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ducktoo · 4 hours ago

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Matcha is green

(Also classic cliffhanger)

What's Wrong with Secretary Seol ?

(m!reader x NMIXX's SULLYOON) - part III

masterlist

part I - part II - part IV

Summary: A CEO and his secretary have always kept things professional. But the romantic tension between them has been building for months. One day, everything suddenly shifts and the feelings they've been ignoring can't stay hidden anymore.

Tags (?): ceo x secretary, office romance, 10 tons of fluff, the most amount of nsfw shit i've ever written in a fic (i don't write smut tho)

SULLYOON x yourself/Original Male Character

Word count: ~15k - SIKEEE! You guys thought i was done?!

The rest of the week was pure torture.

From Monday morning onward, Seol Yoon-Ah had easily slipped back into her professional secretary mode. To the rest of the office, she was exactly the same model secretary as before. But to you? Yoon-Ah was hell in heels. You could see it, feel it. She didn’t need too much to ruin you.

The first time Yoon-Ah walked into your office on Tuesday morning, her shirt was buttoned almost all the way. She left enough open to show a distracting line of skin that made your eyes want to stare but you knew better. She set down your morning report and began to go over your schedule for the day completely unbothered.

“Thank you, secretary Seol.” you said after clearing your throat.

“Are you listening, sajang-nim? You seem… so distracted.”

I guess I am?

“I’m fine. Just a lot to think about.”

Yoon-Ah smiled at your answer. “Well, don’t overwork yourself, sajang-nim. I wouldn't want my boss to be exhausted.” She said politely and turned toward the door. The way she walked made it impossible not to stare, especially when her hips swayed. Yoon-Ah definitely gave you something to think about for the rest of the day. You were left gripping your pen like a lifeline and wondering how the hell you were going to survive the rest of the week.

Goddamn, secretary Seol. Look at your hips. Your thighs too…

By the time the last meeting of the day wrapped up, your head was pounding. You walked out of your office and spotted her at her desk, typing something. For a second, you just stood at the doorway, deciding if this was a stupid idea.

“Uh, secretary Seol.” you began, voice low.

Yoon-Ah looked up. “Yes, sajang-nim?”

You hesitated, which rarely happened when you were with her.

“Would it be alright if I… started driving you home again?” you scratched the back of your neck, eyes looking away. “I kinda miss it.”

“Only if you promise to behave in the car, sajang-nim.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’ll… uh, do my best. No guarantees.”

Yoon-Ah quickly gathered her things and stood. “Then I suppose we’ll see if you can keep that promise.”

Tuesday afternoon was when she decided to strike again.

You were buried in paperwork and designs when Yoon-Ah walked in without knocking, a stack of documents in one hand and some hot tea she’d just made in the other.

“You’ve gotten too brave, secretary Seol. Me loving you doesn’t give you the right to walk in and out of my office without asking first.”

You didn’t look up since you were too grumpy and stressed from the workload. Yoon-Ah was unfazed, calmly setting down the drafts on one side of your desk before placing the tea next to your hand.

“You’ll thank me when you drink it, sajang-nim.”

Still, you reached for your pen and Yoon-Ah didn’t leave. She stayed on one side of the desk with one hand resting on the edge, the other on her hip.

“Didn’t you hear what I say, sajang-nim?”

“Busy, secretary Seol.”

You could feel Yoon-Ah’s annoyed look whenever you ignored her advice on taking a break or having something to eat, burning on you. Quickly, she walked around the desk and came to your side. You were looking through another design when her fingers slipped into your hair, ruffling the top with teasing strokes.

“What are you doing?”

Her other hand slid down to the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Relax, sajang-nim. Didn’t I tell you I don’t want my boss to be so exhausted?” Yoon-Ah then pushed your head gently toward her body.

“I would hate to go on dates with a certain stubborn CEO who never listens to me~” Yoon-Ah murmured, voice dripping with sweetness. You let out a low laugh to cover the way your heart malfunctioned.

“You’re pushing it, secretary Seol.”

Yoon-Ah then traced an S line along the back of your neck. How were you supposed to focus on anything now?

“Am I?” she asked innocently. “Or am I just… I don’t know, reminding the man I’m interested in to take better care of himself?”

So this is how you want to play. Okay~

You chuckled under your breath and dropped the pen, slowly leaning back in your chair to look up at her.

“Secretary Seol, did you lock the door when you came in?”

“Of course I did, sajang-nim. Who do you think I am?”

Seol Yoon-Ah looked so smug right now. You instantly turned your chair to catch her wrist and pulled her down until she landed sideways in your lap. Yoon-Ah let out a sharp gasp. “Sajang-nim!” she braced a hand on your shoulder with the other pinning on your chest. You smiled slowly, letting your palm settle on her thigh.

“Relax. I’m just giving you what you’ve been daydreaming about, secretary Seol.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me.” you clicked your tounge. “Those things you have bookmarked on your Naver Webtoon. Didn’t I tell you not to log into those things at work since people are nosy?”

“Y- You saw that?” pink instantly bloomed on her cheeks.

“Mm.” You dragged your thumb from her thigh down to her knee. “Who would’ve thought Seol Yoon-Ah here would be so into those kinds of stories, right? CEO falling for his secretary? Realistic much?”

“That’s- no!” she instantly buried her face in her hands.

You laughed, leaning in to take in the sight of Yoon-Ah trying to hide. “What? Suddenly shy now when you’ve been driving me insane the past two days, secretary Seol?”

Yoon-Ah peeked at you through her fingers. “That’s different, sajang-nim.”

“How?” you asked, thumb still playing at her knee. “You got your boss wrapped around your fingers and now you can’t take it? I’m giving you the real experience by the way.”

You shifted in your chair and slid closer to the desk with Yoon-Ah still perched sideways.

“You’ve been teasing me nonstop, secretary Seol. So now you’re going to be useful.”

Yoon-Ah huffed. “Useful?”

You nodded toward the cup of coffee sitting patiently on the table.

“You know what to do.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, secretary Seol. You brought it in and made me stop working.” You leaned back in your chair with your arm tight around her waist so she couldn’t slip away. “Now finish the job. It’s that simple.”

Yoon-Ah stared at you with the cutest pout on her lips before reaching for the tea cup. She lifted it carefully and paused to blow across the surface until the steam faded. When she brought it to your mouth, she slipped her free hand under your jaw and tilted your head so it wouldn't spill a drop. Her fingers brushed your chin briefly as you drank. You swallowed as Yoon-Ah leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

“There.” her voice was warm. “You had tea dripping there, sajang-nim.”

You hummed satisfiedly. “And that’s how you clean it up?”

Yoon-Ah smiled as she moved her hands to your tie, tugging at it. “Mm~ Do you hear me complaining when you make a mess?”

“You’re getting better at this, secretary Seol. Wanna get married?”

Yoon-Ah gasped and smacked your shoulder. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, just enough to trigger a laugh from you.

“I’m joking, I’m joking.” you said back, still chuckling. “Seriously though, where is that tea from? It’s good.”

“Your mom sent some to the office, sajang-nim. She said it was some expensive herbal tea and told us to have it together.”

You exhaled. “Yeah, that sounds like my mom.”

Yoon-Ah leaned her head to rest against your shoulder, hands moving back to your tie. “Mm~ She doesn’t exactly hide the fact that she adores me, sajang-nim.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She and I talk all the time. We’ve been texting since what? Forever? And she’d been showering me with gifts ever since. Scarves, pastries, that expensive pair of leather gloves-”

‘Wait, my mom bought you those?”

“Mm hmm.” Yoon-Ah looked really pleased with herself, hands tightening and loosening your tie to test how far she could push you. Then, her eyes moved away as a flush crept up her cheeks. “She… also said something else.”

“What ‘something else’?”

Yoon-Ah pressed her lips together before looking back at you. “That… maybe I should get with you and, um-” her voice dropped. “Have kids together. Since you’re almost forty.”

“I’m only thirty three.” you laughed. You weren’t shocked by this anymore, your mother’d been pushing you to settle down for years anyway. Your attention now turned to how Yoon-Ah looked right. She sat on your lap, tugging on your tie like she was the boss, shy from her own confession.

“She says you’d make a good dad. And that… I was the only one patient enough to handle you.”

You moved one hand to pinch Yoon-Ah’s cheek, unable to stop the cuteness aggression going on inside your mind.

“And what do you think about that?”

The pink on her cheeks deepened despite the fact that her eyes’d already gone soft. She kept her fingers loosely hooked in your tie.

“We haven’t even gone on an official date yet, sajang-nim.” she said quietly.

Right…

The steadiness in Yoon-Ah’s voice made your heart ache. She wasn’t rejecting the idea, right? She just reminded you of the order of things and accidentally pulled your thoughts somewhere you hated going. You had too much going on right now - the company, the weight of every choice you had to make going forward. Thirty three wasn’t that old but it wasn’t twenty three anymore either. Time felt faster now and there were few mistakes you could afford to make.

I’m getting that old?

You must’ve let too much of it show on your face. Yoon-Ah’s expression saddened at that as she leaned in to press a warm kiss to your cheek. Her eyes held yours steadily when she pulled back.

“You’ll be fine, sajang-nim. I’ll be there for you.” Yoon-Ah sounded sure, like she was stating a fact.

“Even when I’m forty?”

“That-” Yoon-Ah hesitated.

“Uh huh?”

“I mean, I do prefer older guys but forty sounds…”

The pinch in your chest was instant. “Sounds?”

Yoon-Ah broke into a soft giggle, tugging at your tie to pull you closer.

“Sounds fine if it’s you. I wouldn’t mind it one bit, sajang-nim.”

You leaned in and kissed her. Yoon-Ah’s giggle vibrated against your lips as kept her close. Your hand was still on her hip as you broke the kiss.

“Want to have dinner with me and my mom at her place Friday night before our date on Saturday? My dad’s away for the week and she’s been feeling a bit lonely.”

Yoon-Ah’s eyes sparkled immediately though she tilted her head in suspicion.

“Hmm… are you inviting me as your secretary or as the woman who your mom already thinks is her future daughter-in-law, sajang-nim?”

“Does it matter? Either way, showing up together would make her ridiculously happy.”

Yoon-Ah pouted cutely. “Then I’ll come. Can’t have your mom feeling lonely, right? Especially when she already likes me more than you.”

You huffed out a laugh, squeezing her hips for the hundredth time already. “That’s probably true.”

“Alright, sajang-nim.” Yoon-Ah shifted in your lap but didn’t get off. “Enough playing around.” She leaned forward over your desk to pull the stack of documents she’d brought in earlier. She set them right in front of you while still comfortable in your lap. You sighed dramatically.

“So you make me rest and now you’re making me work again? It’s not even ten minutes yet, secretary Seol.”

“There will be a reward for each one you sign, sajang-nim.”

“What kind?”

“Sign and find out~”

You picked up your pen and sighed the first document, sliding it somewhere on the desk. Whatever. With no hesitation, Yoon-Ah leaned in and kissed your lips before professionally placing the next document in front of you.

Ooh~

“Very smart of you, secretary Seol.”

You signed again. This time Yoon-Ah tilted her head and kissed you just below your ear. You gripped the pen even tighter.

“That’s nice… but also distracting."

“That’s the point.” Yoon-Ah whispered, fixing your tie before setting the next page on the desk. You signed again and Yoon-Ah rewarded you with a kiss to the tip of your nose, giggling at how satisfied you looked.

“Where did you learn all this?” you smiled at her, pen still in hand.

“All those webtoons I read are really useful, sajang-nim. Purely educational.”

“Educational, huh?”

“Mm hmm.” Yoon-Ah tapped the next document with her finger, nodding you toward it. “They all say the best way to keep your CEO in line is positive reinforcement.”

“And what if I don’t sign, secretary Seol?” you teased.

“Then I guess you won’t find out what the last reward is.”

Thursday night, you were still in your suit from work, rotting on the living room couch. Your tie was loosened, jacket somewhere near the armrest. Dinner? Skipped. Shower? Ignored. You’d dropped Yoon-Ah off almost two hours ago and told yourself you would change and maybe eat something. But now you were here smashing buttons on the Switch with the TV playing something in the background. Yoon-Ah’d told you to try Animal Crossing out, so you did. And to be honest, it was fun. You weren’t sure how pulling weeds and catching cartoon fish felt this fun but you found yourself laughing under your breath every five minutes.

“This one’s silly, secretary Seol.” you mumbled to yourself.

Just as you thought that, your phone lit up with a notification on the coffee table and pulled your attention away from the gaming device.

[설비서] (Secretary Seol) sent you photos

just showered, missed me yet?

The selfies nearly had you dropping the phone. In one of them, Yoon-Ah had her tongue poking slightly out to the side, eyes somehow both dangerous and innocent at the same time.

[You]

looking drop dead gorgeous, secretary seol…

[설비서]

of course i do, sajang-nim. but you didn’t answer the question 😘

You giggled and ran your hand through your messy hair. Seol Yoon-Ah had been relentless these days. She was way too good at making you lose composure with the simplest things - driving you insane at the office and now sneaking into your downtime.

[You]

of course i missed you

dropped you off two minutes ago and i’m already losing my mind.

[설비서]

two minutes? sajang-nim, it’s been almost two hours, are you sure you’re not just bad at telling time without me?

You snorted.

[You]

yeah i typed wrong

guess that just proves i really need you around, secretary seol

[설비서]

ㅋㅋㅋㅋ

i really like it when you’re the one who admits it first, sajang-nim.

Yoon-Ah really had you wrapped around her finger and she knew it. She didn’t need to here to know you’d been smiling at your phone like a completely down bad idiot.

[설비서] sent you a photo

This time, Yoon-Ah pouted. Her eyes were round and bright as she curled her hand into a little fist. Cutest kitten you’d ever seen.

[설비서]

nyang~ sajang-nim 🐱

“Unbelievable…”

[You]

i don’t remember seeing ‘making your boss lose his mind’ in your cv, secretary seol?

[설비서]

then you clearly didn’t read it all, sajang-nim

Friday afternoon finally came. You chose to cut the workday short. The endless stack of reports and meetings could wait, tonight mattered more. You’d driven Yoon-Ah home earlier than usual so she could get ready for dinner at your mother’s place. Of course, being the professional secretary she was, Yoon-Ah’d protested the whole way to her home in the passenger seat.

“People will talk, sajang-nim. If they see you dropping me off so early, it’ll create gossip.”

“They already talk behind our back way before all of this, secretary Seol. I think they like the idea of us being together. And if they’ve got something to say, they can take it up with me. I’m the boss anyway.”

Yoon-Ah huffed at your answer, crossing her arms.

“You’re really stubborn sometimes, sajang-nim.” Still, her cheeks were pink.

Now, almost two hours later, you parked the car in the same spot, waiting to pick her up. The sun had already dipped and Seoul was now in its warm, hazy K-drama glow. You were waiting and whistling to yourself outside the car to pass the time. You didn’t tell Yoon-Ah but you had secretly been waiting for this day all week.

Yoon-Ah then stepped out of the lobby door in a long, light brown jacket with the hem of a white shirt dress peeking out. Even the way the white sleeves poked past the jacket sleeves made her look impossibly cute. She chose to keep it simple but stylish with white sneakers and socks, a white bag hanging off her arm. The wind carried through her hair, scattering it gently across her cheeks.

I miss this so much…

The second Yoon-Ah’s eyes spotted you, she broke into a gentle smile and started running toward you. Except Seol Yoon-Ah wasn’t the athletic type and the way her steps fumbled just a little had you chuckling before she even got to you.

“Did you wait long, sajang-nim?” she asked between small breaths.

You shook your head and pulled her close to kiss her, not wasting a second. Yoon-Ah was startled at first before melting into it. She finally pulled back with wild eyes, hands hitting your chest with minimal strength.

“Sajang-nim! We’re outside!” she hissed and glanced around nervously, cheeks hot. There weren’t that many people in sight anyway.

“What?” you smirked. “Afraid of gossip?”

Yoon-Ah pouted, her shy smile slowly breaking through. “That’s not the point…”

A little while later, you were both in the car, music playing as you drove toward your parents’ neighborhood. You’d stopped by a premium market on the way - Yoon-Ah’s idea.

“I can’t just show up empty handed, sajang-nim.”

So you two wandered around the market together until she carefully picked out a set of imported teas, a box of high end fruits she knew your mother loved and some expensive health supplements. Now, all of them sat in an elegant looking bag in the back seat - proof of how much thought she’d put into it.

Now, Yoon-Ah was sitting quietly beside you in the car, her fingers fidgeting awkwardly in her lap. The way her foot tapped on the car floor was too obvious to ignore. Meanwhile, you couldn’t stop smiling at the wheel. Seeing Yoon-Ah all dressed up and carrying gifts for you mother made something in your heart tingle in the best way possible.

“You’re nervous, secretary Seol.” you broke the silence.

“What if your mother actually hates me, sajang-nim?”

You burst into laughter, making Yoon-Ah whip her head toward you with an embarrassed expression.

“C’mon. Hate you? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year.” you said as you turned the car around the corner. “My mother would kill me if she knew how much work I give you, secretary Seol. You really think she would turn on you now?”

“Still, sajang-nim… I’m scared. What if?” her cheeks burned hotter. You glanced at her briefly and rested your hand on her thigh before squeezing gently.

“It’ll be okay. Trust me. I’m starting to wonder what you’d be like if my dad wasn’t away. You’d probably be even more nervous, right?”

“Maybe?” Yoon-Ah looked outside the window with a tiny smile. You then tried to pull your hand back but she didn’t allow it, threading her fingers through yours firmly and didn’t let go the rest of the drive. Even when you got to Cheongdam-dong, her grip still hadn’t loosened. The quiet streets welcomed the both of you to the house you’d bought your parents a few years ago. Yoon-Ah’s eyes lingered on the house as she gasped.

“It’s beautiful, sajang-nim.”

You smiled, squeezing her hand once more to assure her that everything would be just fine.

“Wait until you see inside. My mother’s probably been cooking all day.”

Pulling up outside the house, you stopped the engine and walked out, circling the car then opened the passenger door for Yoon-Ah. She stepped out carefully, the cool air brushing her warm cheeks. Yoon-Ah leaned in and quickly pressed a small kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you, sajang-nim.” she shyly whispered. Instead of waiting for you, Yoon-Ah moved to the back seat to open the door and got the gift bag herself. You frowned at that, your instinct was to carry them for her after all. Before you could do anything, Yoon-Ah straightened up with the handles in hand, standing proud, breath a little uneven and nervous. You chuckled and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her gently to your side.

“Relax, secretary Seol. It’ll be fine.”

The two of you walked up the stone path together, Yoon-Ah’s steps were smaller than usual. You pressed the bell with your free hand and casually patted her hips a few times. “Oh, by the way…” you leaned in to whisper. “I didn’t tell my mom you were coming.”

Her head snapped up at you, panic flashing across her face.

“Sajang-nim!”

The door quickly swung open like your mother’d been waiting there all day. Maybe she was. Your mother appeared frozen at the sight of her son with his arm wrapped around her favorite daughter-in-law candidate’s hips. Her entire face lit up instantly, hands flying to cover her mouth in great delight.

“Oh my goodness! You brought Yoon-Ah?!”

