. But how did you even get here? Here, where something sweet hangs and makes the air even heaver. Maybe those flowers. Or the street vendors boasting cups of million-dollar pineapple chunks with the rinds still on and passion fruit stuffed in with papayas, and the way it overlaps with the salt from the water. The shoreline is close enough from here than you can watch the black water rush up and disturb the sand.
"You look beautiful," Yeonjun had told you when you stepped out of the bathroom. He didn't need any flowery enhancers to sound like he meant it. He told you in the simplicity that he was unafraid to use, and even more potently, in the lingering inventory he takes of the dress. His hands had flexed where they were shoved into his pockets in patiently waiting. Because he know more than any man, maybe, that patience paid sweeter. He didn't just enjoy the silhouette the sundress made, though you know he definitely did enjoy that. You're still suffering the echoes in your knees that the smolder in his eyes had made shake. But he made sure to enjoy the golden bangles that made feminine, sparkling sounds as you slipped into your heels. How they complimented the sunset pinks and oranges of the tropical floral fabric, and made the sanguine flush to your cheeks speak.
He had stopped, especially, at your neck. Traced the shape of that 'Y' as it glittered. And if anybody were to ask, you were certain that his throat had bobbed.
Now, he keeps one steady hand at your back and the other in his pants. He is an impossibly handsome man, in the most literal sense of the word. But night makes him something else. It cuts the lines of his face which had an angle to them that you could only attribute to aging. His eyes were slow and pleased and all over you and the view your push-up bra makes. "Do you want one?" he asks when your eyes linger on a stand selling Hibiscus flowers. The ones the grew well and didn't get too beat up by the elements, which tourists like to pluck off the bush anyway.
"I mean… They're, like, fifteen dollars." That was a good meal's worth, as far as you were concerned. You could go without. "That's crazy. People just pick them anyway."
"Fifteen dollars to look beautiful on you," he says, "is nothing. Do you know how expensive you look right now, sweetheart?" Passing the person running the stand a bill, he takes your chin with his thumb and tucks a yellow one behind your ear. It's huge, flirting with your eyes and brushing against your temples. Approval flashes over his gaze. "There we go. Now you look like you're in Hawaii."
God. Nothing about that should make your head go so dumb.
You make your way down the street doing pretty much the same. You dip in and out of stores, racking up bags in his free hand. He has no complaints to give. It's something chemical to him. Like foreplay, watching your eyes light up and your mouth go shy with every yes. Yes, yes, yes. That's his favorite word.
Of course you drag him into Sephora. The black-and-white storefront pulls you in with gravity amidst the high-end stores and the shops with the shot glasses and tees plastered with Waikiki beach regalia. He lets you browse and drop things into the shopping basket. You giggle when you catch sight of him, there in his fine muslin button down pushed to his elbows, veins peeking out with the strain, classy sunglasses pushing his hair off his forehead, balancing the damage you'd already done in one hand and the carnage that will ensue at checkout here in the other. With a playing smile on his face, he says, "Don't you want to do something you can't do at home?"
"I can't shop at Sephora in Hawaii at home." You take your lip into your teeth to fight a coquettish grin. A toasty lip liner lands in the cart with a plastic sound of the packaging. "I'm like a thousand percent sure they have stuff here that we just don't have at home." The one by your place is half the size, and even less stocked. You'd probably had a hand in that.
"You've gotten spoiled," Yeonjun says, and you think it sounds like lust. "I've made you into a little money monster. You used to be so shy."
You gasp with affront, coloring your words precisely spoiled. "Me? Not even close. You have to beg me to spend money on myself!" You did, in fact, used to be much more shy with him. It took a few dates to be able to look him in the eyes. It's that contrast between you that is so intoxicating. How you get all dressed up in girly outfits and ramble at him, and he has the answers for it all.
He nudges you around and aisle into the next. The cart is slowly filling up. When he had said you'd be leaving with more than you came, he'd meant it. "I do," he rasps. "I've never taken another girl somewhere who loved shopping more. You're a blushing, pretty hole in my wallet."
A throaty imitation of a laugh if all you can muster in response to that. It's not like you didn't know he had other sugar babies before yourself. Had probably taken them to Hawaii, too. The thought spirals out of control before you can stamp it out. Brushing the buttery petals of the flower at your ear, you consider if he's done exactly this, all of it, with another girl, too. He has the means to. And then you get to thinking what he could've done with those girls. Did he tell them how pretty they sounded like he loved so much to tell you? "You're mean," you say, empty banter. "I'm go back in the bowl and find a sugar daddy that doesn't bully me."
The harsh overhead lights cut his features and catch the way his jaw ticks. "Is that it?" His eyes flicker down the the basket you're filling. You don't know if it's pointed or him doing the math. "They couldn't afford you."
The next step you take is a bit more wobbly, a knot pulling tight deep in your belly and making your coordination all loose. He watches watches you flounder. Realistically, you are very aware you are outmatched. It doesn't stop you doubling down. Your low heels click against the tile floors as you shuffle toward a perfume display. Heavy glass with powdery vanillas and sharp, full black pepper and night blooming jasmine, you are a self-fulfilling prophecy and gravitate toward only the luxe stuff. Maybe that's what ruffles you. That he's right. You take a greenish bottle and spritz it into the sensitive insides of your wrists.
"How about this one?" you say, prim, and offer it up to him. "Is it pretty…?"
Taking the offer up, his nose feathers against the skin. You suppress the thrill it gives you. A moment, a beat in the air exists in intimate tranquility, before you what you're about to say. He looks up at you through his brows as the scent profile hits him. Creamy banana leaf and flirty, fruity coconut that embodied everything that you were right now. His eyes drop to your mouth only long enough for you to see that he does it. "Buy it." He surrenders to one more drag of how it melts into the heat of your skin before straightening back up. You only ever remember that you have to look up at him when he does that. "I want you to wear that when we meet."
You've always known Yeonjun was more attuned to scents than other men. It was often the first thing he'd bring up when he entered a space, but it was also something he'd whisper into your ears, voice scraping, while he was behind you. So you know what you're doing when you pout your mouth and say, "Do you think the new sugar daddy will like it, too? Should I wear it for him?"
Whatever you thought he'd do, he doesn't. A scoff, or maybe a brisk, annoyed dismissal, you'd expected. Or maybe even he'd say something. But Yeonjun just pauses. Goes blank, with no playful retort to volley back. All you know is that his dark eyes, which had been so content on an indulgent walk down downtown and a nice dinner after, go severe. Darker with no trick of the light.
He only says, "Right."
That leaves you with nothing to say. You cap the tester bottle and take a real box of the perfume. Because now, you might really need that in your favor if the way he had been drinking it down was anything to go off of. Maybe it'll soften him. Your little makeup and perfume detour ends with a whimper, not a bang, as you stand beside him in line and then watch him pull out that wallet despite it. Two bags sit on the counter waiting for you to reclaim them. Full bags. But when he thumbs his credit card and runs it, a sleek, black, metal thing with weight that speaks for itself, it goes through with a ding. You toy with the frills of your little dress to expel the mortification somewhere, or even anywhere, that isn't a rambunctious ball in your chest. You open your mouth to smooth things over a few times, but decide against it. You can't claim to have not know that it would bother him, but it's too late for that.
A weird thrill shoots down your spine at the view. His shoulders rigid and sharp from the back, holding all the things in his head right now that you can only guess at.
The final act takes place in a shop, with him leaned up against a wall that separates the changing rooms from the rest of the place into its own little dim hallway. Obnoxious lights oppress the clothing racks and shoppers from a high, warehouse-like ceiling. A pop station closes in from a speaker in the corner of your dressing room. The clothes you'd rummaged through racks for hang on a gold hook on the wall, waiting for you to stop holding your breath. Even when you finally make yourself move to drop your clothes on the glossy floor below, you're elsewhere. The way his faced dropped? Not just that, but the fact that it wasn't even anger. You don't know what it was; maybe something new that the two of you had created yourselves, or something unique to the reality of what you were to each other.
Yeonjun's knock against the door pauses you. You can almost see it, how he'd rap the backside of his knuckles, head down. His mannerisms are so vivid and branded into your psyche that you could step out right now and you're certain that it's exactly how you'd find him. "Need help?"
The center of your shoulder blades burn because you'd been contorting yourself for the past few minutes to reach the strings behind you. You take your lip into your teeth and take a look of yourself in the mirror. You look expensive. You look like all the things that Choi Yeonjun touches: taken care of. "Uhhh." A part of you wants to deny him. To play the cards that you hold in this long game. He never fails to remind you how much power you hold over him and this arrangement. Why not test the boundaries? But you know what would be sweeter than that. Wordlessly, you pull the latch with a loudness that all dressing room locks seem to have.
Then there he is. His arms are crossed, the muscles there loose but still something that you have to take your mind off, or else you might start to think how they would feel under your teeth. You rove over the slanted height of him and how he still looks tall, even when he leans his head and shoulder into the frame. His eyes rove over you, too. Not a flicker. Not a quick assessment. No. God, no. Not with him.
The latch snaps shut behind him with a barely-there gesture. Your whole stomach drops to the floor and shatters.
It's a little showy. You'll give him that. And maybe you'll also admit that you grabbed this exact dress for this exact reason. A corner of your lip wants to twitch with satisfaction, but you have a plan to see through, and it starts and ends with him groveling for you. What a sight that would be. Even just imagining it and turning the imagery of it in your head, when he's the reason you can even live this life that you do, makes you a rapt little tease. Boys your age can't do this. They couldn't be him if they tried. You're beginning to think that he was a different species of man completely.
