i hate that when you try and look up shit for writing purposes it starts linking suicide hotlines and addiction advice articles like bro i just wanna know the information im not killing myself i promise. now tell me what i wanna know
pairing﹢jung wooyoung x fem!reader x jeong yunho
genre﹢smut. porn with little plot, contains heavy dialogue, toy use, edging, overstimulation, orgasm control, mild sadism, usage of petnames (angel, baby, princess).
synopsis﹢nothing is ever just a game with wooyoung, and with yunho involved... they push all of your buttons.
word count﹢3,7k
“what do you mean you don’t know where it is?”
WOOYOUNG doesn’t even look at you at first. he’s standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt before ruffling his hair, letting a few strands of dark bangs fall into his eyes. he was so calm, didn't even care much about the remote to the toy in your panties was gone. you, on the other hand, are seconds away from losing it, pacing on the edge of your patience, your mind spiraling faster with every second he doesn’t react.
“i don’t know,” he says simply, reaching for his perfume, spritzing it once, then twice, the citrus scent quickly filling the room. he looks confident and so sure of himself, and somehow that makes it worse. because no matter how put together he is right now, he still can’t answer one simple question — where is it? maybe some poltergeist had hidden it somewhere. it will appear someday by chance, so don’t worry that pretty little head of yours.
“you’re unbelievable and so irresponsible,” you scoff at him, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. he's never lost it before, not once. it's always in a pocket of his jacket or jeans, somewhere easy to reach. not something that just… disappears. what, did it fall into some kind of void? vanish into thin air?
“you’re the one who agreed to wear it.” finally glancing at you through the mirror, one brow slightly raised, as his gaze drags over you from head to toe. fitted black long-sleeve crop top, short flowy skirt, chunky boots, jewelry catching the light, every detail carefully put together, and all he thinks about is the accessory hidden underneath.
“that was under the assumption you wouldn’t lose the damn remote.” to him, you still looked pretty even when you were angry or irritated.
“i didn’t lose it,” he corrects, turning to face you, leaning back against the dresser like he has nothing to worry about. “i just don’t know where it is.”
you exhale, trying to ignore the way your pulse is already picking up just from the situation itself. this just couldn't be happening. if it were a condom, no problem, as if you didn’t prefer to do it raw. or whatever small thing like forgetting to buy eggs or chocolate. that's more forgivable than something like a remote control for the very expensive toy he bought to torture you with.
“woo, that’s basically the same thing.”
“not really.”
“there’s no point in me even wearing this if you can’t control it.”
“maybe it’s in my car.”
“maybe?”
“guess we’ll find out.” and just like that, he puts on his shoes and grabs the car keys, heading for the door, leaving you standing there, stomach twisting with the uneasy feeling that he’s not nearly as clueless as he’s pretending to be.
you and wooyoung aren’t dating. you don’t see anyone else, he doesn’t, either. it’s… whatever this is. something in between, exclusive, but unlabeled. days that blur into nights harder to walk away from. kisses that linger, hands that don’t know when to stop because with him, everything always leads somewhere, tension that never really fades.
he calls you angel when you’re trying to be a sweet devil. baby when you’re glaring at him, princess when you’re about to snap, and brat when you behave like one. you call him annoying, dickhead, little shit, sometimes baby slips out, when you’re not thinking too hard about it.
it’s inevitable. he likes control, thrives on it. pushes until you push back, just to see how far you’ll go before you give in. and you pretend you don’t enjoy it, but you love and appreciate him more than anything; he is your soulmate, perhaps, or at least that's what you like to tell yourself. people don’t ask questions anymore. to them, you’re just wooyoung’s girl, and whether that’s made official or not, you don’t correct them.
the thing is, it’s not just teasing and tension. he knows how to take care of you, too. soften after he’s been rough and give just as much as he takes. he keeps you on your tippy toes, yes, but he also knows exactly how to spoil you and make it feel like you’re the only one he’s paying attention to.
maybe that’s why you stay. and maybe that’s why, even after checking the car and coming up empty, you’re still standing there with him, wearing the damn thing like it wasn’t a mistake to begin with.
“baby, relax,” he says, closing the car door with a soft thud as he locks it, shrugs like it’s nothing. “it’s not the end of the world.”
you stare at him as you wait for him to get on your side so you can walk together to the building. he smirks, stepping closer, just enough to mess with your already delicate balance. you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.
“if you’re that desperate,” murmuring as he doesn’t look bothered. if anything, he looks more amused. “i can always take care of it myself.”
“how, exactly?” you ask, and his gaze stops at your face, taking in your beautiful features once again.
“my fingers,” he adds, like he’s listing options. “my mouth. whatever my princess needs.”
you swallow, trying to hold your ground, even as heat creeps up your neck, then he leans in just enough, voice brushing past your ear, “but don’t even think about asking for more. not with that attitude you had earlier.”
your breath catches for half a second before you recover, shoving lightly at his chest. you hate how his words settle somewhere under your skin, because as much as you want to think otherwise, you know he means it.
the place is quieter than you expected. you and wooyoung are the first to arrive early, for once. when you checked the time, you realized you’d be here almost twenty minutes ahead of everyone else. you’re usually right on time, or at least not the first through the door.
“hey, don’t think too much about it,” he murmurs as you stand in front of the door after ringing the bell, his hand settling at your lower back, warm against your bare skin. “just relax and try to have fun.”
right on cue, the door swings open, and there he is — the man of the hour.
“wooyoung, (name), didn’t expect you to come that early,” YUNHO says, greeting you both with that charming and welcoming smile.
“congratulations on the ten million, yu!” you say, handing him the small gift bag. “this is from me and woo, something small, but from the heart.”
“you shouldn’t have, your support was already enough,” he cuts in, taking it with a grin. “but thank you. now come in.”
he lets you both inside, already talking about the milestone and how unexpected it was. he figured it was worth celebrating with the people closest to him. ten million subscribers on youtube, a diamond button, and a whole career built off a screen, and somehow still the same yunho you’ve always known.
you settle onto the couch, nodding along as you listen. beside you, wooyoung drops down without a second thought, legs spreading to take up more space than necessary, his arm draping over your shoulders, a little territorial. yunho moves around in front of you, back turned as he fixes up drinks, adjusting things here and there. then he reaches for the remote on the table.
“let me just put something on while we wait for the others.”
you barely notice it at first, until you do. a faint vibration, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t already on edge. but then you feel it a little stronger now, your entire body goes still. next to you, wooyoung doesn’t move, but you catch the slight tension in him before he relaxes again. he knows something you don’t.
yunho keeps clicking absentmindedly, frowning at the tv. “why isn’t this turning on?”
your fingers curl into the hem of your skirt, trying your very best to stay calm and not to move so much, because the tv isn’t the thing he turned on.
the realization hits wooyoung first. his gaze flicks to the remote in his friend's hand, then back to you. so that’s where it went, huh? a few days ago, you were at yunho’s again, along with san and mingi. hanging out and trying a new game while the youtuber showed off his new tv, whose remote looked almost identical to the other one for the vibrator.
because if that remote is in yunho’s hand, then that means — yes, the tv remote is at wooyoung’s place, tucked away somewhere after he probably took it by mistake. and he had been wondering why the toy wasn’t working, thought the batteries had died or that it needed charging. clearly, he hadn’t bothered to check. he told you he lost it to avoid nagging from you about breaking expensive things again.
wooyoung leans back into the couch, the initial surprise fading as amusement settles in. his hand squeezes your shoulder gently, almost reassuring, if it weren’t for the situation. you’re trembling slightly at first, your lips press together tightly, but a soft moan slips out. your hand flies to your mouth too late, and that’s what makes yunho turn, glancing at you with concern.
“are you okay?” you’re not.
“y-yeah, i’m o-okay,” you manage to answer somehow, voice unsteady, but he’s already clicking the remote again, and it speeds up. your voice betrays you again, as wooyoung tilts his head, leaning in so only you can hear him. “sure about that, angel?”
you shoot him a look from the corner of your eye, but he only gives you that same cocky grin.
yunho presses another button. the sensation spikes stronger this time, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to hold it in. it hits deeper now, the vibrations hit your core, your thighs press together, and you can feel how wet you are getting already.
“yunho,” your so-called ‘boyfriend’ says in that playful tone of his you grew up to despise, “maybe try the other button.”
your eyes snap open instantly. yunho hums, doing exactly that. you clamp your hand over your mouth when a little louder moan than before slips into the quiet room. he looks over again, brows pulling together, lips parting slightly.
“are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, slower this time, but you nod too quickly.
“y-yeah, i–” another press and your answer turns into a breathy gasp, “ahh–”
yunho’s gaze flickers between the two of you. he turns it off, watching as your body relaxes, your shoulders dropping, then turns it on again, and you immediately jolt, squirming against the couch. oh, is that... he is curious now as he keeps pushing button after a button, and every instinct in your body is telling you to move, to stop this, maybe get up and grab that forsaken remote from his hand, only for wooyoung to hold you in place.
“shh, keep it down,” he murmurs near your ear. “wouldn’t want to make it obvious.”
“you–” you whisper, barely getting the word out, he watches the flutter of your eyelids, the minor tremors in your thighs.
“should i stop?” yunho asks, and wooyoung answers before you can.
“hmm… i don’t think she wants you to.”
“i wan–” your hand flies back to your mouth once the vibrations hit you right at that spot.
“see? she’s not saying no.” wooyoung hums and your glare. why does he have to be so mean? give men a little power and watch them ruin beautiful things.
“tell me what you want,” the taller says, thumb hovering over the remote, attentive, but not stepping back. while the shorter is watching you struggle, enjoying every second. to be honest, he's always been a sadist, but when someone else is around, he just becomes absolutely insufferable. he never allowed anything like that, for someone else to interfere, not even permission is given to san.
“princess, if you don’t answer, he might just keep guessing.” and even through the tension and the overwhelming pressure building in your body, you still manage to be difficult.
“or,” you breathe out shakily, glaring up at your boyfriend, “you could both stop being annoying and figure it out yourselves.”
wooyoung blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. “there she is, the brat in you has been hiding for so long now. i was wondering when it will come back.”
the first few minutes were a low setting here, a pulse there. you’d squirmed, biting your lip, trying to endure it and to show them that you, in fact, can handle it. then the vibration settled at a steady, mid-level grind. it’s enough to keep you perched on thin ice, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly but never releasing. you’re panting softly against your own palm, sweat dampening the back of your neck where wooyoung’s breath fans.
“look at her. she’s trying so hard to be quiet. she the prettiest angel, right yunho?”
yunho doesn’t answer immediately. he just turns the vibration off completely. the sudden absence creates crushing emptiness that feels worse than the stimulation. a whimper of pure loss breaks from your throat as your hips seek the pleasure that’s gone.
“oh, she doesn’t like that,” wooyoung coos, laughing softly. his hand slides down from your waist to splay possessively over your lower stomach, pressing down. “she wants it back, doesn’t she?”
“please,” you rasp, the word torn from you in a blissful whimper.
“please, what?” yunho becomes more precise and fully engaged, almost analytical. where did the sweet and kind golden boy disappear to? he stops asking, are you okay? and starts deciding what to do, probably influenced by the devil next to you. “use your words.”
“please… turn it back on.” you're so cute when you beg, that they just want to ruin you more.
“but you were getting too excited,” wooyoung chides, his fingers digging in slightly. “we can’t have you finishing without permission. that would be rude.”
yunho nods, as if considering this. he presses the button and it doesn’t return to the previous peaceful level. it comes back at the highest setting, followed by a violent, immediate buzz that feels less like pleasure and more like an electrical assault. you cry out, the sound strangled, your body seizing. it’s too much, an overwhelming flood that tips straight into overstimulation in a heartbeat when your vision whites out at the edges.
you’re screaming inside at the sensation, a relentless drilling into your pussy that offers no peace. your muscles are locked, shaking with the effort of containing it. you can feel the shameful slickness that has nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with helpless and brutalized arousal.
“so sensitive,” wooyoung bites your earlobe gently, holding you through, his embrace now less a restraint and more a comfort as you grip his forearm. “one little toy and you’re completely gone.”
yunho lets it run for what feels like an eternity. just when you think you might genuinely shatter into a million pieces under the onslaught, he drops it again. not to nothing, but back to that maddening and low speed. the drop is cruel as you sob. the makeup you spent so much time on is probably ruined, no matter how waterproof it is. slumping back against wooyoung, the low hum he lets feels like a taunt now, a reminder of what you can’t have.
“i think she’s learned her lesson,” he says, but his tone suggests the lesson is far from over. yunho walks over to the couch and crouches in front of you, the remote still in hand. he reaches out with his other hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a tear from your cheek, you didn’t even know had fallen.
“you’re doing so well,” he says, his gaze holding yours, and you can’t even recognize him. “but you don’t get to come unless we say so, you understand?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. he turns the remote over, shows you the tiny led light indicating it’s active, and the persistent, low-grade vibration continues. wooyoung kisses your cheek to keep you there with him, at least physically, as yunho rises, his shadow falling over you both.
you don’t know how long you have been denied an orgasm; you couldn't, there was no way, and you weren't allowed. those were their rules. it feels like you have been sitting on this couch forever without a second's rest. overwhelmed by the sensation coursing through your body, moaning softly, then whining as you trembled with need, turning to yunho with wide and pleading eyes, who is just observing you coldly like a predator.
“almost there, hm?” he whispers, his deep voice sending shivers and goosebumps on your half-naked body. considering the outfit you chose to wear, the cool air hits you like a tornado. the tension in the room thickens as you feel the pleasure and the denial, the toy pulsing against your every response to the pleas of your body. you are desperate, but the thrill of the chase is what they both seem to enjoy and bond over.
“too much? not enough? what is it, baby?” wooyoung mocks you with a playful question. you feel trapped between them, one holding you in place, the other controlling something you can’t. their voices overlap, layering over each other in a constant push and pull of teasing and coaxing, a taunting rhythm that makes it harder to think straight, let alone speak.
yunho, in all his life, never thought he’d enjoy something like this so much. you’re wooyoung’s — everyone wants you, but you only ever want one man. even so, a selfish thought slips in: he wishes he could take wooyoung’s place, be the one making you react like this and pushing your buttons, pulling you apart piece by piece.
lost in that thought, he doesn’t even realize how far he’s taken it, but the setting has shifted, turned it up to its limit. wooyoung’s sharp voice cuts through first, worried now, snapping him back. he blinks, startled, heart catching as he registers wooyoung’s tone over the sound of your broken breaths and desperate little sounds.
“yunho, turn it the fuck off, you psychopath.”
without hesitation, his thumb moves, dialing it down to something gentler.
wooyoung is already there, hand threading into your hair, slowly soothing you, fingers combing through as his other hand brushes your cheek, soft despite the smirk still playing on his lips, enjoying this just as much as he’s pretending not to.
“it’s okay, breathe.” you’re still shaking slightly, but wooyoung glances at yunho with narrowed eyes, ones that could easily stop whatever is happening. “see what you did?”
“i didn’t think it would go that far,” yunho exhales, running a hand through his hair, and your man just laughs under his breath.
“sure you didn’t.” then, softer when he turns to speak to you, fingers continue to soothe through your locks, “i’m sorry, angel. but you see… even he can’t resist making a mess out of you.”
despite the toy being set on a lower intensity, you still feel it building, wooyoung does too with the way your legs press tighter together and your back arches slightly. he lets you, easing his hand out of your hair before sliding it beneath your skirt again, pressing the toy a little firmer, shifting it all around to give you what you’ve earned. with his other hand, he signals yunho with two fingers, silent but clear: give me the remote back. enough is enough, he wants you back with him now.
“come on, baby. yeah… feels good now, no?” his voice softening into something almost sweet as your eyes fall shut. your breathing is uneven, but steadier now than it was minutes ago. yunho can only watch, while wooyoung handles you with care.
and then the sweet release crashes through you all at once. finally, after being denied for so long, your body trembles, a soft whimper escaping as overstimulation follows right after. you feel the slick warmth between your thighs and you don’t even care about making a mess on the couch. all you can think about is breathing again, your body going slack as you lean into wooyoung without thinking.
that’s when the doorbell rings, snapping all three of you back to reality. for a second, yunho just stands there, the remote still in his hand, and your uneven breathing still echoing in his ears. this is not new — at least, not for you and wooyoung. things like this, blurred lines between private and almost public, have existed long before yunho ever got pulled into it. the rest of the group has no idea, and they’re not meant to; it’s not anyone else’s business.
even if wooyoung carries that careless, sharing is caring kind of attitude, it only goes so far. perfumes and scents, those things he’ll scoff at, roll his eyes over, let slide without much thought. you, though? you’re not something he shares lightly. and yunho can understand it now, because he just stepped into territory that was never his to begin with.
