#yeonjun txt

[cbeargyu]

assigned to you

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.

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

genre: dystopia, slow burn, romance, angst, smut, fluff.

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.

[vivvangel]

BABY, WASSUP? — C.JY

synopsis: your boyfriend, choi yeonjun, seems to have this natural dominant thing to him.

› pairings & contents: choi yeonjun x reader, established relationship.

✧ warnings: non sexual dominance, dom!yeonjun, use of nicknames (baby), headcannons + drabble.

• you wouldn't expect a guy like yeonjun to be dominantly in an intimidating way, because truly, he's not. it's quieter than that. he just... naturally takes the lead without making it feel like he's forcing you to follow. somehow, everyone ends up listening to him anyway.

• he'd absolutely do that thing where he guides you through a crowded place with a hand resting lightly on your lower back or around your shoulder. not possessive, just making sure you don't get separated. if someone bumps into you, he'll instinctively pull you a little closer before asking, "you okay?"

• if you have the tendency of overthinking,, or just overthinking something in general, he won't sit there entertaining every "what if." he'll listen first because he genuinely wants to know what's bothering you, but eventually he'll sigh, look you dead in the eye, and go, "okay. enough. we're not doing this to ourselves anymore." and somehow... you actually stop spiraling.

• he has a habit of making decisions when he knows you're mentally exhausted. "what do you wanna eat?" turns into, "don't think about it. i already ordered." because he knows you'll spend forty minutes saying, "i don't mind."

• he's definitely the type to tease you for pretending you're independent twenty-four seven, even if you really are an independent person. "you know you can let me help, right?" followed by a grin because he already knows you're about to refuse.

• eye contact is kind of his thing. if you're trying to lie to him or hide that something's wrong, he'll tilt his head a little and just... look at you. not saying anything. waiting. he knows you'll crack eventually.

• if you're arguing, he isn't the type to yell over you. honestly, he'd probably get quieter. calmer. almost annoyingly calm. he'll wait until you've gotten everything out, then respond without matching your energy. somehow that's way scarier than shouting.

• he'd gently fix things without asking. your hoodie's twisted? fixes it. your necklace clasp turned around? fixes it. a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss? already moving it away before you even notice.

• "come here."

yes, that's literally it.

not demanding though, not harsh, either. just confident enough that you find yourself walking over before realizing you didn't even question it.

• he's competitive by nature, so if you challenge him to literally anything, he'll get this little smirk that says oh, you're serious? then he'll beat you while laughing the entire time. and yes, he'll remind you about it for the next week.

• if someone disrespects you, he just steps in. i doubt he'd be the type to cause a scene, honestly because there's something about the way he carries himself that makes people rethink what they were about to say.

• he'd absolutely steal your phone when you've been doomscrolling for hours. "that's enough." you'd complain, reach for it, and he'd hold it juuust out of reach with the biggest grin on his face. "go drink water first."

• when you're walking together, he subconsciously adjusts his pace to yours. if you're distracted and drifting toward the road, he'll lightly hook a finger around your sleeve and guide you back without even interrupting the conversation.

• he's really good at reading people, so he'd notice the little things before you mention them. the fake smile. the shorter replies. the way you start picking at your rings when you're anxious. he won't ask, "are you okay?" ten times. instead he'll quietly clear your schedule if he can, hand you your favorite drink, and say, "talk whenever you're ready."

• physical reassurance comes naturally to him. a hand on the back of your neck when you're stressed. squeezing your shoulder as he walks past. resting his chin on your head while you're standing next to him. nothing dramatic—just little habits that somehow make everything feel calmer.

• he's the type to casually move you behind him without thinking if a bike comes speeding down the sidewalk or if there's a crowd pushing through, because protecting the people he cares about is almost instinctive. (please do not mistake this for him thinking you're incapable, absolutely not.)

• if you're being stubborn for absolutely no reason, he'll match your energy. "fine." "fine." ten minutes later he's standing in front of you holding out the thing you refused to let him carry earlier. "are we done?" and somehow he's smiling the whole time because he knew you'd give in eventually.

• compliments from him feel different because he doesn't throw them around every five minutes. don't get me wrong, he compliments you so well. if he tells you, "i'm proud of you," or "you handled that really well," you know he means every word. he's observant enough to notice the effort nobody else sees.

• at the end of the day, remembering the little things so you don't have to. making decisions when your brain is fried. standing in front of you when things get messy and beside you when they don't. he never makes you feel smaller,, if anything, he has this quiet way of making you feel safe enough to be completely yourself.

— FURTHERMORE . . .

"you're sulking."

"i'm not."

yeonjun looked up from his phone for maybe half a second before humming.

"you've answered every question with one word for the last ten minutes."

"...have not."

"there it is again."

you crossed your arms harder, determined to stare out the café window instead of at him.

he let the silence sit.

most people would've rushed to fill it.

yeonjun never did.

he was annoyingly patient.

"...you gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked eventually.

"nothing."

"right."

another few seconds passed.

he reached across the table, not for your hand, but for your untouched iced coffee.

he took the straw, used it to stir the drink, then slid it toward you.

"drink." followed by a "please."

you blinked.

"that wasn't an order."

"i know."

"...you're weird."

"probably.

you took a sip anyway.

he smiled to himself like he'd expected that.

"better?"

"a little."

"good."

you narrowed your eyes.

"don't do that."

"do what?"

"the... thing."

"very descriptive, baby."

"where you somehow make me do what you want."

he laughed under his breath.

"i didn't make you do anything."

"yes, you did."

"you made the decision."

"because you looked at me."

"that's usually how conversations work."

you groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table.

"you're actually impossible."

he reached over and gently flicked your forehead.

"dramatic."

"mean."

"still drinking your coffee though."

"...don't ruin this for yourself."

"too late."

he grinned.

a few minutes later, you finally admitted what had been bothering you all afternoon.

he listened without interrupting once.

when you finished, he nodded like he'd already been piecing everything together in his head.

"okay."

"okay?"

"yeah."

"that's all you have to say?"

"no."

he stood, grabbed both of your bags before you could reach for yours, and slung them over one shoulder.

"come on."

"where are we going?"

"walking."

"yeonjun—"

"you're overthinking."

he held the café door open.

"and i'm fixing it."

"...you always think you know best."

he shrugged.

"not always."

a beat.

"just most times,"

you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, but you walked through the door anyway.

he smiled to himself.

he knew you would.

[words-in-purple]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ virgin playboy | choi yeonjun | masterlist

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, in chapter warnings to apply

✧ total word count: est. 35k~

✧ status: completed

✧ playlist | main masterlist

⊹ ࣪ ˖ index

teaser

lesson one lesson two lesson three

epilogue

read on wattpad

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here

[filmsbyun]

Borrowed Walls || Choi Yeonjun

꒰🗝️꒱ Your apartment’s being renovated, leaving you without a place to stay for the night. Your childhood friend says you can crash at his place and the catch is he shares it with a flatmate. You weren’t planning on saying yes but it’s the safest and the most reasonable option you have.

⤷ ゛ This story is part of the One Bed Series .ᐟ.ᐟ

⊹ wc .ᐟ 16.8k

pairing: childhood friend!choi yeonjun x fem!reader

tags: friends to lovers, mutual pining, sexual tension, original character, attempt humour, fluff, suggestive jokes, drunk!yeonjun, drunken confession [probably missed some]

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, dry humping, nipple play, mild dirty talk, heavy petting, big dick!yeonjun, panty fucking, fingering, handjob, mututal masturbation, multiple positions, lotus position, missionary, prone bone, unprotected sex (not huzzah!), creampie (please don't), biting and marking, sweet aftercare [definitely missed some]

first fic of 2026! and also my first yeonjun fic <3 kinda nervous ngl. i have proof read it but there still might be mistakes scattered here and there so i'm really sorry for that ^^ the reference to yeonjun's outfit in the fic was this <3 Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

It occurred to you a second too late that this was going to cost you more than you’d planned for. You had always been good at anticipating consequences. This time, you’d misjudged the timing.

Well — doomed might have been an exaggerated way to phrase it, but it certainly felt that way when you were standing in the middle of what used to be your bedroom. Renovating your apartment didn’t necessarily mean you were knee deep into damnation, sure, but it was definitely up there with the list of inconveniences that made you rethink every decision you’d supposedly made with confidence.

You started out in this place four years ago, back when splitting rent with a flatmate was the only way to survive college without selling your organs on the internet. You moved out of your parents’ house with a cardboard box of belongings and a stubborn idea that you could do everything on your own. You subsisted on project work, internships, weekend shifts, tutoring jobs that paid in both cash and headaches. Thankfully, you had the scholarship money that kept your tuition from eating your rent alive.

Crazy thing is, that somehow landed you a well-paying job the moment graduation ended, and because you had the good sense your friends often accused you of weaponizing, you saved every extra penny you could. You were socking away paychecks the way other people hoarded takeout receipts. 

That frugality paid off in the most unexpected way when your landlord announced he was getting married, moving abroad, and— oh, right — selling the apartment! And as if the universe wanted to make the choice painfully convenient, your flatmate had moved out just two weeks prior to your landlord's news without so much as a goodbye party. You had waved while thinking of managing the extra rent money and how nice it would be to have the place under your name.

You were served the choice on a silver fucking platter. 

The apartment was Pinterest perfect and it was everything you had ever wanted — light that fell the way soft film light does in pictures, a ten-minute commute to your office, a block of quiet shops where you’d learned the barista by name. And the price was not a fantasy number.

So naturally, you bought it. Papers signed, small celebratory drinks taken, and spent the next few days internally screaming at the idea that you now owned property. You — who once didn’t know how to cook rice without Googling it — now legally possessed a piece of real estate. It made you feel simultaneously grown-up and like an imposter in someone else’s adult life. 

It should have been the high point of a long series of sensible choices; the problem, however, was that you had never owned a place before and therefore had no earthly idea that buying an apartment sometimes meant getting a call from the building manager about structural inspections and code compliance. You called your mother later asking for directions, and she laughed at your face before ending the call. How fun!

Not to mention, you had overlooked the single most vital part of the process that you wouldn’t be allowed to live there during the particularly loud, dusty parts of the work; you had overlooked the two-week window of demo and piping and men in fluorescent vests; you had overlooked, most catastrophically, the implication that you needed somewhere to sleep until the hammering stopped.

So yes, doomed was performative, but not untrue.

But see, you had wanted this and you’d earned it. You were also suddenly, gloriously, alarmingly unprepared for the practicalities of owning a place, which was its own kind of chaotic humility. The next logical step was obvious, of course, find a roof for a few nights. Preferably one that didn’t come with the word “hotel.” Preferably one that involved fewer fluorescent vests.

And that, by the mercy of a long-standing friendship who always returned your favors, is how the idea of crashing at Yeonjun’s — because he insisted, and because it was safe, and because your floors were about to sound like the inside of a drum — suddenly stopped being a Plan B and became the only plan you could live with.

Your lord and saviour — Choi Yeonjun — rolled up in his car on the morning of the renovation day. This dude knew when to flaunt style, stepping out of the car like some movie hero wearing sunglasses as he spotted you. A smirk and a cock of his eyebrows as he waved at you, to which your smile painfully twitched at the edges, threatened to snap into an actual scowl, while your brain did the rapid-fire calculation of whether your neighbors had the misfortune of witnessing his stupid ass and embarrassing actions. 

“Do I carry your baby first?” he called, pointing finger guns at the potted plant in your hands before pivoting one finger toward you. “Or do I carry my baby first—oomf!”

Whatever punchy line he had prepared died in a strangled squeak as you shoved the plant into his chest to make him stumble backward, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. A perfectly orchestrated disaster in slow motion. You spun away before he could weaponize his cheshire grin.

“Less talking, more helping,” you said over your shoulder. “Handle her gently. She’s seen things.”

Ushering your friend to carefully place the plant at the back of his car, you punctuated all your words and actions with a grateful, charming smile. If he was going to give you a roof over your head until your apartment came back to life, you had to be nice to him, right?

Of course, you knew deep down you didn’t have to act nice. Yeonjun had always been that friend who would show up at your door the moment you even hinted at a problem. Hard times, awkward situations, you name it — he’d be there. There was no hesitation, no ‘let me see if I can help’, no calculating pause to gauge if you deserved it. Sure, you poked fun at each other relentlessly, a constant volley of teasing and one-upmanship that made your friendship a delicate dance of ego and affection but beyond the teasing, beyond the sarcasm, beyond all the jabs that left you both laughing or wanting to rip each other’s head off, Yeonjun had seamlessly morphed into something more permanent than a childhood friend — he was family.

Still, him being so unnervingly well-behaved, so obedient and agreeable, without the faintest attempt at pissing you off was… suspicious. You told yourself to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just in a good mood! But the longer it went one, the more unsettling it became. He didn't let you lift a single thing, intercepting every bag before your hand even reached for them. He even opened the car door for you, palm resting on the roof like a gentleman so you wouldn’t bump your head. Strike two.

Then, when he mentioned taking you out for breakfast before heading to his place, it was the third streak of suspicious behavior that made your internal skeptic raise a fist. Now as a person he was polite, yes. He held doors open for strangers, tipped generously, helped aunties carry groceries without being asked. Yeonjun was a lot of things but being a gentleman with you? He had never once been this much of a gentleman around you, not in the entire twenty-plus years you’d known him. 

When he pulled your chair out for you at the cafe, you stopped pretending it wasn’t weird. This was either a setup or a prank.

You cut into your croissant sandwich, flakes scattering across the plate, you threw him a look that could slice steel.

“Yeonjun.” your tone was deceptively light.

He hummed, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his cup.

“What the fuck aren’t you telling me?”

He inhaled and choked immediately, coffee spraying into the wrong pipe, eyes watering as he grabbed for a napkin. You watched, smiling unbothered as he coughed and wheezed across from you. Someone a table over glanced at him with concern. You smiled at them too.

“God,” he rasped, dabbing at his chin, “can you be a little civil when you speak?”

“Can you noy lie by omission?” you countered, pointing your fork at him. “That face you've been making since you picked me up, and the way you’re acting, all these tell me that you did some shit and expected me to not notice.”

He pressed his lips together, debating whether to deflect or confess. But he deflated real quick under the way you were looking at him. “Okay. It's nothing bad, really.”

“I’ll decide after I hear it.”

“There’s… uh, my cousin. He’s staying over at my place for a bit.”

You paused mid-chew. Ah. That cousin. The name didn't even need to be spoken; you knew exactly which cousin he meant. The same one who used to show up at every family dinner when you and Yeonjun were kids. He was someone you found either tolerable or exhausting depending on the year. You didn’t mind him — but it did mean one thing.

“He’s in your guest room,” you said, not accusing so much as confirming it out loud.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun replied, exhaling through his nose. He pushed his cup aside and scrubbed a hand over his mouth like he was rewinding the morning to find a better entry point. “The spare’s his for now but he’s leaving in three days. I should’ve told you earlier, I know, but—” He cut himself off, rubbing his face. “I didn’t want you stressing more. And I didn’t want you trying to figure out somewhere else and ending up somewhere sketchy because you didn’t want to inconvenience me.”

You ran through the alternatives you already knew would fail. It was nearly Christmas; most of your friends were out of town for the holidays, parents were too far to make daily check-ins on the renovation feasible, and hotels were a financial joke you weren’t in the mood to entertain. 

Inconvenient as it was, he had a point.

You sighed, shaking your head once, eyes lifting back to him. “No, you’re right,” you said finally, tone even, “that this is genuinely the least terrible option I have.”

The relief that crossed his face was immediate and, frankly, humiliating. “I’ll make it up to you.” He paused, frowned, then added, “I already am, technically. Breakfast. Transportation. Emotional support. I feel like those are solid offerings.”

“Don’t push it,” you muttered, snorting as you reached back for your food, nudging a fallen flake of pastry aside with your fingertip before taking another bite. You chewed slowly, watching him as you half-expected another shoe to drop. Thank god he didn’t let it. 

Instead, he straightened in his chair, suddenly looking earnest in a way that made you wary.

“Seriously, though,” he said, clasping his hands together on the table. “You won’t feel uncomfortable, I promise. You will take my room. I’ll crash on the couch. It’s fine. I’ve slept on worse. Floors. Airport chairs. That one time in the back of a van or—” he paused, lifting a finger as a better idea struck him mid-sentence, “—I can even stay in my cousin’s room. He owes me. For, like, several things. Some of them are crimes.”

“Yeah, I don't wanna know about the last one,” you spoke solemnly, giving him a long look. Still, you were surprised by how carefully he was laying it out, as though he were afraid one wrong word might tip the balance. “Also, no, that won't be necessary,” you said, shaking your head as you felt bad when he mentioned giving up his bed. “I trust you, Yeonjun. And I’m grateful you even thought this far ahead for me.”

He nodded quickly, like he’d expected resistance. “I know. I just—listen, I don’t want you lying awake wondering if you’re being a problem. You’re not, and you’ll never be.” He reached across the table then, nudging your plate closer when he noticed you’d drifted away from it.

A funny sort of silence dawned upon you two. You gave him another long look. He returned it to you. 

“Yeonjun,” you whispered, leaning forward with your nose scrunching as if you’d just bitten into something unexpectedly sour. “This whole formality thing is getting weird. Like, physically uncomfortable.” 