A beat passes, and then he runs the pads of his fingertips along the hem of your dress. It ends so, so dangerously; right about where your ass folds over at the sanguine softness of your thighs. The skittering brush of contact is straight electricity, and it's the littlest touch. His eyes meet yours through the mirror. Dark. Smoldering like pure wood smoke, erupting slow like the mountains on these islands that move slow enough to watch their molten greed come, but know that you can do nothing to stop it. It's no fair how he looks at you. Your knees go just completely useless.
Yeonjun completely disregards even pretending he was going to lace that skimpy back up for you. You swallow cotton. "Is it cute?" you ask, because you have a pretty good idea of what the answer is already.
The breathy gasp when he takes the soft fat of your hips into his hands with a greed that says he'd been thinking about them since you walked into this store and while he waited patiently on the other side of the door for this. Or before even that. He tugs your bottom to the front of his jeans and says, with his voice smooth like the scotch he sips, "Of course it's beautiful, baby. Do you want it?"
"Yes," you choke out around a thick knot of anticipation. Your own face meets you, palms braced on either side of the ornate gold mirror and your reflection giving you a show of how ditzy and pathetic he makes you. "But I don't know if I should." The syllables waver toward the end and belie your coquettish act.
He laughs like a scoff while he pushes the skirt of the dress up the swell of your hips, then past it until he can devour the bend of your arch. He taught you that form. And it looks like he has no notes on your technique, either. The pressure of him testing it makes your head go dumb. "When have I ever told you no?" he rasps. "You have no idea how expensive you are, baby. No idea. Your little shopping trip would've maxed out any other man's card."
There. That's the spot. You pout your mouth at him and catch him eating it up in his reflection. "I'm expensive? Am I too expensive for you, then?"
Of course not. Look at you. Look at where you are. His card is yours and you think that it's near bottomless at this point. You don't even have to ask. Yeonjun's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.
Your panties hit the floor in one tug. The walls of the changing room become infinitely smaller as he wraps your hair up in his fist. The ache in your scalp brings a prickle to your eyes. "Is that what you think?" he says, that polished quality wipes completely raw. He tries to sound like he's not losing his mind, but it's there if you look past the lilt. "Do I need to buy you the island? The world?" It sounds like he would. Like he will. Instead of reaching for himself, he tests between your thighs for what he knows he'll find there, because of course you're soaked. You've been soaked since Sephora.
"Uh-huh," you say, because he's flicking your clit in little tests and every time he hits the sensitive underside of it, the nerves there send your heels clattering on the marble and your legs trying to find purchase. And because, what's dignity with a man sixteen years older than you who puts money in your bank account and fucks you in high-end boutique dressing rooms?
He likes that. But he doesn't give you anything real, doesn't reward the behavior you've been prancing around him with. His palm wraps around your waist to press into your belly and steady your scrambling legs like it goes without saying. The way his fingers stretch over the soft, doughy place there, how it eats up the expanse of your waist, makes you swallow hard. "God help the next kid that gets you. What's he gonna do with you? How are you gonna manage pizzeria dates and a one-bedroom apartment when you know what you have? What I've given you?"
You can't answer. His fingers curl into you, and he wastes no time finding the spot that he knows like muscle memory. The delicate anatomy of a woman's sweet spot seems like something that just came with the package of him. He doesn't have to search, and he probably never did. Sparks explode behind your eyelids like the fireworks they had been setting off on the beach in brilliant golds and teals. If he hadn't steadied you with the strength of his palm, you'd probably be crumpling down to the floor right about now.
"Hmm?" You can hear the condescending purr on his mouth, because you don't have the strength to pry your eyes open to see it.
You mewl a sorry imitation for the word, "Yes," and go back to trying to wiggle your ass into the incessant curling of his fingers. The sounds of him fingering you makes your ears and chest flush, each inappropriate, sloppy wet noise proving how easy you are for him. "Right—right there, please." Your head drops as the first word breaks in the air. It's really a sorry excuse for words.
He listens so well. The angle of his two middle fingers, the width of them just enough to make you crazy and the finesse of how he uses them like weapons even worse so, twitches just up. It's as though he feels it himself somewhere inside of you that he's found it, because he finds it and you know you're royally fucked from that moment on. "Good," he says. "That way I know I get to keep you. Because you'll go and you'll try other men,"—his forearm strains with how he forgets the soreness in it to fuck you on his fingers right—"and you'll be right back here. In my bed. On my money. My spoiled little mess."
The thought that maybe, beyond the pleasure he gets out of knowing he could give you anything, buy you anything, dressing you up in him, he likes you this way because it means nothing else would ever fill the spot he carved doesn't occur to you. Currently because your thighs spasm and shake and it takes every working synapse in your brain firing off to digest how he fucks you so good that it's a leash in and of itself. Hopefully you'll be here when he starts going salt and pepper, because what would sex be if not this?
Your choked, scraped whimpers get too loud for him. His palm over your mouth finally has your eyes fluttering open, and the sight that greets you back is potent enough to send the same molasses through your veins as the heel of his palm grinding down on your swollen clit. "Shh, baby." He grinds harder, because he's mean. "So goddamn whiny. What a princess you are; can't take what you were begging for all night. Why act up if you're gonna tell the whole store how I'm being mean to you?"
He gets your answer in a gone, strangled sob against his palm. Your own damp breaths where it seals over your mouth makes the air thinner. Each roll of his palm forward is met with a helpless push of your ass back on him. His wrist is practically pinned between the bulge in his jeans, because of course he's affected even if he'd like to pretend otherwise, and your bottom. It doesn't stop him one bit. The private sounds that his silencing makes is better than any reckless moaning. It's almost dirtier, almost wronger.
"Gonna cum?" he rasps, watching the trashy mess your face makes in the mirror like a god exacting justice. The weeping mascara lines pooling where his hand meets your face and the drooping eyes that want to roll back into your skull, the high pink of your cheeks and how he can watch himself give you this like he give you everything fucking else. You were close, but just the question winds you up tight enough to snap. That face of his goes patronizing with a furrow of his brows. Slick rolls in hot rivulets down the insides of your trembling thighs. "That's right. There we go. You need to grind that pussy on my hand? Grind it. Go ahead and see if I'm gonna give you what you're asking for."
You try to say something. You really do. To tell him that you'll do anything for it, that he's melting your brain like butter, or god, just anything. The backs of your eyes and your throat and the pit of your stomach all prickle and go tight at once. He probably hears something unflattering come out from behind his palm, something strangled and a fie on the decorum that a place like this deserves. That mirror that you'd been depending on to keep you at least somewhat planted where he's had you bent in half goes clattering against the wall behind it because you're grasping at it like it can help you.
He stops. Just completely, unfairly, cruelly stops. His fingers come out of you a mess and you have to pretend they weren't just in you as he straightens up, swipes a thumb through your blackened cheeks, and then he doesn't touch you again. You're left gaping at yourself in the mirror and wondering with a naked dissonance, like when something heavy hits metal and leaves it ringing, what the hell you're supposed to do with the knot in your lower belly now. You almost think to just rub one out after he steps out.
Tugging his collar looser around his throat, he works his jaw and lets you change back. It all feels too tight; the frills and the way you clatter uselessly out when you've finished and the neglected pangs of throbbing, so hard that you can feel the pounding of your heartbeat all the way up in your ears. You avoid eye contact when he pays for the dress up at the register. If the flushed face and the smearing of mascara that would give you away no matter how hard you tried to wipe at your cheeks and jaw didn't give you away, maybe the buzzing in your eyes would. He makes small talk with her and takes the bag and receipt as if he wasn't just knuckle deep in you. It's the antithesis of all things fair. You have to breathe with intention as he leads the way back out onto the streets. The air is thick and salty enough to swim through. It's no help up against clammy, salty skin itself. The only thing that keeps you kinda grounded as you stumble by his shoulder, because even now he's steepled your fingers together, is the sweet scent of the palm leaves touching the sky above you. Otherwise you're swimming through the honking and the weaving between bodies and the pulse of what he did to you.
You want to dig your heels in and demand he wraps his fingers around your throat and fix it. Or make a scene so big he has to. But you just blink dumbly the whole way back to the room, because you are nowhere near as gutsy as that, and half as coherent at the moment.
The door clicks closed behind you again in a pantomime of that stuffy, unreal scene you just left behind. You kick your heels off and wait. Wait to see what he does, to see if he'll pounce on you the way you ran over a generous hundred times on the way here. Yeonjun just steps out of his own shoes, drops the new dress off on a seat, and works his watch off by the night stand. The lamp there, a low warm ambience, lights the angles of him. The way his shirt stretches over his shoulders, and how he tapers out to something thin at the waist that lingers in your mind after you fuck—how the stretch below his navel and the dusting of hair there gives way to the V, and how that gives way to his cock. When you first had seen it, he didn't even laugh, though he could've. You'd just stared like you were torn between running away from it and testing if it was as hard and warm as it looked. No; he held your face as he told you that it was okay, that he wanted you to become so familiar with it that you could feel the exact shape and curve of it in your haziest dreams. You press your thighs together as you struggle with the strap of your heel.
A metallic sound works, and then he sets the silver-faced watch down. Then his eyes finally, for the first time since he stepped into that dressing room, meet yours. Not through any mirrors. The weight of that is entirely different.
"Bend over the bed," he says. "C'mon, baby girl. I've been going insane over this all day."
The hinges of your jaw ache. "Why?" You're stumbling over to do just that, because you're more talk than you are brazen. "So you can just stop again? I have fingers, you know. I don't need you."
And then his belt makes a noise that tells you he intends to see it through this time. Your stomach does three full flips, ass in the air like the obedient lap dog that you'd be for him a hundred times over. Because if he groomed you and petted you and you were his one, favorite girl for it? What else could you possibly need?