Yoon-Ah quickly bowed, clutching the gift bag in both hands. “Hello, eomeo-nim. It’s been a long time.”

Your mom didn’t waste a second, she pulled Yoon-Ah right into a hug and ignored the bag completely.

“Aigoo… look at you, Yoon-Ah ah. So pretty, even prettier than last time! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Then your mom remembered why and leaned back to hit you on the arm.

Ouch

“Eomma!”

“You idiot! How could you not bring Yoon-Ah here sooner? And not a single word in advance? You nearly gave me a heart attack, Changmin-ah!”

You grinned and rubbed your arm where she’d hit you. “I thought you’d like the surprise…”

“Like?!” your mother threatened you with a hand in the air, still hugging Yoon-Ah like she was afraid the beautiful woman would vanish. She then turned and dragged Yoon-Ah carefully into the house, leaving you standing in the doorway. You just followed them, not surprised in the slightest.

I’m your own son, you know.

In the living room, Yoon-Ah finally found a chance to offer the gift bags she’d carried. She held them out with both hands, bowing slightly and said.

“Eomeo-nim. These are for you. I thought you might enjoy them.”

Your mother stared at the gift bag, eyes already wet. When she took it, her lips trembled before she broke down completely, clutching Yoon-Ah’s hands as tears started to well up.

I get why you’re emotional but… dramatic much, eomma?

“Oh, sweetie. You didn’t have to. Oh, my heart. I’ve been waiting for this moment for too long.” she said with a cracking voice. You stood there watching as your mother openly wept while Yoon-Ah panicked softly, hands now carefully patting your mother’s back. “Eomeo-nim, please don’t cry. It’s nothing, really. I’m just happy to be here.”

But then your mother sniffled and looked Yoon-Ah in the eyes.

“How long have you two been dating?”

Your heart dropped. You were unsure what her answer would be. Technically, the two of you weren’t even on your first official date yet - not until tomorrow. The truth was still messy and undefined to you. Yoon-Ah only smiled softly, too calm like she’d already prepared for this in advance.

“Only about a week, eomeo-nim. We’re still figuring things out.” she admitted sweetly. Your mother gasped and turned your way with fire in her eyes. “A week?! And you didn’t even tell me sooner, Changmin?”

I’m trying here, eomma.

Meanwhile, Yoon-Ah giggled shyly, squeezing your mom’s hand.

“Please don’t be too hard on him. Sajang-nim’s trying.”

“And you still make her call you like that?” your mother frowned at Yoon-Ah’s choice of words.

You rubbed your temple and groaned. “I told her it wasn’t necessary, eomma. Yoon-Ah insisted on calling me that and said she needed time.”

Your mother glanced between the two of you, expression giving way to fondness as she shook her head.

“Aigoo… my idiot of a son, hopeless as always. But you-” she turned back to Yoon-Ah, eyes soft. “You’re too polite for your own good, honey. Don’t let Changmin hide behind that title at home, alright?”

Yoon-Ah nodded earnestly with a shy smile. “Yes, eomeo-nim.”

Your mother beamed at her, clearly very satisfied before ordering you to go set the table and bring out the nicest dishes you could find in the kitchen. You didn’t need to told twice. “On my way, eomma.”

While you were banished to the kitchen, your mom wasted no time showering Yoon-Ah with praises like she was already her daughter-in-law. She held her hand warmly, complimented everything from her outfit to her thoughtfulness with the gift and then pulled out old photo albums to show her embarrassing pictures of you. She told story after story about your high school time - skipping classes, sneaking out at night, spending money on stupid things…

At first, Yoon-Ah laughed so hard she nearly fell down the couch seeing a completely different side of you. But underneath the laughter, she felt something in her chest - an unfamiliar warmth. Being welcomed into your family’s space made her cheeks burn with shy joy. Yoon-Ah wasn’t your secretary tonight but someone your mother cherished and someone who already had a place at the table. It left her flustered, giggling but secretly really, really happy. When you were about to finish setting everything up in the kitchen, your mother was dabbing her eyes, also from laughing too much at her own stories. Then casually, with that mother’s instinct in her, she asked.

“So tell me, Yoon-Ah. How does Changmin treat you these days?”

Yoon-Ah looked briefly at you in the kitchen before turning back to your mother, fingers toying with her shirt sleeves.

“He… uh, tries, eomeo-nim.” she smiled.

“Tries?”

“Yes.” Yoon-Ah said, warmth in her voice. “He overworks himself a lot these days but he’s been making an effort to take care of me too. And he makes me laugh a lot and even drives me home.”

That answer seemed to please your mother immensely. She leaned in closer.

“That’s good, sweetie. My son has always been terrible at showing his feelings but if he’s doing that for you then he must really mean it.”

Yoon-Ah nodded.

“Still, promise me one thing, Yoon-Ah ah…” your mother told Yoon-Ah gently. “Don’t let him slack off. You deserve to be treated well, always.”

Yoon-Ah nodded again, bashfully. But the happiness in her chest was undeniable. “I promise, eomeo-nim.”

Soon after, everyone was gathered at the dining table. Yoon-Ah was, of course, by your side. Your mother’s best dishes were neatly set on the table, her energy bright and warm. But more than the food, it was the way she kept savoring the sight of you and Yoon-Ah. You didn’t even notice since you were too busy making sure Yoon-Ah’s bowl was never empty. You grabbed the side dishes you knew she liked, placed a piece of fish in her bowl without asking… Your mother noticed everything. Each quiet gesture of you to Yoon-Ah was another point added to her invisible scorecard, another reason for the way her smile softened at Yoon-Ah throughout the meal.

“Yah, why don’t you grab any veggies for her?” your mother pointed her chopsticks at you suddenly. You barely looked up as you poured Yoon-Ah some water. “She doesn’t like them, eomma.”

Yoon-Ah nudged you with her knee and ducked her head in embarrassment. “Sajang-nim!” she whispered.

Your mother nodded. “Aigoo, that’s okay then. But still-” her voice turned serious, playfully. “You should still eat a little. Greens are always good for your health, Yoon-Ah ah… And you know, good for babies too.”

“Alright, eomma. That’s too far now.” you cut in quickly. Your mother chuckled, lifting her hand to pat Yoon-Ah’s.

“Okay, okay. I’m only teasing. Sorry, dear. I know it’s your first dinner here. I won’t push you, just relax and enjoy yourself, okay?”

Yoon-Ah let out a shy little laugh, her shoulders easing a little. “Thank you, eomeo-nim.”

After the meal, your mother wasn’t ready to let either of you go just yet. She kept the conversation flowing in the living room for another hour. You didn’t mind it at all, seeing Yoon-Ah and your mother bonding made time pass much easier. When you finally stood to leave, your mother hugged Yoon-Ah tightly at the door before turning to you.

“Take care of her well, Changmin-ah. Don’t make me yell at you later.”

You hummed easily, hand already steady on Yoon-Ah’s back as you guided her out the door. The night air in Cheongdam-dong was way cooler compared to the warmth you’d just left behind in the house. Once you were safely a step away from the door, you tugged Yoon-Ah close into your arms. She blinked at the sudden embrace.

“We’ve been dating for a week and I didn’t know?” you teased. “I thought tomorrow was supposed to be our first date, secretary Seol?”

Her cheeks burned instantly, that shy smile began to bloom on her lips. “I was just… making it easier for you, sajang-nim. What was I supposed to say? ‘Eomeo-nim, we’re not really official yet’? To your mother?”

You grinned. “So you decided for both of us?”

She hit your chest lightly, pouting.

“Don’t act like you mind. You’ve been treating me like we’ve been dating for weeks now, sajang-nim.”

“Fair.” you admitted easily. “Then if we’re already official… then I think I’m owed something, don’t you?”

You didn’t give Yoon-Ah time to answer and closed the space, pressing your mouth to hers. Yoon-Ah let out a small gasp, hands fisting in your jacket as she slowly adjusted to it. The whole of Cheongdam-dong shrank until it was just the two of you right outside your parents’ door, stealing kisses like reckless teena-

“Changmin-ah. Oh!”

You stopped, lips still brushing Yoon-Ah’s as both your heads whipped around. There your mother was in the doorway, holding a neatly wrapped bag in one hand and Yoon-Ah’s forgotten white bag in the other. She looked both shocked and weirdly, pleased.

“Yoon-Ah, sweetheart, you forgot this…” she said in a delighted tone, catching her son kissing her dream daughter-in-law with her own eyes. Yoon-Ah buried her face into your chest, mortified while you groaned, cheeks flushed.

“Eomma…”

Your mother, of course, was all smiles as she held the bags out, singing.

“What? I didn’t see anything~” her eyes twinkled. “I just came to give my son’s girlfriend the gift I bought her when I travelled to Japan last month and her bag she forgot. That’s all.”

Yoon-Ah peeked out from your chest, accepting the bags from your mother while bowing as politely as she could in your arms. “Thank you, eomeo-nim.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Your mother leaned in, whispering in an intentionally loud voice for you to hear as well. “Changmin doesn’t get this bold at home, ever. You must be very special.”

“Eomma!” you sighed, which only made your mother laugh harder.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop it. This old woman doesn’t get much entertainment at home. Drive safe, okay? Take good care of Yoon-Ah, Changminie.”

Then she waved cheerfully and shut the door, leaving you standing there with an embarrassed Yoon-Ah in your arms.

“That’s your fault, sajang-nim!” she hissed. You tried to play the cool card even though your ears burned like crazy. “What? You kissed me back too.”

“Hpmh!”

Once the two of you were both inside the car, Yoon-Ah put on her playlists like usual. During the ride, you and her chatted about random things, trading jokes, Yoon-Ah singing along to songs while you just quietly enjoy her angelic voice. It truly felt nice in the car, domestic even. But the closer you got to her neighborhood, the heavier the thought in your chest became. Finally, you decided to break the silence and ask the question of the night.

“So Yoon-Ah, do you want to stay at my place tonight?” you asked, hoping you’d sounded casual.

“I don’t know, sajang-nim. Do I?” her eyes glinting in the dim light of the car.

Not with this again.

You groaned, knowing Yoon-Ah was fully aware of her effect on you and what she was doing. Sure, she was shy on the outside but she was testing you on the inside. Her lashes lowered as she looked at you sideways, a dangerous pout forming like she was daring you to push further.

“Secretary Seol.” you warned gently, tapping the wheel with your fingers.

“Mm? I’m all ears, sajang-nim.” she hummed sweetly. You clenched your jaw, eyes fixed on the road.

“Don’t play games with me right now. I’m being serious.”

“I can tell~ That’s why I’m asking… Do you really want me there tonight?”

You let out a breath, jaw working again as you breathed slowly.

No point in hiding it anyway. Not with you.

“Yes…” you admitted, cheeks slightly warm. “I do want you at my house tonight, secretary Seol. With me.”

Yoon-Ah smiled satisfactorily, both shy and victorious at once. She leaned back in her seat and toyed with your mother’s gift bag, clearly very pleased with herself. “I knew it. You can’t lie to me now, sajang-nim.”

“It’s just… I haven’t done this in a while. That’s all.” you exhaled, looking at Yoon-Ah side profile in the dim car light. Her fingers stopped playing with the bag, turning toward you slowly.

“Do what? Take girls to your house?”

Uh oh…

You cleared your throat, chuckling awkwardly. “It’s nothing, Yoon-Ah ah.”

Her eyebrows arched as she tilted her head, voice sharp. “That doesn’t sound like nothing to me, sajang-nim.”

“I… uh-” you stalled and fumbled for words.

“You?”

“It was like three or four years ago. My ex lived there with me for a while. Umm, like way before I hired you.”

“Oh.” her lips pursed as she sank a little into her seat. She crossed her arms, voice deceptively calm as she added. “So I’m not the first.”

You glanced at Yoon-Ah and tried to read her expression. “I’m sorry. It’s just… we thought about marriage but it didn’t work out and I didn’t date anyone. After that, not at all. I swear.”

That made Yoon-Ah blinked and turned to you. The pout on her lips finally softened. She’d known you’d dated before, of course. A man your status and age clearly didn’t go untouched after all. But this? Living together, almost marrying… That explained so much about how you kept your dating life a secret, even to Yoon-Ah until now. No wonder you’d been so careful.

The silence settled over her quietly. She felt sorry for teasing and sulking at you. Her heart now was heavy with the weight of your confession. You kept your eyes on the road and braced for more questions when all of a sudden, Yoon-Ah leaned over and kissed you on the cheek.

“Sorry, oppa.” she murmured shyly.

Your lips didn’t take long to turn into the stupidest grin in years at only the sound of that one magical word - oppa. You then cleared your throat, trying to pull yourself back into cool and calm territory.

“Still wanna spend the night at my house?” It didn’t work, your voice sounded softer than usual. Yoon-Ah shy expression knocked the air out of your lungs as she nodded.

“I do. But take me home first. I need to pack some things. Clothes, skincare… and things for our date tomorrow.”

The way she said our date lit something up in you. This feeling was somehow better than you’d ever expected.

“Sure.”

You drove Yoon-Ah back to her place, waited while she packed and carried out her overnight bag along with the Switch and Steam Deck you’d spoiled her with two months ago, right before the incident. Yoon-Ah clutched them close as you loaded everything into the car. On the way to your place, Yoon-Ah frowned when you suddenly pulled into a convenience store near your place. Even the convenience stores here looked different - sleek, more boutique than shop. Along the wide streets were high end cars and what looked like a bunch of other designer storefronts.

“What are we doing here?” she asked while confused.

You just calmly patter her back. “Uh, get whatever you want. Snacks, drinks… My fridge is basically empty.”

“Really? Anything I want?”

“Mm~ Go wild, baby.” you hummed, patting her back again.

She gave you a playful look before heading down the aisle on her own, the white shirt dress swaying with each step. You leaned against a nearby shelf, watching as Yoon-Ah carefully scanned each section. She started with the drinks. Then she added a couple different chips and even slipped a Pocky box under her arm.

When she finally turned back toward you, she saw it. You were at the counter with a single item in your hand - a small, black box that the cashier lifted and scanned with a loud beep. Yoon-Ah stopped mid-walk and turned her eyes away instantly. She forced herself to look at anything else, pretending she hadn’t seen you purchasing a box of condoms. You hummed and slipped the small box into your jacket, unaware of Yoon-Ah seeing everything and quietly settled the payment. Yoon-Ah then came to you, arms full of her haul and cheeks weirdly pink.

“All good?”

“Yeah. What did you buy, oppa?”

You smiled, adjusting your jacket like nothing had happened. “Nothing much. Just something we might need later.”

Yoon-Ah was now standing behind you quietly. Her bag was on your back while you carried the groceries in one hand. You unlocked the door to your Cheongdam-dong penthouse with your fingerprint, pushed the door open and stepped aside, nodding for her to go in first.

“After you.”

Yoon-Ah then stepped in cautiously, taking off her sneakers before stepping on the polished floor. She gasped audibly, the first thing she saw was the living room’s panoramic glass wall, showing off an endless sweep of the Han river under the Seoul night sky. Her eyes then followed the high ceilings upward and caught on the staircase leading to the second level.

“Oh my…” Yoon-Ah whispered, spinning around to take it all in. “Oppa! This is…”

You slipped off your shoes and set the bags down on the counter with a soft thud. Yoon-Ah spinning slowly in awe, eyes glowing pulled a smile out of you without you even noticing.

“Not bad, huh?”

Yoon-Ah was still stunned when she turned to you. “Not bad? This looks like something out of a drama, oppa. How do you even… I don’t even know where to look at first.” She shook her head with a disbelieving laugh.

“Mm hmm, you’ll get used to it.” you replied casually.

Yoon-Ah wandered closer to the glass, fingertips grazing the cool surface as she looked at the river. “So this is how people with money live…” she murmured to herself. You walked up slowly with her bag still on your back and hugged her from behind.

“Thoughts, secretary Seol?” you mumbled on her neck, making Yoon-Ah shiver. She let out a tiny laugh, tilting her head slightly away but leaning back into your chest at the same time. “Mm~ If I’d known you lived like this, oppa. I would’ve seduced you sooner.”

You kissed her on the neck, drawing a dangerous gasp from her while tightening your arm around her waist. “So that was the plan all along? Like those webtoons you read?”

“Yah.” Yoon-Ah twisted her head to look up at you, cheeks glowing. “D- Don’t bring that up now!”

You only grinned, eyes sparkling with something dark. “Why not? I’ve taken a look at a few of those stories you read, you know. Really useful I gotta say…”

Her whole face went crimson. “Stop!” Yoon-Ah then pushed at your arm and wriggle free from your hold before you could trap her again. She spun on her heel and yanked her bag off your back with both hands, holding it tight against her chest. “I’m showering now!” she blurted, eyes avoiding yours completely as she walked away. You watched her tall frame retreat with the happiest smile you could pull off.

“Use any bathrooms you want, Yoon-Ah ah! I got like three or four!”

At the edge of the corridor, Yoon-Ah turned away with her cheeks still burning. “D- Don’t look through my Naver webtoon again, oppa! I’m serious!” she warned then disappeared.

“Yes, general Seol.” you called after her.

You ended up taking a bath in the guest bathroom, finishing way before she did. The hot water did nothing to wash away the smile on your face whenever you think about finally having Yoon-Ah at your place. After toweling off, you put on a simple shirt and shorts, walking back into the living room. You dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, grabbing your Switch from the table and lazily began flipping through the game menu. It didn’t take long before you were fishing in Animal Crossing, again.

Can't believe I'm kinda into this.

The sound of Yoon-Ah’s footsteps broke through the quiet, making you look up.

Her hair was tied loosely at the back, a few strands falling perfectly around your glasses. The fit white tank top hugged her frame, showing every curve of her hourglass body, paired with black shorts that revealed long, soft thighs. She looked shy, hands waving awkwardly at her sides.

“Hi.”

“You look- uh, hot, baby.” you stammered. You hadn’t really seen Yoon-Ah in her natural habitat before this and it was somehow much better than you expected.

“Can I wear your glasses, oppa? I found them in your bedroom.” she tugged at the glasses, lips tugging into a shy smile.

You swallowed. “Yeah, I mean… do whatever you want in this house. I don’t care. Those glasses have zero prescription anyway.”

Her eyes sparkled behind the frames. “Really? Then why do you even have them?”

“Fashion? Parties? I was about to have them fitted with my prescription but I guess I forgot.”

Yoon-Ah hummed before walking over and plopping herself down right next to you on the couch. Her shoulder brushed yours as she folded her legs up.

“Then... Can I wear these at the office, oppa?”

“At the office?”

“Mm hmm.” Yoon-Ah adjusted the frames on her nose, acting serious. “Imagine your secretary at her desk, typing with these on. Wouldn’t I look even more like a proper secretary?”

You leaned back to roam all over Yoon-Ah before meeting her eyes again. “No. You’d look way too good in them. And I’d never get any work done.”

Yoon-Ah giggled, leaning over to nudge your shoulder with hers. “That’s not a very professional answer, sajang-nim.”

“Oh?” you smirked. “Are you trying out role playing right now? I haven’t really tried that before but I think I’m kinda into it, Yoon-Ah ah.”