“take her to the bathroom,” he says, clearing his throat as he hands the remote back by turning it off, nodding toward the hallway. “i’ll handle it.”
wooyoung nods once, already shifting his focus entirely to you, guiding you up with a hand at your waist as yunho heads toward the door. and just like that, the scene resets. the rest of the guys arrive, the apartment is filled with laughs and loud music, everything looks normal again. but at some point, someone notices the couch.
“uh… why is there a stain?”
wooyoung doesn’t even hesitate to answer, you in his lap. “sorry, i spilled some juice. don’t worry, it’ll dry.” yeah, juice… your juice.
the party starts all drinking and having fun to celebrate their friend. however, yunho isn’t thinking about the guests or about his achievement in the virtual and social world… he thinks of how much he can achieve by making you cum on his cock instead of the cushions earlier without the usage of some stupid toy. of course, only if wooyoung lets him… tho doubts he would mind, you are not officially together after all.
so, hello this is my shortest smut fic yet, and i just wanted to experiment with the formatting and the storytelling ! please, keep in mind that this was my first time writing anything focused on the usage of toys and i know it may be bad and not perfect, since i'm not familiar with this type of nsfw content, but i hope you enjoyed <33
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
req. mingi and dry humping. thats it. or like just cumming from a pussyjob and then riding him/overstim n teasing him about cumming early
warnings: nsfw 18+, switch!mg, switch!reader, sub/dom dynamics, pussyjob, teasing, petnames (baby, angel, good girl etc.) riding, creampie
wc. 1.1k
an. a req i loved writing :3 hope this matched your needs anonie! tysm for requesting me! + this also works as a 500 follower special! tysm to all my dollies for supporting me!! enjoy <3 not proofread! taglist: @sablewardapocalypse @joongnoodle @matznana @fixonjade @kisssan
There were a few favourite ways for you to wake up to a new day. this morning in bed was definitely up there for the past week or so.
you had spun in your sleep, twisting around against your awaking boyfriend, mingi. a thing to note about mingi, is that he just can't get enough of you, and is always hungry for more. so what started innocently enough as him hugging you close, turned into something full of other undertones.
awake now, you sat on top of mingis bulky body, the skin on skin contact making your head spin so early in the day. in swift motions you both had discarded your clothes, now laid here in your own little world, both vulnerably naked; and desperate for something more.
"shit baby.. just like that"
a sharp breath escaped mingis parted lips, eyelashes fluttering as he ever so tried to keep his eyes open. he didn't want to miss seeing the way your wet pussy glided against his throbbing hardness. the way your slick left a trail on the length of it, clamping down above him like an snug envelope. his hands laid on your hips, massaging the warm flesh as you moved back and forth, on a mission to your orgasm.
you hadn't let mingi in yet, but you knew he loved it like this. slow, teasing, pushing limits.
"such a good girl baby, theeere you go, use me"
a warm breath loomed over yours, mingis eager mouth attacking yours with pure hunger and need to be close. your hands tugged on the roots of his hair, pulling on the black strands as if to ground yourself. you felt yourself drawing close, feeling the heat of mingis body radiating as your hips moved in their own pace.
"min- 'm so close baby" you muttered against his lips.
suddenly, you felt a familiar shudder against you, mingis mouth falling open against yours, making your eyes flutter open. to your surprise, the man before you was a shaking mess, fat ropes of cum laid against his lower stomach, cheeks burning red as he leaned forward to you to hide.
"baby-" you started, hand running down his sticky chest. with a shake of his head, mingi peaked his eyes open to meet yours.
" 'm so sorry angel.. it was just all too much and i needed you so bad-"
you scanned him for a moment, the poor man before you almost shivering. as his eyes met yours, those big brown boba eyes clashing against your gaze, you felt a shift inside you. waisting little to no time, you let your other hand curl around his cock, moving up and down, twisting. mingi flinched to the touch, sensitivity burning in his body.
"ah angel- too much-" you looked at him with a slight chuckle.
"i thought you said you needed me so bad?" your tone dripping of teasing, mingis gaze dropping from yours as he started to ease into it again slowly, hardening against your grip. you tightened around him suddenly, making a louder moan tear out of his lungs, eyes meeting yours again in a hot flash.
"i can do more" his voice spoke, hands gripping the light sheets as you nodded with a sly smirk.
rising up, you aligned his thick tip against your opening, gliding it in circles against it, letting mingi writhe against you in anticipation. it looked like he was fighting against all urges to push upwards, let himself glide into you with that familiar ease. but this wasn't about him.
slowly, you started to ease down on his length, letting yourself feel it all. all the thickness, all the warmth, all the veins pushing up against your sweet spots. your mouth hung open, fingernails digging into the flesh of mingis shoulder as you made your way.
"holy shit-" was all mingi could muster, head falling forward at the overwhelming sensation. as you had made it on mostly, you started to move in teasing grinds against him.
"don't tell me you're gonna cum again, aren't you baby?" mingis cheeks glared a deeper shade of pink, ears burning as you leaned close to speak to him. your one hand laid on his shoulder, the other now on his perked nipple, twisting the swollen bud as mingis squirmed and whined under your touch.
"n-no, i can hold it i promise" mingis voice came out in a broken slur, cut off by a whimper as you moved your hips teasingly slowly up on his cock.
quickly you moved back into your previous pattern, grinding yourself back and forth, letting mingis abdomen hit against your clit as you moved. the sensation was building decently fast, especially with your previous orgasm falling short. as you went down a tad deeper than before, you felt yourself tighten around him, mingis skin twitching to the touch.
"you promise you won't cum again? hm? you can do that for me?"
mingi takes a moment, brain slow from the overstimulation, but nods slowly. you take it all in, slowing your movements for a second to watch him. the morning rays of sun painted his tan skin in gold, his black hair strands messed up, brown eyes with blown pupils, plump bottom lip shivering. you felt yourself clench at the sight, drawing out a noise from both you and mingi.
" 'm gonna cum first 'kay? you got that?" you spoke, picking up speed again. mingis head thrashed around as he chanted yes's in a haze of pleasure.
both hands against his toned chest, you let yourself move in precise movements, making sure to hit that special soft spongy spot inside you. mingis hands had left the bedspread by now, fingers tight against your hipbones again, not guiding; but keeping you going. he leaned forward to you, mouth landing on your exposed neck, sucking down on the skin, peppering down dark marks.
"shittt mingi-" you felt your peak nearing, the sensations around you sucking you into a blissful tornado. hands more urgent against you, tongue licking down the marks left behind, mingis skin burns against you.
"cum for me baby, please" he whispered against you neck, followed by a light whimper. his noises drive you overboard, the pure vocal stimuli making your brain turn into mush.
your thighs shake, only mingis hands keeping you open as you clamp down on his cock, your release creaming all around it. your head flew forward, laying down on his firm shoulder as your orgasm whipped through you, your hips still moving slowly. mingis thumb circled a comforting pattern into the skin of your thigh as you felt yourself falling from your peak.
you were so lost in your own emotional roller coaster, you hadn't even noticed the wamth seeping inside your pussy, only registering it as you rose to move off mingi.
"min?" you asked with a raised brow. rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckled slightly.
"- it was after you, i promise!" you smiled with a light laugh. as you sat down next to him, you spoke;
synopsis : A clumsy runaway prince and a sharp-tongued farmer girl grow from unlikely friends to something more, but loving each other becomes complicated when duty and royalty threaten to pull them apart.
genre : slice of life, fluff, comedy, historical au, angst if you squint, romance, slow burn, royalty au
warnings : none
author’s note : i have 3 assignments due next week and im not even halfway done 😔 someone shoot me pls ❤️🩹
word count : 3.6k
The first time you met Prince Mingi, he was face-down in a muddy rice paddy screaming about frogs.
You were thirteen. He was fourteen.
And honestly, you should have left him there.
“You don’t understand,” the boy wailed dramatically, arms flailing while half-submerged in muddy water, “it looked at me.”
You stood on the edge of the paddy with your straw basket hanging from your arm, blinking slowly.
“It’s a frog.”
“It was judging me.”
“It’s a frog.”
“It knew I was weak.”
You stared at him another moment before sighing deeply through your nose.
Summer heat pressed against your skin. Cicadas screamed from the trees. The village fields shimmered gold-green under the afternoon sun, and right in the middle of it all was a very tall, very dramatic stranger who looked like he’d never worked a single day in his life.
His clothes gave him away instantly.
Fine silk. Embroidered sleeves. Boots too clean for a traveler—well, clean before the mud. A jade hairpin tucked through dark hair that had mostly fallen apart from his struggle against the “evil frog.”
A noble. Possibly stupid. Definitely rich.
You crouched by the paddy.
“Why are you in there?”
He looked personally offended.
“I fell.”
“How?”
“I was running.”
“From the frog?”
“FROM THE HORSE.”
You pressed your lips together. Then snorted. Then laughed so hard you nearly fell into the water yourself.
The stranger pointed at you accusingly. “You are cruel.”
“You’re muddy.”
“You’re heartless.”
“You’re dramatic.”
He gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“You wound me.”
You held out a hand anyway.
He stared at it. Then at you.
Then dramatically placed his hand in yours as if you were rescuing him from certain death rather than helping him out of ankle-deep water.
The second he stood, he slipped again. This time he took you down with him.
The two of you crashed into the mud together with matching shrieks.
Silence followed.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
You slowly turned your head. Your basket of freshly picked vegetables had overturned into the water.
You stared at it. He stared at it.
“You,” you said calmly, “are paying for those.”
That should have been the end of it.
A ridiculous noble boy passing through your tiny farming village.
Instead, he came back the next day.
And the next. And the next.
At first, you assumed he was lost. Then you assumed he was lonely.
Eventually, you realized Prince Song Mingi of the royal family was simply insane.
“You live like this every day?” he asked one afternoon while following you through the fields carrying a sack of cabbages incorrectly.
“Yes.”
“There’s dirt everywhere.”
“It’s a farm.”
“There’s bugs.”
“You live outside too.”
“Outside with servants.”
You rolled your eyes.
Mingi huffed dramatically and shifted the sack on his shoulder. He was terrible at manual labor. Truly awful. Somehow every task became a disaster.
The first time he tried milking a cow, he got kicked into a fence.
The first time he fed chickens, they chased him.
The first time he attempted harvesting, he cut through his own sleeve and cried for ten straight minutes because “this robe was imported.”
But he kept coming back. Tall and smiling and endlessly talkative.
You learned quickly that Prince Mingi hated palace life.
“I can’t breathe there,” he admitted once while lying across the hill beside you beneath the evening sky. “Everyone watches everything. Every word. Every step.”
You chewed on a blade of grass.
“That sounds annoying.”
“It’s awful.”
“Then don’t be a prince.”
He turned his head toward you.
“That’s not how that works.”
“Seems easy enough to me.”
He laughed.
God, his laugh was terrible for your heart.
Big and loud and warm enough to melt mountains.
“You’d overthrow the monarchy in three business days,” he said.
“I don’t know what monarchy means.”
He grinned.
“Exactly my point.”
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The village adored him eventually.
Mostly because he was incapable of acting like royalty.
He’d sit with the elders playing cards for hours. He helped children catch fish in the river. He bought sweet buns from the market and handed them out to random people before realizing he’d spent all the money his guard gave him.
Once, he tried helping repair a roof. He fell through it.
Mrs. Choi screamed so loudly half the village thought someone died.
Mingi emerged from the broken ceiling covered in straw holding a turnip somehow.
“I found this,” he announced.
To this day, nobody knows where the turnip came from.
“You like him.”
You nearly dropped your basket.
Your best friend narrowed her eyes at you from where she sat beneath the shade tree.
“I do not.”
“You made him lunch.”
“He forgot his.”
“You braided flowers into his horse’s mane.”
“The horse looked sad.”
“You smiled today.”
You froze.
“That means nothing.”
“It means everything.”
You glared at her.
Unfortunately, she was right.
You did like him. Which was stupid.
Catastrophically stupid.
He was a prince.
You were a farmer’s daughter who spent half her life smelling like dirt and onions.
Nothing about that ended happily.
So you ignored it.
Mostly. Okay, terribly.
Especially when Mingi smiled at you like you were sunrise itself.
Especially when he remembered tiny things about you. Especially when he started bringing gifts.
Not expensive gifts. Never jewels or silk.
Just little things.
A ribbon because he noticed yours fraying. A peach because you mentioned liking them once.
A tiny carved wooden rabbit because “it looked grumpy like you.”
You kept every single one.
Hidden carefully beneath your bed.
One autumn evening, the two of you sat by the river eating roasted chestnuts.
Mingi was unusually quiet.
You nudged his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
He tossed another chestnut shell into the water.
“My father wants me back at the palace.”
You frowned.
“For how long?”
His silence answered enough.
Your chest tightened.
“Oh.”
“They’re starting marriage talks.”
You stared straight ahead. The river blurred slightly.
“That’s good,” you managed.
“It’s terrible.”
“You’ll marry some noble lady.”
“I don’t want some noble lady.”
Your fingers tightened around the warm chestnut.
“You don’t get to choose.”
“I should.”
“You’re a prince.”
“And?”
“And princes don’t marry farmers.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
Mingi went still beside you.
Then quietly—
“What if I wanted to?”
You looked at him finally.
Moonlight caught across his face.
Too soft. Too sincere.
You forced a laugh.
“You’d survive one week married to me.”
“I’d survive forever.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. He leaned closer.
“You know,” he murmured, “when I first met you, I thought you were terrifying.”
You snorted weakly.
“You cried over a frog.”
“It was a very aggressive frog.”
“It was sitting there.”
“It had malicious intent.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Mingi smiled immediately like he’d won something.
Then softer—
“You always laugh like that when you forget to stop yourself.”
Your breath caught.
Too close. Too warm.
You stood abruptly.
“I should go home.”
He grabbed your wrist gently before you could leave.
The touch was light. But devastating.
“You never answered me.”
Your voice came out smaller than intended.
“Answered what?”
His eyes searched yours.
“What if I wanted to choose you?”
You couldn’t breathe for a moment.
Because part of you, the selfish, reckless part—
Wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell him you’d loved him quietly for years already.
Wanted to let yourself believe impossible things.
Instead you pulled your hand away carefully.
“You should go back to the palace, Your Highness.”
The title hit him like a slap.
You saw it immediately. The hurt.
Mingi stared at you for a long moment before nodding once.
“…Right.”
He stood slowly.
For the first time since meeting him, he bowed formally.
Prince-like. Distant.
It made your stomach ache.
“Goodnight,” he said quietly.
Then he walked away.
You were miserable afterward. Truly unbearable to be around.
You snapped at chickens. Burned soup twice.
Accidentally dumped an entire basket of peppers into the river because you kept replaying that stupid conversation in your head.
Your mother finally grabbed your face one morning.
“If you sigh one more time,” she warned, “I will marry you to the blacksmith.”
You looked horrified.
“The one with the nose hair?”
“Yes.”
You burst into tears immediately.
Your mother sighed deeply.
“Ah,” she muttered. “So it’s serious.”
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Weeks passed.
No Mingi. The village felt wrong without him.
Quieter.
You hated how much you noticed.
One evening, while gathering water from the well, you overheard traveling merchants gossiping nearby.
“The prince returns to court this winter.”
“They say the king favors Lady Han.”
“Poor boy looks miserable.”
“Royalty never marries for love.”
You carried the water home in silence.
That night, you cried so hard your pillow ended up damp.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Winter arrived harsh and fast.
Snow blanketed the fields. The village slowed beneath icy winds and gray skies.
Then one morning—
“HE’S HERE!”
You dropped the potatoes you were peeling.
Children sprinted through the village shrieking excitedly.
Your heart immediately betrayed you.
No. No no no.
Absolutely not.
You marched outside trying very hard not to look eager.
Then froze.
At the village entrance stood a royal procession.
Guards. Horses. Banners.
And in the middle—
Prince Mingi.