"Huh." The belt comes loose in a rasp, somewhere behind you now. He'd circled the bed completely. "I could. We could sit here and do that all night, if we wanted. But where would be the fun in that?" he says, and then he bends over your back and speaks into the shell of your ear, "I have about a thousand other, more creative things I'm gonna do to you, sweetheart. And trust me; I've had a lot of time to think them."
The shudder he tears from you is so visceral, it's like he'd wrapped a hand around your throat. You choke your swallow down dry and say, "Please do it, do whatever you want. I can take it."
He presses a wet, biting kiss into that spot where your pulse meets jawline. And then another that lingers against the back of your shoulder, and then he kisses his way down and straightens back up to make a mess of your outfit all over again. "I know you can," he rasps, his own voice scraped down to something needy that reflects exactly what's burning between your legs right now. You can't tell if it should feel like a good thing, but it just raises a chill on your skin. Because if the same blistering things that's inside you is inside of him right now, then you don't know what you've signed yourself up for.
"You're still on the pill?" he says, and then when you hesitate to answer he takes a handful of ass. "Sweetheart. Please."
You nod. He takes that and forgets the condom in his wallet to let a line of spit fall down over your cunt from the back. As if you weren't wet enough. You don't know if you've ever been so slick in your life, so wiggly that you whine at him to, "Hurrrrry." The glob lands at the top of yout slit and follows gravity to your clit, and he goes quiet to watch it find its place on you. He takes his proud length and strokes it once or twice to feel it twitch, to give himself a pathetic teaser for what was to come.
Then he's pounding into you until stars shoot behind your eyelids, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if they were ever caught on tape. The come from your throat, and they practically stay there, bouncing with each collision of his groin against your ass and the backs of your thighs. You eat straight comforter as he braces one arm beside your hips to cant his hips up, right into the place he had fun with teasing earlier. It's probably pretty obvious to the poor neighbors what the grinding of the headboard against the wall might be, but you're too busy getting your brains fucked away to be a considerate neighbor.
"Mfh!" you tell the bedsheets. The laugh that he pants into your shoulder blades is pure, undiluted dirtiness and heat.
"So mouthy," he croons, though he's no better off than you. Each time you flutter tight around him, his fingers dig deeper divots into your hip. "And so pretty when you're split on my cock and can't talk. Isn't that right, baby?" He bends completely over your back, and you're forced to remember through the scattered thoughts of how he looked behind you in that mirror. His body ate yours up. It didn't matter if you were taller, if you were any other way. He'd make you look tiny anyway, just like how his fingers stretch over the small of your back and how he handles you with it. "Tell me what you need. I wanna hear that mouth go."
Breathing is a thing of the past. You shove your face to one side so at least you aren't suffocating in the sheets, face such a mess that you can feel it more than the twist of your brows and the pout on your mouth. Sweat beads at your temples and hair sticks there over your flaming cheeks. "Choke me, choke me," you say. It's the dumbified words of somebody who has about five words in their current arsenal and was using all their brain power for each. You choke and sob and bite whines into the air and meet every single one of his thrusts.
He's not gonna let you ask twice. The precision of his fingers is food for your brain, thinning your windpipe just enough to twist every nudge of his tip to your cervix into something more potent and overwhelming. Your nails bite into his wrist at your neck, skull digging back into his shoulder and hips being ground into the edge of the mattress every time he strokes with mindless, carnal rhythm. "Choke you?" he almost laughs, like his hand wasn't around your throat right now. "You're full of surprises, you know that? How's that for that sweet brain, baby girl? Huh?"
Your face twists up. "Uh—uh-huh!" You can't breathe, can't think, in the best way. Lips wobbling, you pant, "I like it!"
That has his hips coming down on you in a different way. He falls over your back and drags in the scent at your neck like he's huffing something stronger than the sweet scent of sex on your skin. But it does something electric to him. His abs tighten against your spine, grinding his cock into you like he could be any deeper than this. It feels like he's up in your stomach, you brain, dressing that up just like he does to the rest of you. "Fuck." His voice crumbles into tatters. "You smell so fucking good. Like candy." He kisses at the spot that you, even in this state, recall with a jerk to be where you had sprayed that perfume. It had melted into the warm pulse there, faded down into the base notes. The kiss isn't enough. He presses his tall nose right into it and grabs at you so hard that it aches. "I'm not gonna last long, baby. God, you're getting more of this stuff. I'll buy you more before we—" His wet forehead falls into the soft spot between your shoulders and where your nape begins, every rolling thrust like he's staving off an orgasm coming just from the olfactory sweetness of you.
You've long since raked red-hot lines down his taut forearm, but a particular tightening of his fingers at your throat and a wet slide that hits just the right spot without you having to ask sends you over like a house of cards. The arch in the very angle of your back bows back against him. The suite falls away, all of Hawaii and your agreement follows, until you're just a girl under a man who knows exactly how to play you. "I'm cumming!" you say, all but stumbling over the warning. "Help!"
You don't know what the hell you're saying, and he's off the deep end too. He throws you up the bed and digs his knees in to gain purchase and something in that scent he caught, in the thoughts that had been festering in his head all night, comes alive. He rails you right into the sheets and takes what he needs as you claw at the pillows and sheets through yours. Because with him, you're gonna cum first if he has to grit his teeth and pull out just to make sure he doesn't first.
"That's it," he growls. "That's my spoiled girl." Then his own hips stop and each stutter of them as he fucks it into you, each pant and breath into your shoulders and kiss to the back of your head, tells you that he's followed you down. As his weight smothers you into the pillows, grounding you and suffocating you until you can come down and breathe again, he makes your hair into a loose ponytail to reach the soft parts of your neck that the tangle of it hid.
His heartbeat at your back reverberates into your chest. Speaking into your face as he takes the softness of your cheeks and watches them squish under his fingers, he says, "How's that for leaving you wanting?" There's a lazy, pleased light in his eyes. What else could a man need, more than a pretty girl glowing with post-orgasmic bliss under him, in a bed he put her in, in a frilly, rumpled dress that only he could afford? Nothing. He was living the life that other men loathed him for. He nips the turn of your shoulder and says, "You were put on this Earth to test old bastards like me, huh?"
You can hardly give him an enthusiastic smile. Probably.
ash⦂ #needthat like i finished this in a haze at 4am before a shift so if that tells you anything about how i was feeling…
🖇️ ﹐ tomorrow by together members in different scenarios when they have it bad for you — 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ʚɞ 𝗑 𝑔𝑛!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ﹐ ⓘ 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 (𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 ..?) , 𝗉𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 , 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌 , 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗒 , 𝖫𝖮𝖳𝖲 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗌 😭
izas note 🕷️ — i love making txt smaus bc i only have to do five people 😭😭 anyway thank you for the request lovely !
TAGLIST txt/master @cosmicalily @stvrhven @fdzvie @fizzandsage13 @keysfg @honghwaluvr @siracoreee @dina-10s-blog @nikiasaurus @junpom @cutiebinni @amethyistheart @lezleeferguson-120 @fialtorelle @wickedheartgame @minlixyaoi @1giss4swft3 click here to be added/removed
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment
✧ word count: 10.8k
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist
soobin: back next month
soobin: wanna go for dinner?
soobin: i’ve missed you
You stare at the screen until your eyes start to sting. Dinner. A normal word. A normal plan. A normal boy you’ve wanted for an unreasonable amount of time.
You should be thrilled. Your chest does flutter—soft, stupid, familiar. Then your stomach drops, because the version of you Soobin thinks he’s meeting at that dinner is not you.
Not really.
You’ve wanted him since you were sixteen and he was already the kind of boy teachers praised too eagerly and girls liked too openly. You wanted him while he had a girlfriend—pretty, polished, untouchable—so you learned how to want him quietly. You got good at it. You made it a background process in your life. A hidden tab.
Then university happened. He went to Switzerland on exchange. You told yourself it was a clean ending.
Distance didn’t end it. It loosened you. Because somehow, over the last few months, Soobin started talking. Properly talking.
Not just polite check-ins. Not just how’s class? and did you eat today? but messages that didn’t stop at midnight. Calls that started as five minutes and ended with the sky lightening outside your window. A private, dangerous kind of closeness where he starts saying your name a little slower, a little softer, until you can’t pretend it’s nothing.
It starts as flirting. Then it turns into sexting.
And you—who have no business to—kept up.
Because you were safe behind a screen. Because he was far away. Because your thumbs were braver than your body. Because he kept responding like he wanted more.
You didn’t just flirt. You performed. You told him you weren’t shy. You told him you’d done things. You told him you were good at things. You told him a body count that sounded impressive instead of honest.
And he believed you.
Your phone buzzes again before your brain can recover.
soobin: i want your mouth
soobin: i’m serious about dinner
soobin: and i’m serious about what you promised me
Your throat goes dry so fast it hurts. You sit up, duvet sliding down your waist, and for a second you’re too hot in your own skin. Your heart is loud. Your hands are damp.
Promised.
That’s the word that ruins everything, because you didn’t just talk. You bragged.
You scroll up.
You don’t want to. You do it anyway, thumb dragging the chat back through weeks of late nights and bad decisions. There you are—bold, filthy, fearless on paper.
you: i’m not going to be sweet about it
you: i’ll get on my knees if you ask
you: i’m good at swallowing. don’t underestimate me
you: i can take you
you: i won’t tap out
You stare at your own messages with a slow, horrified disbelief, as if someone else typed them. Someone with experience. Someone with practice. Someone with a real history and not—you stop.
Because the truth is humiliating in its simplicity.
You have never given anyone head in your life. You have never even seen a dick in real life that wasn’t in a medical diagram or an accidental photo someone flashed in a groupchat.