Her cheeks then flared instantly. “N- No! Oppa, don’t just say weird things just like that!” she stood abruptly, tugging at her shorts nervously before trying to escape the heat of the moment. “I’m goin-”

You caught her wrist before she could walk away and pull her back down. Yoon-Ah stumbled and fell into the curve of your arm as you tugged her against your chest. She squirmed slightly as you buried your nose against the side of her neck, inhaling softly. The fresh scent of her bodywash filled your senses. It was too addicting.

“Oppa…” her voice trembled. You laid back on the couch, bringing Yoon-Ah down with you so she ended up lying on your chest. You held Yoon-Ah tightly there, face still pressed to her neck.

“Stay here. You smell too good to let go.”

Ten minutes later, the atmosphere had turned into something different. Yoon-Ah’d somehow migrated sideways across your laps, legs stretched along the couch cushions while she leaned into you. Her hair tickled your arm as she pouted them at her Steam Deck, pressing the buttons with growing frustrations.

“It’s been acting up lately, oppa.” she muttered, frustrated. You smirked, taking the device out of her hands with one arm while keeping your other wrapped securely around her waist.

“Give me that. You’ll break it if you keep smashing the buttons like that.”

“I wasn’t smashing.” Yoon-Ah huffed, cheeks puffing up as she leaned closer to watch you.

“Mm hmm, sure.” you thumbed through the menus calmly. “You have this and you only play Minecraft, Valorant and… what’s this?”

Yoon-Ah pouted at you. “What’s wrong with that? They’re fun.”

“Nothing. I’m just saying, baby. Try out other games every once in a while.”

She stayed quiet, watching closely as your thumbs moved with calm precision.

“I guess your storage is clogged with junk updates and other stuff.”

Yoon-Ah leaned closer until her glasses bumped your jaw, nodding.

“I think I forgot to delete those.”

You handed the Deck back to her. “There. Try it again.”

Her eyes lit up when the screen loaded smoothly, the game running without lag this time. “Oh! It works!” Yoon-Ah turned to you excitedly and kissed you on the lips. “Thank you~”

You let out a low chuckle and watched her refocus on the game in your lap. Her eyebrows furrowed adorably as she tapped at the buttons, glasses sliding a little down her nose. Without much thinking, your hand around her waist drifted upward. Slowly, you slipped it beneath the hem of her tank top, finger tracing the skin under her bra. Yoon-Ah jolted lightly as she tried to keep her eyes on the device.

“Oppa.” she whispered. You hummed, keeping your touch casual. “Keep playing, Yoon-Ah. Don’t mind me.”

Her fingers hesitated and slipped on the joysticks, causing her to make a mistake. Yoon-Ah muttered something about you under her breath. You then shifted so that your other arm rested heavier on her thighs, brushing slowly up and down in a way that wasn’t helping with her concentration at all.

“Yah…” Yoon-Ah said, finally looking at you. Her cheeks were burning through her now new glasses. “You’re distracting me.”

“Am I?” you played dumb. “Maybe you’re just bad at video games, secretary Seol.”

“You’re onl-”

No need for words anymore. Your nose instantly brushed hers as you captured her lips. The kiss was urgent, messy and hungry. Yoon-Ah gasped into it, hand dropping the Deck and holding tight around the back of your neck. She tilted her head and opened her lips wider to let you in. The soft shock of her tongue meeting yours cued a groan straight out of your chest. Yoon-Ah pushed back at you as her body arched into yours.

Her glasses slipped crooked on her nose but she didn’t care anymore, not with the way you held her jaw and guided her deeper into the kiss. When you finally pulled away for a bit of air, both of you were breathing hard with your foreheads pressed together. Your lips were just a fraction away from each other, still wanting more.

After over three years, you and Seol Yoon-Ah were about to step into new territory.

“Wanna move to the bedroom?” you rasped. Yoon-Ah’s cheeks were hot, lips swollen from the makeout.

“Yes.”

The word barely left her mouth before you scooped her up into your arms. Yoon-Ah squealed and clung onto you tighter. Her laughter sounded like heaven to your ears, slowly breaking into another heated kiss as you carried her down the hall. Every step was a struggle for you not to pin her against the wall and just did everything there.

Yoon-Ah somehow had gotten much braver - tongue now dancing with yours, hands yanking your hair slightly to make you groan into the kiss. You quickly pushed into the bedroom, the moonlight and city scenery around the Han river shone across the sheets. You gently lowered Yoon-Ah onto the bed, not giving her time to settle in before your mouth found hers again. Yoon-Ah arched up and pulled you close. She took the glasses completely off this time and threw it somewhere on the mattress, or was it the floor? Either way, who even cared at this point? Yoon-Ah kissed you back with even a bigger fire than the one you gave her. Her tongue now daring yours until you caught it, deepening the kiss until she moaned into your mouth. You broke the kiss and pulled your shirt over head, tossing it aside.

Out of nowhere, Yoon-Ah blinked at you and burst into a fit of light giggles, covering her mouth with her hands.

“What’s so funny?”

She was almost failing to prevent a laugh. “You kinda… have a belly, oppa.”

Oh, come on.

You let out a disbelieving breath, looking down at your own abs before staring back at her. “What? It’s not even big?”

Yoon-Ah couldn’t stop giggling. Then she poked at your belly and even gave it a little squeeze. Her touch made it clear that it was all affection, no mean intentions.

“Are you serious right now, Yoon-Ah?” you didn’t want to admit it but yeah, you were kind of offended.

“You looked better on your old Instagram photos, oppa.” Yoon-Ah calmed down as she saw your expression. “It’s not even bad. You just gained a bit of weight… that’s all. I know work’s been tough on you lately.”

You clicked your tongue and sat up straight to pull away from Yoon-Ah’s touch and swung your legs off the bed.

“Forget it, Yoon-Ah ah. I’m going. Not even horny anymore.”

I lied.

Yoon-Ah’s were wide open. She thought she’d pushed you too far. In reality, you weren’t mad. Okay, you were just a tad bit but you were smart enough to use it as an excuse. You walked out of the bedroom shirtless and slammed the door hard on purpose, leaving Yoon-Ah on the bed gnawing at her lip.

“Oppa.”

She whispered to the empty room, guilt pressing down heavier with every second. Yoon-Ah then hugged one of your pillows to her chest, burying her face into it and blamed herself for making you feel insecure. Should she run after you? Should she give you space?

Outside, in the kitchen, you were pulling out the small box you’d bought earlier from you jacket. You sly devil. You knew you were too smart sometimes. Then you decided to let Yoon-Ah stew for a bit longer, she would never see this coming. A few minutes later, you were sipping a glass of cold water with your eyes looking out to the Han river. Sure enough, her footsteps took your attention as she walked into the kitchen.

“Oppa…”

Turning back right away would make it too boring. Instead, you set the glass down on the counter with the calmest motion you could make, shoulders flexing. Yoon-Ah was a few steps away, hesitant as she wasn’t sure what to do next.

“What is it, secretary Seol?” you said, not looking at her. Her hands were awkwardly playing with her tank top. “Are you mad at me, oppa?”

“What do you think?” you tried not to let out any suspicious sound. Yoon-Ah was taking the bait exactly as you wanted. She shifted on her feet.

“I think I messed up… I’m sorry.”

You finally turned your head after successfully preventing a laugh, meeting her deer-like eyes. The way Yoon-Ah looked right now - all guilty and apologetic - made you feel weak in knees. It took you a lot of self control not to rush and hug her immediately.

“Messed up? All because of one little comment?”

Yoon-Ah nodded, clutching her tank top now. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, oppa. I just- I talk weird when I get really comfortable with someone. But I find you hot, oppa. I’m not even joking right now.”

A whole ten seconds passed by in silence, awkward to Yoon-Ah, funny to you.

“Maybe you just don’t realize how sharp your words can be.” you spoke up at last. “Or maybe I’m just fat and that’s it.” Yoon-Ah’s face crumpled as she took a few steps forward. You shot her a glare and she stopped before even reaching you, lips trembling.

“Please tell me what I can do, oppa. I’m sorry. I’ll make up to you…”

“I know something you can do to make it up.”

Sunlight crept into the bedroom, waking you up slowly. There was no alarm or notification today - the beauty of weekends. You let out a slow breath, realizing that meant no work today. Turning to the side, you smiled at Yoon-Ah’s bare body clinging to yours under the sheets. Her arm were around your waist, refusing to let you go since last night. Her cheek was pressed against your chest, messy strands falling over her face.

You’re unfairly gorgeous.

Then you notice her hand resting on your so-called “belly” she’d called out last night. The memory made you huff out a soft laugh. It wasn’t that bad, right? Sure, you hadn’t worked out in a while due to work and life but still, it wasn’t like you’d let yourself go. Smiling, you gently brushed your fingers through her hair.

“You’re crazy, Yoon-Ah.”

The sound made Yoon-Ah stir in her sleep. She mumbled something incoherent against your chest, shifting before pulling you closer, arms squeezing tighter. She nuzzled deeper into your chest, breath so warm it made your skin raise goosebumps.

“You don’t let go even in your sleep, huh?”

Yoon-Ah hummed in response.

“So how was last night? Bad? Okay? Good?”

Her lashes fluttered as she slowly opened her eyes. “Good…” her voice raspy from sleep. Then she cracked the sweetest smile. “Much better than I expected, oppa.”

“Not bad for a guy with a belly?”

Yoon-Ah immediately whined, arms squeezing you tighter. “Ahhh~ Oppa. Don’t say that. I’m sorry.” she pressed even closer, using her clinginess to erase her mistake. “You’re perfect, oppa. Don’t be mad at me.”

You laughed and brushed your hand along her back. “I don’t know, Yoon-Ah ah. I get fatter the more I age. Might just keep getting worse.”

Yoon-Ah peeked up at you and shook her head. “No, you just gained a bit of weight, that’s all.” she shyly grinned. “Actually, you seemed really healthy last night when you... you know.”

You hummed, very satisfied with yourself. Yoon-Ah then slid her hand lower, resting on the sheets near your crotch. She bit her lip and looked down at the very obvious morning situation going on there, brushing her thigh. Her face went pink as she whispered. “And you’re still healthy right now, oppa.”

You grinned. “See? Even with a belly, nothing’s slowing me down.”

Yoon-Ah looked at you, eyes soft and sparkling with affection.

“I mean, you were pretty rough… but I liked it.”

“Didn’t you were that kinky, secretary Seol. Calling me sajang-nim and asking m-”

Yoon-Ah suddenly bit your chest. It was surprisingly hard and made you jolt. Meanwhile, her other hand cheekily twisted your nipple. “Yah! You little shit!” you hissed, laughing and wincing at the same time. Yoon-Ah stared up at you, satisfied through the blush staining on her cheeks. Her teeth were still grazing on your chest as she slurred out her next words, voice low.

“What did you call me?” her warm breath fanned warmly on your skin.

“Nothing, general Seol.”

“Call me that a-”

You cut her off, suddenly rolling and flipping her onto her back swiftly. Yoon-Ah let out a surprised squeak as you pinned her wrists above her head, leaning over her with a wicked smile.

“Think you can bite and abuse your boss’ nipple like that and just get away with it?” you murmured, weight holding her down. She wriggled under you and giggled breathlessly.

“No! That’s not fair!”

“Fair? You looking this hot in the morning is not fair."

With zero hesitation, you dipped and nipped at her neck, teeth grazing until a soft moan escaped her throat. Yoon-Ah arched into you as the moans kept slipping past her lips. Her hands twisted in your grip until she managed to free one and gripped your head back.

“Agh-”

“Oppa~” she whined, eyes scolding you. “Your… is poking me.”

“My what?” you played the dumb card and leaned back down to kiss on her collarbone.

Yoon-Ah’s cheeks puffed up in frustration. “Don’t act dumb! You know exactly what I mean.” She pinched your hair firmer this time. “I’m still tired from last night and you still owe me a proper date today. If you don’t behave, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Her glare showed that she wasn’t joking around anymore. Seol Yoon-Ah meant business. You groaned dramatically and rolled off the bed.

“Fine, bossy little thing.”

You got up completely naked, stretching your arms with a smirk. Yoon-Ah smiled softly, yanking the blanket over herself to hide everything but her face. You pulled on a pair of boxers and then shorts, throwing a grin back at her.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up! Go make breakfast before I change my mind, you pervert.”

You headed toward the door but stopped midway, turning back with a spark in your eyes. You walked back to the bedside and leaned down.

“Yah, can you wear nothing but my dress shirt?”

Her eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. “What are you up to now, oppa?”

“Because I think you’d look ridiculous hot in it.” you admitted. “Swimming in my shirt, sleeves hanging over your hands, those legs sticking out… Oh my god, I’m going crazy just thinking about it. People do it all the time in movies, Yoon-Ah ah.”

Yoon-Ah laughed. “You’re so needy, oppa.”

“Come on, Yoon-Ah. Just this one time.”

She pretended to think. “Uh, depends on how well you listen to me?”

“Please? Pretty please?” you clasped your hand in desperation. “I’m begging you, Seol Yoon-Ah.”

“Out, oppa! Make me breakfast or no me granting you your little fantasy or any date today.”

You finally gave in and made breakfast and made breakfast. Twenty minutes later, you almost dropped the pan when Yoon-Ah strolled into the kitchen actually wearing your dress shirt. Loosely buttoned, oversized, sleeves falling past her hands, hem barely covering her thighs - exactly the picture you’d drawn in your mind. It didn’t take long before the two of you acted like a newly married couple with you sitting on the kitchen stool, Yoon-Ah on your lap. You were grinning like crazy, one arm wrapped around her waist while the other fed her toast.

Every time you tried something like sliding your hand up too high on her thighs under the shirt, nuzzling at her neck or sneaking a kiss where it didn’t belong, Yoon-Ah would immediately swat you down or pinch your ear with a warning, her cheeks shy. “Stop it, oppa!” She never moved from your lap despite all of it. She even leaned back into you, laughing between bites as you complained about not being able to touch her. Breakfast felt sweet, chaotic and maybe far too domestic. It was so good that you wished this was already the life you and Yoon-Ah lived every morning.

The two of you didn’t head out until it was afternoon. The sun was thankfully gentle and warm. You’d spread out a blanket by the poolside, a basket full of fruits and pastries laid next to you and Yoon-Ah. The villa was quiet, just thirty minutes outside Seoul - some little spot you’d rented for the day.

Yoon-Ah was sitting in her simple sleeveless dress, fabric flowing making her look like a real life princess. Her long hair swayed with the gentle breeze as she lifted with the little bubble wand to her lips. With one blow, translucent bubbles floated up. You leaned back on your hands, just watching your now girlfriend.

“You’re having too much fun with that, secretary Seol.”

Yoon-Ah smirked as she sent another stream of bubbles your way. “Mm~ Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this, oppa. You’ve been staring at me this whole time.”

Caught red handed, you chuckled. “What can I say? My girlfriend’s the prettiest woman in the whole world.”

Yoon-Ah turned her face away, hiding behind the bubbles as she giggled to herself.

“Wait! Keep doing that, baby.” you said suddenly, fishing your phone out of your pocket. “Keep blowing bubbles and posing like that. Our first date ever, this one’s going into the history books.”

Yoon-Ah puffed another stream of bubbles into the air, cheeks pink but playful as she tried to look graceful in the moment. Well, she didn’t need to try, she always looked graceful.

“If you post that anywhere, I’ll kill you, oppa.”

You grinned and snapped a few shots as the breeze and sun worked together to catch her hair and the bubbles at the right angle. “Don’t worry, baby. These are my own personal art galleries at home.”

Yoon-Ah rolled her eyes. “Do you even have one?”

“No. But I’ll make space for one when we go home tomorrow.”

She laughed softly at your cheesiness. Then, an incoming email notification popped up on your screen. You looked at the sender’s name and sighed, swiping it open. It was from work.

I swear I’m gonna retire soon.

“Sorry, Yoon-Ah. Oppa’s just gonna take a quick look at this.”

What was supposed to be a quick check turned into ten minutes of typing and scrolling through design files. Yoon-Ah just sat quietly to herself, legs now tucking to the side as she fiddled with her bubble wand. Soon, she was poking at the fruit dish with a fork, rearranging everything. Every now and then, Yoon-Ah would glance your way, pressing her lips tight. By the time she leaned back on her hands with a small huff, you were still too busy to feel the sulk radiating off her.

After a few seconds, music suddenly spilled softly from her phone speaker - something quite upbeat, playful, clearly not meant for the quiet mood you’d left her in. That finally snapped you back to reality. Looking to the side, you found Yoon-Ah sitting there and blowing bubbles into the air again, bobbing her head to the music while pretending you didn’t exist. The guilt settled in right away.

“Oh, baby. I’m sorry. Work just-”

Yoon-Ah pouted, refusing to meet your eyes and scooting further away. You set your phone down on the blanket and scooted closer, brushing her knee.

“Forgive me? I’ll shut it off. Today’s supposed to be about you.”

She tilted her chin up stubbornly, still blowing bubbles into the air without sparring you a glance. “Mm… I don’t know, oppa. You seemed way more interested in your emails than me right now.”

You leaned closer. “Come on, Yoon-Ah. You know I’m not.”

“Really?” Yoon-Ah stretched her legs out, setting her bubble kit on the ground before turning to you. “Because I’m busy too, as your secretary by the way. But I still shut everything off and spend time with you. You just left me to entertain myself for ten minutes, oppa.”

“I’m sorry?” you dragged your words out, voice apologetic.

Yoon-Ah crossed her arms, lips still pouting. “And what?”

“And…?” your dumbass was clueless. Yoon-Ah arched her eyebrows, eyes glaring like she couldn’t believe her boss turned boyfriend was like this. She turned her head away and muttered.

“Unbelievable!”

Panic flashed across your face as you wrapped your arms around Yoon-Ah and pulled her closer into you. “Baby, don’t be mad.” you said, peppering quick kisses along her cheek, jaw and then her lips.

“Oppa!” Yoon-Ah tried to resist but your persistence finally made her crack, laughter bubbling up between kisses. “O- Okay! Enough. Oppa, enough.” Yoon-Ah giggled, wriggling in your arms.

The rest of the date was needless to say, very nice. You leaned back on the blanket, watching her hair dance in the breeze as she alternated between telling you stories and feeding you bits of fruits. Every few minutes, you would laid your hand over hers or sneak a quick kiss to her shoulder and Yoon-Ah would just giggle lovingly, never pulling away.

Later, the two of you found yourselves walking into a cozy cafe not far from the villa. The counter was filled with jars of tea leaves and sweet pastries, soft music filling the atmosphere. You leaned forward to look at the menu, brows furrowing as you read through the menu. Man, was age now starting to catch up with you. Yoon-Ah quietly looked at you, smiling like watching you struggling with the menu was actually entertaining.

“Are young people these days actually into matcha?” you asked while genuinely being curious. Yoon-Ah widen her eyes in total disbelief and gasped.

“Are you really that outdated, oppa? Matcha is everyone now! Everyone drinks it.”

“Really? Everyone?” you blinked at Yoon-Ah, suspicious. “It tastes like grass.”

“No! It tastes good.”

You shrugged. “Sure, I guess I’m just old.”