Dressed properly this time in dark royal robes lined with fur.
Beautiful. Infuriatingly beautiful.
The villagers bowed quickly.
You didn’t.
Mostly because your body forgot how to function.
Mingi’s gaze found you instantly.
Then lit up. Actually lit up.
Like he’d been waiting only for that.
He stepped forward.
Then immediately slipped on ice.
Chaos erupted.
A guard lunged for him.
Another screamed. A horse panicked.
Mingi windmilled violently before crashing face-first into a snowbank.
You stared. The whole village stared.
Slowly, Mingi lifted his head from the snow.
“…I meant to do that.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His eyes widened slightly at the sound. Then he grinned.
And suddenly it felt like no time had passed at all.
“Why are you here?” you asked.
Mingi sat at your family table devouring stew while your parents watched him with poorly hidden fascination.
“Official royal business.”
“You’ve been here three hours and challenged six children to snowball fights.”
“They were threatening.”
“They’re eight years old.”
“They lacked honor.”
Your father barked out a laugh.
Mingi looked extremely pleased with himself.
You tried not to smile. Failed horribly.
And Mingi noticed immediately. Of course he did.
He always noticed everything about you.
That night, he found you outside feeding the animals.
Snow drifted softly around the barn.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
“I’m feeding chickens.”
“At midnight?”
“…They’re hungry.”
Mingi snorted.
You refused to look at him.
Because if you did, you’d cave instantly.
And you couldn’t afford that. Not with him.
Not when he belonged to another world entirely.
“I missed you,” he said quietly.
Your chest hurt.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Silence settled between you.
Then—
“They chose someone for me.”
You froze.
Lady Han. Of course.
Something sharp twisted inside your ribs.
You nodded once.
“Congratulations.”
Mingi stared at you. Then laughed softly in disbelief.
“You think I came all the way here for congratulations?”
“What else would you want?”
“You.”
The word landed heavily between you.
You finally looked at him.
Snow clung to his dark hair. His cheeks pinked from cold.
And his eyes—
His eyes looked devastatingly earnest.
“Mingi…”
“I told them no.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I refused.”
“You can’t refuse the king.”
“Turns out you can if you embarrass him publicly enough.”
Horror filled your face.
“What did you do?”
“I may have climbed out a window.”
“You WHAT?”
“And there may have been a horse involved.”
“Mingi.”
“And possibly a goose attack.”
You stared at him in absolute disbelief.
“…A goose attack?”
“It was protecting the gate.”
“That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”
“It was a very patriotic goose.”
You covered your face.
“Oh my god.”
Mingi laughed.
Then gently pulled your hands down.
His smile faded into something softer.
“I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t want them,” he murmured. “I want you.”
The barn suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too close.
“Mingi…”
“You know what my advisor said when I told him?”
You shook your head weakly.
“He said marrying for love is reckless.”
You swallowed hard.
“And?”
Mingi stepped closer. Snow crunched beneath his boots.
Then closer still.
Until you could feel warmth radiating from him in the freezing night.
“I think,” he whispered, “falling into a muddy rice paddy because I was losing a fight against a frog was reckless.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“I think coming back afterward was reckless.”
“Mingi—”
“And I think falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Because this was real.
Impossible. Terrifying. Real.
“You’re an idiot,” you whispered shakily.
His smile turned brilliant.
“Probably.”
“You’d ruin your life.”
“Only if you reject me.”
“Mingi.”
He reached up carefully. Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
Instead you stood frozen as his fingers brushed your cheek.
Warm. Gentle.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured.
“What?”
“I don’t even think I started loving you gradually.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“I think it happened the moment you called me stupid in a rice field.”
You burst out laughing. Then accidentally started crying immediately after.
Mingi panicked.
“Oh no.”
“You made me emotional.”
“I can fight the king but I cannot fight tears.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Please stop leaking.”
You laughed harder through tears.
Mingi looked desperately relieved.
Then softly—
“Can I kiss you?”
Your entire brain stopped functioning.
“…What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for years.”
“Years?!”
“You’re very distracting.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
You stared at him.
At his nervous smile. At the way his hands trembled slightly despite all his joking.
And suddenly you realized—
Mingi was scared too.
Not of kings. Not of court politics.
Of you. Of your answer.
That realization melted something inside your chest entirely.
So you grabbed the front of his robe and kissed him first.
Mingi made a startled noise against your mouth. Then immediately kissed you back like he’d been dying to.
Warm despite the cold.
Clumsy at first because he smiled halfway through it.
Actually smiled into the kiss.
An idiot. Your idiot.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, Mingi looked genuinely dazed.
“…Wow.”
You laughed shakily.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I forgot every word I’ve ever known.”
“That explains a lot actually.”
He grinned suddenly. Then scooped you clean off the ground.
You shrieked.
“MINGI—”
“I HAVE POWER NOW.”
“PUT ME DOWN.”
“NEVER.”
He spun once in the snow before promptly slipping again.
The two of you crashed directly into a snowdrift.
Silence. Then your horrified whisper:
“You dropped me.”
Mingi emerged from the snow looking deeply offended.
“I fell with you romantically.”
“You threw me into ice.”
“It was a gesture of affection.”
“You concussed me.”
“You look beautiful.”
You stared at him. Then burst into helpless laughter.
Mingi joined instantly.
Loud. Bright. Completely ridiculous.
The kind of laughter that made your ribs ache.
The kind that felt dangerously like happiness.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Unfortunately, dating Prince Mingi was a nightmare.
Not emotionally. Logistically.
For one thing, he kept sneaking into your house through the window instead of using the door.
“Why are you like this?” you hissed one night while he climbed inside covered in snow.
“The window feels more romantic.”
“You fell into the cabbage basket.”
“The cabbages attacked me.”
“YOU attacked the cabbages.”
Another issue:
The villagers knew immediately.
Not because either of you confessed. Because Mingi looked at you like a man who’d gladly start wars for you.
Subtle he was not.
At the market he carried everything for you while smiling stupidly.
At festivals he followed you around like an oversized puppy.
Once, during dinner at your house, your mother asked him to pass the salt and he handed her an entire bowl of soup because he was too busy staring at you.
Your father watched this disaster silently before muttering:
“He’s not very bright.”
“He’s trying his best,” your mother replied sympathetically.
“I’m sitting right here,” Mingi complained.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Spring came gently.
The fields bloomed green again.
And somehow, impossibly, Mingi stayed.
The palace protested constantly. Letters arrived daily.
He ignored most of them.
One afternoon, you found him lying in the grass beside the fields holding a royal scroll above his face dramatically.
“What now?”
Mingi groaned.
“My father says I’m disgracing the bloodline.”
“That sounds serious.”
“He also said my handwriting looks desperate.”
You snorted.
“Can I see?”
He handed over the scroll reluctantly.
You read silently. Then immediately started laughing.
“Mingi.”
“What?”
“You signed this ‘Farmer Prince Mingi.’”
“I was making a point.”
“You drew a chicken beside it.”
“The chicken symbolizes freedom.”
“The chicken is wearing a crown.”
“Royal freedom.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell over.
Mingi watched you with that same soft expression he always wore nowadays.
Like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
Eventually he spoke quietly.
“You know… I used to think love would feel grand.”
You looked at him.
“What does it feel like then?”
He smiled slowly.
“Like home.”
Your chest nearly exploded.
So naturally you threw a carrot at his head.
Mingi yelped dramatically.
“Violence!”
“You were being emotional.”
“You kissed me in a barn.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“…Shut up.”
He laughed for five straight minutes.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The king eventually visited personally.
Which was horrifying.
The entire village panicked.
People screamed. Children hid.
Mrs. Choi fainted directly into a cabbage patch.
And you—
You contemplated death.
“Mingi,” you whispered violently while fixing your clothes for the eighth time, “your father is the KING.”
“Yes.”
“THE king.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you calm?!”
Mingi shrugged.
“He loves me.”
“You climbed out a palace window.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You insulted royal marriage negotiations.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You started a goose incident.”
Mingi paused thoughtfully.
“…Okay that one might still be sensitive.”
You groaned into your hands.
The king turned out to be terrifying.
Tall. Sharp-eyed.
Dressed in intimidating dark robes.
He studied you silently across your family table while the entire village collectively held its breath.
Then—
“So,” the king said calmly, “you are the girl who made my son abandon diplomacy.”
You nearly choked. Mingi looked offended.
“I abandoned diplomacy long before her.”
“That is true,” the king admitted.
Then his gaze returned to you.
“And what exactly do you see in him?”
You stared.
Then very honestly answered:
“He’s funny.”
The king blinked.
Mingi looked delighted.
“You hear that? I’m funny.”
“You fell through a roof.”
“It was charming.”
The king rubbed his temples slowly. For one terrible moment, silence filled the room.
Then unexpectedly—
The king laughed.
Not politely.
Actually laughed. Deep and helpless.
“You truly are impossible,” he muttered at Mingi.
Mingi grinned proudly.
“I learned from you.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Everyone stared in shock. Including you.
The king noticed immediately. Then sighed dramatically.
“My son,” he said dryly, “has spent four years writing letters about you.”
Your head snapped toward Mingi.
“FOUR YEARS?”
Mingi looked alarmed.
“Father.”
“He once described your laugh for three entire pages.”
“MOTHER OF GOD,” Mingi whispered in horror.
The king continued mercilessly.
“He compared your temper to a territorial goose.”
You burst into hysterical laughter. Mingi buried his face in his hands.
“I trusted you.”
“You wrote it in official royal stationery.”
“You said nobody reads those!”
“I lied.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
And when you looked at Mingi again—
Red-faced. Mortified.
Still looking at you with endless affection—
You realized something quietly. You could do this.
Maybe the future would be difficult. Maybe court nobles would gossip. Maybe people would sneer at the farmer girl beside the prince.
But Mingi would stand beside you through all of it.
Laughing. Falling into disasters. Loving you loudly without shame.
And somehow that made impossible things feel survivable.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
The wedding happened a year later.
It was supposed to be elegant.
Royal. Refined.
Instead—
Mingi ripped his ceremonial sleeve climbing over a fence because he “wanted to see you early.”
A horse escaped. One of the ministers fell into the fountain.
And during the vows, Mingi got emotional and cried first.
“You’re crying,” you whispered.
“No I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“These are royal tears.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“They’re expensive.”
You snorted so hard the priest lost his place.
The ceremony dissolved into chaos for approximately ten minutes.
Your mother nearly disowned both of you. The king looked exhausted.
And Mingi—
Mingi looked happier than sunlight.
When the ceremony finally resumed, he took your hands carefully.
Warm. Steady. Real.
Then softly—
“I know I’m reckless.”
You smiled.
“That’s true.”
“And dramatic.”
“Very true.”
“And occasionally attacked by birds.”
“Constantly true.”
The guests laughed quietly.
But Mingi only looked at you. Like nobody else existed.
“But if I had to live every lifetime again,” he whispered, “I think I’d still fall into that rice paddy.”
Your eyes stung immediately.
“Even with the frog?”
“Especially because of the frog.”
You laughed through tears.
And Mingi smiled like he’d just been handed the whole world.
Maybe he had.
Because when he kissed you, warm and sweet and grinning halfway through like always—
It felt a little like destiny.
Or maybe just two idiots finding each other in the mud.
trigger warning: minors do not interact. sensitive content ahead, read at your own risk.
word count: 22,5k
୨୧
y/n:
hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.
i love you.
san
tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.
the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.
"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."
you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."
he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.
now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.
you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.
silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?
the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.
when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.
"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.
"hi," you answer, softer.
he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.
"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."
pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”
you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.
he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."
he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.
nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.
"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.
you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.
"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."
he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.
"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."
you blink at him. "why?"
"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.
"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth
"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"
a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."
he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."
"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.
his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.
the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."
the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.
later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.
you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.
he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.
you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.
a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.
"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."
lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.
୨୧
acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.
you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.
across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.
"he actually said that?"
"no, stop-"
"i'm serious, i swear-"
to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.
a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.
the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."
"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."
she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.
your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.
your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.
you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.
because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.
you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.
"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.
the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"
you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.
"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.
"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."
you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."
"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"
there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."
"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."
"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."
the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.
noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.
"how’s he been?” she asks.
you turn slightly. "san?"
a small nod. "yeah."
your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.
noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."
for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.
she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.
the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.
"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.
you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.
"thank you," you say, smiling.
for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.
and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.
you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.
"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"
"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."
"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.
"alright, wifey," someone teases.
you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.
"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."
you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.
blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.
୨୧
the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.
san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.
the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.
you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.
"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.
his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."
a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"hey," you start.
he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.
do you ever think about kids?
words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.
"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"
he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."
and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.
୨୧
the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.
there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.
nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.
"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.
seonghwa.
he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.
"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."
"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.
you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."
"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."
you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.
"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"
"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."
"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."
there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.
"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”
you smiled faintly. "no."
"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."
you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.
you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.
"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.
"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.
"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"
"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.
his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."
you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.
"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"
his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.
"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.
"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."
"with what?" he asked curiously.
you searched for something immediate, something obvious.
"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.
he nodded, accepting it without question.
"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"
a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.
"yeah?" his eyes amused.
"yeah."
you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.
that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.
you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.
"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.
a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.
"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.
you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."
the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.
you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.
he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."
the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.
"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.
he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."
his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.
"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?
soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.
"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.
eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.
darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.
he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.
you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.
tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands
seonghwa park: hey!
seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉
seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address
seonghwa park: [location]
୨୧
the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.
no, this was it.
bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.
there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.
"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.
you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.
"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.
a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.
"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.
a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"
you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.
a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.
"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.
"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.
anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.
a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."
anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.
"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.
the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.
"someone brought cookies?"
"wait, i want cookies."
"no way, cookies?"
"save me one. i said save me one!"
the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."
for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.
after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.
"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.
"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"
he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."
"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."
"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"
"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."
he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.
"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.
you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.
as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.
"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.
as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.
"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.
he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.
"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.
"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.
you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.
the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.
stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.
you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.
the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.
you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.
sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.
shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.
a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.
your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.
subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.
wake up, i'm here.
you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.
୨୧
the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.
you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.
"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.
you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.
"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.
"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.
"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.
"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"
he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"
"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."
he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"
"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.
"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"
you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."
"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."
the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."
he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.
your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.
"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.
he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."
"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.
seonghwa park: hey, me too
seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left
y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear
seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?
y/n choi: again?
seonghwa park: yeah
seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend
seonghwa park: always at annas
seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come
seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now
the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.
y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.
the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.
a part of the group now.
as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.
the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.
the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.
"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"
you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.
anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.
you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.
"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."
"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.
she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.
you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.
anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.
"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.
"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.
"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.
"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."
you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.
you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.
"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."
it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.
the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.
the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.
then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.
your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.
disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.
his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.
your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.
you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.
a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.
trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.
the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.
the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.
the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.
you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.
the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.
"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.
"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.
you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.
seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.
"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."
you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.
anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.
you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.
"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."
the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.
"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.
he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."
the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.
he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.
"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."
unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.
"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."
you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.
"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."
you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.
then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.
୨୧
rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.
a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.
dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.
you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.
you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.
your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.
as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.
the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.
apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.
straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.
୨୧
the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.
seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.
bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.
seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.
a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.
"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.
you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"
she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."
the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.
sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.
panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.
"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"
no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.
your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.
"i wouldn't do that if i were you."
a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.
"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.
your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."
mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."
the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.
slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.
you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"
no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.
it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.
the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.
"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.
mommy.
the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.
"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"
everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.
you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.
"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.
you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.
you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.
the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.
"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.
"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.
you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.
your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.
this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.
the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.
san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.
"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.
you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.
"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.
"what’s that smell?"
you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."
a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.
"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.
you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.
"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.
he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'
your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.
"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.
he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.
a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.
san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.
the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.
san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.
it became a monotonous cycle of routine.
you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.
you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.
one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.
"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.
"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.
for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.
"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.
you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.
"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.
"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.
he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.
"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.
you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.
you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.
you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."
he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.
୨୧
"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."
you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."
"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."
a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."
the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."
"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.
"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"
you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.
"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"
you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."
"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."
"different how?"
"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."
a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.
"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.
"yeah. we'll just chill."
you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."
"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."
you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.
the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.
saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.
seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.
"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.
"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.
"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.
"no. for sally and anna’s son."
his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."
the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.