Your lips have kissed exactly one boy in your entire life and it barely counts. Year Four. A snotty boy with glasses. A thank-you kiss meant for his cheek. You misjudged the angle and pecked him on the mouth. You remember the sound he made—half gasp, half offended squeak. The way you both froze, staring at each other with the shared expression of two people who’d just committed a felony. The way you ran home and swore off boys forever, as if you’d been personally wronged by God.
You, age nine—already dramatic. You, age twenty-one—still dramatic. But now with consequences. Real ones.
Your phone buzzes again.
soobin: you’re not going to ghost me now, right?
soobin: i’ve been counting down
soobin: i want you
You make a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a noise of actual pain. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice thin.
Your brain starts sprinting ahead without you. Dinner, walking you home, his hand at your waist, him leaning in with confidence because you taught him to expect it. And you—you going rigid. You kissing him back wrong. You revealing yourself in the worst, most embarrassing way—not with a confession, but with your body freezing because it doesn’t know what to do.
You toss your phone onto the bed like it’s cursed. Then you grab it again immediately, because you’re weak and because seeing his name does something soft and stupid to your chest.
You type. Delete. Type again. Delete again.
You draft confidence and erase it. Draft flirtation and erase it. Draft something filthy—something that matches the girl you pretended to be—and erase it so hard your thumb aches.
Finally you type, yeah.
One word. Small. Safe. Harmless. A lie, considering the persona you’ve been feeding him at 2am.
You hover over send and consider adding something bolder. A wink. A threat. A promise. Your fear wins. You hit send. The message delivers.
You stare at it in silence for two seconds. Then you smack your forehead with the heel of your hand hard enough to make your eyes water.
“Why did I lie?” you whisper to the empty room.
No one answers. The room just holds you there—sitting upright in your bed with your phone in your hand, realising you have officially talked yourself into a situation you do not know how to survive.
Your friends answer instead—because they always do, and never gently. Cute little vultures with groupchats.
It’s Thursday night—which means someone’s flat, music too loud, cheap alcohol poured into plastic cups, bodies pressed into every corner of a living room. The air tastes of vape, perfume, sweat, and whatever fruity mixer is being spilled onto the carpet and ignored.
You’re perched on the arm of the sofa, clutching a cup you’ve had for twenty minutes without drinking. You’re not thirsty. Your anxiety has simply occupied every available body function and reassigned your hands to cup duty so they don’t start shaking.
Beomgyu is in his element. Beomgyu is thriving. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with smug confidence. He has an audience. He has momentum. He is about to ruin you for entertainment.
“And then,” Beomgyu says, raising his voice so half the room can hear, “she tells Soobin her body count is eleven.”
You make a sound that is half groan, half prayer. “I didn’t tell him. It just came out.”
“It just came out,” Beomgyu repeats, delighted. “Right. A natural phenomenon. An act of God. You tripped and fell face-first into lying.”
Mina’s eyes go wide. “Eleven is wild. Babe.”
Yuna squints at you. “Eleven is also—not even sexy. You could’ve said four. Four says I have a life without saying I run an underground operation.”
“I panicked,” you hiss. “He was flirting. It escalated. And I—”
“And you decided to go full porn star,” Beomgyu finishes, grinning.
“Beomgyu!” you yelp, lunging for the nearest cushion. You throw it at his face.
He catches it without looking. Smug bastard.
Yuna points at you, horrified and amused. “What else did you lie about?”
“I lied about everything,” you whisper, because there’s no point pretending now. Your face is on fire. “I lied about my body count. I lied about being experienced. I lied about—skills.”
Beomgyu slaps his knee. “Skills.”
“Stop saying it like that,” you beg.
Beomgyu is practically vibrating. “No, because this is insane. Soobin is coming back next month expecting you to be this confident, filthy menace, and you’ve never even—”
“Don’t,” you warn, voice shaking. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Mina tries to be helpful and fails. “Okay, but what exactly did you promise him?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I promised him a whole night.”
Beomgyu snorts. “A whole night of what? Sudoku?”
Yuna makes a choking noise. Mina throws her head back, laughing.
You glare at Beomgyu. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, grinning. “You need me. I’m your emotional support bully.”
“You’re my emotional support executioner.”
Beomgyu raises his hands. “I’m just saying, you didn’t just flirt. You wrote him a brochure. You made claims.”
Mina wipes at her eyes. “What claims?”
Beomgyu smiles, evil. “She told him she’d get on her knees the second he asked.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she likes it doggy.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she could take raw.”
Yuna screams, “STOPPPPPP.”
You bury your face in your hands. Your entire body tries to fold into itself. “I was delusional,” you say into your palms. “I was horny and delusional and he was in Switzerland and it felt fake and safe.”
Mina’s laughter softens a notch. “Okay. Okay. So what’s your plan? Are you going to tell him the truth?”
You lift your head slowly, eyes stinging. “Absolutely not.”
Yuna blinks. “Then what happens when he tries to kiss you?”
Your stomach flips. “I’m going to die,” you whisper.
“You’re not going to die,” Beomgyu says cheerfully. “You’re just going to be exposed.”
“Can you stop saying that sentence,” Mina says, laughing and wincing at the same time.
Across the room, the music shifts. People keep dancing. People keep drinking. Your life is falling apart and nobody even pauses the playlist.
You stand up because you can’t sit still. Your skin feels too tight. Your lungs won’t fill properly. “I need air,” you say, not asking permission.
Beomgyu waves you off. “Go practise being mysterious.”
Mina calls after you, still laughing, “Go practise telling the truth!”
You flip them off without turning around.
Cold air hits your face and your lungs finally expand. The night is damp, streetlights turning the pavement glossy.
Your eyes sting. You tell yourself you are not crying at a party. You are not going to be that girl. You are going to be normal and composed and grown—your throat tightens anyway. You swipe at your cheek, annoyed at yourself, and step further out so the doorway light can’t expose your face.
And then you see him.
Choi Yeonjun.
Leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, posture relaxed in a way that feels unfair. He’s with a few friends, but he stands half a step apart—present, included, not chasing attention. He laughs at something, and it’s easy. It sits on him naturally.
His hair falls into his face in messy pieces, dark and thick and grown out on purpose. It shadows his eyes when he looks down. When he lifts his gaze there’s sharp attention there—observant, not arrogant. The kind that makes you feel clocked even from across the pavement.
A silver hoop catches the light at his ear when he turns his head. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms bare, lean muscle moving when he brings the cigarette to his mouth. He exhales smoke into the cold and doesn’t look like he’s performing for anyone.
“Bro,” one of them laughs, loud enough that anyone with ears is now involved, “you cannot keep saying you’re taking a break when you’re still getting your dick sucked every other day.”
Yeonjun doesn’t even flinch. He takes a drag, exhales slowly, and says, deadpan, “I’m not keeping track.”
“You’re lying,” another one says immediately. “You absolutely keep track. You’re the kind of man who knows his Google Calendar password.”
“Yeah, you just stumble into it,” the first friend snorts. “Accidentally. Tragic. You fell down the stairs and landed in someone’s throat.”
“Shut up,” Yeonjun says, but it’s lazy. Practised. Like he’s said it before and enjoyed it every time.
A third friend shoves his shoulder. “Nah, he’s actually evil. He’ll flirt for twenty minutes, act all chill, then go, Do you want to come upstairs? like it’s a cuppa tea.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “It’s not evil. It’s called being direct.”
“It’s called being a slut,” the first friend corrects, delighted. “Campus public transport. Tap in, tap out.”
Yeonjun turns his head slowly, brows lifting. “I’m not public transport.”
His friends erupt. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking now, and it’s the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what they’re doing and he’s letting them anyway.
“Okay,” the second friend says, catching his breath. “Serious question. Aftercare?”
Yeonjun exhales, unimpressed. “I’m not a psychopath.”
“Oh my God,” the third friend groans, laughing. “He’s a whore with ethics.”
Yeonjun shrugs, too calm. “I’m a man with standards.”
“Your standards are, she wants you and she’s breathing.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “She wants me. I want her. Nobody’s pressured. Everybody’s clean. Everybody’s fed. That’s the whole list.”
“The whole list,” the first friend repeats, wheezing. “He said fed. This man is handing out orgasms and snacks.”
Yeonjun taps his cigarette against the lamppost. “You’ll understand one day when someone actually enjoys having you around.”
“Yeonjun,” someone gasps, scandalised, “that was personal.”
He just smirks again—unbothered and comfortable in his skin—while your stomach tightens, because hearing him say it out loud makes everything in your head feel painfully real.
Your brain supplies everything you’ve heard about him without you asking.
Your chest aches with something humiliating. Not for him. For what he seems to have. For how he seems to exist without fear. For how he looks like he could teach confidence the way people teach a language.
The idea lands hard. You stare at Yeonjun—at the cigarette, the smirk, the calm—and you think, with awful certainty, I’m going to ask him for help.
You don’t do it at the party.
Because you are many things, but you are not walk up to the campus whore in front of witnesses and ask him to teach you how to suck dick insane.
So you try to be strategic. You try to be normal.
You fail.
The next day, you find Yeonjun alone in a lecture hall—back row, legs stretched out, phone in his hand. His hair is pushed back just enough to show his forehead, but it still falls forward in stubborn pieces. He looks expensive without trying.
You stop in the doorway too long. A girl brushing past you mutters, “Move,” and you jolt as if you’ve been caught committing a crime.
You march down the aisle anyway. Your brain is screaming ABORT. Your feet ignore it. Yeonjun doesn’t look up when you sit beside him. Of course he doesn’t. Of course the man who allegedly gets laid on weekdays doesn’t bother looking up at anything.
Your heart is punching your ribs. Your palms are damp. You swallow. Hard.
You stare at the front of the lecture hall like it owes you answers. Your throat keeps tightening every time you try to form a sentence.
Hi. Sorry. Weird question.
No.