Yoon-Ah rolled her eyes and lightly hit you on the arm. “Don’t think about yourself like that, oppa. You’re only thirty three but I swear you act like elder people sometimes.”

On the way back to villa, Yoon-Ah slipped her hand into yours, swinging it playfully. She held up her cup of matcha latte and nudged it against your lips.

“Here, try this.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, oppa.” she said firmly and shoved the straw closer. “You need to be educated if you want to date me.”

You took a sip reluctantly. “Uh… Still tastes like grass.”

Yoon-Ah tightened her grip on your hand. “You’re hopeless! What’s the latest trendy drink you can think of?”

You frowned and thought for a few seconds.

“Dalgona coffee?”

“Oppa! That was like a few years ago. You’re living in the past.”

“What? I don’t really care about those things?” you smiled.

“Aigoo… What am I going to do with you then? Okay. What’s your MBTI?”

“The personality thing?”

“Yes, the personality test, oppa. Don’t tell me you’ve never done it.”

You shrugged casually. “I know it but never cared enough to do it. What’s the point? Isn’t it not even accurate?”

“You’re unbelievable! Everyone’s done it at least once!”

When you got back to the villa, the sky had turned into golden tones. Yoon-Ah was now nestling her head comfortably on your lap for the past twenty minutes, phone in hand as she scrolled through the MBTI questions.

“Okay, last one.” she squinted at the screen. “Do you plan everything ahead or just go with the flow, oppa?”

Your hand brushed through her hair. “Depends. I’d say fifty fifty.”

Yoon-Ah hummed and pressed on the screen. “Alright. Now we wait.”

You sighed comfortably and leaned back into the cushions, looking down at Yoon-Ah glueing her eyes to the screen. “And?”

“Shh! It’s loading, oppa.” she hushed you dramatically like it was a matter of life or death. “This is serious business. The result will decide our compatibility.”

You chuckled and gently patted her hips.

“And what if it says we’re not compatible, you’re breaking up with me?”

Yoon-Ah tilted her head up with a sly smile. “Maybe?”

“Maybe? That’s cold, secretary Seol.”

Then, Yoon-Ah gasped at her phone and sat up, eyes sparkling as she read the result.

“Oppa! You’re ISFJ?”

“What does that mean? Does it suit yours?” you asked flatly.

“It means~” Yoon-Ah flipped the screen to show you. “That you’re a caretaker type. Liker really responsible, dependable, soft inside even if you appear tough. It’s so you, oppa.”

“Sounds like astrology stuff to me.” you skimmed through the description.

“Shut up. It also says…” she grinned wider. “ISFJ is compatible with ISFP, which is me! See? We do match!”

You laughed. “So I passed the test?”

Yoon-Ah plopped back down onto your lap with a victorious smile.

“Barely, oppa. But you did so I guess I’ll keep you around a little longer.”

The evening then went on, turning into something romantic and warm. You and Yoon-Ah were still on the couch with a movie playing on the TV while the last piece of pizza disappeared between you two. When the night fully settled outside, Yoon-Ah suggested playing a game of truth or dare. At some point, your playful banter turned into silly questions and dumb dares. But then, you slipped in a question that shifted the vibe.

“Truth, huh… Okay. What have you fantasized about me at work?”

It drained the color from Yoon-Ah’s face before coming back twice as strong with a deep shade of red.

“N-No! Game’s over, oppa. I’m done.”

She scrambled to stand, clearly to escape to the bedroom. But you were quicker, catching her wrist and pulling her back.

“Where do you think you’re going, secretary Seol?”

Her protests didn’t work and soon turned into cute sounds as you lifted her and walked to set her down on the cool expensive marble kitchen counter.

“This isn’t fair, sajang-nim.” she mumbled.

Oh so now you’re in the mood for titles.

You leaned in close, bracing your palms on both sides of her thighs to trap her in place.

“Then make it fair, secretary Seol. Answer me and I’ll let you go.”

Yoon-Ah bit her lip and pressed her legs together. You stood there and waited, not accepting silence as an answer. Finally, Yoon-Ah let out a shaky breath.

“Sometimes, when you scold me for the small mistakes I make… I- uh, I just…”

“You just?”

“I think about it later, a lot.” Yoon-Ah played with your shirt, cheeks glowing hotter. You nodded slowly, encouraging her without saying anything. Yoon-Ah swallowed before confessing.

“And sometimes… I think about what it’d be like if you punished me.”

“Ooh~”

“Like, really punish me. Not just yelling, sajang-nim.”

You were really enjoying the sight of Yoon-Ah squirming on the kitchen counter. She squeezed her thighs even tighter around you.

“Spanking? Or you know, having to sit on your lap while you lecture me…”

That made you chuckle low. Then Yoon-Ah surprised you again as she looked up at you, eyes both nervous and daring.

“And then sometimes, I imagine things I didn’t even think I ever wanted. Like… you calling me into your office in the middle of the day and locking the door. Then you make me…” Yoon-Ah trailed off, too shy to finish.

“Go on, secretary Seol.”

She twisted her hand into your shirt and leaned into your shoulder. “You make me sit on your desk with all the paperwork still there and…”

You stayed quiet.

“And then, you don’t even care if someone knocks or hears us. You just…” Yoon-Ah let out a breath against your neck. Her own confession even made her thighs locked tightly around you.

“You make me yours right there, sajang-nim.”

“Wanna test these fantasies out in the bedroom, secretary Seol?”

Yoon-Ah’s eyes flicked up at you as she gave the tiniest and most adorable nod you’d ever seen. You quickly kissed her hard as she removed her hands from your shirt and wrapped them tight around your neck. The heat grew with every step you took, her laughter spilling between each hungry kiss. By the moment Yoon-Ah’s back hit the sheet, she pulled you down with her and toyed with your chest before pausing.

“Wait… sajang-nim!”

“Huh?”

“Did you bring protection?” Her voice was shy but firm.

Oh that!

You exhaled through your nose and tried looking through your memories.

“I think I left them in my jacket. Living room?”

Yoon-Ah smiled and shook your chest gently. “Go get it, sajang-nim. I’ll be here waiting for you. Prettily, of course.”

“Can we just wait a bit?”

Yoon-Ah pushed at your chest again, voice flirtatious. “Go, sajang-nim~ Don’t keep your secretary waiting. Gotta practice safe sex too, you know that.”

You dragged yourself off the bed and sped to the living room as fast as you could, grinning and cursing. Right after you disappeared out the bedroom door, Yoon-Ah rolled onto her stomach in her dress with the brightest giggle. She took out her phone and quickly found Haewon’s name in KakaoTalk, biting her lip before pressing the voice message button. Trying to laugh too loud, though she failed, Yoon-Ah whispered into the phone. Her voice was dripping with pride as she told her best friend the news of the century.

“Unnie, I tapped that yesterday. And I’m about to tap that again, right now.”

Yoon-Ah hit send and covered her mouth with her hand as she kicked her legs in excitement.

The next few months were exhausting as expected, work never let up. Still, it still felt strangely perfect. You were swamped with projects, deadlines stacking higher and higher day by day. Yoon-Ah was also juggling responsibilities as your secretary, running around all day with her iPad or sitting at her desk, typing all day. But somehow, the two of you managed to make it work in between all the endless meetings, late night at the office and sneaky kisses.

At the office, Yoon-Ah was sharp and professional like always. But whenever your eyes met in the meeting room, there was always that sweet sparkle that reminded you of the nights tangled together under the sheets, or her laugh echoing in your living room.

It was a rainy day, your eyes were fixed on the monitor when Yoon-Ah walked into the room. You were too tired to even look up. She set a bento down on your desk with a slightly loud thud.

“You’re gonna work yourself to death, oppa.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda in the middle of something, secretary Seol.” you were determined to not break your focus.

“Right.” she replied, crossing her arms. “In the middle of starving yourself, I see.”

You finally took your eyes off the screen. Yoon-Ah was standing there, lips in an angry pout.

“Baby, I ju-”

“Eat, sajang-nim.” she cut you off. “Or I’m texting your mother and saying that you won’t listen to me. And you know how much she adores me.”

You sighed in defeat and opened the box. “You’re bossy for a secretary, you know that?”

Yoon-Ah leaned down closest to your ear.

“Mm~ lucky for you, sajang-nim. You like me bossy sometimes.”

You smirked, shoving a bite into her mouth to shut her up.

Yeah, I do.

The office lights finally dimmed when you and Yoon-Ah walked into the elevator together, both exhausted but buzzing at the thought of heading home. The doors slid shut as you leaned against the back railing, glancing at your girlfriend with a smug grin.

“So, secretary Seol. Was I a good boss today?”

Yoon-Ah looked at the elevator ceiling as she pretended to think.

“Maybe? You only yelled at me twice.”

“You call that yelling, baby? And twice? That’s great progress if you think about it.”

Yoon-Ah then tried to hide a smile as you nudged her shoulder playfully. You were about to steal a kiss when the elevator stopped at the 24th floor. The doors opened to a bunch of people flooding in and bowing politely at you.

“Sajang-nim.” they all greeted, voices overlapping. You straightened immediately, nodding at each of them. Yoon-Ah soon mirrored your professionalism. But as the crowd pressed in and the space grew tighter, you took your chance to try and risk it for once.

Why not?

You put on the most nonchalant expression you could pull and tugged Yoon-Ah by the waist closer, hiding the action in the shuffles of bodies. She stiffened for a second then felt your hand sneaking lower and pinched lightly at her butt.

Her eyes went wide. Yoon-Ah was fighting the urge not to hit you right there in front of everyone. She didn’t play games when it came to workplace PDA. But you were feeling reckless today, deciding to spread your palm and cup her butt. Yoon-Ah let out a small gasp but she quickly disguised it with a cough. Her face was flaming red as she shot you a glare through the lenses of her glasses - the same one she found in your bedroom the first night she came to your place.

You, however, kept your eyes straight ahead. Yoon-Ah pressed her legs together, still didn’t dare swat you away with so many people around. When the elevator finally got to the car parking basement and Yoon-Ah was sure that people were far away, she dug her nails into your skin and dragged you to your car.

“Wait until we get home, oppa.” she hissed, cheeks burning. You could only smile and follow.

“Yes, ma’am.”

There were also times that Yoon-Ah almost messed up too.

Once, the design team was gathered around, sketches everywhere on the table as they debated over color palettes. You were at the head, flipping through the pages when Yoon-Ah leaned in to pass you another file.

“Here, opp-”

The word slipped out before she even realized it. The two of you had spent too much time together recently. It didn’t take long for a few heads in the room to lift in confusion.

“Thank you, secretary Seol.” you quickly took the file and glanced around the table with your eyebrow raised. “Why’s everyone so quiet all of a sudden? Back to work, everybody.”

The chatter instantly resumed like nothing had happened. Yoon-Ah cleared her throat and quickly buried herself with sorting papers, praying you would go easy on you later and that nobody would catch on. Later that afternoon, you closed your office door and leaned back against your deck with your arms crossed.

“Oppa? What were you thinking?”

Yoon-Ah was standing just a few steps away from you, hands clutching her iPad. “I di- didn’t mean to. It just slipped out, oppa.”

You walked toward her slowly. “At work, you call me sajang-nim. Outside, you can call me whatever you want. But if you do this again, secretary Seol.” You let the word trail and tilt her chin up. “What should I do with you?”

Her cheeks soon turned red as she bit her lip, quickly catching on.

“Go easy on me, sajang-nim?”

At home, it was more comfortable. You spent tired dinners together, most of the time with take outs. There were nights on the couch where you’d both pass out in the middle of a movie or playing on the Switch together. Mornings with Yoon-Ah felt different too. You would wake up to the sound of her making coffee or brushing her teeth while humming some soft tune of her favorite songs.

One time, you caught her humming to Apink’s ‘Mr. Chu’ in the bathroom while brushing. You walked closer with your phone in hand. And sure enough, Yoon-Ah was confidently dancing in front of the mirror with her toothbrush in her mouth, swaying her hips in her t-shirt. You bit back your laugh and tried to capture every move. When she finally spotted your reflection in the mirror, she was horrified.

“Oppa!”

“Got everything, baby!” you laughed. Yoon-Ah stormed out of the bathroom with her toothbrush still in her mouth, trying to snatch the phone away from you. “Delete it! I’m serious.”

“Never.” You held it out of her reach. “Do it again in front of me and I’ll consider it.”

“Oppa!!” Yoon-Ah shrieked and stomped her feet before chasing you around the living room.

Another time, you were lying dead on the living room floor with your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. The sweat clung to your shirt, sticking tight against your body.

“I’m dead, Yoon-Ah.”

Yoo-Ah, on the other hand, looked way too proud standing above you in her leggings and cropped tank, barely out of breath.

“See? My routine’s harder than ever thought, right?”

You groaned, trying to sit up but the fatigue knocked you right back down. “This is much more intense than my basic training back then, baby…”

Yoon-Ah giggled and crouched down next to you with that adorable and smug little grin of hers. She looked so hot right now you just wanted t-

“My workout routine is way tougher, oppa.” She then tugged your shirt and peeled it up slowly until your stomach was bare.

“Ohhh~” her eyes lit up in surprise, finger tracing everywhere on your abs. “You finally have abs again, oppa!”

"Finally? You make it sound like I’ve been hiding a belly my whole life.”

Yoon-Ah poked at your abs again and giggled. “I mean you were softer before. But now?” she leaned in closer to your face, hair brushing your cheek. “You’re back to looking like my hot boss.”

“Do I? I feel like I’m a dried squid right now.” You let out a breathy laugh. It felt great working out again but you weren’t sure if you could keep this for the next few years. Yoon-Ah just tilted her head and pouted mischievously.

“At least you’re my dried quid, oppa.”

“Can dried squid get some rewards? I need to stay like this for another thirty minutes.”

Yoon-Ah leaned down and cleaned your forehead with the back of her hand before pressing a soft kiss there.

“There’s your reward, dried squid.”

“Forehead? Really?” You groaned, disappointed with her reward. “That’s all I get?”

Yoon-Ah stood up and stretched her arms, nudging you with her feet.

“Mm~ dried quid will have to finish the rest if he wants my deluxe care package.”

Lazy mornings together were also perfect.

The sun was already high by the time you woke up. You tried to move only to feel Yoon-Ah’s face buried into your chest, her arms and legs all over your body.

“Mmm. Don’t move, oppa.”

You chuckled quietly and ruffled her hair. “Almost noon, Yoon-Ah. We should get up.”

Seol Yoon-Ah was feeling lazy today. Her response was to groan and pout at you before grabbing her phone on the nightstand. A few minutes later, she shoved the screen in front of your eyes.

“Look. Stupid memes, worth staying in bed for.”

“You want to rot in bed and watch memes all day, baby?”

“Yes, worth it, oppa.” she smiled gently and kissed your bare chest. “Let just… stay like this for a little while.”

“If we rot like this every weekend, I might get fat again.” You said and tightened your arm around her waist. “You sure you want that?”

“You’re not fat, oppa. You just gained a bit of cute fat and now you lost it.” She moved to rest her chin on your chest now, blowing a warm breath there. “Besides, you’re stuck with me. All day long.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Depends, oppa. Both if you want it to be.”

The next twenty minutes soon turned into Seol Yoon-Ah’s showcase of her favorite memes. She was laughing so hard she had to cling to your body while you tried not to grin too much. Every few minutes, she would tilt her head up and give you a simple kiss - nothing much but enough to make your whole weekend. Then the inevitable discussion eventually came, whether you liked it or not.

“Coffee?” you muttered.

Yoon-Ah shook her head immediately. “Nope! Bed. Memes.”

“Coffee.”

“Bed.”

You rolled over and trapped her underneath, nibbling at her neck. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

“That’s- ugh… cheating, oppa.”

“Rock, paper, scissors.” you repeated. Yoon-Ah huffed but lifted her hand anyway, expression way too cute to be taken seriously. “Fine, you bully. Best out of three.”

Two rounds later, you lost. Her triumphant laugh filled the bedroom as she poked your chest. “Hah! Win for secretary Seol.”

You could just smile and flop right down beside her, enjoying the defeat. Yoon-Ah quickly got back into her favorite position and sang sweetly.

“Hold me while I find something for us to watch, oppa~”

Yeah, coffee could wait…

Yoon-Ah had now made her way into every corner of your life and you loved every single bit of it. From the peaceful mornings together to the endless late nights in the office where Yoon-Ah was still your comfort spot. However, every time you looked at her at the office or caught her eyes in front of the others, the same thought always crossed your mind: you wanted to go public. You wanted to tell the world that Yoon-Ah wasn’t just your secretary but also your lover.

But both of you knew it was too dangerous. A CEO and his secretary? Together? In this society? Rumours would ripple through the company, people in the industry might question your professionalism. The scrutiny alone could simply crush the happiness you’d built with Yoon-Ah. So you chose to carry it in silence and hidden beneath layers of professionalism.

And when the next events came, people only saw Seol Yoon-Ah as the secretary. She walked by your side, perfect posture and polite smile. People were suspicious, sure. They’d always been like that. But whenever it reached your ears, you handled it with the same composure. A quick smile, a firm word and in some cases, a polite joke were all you needed. To everyone, she was your secretary. To you, she was the only person who could make the suffocating work life much more bearable.

Tonight was no different, Seoul Fashion Week after-party. You and Yoon-Ah walked past the crowd of the designers, models, and industry figures. Clinking glasses, expensive perfume in the air, fancy music flowing through hidden speakers. Everywhere you looked were people flaunting their newest collections and trading handshakes.

You didn’t really enjoy these kinds of events. Hadn’t for a long time now. Now you’d learnt to smile politely and nod at the right people or say enough to maintain good connection. Your company - AVEC MAEUM - was gaining attention fast, after all. Yoon-Ah was still by your side tonight, in that sleeveless black dress that hugged her figure and showed off her shoulders too well.

“Damn, you look good.” you whistled as your eyes swept up and down her. You hated that other men in the room could see her like this. But the good thing was, only you could whisper to her like this and only you could take her home.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble if you keep standing this close to me, secretary Seol.”

Being the professional secretary that she was, Yoon-Ah’s polite smile never swayed as she adjusted the strap of her dress. She shot you a warning under her breath.

“Keep it together, sajang-nim. People are watching.”

You chuckled and tilted your glass at an acquaintance who nodded at you.

“Let them watch. They don’t know I belong to you anyway.”

Yoon-Ah nudged your elbow discreetly. But you still caught the blush hidden underneath her makeup.

“One more word and I’m walking out. Behave, sajang-nim.”

You behaved. Well… you tried to. For the next thirty minutes, you made your rounds with a glass in hand and talked to industry giants and juniors. Most of it was just to keep up public appearances. You spoke enough about upcoming projects and your company’s direction without giving too much away. Yoon-Ah still stayed by your side, keeping you afloat like always.

Then you saw someone slipping past the crowd, ducking her head slightly to stay hidden, not wanting any attention. She moved with her effortless grace, followed closely by a few of her staff, and quickly came up beside you.

Karina

She was in a soft pink gown that glowed perfectly even in the venue’s bright lights. You made the right choice, Karina looked every bit the face of your company.

She was the complete opposite of Yoon-Ah. Where Karina exuded dreamy elegance, Yoon-Ah carried a sleek and sharp sophistication. A soft smile quickly appeared on Karina’s lips when she patted your arm.