"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.
you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.
"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.
"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.
a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.
"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"
you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."
"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.
"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."
"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"
"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."
"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"
you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"
he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"
your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."
"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"
you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."
"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."
"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."
the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.
"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.
"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."
"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.
"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.
you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”
he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."
you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.
he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"
"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.
a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.
"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.
"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.
with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.
you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.
୨୧
"i ran into someone today."
"at the market?"
"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."
"that's good, you should go."
"really? you don't mind?"
"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."
"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."
"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."
"i guess so."
knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.
"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."
he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.
hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.
"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."
fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.
when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.
"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.
he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."
the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.
"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."
at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.
"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."
he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.
"and then… i met seonghwa again."
the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"
your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.
"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."
san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.
"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."
tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.
you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.
"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."
you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.
"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."
fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."
"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."
"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."
"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."
he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.
"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."
you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.
"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."
held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.
୨୧
morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.
quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.
you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.
"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.
"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.
he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."
you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"
"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."
a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."
he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."
your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.
"really?" you asked thin with emotion.
he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."
the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.
"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.
he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."
a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."
the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.
he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.
after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.
the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.
you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?
lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.
as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.
you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.
the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.
after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.
"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.
you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."
he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.
"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"
୨୧
effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.
"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."
his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.
you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.
"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."
rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."
you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.
his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.
"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."
he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.
"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."
he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.
"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."
"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."
he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.
he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."
the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.
he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.
the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.
collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."
fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.
he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.
"i love you, y/n."
the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.
"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."
a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.
each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.
you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.
your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.
this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.
when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.
"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."
a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.
"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.
he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.
"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.
when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.
now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.
you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.
he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.
"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.
"i know, just let me-"
he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.
"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.
finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.
your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"
he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.
"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.
a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.
your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.
you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.
you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.
my y/n:
you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.
pairing: bf!wooyoung x gf!reader
synopsis: life has been kicking your ass. overworked, no time for self-care, and little time to spend quality time with your partner- wooyoung decides to whisk you away for a long weekend hoping it will help you feel like yourself again.
a/n: this one's for the bitches who need a mf break. this was suppose to be an emotionallymessy!reader x emotionallystable!wooyoung fic but it turned into reader just needing to turn off her brain. also, i've been listening to castle a lot and it kinda influenced me!
cw: smut mdni! alcohol consumption (they don't get drunk though), not necessarily dom!woo but he's def the one calling the shots, cursing, pet names (pretty girl, baby), fingering, unprotected p in v, one slap, fingers in mouth, drooling, dirty talk, semi-public sex (they're in a backyard, but houses are conveniently spaced far away hehe), mentions of toxic past relationships (i don't go into detail)
wc: 6.7k
It was hot. Like, you better put on your flip flops coming out of the pool if you don't want the bottoms of your feet to barbecue on the patio, hot. The summer playlist Wooyoung curated bumps at a not-too-obnoxious volume from the speaker set on the lounge chair while you lazily float about the pool on an inflatable. The high, black iron fence that surrounds the backyard, matted with lush greenery and pops of light purple wisteria, makes it feel like you're in a fantasy world, away from real life problems.
Wooyoung could see that you were overwhelmed with everything life has been throwing at you lately and arranged for a stay at a rental house a couple hours away from the city. Somewhere that wasn't tied to the goings on of what was happening at home or work. A completely separate space that kept the looming thoughts of what was to come after the long weekend.
And a long weekend away was exactly what you needed. Your work shifts have been stretching long beyond the usual 8 hours into 10, sometimes more, because of reasons beyond your control. Coming home to a mountain of laundry and dishes with little time to cook yourself a nutritious meal let alone grocery shop. Wooyoung would cook for you when he had the time, but he was also busy with his photography business. Booked nearly every weekend for special events and the majority of the week for professional portraits. Quality time spent together consisted of strictly sleep. You’d trudge in from another long shift that made you rethink your career, absent mindedly shower, and eat cut up fruit and yogurt out of a glass Pyrex measuring cup because you forgot to run the dishwasher before hurrying out the door in the morning. Then, Wooyoung would make it over just in time to catch you as you were falling asleep, pulling your curled up form into his body as he ran a soothing hand up and down your back.
You didn't feel human anymore. You had no more spoons to give. Honestly, the whole damn silverware drawer was empty.
It’s a sweet gesture for him to make. You’ve only been dating for six months, the relationship very much still new, but it hasn't felt that way. Wooyoung's charismatic charm and talent for reading people made it easy for him to clock that the far away stares and random bouts of silence increasing in frequency was a sign of you being at your wits end.
The mixture of coconut-banana scented sunscreen and chlorine was like aromatherapy to you, a reminder that you weren't in the stifling city where all your problems were waiting for you to come back. You move your arms on top of the water, letting buoyancy do its thing, like you were creating snow angels, letting the feeling of the water rolling across your skin keep you grounded.
A hand caught your wrist, “Is this a relaxing type of fidgeting, or the anxious kind?” You hear your boyfriend ask from next to you.
You roll your head to the side where he was floating next to you and look up at him over your sunglasses. All golden skin, hard lines of muscle, and shiny silver of the necklaces, rings, and the bracelet he refused to go a day without wearing. His expression reads less serious than what his question was asking, but still genuine none-the-less.
“If you keep reminding me of my anxiety it’ll just keep me feeling anxious.” You twirl your wrist around to knock his grip off and interlace your fingers with his, pulling him closer to you so your inflatables bump together, “This is perfect, thank you for doing this.” You smile while you float next to each other hand in hand like a pair of sea otters making sure not to drift apart.
You bring the mixed drink you made before getting into the pool up to your lips, taking a sip to find it watered down and hard to swallow. The disgusted sound you make in the back of your throat comes out louder than expected, “I’m making another drink, you want one?” You shake your glass in front of Wooyoung for emphasis.
“I’ll get it,” He offers, already grabbing for the glass and slipping off his float. And bless his heart, but if he does one more thing for you, you might choke him out with all the love in the world. He's waited on you hand and foot since you got here a mere 18 hours ago. Laying out your bath towels and swimsuit in the bathroom before you woke up, bringing you breakfast and tea in bed, even applying your sunscreen for you. Not even in the sexy way- he just smooshed his hands all over your face and ears to make sure you wouldn't burn even a little bit.
“Woo, I really appreciate everything you've been doing for me. But you're starting to feel more like a butler and less like my boyfriend and it's weirding me out.” You argue, flopping off your own float and moving the glass away from his grabby hands.
It’s his turn to look up at you from over his sunglasses, a pierced brow raising and suggestive smirk plastered on his face, “That doesn't turn you on?”
You let out a short, loud laugh, “Maybe if you’d put on a pair of gloves and bow tie and didn't try to airplane feed me scrambled eggs this morning it would have.”
“Oh my god, rude!”
Plucking his glass out of the cup holder next to his tattooed forearm you ask,“Now, what can I get you, Mr. Jung.”
He pushes his bottom lip into a pout, “Mr. Jung, not baby? So you hate me?” He brings a hand behind you and rests a palm on an asscheek under the water, his large, veiny hand still warm under the cool water. Raising your brow at him expectantly, you shake his glass waiting for an answer.
He huffs and drops the feigned hurt, “Surprise me.”
“Sure thing…” you bend over and let your sunglasses slip down to the tip of your nose, making eye contact before finishing the sentence “...baby.” giving him a chaste kiss on the lips. His eyes roll back into his skull as you grin, all teeth, and turn around to wade through the water and up the steps.
At the outdoor bar, the guilt starts to gnaw at you. Being taken care of is such a foreign concept, how were you supposed to act? Is it a trap? A way to build up favors to hold over your head and manipulate you into doing what he wants? That's the extent of your experience in relationships anyways. Wooyoung seems genuine enough. It's been six months, which isn't a long time but men had shown their true colors a lot sooner in the past. You think you should be in the clear.
Your brain plays ping pong with the thought as you locate whiskey, bitters, and steal an orange from the pile of snacks you set out on the outdoor dining table before getting in the pool. Hands on autopilot, using your vague knowledge of mixology to make his favorite drink, your thoughts continue to spiral.
Were you too mean? Is he getting tired of you telling him he doesn't need to do things for you? Deflection over confrontation has always been your go to strategy when it comes to uncomfortable emotions. It worked with Wooyoung. You met him a couple months before the two of you became official in November and made your “couple debut”, as Wooyoung called it, at a get together for his birthday. A bunch of friends of his that you hadn't met before were there, and that included girls. Because girls like Wooyoung. He’s flirty by nature and a good listener. He remembers details about everybody, he’ll ask questions about something that was told to him months ago and women ate that shit up especially.
So when he was chatting it up a little too hard with Minji you couldn't help the physical shift in your face and body language. Lips drawn in tight together, body ridged and angled away from him. He clocked it immediately, but you couldn't push the words out of your throat when he asked about it. It felt like rocks were sitting in your mouth, blocking the jealousy from making itself known. Instead you made a joke about how he was fired from helping you pick out your outfits because his terrible choice in shoes was giving you blisters.
That was just the nature of your relationship, ribbing each other endlessly because you both enjoyed it. It made everything feel less serious, and therefore, the stakes were lower.
Tapping the bar spoon on the rim of the glass, you decide you didn't feel like making another cocktail so you settle on a canned seltzer for yourself, cracking it open before picking up Woo’s drinking and fast walking across the hot pavement to where your boyfriend was now sitting on the top step in the pool. Head titled back, eyes closed, and arms bent at the elbow, leaning back on the wet bricks you wondered how on Earth an emotionally fucked-up woman like you pulled a man like him.
An eye pops open as you step into the pool next to him, brown iris much brighter with the sunlight hitting them, “Who’s who butler?” he asks as he brings the glass to his lips for a sip.
It did make him feel some type of way then. Where exes of yours had no problem making their feelings of unpleasantness known through dramatic temper tantrums, Wooyoung did it with decorum. He thought before he spoke, when it mattered anyways, and it never came out accusatory, making your fight or flight less likely to kick in.
Sighing, you bring your leg over him and drop into his lap, the water only covering a few centimeters of your shins, your knees pressing into the blue plastic liner of the steps. Sour lemon and lime flavor prickles your tongue as you take a sip of your seltzer, the alcohol leaving a burn down your throat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in an ungrateful way.” you say as you set the can on the pool’s edge and bring your hands to fiddle with front bow strings that keep your bikini top tied.
Wooyoung does the same with his drink and drops his hands to your thighs to rub, a silent way of showing he isn’t mad, “I know, I just don’t understand if you can do things for me why can’t I do them for you?”
Your throat feels tight and swollen all of a sudden, the metaphorical rocks are being shoved back into your mouth again and you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes. Groaning you drop your head forward so your face is hidden against his chest. The water droplets still clinging to his golden skin is a well needed shock of cool to keep your brain from overheating with a billion different thoughts. You try to parse through everything you want to say, weighing each word to determine what effect it would have on him. So badly not wanting to say the wrong thing- if that’s the case you’d rather say nothing at all.
Finally, you settle on “It makes me feel guilty when you do so much for me, especially when I haven't been giving back. I should be able to pull myself together and deal with my shit like an adult.” Your admission is quiet, whispered into his body like a secret, even though it was just the two of you hidden away amongst the viney walls the plants created around the yard.
With your vision obscured you hear more than see the laugh that escapes his nose through a huff of air. His arms wrap around you fully so you're pressed tight against him, trying to calm your racing, anxious heart.
“I do what I do because I want to. It’s how I show I care, baby. If it was too much for me I wouldn’t do it.” He speaks into the top of your head, trying to put all the sincerity into his words so you believe him. You tilt your head back so your chin is resting on his chest now and you’re looking up at him, wide eyed and glassy. It feels absurd how terrified you are about baring your heart to somebody, it’s embarrassing. He speaks with such confidence and certainty. How does he do it so easily? Why was it so hard for you?
But one thing was for certain: Wooyoung has been the best thing that's happened to you. You didn't have to worry about walking on eggshells to avoid a screaming match over trivial things. You could spend time with friends and family without him guilting you for leaving him alone and making you feel like you had to come home early. You never laid in bed at 3am agonizing over what you could’ve possibly done wrong because he’s been giving you the silent treatment all day. Your heart was calm with Wooyoung.
You inhale a full breath through your nose while wrapping your arms around his back, forcing your eyes back up to his.
“Lately, that's all you've been doing for me. I want to do things for you too, I don't want to feel like I'm always owing you.” You speak quietly, but Wooyoung hears you nonetheless. His brows dive-bomb down towards each other and flinches back subconsciously. He was genuinely curious, while also a little disturbed, by how you could think that? Why would you think that? Only answers that had his blood beginning to boil came to mind. He fixes his face and could only hope he did it before you could see his shock. Unfortunately for him, you’ve trained yourself to detect the microscopic changes in the facial expressions. He could see it in the way a blush flew up your neck and ears and how your bottom lip wobbled before you tucked it under your teeth.
He brings his hands up to cup your face, large palms with long, lithe fingers encompass both of your cheeks fully. Using his thumb to tug your bottom lip free from the anxious chewing you're doing to it, he says, “You will never owe me for anything I do for you. I take care of you because I want you to be happy in mind, body, and soul. Not because I expect favors from you. What can I do to make you believe that?”
You heave a big sigh and pull away from his hold on your face to move your cheek against his shoulder facing away from his neck, looking to the side and watching a squirrel dig frantically in the grass.
“I do believe you. It's my dumbass brain that-” you cut yourself off. If your brain doesn't believe him then doesn't that mean you actually don't? You groan, “I don't even make sense to myself. Woo, I feel like crawling out of my skin. I just know I like you, a lot, and I love being with you so much that I don't want something I do or don't do be a reason this ends.” By the time you finish your voice is warbling and you really wish you could trade places with that squirrel right now.
Wooyoung grips your shoulders to peel your sticky body off of him so he can look at you as he gently coos your name, “I love your big, beautiful brain,” he starts and emphasizes his statement with an obnoxiously large and loud kiss to your forehead. You scrunch your nose and give him a little hmph, but he just grins like you aren't spiraling out your damn mind and continues, “But it's gonna catch fire from all those neural pathways your lighting up with how much overthinking you do. You don't need to analyze and find a reason for every emotion you have. It's okay to just feel.” He rubs his thumbs into the joint that connects your shoulder blade and clavicle, trying to relax the tension you didn't realize you've been keyed up with.
You chew the inside of your cheek and narrow your eyes, “The brain is constantly using neural pathways, so if it was gonna be fried from that it would've happened already. I’m not worried about it.”
Wooyoung throws his head back and lets out a groan of frustration mixed with a laugh because picking apart the logic of the statement rather than absorbing the meaning was so undeniably you it was foolish of him to think you'd do otherwise. His fingers fly down and dig into your waists, wiggling them to tickle you “Don't be like that! You know what I mean, you're being bratty on purpose!”
You crumple into yourself and let out a screech of laughter, trying your best to swat at him while keeping your arms tucked close to your sides as an attempt to block the assault.
“Okay! Alright!” You gasp out between fits of giggles, “I’m sorry!”
He stops at your apology but keeps his palms resting on the curve where your waist and hips meet, “If you need to feel like you’re not…. in debt,” he doesn't hide his disdain for the word but continues, “Wedding season will ramp up next month and I’ll become a shell of a man with how many I’m booked for. You can take care of me all you want. I won’t protest or complain about it, I’ll let you do whatever it is you want to do for me. Will that make you feel better?’
You hum. It’s not something that will make you feel better immediately, but you know you have to meet him halfway.
“I suppose so. What if I’m still in this headspace though?” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth.
He doesn’t hesitate with his response, “Then we work it through together. We’ll be honest with what we need and what we can’t give, and promise each other it's not personal if we don’t have the mental capacity for extra attention. If we’re not open and honest about our feelings, how is anything supposed to get better?”
Damn his stupid, emotionally intelligent brain, because you know he’s right. Your whole life you’ve been bottling up your feelings inside hoping that things will change without ever expressing your desire for it in the first place. How were you supposed to get better at talking about your feelings if you don’t say them aloud in the first place?
“I’ll try harder to be more open about my emotions. It’s just really uncomfortable for me, I feel stupid talking about’em.” You mumble.