Hi. I’ve been watching you smoke outside parties.
Absolutely not.
Hi. I lied to this guy named Soobin who’s on exchange in Switzerland and he’s about to come back and asked to go on a date and then do things but I have no idea how to do these things because of course I lied so now I need a man with a reputation to save me.
Jesus Christ.
Yeonjun scrolls on his phone, thumb moving slow, relaxed. He’s close enough that you can see the edge of his screen. Something brainless. Sports highlights. A meme. A girl’s name in his notifications.
You glance at him once. Sharp jaw. Lazy mouth. Heavy lashes. The faint scent of laundry, smoke, and something clean under it—soap, cologne, whatever. It makes your stomach do that humiliating drop it does when you remember you’re a sexual being and not just an anxious blob with student debt.
You look away fast. Too fast. Your neck twinges.
You sit there rigid for the entire hour, rehearsing one sentence over and over until it loses meaning—Can you teach me how to sex?
The lecturer says something about post-modernism. Somebody asks a question nobody cares about. Someone’s laptop fan starts screaming. Life carries on while you silently drown.
Yeonjun doesn’t look up once.
At the end, people stand. Bags zip. Chairs scrape. Yeonjun stands too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He walks past you without a glance.
You sit there for a full minute after everyone leaves, staring at the whiteboard as if it’s going to spit out confidence. “Okay,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow arrives and Yeonjun is outside, cigarette between his lips, lighter flicking open and shut in his hand.
Your feet carry you there before your brain can file an objection. And then, at the last second, your body betrays you and you dive behind a bush.
A bush. You are hiding behind a bush on a university campus because you are terrified of a man with good cheekbones. You crouch there, peering through leaves, the damp smell of plant and dirt filling your nose.
Yeonjun inhales. Exhales. Smoke curls into the cold air.
You tell yourself, Go. Walk up. Speak. Use words. Ask him. Say “I need help, please.”
You don’t move. Yeonjun finishes the cigarette. Lights another.
You tell yourself, If you don’t go now, you’re going to end up on a date with Soobin pretending you know what you’re doing. He’s going to kiss you. He’s going to touch you. He’s going to expect your mouth to do the things you promised. You’re going to panic. You’re going to ruin everything.
You still don’t move. Your phone vibrates. You freeze, because the universe has a sense of humour and it hates you.
Yeonjun shifts slightly. His gaze flicks toward the bush.
Your soul leaves your body.
He stares for a beat then turns to his phone. Yeonjun finishes the second cigarette, tucks the lighter away, and walks off.
You remain behind the bush. You press your forehead to a leaf.
“Why am I like this?” you whisper.
The day after that, you decide you need a new strategy. A better one. A less humiliating one. Something with dignity.
So you go to the cafeteria with sunglasses on and a newspaper lifted to hide half your face. You look like a woman trying to commit fraud.
You spot Yeonjun across the room—sitting alone, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other, taking bites in between texts. He looks irritatingly relaxed. He looks annoyingly hot doing something as unsexy as eating cheese and mayonnaise.
You pretend to read the newspaper. You turn a page too aggressively and it makes a loud snap. The guy next to you flinches and stares. You stare straight ahead, as if you are not a lunatic wearing sunglasses indoors at lunchtime. You lower the newspaper by half an inch.
Yeonjun is still scrolling. Still chewing. Still minding his own business.
You tell yourself: Stand up. Walk over. Say “Hi.” Say “I need help.” Say “I lied.” Say “I need lessons.” Say “Before my date, I need someone to teach me how to not embarrass myself in bed.”
Your mouth goes dry. Your thoughts trip over each other. Just walk up. Just say it. Just—your sunglasses slip down your nose. You push them up too fast, flustered. The newspaper wobbles. You panic and lift it higher.
Someone behind you laughs. You don’t know if it’s at you, but your body assumes it is.
Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes flick over the newspaper, the sunglasses, the tension in your shoulders. He pauses mid-bite. Then, very slowly, he goes back to his phone.
You exhale into the paper, miserable. “This is not going well,” you whisper.
And somehow—despite the humiliation flooding your face, despite the dread crawling up your spine—you already know the worst part. You’re not stopping.
By day five, Choi Yeonjun is done pretending this is normal.
He can handle the usual stuff. People staring. People whispering. People acting brave in front of their friends and then sending him titty pics at 2am with you up? and a location pin.
He can handle being a rumour. It’s easier than being a person. But even rumours don’t come with a five-day stalking schedule.
It starts small. Then it gets stupid.
Lecture hall—you sit next to him and sweat through your shirt. Outside—you appear near his smoke break and then vanish behind a bush. Cafeteria—you wear sunglasses indoors and hold a newspaper upside down to your eyebrows.
Yeonjun is not flattered. Yeonjun is not charmed.
Yeonjun is thinking, is this a dare? Am I about to end up on somebody’s private story with a caption that says caught the campus slut? If I ignore it, you’ll keep doing it. If I confront it, it becomes a scene.
Then there’s the men’s toilets. That’s when it stops being funny.
He’s half-awake, caffeine-deprived, walking toward the door, and there you are—posted up near it, pretending you’re waiting for someone.
You are very obviously not waiting for someone. You are waiting for him.
He slows. You freeze. Your eyes meet for half a second and your face does this whole panic spiral in real time—guilt, fear, shame—then you look away so fast it’s a neck injury. Yeonjun walks past because he’s not starting a public fight outside a toilet.
But he washes his hands longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. He looks normal. He looks calm. He looks exactly like the guy everyone thinks he is.
He doesn’t feel calm.
He feels watched. He feels set up. He feels one wrong move away from being a screenshot.
So by day five, he makes a decision. If you want to be weird, you’re going to be weird to his face.
He’s outside for a cigarette when he spots you again.
There you are, half-hidden behind a lamppost, doing a terrible job at pretending you’re just standing there. You’re stiff, shoulders high, eyes wide, cheeks already flushing because you know you’ve been seen.
Kian follows Yeonjun’s gaze. “Oh my God,” he laughs. “It’s her. The spy.”
Milo squints. “Is she the newspaper one?”
“Yeah,” Kian says, delighted. “Newspaper and sunglasses indoors. Absolute criminal.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “Shut up,” he says, stepping away from them.
He just walks. Straight toward you. Your eyes widen further as he closes the distance. You look trapped.
He stops in front of the lamppost. He keeps his voice flat. Calm. No drama. “Are you following me?”
You blink. “What? No.”
Yeonjun nods once. “Okay.”
You exhale, relief flickering.
“And I’m the Pope,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan. “Lecture hall. Cafeteria. My smoke breaks. Outside the men’s toilets.”
Your face drains. “Oh my God,” you choke out. “No—no, I wasn’t—I wasn’t—”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Finish that sentence.”
You swallow. Your fingers clamp around your bag strap.
Yeonjun doesn’t soften. Not yet. He scans your hands. Your phone. The angle of your body. The way you keep flicking your eyes around the pavement. He says it plainly. “Are you filming me?”
Your head jerks. “What? No!”
“Is this a dare?” Yeonjun asks. “Are your friends watching from a window? Are we doing a prank? Do you want me to say something embarrassing so you can post it?”
Your eyes go glassy. “No. I swear. I’m not trying to do anything to you.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches at that. “Bold sentence to say to a stranger you’ve been stalking.”
You flinch. “I wasn’t stalking. I was—”
“What,” Yeonjun cuts in, voice low, “were you doing?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Yeonjun waits. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t rescue you. He just stands there and lets the silence choke.
Your voice comes out messy. “I have a date.”
Yeonjun blinks once. “Congrats.”
You keep going anyway, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked. “He’s coming back next month. This guy. Choi Soobin? I don’t know if you know him but—but he asked me out and I—I’ve been texting him for months and I said things and now he’s actually going to be here and I’m going to embarrass myself so badly I’m going to have to drop out.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Soobin—as in Soobin the guy that went to Switzerland on exchange?”
You nod so hard it’s frantic.
Yeonjun keeps his face blank. “And what does any of this have to do with me?”
You inhale sharply and then blurt the proposition in the worst possible words. “I need you to teach me how to suck dick.”
The pavement goes silent in Yeonjun’s head. Not because he’s shocked. He’s heard worse. He’s been offered worse. Because your delivery is so mortified and sincere that it doesn’t even sound seductive. It sounds desperate. It sounds panicked. It sounds… insane.
Yeonjun stares at you. Then he says, very clearly, “Excuse me?”
Your whole face turns red. “Not—not here. Oh my God. Not on the street. I just—I meant—I need help.”
“You think you can just walk up to me and say that?” Yeonjun asks, voice sharper now. “You think I’m a public service? A campus tutorial?”
“No!” you say too loudly. Then quieter, frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I just—I lied to him.”
Yeonjun crosses his arms. “About what.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “About—everything.”
“Give me specifics,” Yeonjun says. “Because everything can mean you lied about being rich or you lied about loving anal.”
You make a strangled noise. “I—I lied about being experienced.”
Yeonjun tilts his head. “Define experienced.”
You look like you want the earth to open up and swallow you. “I told him I’m good at oral,” you whisper, barely audible. “I told him I like it. I told him I’d swallow. I told him I could take him. I told him I—” you choke, then force it out anyway because you’re already dying, “—I told him I’m not shy—and I can take it raw and my body count is eleven—and yeah.”
Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. Not because he’s offended. Because now he understands the real problem. You wrote a sexual resume you can’t back up, and you’re about to get audited in person.
Yeonjun exhales slowly. “So your solution is… me.”
“Yes,” you say, voice cracking. “Because everyone says you—you know what you’re doing.”
Yeonjun lets out a single laugh. It isn’t warm. It’s disbelief. “Everyone says a lot of shit,” he replies.