“Oppa.”

“Oh! Jimin-ah.” you greeted back, surprised but glad. Karina giggled and titled her head playfully. “You didn’t tell me where you were, oppa. What, trying to avoid me?”

You chuckled. “C’mon. You still found me here.”

Her bright laughter drew a few glances from people nearby. Then she looked at the woman by your side and softened.

“Oh hi, Yoon-Ah ssi, it’s nice to see you again.” Karina greeted warmly, inclining her head. “We haven’t really talked before.”

“Ah- yes… it’s been a while, Karina-ssi.” Yoon-Ah bowed slightly, weirdly stiffer than usual. Karina simply shook her head and smiled.

“Oh no. No need to call me that. Please, just call me Jimin. It’s okay. Changmin-oppa told me a lot about you actually.”

“See? I told you so.” you teased, enjoying this way too much.

Yoon-Ah’s eyes widened in delight surprise. “Oh- really?” She laughed gently.

“Yes, really, Yoon-Ah ssi.” Karina confirmed. “I can see why.”

Then you stood there, listening and admiring how the two women talked to each other. Yoon-Ah was shy, voice soft in a way you really adored. You knew why she was like this. Karina, on the other hand, radiated playful warmth and made it easy for Yoon-Ah to relax bit by bit. Just when you were about to cut in with a light joke, a gentle voice called your name.

“Excuse, Mr. Do?”

You turned and spotted someone who dressed sharp for the event but still looked too much like a reporter. They offered a polite bow.

“Would you mind sparing me a few minutes for a quick word?”

You let out a short laugh and glanced around the venue. “Umm, sorry. Do they allow reporters in here? I’m sorry but you know…”

The reporter smiled politely at you and lowered their voice so only you could hear their next words.

“I won’t take long. I just have something that might interest you, Mr. Do. Something that might affect your company, if you know what I mean.”

What?

You cleared your throat and glanced back at Yoon-Ah and Karina, still wrapped up in the conversation. You tried to force a small smile and excused yourself.

“I’ll just step away for a minute.”

You then followed the reporter to a quiet corner, away from the glamorous crowd.

“Lean down a little, Mr. Do.” they smiled, expression dark with something you couldn’t quite place. And against your better judgement, you did.

What they said next hit you like a bullet - dangerous and impossible to ignore.

“Is what I just said the truth, Mr. Do? Please correct me if I’m wrong.” their smile soon turned twisted. You mustered the only defense mechanism in mind, a shaky laugh.

How could this happen to you right now?

Fucking hell…

Damn.

80 notes · View notes

ducktoo · 22 hours ago

Text

So…what’s up with all smut gods making banger fluffs-

Love Premonition (恋の予感)

Length: +3k words

Genre: Fluff

Le Sserafim Sakura x Male Reader

(Author’s Note: Thanks to @octoberautumnbox for beta <3)

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Shit.

It happened again—you noticed the way the sun hits her just right, making her hair glow with a soft honey brown. The way her cheeks puff like the softest marshmallows when she laughs: a sweet sound you’d record on vinyl and rewind over and over and over again until the notes embed themselves into your ear canal. The way each footstep seems so graceful, carefree, weightless, without fear of ever misstepping.

And yet, you don’t even know her name.

It’s been a good couple weeks since she first arrived—out of nowhere, like a bolt from the blue, landing into English Lit and uprooting your entire life. New girl introduced herself during your regularly scheduled nap in the back of the classroom (“No worries,” you figured, “I’ll get her name eventually.”), but with each passing day of slowly sinking deeper into a quicksand of infatuation, it’s hard not to feel like the world’s worst stalker by knowing everything about her except her name.

It started with a simple hunger.

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Ill-prepared as always, you stare through the glass of the vending machine, clutching your empty stomach with one hand and your emptier wallet with the other. The shiny aluminum of the chip bags seems to mock you with their sheen, safe behind the confines of their metal box. Right as you’re about to drive your fist into the machine, you hear a voice next to you, so clear and pristine you thought it was your imagination.

“Which one’s good?” “Hm?” You find yourself staring at the side profile of what you can only imagine to be an angel in real life—an angel hungry for greasy potato chips.

“Which one’s good?” she repeats, turning to face you. “I can’t decide.”

For a moment, you forget all about the pang of hunger in your stomach as your eyes trace over her soft features. Curiosity or some inane instinct to humiliate yourself, you can’t seem to stop staring, even as the seconds crawl by and it’s becoming more obvious how much of a creep you must look like.

“Uh, hello?” Mystery girl waves a hand in front of your face, breaking the daze you were in. You figured she’d be running to the nearest police station by now, so the fact that she’s still here, and smiling—Christ, what a sight—is either a miracle, or the start of your demise.

“Oh, right, uh,” you mutter, “I usually just get salt and vinegar.”

“Hmm…”

She ponders your words, bringing a slender finger to her chin as if what flavor she decides on will have some bearing on the fate of the universe—with the way she looks, ethereal and impossibly out of place in this backwater town, it just might.

“They’re all the same, y’know,” you utter for no particular reason. “Greasy, cheap, always half-empty.”

She chuckles, and you feel your chest tighten. “Maybe so. But I’m craving chips today.”

You watch as she shoves a crisp dollar bill into the machine and presses the fading blue buttons—the same combination for salt and vinegar chips. The vending machine whirs to life, creaking as if it’s on its last breath, and drops one—no, two crinkly bags of chips to the bottom.

“Ooh, nice!” Mystery girl grins at you. Self-centered as it is, you can’t help but feel partially responsible for that smile, even if all you did was inadvertently raise her cholesterol. “Here.” She pushes one of the bags into your chest.

“For what?”

She shrugs. “Sharing is caring.”

“Right, but—”

“Just take it.” With a smile like that, how could you say no? You take the small bag of chips from her and stare at—it’s the same light blue, with the same old logo and the same feeling of getting ripped off as you weigh it in your palm. Yet, there’s something peculiar about it; not bad, just different. Like a Macguffin, or whatever your English Lit teacher called it—the bullet that’ll send you falling into the abyss before you notice the trigger being pulled.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll pay you back next time—”

She’s gone as quickly as she came.

As the aluminum bag crinkles between your fingers, your hunger is all but gone, replaced by something else. Something you can’t quite put to words; something far bigger than you could’ve ever imagined.

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Then, it was an instinct.

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You dribble the ball against the concrete, eyes focused, knees primed and ready to dash at the first opening. A bead of sweat drips from your chin, but you ignore it—on the court, there’s no room for distractions. From all the time you’ve known him, Min has always been a little taller, a little more muscular, but your skills overshadow any physical advantage he thinks he has.

Impatient as always, he reaches for the ball, only for him to misstep as you weave to the side and drive the ball to the hoop for an easy layup. Min slumps to the ground in utter defeat.

“You suck, man,” you joke, offering him a hand.

“Whatever.” Annoyed and exhausted, he swats your hand away. “The sun was in my eye that time.”

“Was it in your eye the other 20 times I scored?”

“Fuck you,” he snaps, making an unsuccessful attempt at kicking your leg before succumbing to the warm concrete underneath him. While he rests, you shut your eyes, feeling the breeze as it brushes past your cheeks. There’s a simple joy of a sunny weekend on the court with your best friend—a thoroughly uncomplicated way of living, void of whatever headaches life tends to throw your way.

And then she shows up.

The second you open your eyes, you see her again, walking arm in arm with Chaewon, the resident chatterbox of the school. As usual, she’s going off about some drama you don’t bother to keep up with, arm gesticulating wildly, while Mystery Girl just nods along like she somehow understands every bit of Chaewon’s barely coherent ramblings. Mystery Girl laughs, and you feel your chest tighten like it did before in front of the vending machine.

“Hey, Min,” you utter, eyes glued to the pair on the sidewalk.

“Hm?”

“What’s that girl’s name? The one next to Chaewon.”

Min brings his head up just enough to see the two of them in the distance. “Oh, her? I don’t know, we don’t share any classes. She’s hot though,” he chuckles.

Something about the way he regards her, like she’s just another pretty face, irks you for reasons you can’t put to words. You open your mouth to say something, but bite your tongue instead—what would you even say? He’s not wrong, but… But what? You barely even know the girl. You don’t even know her name.

With a huff, you pick up your basketball and toss it at Min’s face.

“Agh! What the hell, man?!” he barks, rubbing his cheek.

“Get up. Let’s run it back.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Quit being a bitch and get up!” you say a little too aggressively. You peer cautiously to the side, hoping the girls didn’t hear your outburst. Thankfully, Chaewon’s loudmouth seems to have covered up for you

“Alright, fine!” Begrudgingly, Min grabs the ball and heads to the three-point line. “I don’t even know why you’re in such a bad mood, you’re not the one who lost…” he mutters under his breath.

He checks the ball to you, starting the game. From behind him, you see Chaewon and Mystery Girl slowly nearing the basketball court. You try to focus on the game, but it gets increasingly harder to ignore the fluttering feel in your stomach that grows with every step she takes. Should you say hi? Give her a nonchalant nod? God, what is her fucking name??

Min rushes to the side, and you barely move in time to block him. He fakes back, sending you tripping to the ground and giving him an easy three-pointer.

“Oooh, get fucked!” he taunts, before shooting from the three-point line with all the grace of an injured deer. The ball ricochets off the rim, flying like a bullet through the air—right towards the girls.

“Shit, look out!” Min calls out. You’re already on your feet, making a dash towards them. You fight past the heat, the exhaustion, the pain, each step fueled by this indescribable feeling in your stomach. Chaewon and Mystery Girl give you odd looks as you barrel towards them—who wouldn’t be weirded out by a sweaty person sprinting at them?—before noticing the ball sailing right at their faces. Without thinking, you leap forward, swatting the ball away, before hitting the ground with a thud.

A sharp pain shoots through your shoulder like a thousand knives stabbing into your bones. And yet, the first thing you do is check if she’s okay.

“Oh my god, are you alright?!” Mystery Girl asks, eyes wide with worry—those soft, round eyes like chewy boba, looking at you. For a moment, not a single word reaches your lips as your mind is too preoccupied by the girl in front of you. She kneels down next to you and inspects your arm, and you forget to breathe, to think, to function, her touch light and feathery against your skin.

“Y-yeah,” you mutter, “I think I’m—FUCK!” A jolt of pain hits your shoulder, causing you to collapse back into the grass.

“I’m gonna call an ambulance!” Chaewon exclaims, already taking out her phone. God, this is so embarrassing. All of this because of a stupid basketball. Why do you even play this fucking game?

You sit up, trying to ignore the fact that you can barely move your shoulder. “I-I’m fine, Chaewon, it’s just a scratch—”

“BRO!” To make matters worse, Min comes running towards you, getting the attention of the entire park in the process. “Are you okay?! Are you hurt?! How many fingers am I holding up?!”

You slap his hand away from your face in annoyance. “I’m fine! Just a scratch,” you lie through gritted teeth.

“Can you move your arm?” Mystery Girl asks.

“U-uh, yeah, I can—” You fight back a groan as another wave of pain ripples beneath your flesh. Tears well up in your eyes, threatening to pour down and make you look like even more of a loser than you already do. “I-I just need some ice and I’ll be good—”

“The ambulance is on its way!” Chaewon announces. A crowd starts to form around you, the sting of embarrassment hurting you way more than a broken bone ever could.

“Please, I don’t need an ambulance—”

Before you can even react, Min scoops you up into his arms like a princess. A wave of mortification washes over you as you meet Mystery Girl’s confused expression.

“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?!” With each passing second, your cheeks burn hotter and hotter.

“No time. I’m taking you to the hospital myself.” Min starts sprinting in the opposite direction, with you bouncing around in his arms like some poor damsel in distress.

“Put me down, you fucking idio—FUCK!” Your attempts at loosening yourself from his grip only worsen the pain. Mystery Girl’s lips part like she wants to say something, but all of it goes unheard under the haze of commotion and the voices in your head calling you a loser. Chaewon and Mystery Girl shrink in the distance, no doubt laughing about how stupid you must look.

All because she showed up.

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Finally: a long-awaited introduction.

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House parties—cesspools of mindless fun and bad decisions, where consequences only exist for tomorrow’s self. Hormones are high, shitty alcohol litters the fridge, and cheap disco lights cover the room with a filter that gives you a mild headache; a perfect recipe for nothing life-changing to occur. Surely.

You find yourself in an odd corner of the living room, nursing a red solo cup and recounting the story of your broken arm to a group of people you’ve never met (“You should see the other guy!” you say; cool, nonchalant, actively-suppressing the memory of Min carrying you in his arms). Deserved or not, you might as well milk as much street cred as you can from this injury.

Eventually, the group disperses naturally and you’re left to mingle around the room, shuffling your way through the crowd while trying not to hit your shoulder sling against anyone. You beeline it towards the kitchen to refill your cup—and there she is again.

Mystery Girl, her hair dyed a deep maroon that’s just barely noticeable over the colored lights, talking to some guy you haven’t seen before. That usual carefree look on her face is jarringly absent, replaced by a look that’s like gray clouds before a storm. Some voice in the back of your mind tells you to intervene—go, be the hero and save the girl!—but from the desperation on the dude’s face and the unwavering stoicism in hers, it seems like she has everything under control. Without a second glance at her, you refill your cup and head outside for some fresh air.

The chilly night breeze is sobering against your warm cheeks, reddened by the cheap booze in your system. Some stragglers linger outside the house, passing around a joint or invading each other’s personal space. You find an empty spot around the side, just outside the range of the dingy streetlights, the cold brick walls pressing up against your back.

At one point or another, the novelty of a house party wears off and you’re left wondering why you ever attend these things in the first place. Min never comes, always making the excuse of “alcohol ruining his physique,” so you have no other choice but to tough these things out alone in search of a purpose. Are you trying to find a hookup? To feel like you belong? Some societal pressure that pushes you into following the herd? Hard to say. Maybe all of the above.

The sound of crunching grass nears the corner, and you brace yourself for the stoner asking for a light or the rowdy couple that couldn’t find a vacant bedroom inside. Instead, you get a voice:

“Oh, it’s you.”

Like a magnet, your eyes snap towards the owner of that voice. Your chest tightens as Mystery Girl joins you on the wall, that charming smile aimed right at you.

“Hey,” you greet her, the warmth on your cheeks from something more than just the booze.

“I saw you in the kitchen earlier,” she remarks. “I thought you’d come say hi, but then you just left.”

“Oh, right.” She saw you? And she wanted you to say hi? “I didn’t want to disturb your, uh… friend?”

She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. “My ex. I didn’t even know he’d be here.”

“Oh. Bad break up?”

“You could say that.” Her gaze drops to the floor and her smile fades soon after.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, not your fault,” she reassures you, meeting your eyes. “He dumped me out of nowhere a couple months ago. Turns out he was cheating and got the girl pregnant.”

“Yikes. That sucks.”

“Eh,” she shrugs, “I’ve made peace with it. He found out today that the kid’s not even his and now he wants me back.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck?! That’s crazy. You’re not gonna take him back, are you?”

Mystery Girl chuckles at the thought. “Hell no! No way am I dating that slime ball again!”

The two of you share a laugh that dissolves into a comfortable silence. She looks up at the sky, a blank sheet of indigo thanks to all the light pollution, and you follow her gaze because what the hell else are you supposed to do? As you stand here, just barely brushing shoulders with this girl you barely know, all the shitty beers and awkward encounters from every party you’ve been to all seem worth it. This could be the start of something bigger, or just a brief and fleeting moment in your lifetime; whatever it is, you want to hold it close to your chest until it’s gone.

“So,” she utters, breaking the silence, “how’s your arm?”

“This ol’ thing?” You raise up your sling as high as your shoulder will allow you. “Doesn’t even hurt.”

“Wow, you’re so tough and macho,” she quips, rolling her eyes playfully. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For jumping in front of the ball so I didn’t get hit. It was… cool.”

“Cool?” You raise a brow at her. “Did I look cool when I was being carried away like a princess?”

She giggles—you’ve never loved a sound more. “Hey, princesses can be cool too! Like, Mulan and that red-head with the bow.”

Now it’s your turn to giggle. “Okay yeah, but all I did was dive after a stupid ball and—”

“Oh shit!” Suddenly, Mystery Girl pins you against the wall, hands snaked behind your neck and her face close enough to see your reflection in your eyes.

“W-what are you—”

“Just shut up for a second!” she hisses. Her eyes immediately soften. “Please?”

Unable to think properly, you stay frozen in that position, one spontaneous decision away from a kiss. The alcohol has all but flushed out of your system, replaced with this lingering heat in your chest. Every passing second feels like an eternity, an eternity that you’re not sure you want to leave for fear of what would happen next. But, like all good things, this moment comes to an end as she pulls away.

“Phew,” she sighs, “sorry about that. I thought I saw my ex walking past and just, uh, y’know…”

“Y-yeah, no worries, um…” The tension in the air thickens, and you worry that the darkness isn’t enough to hide the burning red of your cheeks.

Thankfully, the awkward silence doesn’t last for long as Chaewon rounds the corner.

“There you are, Sakura!” So that’s her name. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Oh, hey,” Chaewon says, offering you a brief nod.

“Why? Is something wrong?” Mystery Gir—er, Sakura asks.

Chaewon sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “It’s a long story. Can we leave? I want a pizza.” As if finally realizing your presence, Chaewon suddenly straightens up, eyes squinted as she looks back and forth between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?” “N-no, nothing!”

“W-we’re just talking and, uh—”

“I was just getting some fresh air and bumped into him—”

“I was actually just about to leave, so—”

“Alright, alright, damn!” Chaewon exclaims, causing the both of you to clam up. “Anyways, can we go now?”

Sakura looks back at you, a look of uncertainty in her eyes. You give her a nod. “Uh, yeah sure, we can leave,” she says.

“Cool, I’ll call us an uber. I’ll let you two finish whatever the hell this is.” Chaewon stomps off, leaving the two of you to… finish?

“Um—”

“So—”

The two of you share a chuckle, relieving some of the tension. “You can go first,” you offer.

“Right.” She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and you swear your heart stops beating for a whole second. “Um, sorry about earlier. I swear I’m not usually like that. I just saw my ex and I sorta panicked and, uh, yeah.”

“Like I said, no worries. Shit happens.”

Sakura meets your eyes—the tingling feeling in your chest explodes, reaching to all the corners of your being until every cell buzzes with pure electricity. Something about the way her eyes peer at you, the way her lips smile at you, the way her touch still lingers on your nape makes you want to run away and never look back.

You must’ve been staring for too long as the sound of Sakura’s soft laughter breaks you out of your spell. “Do you have a staring problem or something?” she teases.

“Yes. No. Maybe?”

“You’re strange.” She starts to walk back, each step slow and playful, like she doesn’t want to leave quite yet. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” You smile back at her. “Definitely.”

You watch as her silhouette disappears around the corner, and you stay watching long after she’s hoping, slightly hoping that she’ll pop back, even if it’s just for a brief moment.

Sakura—the first coming of Spring.

Like pink petals littering the roads, remnants of her will be present in everything around you—your ears will hear the sound of her laughter where her voice is absent, your eyes will look for her face in every crowd, your mind will be filled to the brim with all of her moments—whether you like it or not.