He gave a long sigh of relief then leaned in too. “Right? I thought I was losing my mind, but no. No, this is wrong,” he whispered back, eyes comically wide. He dragged a hand down his arm, shivering. “It’s like my body knows this isn’t how we talk and it’s protesting.” He paused, then added scandalously, “I hate it.”

“See, this is why I like you, Jjunie. We’re always on the same page. Always,” you said in a sing-song voice. You nudged his foot lightly with your shoe under the table, not bothering to look down. “Besides, I would've kicked your ass if you hadn’t given me your place to crash.”

“Please,” he scoffed, lifting his cup for a sip. “You wouldn’t have gotten the chance. My mom would’ve beaten you to it the moment she found out.” He shook his head, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I can hear it already. ‘You had space and you let her struggle?’ Best believe I’d be dead.”

You resumed eating as you said, “I love your mom, Jun.”

Too focused on the sudden call from one of your leading renovating workers, you failed to notice the soft smile playing on his face. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun raised his mug, hiding whatever had crossed his face before you could catch it.

You barely made it past the threshold before Joonho’s arms banded around your shoulders with zero regard for physics, personal space, or the fact that you were well into your late twenties and not, in fact, a long-lost child returning from war.

The air left your lungs in a sharp rush as he squeezed, voice booming against the side of your head as he marvelled loudly at how much you’d grown, how long it had been, how he couldn’t believe you were standing here now. You returned the enthusiasm in theory only, patting his back and waiting it out as you knew resistance would only prolong the ordeal.

Oxygen was becoming a fond memory when your mental plea was answered not by Joonho, but by Yeonjun, who caught the back of his cousin’s shirt and hauled him away in one smooth motion until Yeonjun deposited him a respectable distance away. His palm still fisted in cotton like he was restraining an overexcited dog.

“Hands to yourself,” Yeonjun said mildly.

“I was welcoming her.”

“There are better ways to do that. You’re in her space, dipshit.”

Yeonjun released him, then turned to you without missing a beat, eyes flicking over your face once. He reached down, plucked your bag from beside your feet before you could argue, and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on.”

As you were about to follow him down the short hall, you paused only when Joonho snickered behind you.

“Big fan of whatever this is,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.

You glanced back at him, then at Yeonjun’s retreating figure, and decided not to make an effort to investigate. Joonho had always lived on a frequency you never quite tuned into, always spoken in sideways implications, even when you were younger. And you’d learned long ago that dissecting his words rarely led anywhere useful. Whatever he thought he was observing could remain his own private entertainment.

Yeonjun kept his promise and then some; fresh sheets stretched tight across the bed, pillowcases crisp and smooth beneath your fingers, the whole space scrubbed of any trace that it had been occupied the night before. It did not look like a guest setup hastily arranged out of obligation.

He had opened the wardrobe as well, sliding hangers aside and clearing a section that was conspicuously empty for you to keep your clothes. Yeonjun stepped back for you and leaned against the wardrobe, folding his arms as he watched you unzip your bag and begin sorting through its contents.

“You didn’t need to bring clothes, though,” he mentioned offhandedly, glancing toward the open bag as you reached for another sweater. “You could’ve just worn mine.”

You snorted, crouching lower to fish out a pair of folded jeans, smoothing them over your thigh before placing them away. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘feeling comfortable in your own skin’?” you asked, tipping your head to look at him. “Hmm?”

He shifted his stance, one heel tapping lightly against the floor as his mouth curved and he caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m fairly certain that phrase is meant to imply a totally different thing, but—”

“What I mean,” you cut in, rising to your feet with the drawer sliding shut under your palm, “is that you’ve already done more than enough.” You turned fully toward him then, hand still resting on it as if to brace the point. “You don’t need to keep adding to it or be stressed on my behalf.”

“Not stressed,” he murmured, pushing off the wardrobe and reaching past you to close the doors. The motion boxing you in for a second too long to ignore before he stepped back again. “And it’s not really extra effort.”

The evidence of his earlier feline grin was long gone. What replaced it didn’t look like seriousness so much as absence, a rare unreadable look that felt oddly out of character. 

“I just like seeing you in my clothes.”

The startling absence of empty flirtiness in his voice made your heart do a bewildered lurch. These words and antics from Yeonjun were not new to you. You had heard variations of that line before, over the years, reshaped and repackaged into jokes you both knew how to handle. This time, there was no such padding.

Scoffing, you stepped into his space planting both hands on his shoulders and turning him bodily toward the door. “Why, because they look better on me than on you?” you said lightly, nudging him forward as you laughed, giving him a final push toward the hallway. “Careful, might steal your fame as the best dressed person in every room.”

“Going ahead of yourself is, unfortunately, a flaw you should really work on—hey, ouch,” he cut himself off with a sharp hiss when you pinched the back of his arm in retaliation, turning back to glare at you over his shoulder. He tried to maintain dignity while rubbing at the spot, but the effect was ruined by the way his mouth pulled into a sulk. “That was uncalled for. Absolutely unprovoked.”

“That’s for the slander,” you said, unrepentant.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, holding his arm with pursed lips. “I open my home, my wardrobe, my heart—”

“Door,” you calmly corrected, pointing.

Thankfully whatever foreign feeling that had momentarily settled in your heart got promptly flattened by the delight you got from his reaction. With a sulking and pouting yeonjun finally leaving you alone, you unpacked taking your time. The rest of the day dissolved into motion with trips back and forth from your apartment, calls with the renovation team, photos sent, questions answered, decisions made until your head felt heavy. By the time night settled in properly, exhaustion had worked its way into your bones.

The boys floated the idea of a movie night. You declined without much thought. Yeonjun caught on immediately with just one look at you, shut Joonho off before he could protest himself hoarse, shooing you toward the hallway with an insistence that you rest. You mumbled goodnight to both of them and retreated into his room.

Sleeping anywhere other than your own bed usually left you staring at the ceiling, counting phantom shadows and waiting for rest that never quite came. You expected the same here. But despite the unfamiliarity of the space, the familiarity of his scent clinging to the subspaces clouded your senses and soon enough, lulled you into a gentle, dreamless sleep. 

You woke to the smell before you were fully awake. Hunger nudged you down the hall and into the kitchen, where roasted beef and coffee welcomed you all at once. Yeonjun stood at the counter with a paper bag torn open, unpacking takeout containers one by one. He lined them up with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still flattened in odd directions from sleep. He glanced over when you shuffled in, his mouth curving into a soft acknowledgment.

“Morning,” he said, nudging a coffee cup closer to the machine. “You sleep all right?”

You answered with a nod and stepped closer, close enough that your arm brushed his. Closer still, until you leaned into him and let your cheek rest against the solid warmth of his bicep, your eyes half-closing as you watched his hands work. You thought you felt him stiffen for a nano moment, not really putting much thought behind it when he resumed his flow of work. He was humming under his breath.

“Smells… insane,” you murmured, the words arriving late and dragged out of sleep as you reached for a fry before nibbling on it with little care for manners.

He glanced down at you, then at the fry between your fingers, and nudged the plate an inch farther from the counter’s edge with his knuckle. “You’re going to tip over,” he said, not stopping what he was doing.

“Mm,” you answered, voice muffled where it pressed into his shirt as you shifted closer instead of backing off. “Food’s taking too long. I’m supervising. Very hands-on position.”

“Ahh, important role,” he humoured you dryly. “If I mess this up, I assume there’s a formal complaint process?”

“Immediate termination,” you said, reaching for another fry and bumping his forearm in the process. “Start over. New kitchen. New cook.”

Footsteps approached, heavier and less considerate than yours had been. Joonho filled the doorway with a stretch and a yawn, pausing mid-motion when his eyes landed on the picture you made leaning into Yeonjun’s side.

“Wow,” he said, blinking once as if his brain needed a second pass. “Good morning to… this,” he added.

You didn’t bother lifting your head. “Morning to you too,” you said, reaching blindly for a fork and tapping it against the counter in his direction. “If you’re going to stare, at least make yourself useful.”

Yeonjun took the opportunity to gently step away, sliding a plate into your hands in the same motion. “Sit down,” he told you, gesturing toward the chair. “I’ll get you your coffee.”

Joonho snorted, grabbing a sandwich and already taking a bite. “Funny to see you two play house in your grown age.”

You dropped into the chair, blinking up at them both. “I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. Calm down.”

“Twenty-four hours is plenty,” Joonho replied, reaching for the napkins and dragging the whole stack toward himself. “People have made worse life decisions faster.”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue under his breath as he poured the coffee, before sliding it across the counter toward you without looking. “Like how you once agreed to a group trip after knowing people for twelve hours, Joonho? Should I remind you that financial recovery took months?” he said, giving his cousin a flat look. 

You wrapped both hands around the mug the second it reached you. The heat pressed into your palms as you leaned back in the chair. Your eyes drifted between them while the kitchen filled with their cacophonies of back-and-forth jabs. You smiled to yourself because some things truly never change.

That noon found you folded into the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced on your thighs as you sorted through your work emails. Joonho had left the house an hour ago, and Yeonjun had mentioned — almost in passing — that he’d shower before heading out to work. You reached for your phone to cross-check a note and came up empty-handed, the absence registering slowly and you frowned after patting the cushion beside you, then the coffee table, then the pocket of your cardigan. You then remembered that you’d set it down on Yeonjun’s bed earlier, right before you wandered back out to the living room with your coffee.

You could still hear the water running so you figured announcing yourself wasn't necessary as you nudged his door open with your shoulder, eyes already sweeping the bed in search of your phone. Spotting it near the pillow you crossed the room quickly, you grabbed it just as the bathroom door opened behind you.

Yeonjun stepped out with a towel thrown over one shoulder, skin still dewy and sweatpants riding low on his hips, droplets tracing idle paths down his chest as he scrubbed at his hair with the towel. His movements were thoughtless until his gaze lifted and landed on you, stalling mid-rub.

“Oh—” The word left you only after you looked up from the bed and actually took him in, phone clutched loosely in your hand. “Sorry. I was just grabbing my phone. I didn’t think you’d be out yet.”

He scrambled to make a sound that sounded like it had been meant as a laugh and didn’t quite make it. Shifting his stance he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged them a fraction higher. He turned away a little like he was giving you space.

“No, it’s—yeah. You’re fine,” he replied.

Now, the only sensible option would have been to retrieve your phone and retreat, to give your friend of over two decades space to finish getting dressed, right? You were about to do it, you swear. Yet, your feet stalled where they were and your attention stayed anchored on him in a way that felt mildly inconvenient because while Yeonjun shirtless was hardly a new visual in the long archive of your shared history (memories stacked with sunburnt afternoons and public pools, shared vacations involving Yeonjun shirtless in some capacity, borrowed shirts tossed at your face) — none of that had ever felt strange. The version of him standing there now carried angles and proportions your memory lagged behind on.

You knew he worked out; you’d heard him complain about sore muscles, had teased him about protein shakes crowding the fridge, endured the commentary about macros and sleep cycles with the indulgence reserved for habits that had always been his. None of this was new. But, what was new was the geometry of him now. Your brain took an extra second to update its internal file on him around the fact that his body no longer matched the version it had filed away a few months ago — definition etched where there used to be softness, shoulders carrying a broader span, and that he looked… bigger, in a way that demanded attention.

“Did you—” you began, then paused, redirecting mid-thought as your gaze traced the shallow grooves along his stomach while he shifted to face you. “Have you been working out lately? Because —” you gestured at him, gaze openly evaluative in a way that had never felt off-limits between you. “— holy shit. You look big.”

His mouth curved before he could stop it, teeth flashing in a brief, reflexive grin as he glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Yeah,” he said, bracing one hip against the edge of the dresser, the motion pulling a subtle flex through his torso. “I’ve been more consistent. Work’s been a lot lately, so I figured I’d channel it somewhere useful.”

“Makes sense,” you murmured, already closing the remaining space, your curiosity steering you forward with no sense of consequence, fingers pressing into his upper arm. You squeezed once, then again, brows knitting with genuine interest. Even when he wasn't flexing, his muscles were so well defined that it almost resembled a sculpture, so tenderly pleasing to the eye. “Damn,” you added softly to yourself. “This couldn’t have been easy to get.”

You were standing so close that the residual warmth from the shower still rolling off him reached you without effort, bleeding into the small space between you. He drew a breath through his nose, shoulders lifting and lowering with it as he adjusted his footing again, fingers regripping the towel. “It wasn’t,” there was pure honesty in the way he spoke. “It did take a while, almost gave up halfway through. Hasn't been easy, yeah.”

“The hard work definitely paid off, Jun. You look incredible.” You hummed, still distracted and testing the muscle under your thumb, then gave a small nod like you’d reached a satisfying conclusion. “I mean, you could probably pick me up and toss me across the room if you wanted.”

You looked up only after the sentence cleared your mouth, catching the way he cocked a brow as his gaze dropped to your hand and then climbed back to your face. The flush at his ears looked deeper up close, spreading across his cheekbones that made you briefly wonder if the water had been hotter than usual, because surely that had to be it. A corner of his mouth slowly tipped upward, and he leaned in just enough for heat to register.

“You’d like that, huh?”

There was a sudden flip that rippled through your stomach as your fingers flexed around his muscle, and you were acutely aware of how close he was now —  you could count the faint freckles at his shoulder, close enough that your gaze traced down his chest before you caught yourself and brought it back up, a strange recalibration happening as your mind still struggled to place this version of him into a category that made sense.

It wasn’t that he looked different so much as the fact that you were seeing him differently… again. Noticing proportions, noticing presence, noticing how little distance there actually was between you, and the awareness made your breath hitch to be baffling and — oh, god. You must've been crazy.

Whatever this moment was, it stretched past its welcome before he was the one to break it, stepping away with a quick motion. That sent a ripple of cooler air across your skin as he reached for the shirt draped over the chair, pulling it on with brisk efficiency. You let air fill your lungs once more.

“Anyway,” he said, already moving past you toward the hall, grabbing his wallet from the counter as he glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve gotta head out and do the grocery run. Joonho’s dead set on cooking tonight, so I can’t bail out.”

And by the time you could come up with a properly formed sentence, the main door’s closing sound echoed through the house. You stood there in the middle of the room, phone clutched between your fingers as you frowned and shook your head once, then again, like that might settle whatever had been stirred loose. But it didn't shake off the jittery feelings still infesting your insides.

Joonho came back not long after Yeonjun left. Tossing his keys lazily onto the counter he announced that his boss had apparently decided that becoming a new father was reason enough to let everyone clock out early, which you accepted with polite skepticism until he held up a paper bag sagging with baked goods. He unloaded the story between bites of custard-filled bread and sips of tea. That is until the sugar crash nudged you back toward responsibility and your laptop, relocating yourself on the dining table while Joonho occupied the sofa.

You’d barely settled back into work when your phone buzzed, Yeonjun’s name lighting up the screen. You answered, shoulder tilting to pin the phone there as you scanned a line of text on your screen.

“Hey,” you said absently, typing.

“Okay, quick question,” he started, and there was a gravity to his tone that made you squint, “I need you to tell me if this sounds right.”

That alone was concerning. 

“Okay,” you encouraged. “Go on.”

“There’s this packet of red chillies,” he continued, voice careful, “five pieces. Thirty thousand won per pound. That’s… normal, right?”

Your fingers stopped moving. Your brain, for a brief and merciful second, did too.

Thirty thousand for five fucking chillies.

The neurons in your head cycled through the numbers once, twice, like a buffering screen, searching desperately for context that would make this sentence make sense. Because surely this was a joke, or he had misread the tag, or Yeonjun was annoying you on purpose. Yes. That had to be it.

Choi Yeonjun could not possibly be standing in a grocery store, contemplating financial ruin over five sad little chillies. He was a grown man with a job and a functioning life. He could not possibly be asking you, with sincerity, whether five chillies were worth that much money.

“You—” you began, then stopped, unable to form a proper speech, “where did you even find five chillies for thirty thousand?”

From the couch, Joonho muted the television without looking at you, his attention suddenly razor-focused on the conversation.

On the other end, you heard the rustle of plastic. “It’s this stall near the entrance. Oh, they’re imported,” Yeonjun said, as if that explained everything.“They look good. Like, actually good. Not wrinkly. And the guy says they’re fresh.”

You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling through your mouth. Fresh. That was his defense. Okay, so maybe the frontal lobe development had, in fact, skipped a step.

“Yeonjun,” you said, voice still level. “Why are you even standing there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why are you considering it?” You were now rising from your chair and beginning to pace. “Yeonjun, please listen to me. This is how people get scammed. Put them back.”

“You sure?” he asked, genuine concern threading his voice. “Because they look really—”

“No, no, no. Why are you still standing there? I’m begging you to use your brain for two seconds and put that back,” you cut in, stopping short by the window before beginning to pace again.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by a faint shuffle.

“Are you freaking out about the price?” he asked, trying to soothe you. “It’s okay, I can afford it.”

You stopped walking. You were about to need more patience than this.

“That’s not the point!” you snapped, words tumbling out faster now. “The point is that just because you can afford to get scammed doesn’t mean you should. Do you know how much chilli powder you could buy with that? Paste! An entire plant! You could grow your own for that money.”