“I’ll do anything, I’ll—I just need three lessons.”
Yeonjun’s gaze sharpens. “Three.”
You nod. “Three.”
“Tell me what you think a lesson is,” Yeonjun says. “Because right now it sounds like you want to practise on me so you can go impress another guy.”
You go rigid. “That’s not—I mean—yes, technically, but—”
“I don’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, panicking again. “I mean I don’t want to freeze. I don’t want to look stupid. I don’t want to panic when he touches me. I don’t want to be that girl who wrote porn and then shows up in person and can’t even—”
You stop. Swallow.
Yeonjun watches you shake. Not in a cute way. In a she’s actually about to cry way. He looks over his shoulder once. His friends are watching, grinning, clearly expecting entertainment.
Yeonjun turns back. His voice drops. “This is suspicious as hell.”
Your shoulders slump. “I know.”
“It’s also risky,” Yeonjun continues. “For me. For you. For both of us. If someone finds out, it’s not you they’ll call a creep.”
You nod fast. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear on my life.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Swear better.”
You swallow. “Swear on my mother.”
Yeonjun holds your gaze, checking. You don’t flinch. He asks, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Are you on something?”
“No.”
Yeonjun pauses. He should walk away. He should tell you to go be honest with that Soobin and accept the consequences of your own mouth. He should tell you to stop stalking strangers. He should—instead, he asks, “What exactly are the three lessons?”
You falter.
Yeonjun waits.
You force it out, mortified, barely meeting his eyes. “Kissing. Oral. Sex.”
Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps his face steady. “So you want me to teach you how to fuck.”
You nod, face burning. “Yes.”
“And then you go on a date with another man,” Yeonjun says, dry. “And what, you thank me for my service and disappear?”
You look at him, panicked. “It’s not—I’m not trying to use you. I just—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Yeonjun studies you. The way you’re trembling. The way you’re not flirting. The way you’re begging with your whole posture. You don’t look manipulative. You look scared.
Yeonjun could tell you the truth.
You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m a virgin. I’ve never kissed anyone in my life, let alone—
But you’re looking at him like he’s the answer. Like you have so much ridiculous faith in him, it makes his chest ache in a place he doesn’t want to examine. And Yeonjun has spent years learning that correcting people is exhausting. That admitting you don’t fit the story makes them laugh, or pity you, or lose interest entirely.
So he does what he knows best. He lets the story win.
He exhales. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”
Your eyes flick up, hopeful.
Yeonjun doesn’t give in yet. “I don’t do lessons with someone who can’t even say hello without hiding behind a bush,” he says. “If you want this, you’re going to act like an adult.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
Yeonjun continues, firm, “No more stalking. If you want to talk to me, you walk up. You use your mouth for words first.”
Your face goes crimson. “Okay.”
Yeonjun watches you struggle to hold it together. He says, “If I say yes, it’s on my terms. No audience. No phones out. No screenshots. No bragging. No hinting. Nothing.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” you whisper.
Yeonjun stares at you for a long beat. Then he says, “And if you catch feelings, we stop.”
Your eyes widen. “I won’t.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Everybody says that.” He takes one last look over his shoulder at his friends. They’re still watching. Still laughing. Still hungry for drama. Yeonjun turns back to you and makes the choice anyway, because there’s something in your panic he recognises too well.
“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Tomorrow. My place. Drop me a text and I’ll send you the address.”
Your whole face changes—relief so huge it’s embarrassing.
“Thank you,” you breathe.
Yeonjun holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”
You nod quickly, almost trembling.
Yeonjun’s voice drops, sharp with warning. “And if you ever follow me near the men’s toilets again,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan, “I’m calling campus security.”
You make a strangled sound. “I’m sorry.”
Yeonjun steps back, flicking his cigarette away. He walks toward his friends with his shoulders loose and his face bored, because that’s the only way he survives campus. Because if he stops and thinks too hard, he’ll have to admit the truth, he has no idea what he’s doing.
Because three lessons sounded neat when you said it outside. Three is a number you can count. Three is a deadline. Three is a plan.
But now it’s lesson one. Now it’s his flat. Now you’re coming over.
His mate being away should feel convenient. Empty flat. No interruptions. No one walking in and clocking the fact Yeonjun is about to get exposed as a fraud.
Instead, the silence is loud as hell. The walls feel nosy. The sofa looks judgemental.
He checks his phone again.
psycho stalker: omw
psycho stalker: pls don’t laugh at me
psycho stalker: i swear to god if you laugh at me i’ll die
Yeonjun snorts, because of course that’s what you’d text. Full panic. Full honesty. Zero seduction. You’ve been stalking him for a week and still somehow texting him like he’s a dentist.
“Okay,” he says out loud, because there’s nobody else here and if he doesn’t talk he’ll combust. “Okay. Lesson one. Kissing. That’s it. Mouths. Easy.”
He pauses.
Then he adds, quieter, “Not easy.”
He showers once. Normal. He showers again because he imagines you stepping close and clocking sweat and going ew the campus fuckboy smells like sweat. He showers a third time because his brain thinks soap is protection. Soap will save him. Soap will erase the fact he has no idea what he’s doing.
When he steps out, the mirror’s steamed. His hair is damp, falling into his eyes. He drags a towel through it and it still looks the same.
He brushes his teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth time his gums sting. He spits and sees pink. He stares at the sink, personally offended.
“Great,” he mutters. “Perfect. Sexy. Don’t bleed in her mouth, Yeonjun.”
He rinses. Swallows. Leans both hands on the counter and breathes like he’s trying to calm down before a fight.
He walks into his bedroom and immediately starts cleaning as if cleanliness is going to replace experience. Sheets off. Sheets on. Then off again because the first set feels wrong and he hates that his body is having opinions. He smooths the duvet. Fluffs the pillows. Picks up a sock. Picks up another sock. Finds a receipt he doesn’t remember. Wipes his desk. Wipes his bedside table.
He’s not cleaning.
He’s stalling. His phone is open on the bed again because he’s weak.
Reddit. A thread titled, first kiss tips.
He reads out loud in a mocking voice, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping him upright. “Don’t overthink it.” He snorts. “Yeah, brilliant. Thanks.”
“Use your hands.” He stares at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Which hands. How. Where. Be specific.”
“Don’t shove your tongue down her throat.” He winces. “Okay. Great. So I’ll just—keep my tongue in my pocket.”
He scrolls.
“Ask if she likes it.” He reads that one twice. Then a third time.
Ask.
He can ask. He’s not an idiot. He’s not going to do anything you don’t want. He’s also terrified you’ll say no and then look at him differently.
He backs out of the thread and types, how to french kiss without being shit He stares at the search bar. Hates himself. Hits enter anyway. A list pops up—angles, lips, tongue, breathing, pace. He throws his phone onto the bed again.
“Okay,” he says, pacing. “Okay. I can do this. People kiss all the time. Teenagers do it behind bins. It’s not rocket science.”
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. Then it buzzes again. Then it buzzes again.
He grabs it, annoyed, expecting the groupchat.
It’s you.
psycho stalker: i’m actually gonna throw up
psycho stalker: don’t say lol or i’ll never recover
Yeonjun exhales through his nose. His chest does something irritating. Soft.
He types back.
yeonjun: i’m not saying lol
yeonjun: you’re fine. you’re safe. and if you want to bail, you bail. no one’s forcing you
yeonjun: you still coming?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
psycho stalker: yes
psycho stalker: i hate myself
psycho stalker: but yes
Yeonjun stares at that for a second. He should tell you to stop sexting Soobin and just be honest. He should tell you to stop dragging strangers into your panic. He should tell you to stop.
Instead, he changes his outfit.
Plain tee. Too normal. Button-up. Too I’m trying. Hoodie. Too boyish.
He strips again and stands there half-dressed, staring at the mirror like he’s waiting for the confident version of himself to show up and take over.
He puts on a tank. White ribbed. The one that makes people look at him and assume things. He fixes his earrings. Runs a hand through his hair. Checks his jawline like that matters when he’s about to be kissing someone for real.
His phone buzzes.
psycho stalker: i’m outside
Yeonjun’s stomach drops so fast it feels physical. He moves too quickly—nearly trips over a hoodie, mutters fuck, and catches himself on the wall. He looks around the flat one more time. The cleaned surfaces. The made bed. The whole place pretending this is normal.
He checks the mirror. Hair messy enough to pass as effortless. Face calm enough to sell it. Eyes half-lidded enough to look confident instead of terrified. He practises his playboy expression for half a second.
It looks convincing. That’s the problem. He’s good at looking convincing.
The doorbell rings.
He walks to the door with measured steps, because if he runs he’ll feel insane. He opens it.
And there you are.
Shoulders high. Hands clenched around your bag strap. Mouth parted like you’ve rehearsed bravery all day and it still didn’t stick. Your eyes flick over him once and then immediately drop, embarrassed.
Yeonjun smiles first, because that’s what the rumour does. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth.
You swallow. “Hi.”
Yeonjun steps aside. “Come in.”
You hesitate for half a second, then cross the threshold.
The door clicks shut behind you.
You step over the threshold and immediately realise you might be the dumbest person alive.
Not in a cute way. In a I have willingly walked into a man’s flat to learn how to kiss and give blowjobs so I don’t get exposed to a boy named Soobin way.
The place smells clean—laundry, soap, and whatever Yeonjun put on his skin that’s expensive enough to make your brain lag. It hits you as he moves past you, shoulder brushing the air. Your throat tightens.
You force your shoes off with fingers that don’t work properly.
“Just—uh.” Yeonjun glances down at your feet, then back up, as if he’s pretending this is casual. “You can… put them there.”