And you just learned her name.

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ducktoo · 1 day ago

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Damn it this is still so cute after my nth read

My Roomate Bestie

Jiheon x reader fluff

You exhaled a heavy sigh. You were staring at the Verenda of your apartment as your eyes observe the busy night street.

It was always peaceful whenever the night arrives in the city and your view of your apartment dorm was perfect.

Well it was almost perfect because another person would fill the room. At first you were shocked by this fact because you applied for a single room dorm but because of the lack of funding and the sudden demand for a room, the landlord had no other choice but to make the single dorm room a shared dorm.

You tried to look for another dorm to apply too but because of a new school year, everything was booked and no single dorm was available for you.

In the end you had to accept it that you’ll have a new roommate by force.

“Fuck.. I just hope that person isn’t someone I hate the most..”

You took a sip from your tea as you continued to watch the night street.

You were Y/n Park. A 3rd year Mechanical Engineering student. Your cozy apartment will be invaded tomorrow and you didn’t like it but you have to accept it.

With a sigh, you decided to rest for tomorrow’s the weekends and it means its your rest day. Also, the weekends you were pertaining too was just sunday.

Keep reading

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ducktoo · 1 day ago

Note

I got a good question for you right here, ducky. You are not allowed to not make any choice or you will be stuck in space, alone for eternity. Only making a choice will let you live your normal life again.

A. Letting Winter be with wonyology. B. Letting Asa be with wonyology.

Choose wisely... (I'm chilling with both of them by my side btw, Asa just said she really loved me and Winter just kissed my cheek.)

….fine u can have asa back….

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ducktoo · 1 day ago

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I want whatever shroom this goat is having-

My Princess

Jo Yuri x Reader

Genre: Fantasy fluff and romcom | Length: 11.5k

Summary: You finally save Princess Jo Yuri from the feared dungeon, but when the king offers her hand in marriage, you refuse.

It's really not that serious lol

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of the WakeOne, there lived a princess of such beauty that songs were sung across the land in her honor, countless poems had her name etched in ink, and many suitors wanted to claim her hand. Her hair shone of a beautiful gold, her eyes sparkled brighter than the royal jewels, and her voice was said to calm even the wildest storm.

But envy, as it often does, crept into the heart of a neighboring queen. In a fit of jealousy, she summoned a dreadful orc from the dark corners of the earth and ordered him to seize the princess.

The monstrous creature obeyed, taking the maiden away and locking her in a dungeon deep underground, thirty layers beneath the surface, guarded by fearsome beasts and riddled with traps no ordinary man could hope to survive.

The king, stricken with grief, summoned his finest warriors and sent them to rescue his daughter. Yet no one returned.

A young knight heard the announcement. He was the apprentice of the great general. Without further ado he set to find the girl. Desperate, the king issued a royal proclamation: “To whomever can brave the dungeon and save my beloved daughter, I offer treasures beyond imagination and her hand in marriage.”

When they returned, the kingdom erupted in joy. Bells rang, doves flew, and flowers rained from the sky (probably thrown by bards). A grand feast was held in the hero’s honor, filled with music, dancing, jesters, and roasted boar the size of carriages.

At the end of the celebration, the king summoned the knight and the princess to the royal chamber.

“Brave adventurer,” the king declared, rising from his throne, “you have defeated the beast, conquered the dungeon, and rescued my dearest daughter. For this, I am eternally grateful.”

The knight nodded politely. “Sure.”

“As promised,” the king said with a proud smile, “you shall have her hand in marriage.”

A moment passed. The knight rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… nah, I’m good.”

Wait, what? Why would you say such a thing?

“What?” gasped the princess, blinking in disbelief.

“…What?” echoed the king, eyes wide with confusion.

“Yeah, I’m not looking to get married,” you continued.

“But why? You’d be a prince! You’d get a castle! You’d be the richest man in the kingdom!” the princess exclaimed, completely bewildered by your statement. She couldn’t understand why anyone in all the kingdom would come to such a decision.

“You ever tried maintaining a castle?” you replied in return.

“…No?”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. That’s because Daddy here pays for the roof repairs and moat cleaning. Pass,” you argued. “The cleaners, the maintenance, the horses…”

The royal advisor, who had been quietly sipping wine in the corner, choked a little at the mention of horses.

“But—but the wealth! The royal coffers!”

“I’m good on money. I already sold half the rare drops from the bottom floor of the dungeon. I’ve got my own brand now: Obscura. It’s niche, but it’s doing very well,” you said proudly.

Somewhere in the ballroom, a bard whispered, “I think I’ve seen that shop. Great cloaks.” Another guest shushed him.

“Thank you, sir. Remind me to give you a discount later,” you said.

“You risked your life to save us all,” the king said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Doesn’t that earn you a reward?”

“As I said,” you replied calmly, “I don’t need it. My shop is bringing me more than enough income.”

The king stared at you, baffled, as though trying to decipher a language he had never heard before.

“You’d refuse all this for some… boutique dungeon shop?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the grandeur around him: the throne, the gold, the royal court, the entire weight of the kingdom.

You met his gaze without flinching. “I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into that shop.”

“So what, you’re just going to keep killing monsters forever?” the princess said.

“With this sword? It’s too easy, I basically one-tapped that orc,” you said.

What the fuck does that even mean?

The king glanced at his captain of the guard, who just shrugged. He didn’t know either.

“But… we could just give you the money!” the princess bargained.

“Yeah, but that comes with a royal wedding, right?” you asked.

“Well… yes.”

“Then no thanks.”

“Is it me? Am I not beautiful enough?” the princess said in desperation.

“Oh no, you’re gorgeous. But so are the girls in the red-light district.”

Not a good move, dude.

Gasps echoed through the throne room. One noblewoman fainted. The court jester dropped his lute.

“How dare you compare me to those—those common whores?!”

“Hey, easy. Those ‘common whores’ pay taxes. The same taxes that keep your castle from crumbling into a moss-covered ruin.”

“You! You should be on your knees thanking the gods for my interest, not questioning it! I am Princess Yuri, the most sought-after bride in the land. Kings and nobles have begged for the privilege of having me as their wife!” The princess rushed right into your face, livid, she couldn’t contain herself and dropped all manners. "And yet, here I am, offering myself to you. You should feel incredibly lucky!”

“If you have so many suitors, you could satisfy one of them,” you replied. “Surely there must be a handsome one out there.”

The king slumped back in his throne, looking like he had aged ten years in ten seconds. The princess looked as though she might breathe fire. You just adjusted your sword belt and stared off toward the window.

“Anyway,” you resumed. “I’ve got orders to ship. Later.” You moved to walk out of the room, but not before stopping and handing a little card to the bard.

“10% discount on everything.”

The bard, caught completely off guard, fumbled the card and caught it against his chest. He looked around nervously, clutching his lute. “Thank you, my lord,” he whispered, trying not to be heard.

The king narrowed his eyes and let out a long, weary sigh. Normally, such blatant disrespect would have earned a man the gallows, a swift beheading, or at the very least a cold, dark cell. But this time… nothing.

The royal guard didn’t move an inch. And honestly? Who could blame them? They weren’t paid nearly enough to pick a fight with someone who’d just soloed a thirty-layer dungeon and walked out without so much as a scratch.

When you were nearly out of the palace, you heard a series of steps hurrying towards you. You stopped and turned around. It was the princess. The princess was running, as fast as her heavy gown would allow.

“What was that?!” she demanded, breathless.

“What, was I not clear?” you replied, barely turning.

She paused, frustration etched into every line of her face. “I understand what you said, but why were you so rude?”

“Sorry, my lady,” you answered, “but you were being too pushy. Sometimes, being blunt is the only way to get through to people.”

“You can’t just leave like that. You saved me. All knights aspire to marry a noble lady and become the owners of great lands.”

“You’re right,” you said and nodded. “I do want a great land.”

“Then marry me.”

“No,” you said simply, “your lands are almost barren. It’s a bad investment.”

She blinked, disbelief mixing with fury. “You’re unbelievable!”

“Why do you want to marry me so badly, anyway?” you asked, stepping to face her.

The princess drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. “I’ve been trapped in that dungeon for who knows how many years—”

“It was two weeks, actually,” you interrupted.

“Don’t interrupt me.” She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. “I’ve lived trapped in this castle just as much. From a young age, my mother forced me to walk with books balanced on my head, to keep my posture perfect at all times. I endured endless lessons in history, literature, music—”

“Yeah,” you countered, “and I had to kill a rabbit with my bare hands because my family didn’t eat for a week. So I guess we both endured a pretty tough life, huh?”

The princess faltered for a moment but pressed on. “What I’m trying to say is… every princess dreams of living a fairy tale. You’re my knight; you saved me. This is how the story is supposed to go!”

“Is it really?” you said.

Actually, no. This is not how the story is supposed to go.

“And you get to decide that?!” the princess snapped, her voice sharp with frustration.

You don’t. But I do.

“Please, my lady,” you said, softening just a bit, “I’ve already told you I don’t want to live in that castle. You said it yourself. The people there are just…” you lowered your voice, “a bit boring.”

“I’ll leave with you,” she said.

“I really don’t think you should,” you said firmly. “However, if you want to visit my shop, here’s where it is.”

You pulled out a roughly drawn map from your cloak pocket and handed it over. “It’s a bit far from your castle, but with all the carriages you’ve got, it shouldn’t be a problem. Just one thing: don’t even think about asking for discounts. The next time I see your debt collector man, I’m chopping his legs off.”

You straightened your clothes, took off your hat with a flourish, and gave a respectful bow. “Farewell, my lady.”

"Fine! Go back to your little shop, to your dusty loot and your lowborn whores!" she snapped, her voice rising with each word. "I didn’t want you anyway! If I’d known you were this heartless, I would’ve gladly stayed in that dungeon!"

You waved your hand and kept walking.

Your horse was waiting for you outside. You got up and rode away from the capital. The farther you rode, the less the world looked like it belonged to kings. Stone roads gave way to gravel, then to packed dirt, and eventually to nothing at all. You continued until you saw the outline of another town.

By the time you arrived at your home town, the sun had dipped low behind the hills. The town wasn’t much. Cobbled streets, leaning buildings, too many cats, and a lot of noise.

You turned down a narrow side street and just before the alley twisted into shadow, your shop came into view.

A sign above the door, painted by your own hand, swung gently in the evening breeze: “Obscura – Rare Goods, Monster Parts, and Slightly Cursed Trinkets.”

The lanterns inside were still glowing faintly. You pushed the door open and stepped in. The bell above jingled and the wooden floor cracked under your steps.

Inside, it smelled like ash, old leather, and faint magic. The shelves were cluttered with all manner of bizarre goods: wyvern teeth, cursed mirrors, enchanted cloth, potion flasks labeled in runes you barely remembered.

You walked behind the counter, unhooked your sword belt, and tossed it into the back room.

Three orders were waiting on the desk. One from a traveling bard requesting powdered shadowbeast fur. Another from a guild novice looking for a soul-bound dagger, probably to impress someone. The third… written in shaking handwriting and sealed with a black wax crest. You slid that one aside for later.

A knock came at the weathered wooden door.

“Closed,” you called out.

“It’s not even dark yet!” came the muffled protest from outside.

“Still closed,” you replied, not bothering to move.

“I got 1000 golds,” the voice said urgently.

“Open!”

A man stepped inside, his cloak caked in dirt and dust from the long road. His boots, cracked and scuffed, left faint prints on the creaky wooden floor. He dropped a heavy leather pouch onto the counter with a dull thud, the coins inside jingling softly. His eyes darted around the cramped shop.

“That a dragon tooth?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You grinned, fishing the jar from the shelf. Inside floated a pale, twisted fang, suspended in a thick amber liquid that shimmered faintly in the flickering candlelight. “Real deal,” you said proudly. “Almost lost my ear getting it. You want it?”

He nodded, eyes narrowing. “Name your price.”

You set the jar carefully on the counter. “Fifty gold.”

He snorted. “I’m not made of gold.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the counter, the wood rough beneath your calloused hands. “Neither am I. But that tooth’s worth every coin.”

He hesitated, then grumbled, shoving more coins your way. ��Fine.”

The man rolled up his sleeve, revealing a deep, ragged claw wound that still oozed dark blood. “Wyvern got me.”

You reached under the counter and pulled out a sturdy leather satchel, worn but well-maintained. Unbuckling it, you revealed neatly organized salves, enchanted bandages shimmering with faint blue light, and jars of rare herbs harvested from dangerous places. “This’ll fix you up good as new. Price? One hundred and twenty-five gold coins.”

He laughed, a rough bark. “Three hundred?! You’re trying to make me broke.”

You shrugged, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey, it’s also a whole kit. I’m not selling you just a single bandage. It’s going to last you a long time.”

You took out a small, dark glass bottle, its surface etched with faint runes that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. “I usually don’t let my customers bleed all over the floor,” you said. “I’ll let you try this one for free.”

The man eyed the bottle suspiciously but uncorked it, releasing a faint scent of herbs. He dabbed a drop on his claw wound. Within moments, the edges of the gash began to knit together, the dark blood retreating as the skin closed smoothly.

His eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Told you.”

He huffed, but finally dropped two hundred fifty gold on the counter. “Ninety golds and one bottle of your strongest ale?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Make it one hundred, and the ale’s yours.”

He grunted in defeat, handing over the coins. “Done.”

“You got yourself a great deal. I have the best ale in town.” That was true.

His eyes drifted to the weapons rack: sleek swords, daggers tipped with enchanted steel, and axes carved from dragon bone. “Got anything that’ll take down a wyvern?”

You pulled a long sword wrapped in supple dragonhide from its place. The blade gleamed sharp, faint runes glowing along its length. “This beauty’s seen more battles than most knights, still sharp as the day I forged her.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Price?”

“Seven hundred gold.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Seven hundred? That better fly itself!”

You met his grin, a challenge sparking in your eyes. “Name me a better price then.”

He crossed his arms, smirking. “How low are you willing to go?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Six fifty.”

He shook his head firmly. “Six hundred, no more.”

You paused, then nodded slowly. “Come on, you already bought enough. Six hundred it is.” That was a robbery; it took you five seconds at maximum to get that sword.

The man immediately slapped six hundred gold coins on the counter. “Deal.”

You packed his order with care, slipping a few extra herbs into the bag for luck and the bottle of ale you promised. He bid you goodbye and left.

You stood back and watched the door close, “Another satisfied customer.”

Like you didn’t just rob that poor man.

You thought you were back to your relaxing stay at your shop; however, the next day, as you were busy tending the shop, a sudden commotion stirred outside. You heard people screaming—women mostly—a lot of running, horses, carriages.

Peeking through the window, you spotted a group of rough-looking men dragging a struggling figure through the street. Your eyes locked onto her bright gold hair.

The princess.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your sword from behind the counter and pushed open the door, slipping outside. The townsfolk parted like waves as you sprinted after the kidnappers, your boots pounding against the cobblestones.

The chase led you out of town, past fields fading into the thick edge of the haunted forest. The air grew heavy, thick with mist and the scent of damp earth. The trees loomed into you, their gnarled branches twisting into eerie curved shapes.

The dense forest finally revealed a dark cave, half hidden behind twisting vines and shadows. The kidnappers were gone now but you still heard the sound coming from the cave.

Two grotesque figures stood sentinel, their twisted forms part beast, part shadow. Their eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, and their snarls echoed softly against the stone walls.

One stepped forward and its voice lowly rumbled: “If you wish to enter, brave knight, you must answer our riddle. Fail, and your fate is sealed.”

You sighed. “Come on, what is this? Another one of those fairy tales?”

As a matter of fact, it is.

“Fuck me. Speak your riddle.”

The other growled: “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have nobody, but I come alive with the wind. What am I?”

You studied them for a moment the quiet hum of the forest around you. “I don’t know,” you said

What do you mean you don’t know? It’s obvious.

“I don’t know, alright!”

Just think about it. You built a whole business, and you don’t know how to answer a riddle?

“Just give me the goddamn answer. They might be torturing Yuri at this point.”

It’s an echo.

“Ooooh, right. An echo,” you said.

The monsters hissed, exchanged a glance, then stepped aside with a grunt. “You may pass, but beware what waits beyond.”

The cave’s darkness swallowed you as you stepped forward, the faint glow of enchanted runes lighting your way. Suddenly, a booming voice echoed through the chamber:

“To pass, you must face the Trial of Wisdom. Answer true or face eternal darkness.”

“Come on. Another riddle?” you muttered under your breath.

Before you stood a massive stone pedestal, upon it a scroll sealed with crimson wax. You broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, revealing a puzzle written in ancient script.

The riddle read: “I’m always running, but I never walk. I have a bed, but I never sleep. I have a mouth, but I never talk. What am I?”

You furrowed your brow. “A road,” you said confidently.

A harsh laugh echoed off the walls. “Wrong! Now you must die!”

The chamber shook as shadows crept closer. You stumbled back. “Wait—what? I lost? Hey! I get another try, right?”

“Another trial? What a joke! Prepare to die!”

How did you get that one wrong? Yeah, he gets another try.

The voice hesitated, then, with a grudging tone: “Fine. Another try.”

You took a deep breath, focused, and reconsidered the riddle. “A river,” you said, this time with conviction.

Suddenly, the runes on the pedestal glowed brightly. The stone door before you rumbled open, revealing the path ahead.

As you stepped through the opened stone door, the cavern widened into a vast chamber, dimly lit by glowing crystals embedded in the walls. There, looming in the shadows, stood a monstrous figure: tall, grotesque, with eyes like burning embers and a mouth filled with jagged teeth.

The beast began to speak with terrible arrogance. “So, another foolish mortal dares enter my domain. Know this: none who challenge me leave alive. I am the guardian of this place, keeper of secrets and judge of all who trespass—”

Before it could finish its grandiose speech, you pulled a dagger from your belt and threw it right into the middle of his forehead. The blade struck true, embedding deep in the monster’s skull. The creature staggered, mouth agape, blood poured from the wound and he fell.

You wasted no time, stepping over the beast’s crumpled body and began rifling through its hoard: gold coins, gleaming enchanted trinkets, rare gemstones, and some ancient daggers. It was actually a pretty good loot.

Just as you pocketed a particularly rare amulet, a loud scream pierced your ears. It definitely didn’t come from a monster.

“Hey! You’re supposed to save me!” The familiar voice of the princess rang out.

You turned sharply, spotting her chained nearby. She was both pissed and relieved to see you.

“Right. Almost forgot,” you muttered, crouching down and breaking her chains. You grabbed her waist and threw her effortlessly onto your shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Her arms started flailing around as she grumbled, “Put me down this instant! I’m not some sack of potatoes!”

“Easy there, my lady,” you said. “Don’t waste your energies.”

She shot you a glare. “I should have stayed in the dungeon.”

“Sure, if you like mold and spiders,” you said..

“Do you even know how to carry a princess properly?” she huffed. “You’re all backward and rough.”

“Hey, I saved you from monsters and riddles, you’ll take what you get,” you replied. “Besides, this way you get the breeze.”

“Breeze? I’d rather get a proper horse ride.”