“Okay, but these are whole—”

“No!” you cried out with an exasperated sigh. “No, don’t ‘whole’ me. This is not about whole versus powdered. This is about you standing in a market, looking at five vegetables, and thinking, yeah, this seems reasonable.”

“Alright, alright.” He laughed softly, the sound carrying through the line. It felt funny in your chest. “No need to panic.”

“I’m being practical,” you shot back, dragging a hand through your hair. “There’s a difference. Please. I’m asking you. Step away from the chillies.”

“I’ll then get some paste.”

“Yes,” you said immediately, collapsing back into your chair. “Or powder. Or nothing. Honestly, nothing is preferable to this.”

The call ended not long after, Yeonjun promising to text you before buying anything else, and you let your phone drop into your lap, staring at the ceiling for a moment as the leftover headache ebbed. If the universe had decided that you were meant to orbit a man who could be trusted with big things but not small, overpriced ones, then so be it. You’d known him long enough to accept that trade-off. Someone whose nonsense still brought a reluctant fondness out of you even as it shaved years off your lifespan.

“You should marry him.”

Whisplashed, you gawked at Joonho. He had said it without looking over, eyes still on the muted television as his fingers reached into the paper bag on the table, fishing for another pastry.

“Then he wouldn’t be doing stupid shit like this,” he added, sounding pragmatic rather than provocative.

“Dude—what?” You barked out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t caught awkwardly in your throat. “Where did that even come from?”

He glanced up then, brows lifting just a notch as if he were surprised you hadn’t already arrived there yourself. “I’m serious,” he said then added, “I’m surprised, actually.” 

“Surprised about what?” you still couldn’t conceal the bewilderment.

“Now, why do you sound surprised?” he pointed a finger at you. You figured he might have guessed you’d stay quiet until he gave you a proper explanation. Luckily, he gave you one. “Think about it. You’ve known him forever. You already manage his life half the time.” 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So?”

“From watching the two of you for most of my life,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m honestly surprised you two never dated. Not in high school, not in university. People with half your history usually screw it up at least once just to get it out of their system.”

You let out a frustrated snort as you crossed your arms, shaking your head. “Absolutely not. That is not how that works. That’s not how anything works.”

Joonho watched you for a beat before inquiring, tone unchanged. “You’ve really never thought about marrying him? Like, not even once?”

You were ready with rebuttals you’d used a hundred times. Timing had never lined up — that was always the first excuse. Friendship was safer, the second. And there were lines that once crossed couldn’t be redrawn, which was reason enough to stop before anything began.

But nothing came out. Because instead, your mind slid sideways into territory it had always avoided, and suddenly there he was not as your childhood friend calling from a grocery aisle, but as a constant presence folded into the mundane architecture of your life.

You imagined waking up in the muted light of early morning, the fragrance of brewed coffee curling through the kitchen as Yeonjun shuffled around in one of his beloved tank tops; the mundane comfort of scrambled eggs and toast punctuated by lazy smiles exchanged over mismatched mugs. You saw yourself bundled in his jacket for grocery runs that ended with impulse snacks tossed into the cart. The shared fatigue of evenings where you came home at different times but always ended up in the same place, and the nights blurred into soft, whispered conversations before sleep.

And in every scenario, there was the brief yet startling intimacy of sharing a kiss. It didn’t leave you shaken, rather it left a sweet aftertaste in the palate of your thoughts. Despite how much you denied, you knew it wasn’t just  a sweeping vision. It was nothing cinematic nor inflated because it arrived in pieces, ordinary enough to feel borrowed from a life you could plausibly live. 

“Ah, there it is!” Joonho snapped his fingers and leaned back against the couch. “That faraway look. It’s a nice picture, isn’t it?” A pause, then a crooked smile. “You’re picturing it right now. I can tell. Wild that you two never did the whole childhood‑promise nonsense. Pinky swears, wedding vows at seven years old, not even a ‘if we’re still single at thirty’ deal. Feels like a missed cliché, honestly.”

“Yeah, well,” you replied too quickly, reaching for your mug and lifting it to your lips before realizing it was empty, the ceramic knocking lightly against your teeth. You set it down gently. “That stuff exists in movies for a reason.”

Joonho remained silent then began folding the top of the paper bag shut. “I’m not trying to push you, but you really never thought about it?” then he stole a quick glance at you. “Because you didn’t say no.”

You seriously cannot be thinking about Yeonjun this way after all these years.

Again.

The lack of speech from you wasn’t making the space empty; it was getting full of all the unsaid and unexpressed feelings you had harboured for your childhood friend years ago in your younger days. Yes, you had thought about it. No, you had never acted on it, because cowardice had been easier than loss. You had decided, over and over, that wanting him was a risk you couldn’t afford, that Yeonjun mattered too much to gamble on a crush you’d once dismissed as juvenile and temporary, even when it wasn’t. You couldn’t risk altering the shape of your life with him. So you learned how to live alongside it until it dulled into background noise.

You had dated men who were good, men who listened and showed up and treated you with respect, men who looked good beside you and fit neatly into your life. You had done everything to replace the habit of thinking about Yeonjun.

But none of them were Yeonjun, and none of them ever would be. His ghost was bound to forever haunt you.

Even more now that Joonho brought up the topic and awakened latent emotions. The thought, once placed, refused to leave.

“I…” You exhaled, the word thinning into nothing. You still couldn’t say the truth, so you reached for the closest thing that sounded acceptable. “I don’t know.”

So, as it turned out, letting your feelings crawl back to the surface and sit there had consequences, chief among them the fact that you were now painfully alert to Yeonjun’s presence in a way you hadn’t been in years. 

That was exactly what you had been dealing with since your last talk with Joonho. Now, you were even more knee deep into this war with yourself as you stared down at your phone, the college batch group chat hollering with enthusiasm about a pre‑Christmas gathering tonight. Names you knew too well kept chiming in with zeal and inside jokes resurfaced that felt almost contagious. You had never been a difficult person to exist around; you didn’t collect grudges, didn’t leave messes behind you in the form of unresolved conflicts. There was no reason not to go and the longer you scrolled, the harder it became to justify sitting this one out without sounding evasive, even to yourself.

Except there was still one very real problem you kept circling back to.

The couch dipped beside you as Yeonjun dropped down with his thigh brushing your knee. The scent of his shampoo crowded your senses.

“Did you check the chat?” Yeonjun asked, already craning his neck closer, his arm stretching out behind you along the backrest.

“That’s literally what I’m looking at,” you replied, tilting the phone slightly so he could see, even as your awareness narrowed to the point of contact between you. 

“Oh,” he said, drawn‑out, almost pleased. “Do you want to go?”

You stayed silent a beat too long because you were still unsure if you could squeeze it into your agenda. Yeonjun caught the hesitation immediately. He shifted so he could look at your face instead of the phone. 

“You don’t want to?” he asked slowly. Then quicker, before you could answer, “It’s fine if you don’t. I won’t go either. We can stay in, order takeout, talk about how annoying everyone was in college—”

“No, wait,” you cut in, sitting upright. You gestured vaguely with your phone. “It’s just… I don’t know,” you said, which had become a familiar placeholder lately. 

Yeonjun raised his brows with a small nod, patient with you as he always is. 

“I do want to go. I’m just thinking about the renovation mess. My workload has swelled into something unwieldy with year‑end deadlines looming, and I don’t want to spend the whole night half‑present, and everything feels a little—” You stopped yourself, then glanced at him. “Besides, what do you mean you'd sit out for me if I didn't go? Don’t say things like that.”

He shrugged, too casual for the way his eyes stayed on your face. “I mean exactly what I said.”

You stared back at him, incredulous. “I could never let you do that, idiot. You should go if you want to. Your friends miss you—I’m sure of it.”

There was a beat where he didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned forward with elbows on his knees as he tilted his face to stare up at you. There was a faint crease between his brows.

“You’re more important to me,” he said plainly. 

The look in his eyes translated as if the answer was an obvious fact rather than something that sent your thoughts skidding.

“Oh,” you managed, and before you could find your footing again, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“But I do think you should come with me,” he said. “We’ll go together. You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. I can help with the rest—your workload, the apartment, whatever you need, you know that, right? You deserve to have fun.”

“Yeah,” you said finally, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

You had to stop by your apartment first. Everything you’d brought to Yeonjun’s place had been chosen for convenience and nothing meant to be seen outside of errands and long days. Tonight called for winter-appropriate and a presentable version of yourself. You registered what Yeonjun had worn. Faded gray jeans, a white shirt pulled neat beneath a red tie and above it a black jacket. 

Yeonjun lingered in your living room while you changed. When you stepped back out, his attention followed you and stayed there.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you answered, shrugging into your coat while you checked that you hadn’t forgotten anything obvious.

“You look beautiful,” he said, grabbing the keys from the table and tossing them once into his palm, “you’re about to make people regret not seeing you more often.”

You scoffed, though heat crept up your neck as you stepped past him toward the door. “Save it. Sweet talk isn’t getting you out of driving tonight,” you said, toeing off your shoes to trade them for boots. 

“Please.” He laughed, holding the door open as you stepped into the cold, breath fogging between you. “Wouldn’t even dream of it, pretty.”

The car sealed you both inside against the cold the moment you shut the door, and you exhaled a shiver in comfort as the heater kicked on under Yeonjun’s quick adjustment of the controls. You fiddled with the music player while he drove to your destination. At a red light, he pointed out a bakery you both used to skip classes for. You told him it still sucked. He said you were lying. Neither of you followed it up.

By the time you arrived the voices and music had swallowed the night whole. Faces you hadn’t seen in years surfaced all at once, hugs exchanged, names called across the room as people stepped forward to participate in the greeting. Yeonjun barely made it three steps before someone clapped a hand against his back and dragged him away, then another voice called his name, then another, leaving you standing with your own circle as he was absorbed into his. He turned back to look for you instinctively as if to check you’d found your footing, and you gave him a small nod, a wordless assurance that you were fine.

“I’ll find you,” he promised, raising his voice slightly over the noise.

You laughed, waving him off. “Go. You’re clearly in demand.”

Much later, across the room when you were done with dinner, your eyes met. He had a drink in hand now, jacket gone, hair no longer sitting quite the way it had earlier, and you lifted your brows in a silent check-in. He smiled back in all teeth before someone leaned into his space again and pulled his attention elsewhere.

“Are you seeing anyone these days, or is work still your tragic soulmate?”

You were sharing a table with three other women you hadn’t seen properly since graduation. It was Mina who sent the question your way while nudging your elbow with hers, eyes bright with wine and curiosity.

You huffed a laugh as you reached for your drink. “Work’s winning by a humiliating margin,” you said, taking a sip before setting it back down and wiping a thumb along the rim. “I don’t even think I’m putting up a fight.”

“That tracks,” Hana chimed in. Her tone carried a dry affection as she was someone who’d watched you live like this for years. “You were always like that. We thought you’d mellow out after uni, but somehow you got worse.”

“N-no, she dated,” Jieun cut in far too eagerly (and drunkenly) before you could respond. The wine in her glass dangerously sloshed as she lifted her hand in defense of your reputation. “I saw pictures. Ni—ce pictures. She had—had a boyfriend. The last one. What was his name?” She squinted at you as though the answer might be written on your face. You smiled unhelpfully at her. “Joohyuk? Joohyuk, right? Yeah. Him. Shame you broke up. I liked him.” 

Mina groaned and reached over to push Jieun back into her seat. “You sound like you were dating him yourself. Use your words properly before you get yourself in trouble.”

You had to stifle a laugh as you watched Jieun’s eyes comically widen followed by a disgruntled Mina giving her an earful and Hana’s atrocious cackle. Oh, how you missed this.

“No—no, I didn’t mean it like that!” Jieun protested, waving both hands, then stopping to grip the edge of the table for balance. “I meant he was good. For her. As a person. I’m not stealing anyone’s man,” she rushed, then looked at you with genuine concern. “You know what I mean, right?”

“I know,” you said, laughing as you slid Jieun’s glass a little farther from the table’s edge before it could become a casualty. “You’re safe, Jieun. Don’t worry. But please sit properly, you're going to give me a heart attack if you fall off.” 

The clatter of surrounding voices bled into the gaps as someone nearby laughed too loudly. You took your time before speaking again, fingers resting loosely around your glass as your gaze met Mina’s before drifting to Hana.

“It wasn’t a bad breakup. We talked it through instead of letting it rot, and we both knew whatever we had wasn’t taking us anywhere we wanted to go.” You smiled and sipped on your drink as you told them. “He’s a good man. Just not the right one for me, and I think he knew that too.”

Mina listened with her chin propped on her knuckles, then nodded once, thoughtful. “Honestly, it feels like everyone either married their first serious partner or walked away from dating entirely and hasn’t recovered since.”

Hana’s attention snagged on something past your shoulder. She tracked movement across the room before returning her focus to you.

“Speaking of nothing sticking,” she said, lowering her voice slightly, “have you noticed Yeonjun’s pattern?”

His name cut clean through the pleasant haze of wine you’d settled into. “What pattern?” you asked with the same smile, curiosity worn lightly rather than forced.

“Oh my god,” Mina said at once, scooting her chair closer with a scrape that drew the table tighter together, her forearm sliding across the wood as she leaned in. “I forgot how popular he is. Didn’t he date, like… a lot?” She rolled her wrist vaguely, as though quantity mattered less than the impression it left.

“Not a lot,” Hana countered, brow pinching as she tried to sort memory from hearsay. “Just— often, I guess? It never lasted though. A month, maybe less. You’d blink and suddenly he was single again.” She shrugged.

“I’ve heard that too,” Mina added, lips pursing as she considered her wording, eyes flicking briefly toward the crowd before returning to you. “He’s kind of… how do I say this nicely.” She paused, eyes narrowing in thought before she gave a small, apologetic smile. “A bit of a heartbreaker.”

“A player,” jieun quietly supplied from beside you, drunk beyond senses.

You listened without interrupting, watching the condensation trail down the side of your glass before you brushed it away with your thumb. In that pause you recognized how little the conversation stirred you. A strange sense of distance was all you felt because what they were trading wasn’t Yeonjun so much as a shorthand version of him, assembled from overheard endings and retold assumptions. 

Aside from feeling distant, there was also relief in understanding that distinction, in knowing that the version of him they were dissecting had never belonged to you in the first place.

They liked Choi Yeonjun as a name that moved through rooms. They liked the idea of him by talking about him as if he were a concept instead of a person you’d shared scraped knees, late-night calls, and entire versions of your life with. They didn’t know him as the one whose first relationship faded because they were barely old enough to know what they were asking of each other, and whose second ended because trust was broken on the other side, not his. Nothing beyond that except him trying, stepping back when it didn’t fit, never keeping anyone where they didn’t want to stay.

You knew he wouldn’t care about being reduced to rumor, because he’d said it more than once that people would talk anyway and he didn’t want anyone bleeding on his behalf. Still, childhood loyalty had its own habits. There were lines you wouldn’t let be crossed, even casually, even here.

“I think people confuse brevity with carelessness,” you said, reaching for another snack and nudging the bowl toward Hana as you did. “If a relationship isn’t working, ending it sooner can look messy from the outside, especially when no one’s around for the conversations that come before or after.”

You glanced around the table. Resting your cheek on your palm, your smile widened when you saw Hana looking at you with an apologetic look. The look carried both acknowledgement and embarrassment, the subtle admission that she had overstepped in speaking of someone she didn’t fully know, someone who had meant enough to you to warrant respect.

“And it’s interesting,” you added, tilting your head slightly, “how easy it is to talk about someone when you haven’t actually bothered to see them beyond the image everyone else paints. You can repeat labels and summaries and assume you know the whole story, but it rarely reflects the truth of the person themselves.”

Mina lowered her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek before shaking her head. “God, you’re right. I went ahead of myself with the rush of this conversation… I shouldn’t have said that. Honestly, I wouldn’t feel good if anyone talked about me like that, so I should be more careful.”

“Yeonjun’s always been pretty upfront with people. That tends to get mistaken for a lot of things it isn’t,” you spoke lightly, glancing at Jieun, who had succumbed to slumber halfway through the discussion due to her drunken state. 

You didn't feel the necessity to stretch this conversation further. They admitted their fault and you defended your friend. The win was yours. With that settled, you steered the banter back toward lighter topics. Time slipped past unnoticed until the sudden glance at your watch made you realize that midnight was nearly upon you, and Yeonjun was nowhere within your line of sight. His absence tugged at your attention with a strange urgency. You excused yourself, sliding out of the chair and weaving toward the terrace.

Your shoulder bumped lightly against someone. You looked up to find Beomgyu, one of Yeonjun’s old friends, grinning at you. You exchanged a few light pleasantries before you asked with a small furrow of your brow if he had seen Yeonjun, noting that your calls had gone unanswered. Beomgyu’s expression shifted with a slight frown as he recounted that Yeonjun had been at the bar earlier, that he’d seemed fine then, maybe a little too enthusiastic about refills. You thanked him before letting him go to his own circle. Your gaze swept across the room before it landed on the bar tucked along the far wall.

He was there exactly as Beomgyu had said, hunched over the counter with a half-finished glass beside him. The sight nudged a fond exhale out of you as you crossed the remaining distance and took the stool beside him.

“You’re really dead set on making me drive us back, huh?” you asked, observing his reaction. 