“Practice makes perfect, baby. I’ll never make you feel stupid for your feelings. Pinky promise.” He holds out his little finger for you to hook your own around, solidifying the agreement. Before he could let go of your finger you tug him forward and place your hands on either side of his neck to kiss his sun-chapped lips. He makes a shocked noise in the back of throat, but kisses back anyways tasting the citrusy tang of alcohol and the vanilla lip balm you put on this morning. Soaking in the wet slide of your tongues moving against one another and the slow movement of his lips over yours.
“My poor girl, been dealing with so much.” He coos against your lips, your mouth parted waiting for him to kiss you again, tongue flicked halfway out of your mouth. You open your eyes to find him already staring down at you, his expression changed from soft and sincere to something much heavier. You nod dumbly, all the talking about feelings making you want to shut off your brain for a minute. While it was much needed, it’ll still take a while before the idea of it stops feeling like an attack on your nervous system. He pulls you closer to him, sliding you up from your seat on his lower thighs until your core is pressed to his lower abdomen. One of his hands leaves your waist to cup the side of your face and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb. “It’s so unfair, life’s been fuckin’ you more than I have, huh?”
You whine, squeezing your thighs against the outer sides of Wooyoung’s, closing your mouth to push your bottom lip out in a pout and nod. You can't remember the last time you had energy for sex. Even though your job doesn’t rely on physical strength it requires a lot of thinking and that mental drain sure makes your body feel exhausted like you've spent the day dead lifting concrete pavers. Driving home consisted of complete silence and fighting to keep your heavy eyes open while trying not to let your thoughts drift too much so you wouldn't miss an exit or run a red light. The reminder of the lack of intimacy sends a surge of neediness through you, your body wanting to make up for it asap. “It's been so long, Woo. M’sorry for making you wait.”
He slides his hand down your cheek to grip your jaw, chin pinched between his thumb and other four fingers, and jostles your head gently side to side, “While we're working on communicating our feelings let's fix your little habit of over apologizing too.”
The call out has you forming the word before you can even think to stop yourself. Wooyoung beats you to it though, squishing your cheeks together in his grip and making your lips purse together like a goldfish. His eyebrows shoot up, daring you to say it, his tongue poking out to play with his lip ring. You scrunch your brows together and blow air out of your nose, signaling your defeat.
He hums and gives your squished lips a light peck, “I know you weren't gonna say what I think you were gonna say, yeah?” He moves your head left to right to shake your head for you like a doll “That’s right, baby. I think you just need a distraction, make your brain go dumb and stop thinking about the bullshit.” This time the nod your head does is solely your own eager doing.
That’s all you've been wanting to do the last two weeks. The constant responsibilities being stacked up at work, being a shoulder to cry on for your friends who were also going through it this week, and being a problem solver for family all had your brain running nonstop. Always thinking of what to say, what to do, and how to do it. You haven't been able to cater to your own needs, too busy focusing on everyone else’s.
You use both of your hands to grip the wrist of the hand he was using to hold your face and tug it away so you can speak, “Shut if off, Woo.” It's said whiny, like you've been trying to fall asleep for hours and are begging the universe to grant you rest. Desperate, because at this rate, the need for him is more than your need to sleep.
The sound of your whiny desperation has Wooyoung cupping his hands under your ass to hold you steady as he carefully stands up. As quickly and cautiously as he could, making sure to step around the drinks abandoned on the bricks, he raced over to sit back against one of the reclined loungers in the shade and set you right back into his lap. You grip his shoulders and lay the front of your body completely along the front of his pulling him back into a frantic kiss. His lips move along yours, licking against the roof of your mouth, teeth catching on the skin of your lips, saliva making its way down your chin. You realize you haven’t even been making out like you used to in the beginning of this relationship and you missed it so much. The swell in your chest at the physical affection sends dopamine pumping through you, relaxing your muscles, and forgetting about anything that didn’t have to do with this moment.
Wooyoung’s hands glide up and down the curves of your body a few times before bringing them around your back and up to your neck where the string of your bikini top rests, giving it a tug to unravel it. He pushes up from his reclined position, forcing you up with him, before settling back down and holding you by the ribs to keep distance between you two. The top of your bathing suit slowly slips down, hanging flipped over your stomach still attached around your bust, and he groans.
“God, your tits.” He slides a hand up and brushes his thumb across your nipple a few times before using the tip of his finger nail to press down on it. You hiss, the sharp pain and zing of pleasure that zips down to your belly. “I missed seeing them, just as perfect as I remember them.”
“Wooyoung,” you pant, pathetically turned on in the span of a few minutes. But you can't bother with feeling embarrassed about it, “Please do something.”
“But I am already, baby.” He responds with an evil quirk of his lips, clearly knowing that's not what you meant.
“Wooyo,” you it say like a warning, but it didn't land. It was too breathy and soft.
“I dunno, I kinda like hearing you say my name like that. One more time for me.” You open your mouth to scold him, getting impatient. Sometimes if you're really stern with him, it'll turn him on enough to flip a switch, but he decides to use that moment to take your nipple between his index finger and thumb and pinch hard. A squeal comes out instead and your body jerks, “Woo!”
“Thank you baby, such a good listener. Giving me exactly what I ask for.” His eyes rake down your body behind his sunglasses, drinking in the shape of you, “This hot little bod drives me insane, and you have such a sweet personality? How’d I get so lucky?”
With eyes closed, soaking up the feeling of his hands sliding down to your thighs, thumbs rubbing the inside of each, you lick your lips before responding “Probably by being an unrelenting flirt and insisting on paying for every single one of my drinks at Mingi’s birthday party.”
He throws a “probably” in response, his thumbs reaching the crease of your thighs, running them along the inside seam of your bikini bottoms. You hum and roll your hips, trying to get them where you need them and open your eyes to see his own sunglass covered ones looking directly between your legs. Obviously too distracted to say anymore. Huffing out an impatient breath at the loss of momentum you bring your hand down to the bulge growing under his thin nylon swim trunks, rubbing the tip of your stiletto nails, the ones he so sweetly paid for you to have done before the trip, down the length of him. His thighs jump and he grunts, grabbing your wrist to twist your arm behind your back, “Put the claws away, woman. I'ma take care of you.”
And finally, he does. He lets go of your arm to bring you forward into his chest again, cheek on his shoulder with your lips pressed against the vein on his neck, pulling your hips up so they're hovering above his lap and can easily slide your damp bathing suit bottoms off. Wet from pool water? Sweat? Arousal? Fuck if either of you know, it could be all of the above. You hear the damp plap of them hitting the patio, feeling the hot breeze blowing across your exposed bottom half arched in the air. For a moment, the thought of surrounding neighbors seeing the debauchery taking place crosses your mind before you remember you're not in the cramped city anymore, you're in a vacation home where the next house is at least a football field length away.
The feeling of your boyfriend using his reach around the back of you to graze your slit brings you back to the present and rocking your hips back to take what you want. He graciously allows it, letting you fuck yourself on one of his fingers before adding another and slowly scissoring you open.
“I know it's been a long time, baby. L’me open you up real quick.” He whispers against the shell of your ear. You melt into the feeling, appreciating every drag of his boney fingers inside you, feeling every bump of his finger joints rub against the inside of your walls. The impatience bleeds out of you, after weeks of everything being go, go, go, you don't want to rush. You want to absorb the feeling of being with him, his ability to make you feel calm in the middle of the stormy parts of your life.
You aren't sure how much time has passed, only that suddenly you're empty and pouting again. You lift your head up with sad, scrunched brows and he's smiling softly, laughing, “Cute, all it takes is your little pussy being empty to bring you back from wherever your mind went off to? I’ve been asking if you’re ready for my dick the last couple seconds, I thought you fell asleep.”
The apology slips out unprompted by your brain, “Yes, yes, I’m sor-” Wooyoung’s thumb cuts you off, pressing down on your tongue, other four fingers curled under your jaw holding it open. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and rolls his eyes, “Alright, you lost speaking privileges. All I wanna hear outta this mouth are your pretty moans and whines, got it baby?”. You nod your head as much as you can. “Good fucking girl.”
This is what you needed. Being told what to do, for once, instead of being the one to do it. You’ll gladly let him take charge, direct you, use you, if that means you can just exist without thinking and dissecting every thought and feeling that rolls through your brain.
He keeps his thumb pressed down on your tongue while using his other hand to press the head of his cock, that he must’ve pulled from his shorts during one of the moments your mind had floated away from the present moment, to your opening. You sigh at the anticipation of being filled again, eyes slowly closing halfway, closing your lips around Wooyoung’s thumb to suck. The taste of his skin, mixed with a hint of chlorine and residual sunscreen from the last time he reapplied, floods your tastebuds as you hollow your cheeks and wiggle your tongue along the digit.
"Ah, ah,” A light tap to your cheek with the palm of his hand has your eyes opening wide again. “No sucking. Keep that mouth open. I wanna feel you drooling all over me, pretty girl.” A reluctant high-pitched whine leaves you as you drop your jaw back open, fighting the urge to taste the salt of his skin again. Pressure against your opening has that urge tossed to the side like your soaking bikini bottoms, the fat tip of his cock stretching your hole. The stretch of you wrapped around the thickest part of him has you clenching impatiently, wanting to feel him in your tummy already. You know better than to take without permission though. Wooyoung isn’t above dragging things out for the sake of making you squirm, but it seems like he was going to do just that anyways. He takes his time, fucking his tip in and out of you, driving you mad. It felt like scratching around a misquote bite, good but missing that satisfying pleasure of hitting the spot it needs scratching the most.
The saliva that's been steadily pooling in your mouth bubbles with your impatient whine, spilling over and down your chin. Wooyoung groans, "Music to my fucking ears." And that's all it takes for him to lift his hips and fill you in one long, torturous go. Your knees slide to the sides, rubbing against the tightly woven material of the lounger that makes the skin burn, but that's the last thing on your mind.
The sudden closeness- him being literally inside you- after weeks of quick kisses and body-to-body contact through pajamas while you catch as much sleep as you can has your heart beating something fierce. You missed him. You missed going to his place to keep him company and goof off while he cooked dinner for the two of you. You missed hanging out with him at his studio while he works on editing client photos. You missed feeling like a couple, because lately you've felt like strangers.
You grab his wrist and squeeze it twice quickly and once slowly. He slides his thumb from your mouth, a string of spit following, and quickly checks in, "You okay? Need a minute?"
"Mhm, wanna kiss you. And see you." You reassure and push his sunglasses on top of his head. Even in the shade you can see his pupils take up so much space only a sliver of pretty brown can be seen around the edges. You thread your fingers through his hair and brush your nose against his with a sigh.
"Better?" He whispers, moving your sunglasses from your face and carefully setting them on the ground. You nod with a dopey close lipped smile on your face, and once you begin kissing him slow and nasty he starts to move.
The delicious roll of his hips knocks a moan from your mouth directly into his each time he pushes in. His grip on your hips to keep them at the perfect angle is unrelenting as he steadily drives his cock into you. Chests sliding together with the help of the mix of sweat from the heavy humidity in the air and the drool that pooled out of your mouth moments earlier.
"Missed this pussy so much- fuck. Missed you so much." Wooyoung grunts against your lips, pace picking up and the legs of the lounger scraping on the patio bricks. “I’m spoiling you right now, because you deserve it for all the bullshit you've been dealing with.” He bands an arm around your lower back, pressing you into a deep arch that has you squealing, “But next round I want you to show me that you remember how to ride this dick.”
“Uh huh! I remember, ‘mma show you.” You're not even kissing him anymore, with every word spoken your lips brush against his. Brows twisted up at the way his body rolls are grinding your clit in the perfect pressure and rhythm. Your fingertips flex at the second joint in his hair, raking at his scalp, your sex dumb mind trying to keep them from using the tips of your sharp acrylics.
He sucks in a sharp breath, but plows into you harder, faster. Your entire body is jostling up and down the length of his, the fire in your gut growing at a rapid speed until you don't think you can take it anymore. The only noises leaving your mouth are a mash up of moans and sobs, and you don't realize you're actually crying until you taste the salt from the tears flowing down your cheeks and into your mouth.
“Oh, baby” Wooyoung coos, bringing a hand up to smear the tears away from under your eye with his thumb. “It’s okay. Shh.”
“It feels so good, Woo. I missed you so much.” You’re for real sobbing now. The emotional damn breaking and flooding your eyes. You love this man, you realize. He’s stuck by you at your worst, let's you have bad days without making it about him, takes care of you when you can't take care of yourself, rented a whole goddamn vacation house just so you could take a fucking breath. All of that, and he has never asked for anything in return.
He kisses you, lip melding into yours, gently nipping at your lips, tongue pressing against yours and licking anywhere he can to get a taste of you, “I’m right here, not going anywhere.” You’re about to cum, you can feel it, the uncontrollable clenching of your cunt around him makes it harder and harder for him to keep up the wild pace of his thrusts up into you.
“Shit, fuck, you gonna cum? I can feel you squeezing the life outta my dick. Go ahead, baby. Let go of all the stress for me.” It takes him a while for him to give you the permission, kissing you between every couple of words. When the tension that's been building up in your lower stomach finally breaks, your body locks up for a second before it starts twitching like you've been shocked. You moan directly into his open mouth, your tongue lazily pressed against his. Both of his hands are on either side of your face now, and he reciprocates with his own beautiful whine as he unloads inside you. Grinding into you to drag it out as much as possible before it turns into over sensitivity.
Your body falls limp on top of his, cheek against his chest, and you try not to think about the amount of sweat that's covering the two of you.
The rumbling of his voice keeps you from drifting off, “I’m going to say something at the risk of it breaking your brain, but I need you to know.” You turn your head to look up at him, seeing that he’s already looking at you. If he could shoot heart beams out of his eyes at the sight of you, he would. Red rimmed lash line, tear-glossed eyes, and dewy skin from the heat, it rivals how gorgeous you are when you dress your best for a night out with your shared friend group. “I love you. You don't have to say it back, I would actually prefer you didn't right away. But I know when, if, you do say it back, I’ll still feel the same way. Even if it's a month or year from now, I’ll feel the same.”
A smile slowly spreads across your face, completely unexpected from you by the faint look of shock on Wooyoung's face. Instead of feeling the need to crawl out of your skin at the thought of such a strong emotion, you feel relief.
“I don't think you’ll have to wait that long.” You say with no hesitation, no need to second guess the way you're feeling or why you're feeling it. Just letting it be. You turn to kiss his sternum, and he hums pleasantly, grinning like a maniac but he doesn't push for an explanation.
“Well, that's a relief.” He reaches over and grabs a towel from the little table next to the chair you're on, “You need to pee, and I didn't think pool water will be enough to wash off the amount of sweat we just produced.”
Your nose scrunches, the thought of moving right now is the last thing your body wants. However, the thought of feeling clean in fresh clothes, maybe going out to the little beach town fifteen minutes away for a late lunch at one of their local restaurants in sandals and a sundress sounds nice enough to get you moving.
You sit up and press your hands to his stomach to keep from wobbling sideways, "You're gonna have to help me clean up, I can't feel my knees." Wooyoung smirks, he can't help but be smug with himself. Pushing himself up, making sure to cradle your back to keep you from falling, "It's the least I can do I suppose." Kissing your forehead he adds, "Thanks for asking me for help."
Embracing the new you, leaving the fear of unworthiness behind, you respond. "Thank you for showing me how easy it can be."
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking. He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump.
When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in. You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier controller—his star recruit.
Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never played.
➢ gamer!yunho x fem!reader | ➢ collage au, romance, strangers to lovers, slice of life | ➢ mdni, bullying, emotional manipulation & deception, substance use | ➢ ~21k | ➢ this is my humble contribution to LIVE ALIVE! collab, dear @sungbeam thank you for letting me be a part of this! ♡ | ➢ disclaimer: i am not a gamer!! i played Valorant like three times so please bare with any mistakes!! after all it’s just for fun!! | ➢ part one out of three
The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”
Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”
Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”
Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”
Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”
Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”
“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.
The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”
Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”
The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”
“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”
Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”
“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.
Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”
Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”
Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”
“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”
Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”
“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”
Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.
Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”
Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”
“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”
“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”
“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”
Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”
“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”
Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”
Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”
“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”
“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”
“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.
“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”
Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”
“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”
“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”
“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”
Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”
Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”
“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.
“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”
Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”
Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”
Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”
Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”
“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”
“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”
“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.
Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”
The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree.
“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”
“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”
Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”
Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”
Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”
Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”
“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”
Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”
“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”
“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”
Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”
Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.