Your voice comes out too fast. “I’m not tracking mud in, don’t worry. I’m not here to disrespect your—” You stop yourself. Blink. “Why am I talking about mud? Oh my God.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Breathe,” he says. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.” You look down at your hands. They’re shaking. You curl them into fists. “I’m vibrating. Different thing.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh under his breath, then clears his throat as if that was an accident. He shifts his weight and leans his back against the door like he’s done this a hundred times.
He’s in a white ribbed tank that makes him look unfairly real. Not a rumour. Not a story. Not the guy people point at outside parties and say I heard he fucked—but a man in a small flat, broad shoulders, collarbones you have to actively not stare at.
Low-slung jeans sit on his hips. His underwear waistband flashes when he moves. Hoop in one ear. His hair falls into his face in soft, messy curtains—the kind that looks accidental but somehow frames him perfectly. Dark. Thick. A little too long, like he’s grown it out on purpose just to give people something to stare at. It shadows his eyes when he tilts his head down. His mouth—you cut the thought off before it becomes a problem.
Your brain tries to reboot itself into Normal Mode.
It fails.
Your what-ifs line up instantly.
What if you freeze? What if you do something wrong? What if your teeth clack into his? What if he kisses you and you panic-laugh? What if he thinks you’re basically a nervous Victorian child?
And then the one you keep trying to swallow—is this cheating?
You and Soobin aren’t together. You’re not official. You’re not anything except a history and a chat thread full of crimes. But he’s called other girls casual in the same sentence he called you special, and you hated how easy he sounded when he said it.
Still.
You’re here. In someone else’s flat. With the door shut.
Yeonjun watches your face like he can read the panic word-for-word. His voice goes softer without him meaning to. “You can back out,” he says, plain. “Right now. No weirdness.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I’m not backing out.”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“I’m terrified,” you correct immediately. “I’m just—terrified with commitment.”
He snorts, then catches himself, like he didn’t mean to be human. “Okay. Um. Come in,” he says again.
You nod too hard, cheeks burning, and follow him.
The hallway is narrow. Your footsteps sound loud. Your whole body is aware of him in front of you—tank clinging to his back, shoulders moving under the fabric, the casual way he walks as if he’s not leading a girl to his bedroom to—your brain tries to say it out loud.
To learn how to kiss and suck dick and fuck.
It lands in your head so bluntly you almost trip.
Yeonjun glances back. “You good?”
“Yes.” You nod. “No. I mean—yes. I’m good.”
He stops outside a door and turns slightly. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, and his tone shifts into something more serious. “I’m not here to pressure you.”
Your throat tightens, inconveniently. You nod once.
He opens the door.
And the bedroom is—normal. Painfully normal.
No half-naked posters. No porn shoved under the bed. No gross bikini shrine. No weird anime tits staring into your soul.
Just a made bed. A desk with a laptop and a mess of chargers. A hoodie on a chair. Books stacked neatly. A speaker. Warm light from a lamp. The scent of fabric softener and whatever body wash he uses.
Your chest loosens without permission.
You glance at Yeonjun, then back at the room, then back at Yeonjun as if you’re checking for a hidden camera.
He catches your expression and immediately goes defensive, which is weirdly adorable. “What?” he says. “You disappointed?”
You laugh once, sharp. “No. I just thought your room was going to look like PornHub HQ.”
Yeonjun’s eyes widen a fraction, then he laughs—real, quick, then he bites it back, as if he’s worried laughing makes him look less… whatever he’s supposed to be. “Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That’s what the campus thinks of you,” you correct, because you can’t help yourself. “Apparently you’ve got a queue system. A waiting list. A loyalty card.”
Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. “Shut up.”
“I’m being serious,” you say, then immediately regret saying serious in a bedroom with a man you’re paying in embarrassment. “I mean—okay, I’m not being serious. But you know what I mean.”
Yeonjun scratches the back of his neck, the movement flexing his arm. You notice. You hate yourself for noticing.
“So,” he says, forcing his voice into something cool. “Do you—wanna get started?”
Your mouth opens. Your voice comes out pathetic. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun takes a step closer.
Then another.
Your pulse starts hammering in your throat. Your palms sweat. You can feel every inch of your own skin. You make yourself stand still and not flinch because you are twenty-one years old and you did not walk into this man’s flat just to fold at the first two steps.
Yeonjun stops close enough that you can smell him properly—mint and soap and that expensive cologne sitting on his throat.
He leans in.
You lean in too because if you don’t, you’ll die.
His breath brushes your mouth.
You’re right there. You’re about to kiss him.
And then you jerk back so fast it’s almost violent. “Wait,” you blurt. “This feels—weird.”
Yeonjun freezes. Then he exhales a laugh that sounds like the relief he tried to hide. “Thank fuck,” he says, automatically. Then he coughs, like he’s remembering he’s meant to be suave. “Yeah. Bit weird.”
You stare at him. “Did you just say thank—”
“No,” he lies instantly. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Yeonjun’s lips twitch. “Okay, yeah. I did. Because you scared the shit out of me.”
“Me?” you splutter. “You’re the one who—you’re the Choi Yeonjun.”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Oh, so now we’re doing the myth.”
“I—” you stop. Your face heats. “I’m doing the reality. You’re standing in front of me. In a tank top. In a bedroom. You look—” You cut yourself off before you say hot out loud because you will actually evaporate.
Yeonjun watches you struggle, and his voice drops into something more normal. “We don’t have to rush it,” he says. “We can talk first.”
The idea makes you pause. Because talking is where feelings start. Talking is where people become people instead of bodies and rumours. But also—talking is where you can breathe.
“Should we,” you say, then hesitate because your own rules echo in your skull—no feelings, no strings, no emotions—“should we get to know each other first?”
The second it’s out, panic spikes. You’ve basically just asked for intimacy in the most dangerous format—conversation.
Yeonjun blinks at you, then nods like you asked whether the sky is blue. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll order pizza. Because if I’m about to—” he gestures vaguely between you and his bed, “—teach you how to do—all that, you can at least tell me if you hate olives.”
You stare. “You’re hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” he says. Then he looks at your face and adds, deadpan: “Also I need carbs before I ruin my reputation.”
Your eyes widen. “You’re not going to—”
“I’m joking.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. Sit.”
You hover, then sit on the edge of his bed with your spine too straight. He sits opposite you, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, scrolling delivery apps as if this isn’t insane.
“What do you like?” he asks, glancing up.
“Pizza,” you answer immediately, because your brain is still stuck on one thought—I almost kissed him and didn’t die.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Toppings. And also—you know. Anything.”
You blink. “Anything in life?”
He shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “Yeah. Unless you only exist for sexting and fear.”
You laugh—real, startled—because it lands. Because he said it out loud. Because you feel seen and you hate that you like it.
And the weirdness eases, just a fraction enough to breathe.
And that’s how it starts.
“Pepperoni,” you say. “And—I don’t know. Jalapeños?”
He hums. “Spicy. Brave.”
“I’m not brave.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “You were brave when you stalked me outside the men’s toilets.”
You groan, immediate. “Stop saying it like that.”
“How should I say it?” He taps the screen. “Dedicated. Persistent. Sexually motivated.”
“I wasn’t sexually motivated,” you protest.
Yeonjun glances up slowly, deliberately looking you over in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Sure.”
“Don’t—” You point at him, flustered. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That—thing.”
Yeonjun leans back on one hand, tank pulling tight over his chest. “The thing where I exist?”
You hate him. You also feel your face warming.
Yeonjun hits confirm on the order and tosses his phone onto the duvet. Then he looks at you properly—head tilted, eyes sharp, posture loose. He’s giving calm. He’s giving control. He’s giving I’ve done this before. “You good?” he asks, casual.
You swallow. “Define good.”
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, still casual. “Do you want to stop? Do you want me to stop talking?”
You blink. “No.”
Yeonjun nods. “Okay. Then breathe.”
You glare. “I am breathing.”
“You’re breathing like you’re about to sit an exam,” he replies. “Relax. I’m not going to jump you.”
You snort. “That’s literally why I’m here.”
Yeonjun smiles, fast and cocky. “Yeah. I know.”
It shouldn’t do anything to you. It does. Your body reacts before your pride can catch up.
Yeonjun watches your reaction and looks pleased with himself. Then—because he’s infuriating—he softens it before it tips into too much. “Ground rules,” he says, tapping the mattress once between you. “You say stop, I stop. You say slow, I slow. You say no, it’s no. You don’t owe me finishing a lesson because you asked for help. Understand?”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s gaze holds yours, serious now. “Good.”
The door buzzer goes. Pizza. Yeonjun stands and walks out like he didn’t just say something that made you feel safer in a way you weren’t expecting. He comes back with the box and two cans, drops them on the bed between you.
“Romantic,” you say, because sarcasm is your emergency exit.
“This is not a date,” Yeonjun replies, popping a can. “This is a professional consultation.”
“You’re literally charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m expensive.”
You take a slice so your hands have something to do besides shake. Yeonjun takes one too, biting into it with the confidence of a man who has never once feared crumbs on a white tank.
For a minute it’s just chewing and the quiet hum of the flat.
Then Yeonjun glances at you. “So. Soobin.”
Your stomach flips. “What about him?”
“What exactly did you tell him?” Yeonjun asks, too calm.
You choke. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you showed up at my door,” he replies, deadpan, “so I’m allowed to collect context. Also I’m nosy.”
You swallow. Your eyes flick away. “I said—stuff.”
“Stuff,” Yeonjun repeats. “You’re making me drag it out of you.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Suffer.”
Yeonjun smirks. “Alright. Let’s play.”
He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees. It’s all posture. He looks relaxed on purpose. “True or false,” he says. “You told him you like giving blowjobs.”
Your soul tries to leave your body. “Oh my God,” you whisper.
Yeonjun’s eyes brighten. “That’s a yes.”