Yeonjun’s head lifted, his gaze hazy yet catching yours with a slow widening of eyes as though he just realized you were there. The spark in them was dulled by drink but somehow still present, like embers beneath ash

“Oh,” he breathed, the word soft and warm as he leaned closer without thinking, his elbow slipping on the polished surface before he caught himself, “there you are,” then he folded again, cheek pressed to his forearm.

“So much for saying you’d find me,” you mused, eyes glinting as you mirrored his action and let the side of your head rest on your folded arm over the bar.

“Hi, love,” he sweetly drawled, voice thick with the haze of intoxication. He smiled dazedly at you, shifting his head only slightly so he could keep looking at you.

You couldn’t help the small coo of exasperation that slipped out, sitting upright and reaching to rake your fingers through the strands of his hair. “Hi,” you said softly, allowing your tone to mirror the warmth and care threaded through your touch, noting how his eyelids fluttered closed at the contact.

He hummed with the same stupid smile. How much did he drink to be this wasted? You were already counting the ways this night was ending with you behind the wheel. Good thing you had only one glass of wine.

He cracked one eye open, watching you from beneath his lashes before he frowned slightly, squinting at the space between you. “Too far,” he murmured, voice slurring. “Need you closer.”

He reached out, fingers wrapping around the side of your stool and with an easy pull he brought you closer until your knees brushed the edge of the counter and your hip pressed into his side. The lopsided smile returned on his plush, pink lips.

“Mhhm. Better.” 

The strength was casual yet intimate that it pulled a catch from your chest you hadn’t anticipated. It occurred to you a second later just how attractive that was. It was messing with your head.

“Jun, let’s go home.” You caressed his cheek. “Yeah?” 

But he didn’t seem like he was registering your words.

"Hey," he slurred, but somehow still gentle. "You… you're, uh, you’re so pretty," he continued, blinking at you as though it was the most profound revelation of the night. "Like, you’re so beautiful, you know that?"

You stifled a laugh, amused but also slightly worried as you reached out to straighten the collar of his shirt. You had seen him like this before, but tonight, there was something more raw about it.

“I know,” you teased with a hint of tenderness in your words. “I’m pretty sure you’ve told me before.”

He shook his head, a goofy grin spreading across his face as he sat up again, and leaned toward you, almost tripping over his own feet from the tool. You had to suppress another laugh, but your heart was full watching him act so carefree and so uninhibited.

“No, no,” he argued, shaking his head. “I mean like, really pretty. You’re… you're so pretty, it’s like…” He paused, his brow furrowing as though searching for the right words, but only the most basic thoughts slipped out. “It’s like you’re glowing. Like… an angel or something. I don’t know how anyone can look at you and not… not, like, fall in love with you.”

Your smile locked in place, then faltered, and then slipped away altogether as his words echoed back at you in pieces that refused to arrange themselves into anything sensible. Could he possibly be mistaking you for someone else? Seeing through you instead of at you, that somewhere in the crowd there was another woman he’d confused you for after too many drinks? 

But his attention didn’t drift, didn’t waver, didn’t go looking for anyone else. It stayed locked on you. 

“You’re drunk.” You aimed for reason, though the end of the sentence softened despite your effort. “You don’t mean that.”

He frowned at you as if you’d spoken a language he didn’t recognize. You watched his expression go pliant, noticed the slight stagger in the way his shoulders adjusted as he tried to keep himself upright on the stool but still gazed at you with such intensity that it made your heart race. His eyes were glossy like he was tearing up at the way you spoke to him.

“No,” he said firmly. “I do mean it. I’m, like… so in love with you, you don’t even know. Like— right here.” He pressed his palm clumsily to his chest, missing the mark and correcting himself with a breathless laugh. “I’m so in love with you, it makes my chest hurt, but in a good way. I can’t even explain it, it’s like… every time I see you, I feel like I’m falling all over again, over and over. It’s so much. I can’t keep it in anymore.”

“You—” you tried, leaning forward instinctively as his balance tipped toward you. Yuo could see the earnestness in his eyes even as they were clouded with alcohol. His breathing was stuttered, bottom lip plush and glistening as his tongue swept across it absentmindedly.

He reached out, clumsily touching your cheek first before finding its place properly. “I don’t care if it sounds stupid,” he muttered, the sentence breaking when he swallowed. “I’m so in love with you. I just... I just want you to know that. I need you to know.”

You had always thought drunken confessions were a convenient excuse for honesty rather than proof of it, because it seemed impossible that anyone could loosen their guard so completely that every carefully tucked-away feeling spilled out all at once, raw and unfiltered and beyond retrieval. You were so wrong. It was unfathomable that your childhood friend, the boy who knew every phase of you and whom you had loved far longer than you ever admitted even to yourself, just laid his heart out to you.

You took a deep breath trying to keep your composure and to remind yourself where you were and who you were being in this moment. But your heart was racing, your stomach doing flips.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” you said softly, as you guided his hand away from your face, not pushing it aside but redirecting it to rest against the bar. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in a gesture meant to steady him more than anything else. 

He shook his head like a child. “No. I won’t. I can’t.”

You weren’t going to take advantage of this. This was a topic reserved for when you are both sober and can make decisions for yourselves. 

“Well, aren’t you a charmer,” you teased, brushing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead when it slipped into his eyes again. “But I don’t think you’re going to remember a single word of this in the morning. Tell me again when you’re sober, okay?”

He grinned, nodding far too eagerly in agreement. “No way I’ll forget. I’ll tell you again tomorrow, I promise.”

In that moment, you knew that no matter how silly the situation was, it didn’t matter. Because in his eyes, in the vulnerable honesty of his words, you could see the truth. And you would hold onto that, even if it was a little messy, a little imperfect. Even if it was drunk.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, Yeonjun had gone pliant in the passenger seat with his head tipped awkwardly toward the window. It told you sleep had already taken him halfway. You killed the engine, sat for a moment to let the silence settle, then reached for your phone and called Joonho downstairs.

Getting him inside took coordination more than strength. You wondered how Joonho carried him on his back because the latter was much bigger than him. You were grateful he still managed to do it. You followed close behind, peeling off Yeonjun’s shoes and tugging his socks loose, gathering what you could before they became obstacles. Once you were thoroughly satisfied that he was comfortable in his bed, you allowed yourself a final glance at his face before gently closing the door behind you. You decided to take the couch for tonight.

When Joonho was about to leave for his room, you called his name. “About me and Yeonjun… well,” you started, faltering as you searched for a clean way through the mess in your head.

Joonho turned slowly, watching you with far too much patience. “Did he…?” he prompted, leaving the rest open for you to fill in.

You narrowed your eyes at him, exhaustion sharpening your voice. “You knew?”

His grin was unapologetic, wide, and entirely too pleased. It answered everything. 

In a way you were glad you didn’t have to explain everything from the beginning. Turned out, Joonho had always been watching the two of you dancing around each other in ways that weren’t only just visible to the two of you. His satisfaction at finally hearing you admit it was truly a sight to see. Over a bottle of wine, the two of you talked.

You went to sleep that night feeling oddly settled, your doubts dulled by Joonho’s reassurance and the simple relief of having said it to someone out loud. You couldn't say the same thing for Yeonjun though. Because early in the morning, you had to leave for your place to oversee the renovation work in person, trusting Joonho to handle Yeonjun’s inevitable hangover.

You wouldn’t be meeting Yeonjun until night. The knowledge followed you through the latter half of the day like a tenacious hum in your mind, growing louder with every passing hour of the year-end closing shift. By the time you finally clocked out and stepped into the evening air, the nervous energy had settled so deeply into you that it felt almost juvenile, a jittery awareness that made you scoff at yourself for feeling like a teenager again when you had lived so much more life than that. 

The text from Joonho arrived just as you were merging onto the road home, announcing he wouldn’t be back until morning, capped with a teasing line about doing whatever you two wanted in the empty house. Having the place to yourselves should not have made your pulse kick the way it did (yet it did) and you exhaled through a short laugh that did nothing to calm the way your fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel.

The apartment lights were on when you arrived. You toed off your shoes and followed the sounds of movement into the kitchen, where Yeonjun stood by the counter as he reheated dinner he clearly hadn’t eaten. He startled when he noticed you, bumping against the counter and reaching too quickly for a glass.

“Oh—you’re home,” he stuttered as he filled it with water before setting it down between you without lifting his eyes. “You must be starving! I, um—I didn’t know what you’d want, so I just—there’s food, if you’re hungry. Or we can—you don’t have to eat now. I mean. Later is fine too.”

He glanced toward you, then immediately back to what he was doing. The counter between you a narrow barrier that felt intentional even if neither of you had named it. You reached for the glass he’d offered, watching how his gaze fixed stubbornly on the microwave timer instead of your face.

“You’re awfully bad at keeping promises,” you said lightly as you took a sip.

It was meant as an airy remark to gauge his reaction. You smiled into the rim of the glass because you were already certain, from the way his shoulders tightened, that he remembered last night in full.

The silence was punctuated by the low hum of the microwave which suddenly felt too loud. Yeonjun exhaled hard as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, finally glancing your way before dropping his eyes again.

“Sorry, I, uh—” he started at once, turning the apology over itself before it could land properly. “I drank way too much. I shouldn’t have disappeared like that, and you had to come find me, and then you drove us back when it should’ve been me—I swear I didn’t plan to—” He stopped, swallowing, voice lowering as if he were afraid of the next part even existing out loud. “I… must’ve said something. Last night.”

You nodded slowly, appearing composed on the surface but inside you were folding in on yourself because there was no artifice in him at all — just this tall, capable man suddenly reduced to nervous hands and a voice that kept tripping over itself.

His restlessness mellowed out the jitter buzzing under your skin, smoothed it down into something more daring. You felt the urge to poke at him gently, to test how much space there was for play between the two of you now. You almost did, but you held yourself back when you noticed the way he still kept refusing to meet your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to put that on you,” he said, shaking his head as if he was disappointed in himself. “I know it wasn’t fair, especially like that. If I crossed a line—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m not going to talk about it unless you’re sure you want to.” 

You had waited before. You could wait again. You would not chase what hadn’t been chosen — even if every part of you hoped he would turn around on his own.

The smile you offered him was soft and open, assuring him that you meant what you said, and with that you moved around the island. You intended to give him space, to let him breathe, to let the moment pass if it needed to.

You barely made it a step past him before his hand closed around your wrist.

“I meant every single word I said.”

He didn’t face you.

A shiver ran across you at the sound of his voice pitched lower like that, starting at your shoulders and spreading down your arms. Your breath left you in a controlled exhale though your heart had started misbehaving entirely.

“Then look at me,” you said gently.

A soft instruction rather than a demand — one he ignored by keeping his gaze fixed ahead and his shoulders only lifted with a shallow breath. You stepped closer, lifting your free hand to his face, your fingers fitting along his jaw. You guided him toward you without force, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.

“Do you remember,” you began, keeping your voice light as your fingers slipped into his hair, “how I told you last night that you’d have to say it again when you were sober?” You traced the shell of his ear as you spoke, basking in the small hitches of breath he gave you at the contact.

His hand slid to the small arch of your spine, drawing you closer until the space between you narrowed and the sudden proximity sent a sharp jolt through you that you refused to retreat from. You tipped your chin up, meeting him with a calm smile that took effort you didn’t show, even as your pulse skittered under his touch.

Yeonjun let himself look at you properly instead of just fleeting glances. Your heart soared because the same earnest intensity you had seen the night before was there again swirling in his orbs — and this time — stripped of any alcohol. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs pressing in as he closed his eyes for a brief second.

“I love you,” he said, voice gravelly from raw honesty. “It’s been so long since I started loving you that I don’t even remember when it began. All I can tell is that I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Damn his foolish heart for betraying him so openly by letting his gaze be drawn again and again to the soft curvature of your mouth. Fractured thoughts scattering in every direction at once, his mind cycled through each possibility and tallied the ways he could have misunderstood the way you looked at him tonight. Every glance from years past suddenly rushed forward to stand trial alongside this one.

Regardless, your words of assurance came back to him. You had asked him to say it again when he wasn’t drunk, had asked him to stand by it with a clear head and an even voice, and that had to count for something, didn’t it? There was no sense in punishing himself for finally doing the one thing he had always done too late. If all you were asking for was truth, and if all he could offer was himself, then he would do that much at least, even if the thought of losing you after this frightened him more than silence ever had.

Maybe honesty, once finally spoken, deserves to stand without apology. 

You, meanwhile, felt warmth spreading through your limbs until it left you lightheaded, buoyed by a feeling that bordered on giddy. A soft laugh escaped as you let your forehead fall against his chest, your hands abandoning his face to curl around his neck instead. You felt Yeonjun shudder above you as he quietly said your name. That made you stare up at him.

“What took you so long, hm?” you said at last with a rueful smile, before you shook your head at yourself and corrected course mid‑thought, your fingers flexing lightly at the nape of his neck. “No—no, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t say that to you. This isn’t on you. If anything, I should’ve been honest sooner. Maybe then we wouldn’t be standing here now, years late to our own conversation. I chose not to want you. I was—”

“Scared,” Yeonjun softly finished your sentence, speaking for the both of you. 

You nodded. “But I was wrong.”

You fought the urge to playfully jab him in the ribs when you saw his signature sly smirk appearing slowly in his lips. His eyes, once pouring with so much rawness, narrowed slightly but nonetheless still held the rawness. There was just a spark of heat in them now.

“‘Wrong’ how?” he leaned in until the space between you thinned to breath and heat, his words brushing your mouth more than reaching your ears. “I need you to be more honest with me here, love,” he added, gaze flicking once to your lips before lifting again.

You let out a short scoff and tipped your head back a fraction, denying him the closeness while keeping his attention exactly where it already was. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t want this too,” you replied. “And I wouldn’t have asked you to tell me you loved me when you were sober if I hadn’t meant it.”

His chest gave a quick thrum — a reminder that it had never learned restraint where you were concerned. Yeonjun followed to fill the gap you created, stepping forward until the counter met the back of your hips. He set both palms against the surface on either side of you, lowering his head to be eye level with you. His presence eclipsed everything else.

“Please, tell me before I lose my mind,” he rasped. “Because—oh God—I’ve been holding myself back for so long.”

Your teeth caught your lower lip as you considered just how much more you could push before it became unfair. You had tortured him enough. Your hands — one slid down his chest, fingers spreading over his sternum, the other finding its way back to his face and cupping his cheek as you guided him closer.

“I love you, Yeonjun,” you said, every word chosen and owned. “I always have.”

His lips were softer than anything you've ever known. It's soft like the first snow, like biting into cotton candy, like melting and floating and being weightless in water. It was sweet, so devastatingly sweet and it bloomed until your senses were overwhelmed. 

He pulled back sooner than you were ready for and you chased the space without thinking. Your fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders as a small sound slipped from you, breathless and needy in a way that made him shudder as if he’d felt it in his bones.

“You have no idea how many times I talked myself out of this,” he said, voice low and rough as his forehead brushed yours, his thumb tracing along your jaw before slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up again because he needed to see your eyes while saying it.

You laughed breathlessly and tugged him closer, forcing him to feel how little space there was left to negotiate. “You don’t look like someone who’s been holding back,” you replied, tipping your head just enough to brush your nose against his, stealing the air he’d been breathing.

He chuckled, the sound barely there before you pulled him back in and this time there was nothing cautious about it. You had never gotten so lost in a kiss before. Your heart kept tripping over itself as your fingers dragged him closer, closer, still not close enough. You had loved before but it didn’t feel like this. You had kissed before but it didn’t burn you alive. It left you flushed and dizzy and wanting more.

Yeonjun’s hand slid into your hair, fingers spreading at your scalp as he tipped your head back, deepening the kiss until your breath caught. His other arm wrapped around you and lifted you without warning, setting you on the counter as he stepped in between your thighs. You hooked your legs around his hips, pulling him closer as his mouth worked yours with growing insistence. You found yourself gasping for breath, whimpering when he bit your bottom lip as his other hand braced beside you.

The haze of sensation left your vision swimming, every nerve alive as his fingers slipped under your shirt, tracing the heated planes of your skin, teasing, exploring, igniting sparks that sent heat skittering through you. He pulled back only slightly before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

"Sometimes, all I can think about is this—us like this, you in my arms. Underneath me, too." His lips brushed yours again, then he exhaled. “No—forget that. You deserve more respect than that. I just… I haven’t been able to stop myself from wanting it.”

You smiled at that, resting one arm across his shoulder while your other raked through his hair. You tilted your head and hummed.

“What else do you wanna do?” you asked, voice dipping.

He pretended to ponder as he narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking away before returning to you with a smirk. “Take you to dinner after this,” he said, hand shifting on your waist, drawing you closer. “Do things in the proper order for once.”

“Mmm,” you replied, rolling your hips forward just enough to press yourself against him, watching the way his breath hitched. “And then?”

He straightened slightly, lips curving as he leaned in to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Then we get dessert.”

“We’ve never waited for dinner to get dessert,” you murmured, the challenge clear as you grinded against him again, smiling when his inhale went sharp and his hand slid down to your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said, a rough laugh in his voice as his grip tightened. “I had a very stable life before you moved in.”

“Ah,” you sighed, feigning a forlorn expression as your hand slid across his chest. “Then maybe we should stop. Let you go back to that stable life while I go to slee—waoh!”