“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”
Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”
Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.
The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.
Then, he clicked Print.
The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.
[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]
Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.
“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.
Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.
“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.
“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.
“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.
“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.
The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”
The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.
[OUT OF PAPER.]
Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.
Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.
Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.
Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.
He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.
A dozen heads turned.
Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.
“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”
The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.
An hour.
The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.
The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”
Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”
“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”
That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”
“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.
“Hyung?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”
Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”
The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.
The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.
“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”
You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.
“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.
The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”
The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.
You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.
You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.
The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”
Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.
The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”
Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.
The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.
The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.
The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird.
You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.
There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days.
Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country.
You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.
The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.
Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.
“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”
Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”
“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”
The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.
“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”
Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.
“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”
Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.
Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.
“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.
“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest.
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.
The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.
You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.
When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”
“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.
“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”
She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.
They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”
You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”
Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”
You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.
The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”
Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”
“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”
Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses.
You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him.
It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”
You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.
Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.
Viper.
The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.
The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”
Oh, I’m in so much trouble.
Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.
“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.
“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.
The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming.
With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.
Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.
Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.
“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”
The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.
“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”
“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”
The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.
“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”
Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.
[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL)
Channel: #general-tactics
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.
FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.
“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”
Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”
“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”
“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”
You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”
“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”
You opened your mouth to defend your honour.
He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”
“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"
“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”
“I was saving him from bullies!”
“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”
“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.
Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”
“I do NOT bite people!”
“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”
“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”
“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”
“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”
Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”
You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”
“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”
“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”
Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”
“And if I do?”
“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”
“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.
Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”
“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”
“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”
“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.
“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”
“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.
You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.
You: Surprise me.
You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.
The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”
Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”
“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”
From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”
“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.
Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”
“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”
Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”
“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”
Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”
Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.
“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”
“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”
“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”
Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.
“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”
Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”
“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”
Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”
“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”
But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.
You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.
“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”
“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”
Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”
You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”
“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”
“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”
Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”
You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”
“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”
You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”
“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”
The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.
Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”
You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”
Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”
“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”
“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”
“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”
“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”
“You’re not helping.”
“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”
“I don’t stare at the floor!”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”
“That door started it.”
“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”
“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”
“That was iconic,” he said warmly.
You groaned. “I hate this.”
“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”
“I’m not emotionally invested.”
He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.
“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.
Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”
“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”
“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”
“It’s not like that!”
Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”
You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”
He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”
“I PANICKED.”
“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”
“None. They’ve all evaporated.”
“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”
You swallowed. “This is stupid.”
“Say it.”
You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”
Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”
“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.
Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”
“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.
Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”
“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”
Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”
“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”
“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”
“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.
“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”
[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital...
Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel.
StarHwa_04 is in the channel.
FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.
“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.
Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”
You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”
You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.
“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”
Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.
Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”
You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.
“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”
Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”
“Obviously,” you said.
Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”
“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.
“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”
Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.
Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.
Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”
But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”
You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”
A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.
Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”
“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.
Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.
Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.
Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”
Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”
There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.
“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.
“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”
The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening.
The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.
“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”
“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.
Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”
Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”
Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.
Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.
“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”
Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.
VICTORY.
Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.
Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”
“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”
Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”
Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”
Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”
Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”
Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”
You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”
Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”
The lobby clicked. Match Found.
On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”
The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.
That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep.
His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.
You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.
Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”
“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”
He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.
“What’s in the bag?”
He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.
You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”
Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”
“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.
“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”
“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”
Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock.
“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”
“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”
“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”
Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”
“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.
Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.
You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—
Your stomach dropped.
No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.
“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”
Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.
You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”
He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.
“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”
His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.
You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”
He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—”
You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”
His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”
You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”
Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”
Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.
You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”
Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder.
You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.
“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.
“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.
“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”
You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”
Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”
“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”
Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”
“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”
Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”
“I was stabilising the situation!”
“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”
You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”
“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.
Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”
“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.
“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”
“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”
Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”
“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.
He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”
“He didn’t say it like—” you began.
Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”
You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”
“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”
“Oh my god.”
“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”
“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.
Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”
“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.
Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”
“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”
“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.
Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”
You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”
“Yes?” he said sweetly.
“I’m going to kill you.”
He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”
Silence.
Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”
“I don’t bite,” you muttered.
Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”
You took another sip. “I already do.”
Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”
an: this is definitely longer than i had planned…oopsie? if you’ve been here for a while, you should know this is a concept i’ve been wanting to write for jisung :3 and i finally did it! have fun! <33 hey alexa play when did you get hot by sabrina carpenter and shoutout to rosé for her funny dating story — with love, c.
warnings: noona kink. down bad jisung. smut! fingering. sex while frozen plays in the background. jisung has a big dick! (you all should know that’s the only way i will ever write him)
synopsis [MUST READ]:
park jisung. synonym. dongsaeng. little brother. the same boy who debuted a year after you, wide-eyed and timid, singing about chewing gum and wobbling around on hoverboards.
in truth, he was only two years younger. practically nothing. but in south korea’s ridiculous age system, two years felt like five. enough to draw a line. enough to keep him safely, permanently filed away as just your dongsaeng. so when your friend, mark lee, bless his soul, invites you to the dream show 4, you didn’t think twice. you went expecting nostalgia, pride, maybe a fond smile at how much they’d grown. you never expected for the word noona to sound so dangerous, inviting, and utterly, unfairly…hot?
this wasn’t the jisung you remembered. this was someone taller, broader, shoulders filling out a stage like he’d always belonged there. his voice no longer cracked with youth. instead, it wrapped around the crowd with intention, confidence, hunger. and when his eyes found the camera — something shifted. almost like he was looking straight at you. inviting you. challenging you. those dark eyes focused and wicked.
sweet, innocent, cute jisung — your dongsaeng — was gone.
and park jisung. synonym. a man with purpose. is ready to win over his long-time crush. to prove, once and for all, that he was never just a little kid.
🎬
the bass is still pounding in your ears when you slip backstage. the hallway smells like sweat, metal and adrenaline. staff rush past with clipboards and water bottles, voices overlapping, laughter spilling loose now that another successful show is over.
the door to the dream’s waiting room is half open. inside, the boys are scattered — collapsed on couches, riding that euphoric post-concert high. mark is the first to notice you.
“bro, no way,” he grins, already pushing himself up, “you actually came!” there’s something a little too pleased in his grin as he pulls you into a hug.
“of course i came,” you say, “you practically guilt tripped me.” mark just hums, innocent in a way that absolutely is not. voices overlap — greetings, teasing, someone offering you a water bottle. and then—
“noona.”
it’s quiet. not shouted. not playful. just…said.
you turn and there he is — jisung. standing near the back, towel draped low around his neck, chest still rising from exertion. his stage outfit clings in a way that feels unfair, like its asking a question you don’t have a safe answer for. his hair is pushed back, exposing his forehead, his eyes darker than you remember.
you blink, disoriented. when did that happen?
he smiles when he sees you, soft, familiar, but there’s something else underneath it. something sharper. more aware. his gaze drags, unhurried, like he’s memorizing you.
“did you—” he stops, breath hitching for just a second, “did you like the show?”
“you were incredible,” you say, forcing a smile on your face, hoping the boys couldn’t hear your racing heartbeat.
“don’t you know,” haechan’s voice pops up, smug, “our little jisungie here is all grown up,” he teases, patting the maknae on the back. his words hang in the air, earning a few chuckles from the others.
jisung shoots him a glare, a flush creeping up his neck that he tries to hide by rubbing the towel over his damp hair.
“yeahhh,” jaemin chimes in, lounging against the arm of the couch with a mischievous glint in his eye, “he’s far from the boy who admitted he had a crush on you during that one interview,” he continues, eyes sparkling, looking around the room, “do you guys remember that? jisungie was soooo cute then,” he teases in his baby voice.
the boys all glance at each other, all recalling that time a couple of years ago when they were all asked about their “ideal types.” somehow, they tricked their youngest into giving a proper answer meanwhile they were naming people like stephen curry and justin bieber.
chenle smirks from his spot on the chair, “oh! i remember, ‘y/n sunbaenim is really really pretty,’” he mimics in a high-pitched voice, drawing out the words with exaggerated innocence that has renjun snickering beside him.
renjun nods enthusiastically, scrolling through his phone but glancing up with a grin, “and don’t forget how quiet he got every time we ran into each other in music shows. mark hyung had to snap him out of it more times than i can count,” he shoots mark a playful look, who’s trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.
mark laughs lightly but knowing, “hey, cut the kid some slack. crushes hit hard at that age,” he gives jisung a firm pat on the shoulder, the gesture supportive but his eyes flick to you with a subtle wink that speaks volumes.
jisung groans, burying his face in the towel for a second before peeking out, his cheeks still warm, “hyungs, seriously? can we not do this right now?” his voice is half-protest, half laughter, but when his gaze meets yours, there’s a spark there — defiant, almost challenging, like he’s daring you to add on to the teasing.
to figure out what happens if you do.
jeno saves him then, already heading toward the door, “alright, i think they’re calling us…for that…thing…we should go,” he says. talk about mr. captain obvious.
the group starts to move, gathering jackets and water bottles amidst murmurs of agreement. jaemin stands, stretching with a lazy grin, “great seeing you again. don’t be a stranger,” he nods at you before clapping jisung on the way out.
renjun and chenle follow, the older of the two tossing a soft, “take care” over his shoulder.
mark lingers for a moment, squeezing your arm gently, “thanks for coming, it means a lot.” then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind the last of them.
the room falls into a sudden, electric quiet, the distant hum of the backstage chaos muffled outside. you quip a brow, a smile growing on your face as you look at the boy who is now a couple feet taller than you.
“shouldn’t you go with them?”
“i’m sure they can manage a couple tiktoks without me,” he chuckles and you can’t help but notice how deep his voice actually is now.
“sorry about them,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips, “they never let anything go.”
you chuckle, stepping closer, proving to him yourself that you were not affected by his drastic glow up.
“sooo…you didn’t have a crush on me?,” you say, clearly teasing him as your eyes sparkled with mischief.
and god, he doesn’t know what annoys him more — that damn interview or the fact that you still look at him like he was a boy.
“noona,” he warns, a quiet heat in his voice.
you continue stepping towards him, refusing to back down, “i remember that interview,” you say, standing closer now, as you grabbed the towel hung around his neck, “and the boys were right…you were just the cutest thing in the world!”
you bring the towel up to his hair, ignoring the fact that you were on your tippy toes to reach him.
jisung’s breath hitches, his body going still under your touch as you ruffled the towel through his damp strands. his eyes never leave yours — dark, intense, pinning you in place, shifting the air.
he easily towers over you, the heat radiating from his skin mixing with the faint scent of his sweat and cologne, something woodsy and sharp that makes your pulse quicken despite yourself.
then he reached up, his hand wrapping around your wrist, holding you there, firm enough to feel the strength in his fingers.
“cute?” he echoes, his voice dropping lower, rougher. the word comes out laced with challenge, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a jolt straight to you, “is that what you still think i am?”
you swallow, the playful tease in your chest twisting into something hotter, more urgent, as his grip tightens just a fraction. your fingers loosen on the towel, but you don’t step back, the proximity making your breasts brush against his chest with every shallow breath.
you want to reply, but it feels like the cat’s got your tongue, his stare pinning you in place, in a trance — all that’s left is the dark pools of his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, the warmth of his touch on your wrist. words dissolve before they can escape, lost in the heat.
then he steps closer, impossibly close now, bringing his head down to your level, “noona,” his eyes flick down to your lips. once. twice. “you okay?”
he’s teasing you. his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you, laced with quiet heat. his breath fans across your skin, warm and minty, sending shivers down your spine.
you can’t help but let your eyes dart down to his lips – full, slightly parted, glistening pink. they curve into a knowing smirk, his face inching closer and closer, the space between you shrinking to nothing, lips brushing the barest whisper against his, hearts pounding in unison, the pull magnetic and inevitable.
and then—
the door bursts open and his manager strides in, phone in hand, oblivious at first, “jisung-ah, we need to—oh.” the words trail off as he takes in the scenes, eyes widening.
you two spring apart quickly, the sudden separation like ripping velcro, your cheeks burning as you smooth down your shirt and step back toward the makeup table.
jisung clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears flushing red, “hyung, yeah—i’ll be right there,” he mutters, voice steadier than he looks, shooting you a quick, loaded glance, promise and frustration tangled in his gaze.
his manager heads out the door without another word, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway.
jisung turns his attention back you.
and in three quick steps…
one.
two.
three.
he’s in front of you again, closing the distance with a quiet determination that makes your breath catch. his hand rises gently to your jaw, fingers warm and steady against your skin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. those dark eyes hold yours for a beat, soft yet unwavering and before you could process what’s happening, he leans in and kisses you — sweetly, tenderly, hotly?
his lips brush yours with careful pressure that blooms into something deeper, mouth moving against yours in a slow, lingering exploration that tasted of cherry chapstick and a hint of mint.
you kiss back for only a fraction of a second, your body igniting under the sudden touch, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. but he pulls away just as abrupt, his hand lingering on your jaw for a moment longer before sliding away, leaving your lips tingling and swollen.
a small, genuine smile curve in the corners of his lips — adoration, satisfaction, confidence — like he’s finally won a round in this game.
but you can tell he’s shy from the way his ears flush bright pink, betraying the flutter beneath his composed exterior.
“thanks for coming to the show, noona,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere, his eyes still locked on yours with that quiet promise. then he’s gone, striding out the door without looking back, the click of it shutting echoing in the empty room.
you’re left there, bewildered, leaning against the makeup table for support as your heart races wildly in your chest, pounding like a drum. the ghost of his kiss lingers on your lips, hot and sweet, your pulse quickening with the certainty that this is far from over.
🎬
“—and he just kissed me,” you say, recalling the events of yesterday, your voice a mix of disbelief and lingering thrill.
you’re in the dance studio with xian, one of your group members, the mirrors reflecting your exhausted but energized forms as you ran through the brand new choreography for your upcoming group comeback. sweat beads on your forehead and your muscles ache from the intense practice, but your mind is elsewhere – replaying that backstage moment on a loop.
“WHAT?!” xian’s eyes widen like saucers, her ponytail swinging as she turned to face you, water bottle nearly slipping from her grip, “what do you mean he kissed you?!”
“i mean he put his lips on my lips and he kissed me,” you shrug, the words tumbling out.
“what the hell?! park jisung?? little jisungie who couldn’t even look you in the eyes last year?” she leans in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the rest of the group too busy chatting and stretching to pay attention.
“he’s not so little anymore…” you point out, still trying to comprehend it all — the memory of his large hand on your jaw, the way he tilted your head, fingertips on your pulse point — the kiss.
“he–he’s different now…he’s so….,” you trail off, biting your lip as you think of the right word to describe it.
“so….?” xian prompts, her eyebrows shooting up.
“hot?” you say finally, the voiced out admission slipping out with a flush creeping up your cheeks.
it’s true — jisung’s grown into a man. all lean muscle and quiet intensity. admitting it out loud makes your stomach flip, like butterflies turning into something hotter, more insistent
xian catches the shift in your expression and smirks, “isn’t their comeback next week too? we’ll probably be bumping into them all week,” she points out.
“and?” you shoot back, trying to sound casual even as your pulse quickens at the idea of seeing him again.
she arches a brow, her grin turning wicked, “and… what’re you gonna do about it? nothing? or are you gonna corner him in a hallway and show him who’s boss?”
the suggestion hits like a spark, igniting thoughts you hadn’t dared entertain. pretend it never happened? keep playing nonchalance? ghost him entirely and let the awkwardness fester? orrrr walk up to him, grab his collar, and steal back that kiss?
no. that’s insane. too risky. too real.
“no! of course not – are you out of your mind?” you blurt, heat rising to your face as you wave her off, “i’m just gonna let it slide. it’s probably nothing but that silly crush he’s had for ages…he needed to get it out of his system, that’s all.”
“sureee,” xian drawls, her tone dripping with skepticism as she bumps your shoulder playfully. you roll your eyes, but inside, doubt swirls like the beat of the next track starting up. the rest of the group calls you back to formation and you try to push all thoughts of jisung aside.