“I do have a horse, don’t worry princess.” You said as you reached the tree where your sturdy horse waited patiently. With a grunt, you lifted her off your shoulder and set her gently on the horse’s front, just in front of you.

The princess let out a satisfied sigh. “Now this is more like it. This is how a princess is supposed to ride: front and center, not squished on a saddle behind some sweaty knight.”

You laughed. “Don’t get used to it. Horses aren’t taxis.”

As you mounted behind her, you nudged the horse forward. “Hold tight, princess. The ride home’s just beginning.”

The horse started to ran back to your town. It was a bit far away from the forest. The kidnappers really took her far. Come to think of it, they must have been the two bodies that were lying in the corner. You didn’t bother checking though, it looked like they only had some copper on them.

Yuri seemed to be enjoying herself. You didn’t. Her hair was all over your face. She didn’t bother keeping it down, she was having her moment.

“So,” you began, “why exactly did you wander all the way to my shop if you were so keen to stay locked up in that castle? Did you try to kidnapped on purpose?”

She shot you a sharp look. “I was not trying to get kidnapped.”

“Uh-huh. Because the last time I checked, nobody kidnaps someone who’s just staying home.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wanted to see the world outside the palace walls, alright? And your shop was… intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That hut in the bittle of nowhere?”

She crossed her arms. “Well, it beats sitting around in fancy gowns and listening to your father’s endless council meetings.”

“Are you still upset about that marriage thing?” you asked.

She turned her head just slightly, enough for you to see the annoyed twitch in her brow. “I don’t want to marry you.”

You blinked. “You don’t?”

“That was before I knew how rude and disgusting you were,” she said, not even trying to soften the blow.

“Wow,” you said, chuckling. “Your tongue’s a bit sharp for a lady of your decorum.”

She huffed, tossing her hair. “Mmph. And you’re too much of a brute for a knight with such a reputation.”

“Brute? Please, I brought you out of a dungeon and a death cave. I saved you twice. That’s peak chivalry.”

She crossed her arms and scoffed. “You also threw a dagger into someone’s skull mid-monologue.”

“Look at you worrying about the feelings of a troll that almost killed you.”

She huffed again. “A real gentleman would’ve at least let him finish his sentence.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll let the soul-devouring creature deliver its magnificent speech before it eats someone’s face.”

She continued to glare at you. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” you said, leaning slightly closer, “you followed me all the way to my shop. Twice.”

“I was kidnapped the second time.”

You shrugged. “Sounds like excuses. Maybe you just like me.”

“I’d rather kiss a slime.”

You grinned. “Slimes are cute but they don’t carry you out of haunted forests.”

Her mouth opened, ready with a retort, but it didn’t come. Instead, she looked at you for a moment longer than usual, eyes narrowing slightly like she was trying to figure something out — or maybe, trying not to.

“Still don’t want to marry you,” she said finally, a little softer.

“Good,” you replied. “Neither do I, and besides, a beautiful princess like you shouldn’t be stuck chasing after dungeon shop owners.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“You deserve better,” you continued, sincerely. “Like one of those perfect knights our mothers told us about—blond hair, sparkling blue clothes, riding a shining white horse.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. “I’m nothing like that,” she murmured.

“Exactly,” you grinned. “You’re far prettier. And far more annoying and unlady like: you keep yapping and always have your forehead wrinkled because of your bad mood.”

She was starting to smile but you ruined it.

“You could have any suitor you want,” you said quietly. “Any prince from any kingdom, but I’m guessing none of them can keep up with you.”

The princess laughed softly. “Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe not.”

You guided the horse along the dusty road, the princess balanced in front of you, arms crossed like she was trying not to touch you any more than absolutely necessary. The silence was pleasing. There was a soft wind caressing your skin.

You were about 2 or 4 miles away from the town when she decided to speak. Again.

“Let me try riding your horse,” she said, tilting her head slightly without making eye contact.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

“I’m just saying… I’ve ridden horses before.”

“In parades?”

“Yes.”

“With guards holding the reins?”

“…Yes.”

“That doesn’t count,” you said.

She turned halfway toward you, her expression offended and deeply regal. “I know how to ride a horse.”

“Princess,” you said patiently, “this isn’t the royal paddock. That was a warhorse earlier that bit a goblin in half. And his name is Muckbeard.”

“I don’t care if his name is Ratface, I want to ride alone,” she huffed. “I don’t want to be carried around by you.”

“You were fine for the last hour,” you said. “And you’re going to hurt yourself, princess.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you afraid I’ll ride better than you?”

“Oh, definitely. I’d be so humiliated, I might retire.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

There was a long pause.

Then she raised her chin and said it again with absolute confidence: “Let me ride the horse.”

“You’re absolute sure, my princess? There’s absolutely no doubt in your mind?”

She shot you a deadly glare. “Give. Me. The. Reins.”

You sighed. “As you wish, Your Stubbornness.”

You dismounted and helped her up onto the saddle. She waved your hand away halfway through the assist, like she’d done this a thousand times. The horse, being a sensible creature, gave you a look like are you really going to let this happen?

She sat up straight, proud and smug. “See? Easy.”

“Wow,” you said. “And here I thought royal training was all embroidery and tea sets.”

She turned her nose up. “My posture is impeccable. I rode in parades.”

“Parades,” you repeated, dryly. “Were those horses alive?”

She kicked lightly, and the horse trotted forward, faster than she thought it would. She tried to grab the reins but Muckbeak kept turning imaginary corners, until it stopped abruptly at a bump in the path.

She did not.

There was a startled yelp, a flail of limbs, a rustle of skirts, and then a very undignified thump as she landed squarely on her backside in the dirt.

You froze. The horse froze.

“Don’t,” she said from the ground, already glaring up at you.

You tried. You really did. But a snort slipped out anyway.

“Don’t you dare laugh—”

You were already bent over, wheezing.

“Stop it!” She picked up a rock and hurled it at your foot.

“OW! Okay, okay!” You wiped your eyes. “Seriously though, that was incredible. You flipped, like, mid-air. I’ve never seen someone dismount a horse like that before. You might have some talent.”

“Shut. Up.” She was red-faced, brushing dust off her dress.

You offered a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you back on.”

She took your hand reluctantly. “If you didn’t save me, you’d be dead by now.”

It was already early evening when you reached your shop. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional shout of a vendor packing up or a kid chasing a chicken. You guided Muckbeard through the main road until the old shop sign creaked above you again.

You dismounted and offered a hand to the princess, who huffed, ignored it, and attempted to get down with royal dignity. She mostly succeeded, if you ignored the part where she landed on your foot.

“We’re here,” you said, stretching your back. “I’ll have a carriage sent to take you back to the castle first thing tomorrow. Don’t touch anything in the shop.”

She didn’t move.

“…Princess?”

She turned her head toward the town square, eyes wide. There was music playing somewhere. Lanterns lit the cobblestone path. Kids ran past laughing. A woman sold roasted chestnuts from a cart. A drunk bard was asleep in a flower bed.

“I’m not going back,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m staying,” she said, more firmly. “Just for a little while. I want to see the town.”

You stared at her like she’d sprouted wings. “This isn’t a royal vacation home. There are rats the size of goats. And pickpockets. And possibly more kidnappers.”

“I’ve spent my entire life in castles, towers, and dungeons. I want to see what normal people do. What you do.”

“I kill things and yell at customers,” you muttered.

She gave you a look.

You let out a long sigh and glanced toward your shop. “As stubborn as always, huh? Fine. But don’t expect to be treated like a princess alright?”

She looked at you expectantly.

“Alright, let’s go inside, Yuri,” you said, giving her a gesture.

Her jaw dropped. “How dare you?!”

You raised a brow. “What?”

“You don’t get to call me that.”

“But that’s your name, isn’t it? Jo Yuri?”

“It’s my full name. You’re not allowed to just use ‘Yuri’ like we’re friends or— ugh, peasants!”

You gave her a mock bow. “Apologies, Your Most Royal Highness Princess Jo Yuri of Castle of the WakeOne or whatever.”

“That was not sincere at all.”

“Well, Yuri, if you want to stay here, which was your request, you’ll have to blend in,” you said. “I can’t call you princess or my lady.

She pouted, then stole a glance at the warmly lit streets.

“Come on, Yuri,” you teased. “You’ll fit right in.”

You guided Yuri into the shop.

From the outside, it was nothing more than a little timber hut wedged between two crooked buildings but the moment she stepped inside, she lost her breath.

The walls seemed to stretch impossibly far. Strange trinkets glimmered under soft lanternlight: bottles filled with swirling liquid that shifted colors as she passed, blades suspended in midair, maps that whispered faintly in forgotten tongues. The floor was a patchwork of rich rugs from distant lands. The air smelled faintly of cedar, parchment, and a spice she couldn’t quite name. Yuri’s head turned from left to right, her gold hair catching the glow, as if she were a child trying to take in every wonder at once.

“You seem to like the place,” you commented.

“There are so much… stuff, inside here,” she said. “Where did you even get all of this? It must come from some distant kingdom.”

“Some of them do. I’ve met a lot of merchants while going to your dungeon. I collected most of these items in its floors.”

You put down your stuff in the back of your shop, leaving Yuri wandering around between the shelves.

“You can keep looking around. If you want to know anything, just ask me,” you said. “I’ll be attending to the last customers of the day.”

Yuri just hummed. She didn’t want to thank a guy like you. Her ego wouldn’t let her.

After settling the day’s customers and locking the shop’s creaky door, you led Jo Yuri upstairs to a small, modest room. You didn’t plant to have Yuri over but you did have a spare room just in case. The window was patched but let in the soft moonlight, and a rough wool blanket lay folded on the bed.

“This is as fancy as it gets,” you muttered, dropping a small candle on the bedside table.

She sat on the edge of the bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the plaster. “It’s… fine. Better than the dungeon.”

You nodded, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Jo Yuri’s gaze flicked to the door, then back to the floor. After a pause, she spoke quietly, almost too quietly: “Actually…”

You turned your head.

“Actually…” Her voice dropped low. Yuri was playing with her finger and couldn’t look at you in the eyes. “…Can I… come to your room instead?”

You froze, halfway out the door.

She looked away, cheeks flushed, voice tight. “Not because I like you or anything. Don’t be stupid. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

She huffed, glaring. “Maybe I’m not eager to be kidnapped again. Being stuck in a dungeon is not my favorite pastime.”

“Fair,” you said, suppressing a grin. “Well, it’s your lucky night. Come on up.”

She followed silently, eyes on the floor but fingers twitching nervously. Once inside your room, she immediately sat on the edge of your bed, avoiding your eyes at all cost.

You leaned against the doorframe. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I get it. I’m not judging you.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, though her voice wavered.

“I was just trying to comfort you, princess. I don’t think anyone would say no to have such a pretty lady in his room, right?”

She threw a pillow at you. You ducked just in time and it knocked a painting down.

“Stop,” she said, cheeks burning.

“Alright, alright.”

She sighed, the edge softening. “Thanks for letting me stay. Even if you’re a pain in the neck.”

“Don’t worry.”

You took off your boots and your jackets and laid down beside her. “We’ll have to get you some new clothes the next days.”

“Yeah.”

Both of you laid there, looking at the ceiling, without saying a word.

Outside, the distant hoot of an owl and the soft rustling of leaves told you the sky was already dark. Yuri’s hands clasped tightly around her necklace, staring at the worn sword resting against the wall.

After a long silence, you finally spoke. “Yuri,” you said softly. “What’s on your mind?”

She sighed, looking away. “Even though I’ve risked my life. These days have been the most exciting of my life. I’ve always felt like I was behind a glass wall. People expect me to be perfect. To smile, to know the right things, to be kind and graceful all the time.”

You nodded slowly. “Must be exhausting.”

She bit her lip. “And I’m scared. Scared that if I’m not perfect… if I show weakness… people will stop seeing me as someone worthy. It’s true that my father is the king but if the people reject me…”

Your gaze softened. “Sounds lonely.”

“It is.”

“Yuri, you’re human. It’s normal to have imperfections. Actually, I don’t think it’s normal to worry that much about the way you act… Unless you act bitchy, that’s very annoying.”

Yuri elbowed your rib.

“Ouch.” you chuckled.

“You always have to ruin everything, don’t you?” she complained.

“But really… you can act however you want around me, Yuri. I won’t judge,” you said. “We’ve met briefly but I can tell there’s a lot more under that title that you hold. You’re unlike every noble person I’ve ever met. You got a soul.”

For a long moment, you both sat in silence.

Then Yuri looked at you, her eyes wide and soft, like a lost puppy hoping for a little kindness. That quiet, vulnerable look tucked on your heartstring. You felt something stuck in your throat. It was as if she was silently asking, Please don’t leave me to face this alone.

Pet her head, dude, pet her head.

You couldn’t help but smile. No wonder she was so famous. Reaching out, your rough fingers ran through her fiery hair, giving her head a gentle, reassuring pat.

Good job.

“As your knight, I’ll be always here for you.”

She leaned into the touch, letting her cheek into the cushion, a flicker of peace washing over her face. “Thank you.”

You grinned softly. “Don’t mention it. Now get some sleep. I’m not letting you stay for free, you’ll work tomorrow. And a lot.”

Yuri learned the job faster than you’d expected, though not without a fair share of chaos in the beginning.

At first, she could barely remember where anything was. She’d mix up all sorts of potions and sell cursed objects because they looked nice. But she asked questions, paid attention, and learnt.

She memorized the shelves by walking the shop over and over, tracing her fingers along the rows until she could point out where everything belonged without looking. All the studying she did in her castle paid off.

Her natural charm did the rest. A lot of male customers stopped over and over again, curious to see who was the pretty lady witht he gold hair. Sshe also won over the older ladies of the town, laughing with them about their gossips and teasing them into trying something new. They, in turn, brought her little gifts: fresh bread, fruit, the occasional knitted scarf as if she were their own daughter.

She still made some mistakes from time to time. She stood behind the counter, carefully holding a small, ornately decorated vial. She squinted at the label.

“Hey, Yuri,” you called out, wiping your hands on a leather apron as you leaned against a nearby shelf stacked with oddities from your last expedition.

She looked up with an eager smile. “Yes?”

You nodded toward the vial she held. “What’s that one?”

Yuri examined the bottled. “It’s a potion,” she said thoughtfully. “It helps older men… stay strong.”

You smiled. “You mean the ‘Elder’s Spark’?”

“Yeah!” she said brightly. “I thought it was about stamina. You know, for running long distances, or fighting monsters longer.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s one way to look at it.”

Yuri’s eyes widened as the realization dawned, her cheeks flushing a bright shade of crimson. “Wait—what does it do?”

You grinned and leaned in conspiratorially. “Let’s just say it’s more about performance in the bedroom, not the battlefield.”

Her jaw dropped, and she quickly tried to hide the vial behind her back, embarrassed but amused. “I almost sold this to the mayor yesterday.”

"Well, that probably would have saved his marriage."

She also got really comfortable around you. “You’ve been frowning at those swords for ten minutes,” she said. “Do you love them that much, or are you just mad they’re prettier than you?”

You glanced at her. “Funny. I was just thinking how these swords remind me of you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Sharp?”

“Expensive and high maintenance.”

She scoffed and flicked a stray piece of paper at you. “I am not high maintenance.”

“You are.”

“And yet,” she said, standing straighter, “you keep me around.”

“It’s not like I have a choice…”

You also changed, although you hated to admit it.

It was just another afternoon when a tall man draped in an expensive coat walked into the shop. He pretended to glance at the products but really, his eyes went straight to Yuri who, in a light blue dress and with her hair loosely tied back, looked far too attractive for her own good.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”

Yuri straightened behind the counter, tucking a loose strand of gold hair behind her ear. She even smiled, the nice smile she never used on you. “I’m Yuri. Welcome to our shop.”

The man’s grin widened. “A beautiful name. Fitting.”

Yuri laughed briefly. “Thank you, sir, how may I help you? Do you need some potions?”

He flicked a glance your way, dismissive, then leaned on the counter. “And what would you recommend, Miss Yuri?”

“Oh, well…” Yuri leaned forward slightly, pointing at the display right in front of her. “This one here is excellent for stamina, especially on long journeys.”

The man smirked. “And what about something… more invigorating?”

She laughed and your shoulder tensed. “We might have something for that, too.” She picked up a smaller vial and turned it in her hand, her fingers brushing his when she passed it over.

You muttered under your breath as you rearranged bottles over and over again. “Unbelievable.”

“Hmm?” Yuri looked up just enough to catch your expression. Her eyes lit up: oh no, she noticed.

She passed another potion across the counter. “You know,” she said to the nobleman, “some of our customers are very loyal. They keep coming back… even when they don’t need anything.”

The man chuckled. “I can see why.”

“Yuri serve the man, stop talking.”

She tilted her head at you, all innocence. “Oh? Are you… concerned for our customer?”

You didn’t answer, and that was all the confirmation she needed. A wicked smirk spread across her face.

She turned back to the man lowering her voice, but still making you sure you’d hear her. “You know, sir, I don’t usually have company this charming in the shop. It’s refreshing.”

Your grip tightened around the neck of a bottle.

Yuri’s eyes flicked to you briefly, catching the twitch in your jaw. Oh, she was enjoying this.

You know, I usually don’t let just anyone see the back room. But for a gentleman like you… maybe I’ll make an exception.”

The man’s eyes sparkled. “Is that an invitation?”

She batted her lashes and said, “Maybe it is. But only if you promise to behave.”

You felt a flicker of irritation. Behave?

“Looks like you’re enjoying the attention,” you said. You glanced at Yuri, who was pretending not to notice but the amusement in her eyes was clear.

She laughed softly, folding her arms. “Well, someone’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Me? Please.”

Yuri’s grin widened. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

The man shifted awkwardly, sensing he didn’t belong in the store anymore. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck with your… shop.”

You watched him go, then turned back to Yuri, who was still smiling like a fool.

“Alright, Yuri,” you said quietly, “don’t flirt with our customers. I don’t want this shop polluted with players and whatnot. It will hurt the shop.”

“Sure. For the shop, keep telling you that.”

You cleared your throat. “Obviously, for the shop. What else?”

Living with Yuri was starting to become enjoyable for the both of you but the situation couldn’t last forever, and you saw the first sign a couple of months after the start of her stay.

The bell above the shop door rang again, and you looked up from your the sword you were polishing. Inside stepped a bard, wearing something too fancy to belong to anyone from this town. You examined his face for a moment and remembered: it was the fellow you had slipped a discount card to back in the throne room. He still had his lute over his shoulder.

“Welcome,” you said, leaning over the counter. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the ten percent off special.”

He grinned nervously, “Guilty.” You laughed as he came closer to the desk. “Yep, I wanted to see if you had anything interesting…” His eyes drifted past you, around the shelves and then he froze.

Yuri had just stepped out from the back room, arms full of different types of clothes. The bard’s smile faltered; he dropped his jaw, seemingly having seen a dragon for the first time. “My… lady?” he whispered.

Yuri blinked and looked around. “Me…? Do I know you?”

“Princess Jo Yuri,” he stammered, assuming a reverent tone. “I… I thought you were kidnapped! The whole kingdom is looking for you!”