Laughter erupted from you when he deftly lifted you up and carried you to his room. His mouth never straying from yours even as you both fell onto the bed in a disordered sprawl, the frame creaking softly beneath the sudden movement while his lips slipped from yours only to trail wet kisses down your jaw and throat, sucking and biting until your skin was a canvas of his marks. It sent shivers shooting down your whole body, your hips bucking. He settled between your legs and you felt the solid presence of him there pinning you to the mattress. 

His hands slid up your thighs and under your skirt. You moaned against his lips when he massaged the flesh there as he pulled back to stare down into your face while lifting the material, leaving a trail of goosebumps all the way up your thighs. You felt yourself clench around air, a sharp pulse of need in your core. Your hunger stripped everything down to sensation, and it felt dangerously good to stop resisting it.

His lips were swollen and damp when he paused. “You want this, right?”

Your breath came uneven as you swallowed. You had never been more sure of anything in your life. With a shaky laugh you nod, unbuttoning your dress shirt with a wolfish smile. 

He tongued his cheek at the sight of your black lacy bra and your expression, hands already reaching for his own clothes. He pulled his shirt over his head in one motion, muscle shifting under skin as he tossed it aside. You were on him immediately which he happily complied, wasting no time clashing his mouth against yours. Your hands were all over his torrid naked skin, touching and grabbing every inch of skin they could access. 

Your back arched as you broke the kiss with a moan when he slipped one hand underneath your bra and kneaded the mound of your breast. The barrier was making him impatient so he quickly worked with the clasp of your bra and flung it somewhere over his shoulder before greedily taking one perky nipple in his mouth. 

Your hand tangled in his hair as he sucked and nipped on your skin, the other hand busy where it rolled and pinched the other nipple in between his fingers. You felt like you could cum alone from nipple stimulation because holy shit he was so good at whatever he was doing. His growing hardness pressed insistently in between you, and you sought friction by trying to grind up against him. 

“Please, Yeonjun,” you breathed, the plea tugged loose as your hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer even as your back arched toward him.

He looked up at you through his lashes, releasing your nipple with a pop and grinned deviously. “I know, baby.” A quiet laugh brushed against your skin as he shifted, one knee nudging your thighs apart, his hand sliding lower to cup you through the thin barrier of fabric. His mouth returned to your throat as he spoke, words punctuated by the drag of his lips. “Need me here badly? I can feel how bad you want me.”

If you were in the right mind right now and not overcome by lust, you would have swiped that smirk off his face with a punch or some snarky remarks to reclaim a little pride. But all you could do was nod and do whatever to make him give you what you wanted. You tugged your skirt down your legs which had hiked up your waist earlier, and was about to tug your panties down too. You didn’t get far. His hand closed around your wrist and stilled you.

“Not yet.” His tone dimmed as he sat back on his heels. Gaze tracked you in a way that made you squirm like he’d decided to take his time and wanted you to feel every second of it.

Goosebumps travelled up your skin as you raised your eyebrows at him, wondering what he was waiting for. You bit your lip with hitched breaths when he thumbed your cunt over your panties, tracing over the slick dampness. He worked on his pants with the other hand, pulling out his hardened cock. Your body felt another rush of heat roll over when you took him in — long and veiny, a pool of pre cum already gathering at the tip. He gave himself a few lazy pumps with the same rhythm as he stroked you, brows furrowed with the sensation as a low groan slipped out.

“Didn't know you were a tease in bed, Jun,” you breathed out with a laugh, feeling yourself getting wetter as more slick gushed out.

He let out a throaty chuckle before kicking his pants off and climbing back over you, eager to kiss you again. “You have no idea,” he whispered against your mouth.

He greedily took in your moans when he pressed his leaking tip against your clothed cunt — a delicious friction that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your core. Each grind pushed the tip, the soaked cotton yielding just enough to let him tease the entrance of your aching pussy, but not enough to grant full access — leaving you teetering on the edge of frustration and ecstasy.

"God, you're so fucking hot," he teasingly groaned against your ear that sent shivers down your spine. 

Whimpering, you looked down at the place but he held your jaw and made your face tilt back up to kiss you again. Your body arched instinctively to press harder against him, the subtle drag of the panties creating a tantalizing burn that heightened every nerve. Yeonjun's grip on your jaw softened, his thumb brushing tenderly over your lower lip.

You bit your lip, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush, "I want you inside me, Yeonjun—please, I need it so bad."

At your unabashed confession, Yeonjun gave one little cheeky grin before finally hooking a finger into the edge of your panties to pull them off. The sudden exposure sent a rush of cool air over your swollen, dripping pussy, making you gasp as his cock slid fully against your bare entrance, the tip teasing your opening and agonizingly bumping into your clit.

You got up, pushing him back to sit down as you climbed on his lap and claimed his mouth in a searing kiss. You nipped at his lower lip, sucking it gently between your teeth before plunging back in, the filthy slide of saliva mingling as you lost yourself in the sensation of his taste.

"Fuck, you're dripping for me," he let out a prolonged groan, his fingers sliding through your sopping folds. 

He pushed two digits inside of you with ease and you sighed at the stretch. His fingers curled inside you with a slow rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure that made your inner walls clench around him. You rocked your hips, grinding against his hand as his thumb brushed over your swollen clit, drawing out gasps that echoed in the dim room. Every breath you took was ragged, your skin flushed and slick with a light sheen of sweat. 

Yeonjun's dark eyes locked onto yours, his free hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads pressed together. "That's it, love," he murmured against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, heightening the delicious friction as his fingers stretched and stroked your depths.

Through the haze of heady ecstasy, you looked down at him only to have your chest warm up. There was so much awe and love in his eyes. His devotion ran deeper for you than you could imagine.

You reached down to wrap your hand around his cock, pumping him. Yeonjun's breath hitched, a deep groan escaping his lips that mingled with your own soft whimpers. As the intensity built, your free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in just enough to elicit another low growl from him. His cock twitched in your hand as he thrusted harder against you. The veins on his shaft stood out prominently against the backdrop of smooth skin slicked with precum and sweat. You could feel every ridge and pulse as you worked him with increasing fervor. 

But you didn’t want to cum just yet like this and neither did you want him to finish so soon, despite already dying to taste him. You released him before pushing his hand away from inside you.

You gave a breathless laugh when Yeonjun put his fingers in his mouth, pinning you with his gaze as he licked them clean. You lifted yourself up, knees sinking into the soft mattress on either side of his hips and aligned his cock with your slit. The thick, rigid length of him slid into you with a wet squelch, stretching your swollen folds wide as you sank down.

“Oh, fuck, y-you’re going to have to help me. Too, too tight,” you hissed, feeling waves of warmth travelling all over your body.

Yeonjun grunted as his hands found purchase on your hips, his grip tight and it felt so fucking good. You knew they’d be leaving bruises. Despite all the nudging and the rampant lubrication of your pussy, it still took a full minute, probably longer, to work his entire length inside of your tightness that made your thighs tremble, but you didn't stop there.

With a shared, heated glance, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer and giving him easy access to thrust up on you, making you let out a high pitched whimper. Once Yeonjun was finally seated deep inside you, a shared sigh of relief and laughter escaped your lips, the stretch bordering on overwhelming but laced with a delicious ache that made your toes curl.

“My angel,” Yeonjun choked on his words as he ran his hands over your back, soothing you. “I love you so, so much—and I don’t know how I went this long without saying it out loud.”

You closed your eyes shut, head falling on his shoulders as countless tremors went through your body at his size. “Hah, it really did take you being drunk to finally say it,” you said between breaths.

He grinned, but it was a little lopsided, like he couldn’t quite hold himself together. "Yeah, but I'm glad I finally did. And I promise, I’m not gonna screw this up. I won’t. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you. No matter what."

You lifted your head up to return his smile, before leaning in to a kiss. His lips moved languidly with yours, tongue poking out to lick against yours. His hands wrapped over your back, drawing you flush against his chest, your breasts pressing into the firm planes of his chest. Your hands clutched at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the warm, sweat-slicked skin as you whimpered into his mouth, the kiss deepening with a raw hunger that mirrored the way his body claimed yours. 

"You alright?" he whispered, his voice a husky mix of concern and desire that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a moan, and he added softly, "I got you." 

His hands gripped your ass firmly then, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he began to guide your hips in a slow pace, lifting and lowering you with effortless strength. Each upward thrust drove him deeper, the friction building into a fiery crescendo that had you both groaning — his low, guttural sounds vibrating through your joined bodies, while yours escaped as breathless gasps. 

You could feel the veins of his cock pulsing and the heat of him seeping into you, making your inner walls clench in desperation for more. His breath was hot against your neck, a ragged rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart as he continued his torturous grind. 

With a low growl, he eased you backward, his strong arms supporting you as he laid you down on the bed. Yeonjun paused for a heartbeat, savoring the sight of you laid out before him — body flushed with sweat, boobs lightly swaying with every rise and fall of your breath, eyes half lidded and glossy that matched your glistening pussy. His hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples as he began to move again, thrusts growing more purposeful. You were so lost in the blissful haze of pleasure coursing through you that the sudden wave of coldness and emptiness startled you; Yeonjun pulling out his entirety out of you, making you whine to get back the feeling of his warmth. 

Without warning, Yeonjun's strong hands gripped your waist, flipping you over, rolling you off your back and onto your stomach. The sudden shift left you disoriented, a jolt of surprise flashing across your face as you glanced back at him over your shoulder.

Gripping himself, he swiped the head of himself through your sticky folds, bumping your clit to slide back down to your center and it once again made you whine. The cool sheets pressed against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body hovering above you, his knees straddling your thighs to pin you in place. You felt his hard cock sliding along the curve of your ass before he positioned himself, the tip nudging at your slick entrance once more. 

“Yeonj—hnngf!”

With one easy thrust he entered you again, deeper this time, the angle pressing him against your most sensitive spots in a way that had you seeing stars. Yeonjun let out a low whine, his body collapsing slightly as he rested his head between your shoulder blades, his hot breath fanning across your skin like a branding iron.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum already," he choked out.

You tried to respond, but all that escaped was a breathy moan.

The prone position amplified every sensation, his body molding to yours as he lay partially over you, his chest brushing against your back with each shallow thrust. Your pussy clenched around him, the tight confines of your body gripping his thick length as he drove in and out, the friction building with an exquisite pressure that bordered on overwhelming.

He was so fucking deep inside you, rubbing against all of your deepest nerves. His moans and whines were music to your ears, his hot breaths came in ragged huffs tickling the nape of your neck, while his hands roamed possessively — one sliding under your hips to tilt them just right, the other threading through your hair to expose more of your skin to his lips.

Yeonjun's thrusts grew more urgent but they carried a tenderness too. His lips pressing soft kisses along your shoulder, whispering praises that made you feel cherished amidst the raw desire — how perfectly you fit him, how your body responded to his like it was made for him. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, the building pressure inside you coiling tighter with every deep pump of his hips.

You croaked out his name—"Yeonjun"—as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your walls spasming wildly around him, milking his length with uncontrollable pulses. He faltered then, his pace stuttering into erratic thrusts, a guttural groan escaping him as he buried his face deeper into the nape of your neck. Your gasps and moans fell like waterfall into the mattress as he drove you into it.

Sensing his restraint crumbling, he managed to gasp out, "Can't hold it back, love." His voice breaking with the effort, his hands trembling on your waist.

The plea in his words ignited a final surge of desire in you. "Come inside." The command breathlessly slipped from your lips as you craned your neck to look at him.

Perhaps it was the aphrodisiac and fucked out look in your eyes that made him surrender, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep into you, hot ropes of cum flooding your sensitive pussy. You felt every twitch, every warm rush, as it mingled with your own lingering aftershocks, leaving you both shuddering in the quiet aftermath.

Both of you stayed unmoving for a few seconds before Yeonjun eased himself out of you, his breath still coming in ragged gasps that matched the rise and fall of your back beneath him. Your spent pussy clenched slightly as he withdrew, a warm gush of his cum leaking out, glistening on your flushed skin and soaking into the fabric below. 

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to gaze at you. The moment rolled strangely after, breath still uneven between you as your eyes met in startled disbelief, and then whatever tension remained cracked open into soft, breathless laughter that shook through both of you. He reached out, pulling you into his arms as you nestled against him. Your lips met in a deep, lingering kiss, tasting the salt of your exertion, your tongue brushing his with a tenderness that made his heart swell.

You pulled back slightly, your cheeks flushed, and began to whisper, "That was so—" but the words dissolved into another fit of giggles, your head shaking as if the sheer intensity defied description, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back.

Yeonjun silenced your laughter with another soft kiss, his hand cradling the nape of your neck, feeling the rapid beat of your pulse under his thumb. "Let's take a bath," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and soothing. "I'll clean you up."

The lukewarmness of the water wrapped around you both later. You guided him to sit on the edge of the tub while the water warmed, steam climbing the air and settling against your skin until the aches in your body began to loosen. He watched you with damp lashes and a softened smile, palms braced behind him as you tested the water, then turned the tap down a fraction and nodded to yourself. 

When he reached for the shampoo you caught his wrist and shook your head with a small smile as you took the bottle from him. “Sit,” you said, guiding him back with a press to his shoulder, and he let you without question. You worked the lather through his hair, thumbs circling his scalp until his eyes slid shut and his shoulders dropped.

You followed with soap, careful hands moving over his back and arms, rinsing him clean while water splashed against porcelain. Your fingers combed through his hair again and again, traced paths along his back and chest, kissing warm skin whenever the impulse struck. You spent long minutes on motions that served no purpose other than letting him feel held.

By the time you were done, his breathing had slowed, but his chest rose sharply once as he laughed under it, sounding close to tears instead. You frowned, kneeling immediately in between his knees to look at him. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes glassy as he blinked hard.

“I’ve never had anyone treat me like this,” he said, one hand cupping your face. “You know that I’m… not used to feeling like this, right? The people I’ve been with before were distant, and for the longest time I thought that was just how it was supposed to be. Until I started loving you.”

Your arms slipped around his middle, cheek resting on his shoulder letting the water run while you held him there. “I know,” you said softly, squeezing him just a little tighter. “And I promise you’re not going to feel like that with me. You deserve to be loved properly, Yeonjun, and I mean it when I say I’m all in—starting with making sure you never spend thirty thousand on five chillies again.”

His laughter broke through the tenderness as his smile softened into something fond and open. “Yeah,” he said, brushing his thumb along your cheek, eyes bright as he nodded. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

True that there had never been any childhood pinky promises between the two of you, no naive vows whispered under desks to look back on. But as you stayed there together, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the time it had taken to arrive here because the absence of those clichés hadn’t taken him away from you. Some stories didn’t need an early beginning to arrive where they belonged.

And god, you were never going to let Yeonjun feel alone or unloved again — not after everything he had already given to people who never knew how to hold him.

THE END.

Taglist; @bambiihee @xylatox @hoefororeo @i-like-to-read-at-4am @caratcakemoa @90steele @cen116 @i-am-not-dal @bamgeutori @nanilis @sunooqvrlsx @izzyy-recs @fancypeacepersona @littlemoasoobin @r1hanna123 @bamtoriui @vamppgojo @soobinz-wife @yystarz @stargirllost @virtaideen @usuallyunlikelyfox @mojicatfatsposts @tyunstarz @gyutaepie @ningeom @slutfornagi @beomgyusluver @jaegerbombin @chbq2 @bunniwords @wonderstrucktae @seonghwasprincess @yeonyeonyeonjun @luvforlix @arianacraze @neonaby @purrplegyuu @petulapetula @soohashits @chocomoas @beomelmyu @thearchersupremacy @starry-eyed-moa @charlottevlog @dearjiwon @mondayyfri @lunarlaina @friedneuron @jaehmarks @katsukis1wife @rainyjeno

[gyuuberryy]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 🕸️ UPSIDE DOWN KISS!

pairing: spider-man!yeonjun x reader

genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, superhero au

synopsis: you never thought you’d meet spiderman. hell, you didn’t even like him. but thanks to a very unfortunate web malfunction, you’re now stuck—literally tethered—to him for three whole days. surely it can’t get worse… right?

warnings: kissing obviously, making out, mentions of blood and blasts, reader is lowkey mean, cursing, not proofread

note: hi so i wrote this in like 2 days because all i could think of was the upside down spider-man kiss everytime i listened to upside down kiss. so here's a kind of rushed?yeonjun version, enjoyy!

word count: 5.6k

i made the yeonjun gif out of a tiktok video by user yeonjun_fp, so credits to them for the art!

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

you were dead on your feet.

after back to back lectures, a surprise quiz, and a final group project meeting where no one did their assigned slides, all you wanted was to go home, kick off your shoes, and disintegrate into your bed for the long weekend. you had no intentions of making any plans or attending parties, you just wanted sleep, junk food, and whatever show netflix decided to shove in your face. 

you put on your headphones the moment you stepped onto the subway platform, letting the music drown out the evening rush. when the train arrived, you shuffled in, found a seat by the window, and slumped into it like a corpse, your limbs aching in that warm, heavy way that begged for rest.

you were half-dozing by the time the train screeched into the next station. but then—everything jolted violently.

the brakes screamed louder than your music. your body lurched forward. the lights overhead flickered and died. people gasped. someone screamed. and then, before you could even register what was happening, a deafening boom tore through the air. the floor shook, making the train car tilt slightly to one side. your heart jumped into your throat.