🎬
“fuck—,” you moan into his mouth, the word slipping out hot and desperate, earning a literal whine as his response, tongue moving in rhythm with yours, tasting you with a hunger that makes your head spin.
you were a huge. fat. liar.
doing “nothing” about it was completely thrown out the window the second you spotted him across the backstage halls. that tight black shirt molding to his lean torso like it was painted on, the subtle ripple of abs underneath pulling your gaze, the veins running down his arms. and god, those biceps — he had you hooked.
a double take became a triple until he caught you staring. his dark eyes met yours, sharp and heated, a faint flush creeping up his neck that only made him look more irresistible.
and now you were here — squeezed into this dim closet, tucked away from the bustle of the venue, shelves of old scripts and tangled cables pressing in. the door clicked shut and you were on him in an instant, your back hitting the wall as he crowds close, body pinning yours.
your fingers tangle in the nape of his neck, careful not to mess up his hair too much, tugging him down as you took back what he stole — kissing him hard, all teeth and tongue, swallowing his soft whimpers like they’re yours to claim.
“noona,” he breathes against your lips, voice cracking with need as his hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, close enough so you could feel the outline in his pants.
“i—i’ve dreamt about this for so long. years. every time i saw you, i’d imagine…fuck, kissing you like this, touching you…please, please let me touch you,” his confession spills out in a rush, almost pathetic, his cheeks burning red even in the low light, ears flushed pink like the shy maknae he used to be.
the desperation, the begging, the wide eyes and flushed lips — it all just lights a fire in you. knowing he’s wanted you this badly, dreamed of you while you barely noticed, it fuels you.
you kiss him harder, savoring the way he melts into it, his mouth pliant and eager under yours.
“how about turning that dream into reality?” you murmur, nipping his bottom lip, your hand cupping his jaw to tilt his head just right, a smirk curling on your lips as you pull away for a second.
now — jisung was never religious. but in this moment, he looks like he’s just been handed the keys to his own personal heaven.
his eyes widen, breath hitching as he nods frantically, that boyish awe softening the edges of his hunger, “yes—please, please…i want to make you feel good,” he whispers, voice thick with reverence, like touching you is a privilege he’s been training his whole life for.
you guide his hand down, sliding it under the hem of your skirt, your thighs parting just enough to invite him in. his fingers brush your skin, tracing upward to the waistband of your tight safety shorts beneath.
he hesitates for a beat, eyes flicking up to yours in silent question. you nod, urging him on with a soft press of your hand over his. jisung slides his hand in until he reaches your panties, slipping beneath that lace too. his fingertips graze your slick folds, a soft gasp escaping you at the first contact. your tight shorts keeping his fingers closer, adding to the pressure.
you pull him back into the kiss, lips sealing over his to muffle the sound. he responds hungrily, tongue delving deep as his finger presses along your slit, the heat of his mouth mirroring the building warmth below. you rock against his hand instinctively, needing more, while the kiss turned sloppy and urgent, breaths mingling in hot pants between licks and sucks.
“like this?” he murmurs into your mouth, voice barely above a whisper as he pushes one finger inside your pussy with a careful thrust. the intrusion is slick and welcoming, your walls clenching around him as you nod against his lips.
“just like that, jisungie,” you breathe, the pet name slipping out soft and affectionate. his free hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek while his mouth claims yours again, the kiss deepening with every slide of his finger.
he groans quietly at the feel of you griping him, so wet and tight, “you feel so good, noona.” then he’s back, kissing you fercely, his finger fucking you deeper, curling to hit that spot that mkes your hips buck.
your body starts to respond more intensely, soft moans bubbling up from your throat, you feel yourself unraveling, turning pliant under his hand, knees weakening as the pleasure continued to build.
jisung notices it immediately — the way your breaths hitch sharper, your lips no longer catching up with his, your body melting against the wall, those quiet sounds escaping despite your efforts. it sparks something in him, confidence blooming in his eyes. his thrusts grow surer, fingers pressing deeper with purpose and he pulls back just enough to watch your face, drinking in every flicker of you losing control.
“oh god,” you gasp, the word barely out before another moan slips free, soft and needy. you have to bite down hard on your lower lip to stifle the next one, your head tipping back against the wall as your pussy clenches around his fingers.
god, the sight of you like this — putty in his hands, fighting to stay quiet — it was a dream come true.
but he’s greedy. and he wants to hear more, to coax every stifled sound from you in this cramped space where footsteps echo past the door every few seconds, voice murmuring in the hall.
he adds a second finger without asking, stretching you fuller, making your hips jerk as he pumps quicker, thumb circling your clit in firm, quick strokes. his mouth finds your neck instead, lips brushing against your skin, trailing kisses down the column of your throat, his ear attuned to the way your moans try to break free — muffled whimpers that vibrate against his tongue as he sucks lightly at your pulse point, nipping just enough to draw another gasp.
“jisung—ah,” you whisper-moan, the sound ragged and desperate, your hand fisting in his shirt, desperately trying to stay grounded as you bite your lip again, teeth sinking into trap the louder cry building in your chest.
people are right outside, the risk sharpening every sensation, but he doesn’t stop, encouraged by how you’re falling apart for him, your body trembling, walls fluttering tighter around his fingers.
“i love hearing you, noona,” he hums against your neck, voice low and round with his own arousal, fingers continuing to curl just right, driving you relentlessly toward the edge. another moan escapes, softer this time but no less intoxicating to him.
the coil snaps hard and fast — your pussy spasming around his fingers as you come undone, a choked cry muffled by your bitten lip, head thrown back, eyes shut in bliss, while waves of pleasure crash through you.
jisung holds you through it, his free hand gripping your hip to steady you as your legs threaten to give, his fingers still moving to draw out every pulse, his ears catching each stifled aftershock moan like a secret just for him, his eyes taking a mental screenshot.
“fuck, noona—that’s…that’s the hottest thing i’ve ever seen,” he swears, voice hoarse and reverent, meeting your dazed eyes. he keeps his fingers buried deep a moment longer before easing them out slowly, your pussy clenching one last time around the retreating digits, slick trailing in glistening strings.
without another word, jisung brings his hand up, eyes locked on yours with a mix of mischief and raw hunger — he slides his fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling deliberately to lick every drop of your cum clean, sucking them with soft, needy hum that vibrates through the air.
your eyes widen in surprise, heat flooding your cheeks at the bold move — filthy and uncharacteristically daring from the boy who’s still got that flush on his ears.
”what?” he murmurs around his fingers, popping them free, a shy grin tugging at his lips as he sees your reaction, “i had to clean them somehow.”
a laugh bubbles out of you, light and breathless, cutting through the tension. it’s infectious, easing the urgency into something warmer and you reach for the front of his shirt, fisiting the fabric to yank him close. your lips crash into his once again, tasting yourself faintly on his tongue as you kiss him deep and slow.
“when did you get so hot, huh, park jisung?” you whisper against his mouth, the words deliberate — no pet name, no jisungie, just his full name like he’s a man now, not the kid you’ve always teased.
and it pulls him completely under your spell. his breath stutters, eyes going wide and glassy, that confident facade cracking as he unravels right there, “i-i could…do more…if you want,” he stammers, hands clutching at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“yeah?” you tease softly, arching a brow as you smooth his shirt back down your thumb brushing his collarbone.
he nods quickly, frantically, the motion so eager it’s almost comical, his cheeks burning brighter. it’s cute. that boyish enthusiasm peeking through the heat, making your chest tighten with affection.
“i do…want that,” you affirm, voice dropping low and sure. the air between you crackles with promise.
“my place,” he blurts faster than you expect, the words tumbling out in a rush, ”come to mine tonight?”
you quirk a brow, smirking at the slip — half-invitation, half-demand.
“are you asking or are you telling me?”
he swallows hard, forcing that confidence back into place, jaw setting as he meets your gaze head-on, “i’m telling you, noona. come to mine tonight.”
a smile curve your lips, genuine and approving, “the right choice. text me your address,” you instruct, leaning in for one final kiss, soft, lingering, a seal on the deal.
then you slip away, cracking the door just enough to peek out before darting into the hallway, heart pounding like you’ve just run a marathon, the ache between your thighs a lingering thrill.
xian’s lounging against the wall nearby, scrolling on her phone, but her head snaps up the second you emerge. her eyes narrow playfully, scanning your flushed face and slightly mussed hair, before she flashes a knowing thumbs-up, lips twitching in a suppressed grin.
you mouth a quick “shut up,” playing it cool, smoothing your expression into casual nonchalance. she just chuckles silently, falling into step beside you as you both weave through the backstage chaos toward the stage entrance for the ending segment.
the mc’s voice booms over the speakers, calling out the nominated artists for the week. you stand shoulder to shoulder with your group members, lights blinding as the cameras pan slowly, capturing every polished smile and wave, the sea of lightsticks waving in synchronized frenzy below.
jisung is a few people away, flanked by his members, his posture straight and idol-perfect, that practiced smile plastered on as he waves to fans with the same hand that was inside you just minutes ago.
you catch it — the subtle flick of his eyes toward you, that idol smile turning into a smirk only you know the meaning of. a secret heat simmering beneath the professional facade.
the applause thunders on, spotlights dancing and to everyone who was watching — you two were nothing but perfect idols.
🎬
your heart races with a mix of nerves and mischief, the baggy floral pants swishing around your legs, paired with a crisp white long-sleeve and topped by a sensible vest that screams ahjumma. you’d gone all out. even adding a curly wig and a sturdy handbag dangling from your shoulder like you’re off to the market.
as idols, relationships are “off-limits.” you just have to be good enough to hide it. and this get-up ensures just that. no prying eyes from fans, no suspicious glances, no whispered rumors.
you ring the doorbell. footsteps hurry closer and it creaks open. jisung’s there in gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a black shirt that clings to his lean chest, fresh from a shower with damp hair.
his eyes widen, gaze sweeping over you, from the vest to the ridiculous colorful pants, and he bursts out laughing, bending at the waist as if you just told him the funniest joke ever.
“noona,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach, “i’m into older women…but not this old,” his face is flushed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he straightens up just enough to let you inside.
you enter his place, kicking off your flats with a grin, the cool apartment air hitting your skin.
“what? is this not doing it for you?” you tease, adjusting the wig with exaggerated flair and striking a pose, hands on hips like a scolding elder, “not activating your ahjumma kink?”
that sets him off again, his laughter booming as he leans against his shut door, “oh my god, noona stop— it’s too much.”
you match his laugh, reaching up to yank the wig free in one swift motion, tossing it at him like a playful challenge. it lands in his hands, the curly mess dangling from his fingers as your real hair tumbles down, framing your face perfectly.
his chuckles die out instantly, the sound fading into a sharp intake of breath. the air thickens charged with something heavier and he pushes off the door, closing the distance between you in two strides. his free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw as he stares, eyes dark and intense.
“i can’t believe you’re actually here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, the words laced with awe and hunger.
your hand slides up his arm and you tilt your head to meet his gaze, “hmm and now that you got me here, what do you suppose we do?” the teasing edge lingers in your tone, soft, inviting, as you lean in to brush your lips against his.
he smirks against your lips, before pulling away slightly, “we could watch a movie?”
“that’s it?”
“and we could make out a little,” he says, his hand dropping from your jaw to your waist.
“just a little?”
“or a lot,” he says, pulling you closer, fingers flexing like he’s already forgotten his own suggestion about movies.
for a second, you think he’s going to abandon the idea entirely, his lips hovering just above yours, breath ghosting over your skin.
and then.
he pulls back. clearing his throat like he needs to reset his brain, “c’mon, let’s watch that movie.”
there’s no way.
there’s actually no way you’ve gone through all of this to watch a movie.
but before you can protest, he takes your hand and leads you deeper into his apartment. you toss your handbag on the floor, following him into his living room. the t.v. is already on as he unpauses it. bright snow. dramatic orchestral music. you stare at the screen.
“is this–”
“don’t judge me,” he says quickly, dropping onto the couch, “it’s a classic.”
anna and elsa appear mid-argument, voices echoing through the speakers.
there’s no way he was going to fuck you while frozen plays in the background…right?
you turn slowly to look at him. he’s already settled in, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, looking absurdly domestic. comfortable. like this was the plan all along. you slowly sit beside him, hyperaware of everything — the heat radiating from him, the faint scent of his shampoo, the way his fingers absentmindedly tap against the couch cushion near your shoulder.
on screen, anna is dramatically belting something about love. your heart is pounding for an entirely different reason. you sneak a glance at him. he’s watching intently. actually watching. eyes focused. brows slightly knit. fully invested in the animation.
you narrow your eyes.
what kind of sick foreplay is this?
you are so insanely turned on right now. the memory of his fingers curling inside you replaying in your mind. and he’s just sitting there. calm. composed. watching.
is he serious?!?
you shift slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. nothing. he doesn’t even look at you.
“wow,” he mutters, softly at the screen, “that song is so good.”
you stare at him.
you lean back, pretending to get comfortable, but really you’re eyeing him from the corner of your eye. the curve of his jaw. the way his lips part when he concentrates. the faint rise and fall of his chest. he senses it. without turning his head, he smirks.
“you’re staring.”
“i’m not.”
“you are,” he says calmly, still looking at the tv, “you’ve been starting at me for the past 45 seconds.”
your face heats. he was counting?
his arm slides down from the back of the couch to rest behind you, fingers grazing your shoulder lightly. barely there. it’s subtle. too subtle. your pulse jumps anyway.
“you’re evil,” you whisper.
“for watching a movie?”
“for pretending you’re not aware of what you’re doing.”
on screen, anna dramatically falls into han’s arms.
jisung leans closer to you, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “i’m very aware.” your breath catches.
“but,” he continues, “i also really like this part.”
you gape at him. he laughs softly, the sound low and teasing, before finally giving in just a little. his hand slides from your shoulder to your waist, thumb drawing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.
“i’ve waited years for this noona…i don’t want it to be over just yet,” he says quietly.
your eyes narrow, “are you implying that this is a one-time thing?”
he turns to look at you then.
finally.
“is it not? just noona granting her poor little dongsaeng’s pathetic wishes?”
the words hang between you, laced with that familiar mix of playfulness and something deeper, more vulnerable.
his eyes search yours, the t.v.’s glow casting flickering shadows across his face, making the moment feel even more intimate in the dim room.
you shift closer, “pathetic wishes?” you echo, voice low, eyebrows furrowed, “do you really think i would’ve gone through all that effort to be here if i didn’t want you?”
his hand at your waist tightens, pulling you flush against his side, “yeah?” he murmurs, his free hand capturing yours, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss against your knuckles. it’s sweet, almost boyish, but the heat in his gaze tells you he's anything but innocent.
“then tell me, noona. what do you want this to be?” the air thickens, charged with the unspoken promise of more.
you lean in, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “not a one-time thing. not if you keep looking at me like that.”
his ears flush pink, that telltale sign of his shyness peeking through the confidence he's built, and it only makes you bolder. you nip at his earlobe, feeling him shiver, his arm wrapping fully around you now, hand splaying across your lower back.
the movie drones on — kristoff and anna's banter filling the speakers — but jisung can no longer pretend to care.
he turns his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss, slower, deep, his tongue sliding against yours with deliberate strokes. you melt into it, your body arching toward him. his hand ventures lower, slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace the skin of your stomach.
“fuck this movie,” you breathe against his lips when you break for air, the words spilling out rough and demanding.
no more teasing, no more waiting.
you swing a leg over his lap in one fluid motion, straddling him fully, your knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. his hands instinctively grip your thighs, but you grab his chin, tilting his face up to meet your eyes.
“eyes on me, jisung. only me.”
he swallows hard, pupils blown wide, but he nods, gaze locked on yours as you crash your mouth back to his. the kiss is messy this time, urgent — teeth clashing, tongues tangling, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer.
he groans into it, the vibration rumbling through your chest, his hips bucking up slightly to press his hardness against your core through the layers of fabric. you rock against him once, twice, savoring the friction, but you want more. control surges through you, hot and heady, as you dominate the rhythm of the kiss, nipping his lower lip until he whimpers softly.
his hands roam up your sides, fumbling with the buttons of your vest in haste. he shrugs it off your shoulders, letting it slide to the floor with a soft thud. you break the kiss just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside, leaving you in the white lacy bra you'd chosen specifically for this — for him. the delicate fabric clings to your curves, sheer enough to tease the outline of your nipples, already pebbled from his earlier touches.
jisung's breath stutters, his eyes raking over you like he's memorizing every inch.