“I hate you,” you say, but you’re laughing because if you don’t laugh you’ll start crying.
“True or false,” he continues, enjoying himself, “you told him you like it raw.”
You cover your face with your hands. “Can we not do this?”
“We can,” he says easily. “But you also can’t keep turning into a corpse every time someone says the words out loud.”
You drop your hands. “You’re saying the words out loud!”
“Welcome to being an adult,” Yeonjun replies. “Sex involves words.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, completely unbothered.
“You’re insane,” you mutter.
He grins. “You already knew that.”
Another beat. The air shifts again—still playful, but with tension under it.
Yeonjun looks away first, reaches for his speaker. “Music.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sitting in silence with you while you spiral.” He scrolls, then glances at you. “What do you listen to.”
You hesitate. “Uhm—Joji?”
Yeonjun pauses, looks up. “No shit.”
“Some Chase Atlantic,” you add, bracing for judgement.
Instead, Yeonjun lets out a short laugh. “Okay. So you’re into sad horny music.”
You choke. “That’s not what it is.”
“It is,” he says, hitting play. “It’s fine. I respect it.”
The song starts. You recognise it immediately. Your eyes widen a fraction.
Yeonjun notices. “You know it.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I—yeah.”
He nods, satisfied, and steals a jalapeño off your slice without asking.
“Excuse you,” you say.
Yeonjun chews, unbothered. “You’re the one who picked spicy.”
“That was for me!”
“You can fight me for it.”
You squint at him. “I will.”
Yeonjun’s smile goes sharp. “Please do.”
It’s dumb. It’s flirty. It’s too easy. It pulls you out of your head before you can stop it.
You end up talking while the music runs—classes, lecturers, people you can’t stand. He complains about a seminar that makes him want to headbutt a wall. You complain about your group project and he immediately says, “Drop the names. I’ll bully them.”
“You can’t bully my group mates.”
“I can,” he says. “I’m a public service.”
“You’re not a public service,” you shoot back. “You’re more like, I don’t know, campus rumour.”
Yeonjun arches a brow. “And you’ve been stalking a rumour. That’s crazy behaviour.”
“I wasn’t stalking.”
“You were behind a bush.”
“Stop.”
“You were holding a newspaper indoors.”
“Stop.”
“You were—”
“Yeonjun.”
He shuts up, still grinning. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being a dick.”
“Yes.”
He points at you. “You’re smiling.”
You wipe your face, offended at your own body. “No, I’m not.”
Yeonjun doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—steady, amused—and the look makes the room feel smaller.
Your phone buzzes. A notification lights your screen. Yeonjun’s eyes flick down automatically.
You grab your phone too fast. “It’s nothing.”
Yeonjun’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice loses the tease. “Is it him?”
You freeze. “No.”
Yeonjun watches you for a second, then nods once. “Okay.”
That’s it. No interrogation. No claim. No taking the mick. Just okay. It unsettles you more than any teasing. To save yourself, you blurt, “Do you watch anime?”
Yeonjun looks up, instant interest. “Depends. Are you about to judge me?”
“Yes,” you say.
He snorts. “Then no.”
“Liar,” you say. “Answer.”
Yeonjun takes another bite of pizza, chews, then says, “One Piece.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, waiting.
“No,” you say finally. “No way.”
Yeonjun’s smile grows. “Yes way.”
“I love One Piece,” you say, suddenly too loud.
Yeonjun points at you like he’s caught you committing a crime. “See. You’re not normal either.”
“What arc are you on?” you demand.
Yeonjun leans back, smug. “Caught up.”
Your jaw drops. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“Favourite Straw Hat.”
“Luffy.”
“Basic,” you say immediately.
Yeonjun gasps. “That’s insane. Who’s yours?”
“Zoro.”
Yeonjun pauses, then nods once with genuine respect. “Okay. Great taste.”
You blink. “You’re a nerd.”
Yeonjun scoffs. “I’m not a nerd.”
“You are.”
Yeonjun leans in a little, grin returning. “Careful. I’ll start charging you extra for insulting me.”
“You’re already charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m worth it,” he says, and you hate that your body reacts to his voice.
He watches that reaction again, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second, then back up. He looks exactly like the guy everyone talks about—the one who’s probably kissed a hundred girls, made them beg for more. Your stomach tightens anyway, a weird flutter you don’t quite understand.
Yeonjun pauses the song mid-track. The quiet lands heavy. He sets his slice down, wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then he looks at you, his gaze making your skin heat up. “Do you still want to do lesson one?”
Your mouth goes dry, but something pulses low in your belly, unfamiliar and insistent. “Yes.”
Yeonjun nods with calm confidence. “Okay.” He shifts closer, not rushing, but not hesitating either—giving you time to back out, maybe.
His knee bumps yours, and he doesn’t move it away. The contact feels too warm, too much. “Last chance to bail,” he says, voice low, like he knows exactly how to make it sound sexy.
“I’m not bailing.”
Yeonjun’s smile returns, brief and a little knowing. “Good.” Then he leans in.
It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s confident enough that it makes your heart sprint and your body tingle in places you weren’t expecting. He must know what he’s doing—everyone says he does.
His mouth stops a breath away from yours, his warm exhale tickling your lips—making them feel strange, sensitive.
“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you.
You swallow hard, your chest feeling tight. “Yeah.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I will.”
Yeonjun hums, the sound vibrating oddly in your core. “Good girl—” He catches himself, eyes flicking up to yours, testing if he’s gauging if that’s too far.
But it hits you weirdly, making your thighs clench without meaning to. Your breath stutters, heat rushing to your face—and elsewhere. “Yeah.”
Your brain blanks out in a haze of confusion and heat, your body reacting in ways you don’t get—warmth pooling between your legs, making you shift uncomfortably.
His lips press against yours, soft but firm, and you freeze for a second. His hand settles at your waist, fingers gripping awkwardly at first, adjusting his hold.
You grab his tank top on instinct, bunching the fabric because everything feels too floaty, too unreal.
Yeonjun kisses you again, deeper, his tongue poking out hesitantly, brushing your lips before retreating. You part your mouth, bumping teeth lightly, and he makes a soft noise—maybe surprise?—but pushes forward anyway, his tongue slipping in too fast, too wet.
It’s messy, saliva dribbling a bit at the corner of your mouth, and you swipe at it embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
You make a sound—a quiet gasp—and your hips twitch without warning, seeking something.
Yeonjun pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Still okay?” he asks, voice a little rough.
You nod, breathless, your body buzzing. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s eyes hold yours for a beat—dark, intense—then he kisses you again, and it’s sloppier this time.
Your noses bump as you tilt your head wrong, but he adjusts smoothly—his hand sliding up your side, fumbling over your ribcage before brushing your breast by accident. You jolt, a spark shooting straight down. His fingers pause, then squeeze tentatively—too light at first, then too hard, pinching without meaning to. You whimper into his mouth, not sure if it’s good or weird, but your nipple hardens anyway, aching.
Your own hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on his tank before dropping lower, grazing his thigh. You feel the hardness there, pressing against his jeans, and you falter.
He shifts closer, his knee wedging between your legs, and when he rocks forward, his bulge grinding against your hip.
You try to meet him, but your core rubs against his thigh too high. It’s frustrating, your body chasing something it doesn’t know how to catch, panties sticking damply as you both fumble, breaths hitching.
He groans softly against your neck, nipping at your skin—too sharp, then too soft—like he’s teasing you on purpose.
His hand drops lower, cupping between your legs over your clothes, fingers rubbing haphazardly in the wrong spot. You buck into it anyway, a needy whine escaping, even as it doesn’t quite hit right.
When you break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you need oxygen, your head spinning, body throbbing with unmet need. You stare at each other, both breathing too hard. His lips are red, messy with spit. Your mouth feels swollen, raw.
You feel wrecked in the most confusing, aching way, your pussy clenching around nothing.
Yeonjun’s gaze drags over your face as if he’s checking you out, composed despite the flush on his cheeks.
You force out, “That was—“
Yeonjun swallows, voice roughened. “Lesson one.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such a loser.”
Yeonjun’s grin flashes. “You came to my house for sex lessons and I’m the loser?”
“Yes,” you say, still breathless. “You’re unbearable.”
Yeonjun leans back onto his hands, relaxed again. “Good. Because we’ve got two more lessons.”
Your stomach flips at the bluntness of it, that unfamiliar heat flaring again. Yeonjun watches you swallow, watches your throat move, and his eyes drop for half a second before he forces them back up—smooth, unreadable. “Drink,” he says, nodding at the can. “Before you pass out on my bed and I have to explain to campus security why you died during a consultation.”
You snort, grateful for the stupidity. You take a sip with shaking hands anyway.
And you hate that you feel safer now, sitting on his bed, with pizza grease on your fingers and his mouth still tingling on yours.
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a/n: hiii my loves!! thanks so much for reading. i was meant to post this earlier but my laptop has been lagging all day and its been a pain to even type two words at a time. i've had sm fun writing this fic, i've been wanting to do a yeonjun fic forever now and lately i've been deep into the no labels content so you know where this is coming from lmao. this is my first time writing something this horny so any feedback is much much appreciated. the next chapter will be only escalate in terms of smut lmao as you can tell!! to any new readers, hello and welcome <3 so my existing readers, yes i promise unfortunately yours and ellipsis is coming, i did not forget bout my babies because i was too busy staring at yeonjun's abs
target: since i have the next chapter written out, i thought it'd be fun for us to do a notes target! as soon as we hit 250 notes, i will immediately post the next part, no questions asked! if we don't, i'll still post it next weekend hahaha. but if you want it sooner, spam me in the comments, with reposts and asks! love you <333
taglist: please drop me an ask or comment on the series masterlist