“everyone out! get out!” someone shouted.

panic swallowed the crowd like wildfire. passengers shoved, tripped, yelled over each other. in the blur of limbs and chaos, you were pushed out of your seat and jostled toward the open subway doors. 

your headphones were ripped from your ears. you barely heard your own gasp as you stumbled out onto the platform, trying to get your bearings, when another explosion rocked the tunnel, stronger this time. dust and smoke poured through the gaps in the ceiling. 

you saw it before you could react. a massive chunk of cement was hurtling straight toward you, fast and unstoppable. your legs refused to move. time stalled, every second stretching thin with the awful realisation that this was it. this was how it ended—for no reason, on a thursday, because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

but just before it hit, something yanked you backward, hard.

you cried out as the world blurred around you, a blur of wind and sound and pressure crushing into your chest. you were flying. 

your brain screamed that it wasn’t possible, that none of this made sense, but your body was already curled tight against something solid and warm. it took a second to understand that it was a person. no—not just any person.

the red and blue suit. the stupid mask. the goddamn glowing web.

spider-man.

your stomach flipped violently as the city skyline whipped past, your legs dangling uselessly. his arm was locked around your waist, firm and annoyingly confident. a glowing thread of web tech was attached to your wrist, pulsing faintly as it connected you to his suit like a leash. below you, the chaos on the street was a distant noise. above you, the clouds were streaked orange from the setting sun. around you, the wind roared.

and you hated all of it. you had always hated spiderman. he was a self-righteous, cocky, reckless menace. always showing up to destroy half the street in the name of “saving” it. and now here you were, clutched to his chest like some helpless civilian in a comic book.

“put me down!” you screamed over the wind, squirming against his grip. “what the fuck are you doing? put me down, you freak!”

“you’re welcome,” he yelled back, voice muffled through the mask.

“i didn’t ask you to save me!”

“i noticed!” he shot back, and the smirk in his voice made your blood boil.

you struggled the entire way up—clawing at his suit, kicking your legs, swearing every curse you knew under your breath—until finally, he landed with a smooth, practised thud on the rooftop of some high-rise building. your feet hit solid ground again, but your balance didn’t catch up in time. your knees wobbled, and you stumbled forward, dizzy from the whiplash and adrenaline.

“i’m going to throw up,” you groaned, doubling over.

“do it away from the suit, thanks,” he muttered.

but before you could stagger farther, a sharp tug pulled you back—your wrist yanked mid-step until your body collided with his chest again. his arm caught you instinctively, steadying you, but you immediately shoved him away, heart still racing from the fall. that’s when you noticed it.

the thread was still glowing and your wrist was still tethered to it.

“what the hell is this?” you shrieked, holding it up. 

the web stretched and shimmered faintly in the light, a sickly silverish glow like it was straight out of some alien movie. it wasn’t even sticky anymore, just fused into your, skin buzzing faintly where it made contact. 

“why is this still on me?! get it off!”

“working on it!” he snapped, kneeling to inspect where it fused into his own suit. “it wasn’t supposed to... uh... attach like that.”

“attach like what?” you cried, tugging violently at it. it didn’t budge. “is this a leash? did you just fucking leash me like a dog?”

“you think i wanted this?” he shot up again, exasperated. “i was in the middle of stopping a building from collapsing when you ran into the line of fire!”

“i was just trying to take the subway!”

“and i was trying to stop a criminal from levelling the station! sue me!”

the shouting echoed across the rooftop, both of you standing there like idiots with a literal glowing string binding your bodies together. your breath came out in shaky huffs. your heart was still racing—not just from fear now, but fury, embarrassment, complete disbelief that this was actually happening.

he let out a long sigh, suddenly sheepish. “look... it’s an experimental prototype. a bio-thread. reacts to certain electrical signals. and, apparently, to heartbeats.”

you blinked. “you’re kidding.”

“wish i was.”

your eyes widened as the realisation sank in. “you mean this thing is connected to—”

“your heartbeat, yeah,” he said grimly, arms crossed now.

you stared down at your wrist, horrified. “that’s disgusting.”

“that’s science,” he corrected.

you gave the web another tug, desperate and annoyed. “so how do i get it off?”

he hesitated.

“no,” you said, already dreading it. “no, don’t tell me—”

“we wait,” he muttered. “should dissolve naturally in... seventy-two hours.”

“seventy—?” you choked. “seventy-two HOURS?!”

he raised both hands in defence. “give or take. the tech’s a little moody.”

“you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“i’m really not.”

you groaned so loudly it echoed. then you slumped down onto the edge of the rooftop, cradling your head in your hands, trying not to scream into the skyline.

 this couldn’t be real. it was some fever dream. you were probably still on the subway, passed out from exhaustion, hallucinating everything. because there was no way you were actually tethered to the city’s most annoying masked menace for the next three days. you refused to believe it.

but the soft glow from your wrist said otherwise.

“take me home.”

he groaned the second you said it, but you didn’t care. you crossed your arms and tilted your chin up, staring at him stubbornly as the wind from the rooftop whipped around the both of you, the glowing thread still tethering your wrist to his suit like some ridiculous sci-fi leash.

“no way,” he snapped. “i still have to go after that guy. he bombed the train platform—he’s probably already halfway across the city.”

you gaped at him. “are you dumb? you're gonna go fight a criminal—with me attached to you?”

he made a guilty little noise and glanced at the still pulsing thread between you. “...i mean. maybe.”

“maybe?” you hissed. “the police can handle him! you’re not dragging me into some vigilante war zone.”

he hesitated, shoulders slumping, and finally, with a sigh of defeat, muttered, “fine. but where the hell are we gonna live for the next three days?”

you blinked. “we?”

“we,” he said firmly, pointing between the two of you. “we’re literally bonded now. unless you wanna cuddle on a fire escape all weekend, we need somewhere to stay.”

you narrowed your eyes. “there’s no way i’m going wherever you stay. i don’t even know you. you could live in a sewer or like… some creepy underground lair.”

he looked genuinely offended as his mask scrunched up. “i don’t live in a sewer. and it’s not a lair. it’s a… small apartment. cozy, even.”

“yeah, no,” you said flatly. “you’re coming to my place.”

his shoulders sagged even further. “ugh fine. but we’re walking. i’m not swinging again with you screaming in my ear.”

and that’s how you found yourself dragging spider-man—spider-freaking-man—down the street by your wrist like some weird, reluctant pet. you ignored the way people looked. it was late, and luckily, his suit was mostly covered by the hoodie you’d given him. though he kept trying to duck into shadows, mumbling under his breath like a sulking child. the glowing thread shimmered faintly between you, pulling taut every time one of you stepped too far away.

when you finally reached your apartment building, he stared up at it with a kind of wary awe. “damn. you got a high paying job or something?”

you snorted as you opened the door. “i’m a uni student. my parents are just rich.”

he tilted his head at you as you stepped into the elevator. “what uni?”

you told him your school name without much thought, and immediately, his whole body stiffened.

“...wait,” he blurted. “me too.”

you turned to look at him slowly. “what?”

his eyes widened behind the mask. he cursed under his breath and looked away, like he’d just admitted state secrets. “shit. i didn’t mean to say that. ignore that.”

you were about to push him further when the elevator doors opened. just then, your phone buzzed. “takeout’s here.”

he startled like you’d just hit him. “you ordered food?”

“yeah,” you said, tossing your keys onto the counter as you entered the apartment. “i was starving and figured you’d eat too, unless you’re part spider and eat bugs.”

he didn’t dignify that with a response.

you handed him a pair of clean sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt you figured would fit—he disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, looking annoyingly good in your clothes. he was tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves pushed up his forearms as he sat across from you at your dining table.

you opened the takeout boxes and passed him one. “pad thai. extra spicy.”

he didn’t move.

“uh, you’re gonna have a hard time eating that with your mask on.”

his arms crossed defensively. “i don’t take off my mask in front of people. especially not people who hate spider-man.”

you scoffed, twirling a noodle around with your chopsticks. “i don’t hate you. i just think you're an annoying menace who causes more problems than he solves.”

“...that’s literally what hating me is,” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes. “look, i don’t care. you saved my life, remember? i won’t tell anyone. just… do it. you won’t survive three whole days eating through the mask.”

he was quiet for a second too long, but then hesitantly spoke up.

“...you won’t tell anyone?”

“swear on my meal,” you said solemnly.

he hesitated one last time, and then with a reluctant sigh, his gloved fingers reached up. you watched as he peeled the mask off in one smooth motion—and everything inside you short-circuited.

because holy. shit.

his face was devastatingly pretty. sharp cheekbones, soft pouty lips, golden skin that caught the light in all the right places. his hair was ruffled and messy, sticking out a little from the mask, and his eyes—big, brown, framed by thick lashes—blinked at you nervously.

“i… did not expect you to be that hot,” you blurted, mouth full of noodles.

he choked on air. “what—”

“no like—i was expecting some weird nerdy guy with maybe a beard.”

he blinked. “wow. thanks.”

you pointed at him with your chopsticks, narrowing your eyes. “wait. i know you.”

he froze at that.

“you’re… that guy from my discrete math lecture. choi yeonjun. you’re always sitting in the front row. you literally answer every question like a damn TA.”

his mouth parted slightly. “you’re the girl who sits in the column next to me. with the giant water bottle and all the highlighters.”

you paused. “...so you’ve noticed me.”

he blinked fast. “uh. yeah. i mean—you stand out. not in a bad way. just—pretty. you’re pretty. not that i notice or anything. well obviously i noticed because i just said it but—”

you snorted. “you’re really awkward without the suit.”

“i’m not—” he groaned, face turning pink. “okay maybe a little. it just gives me a different type of confidence you know?”

you grinned down at your food, heart ticking slightly faster. you didn’t know what was more surreal—sitting across from spider-man, or discovering spider-man was the hot math nerd who sat fifteen feet from you every tuesday and thursday. either way, it was going to be a very long seventy two hours.

you had come to terms with the fact that you were never going to get any real sleep. not when you were forced to lie right at the edge of your own bed, arm dangling pathetically over the side like some kind of human offering. 

the glowing web tether was still stuck to your wrist, stretching toward the air mattress yeonjun had flopped onto with a dramatic sigh of exhaustion. you could barely move without yanking his entire body with you, so the only position you could settle in was an awkward sideways curl, with one arm constantly pulled down like gravity itself was trying to remind you of your very stupid, very spider-shaped problem.

you tried to sleep. really. but around three in the morning, right as your eyes were finally starting to blur at the edges, you felt a sudden hard tug on your wrist and then you were falling. 

you yelped as your body was jerked right off the mattress, falling with a startled oof directly onto the unsuspecting man on the floor. yeonjun barely even stirred. he let out a sleepy little grunt and instinctively wrapped his stupid, warm, surprisingly toned arms around you like you were some oversized body pillow. 

you struggled, wriggling against his grip like a bug under a glass, but it was useless. his arms were locked around your waist, one of his hands now tangled in your shirt, and you could feel the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck.

you hissed his name, trying to peel his fingers off you, but all you got in return was a sleepy pout and a grumbled, “five more minutes.” it would’ve been cute if it wasn’t so infuriating. 

and okay, maybe it was a little warm. and his chest was kind of…comfortable. his stupid heartbeat was strong and slow under your ear, and you were so damn tired from the chaotic whirlwind of your spiderweb-tethered day that you just…gave in. your body melted into the warmth of his, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his borrowed hoodie, and for the first time in hours, your eyes slipped shut. surprisingly, it felt safe and grounding. like being held together by something solid in the middle of all the mess.

the next morning though, was...less cute.

“you pulled me off my bed,” you deadpanned as you sat up, pushing off his chest with an elbow. your wrist still glowed faintly, the web tether warm between your skins.

yeonjun blinked up at you, hair sticking in every direction, a blanket half-kicked off the mattress. 

“huh?” he said groggily, then sat up fast as memory caught up with him. “wait—shit, did i yank you down?”

you narrowed your eyes. “yes. and then you cuddled me.”

his entire face flushed red. “i did not cuddle you.”

you crossed your arms. “you were purring.”

“that’s slander.” but he looked horrified.

the next twenty four hours were a disaster.

you tripped over the tether so many times that you started to wonder if it had a personal vendetta against your toes. brushing your teeth was like a weirdly synchronised dance of tangled arms and accidental elbow jabs. showering was even worse. 

he stood frozen outside the bathroom door, your glowing lifeline stretched taut through the crack, his voice drifting through like a very flustered ghost. “i’m not peeking, okay?!”

“you better not be!” you snapped as you held up a towel like a makeshift curtain while trying to lather shampoo one-handed. “don’t test me, spiderboy, i will kill you.”

“this is humiliating for me too!” he yelled back. “i’m an icon of justice!”

“you’re an icon of annoying!”

you fought like bickering siblings who had never met before yesterday and yet were somehow stuck together for life. every time you tried to do anything, you’d hear him mutter something under his breath like, “why couldn’t i have been bonded to someone normal?” and you’d throw a couch pillow at him.

it was exactly at the point of your worst argument—over whether or not he could eat directly out of the peanut butter jar—that his watch beeped. he glanced down, cursed under his breath, and without any warning, leapt off the couch.

“wait—what the fuck—!” you screamed as your body was yanked clean off the floor.

“shit, sorry!” yeonjun called back mid-air, swinging out the open balcony door like it was a tuesday stroll. “emergency call!”

“emergency call your ass, PUT ME DOWN!”

“can’t! you’re tethered! my bad!”

you flailed helplessly as you were flung through the air, wind screaming in your ears, the skyline of the city blurring past. each time he swung, your body would arc toward him, face practically slamming against his as you bumped into him with every motion. your nose brushed his chin, your cheek scraped his jaw, and one time—one time—your lips accidentally brushed the side of his mask.

you shrieked. “stop swinging like a lunatic and hold me!”

“oh? now you care about being close to me?” he teased, voice gleeful, mask slightly lopsided.

you scowled. “if i throw up, it’s going straight into your face.”

he just laughed, and then like a showoff on steroids he flipped mid-air, feet planting against the side of a glass building, body upside down. the web between you tightened instantly, pulling you forward until your face hovered just inches from his. he didn’t move. neither did you. the air thinned between you, your breath catching as your eyes flicked to his masked face.

your lips were right there.

he grinned.

then dropped you very unceremoniously onto a nearby rooftop with a thud.

“careful, pretty,” he drawled, voice smug. “you almost kissed me.”

you gaped at him. “what the hell?”

“what?” he said innocently, crouching on the edge of the roof like the cockiest bastard alive. “don’t blame me. you’re the one who’s all over me lately.”

“you pulled me into the sky like a rag doll!”

he tilted his head. “and yet, you’re still clinging to me. hmm.”

you chucked a loose brick at him, but he dodged it and just laughed again, sunlight catching his suit as he rose higher on the building’s edge. the way he stood, so confident and self-assured, was almost unrecognisable from the shy, stammering boy who slept in your apartment and accidentally blurted compliments with red cheeks and soft eyes.

because here, like this, in the suit, yeonjun wasn’t flustered. he wasn’t awkward. he was bold and flirtatious and impossible to pin down. and it was beginning to drive you crazy.

“god,” you muttered under your breath, trying to smooth your wind-tangled hair. “your split personality is insane.”

“you like it,” he said with a wink and leapt off the rooftop again, dragging you behind him with a scream echoing into the morning air.

he was heavy in your arms—well, technically you were mostly dragging him, but still, he made a pretty pathetic sight with one arm slung over your shoulder and his mask balled up in your fist. 

yeonjun winced with every step as you practically hauled him down the hallway to your bathroom, grumbling under your breath about superhero idiocy and your web-chained fate. his face was pale but smug, which made it hard to feel too bad for him, even with the deep gash on his side bleeding through the slick fabric of his suit. 

“could’ve just let me bleed out on the roof,” he joked weakly, slumping down onto the toilet seat. you shot him a look and flicked the bathroom light on.

“how could i? we’re attached to each other because of your stupid web.”

he groaned dramatically as you rifled through the cabinet for your tiny first aid kit. “god, i forget how mean you can get.”

“you’ve known me for two days.”

“and i’ve never known peace since,” he mumbled, hissing when you unzipped the top of his suit. it peeled down like a second skin, sticking slightly to the dried blood at his side, and then it was suddenly just there—his torso, sculpted and gleaming faintly with sweat, all defined lines and soft curves where his skin dipped between muscle. he was flushed down to his chest, breaths short and laboured, and you hated yourself for noticing. your eyes stuttered somewhere between his collarbone and the trail of blood slashed across his ribs. he was stupidly attractive, in that way people weren’t supposed to be when they were bruised and bleeding and shirtless in your bathroom.

you blinked hard to cover it up. “you’re disgusting.”

he grinned. “you’re staring.”

“i’m assessing the wound,” you snapped, even though your voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through. 

you knelt beside him, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, trying very hard not to notice the way his thigh brushed your knee. he was warm and so very there, and the web tether between you pulsed quietly, glowing with soft light that gradually brightened as your hands made contact with his skin.

you swore under your breath as the tether suddenly shortened, dragging you even closer until you were practically perched on his leg, trying to clean the gash with shaking fingers.