“god, you're beautiful,” he rasps, voice thick with awe, before his mouth descends.
he presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point, making you gasp, then trails lower to your collarbone, licking and nipping the sensitive skin there.
his hand slide up fingers hooking into the bra's cups, tugging them down without unhooking the straps. the lace bunches under your breasts, exposing them fully to the cool air of the room — and to him.
he doesn't hesitate, leaning in to capture one nipple between his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicks over the peak. you arch into it, a sharp moan escaping as pleasure shoots straight to your pussy, making you clench around nothing.
he switches sides, lavishing the other tit with the same attention — suck, swirl, graze with his teeth — drawing out your whines. your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as you grind down against his clothed cock, feeling it throb insistently through his sweatpants, the heat of him searing against your damp panties.
the friction isn't enough, you need to feel him, all of him. your fingers dip into the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down just enough to free his length. you wrap your hand around his cock, squeezing the thick base, and your eyes widen at the size — bigger than you'd imagined, hot and heavy in your palm, veins pulsing under your grip.
he bucks into your touch with a choked groan, his mouth popping off your breast to bury his face in your neck, panting hot breaths against your skin.
“fuck,” he whimpers, hips jerking as you stroke him slowly, thumb swiping over the slick tip.
he thrusts up into your hand, desperate now, his control fraying under your command, “please,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, “—want you so bad. been dreaming of this.”
you quicken your strokes, twisting your wrist at the head, watching his face contort in ecstasy — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted on a silent moan.
but you tap his cheek lightly, reminding him, “eyes on me, remember?”
he forces them open, locking onto yours, the vulnerability there making your heart — and your pussy — clench.
“good boy,” you whisper, leaning in to suck a mark into his jaw.
the tension builds, his cock leaking pre-cum over your fingers, your body aching to take him inside, but you draw it out just a little longer, savoring the power, the way he trembles beneath you.
the outside world, the movie — none of it matters. just this, just him, unraveling under your touch.
jisung’s chest heaves as you continue to pump him up and down, his cock slick with pre-cum, fingers digging into your hips as he fights control. but the strain shows in the way his jaw clenches.
you lean down, capturing his mouth in another bruising kiss, swallowing his moans while you start grinding your soaked core against his thigh. his hands immediately slide to the waistband of your floral pants, tugging it down.
“off,” he mutters, voice rough and commanding, the shyness giving way to raw hunger. you lift your hips just enough for him to yank them down, the fabric pooling at your knees befre he shoves them aside completely.
his gaze drops to your panties — matching white lace, sheer and clinging to your folds, the material darkened with how wet you are. a low growl rumbles from his throat as he stares — you really did plan all this out, coming to him in a matching set.
he still couldn’t believe it.
“fuck, noona…you’re soaking for me,” his hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider over his lap, thumbs brushing the edge of the lace. the sight undoes him — his cock twitching in your hand and he surges up, mouth latching onto your neck again, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, “so hot. can’t believe you’re here like this, all for me.”
his fingers hook into the sides of your panties and with a frustrated snarl, he rips them – the threads snapping as he tears the fabric apart.
cool air hits your exposed pussy, your slick folds bare and dripping onto his sweatpants. you gasp at the suddennes, the possessivness of it sending a fresh wave of heat through you, your clit pulisng with want.
“jisung–c-condom,” you say through breathy moans. his eyes flick to the side table drawer without pulling away from you, leaning over awkwardly with one arm still banded around your waist to keep you close, yanking the drawer open and snatching a foil. you watch, breath hitching as he tears it with his teeth, the latex unrolling down his thick shaft in quick, efficient strokes.
“and here i thought we really were just gonna watch frozen,” you tease, an amused smile on your lips.
jisung chuckles darkly, tossing the wrapper aside, “yeah, fuck that. i should’ve fucked you the moment you walked in the door,” he positions himself, dragging his head through your dripping slit, bumping your swollen clit, earning a light moan from you.
“bad jisung, making noona wait,” you retort, reaching down to line him at your entrance.
you don’t hesitate, sinking down slowly onto him. the stretch is immediate, intense — his cock splitting you open, walls stretching to accommodate every inch as you take him deeper.
“fuck, jisung–you’re so big,” you moan, the words spilling out as you bottomed out, your ass flush against his thighs, the fullness making your vision blur.
he groans, head falling back against the couch, hands clamping onto your waist like anchors. you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind at first, savoring the way he fills you completely, the drag of him against your walls sending sparks up your spine.
the movie is white noise now, drowned out by the wet sounds of your bodies connecting, your slick coating the latex as you ride him.
jisung’s eyes stay glued to where you’re joined, watching his length disappear into you over and over, his breaths coming in ragged pants. he thrusts up to meet you, the force jolting through you, but you set the pace, hands braced on his chest, nails digging into the firm muscle there.
sweat beads on his skin, his shirt clinging and you lean forward, capturing his lips in a messy kiss as you bounce harder. your clit grinds against his pelvis with each slide, pleasure coiling tight in your core, but the angle tires your thighs after a few minutes, your movements slowing just a fraction. he notices it immediately.
“i got you, noona,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice husky and laced with lust, “gonna make you feel good.”
he surges up, wrapping an arm around your back and flipping your positions in one fluid, powerful move. now you’re beneath him, legs splayed wide, his body caging yours as he settles between your thighs. the shift presses him even deeper, the new angle hitting that spot inside that makes you cry out, arching up to meet him.
he starts thrusting immediately, deep, measured strokes that have you seeing white, building that steady pressure in your core, his body pinning you down.
your fingers hook into the hem of his shirt, finally tugging it upward. he pauses mid-thrust, lifting his arms to help you yank it off over his head, revealing his bare chest.
your eyes drop immediately to his abs — defined ridges of muscle flexing with each breath. they’re sculpted, earned from endless hours of training and performance, and the sight hits you like a spark, making your pussy tighten around him involuntarily.
“when did you get these?” you murmur, voice breathy as you trail your nails down the planes of his stomach, feeling them contract under your touch. he fucks into you again, deep and slow, the motion making his abs tense further.
jisung smirks down at you, eyes hooded with lust, but there’s a playful glint there too, “always had them, you just weren’t looking,” he teases, his voice low and rough, punctuating the words with another measured thrust that has you gasping.
you roll your eyes at his cockiness, hooking a hand around his neck to pull him down, whispering “faster,” before crashing your lips onto his for another heated kiss.
he doesn’t hesitate, adjusting his grip on your hips and picking up the pace, his thrusts turning sharper, harder, slamming into you with a rhythm that rocks the couch beneath you, the friction intense, hitting deeper with every forceful drive.
jisung pulls back from the kiss after a moment, his focus shifting entirely to the motion of his hips, breaths coming in hot pants against your ear. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin as soft whines escape him — high and needy, mixing with deeper grunts each time he bottoms out.
“fuck, noona….so good,” he whimpers, voice cracking with the effort to hold back, his body trembling slightly above you. sweat drips from his brow onto your collarbone and you can feel the strain in him, the way his muscles lock as he fights his release, determined to push you over the edge first.
every thrust targets your pleasure, his hips angling just right to drag over your g-spot, the head of his cock nudging it relentlessly. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back to urge him on, and the coil in your core winds impossibly tighter, heat building to a fever pitch.
jisung's whines grow more desperate by your ear, a mix of “please...cum for me” and breathless grunts.
his determination is clear — he wants to prove it, show you he's no longer the shy kid, but a man who can take care of you, make you shatter around him before he lets go.
your walls clench around him tighter, the slick heat building to an unbearable peak as his pace quickens even more, balls slapping against your ass with every forceful entry.
he leans in close, his mouth hot against your ear, breaths ragged and uneven, “c’mon noona... let go,” he murmurs between grunts, his voice strained with effort.
one hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm circles over the swollen nub, the added pressure pushing you right to the brink. your back arches off the couch, nails digging into his shoulders as the orgasm crashes over you, pussy fluttering wildly around his length, waves of ecstasy pulsing from your core outward. your juices flood his cock, soaking the condom and dripping down to the cushions below, thighs quivering from the intensity.
jisung groans deeply at the feel of you coming undone, his thrusts faltering for a split second as your tightness nearly undoes him. but he holds on, slowing just enough to ride out your climax, his fingers still teasing your clit lightly to draw it out longer.
“fuck, yes... so fucking hot,” he pants, watching your face contort in bliss, pride flashing in his eyes — he did it, made you shatter first.
as your tremors subside, leaving you boneless and gasping beneath him, jisung's restraint snaps. he picks up speed again, fucking into your oversensitive pussy with short, desperate strokes, chasing his own release, guttural moans escaping his lips, body tensing as he buries himself deep one last time. his cock throbs inside you, pulsing as he cums hard, filling the condom with hot spurts. he collapses forward slightly, forehead pressed to yours, hips jerking erratically until he's spent, a satisfied shudder running through him.
for a moment, you both stay like that, breaths mingling in the quiet room, the movie still playing in the background.
jisung lifts his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, but it's clear he's beaming inside — his eyes crinkling at the corners, that boyish glow he can't quite hide, even as he tries to play it cool.
you're his dream girl, after all.
and the way his chest rises and falls a little too quickly gives him away.
“that was better than anything i could imagine,” he says softly, voice hoarse, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.
“well, now you don’t have to imagine,” you say, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back as you hold his gaze, the warmth in your chest making your words come out steady and sincere, “i was serious, you know? i don’t want this to be a one-time thing… unless that’s what you want.”
jisung's eyes search yours, that familiar flicker of surprise and something deeper — maybe hope — lighting up his features. he shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow while his other hand rests lightly on your hip, thumb stroking the skin there in slow, soothing motions.
he's trying so hard to act cooler, but the beaming smile tugs at his lips, his cheeks flushing just a bit as he fights to keep his excitement reined in.
“no,” he murmurs quickly, shaking his head as if the idea alone is ridiculous, “god, no. that's the last thing i want. i've been imagining this — us — for months. years. but hearing you say that...it makes it real.”
you smile, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of his hair behind his ear, your touch lingering as you pull him down for another kiss, this one deeper but still tender, tongues brushing lazily.
when you break apart, you whisper against his lips, “good. because i like you — like, really like you. so start believing it, okay?”
“i believe you,” he says, voice muffled but excited, almost shy, the beaming energy seeping through despite his efforts to tone it down.
he exhales a shaky laugh, burying his face in the curve of your neck for a second, his warm breath tickling your skin as he presses a series of soft kisses along your collarbone.
you tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye as your fingers trail up his arm, tracing the lean muscle there.
“now,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, laced with that warmth from before, “you want to show me what else you've imagined us doing?”
his reaction is instant — a smirk curls his mouth, slow and knowing, chasing away any remnants of shyness. those dark eyes heat up, locking onto yours with confidence.
without a word, he shifts, sliding his arms under you in one fluid motion, scooping you up bridal style like you weigh nothing. your legs dangle over his arm, and you can't help the surprised laugh that bubbles out as he stands, cradling you against his chest.
“bedroom,” he says simply, his voice a rough whisper against your ear, that smirk still playing on his lips
🎬
three days slips by in a blur of schedules and stolen texts — late-night messages that make you smile at your phone.
but today, the music show buzzes with energy, your group weaving through the backstage chaos, outfits sparkling under the lights. nct dream's here too, their laughter echoing from down the hall as you prepare for your silly mini segment with stray kids' bang chan.
it’s all lighthearted fun, the concept scripted — you batting your lashes, calling him “oppa” in that exaggerated, cute tone that has the crew chuckling.
chan plays along perfectly, his dimpled smile wide as he hands you a single red rose, the stem wrapped in ribbon.
“for a pretty girl,” he teases, voice warm and brotherly. you take it with a giggle, then link arms for the heart pose — your hands forming the shape together, faces close enough for the cameras to catch the playful spark.
back in nct dream’s dressing room, the t.v. flickers with the live feed, the boys sprawled on couches and chairs, half-watching between touch-ups and snacks.
jisung’s there, legs kicked out, but his posture stiffens the moment your face fills the screen. he watches you lean into chan, that soft oppa slipping from your lips like honey, and something sharp twists in his chest.
his jaw clenches, teeth grinding just enough to make the muscle jump, eyes narrowing into slits as chan passes the rose. the heart pose seals it — your smiles synced, bodies angled close — and jisung's fingers dig into the armrest, knuckles whitening.
chenle, scrolling on his phone beside him, catches the shift immediately. he snickers, nudging jisung's shoulder with his elbow, “make it more obvious, won't you?”
jisung doesn't even glance away from the screen, his gaze locked on you as the segment ends, “i don't know how you do this,” he mutters, voice low and edged with frustration, finally turning to chenle.
chenle’s eyebrows raised in mock innocence, “do what?”
“date an actress,” jisung shoots back, running a hand through his hair, “i’m literally gonna crash out and it’s just a segment.”
chenle bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking as he claps jisung on the back. he shrugs, nonchalant and grinning wide, “i'm just cooler and more mature than you, jisungie.”
🎬
the show pulses on, a relentless rhythm of spotlights and applause, the corridors buzz with hurried footsteps and muffled chatter, but you navigate them with purpose, heart racing from the high and the unresolved pull toward jisung.
he’s been a ghost all day, avoiding your gaze like it's a spotlight he can't afford.
from the corner, your fingers brush his wrist, light but insistent, pulling him quickly into the familiar dim closet without a word.
the door snicks shut, sealing out the world.
jisung's back meets the wall, his eyes snapping to yours, wide, caught off guard, “noona?” he says, voice a hushed rasp, surprise threading through the warmth.
“you haven't looked at me once this whole show,” you murmur, closing the gap until your bodies nearly touch. your voice dips lower, probing, “what's wrong?”
he shifts, gaze dropping to the scuffed floor, jaw clenching in that telltale way. the jealousy from the segment with chan simmers beneath his skin, a sharp twist in his gut from watching you laugh and pose, but he shoves it down deep.
that's kid stuff. and he’s a man. a mature man.
“nothing... just being careful,” he murmurs, forcing a casual shrug.
you see the sulk anyway — the downturned lips, the furrowed brow, the way his shoulders hunch just a fraction. it’s endearing, pulling a soft smile from you as you step in closer, your palm flattening against his chest to feel the rapid thump of his heart.
“you’re cute when you lie.”
his eyes lift then, dark and conflicted, holding yours for a beat too long before he sighs, “i—i’m not lying—the cameras, the fans... everyone’s watching. don't want to cause trouble for us. that's all.”
it’s a half-truth, delivered with a shrug that doesn't quite land, his body betraying him as it leans into your touch.
“try again,” you tease gently, fingers sliding up to cup his jaw, tilting his face so he can't hide, “is it the segment? chan oppa?”
his breath catches, a flicker of admission in the way his eyes narrow, but he nods slowly, the mature mask slipping.
“kinda,” he confesses, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his hand settling at your waist, thumb on your bare skin, “stupid, i know. it’s a segment. but seeing you call him that, smile like... like that…”
he pulls you flush against him, the confession hanging heavy but freeing, “i don't want to be the jealous kid. but fuck, i hate sharing even a second of your attention.”
the closet feels smaller now, the world outside fading as you lean in, lips brushing his ear, “you’re not,” you murmur, feeling him shiver, “you're the one i pulled in here. the one I can't stop thinking about.”
the admission hangs between you, raw and real, and you close the distance, lips grazing his in a feather-light touch that ignites everything. he responds instantly, hands framing your face, deepening the kiss.
the urgency builds but so do the voices echoing down the hall — staff calling for the next lineup, footsteps approaching — and he breaks away with a frustrated groan, forehead resting against yours, breathing ragged and uneven.
his eyes, dark with want but sparkling with that boyish hope, search yours.
“come to mine again tonight?” he whispers quietly, voice laced with plea, his thumb stroking your cheek in soft, adoring circles.
you shake your head, a playful glint in your eye as you bite your lip, “no.”
“no?” he pulls back slightly, confusion flickering across his flushed face, brows knitting together in the most adorable pout, his lower lip jutting out.
“you come to mine,” you say with a smile, voice teasing and inviting, your hand sliding down his chest to rest over his racing heart.
“i'll wait for you….in your best ahjussi outfit,” you wink, eyes dripping with that knowing mischief.
he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest, a shy grin breaking through the sulk as he leans in closer, his ears turning an even brighter shade of pink.
“i’ll borrow a gray wig from the costume department,” he says, his voice light and playful, eyes crinkling, at the corners with pure delight, gummy smile and all.
you giggle, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, soft and lingering, both of you smiling into it before the outside world swallows you both back into reality.