“stop moving,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

“you’re literally sitting on me.”

“and you’re literally whining like a baby,” you shot back.

“sorry, i didn’t realise getting stabbed meant i had to also deal with you sitting on me and insulting me,” he grumbled, but there was no bite to it. his voice had dipped lower and softer, with a strange edge of tension beneath the banter, which curled around your lungs and squeezed.

you froze when he tilted his head to look at you, eyes dark and voice barely above a murmur.

“you gonna kiss me or just keep staring?”

you froze at that, heartbeat thudding louder making the web glow brighter. you stared at him, caught between the heat of his skin under your hands and the dare in his voice. 

but then your hand shot up and smacked his chest, hard enough to jolt him, and you scrambled off his lap, trying to hide your flaming face behind pure rage.

“get dressed, freak!”

he laughed as you stormed out of the bathroom, muttering something about how you were the weirdest civilian he’d ever met. you didn’t respond with youe usual snarky response as you were too busy pressing your hands to your face and praying the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

later, the both of you ended up back in your bed this time, lying stiffly on either end like two strangers forced to share a lifeboat. the air mattress plan was abandoned mutually,  after both of you admitted it had been a disaster the night before. this was... better. except for the thing between you. the glowing thread, taut and warm, stretched like some cursed lifeline from your wrist to his. you turned to your side, glaring at the ceiling.

“this is insane,” you muttered.

“you think?” he sighed. “i was testing a prototype, not... roping myself to a civilian.”

you glanced over at him. his face was turned toward the ceiling too, dark in the low light, jaw sharp and brows furrowed in thought. then he spoke again, voice quiet and strange.

“it’s supposed to sync with biological emotion markers. that’s what the tech does. it connects based on stimulus—heartbeat, adrenaline, whatever.”

he then paused as both of you looked down at the web connecting your wrists. it was glowing again.

brighter.

“is it—” you swallowed, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. “—is it reacting to me… or to you?”

his eyes flicked toward you. something unreadable settled into his expression as he shifted, leaning slightly closer. the tether pulsed, light blooming a little brighter between your wrists. you felt your skin heat where it touched the sheets, the air between your bodies shimmering with something you didn’t want to name.

his hand moved, slow and hesitant, fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid of scaring you off. it was the first time he touched you that gently. like he wanted to. like this was something he wasn’t allowed to want.

your breath hitched.

but then he blinked, the moment cracking in half as he leaned away quickly and gave a sheepish laugh.

“sorry, i’m being so weird,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “goodnight.”

you stared at him as he rolled to his side, facing away, shoulders tense.

your hand drifted to the tether between you which was glowing faintly now. like it, too, was pretending none of that happened.

the next morning, you woke with a heavy feeling in your chest, the warmth of yeonjun's body pressed against your back where he'd somehow started spooning you during the night. 

the cursed bio-web glowed faintly between your wrists, its light weaker now but still stubbornly connecting you to the sleeping superhero whose arm was currently crushing your diaphragm. you tried to shift away, but the movement yanked yeonjun's wrist sharply toward you, jolting him awake with a grunt.

"mmph—w'shappening?" he slurred, blinking sleepily as his free hand came up to rub his eyes. then he froze, suddenly very aware of how his body was molded against yours, his nose buried in your hair. 

"oh. uh. morning."

"morning," you muttered, refusing to acknowledge how nice his sleep-rough voice sounded this close to your ear. the web pulsed between you, responding to your elevated heartbeat like the traitor it was.

yeonjun cleared his throat and attempted to roll away, only for the tether to snap taut, dragging you both into an awkward mid-air collision of limbs. 

"right. forgot about that," he mumbled, his cheeks pink as he untangled himself. "three days can't end fast enough."

the words shouldn't have stung, but they did.

the day passed in strange pockets of silence and unexpected intimacy. making breakfast was, again a clumsy dance of coordinated movements—you cracking eggs onehanded while he reached across you for the spatula, his chest brushing your back in a way that made the web flare brighter. 

by afternoon, you'd developed an unspoken rhythm. studying on the couch meant yeonjun's legs thrown over your lap, his toes occasionally flexing against your thigh. you told him about your classes, the professors you loved and hated, the little things that made you feel like home. he told you about his family, his friends’ relentless teasing, and how sometimes being spider-man meant missing out on the simplest moments. you laughed more than you expected, but the heavy feeling in your heart didn’t go away.

as sunset painted your balcony in gold, you stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the web's glow grow fainter. 

"think it'll hurt when it breaks?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

yeonjun flexed his wrist. "dunno. never stuck myself to a pretty girl before."

"shut up," you said without heat, your traitorous pulse making the thread brighten.

right as you said that, without any ceremony it suddenly dissolved. one moment the connection was there, thrumming with energy. the next, there was nothing. your wrist felt strangely light, the skin unmarked as if the tether had never existed. the sudden freedom was more disorienting than the fall from the subway platform three days ago.

yeonjun cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. "so. uh. guess i should..." he gestured vaguely toward the skyline.

"yeah," you agreed too quickly. "crime to fight. people to save. all that."

an awkward beat passed before he suddenly pulled you into a stiff hug, his hands patting your back like he was unsure of what he was doing. "see you in class," he mumbled into your hair before releasing you like you'd burned him.

you nodded, a little breathless. “yeah.”

you watched quietly as he slipped the mask back up, eyes meeting yours one last time before he waved goodbye and launched himself into the air with a graceful swing. the sight left a hollow ache in your chest, the cool evening breeze whispering around you as you leaned on the balcony railing and closed your eyes.

just as you were wondering how the hell you were going to say hi to him on campus, a shadow suddenly blocked the fading sunlight in front of you. you opened your eyes and smiled. there he was—spider-man, hanging upside down right before you. the mask’s white eyes blinked slowly, hesitating.

"miss me?"

you let out a startled yelp which turned into a punch that sent him swinging backward with a laugh.

"you absolute asshole!" you hissed, heart hammering. "what the hell are you—"

"forgot something," he interrupted, catching himself on the railing. his voice was oddly nervous as the white lenses of his mask stared at you. "the web's gone but... my chest still feels kinda tight? like there's still a tether there. that's... not normal, right?"

you blinked. "your... chest?"

"yeah." his gloved hand came up to rub at the black spider emblem. "right here. it's weird. hurts a little. think i need you to check—"

"you're such a terrible liar," you breathed, but your hands were already reaching for his mask. this time, you pulled it all the way off.

yeonjun's face was flushed, his lips slightly parted as he stared at you with an expression so open it made your knees weak. there was no smugness behind it, just nervous hope. 

"so?" he whispered. "you gonna check or what?"

your fingers curled around his jaw. "shut up and kiss me, spider-boy."

he didn't need to be told twice.

the first kiss was messy—yeonjun still upside down, your hands fumbling with his hair as he gripped your waist to keep you both from toppling over. your upper lip brushed against his lower one first, that plush swell of his mouth impossibly soft against yours, and then he was kissing you back properly, his lips moving with a desperate hunger that made your head spin. the contrast was intoxicating—the way your upper lip caught slightly on the perfect curve of his lower one before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that had you clutching at his shoulders for balance. when you bit his lower lip, he actually whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"fuck," he panted when you broke apart, his pupils blown wide. his lower lip glistened where you'd nipped it, that perfect pout even more swollen now. "was that—are we—"

"if you don't kiss me again in the next three seconds, i'm pushing you off this balcony."

he grinned, wild and bright, before surging forward. this time, he flipped mid-kiss, his body twisting until he was pressing you back against the railing, his thigh slotting between yours. your upper lip caught on his again in that delicious way, the sensitive skin tingling where it dragged against the fuller curve of his lower lip before his tongue swept into your mouth. 

the heat of him was everywhere, his hands roaming your back with none of the hesitation he'd had while tethered. when you moaned into his mouth, he swallowed the sound greedily, his lower lip catching on yours as he pulled back just enough to tease before diving in again.

"still think i'm a nuisance?" he murmured against your lips, his teeth scraping your jaw, his lips brushing yours with each word.

"shut up," you gasped, arching into him. your lips dragged against his as you spoke, the fleeting contact making him shudder. "just because i want to make out with you doesn't mean i approve of your reckless vigilantism."

yeonjun laughed, the vibration travelling straight through your chest as he lifted you effortlessly onto the railing. your legs locked around his waist on instinct, his hands gripping your thighs as he kissed you again, deeper this time. his lower lip slotted perfectly between yours, that plush softness yielding to your teeth when you bit down gently, and the groan it tore from him was better than any sound you'd heard in your life. 

"good thing i don't need your approval," he teased between kisses, each brush of his lips against yours more deliberate now, his upper lip catching on yours in ways that made your toes curl. "just your mouth. and your hands. and maybe—"

you cut him off with another kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. the city stretched out below you, endless and bright, but all you could focus on was the way yeonjun shuddered when you tugged him closer, the way his heart pounded against yours —no web needed this time to prove you were connected.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[blued-inked]

The Glasses Stay On - Choi Soobin

(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || You've been trying to ignore it for months, but when Soobin walks into the living room in sweatpants and those thin black glasses, fresh from a shower and offering to "guide" you through the choreography, your restraint finally snaps. And he turns out to be far more eager to submit than you ever imagined.

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

Choi Soobin x 6th Member! Reader Category: Smut Word Count: 5.3k CW: Oral (F receiving), Face-Riding, Riding, Mirror sex, Unprotected, Creampie, Praise kink, Sub! Soobin, Begging

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <

The others had left two hours ago for some variety show filming, something about games and punishment outfits that had Yeonjun cackling and Beomgyu groaning as they piled into the van. You'd begged off with a headache that had bloomed behind your eyes sometime after lunch, and Soobin had stayed back without much explanation, just a quiet "I'll make sure she actually rests" tossed over his shoulder as the door clicked shut.

Now the dorm was too quiet. The AC hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a faucet dripped.

You weren't resting. You were standing in the middle of the living room with your phone propped against a cushion, watching the choreography video for the third time, trying to nail the body roll transition that kept throwing you off-beat.

"You're going to give yourself another headache."

You startled. Soobin stood in the doorway, fresh from a shower, hair still damp and curling at the ends, dressed in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt that had seen better years. And, your breath caught a little, glasses. Thin black frames that he only ever wore after he took his contacts out, when he thought no one was looking.

"I thought you were napping," you said, too fast.

"I was. Then I heard you stomping around." He padded over, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and peered at your phone screen. "That part?"

"Yeah. I keep-" You demonstrated, hips shifting, but your shoulders went too early and the whole thing looked wrong. "See? I look like a broken robot."

Soobin huffed a laugh, soft and close. He was standing near enough that you could smell his soap, something clean and cedar-like. "You're overthinking it. Here-" He reached past you to pause the video, arm brushing your shoulder, and you tried not to flinch at the contact. "Show me from the top of the eight-count."

You did, fumbling through it, hyperaware of him watching. When you finished, he was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip.

"Okay. Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around. I'll guide you through it."

Your mouth went dry. You turned, facing the blank TV screen, and felt him step in behind you. Close. Closer than necessary, maybe, or maybe that was just your pulse talking.

"Arms up first," he said, voice lower, and his hands found your wrists. His palms were warm, slightly calloused from gym equipment and dance practice. He lifted your arms to the correct height, adjusting the angle of your elbows with small, precise movements. "Now, the roll starts from your chest, not your hips. Like this-"

His chest pressed against your back as he demonstrated the isolation, his sternum rolling against your shoulder blades in a slow, controlled wave. You could feel his breath at your temple, steady and warm.

"Feel that?" he asked.

You made a sound that was meant to be yes but came out strangled.

He didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to settle in, his hips aligning with yours, his thighs bracketing the back of your legs. "Try it with me."

You attempted the roll again, but your focus was shredded, scattered across the points where his body touched yours, the hand that had slid to your hip to steady you, the thumb that brushed the dip of your waist, the way his glasses kept catching the light when you glanced at your reflection in the dark TV screen.

"You're stiff," he murmured, and his hand pressed firmer against your stomach, pulling you back against him. "Relax. Trust me."

"I do," you breathed, and the words hung in the air, too heavy, too honest.

The hand on your hip stilled. In the reflection, you watched his eyes, magnified slightly by the lenses, dark and searching, meet yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"You're not watching the choreography," he said quietly.

"Neither are you."

His fingers flexed against your waist. The dorm was silent except for the AC and your heartbeat, thunderous in your ears.

"These glasses," you said, before you could stop yourself, your voice barely audible. "You shouldn't wear them around me."

"Why?"

"Because I can't think when you do."

Behind you, his breath hitched. His grip tightened, not painful, just grounding, and you felt the moment the air shifted, charged, dangerous, inevitable.

"Then we're even," he said, rougher now, leader-mode cracking open to reveal something hungrier underneath, "because I haven't been able to think straight around you for months."

His hand slid up from your hip, slow, giving you every chance to pull away, and cupped your jaw instead, turning your head until you could see him properly, glasses and all, gaze fixed on your mouth with an intensity that made your knees weak.

"I should take them off," he said. It wasn't a statement. It was a question wrapped in restraint, his thumb tracing your cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of you.

Your hand found his wrist, holding him there. "Don't," you whispered. "Not yet."

The frame of his glasses brushed your temple as he leaned in, close enough now that you could count his lashes, could see the way his pupils blew wide with want. The teaching was over. The confession was bleeding out between you, heavy and mutual, and neither of you were pulling back.

"Tell me to stop," he said, breath against your lips, "and I will."

But you were already tilting your chin up, closing the distance, and the last coherent thought you had was that the glasses had been a warning all along, you just hadn't realized what they were warning you about until it was too late to run.

The moment your lips meet, he makes a sound, high, fractured, like you'd surprised the breath right out of him. His mouth is soft, slightly parted from the shock of it, and he goes perfectly still against you, as if he's terrified that moving will make you disappear.

You take control immediately. Turning to face him.

Your hand slides from his wrist up to his jaw, angling his head where you want it, and he lets you, neck arching, throat exposed, a shiver running down his spine that you feel where your chests press together. He doesn't kiss back so much as he receives, lips pliant and yielding under yours, trembling slightly when you sweep your tongue against the seam of his mouth.

"Open," you murmur into him, and he does, immediately, without hesitation, jaw going slack as his lips part for you. The submission in it makes your head spin. This is Soobin, the leader, the one who carries the weight of five other people, and he's melting because you told him to.

You explore him slowly, deliberately, tasting the mint of his toothpaste and something sweeter underneath, and every new angle you take, he follows. When you deepen the kiss, he whimpers, actually whimpers, into your mouth, his hands finding your waist and gripping like he's drowning, like you're the only thing keeping him upright.

His glasses bump against your cheek, fogging from the heat and proximity, and you pull back just enough to nip at his lower lip, testing. His knees actually buckle, a full-body shudder rippling through him as he gasps your name against your mouth.

"Please," he breathes, and the word is wrecked, desperate. His eyes are blown wide behind the smudged lenses, pupils blown out, lips swollen and wet and parted. He's waiting for you to decide what happens next, needing you to decide. "Please, I-"

You cut him off with another kiss, hungrier this time, and he moans into it, open, unfiltered, the sound vibrating against your tongue. His hands slide up from your waist to your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, and he holds on like you're anchoring him in a storm. When you suck at his tongue, he jerks against you, hips stuttering forward involuntarily, chasing friction, chasing you.

You break away to trail kisses along his jaw, and he tilts his head back instantly, exposing the long column of his throat, panting in shallow, ragged bursts. "There," he whispers, voice cracking when you press your mouth to the pulse hammering beneath his skin. "Right there, please-"

The please again. Like you're doing him a favor. Like he's grateful.

You bite gently at the tendon in his neck, and his whole body goes rigid, a strangled noise catching in his throat as his fingers tighten in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer. He's shaking now, actually shaking, fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against him, not to trap you but because he can't support his own weight anymore.

You kiss your way back to his mouth, and this time when you meet, he chases you. It's messy, uncoordinated, all gasping breaths and clashing teeth because he's desperate for it now, whimpering every time you pull back just to breathe before diving back in. His tongue slides against yours with no rhythm, just need, raw, overwhelming need, and when you grip his hair, tangling your fingers in the damp curls at his nape and tugging, he sobs into your mouth.

His submission is total. He doesn't lead, doesn't take, he accepts. Every tilt of your head, every pressure of your lips, every scrape of your teeth, he meets with parted lips and hitched breaths. When you slow down, he slows with you, whining at the loss of intensity but obedient as a prayer. When you speed up, grow hungrier, he opens wider, takes more, his body going limp and willing against yours.

You pull back to watch him, really watch him, and the sight wrecks something in your chest. His glasses are completely fogged now, useless, perched crooked on his nose. His lips are bitten red, glistening, parted around desperate breaths. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, fixed on your mouth with such naked want that it makes your stomach clench.

"Look at you," you whisper, and his lashes flutter, a full-body shiver rippling through him at the attention. "You're shaking."

"I can't-" He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I can't stop. I want-" He cuts himself off, biting his lip, and the gesture is so uncertain, so needy, that you lean in and soothe the bite with your tongue, laving over the swollen flesh until he's trembling again, until his knees are actually knocking against yours.

"Tell me," you command against his mouth, and he shudders like you've struck him, like the firm tone alone is enough to unravel him.

"More," he gasps, arching into you, his hips seeking yours with no subtlety left, all pretense of control abandoned. "Please, I need, kiss me again, please, I'll do anything, just-"

You give it to him. You cradle his jaw in both hands, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, and you kiss him slow and deep and devastating, swallowing every whimper, every broken moan, every shaky breath he exhales into your mouth. He surrenders completely, body pliant, mouth open, hands clutching at you like you're salvation and ruin all at once.

When you finally break apart, both of you gasping, he doesn't let go. He presses his forehead to yours, nose bumping yours, breath mingling in the small space between you. His eyes are closed, lashes wet, and he's still trembling, small, continuous shivers that you feel everywhere your bodies touch.

"Again," he whispers, and it's not a demand. It's a plea. "Please, kiss me again. I'll be good, I promise, I'll-"

You silence him with your mouth, and he goes boneless against you, yielding completely, giving you everything he's been holding back for months in the form of gasping breaths and desperate sounds and the way his whole body arches into your touch, begging for more without saying a word.

The walk to the couch is a stumble, a slow collapse of distance where neither of you stop touching long enough to walk properly. Soobin's hands stay mapped to your waist, your hips, your lower back, touching, reassuring, needing, while you guide him backward, your mouth still attached to his throat, his jaw, the shell of his ear, anywhere you can reach.

He hits the couch cushions with a soft oof, glasses askew, hair falling into his eyes, and the sight of him, spread out, breathless, waiting, roots you to the spot for a moment, just looking. His shirt has ridden up, revealing a sliver of stomach, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips, and he looks debauched already, wrecked from nothing but kissing.

"Off," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel, grounded in a command that makes his thighs press together, a full-body shiver racing through him.

He moves to strip himself, fingers fumbling at his hem, but you stop him with a hand over his, pinning it to his stomach. "No. I want to."

His breath catches, audible, desperate. He nods, fast, jerky, and lets his hands fall to his sides, gripping the couch cushions instead. He doesn't move. He doesn't help. He waits, watching you with blown-pupil eyes, his chest heaving in shallow, anticipatory bursts.

You straddle his thighs, settling your weight over him, and he whines at the contact, head falling back against the couch, exposing the long line of his throat. You take your time. You slide your hands under his shirt, palms flat against the heat of his stomach, feeling the muscles jump and flutter under your touch. He sucks in a sharp breath when your thumbs brush his ribs, arching into it like a cat, like he wants more and is terrified of it in equal measure.

"Lift," you murmur, and he obeys immediately, arms raising above his head, wrists crossed, submissive in a way that makes your mouth water.

You pull your own shirt over your head, and his gaze drops to your chest, his lips parting, a shaky exhale escaping him. You reach behind you to unclasp your bra, and he makes a noise, frantic, needy, his hands twitching like he wants to touch but doesn't dare move without permission.

"Touch me," you allow, and his hands fly to you like he's been waiting for the command his whole life, warm, slightly calloused palms cupping you, thumbs brushing over you with a reverence that makes your breath hitch. He looks at you like you're sacred, like he's memorizing scripture, and when you rock against him, feeling him hard and straining beneath his sweatpants, he groans, long and low, his forehead pressing against your sternum.

But you need more. You need him bare.

"Your pants," you murmur against his hair, and he whines, high and broken, his hips bucking up helplessly. "Take them off."

He moves immediately, scrambling, his usual grace abandoned in his desperation. He shoves at the waistband, lifting his hips, kicking them off along with his underwear in one tangled mess, and then he's naked beneath you, exposed, flushed, his cock heavy and hard against his stomach, leaving a smear of wetness on his skin. He doesn't try to cover himself. He spreads his thighs wider instead, letting you look, his hands gripping the couch cushions like he's stopping himself from reaching for you without permission.

The sight of him, naked, hard, and still wearing those fucking glasses like some kind of debauched scholar, makes your mouth water. The sight of him, naked, hard, and still wearing 

those fucking glasses like some kind of debauched scholar, makes your mouth water. 

"Now you," he breathes, his voice wrecked, his eyes fixed on your waist with naked hunger. "Please, can I, let me-"

You stand up from his thighs, and he makes a wounded noise at the loss of contact, his hands reaching out before he catches himself, fisting them back at his sides. You take your time. You hook your thumbs in your waistband and push your bottoms down slowly, stepping out of them, and his gaze tracks every movement, his mouth falling open, his chest heaving. When you straighten up, fully naked above him, he sobs, actually sobs, his head falling back, his throat working.

"Please," he mumbles into the air, the word punched out of him, his hips rolling up into nothing, seeking friction, seeking you. "Please, I need, can I-" He's incoherent, babbling, his hands sliding down to grip his own thighs, digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Want to taste you. Please. Been thinking about it, dreaming about it, please let me, I'll do it so good, I'll make it so good for you, just please-"

The begging. The desperate, filthy begging falling from his swollen lips, his glasses still on, crooked and fogged, framing those wide, pleading eyes, while he's completely naked beneath you, spread out and hard and waiting.

"Sit on my face," he gasps out, the words rushed, wrecked, his fingers digging into his own thighs now, restraining himself from touching you without consent. The words sound filthier coming from someone with glasses on, like he should be tutoring you in something respectable instead of begging to be used. "Please, please, I want you on my mouth, want to taste you, want you to use me, please, I'll be so good, I'll make you feel so good, just-"

You shift up his body, knees bracketing his ribs, and he sobs with relief, his hands flying to your waist to steady you, to guide you, trembling with the effort of being gentle when he's clearly unraveling. You stand over him for a moment, looking down at him, his hair a mess, his lips parted and wet, his glasses smudged and still somehow perfectly in place, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that burns, his whole body naked and flushed and his cock twitching against his stomach, neglected but secondary to his need to serve you.

"Please," he mumbles into your skin, the vibration of his voice sending sparks down your spine. "Please, I need, can I-" He's incoherent, babbling, his hands sliding down to your hips and gripping tight. "Want to taste you. Please. Been thinking about it, dreaming about it, please let me, I'll do it so good, I'll make it so good for you, just please-"

The begging. The desperate, filthy begging falling from his swollen lips, his glasses still on, crooked and fogged, framing those wide, pleading eyes.

"Keep them on," you say, meaning the glasses, and he nods frantically, his throat working.

"Yes, yes, anything, please-"

You lower yourself over him, one knee settling on the cushion beside his head, the other on the opposite armrest, caging him in completely. He whines at the position, at being trapped beneath you, his hands sliding up your thighs with shaking reverence. He looks hungry, desperate, his gaze fixed on the space between your legs like he's starving.

"Please," he whispers one last time, and it's the please that breaks you, the way he says it like a prayer, like worship.

You lower yourself onto his mouth, and the first swipe of his tongue makes you gasp, your hands flying to the back of the couch for balance. He moans against you, the vibration traveling through your core, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you down harder, needing you to use him, to take your pleasure from him.

He's messy, eager, desperate, licking broad stripes through you like he's trying to taste every part of you at once, his nose bumping against you, his glasses brushing your inner thigh. The sight of him, Soobin, the responsible one, the leader, the one who holds everyone together, reduced to this, glasses on, face buried in you, making obscene, grateful noises like you're doing him a favor by letting him serve you, it's almost too much.

He finds your clit and sucks, and your knees buckle, a cry tearing from your throat. He whimpers in response, the sound muffled, vibrating against you, and his hands slide up to grip your hips, holding you in place, demanding that you take it, that you use him, that you ride his face until you're satisfied.

"Soobin," you gasp, and he moans louder at his name, the vibration making you see stars. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue flicking quick and filthy over you, his nose pressing hard, his whole face working for your pleasure with single-minded devotion.

You look down at him, really look, and the sight sears itself into your memory. His eyes are closed, lashes wet, his face flushed red, his glasses completely fogged now, useless, but still on because you told him to keep them. He looks ruined, wrecked, and he's the one doing the wrecking, his mouth relentless, his moans constant, vibrating through your core.

"So good," you pant, your hips rolling against his mouth without your permission, chasing the heat building in your belly. "You're doing so good, baby, so good for me-"

He sobs against you, the praise breaking something in him, and he pulls you down harder, his tongue pressing inside, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against your clit. He's making noises like he's dying, like you're killing him, and he wants it, he wants to drown in you, wants to be used until he can't think, can't breathe, can't be anything but yours.

Your orgasm builds fast and hard, your thighs trembling where they bracket his head, your grip on the couch turning white-knuckled. You grind down against his mouth, taking what you need from him, and he takes it, takes it, his hands gripping your ass, holding you there, his tongue working you through it, through you, desperate and devoted and his.

When you come, it's with a cry that echoes off the dorm walls, your body arching, your hips stuttering against his face. He moans against you, long and broken, like he's coming undone just from your pleasure, from being allowed to give it to you, and he doesn't stop, keeps licking, keeps sucking, gentle now, worshipful, like he's thanking you, like he's grateful.

You collapse forward, hands braced on the back of the couch, your body still shuddering, and he presses soft, reverent kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach, his hands stroking up and down your legs like he's soothing you, like he's the one who needs to take care of you even now.

"Thank you," he whispers, breathless, his voice wrecked, his face glistening, his glasses finally sliding down his nose. "Thank you, thank you, can I, please, can I-" He's still hard beneath you, straining, aching, and he's begging for permission to touch himself, to find his own release, his eyes wide and pleading behind those fogged lenses.

You look down at him, this beautiful, wrecked boy who just gave you everything, who begged to be used, who kept his glasses on because you asked, and your chest aches with something fierce and possessive.

"Yes," you whisper, and he sobs with relief, his hand flying to himself, and you settle in to watch, to take him apart the way he just took you apart, piece by desperate, grateful piece.

"Yes," you whisper, and he sobs with relief, his hand flying to himself, and you settle in to watch, to take him apart the way he just took you apart, piece by desperate, grateful piece.

But you don't let him finish alone.

You knock his hand away, and he whines, high, broken, devastated, until you grip him yourself, your palm sliding down his length, feeling the heat and weight of him, the way he throbs against your fingers. His hips jerk up into your touch, uncontrolled, his head slamming back against the couch cushions.

"Please," he gasps, "please, please, I need you, need to be inside, please-"

You lift yourself over him, positioning him at your entrance, and he goes perfectly still beneath you, every muscle locked, his breath held, his eyes wide and begging behind those fogged lenses. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, feeling him stretch you, fill you, and he moans, long and loud and unrestrained, his hands flying to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers digging in with desperate strength.

"Move," he breathes, "please, god, move, I can't-"

You roll your hips, and he cries out, his neck arching, his glasses slipping down his nose. You reach up and adjust them, pushing them back into place, and he whimpers at the gesture, at you taking care of him even now, at the intimacy of it.

"Keep them on," you murmur, rocking against him, and he nods frantically, his hands sliding up to your waist, guiding your movements, his hips thrusting up to meet you, desperate and needy.

You ride him slowly at first, controlled, deliberate, watching him unravel beneath you. His mouth is open, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back. He's trying to be good, trying to let you set the pace, but his body is begging, hips stuttering up into you, his cock twitching inside you, his hands gripping you like he's drowning.

"Touch yourself," you command, and his hand flies to his length, stroking the remaining length when you raise your hips as you ride, his other sliding between to his balls, cupping and rolling them in his hands, his eyes rolling back, his whole body trembling.

"Close," he gasps, "so close, please, can I-"

"Not yet."

He whines, high and desperate, his hand stilling, his hips bucking up helplessly. You lean down, your chest pressed to his, your mouth at his ear. "My turn again."

You climb off him, and he sobs at the loss, his hand reaching for you, his eyes wide and wrecked. "No, please, I was so close, please don't-"

"Shh," you soothe, taking his hand, pulling him up from the couch. He stumbles, uncoordinated, his legs unsteady, and you guide him, naked, flushed, glasses askew, to the large mirror mounted on the wall near the hallway.

You turn him to face it, then turn yourself, pressing your back against his chest, looking at your reflection, his reflection, wild-eyed and desperate, his cock hard and wet against the small of your back.

"Youre fucking gorgeous," you whisper, and you brace your hands against the mirror, bending at the waist, presenting yourself to him.

He groans, low, guttural, animal, and his hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers bruising. You can feel him shaking, feel the restraint vibrating through him like a live wire.

"Soobin," you say, looking at him in the mirror, "fuck me."

He snaps.

He drives into you in one hard thrust, and you cry out, your hands slamming against the glass, the mirror fogging from your breath. He doesn't pause, doesn't wait, he pounds into you, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, harsh and filthy.

His glasses finally fall, sliding down his nose, and he doesn't stop to fix them. He tears them off, tossing them aside, and his eyes, god, his eyes, are dark and wild, fixed on yours in the mirror, watching your face as he takes you apart.

"Look at you," he growls, and his voice is different, deeper, rougher, stripped of the desperate begging and replaced with raw, possessive hunger. "Look at you taking me. So fucking good for me, aren't you? So perfect-"

He reaches around, his hand finding you, his fingers circling you with rough, desperate pressure, and you moan, your knees buckling, your forehead pressing against the cool glass.

He doesn't slow. He can't. He's lost in it, lost in the heat and the friction and the sight of you bent over for him, taking him, wanting him. His thrusts become erratic, uncontrolled, his hips snapping hard enough to move the mirror on its mounts.

"Gonna-" he gasps, "can't stop, I'm gonna-"

"Come inside me," you beg, looking at him in the mirror, at this beautiful, wrecked boy who has completely lost himself in you. "Soobin, please, I want to feel you-"

He roars, actually roars, his hips slamming into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and he pulses, hot and hard, his whole body locking up, his hand on you squeezing, his head falling back, his mouth open in a silent scream.

He collapses against you, his chest heaving against your back, his sweat slick between you, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you up, holding you close. You can feel his heart hammering against your spine, feel the aftershocks rippling through him, feel him trembling, still trembling, still his.

"Thank you," he whispers into your hair, his voice wrecked, his hold on you tightening. "Thank you, thank you, I-" He breaks off, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach. "I love you. I've loved you for so long, I-"

You turn in his arms, facing him, and his eyes are wet, tears, actual tears, sliding down his flushed cheeks. You kiss them away, tasting salt, tasting him.

"I know," you whisper. "I love you too."

He sobs, soft, relieved, broken, and buries his face in your neck, holding you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, and for a long moment, you just stand there, wrapped around each other, naked and shaking and his.

You guide him, wobbly, giggling, still naked, to his room, and he collapses onto his bed with a whump, pulling you down with him. He wraps around you immediately, limbs tangling with yours, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like he's trying to memorize the scent of you mixed with him.

"Stay," he mumbles, half-asleep already, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "Please. Just, don't go yet."

You press a kiss to his forehead, smoothing his damp hair back. "Not going anywhere, Soobin."

He makes a small, contented noise, pulling you closer, his glasses long forgotten on the floor somewhere in the living room. You trace lazy patterns on his back, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the last tremors fade from his muscles. He falls asleep like that, clinging to you, naked and unguarded, a soft smile on his swollen lips.

---

You don't know how much time passes, maybe an hour, maybe two, when the front door slams open downstairs, loud voices and laughter echoing through the dorm.

", and then Yeonjun had to wear the chicken suit-"

"It was humiliating, I looked like a-"

", hyung, you looked amazing, don't lie-"

The voices cut off. There's a silence, heavy, pointed, and then Beomgyu's voice rings out, high and delighted.

"Uh. Why are there clothes everywhere?"

You freeze in Soobin's arms. He blinks awake, confused, and then his eyes go wide as the realization hits him. His sweatpants. Your shirt. His glasses, God, his glasses, 

"Is that a bra on the couch?" Taehyun's voice, deeply amused. "On the armrest?"

"Oh my God," Hueningkai whispers, loud enough to carry. "They did it in the living room-"

"Don't, don't look at the mirror," Yeonjun says, cackling. "I'm not looking at that mirror ever again-"

Soobin buries his face in your neck, groaning, his whole body flushing red. "We're never leaving this room," he mumbles, mortified. "We live here now. This is our home."

You laugh, unable to help it, pressing kisses to his heated cheeks. "We should probably face them eventually."

"Eventually," he agrees, pulling the blanket over your heads, hiding you both from the world. "In like. A year."

Downstairs, someone, probably Beomgyu, picks up Soobin's glasses, holding them up to the light.

"These are fogged, dude. Like. Completely fogged-"

"GYU, PUT THOSE DOWN-"

Soobin's groan vibrates against your chest, and you hold him tighter, laughing into his hair, happier than you've ever been.

[gyuuchuuu]

Hello~~🌷

Hehe, it's my first time asking a question

I'm not used to it, so please forgive me~

I've been looking at posts all at once since I got to know you yesterday

It's already the best!

So please, please give me more Yeonjun's audio~~🥲🥲

awww hiii!!! wow you’ve looked at most of my posts?! genuinely that’s so sweet of you to say it’s the best😭💖 yes ofc hon, one jjunie audio coming right up~!

MDNI // nsfw audio

i feel like i need audios to be in genres. like this is obviously in the “wet sloppy whiny male” category…

[sientemefragil]

ꦜꦿꦾꦸ◌⁕𓈒ּ͏͏╋۪۪۪۪ ⋆⭒ം #EverybodyHereWantsYou 𝄞