The color drained from Yuri’s face. “You—you must be mistaken,” she blurted.

The bard stepped closer, looking carefully at Yuri’s face. “I would know that face anywhere.” His gaze flicked to you. “What in god’s name is going on here?”

“Hey, man, calm down,” you said.

The bard’s gaze flicked to you. “Do you realize what this means? The court believes she’s missing! Gone! They’ve sent search parties, messages, knights… You have to come back, my lady.”

Yuri shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip. “I don’t want to go back,” she admitted.

The bared stared at her in disbelief. “Princess, you can’t just stay here! You belong to—”

“Don’t tell me where I belong,” Yuri snapped.

“My lady, a woman of your caliber cannot stay in this poor dirty town.”

“If you truly serve the crown, you’ll stay quiet about this,” Yuri said. “I’m still your princess and I order you to keep this a secret.”

“My lady, this—I don’t know…” The bard scratched his head nervously as he glanced between the two of you. “Princess Jo Yuri herself hiding in a potion shop? Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out?”

“How?” you said. “Most people have never seen the faces of the royal family. They don’t even know the face of the King. It’s all tales and songs.”

The bard nodded. You had a good point. After all, she’d stayed here for months and nobody said anything.

Yuri crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “I’m not hiding. I’m living here.”

“Sorry, I don’t think I’ve heard you properly. You call this living?” He gestured to the shelves of potions. “You, who used to dine on silver and silk, selling weird potions to farmers and servants? God knows what would happen if a crazy drunk came in here.”

“That’s why I’m here,” you said.

“That’s true but…”

“Don’t worry about it, she’s all good.”

The bard rubbed his temples. “You don’t understand. That doesn’t change the fact that half the kingdom’s searching for her. If I keep quiet, I’m risking my neck.”

Yuri had gotten closer to you, putting her left hand close to yours, holding you. Her other hand was nervously playing with her apron. “Please. I don’t want to go back. You know it’s more dangerous there. People want me dead.”

The bard thought for a long moment, then he exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping. “Fine. I’ll keep your secret. But saints help me, if someone else recognizes you, I won’t be able to stop the chaos.”

“We’ll deal with it when it comes,” Yuri said, though her voice trembled just slightly.

You shifted closer, feeling her hand tightening against yours, and put your arm lightly around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away. Her messy bun was slipping loose, and you could see the fear in her eyes. You squeezed her gently.

The bard groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. I’ll be damned. You’re married now, right?”

“No.”

“Not yet.”

He leaned across the counter, lowering his voice. “You’d better make it worth my while. I expect a larger discount.”

“Larger? You’re getting everything for free.”

The bard blinked. “For free?”

“Yeah,” you said, patting Yuri’s hand as you held it. “Because if anyone asks, you were never here.”

The bard laughed nervously, stepping back from the counter. “Gods help me, I think I just sold my soul.”

The bard was good enough not to empty the shelves, though he certainly didn’t leave empty-handed. Still, you didn’t complain—he was doing you a huge favor. Keeping his mouth shut was worth far more than a few bottles of potion.

“You really think we can trust him?” she asked softly.

You glanced at the door where the bard had disappeared, then at her. “Not completely,” you admitted. “But he owes us now. And besides…” You reached out and adjusted the apron string slipping from her shoulder. “I’ll handle it if things go wrong.”

It wasn’t long until you had to deal with it again.

You’ve noticed some people hanging some posters around the city. You took one of the copies that they were trying to put on your door, shooing away the man.

“What’s the point of this? No one in this city can read,” you huffed.

“I can read,” Yuri said.

“You’re a princess Yuri. I’m clearly not talking about you, you airhead,” you said. She gave you a look and stopped talking. “Hey, look at what it says here.”

Yuri sighed, put down her stuff and went beside you.

You smoothed it across the counter and read the bold letters:

[Prince Damian seeks the most beautiful woman in the kingdom to be his bride. All maidens are encouraged to present themselves at the capital.]

You whistled. “Well, guess you’re in trouble, Yuri.”

“Trouble?”

You waved the poster at her. “Says here the prince is looking for the prettiest woman in the land. You’re sitting right at the top of that list.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned back to her shelf. “D-Don’t say ridiculous things. Plenty of women are prettier.”

Then she cleared her throat, frowning. “Didn’t you once say there were whores as pretty as me?”

“Oh, you still remember.” You tried for a grin and cleared your throat. “You know I didn’t mean it. Besides, the whole town comes here just to look at you. You’re clearly the most beautiful woman around.”

She shot you a glare. “Flattery won’t make me forget what you said.”

“Anyway,” you said, shrugging, “what are the odds the prince ever finds you? Out of all the women in the kingdom?”

A trumpet blast blared outside.

You and Yuri froze.

The door slammed open, and in strode a tall man dressed in royal blues and gold, a sparkling emblem pinned to his chest. His hair glinted like polished copper in the sunlight, and behind him, a pair of armored guards tried to squeeze into the tiny doorway.

“I have been informed,” he declared in a deep, sonorous voice, “that this establishment houses a maiden of rare beauty.”

“Oh, come on, this is not possible,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “It’s like one of those dramas again.”

Sorry, you are in one. Story was getting too boring.

Yuri was standing behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of ink on her cheek from the ledger she’d been writing in. Her hair was loosely tied, a few strands falling against her face as she leaned over the desk. Just an apron, a little messy, and completely absorbed in her work.

Prince Damian stopped dead, as though struck by lightning. “By the saints,” he whispered. “I’ve found my angel.”

Yuri blinked at him, baffled. “Um… can I help you?”

Damian cleared his throat. “I… I beg your pardon. Forgive my forwardness. It is simply—such beauty, I thought it only existed in songs.”

Yuri’s face reddened. She tugged at her apron, edging back. “I’m really not—”

“Please,” Damian said earnestly, “come with me. Be my wife. I promise you riches, power—anything you desire.”

“No.” Yuri shook her head. “No thank you. I’m not interested.”

“That’s not how this works,” Damian said. His eyes turned dark, and he snapped his fingers.

The two giants moved before you could react. One grabbed your right arm, the other your left. “Hey! You brutes!” you shouted, legs kicking helplessly. “Put me down!”

“Do something!” Yuri cried, backing up as Damian advanced on her. “You’re the one who cleared the dungeon!”

“I would do something!” you grunted, struggling against the iron grips on your arms. “But in case you haven’t noticed—” you jerked your chin toward the guards, “—these guys are double my size! How am I supposed to move?!”

Yuri stomped her foot. “That’s not an excuse!”

The giants shoved you towards the shelf, knocking down all of your bottles. “That’s worth a fortune, you bastards!”

Damian ignored you, eyes fixed on Yuri as he reached for her hand. “Don’t be afraid, my lady. Your proper place is at my side.”

“Proper place?!” Yuri slapped his hand away. “Get away from me!”

He snapped again. More guards burst in. They grabbed Yuri despite her thrashing and hauled her outside.

“Rob the place,” he said casually. “Take whatever looks valuable. Burn the rest if you like. And as for him…” Damian’s gaze flicked to you, still wriggling uselessly under the grip of the giants. “…take him far from here. Somewhere no one will hear him whining.”

One brute grinned, showing missing teeth. “Forest’ll do.”

“Good. The darker the better.” Damian adjusted his cloak and left the shop.

You thrashed again, fury boiling. “You fuck—”

A fist like a sledgehammer struck your stomach, knocking the words and breath out of you. Your knees buckled, but the guards didn’t let go; they just dragged you out, boots scraping the floor. The door slammed shut behind you, the bell jingling mockingly.

The world blurred as they hauled you down the street, through alleys, past the faces of townsfolk too afraid to intervene. The further they carried you, the fewer people there were. The cobblestones gave way to dirt, the dirt to roots, until the towering trees of the old forest swallowed you whole.

After halfway through the journey, you heard the horses leave. The two giants carried you alone through the forest. You figured it was because of the rumors about the monsters the resided inside its trees.

“Here,” one grunted. “Nobody comes this far. Perfect for dumpin’ trash.”

The two brutes shoved you hard, and you hit the dirt beside the crooked stone well. They loomed over you debating how to finish the job.

The bigger one cracked his knuckles. “We could end him right here. Damian won’t care.”

The second nodded.

You groaned, rolling to one side, then forced out a laugh. “Yeah, sure, kill me. Brilliant idea. You’ll be eating grass and drinking mud before the week’s over.”

That made them pause.

You grinned through the blood on your lip. “Damian isn’t sending a carriage back. The guards already left you. Without me, you’ll starve in a week.”

The smaller brute frowned. “…We’ll find food.”

“Really?” You cocked your head. “Do either of you know which berries kill you? Could you even make a fire with those bulbous hands? Lucky for you, I can hunt. Keep me alive, and you’ll survive.You want to kill me, fine, but then you’ll starve to death right next to my corpse.”

The brutes exchanged a long, uneasy glance.

“Damian won’t like it…”

But finally, the smaller one grunted. “Fine. But if you try anything—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You lifted your hands.

The two giants eventually agreed to keep you alive. That night, they forced you to make fire. You built it easily, and slipped into the forest to hunt some rabbits. You thought about running away but the forest was too thick and they’d find you before you were out.

“Dinner’s served, gentlemen,” you said cheerfully, stirring.

They ate like starving dogs, not leaving anything to you. Their greed would be their death. The big one belched, then frowned. His stomach growled, loud. The other groaned, clutching his side. “What the hell… did you—”

They both toppled over.

The larger brute tried to curse you, but his words turned into a gargle. Within moments, the forest was quiet again except for the crackle of the fire.

You sat back, wiped your hands and looked around to figure out where you were located. “Now to figure out how the hell I get back to Yuri…”

You trudged through the forest, muttering curses under your breath. The firelight was long gone behind you, and the only companions left were the trees and the few animals of the night.

That’s when you heard it. A faint, lilting tune, carried by the breeze. You froze. It wasn’t just noise, it was music. A lute, paired with a soft humming voice.

“No way…” you muttered, following the sound.

And there he was, sitting cross-legged on a rock by a small fire: the bard.

He looked up, nearly dropping his lute when he saw you. “Mr adventurer. You look awful.”

You staggered closer, half laughing, half desperate. “I could kiss you right now, miracle man.”

“Please don’t.” He raised a hand and wrinkled his nose. “You smell like mushrooms and dog shit.”

You dropped beside his fire, catching your breath. “Yuri—Damian’s men—they took her. Two brutes dragged me out here to die, but… I saved myself.”

The bard’s face hardened. “Damian? The prince of the West?”

You clenched your fists. “Yes. And if I don’t get a horse right now, God knows what Damian will do to her.”

The bard whistled. From the shadows, a sleek black horse trotted into the firelight.

You stared, then nearly laughed. “You’re a lifesaver.” You hugged him.

He stiffened. “It’s my duty to serve the princess. I’ll send word to the king. But Damian’s county isn’t close. You’ll have to ride hard.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” You swung into the saddle. “Thank you, friend.”

“Try not to die,” the bard said dryly.

You tugged the reins. The horse surged forward. Two days, no breaks, nothing but potions to keep you and the horse going.

You stopped just short of the castle gates, already knowing you couldn’t fight your way in. Two giant guards in polished armor crossed their halberds in front of you.

“Halt. State your business.”

You held your hands up casually. “My business is inside. I have to meet Prince Damian and—”

“No entry without writ or seal,” one of them cut in. “Orders are strict. The prince doesn’t want interruptions.”

You sighed, patted your belt pouch, and let a few coins jingle. “Well… perhaps the prince doesn’t want interruptions. But you gentlemen don’t strike me as the kind of men who want to stand in the cold all night without a little… warmth in your pockets.”

The guards glanced at each other. One cleared his throat. “It’s not that easy—”

You dropped a handful of silver into the man’s gauntleted hand. The weight clinked nicely. His eyes softened.

“…Maybe easier than I thought,” he said.

The other guard leaned closer, frowning. “What about me?”

You groaned. “Fine. Both of you.” You split the pouch, handing the second guard his share.

They both stepped aside in unison, their halberds lifting like a grand ceremony. “Welcome, traveler.”

Inside, the castle was alive with light and music. You slipped through the outer hallways, quiet as a cat. A lone servant rounded the corner, carrying a tray of fruit and wine. Bad timing for him. Before he could scream, you grabbed him by the collar and gave him a quick thunk against the wall. He slumped like a sack of potatoes, the goblet of wine rolling across the floor.

“Sorry, buddy. Nothing personal.”

You stripped him of his fine doublet and ridiculous feathered cap, tugged it all on over your own clothes. The outfit fit poorly, but with a little tugging, it would pass. Before going, you had to get a couple of bites of whatever was on that tray. You haven’t eaten in a while. Of course, you had to fix it a bit around so it didn’t look empty. You adjusted the cap and marched down the corridor.

A pair of guards stopped you again.

“Where are you going?”

You gave them the most condescending look you could muster, like you’d been wearing silk your whole life. “To see the prince, obviously. Do you want to explain to him why his refreshments are late?”

The guards stiffened immediately. “No, sir.” They moved aside at once.

You strolled past. “That’s what I thought.”

In the meanwhile, Damian was trying his best to court Yuri. His rose hovered in front of Yuri but she didn’t take it. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, arms folded tight. “You’ve got some nerve,” she said coldly.

Damian blinked. “Nerve?”

“You kidnapped me.” Her voice was flat, biting, every word like a slap. “And now you’re offering me flowers? Do you think I’m that stupid? That if you dangle a shiny petal, I’ll just forget the part where your thugs nearly snapped his spine and dragged me here against my will?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I only did what was necessary. For someone like you, a crown, a castle, it is destiny. I—”

“Oh, spare me,” Yuri cut in, rolling her eyes. “Destiny? Please. You brought me here because you want a pretty prize to sit beside you. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Something to show off.”

Damian’s face flushed red. “You misjudge me. I only—”

“No,” Yuri snapped “I’m not some fragile doll you can shove in a corner and crown with jewels. And if you think I’d ever marry the man who thought kidnapping was the way to win me, then you’re even dumber than your stupid posters.”

You burst through the door, heart hammering, and skidded to a stop in the middle of the room. The dining room quieted. All the nobles and servants turned around to look at you. Damian looked up as well at the armed servant.

“Take your hands off Yuri!” you barked, stepping forward. “She’s mine!”

Yuri’s eyes widened for a split second before a giggle escaped her lips, soft and airy, like a little girl caught in a game. She covered her mouth, trying to hide it, but it only made it worse.

Damian arched a brow, unbothered, and leaned back in his chair. “Yours? A bold claim.” He rose smoothly, his smirk cutting. “Nothing belongs to you. Everything in this land is mine.” His fist slammed onto the table, rattling goblets and plates.

You squared your shoulders. “Then prove it. Fight me. Defend your honor—if you have any.”

The nobles stirred, whispering and glancing at each other. Damian’s pride was on the line, he couldn’t refuse. “A duel, then. The prince never backs down.”

Yuri gave a helpless laugh, cheeks pink, her eyes darting between the two of you.

“Enough talk,” you snapped. “Draw your weapon.”

Damian raised his hand. A servant rushed forward, bearing a polished rapier whose steel gleamed in the torchlight. Elegant, deadly. You looked at your own weapon: a short, unimpressive dagger stolen from a distracted guard. It felt like a toy in your hand.

“…Hardly fair,” you muttered.

“Then kneel now,” Damian sneered.

“Never.”

“Begin!”

He lunged with startling speed, the rapier whistling inches from your face. You twisted aside, heart pounding, and the crowd gasped.

“Fast,” you admitted, circling, “but have you ever fought anything that wasn’t a wooden mannequin?”

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Damian’s lips curled back as he struck again, graceful arcs that would have looked beautiful on a practice field. You ducked, scraped your dagger against his blade, and jabbed for his ribs. He twisted away, silk sleeve hissing.

Steel rang out, sparks flashing as he slashed at you again and again. You retreated step by step, deflecting blows with desperate scrappiness, your dagger screeching against the rapier. Each strike rattled your bones, but your quips made the nobles laugh and whisper.

“You’re stalling!” Damian spat, his breath ragged with frustration.

“Of course I’m stalling,” you panted. “I’ve got a butter knife if you haven’t noticed, you fool.”

Damian’s face flushed crimson. He redoubled his attack, the rapier a blur of silver, driving you toward the wall. Your shoulders brushed cold stone. He thrust, and you rolled under the blade at the last second.

The rapier stabbed into the wooden beam behind you with a deep crack. Damian tugged hard, veins bulging, but the blade stayed wedged fast.

The hall went silent.

You rose, and taunted him again. “Now that’s embarrassing.”

The crowd cooed, and Damian’s fury boiled over. He let go of the rapier and swung at you bare-fisted. His knuckles grazed your jaw. You staggered, caught yourself, then rammed the hilt of your dagger into his face. He stumbled back, roaring in rage.

He lunged with a tackle, but you sidestepped and kicked his knee. He buckled. You followed with a boot to his gut, driving the breath from his lungs. Then, for show, you spun and swept his legs out from under him.

The prince crashed flat on his back, gasping, armor clattering against stone.

The nobles pressed closer, their whispers like the hiss of snakes. Some cheered. Others looked horrified. Yuri’s laughter had vanished, her eyes were wide now, lips parted in a worried gasp.

You planted your boot on Damian’s chest and pressed your dagger to his throat. “It’s over.”

“Go to hell!” he snarled.

For a heartbeat, silence. The crowd leaned in.

Then you drove your dagger into the unguarded gap of his armor. His eyes widened, lips parting soundlessly. A shudder ran through him, and then he slumped still beneath your boot.

Yuri jumped down from her perch, running towards. “Ooooh! You did it! You won! That was amazing!”

Panting, you threw the dagger down at the floor and looked at her, exasperated and laughing at the same time. “Please tell me you’re not giggling over the fact he’s dead.”

“Of course I am!” she squealed like a little girl, grabbing your arm. “That was the best duel ever! You were so brave! And strong! And amazing! Finally you’re acting like a proper hero!”

You pinched your nose between your fingers, trying to keep a semblance of composure. “I… I guess that means I won, huh?”

She giggled, pressing close. “Oh, yes! You won me!”

“I would have preferred some gold, to be honest,” you joked.

Yuri shoved you. “You always have to ruin everything, don’t you?”

The castle gates thundered open. You barely had time to catch your breath from the duel when a full retinue of armored knights stormed into the hall. At their head rode the King himself, his armor gleaming, crown set firmly upon his head.

His eyes swept the room, taking in the chaos, before settling on you. He blinked once, momentarily startled by your attire—you looked more like a wandering jester than a knight. His attention shifted to Damian’s lifeless body. He understood what happened.

“You killed Damian, didn’t you?” the King said, his voice calm but firm. “He has troubled my kingdom long enough. You’ve truly done me a favor.”

A long exhale escaped you, tension slipping from your shoulders at last. Behind you, Yuri stepped forward, hands clasped nervously.

The King’s eyes softened as they met hers. “Yuri?” His voice was gentle, tinged with relief. “You—”

“Yes, Father. I am safe now,” she said, her words steady.

“And you…” His gaze turned back to you, piercing and deliberate. “You are the adventurer, the one who rescued Princess Yuri from that dungeon months ago… and refused my offer of marriage.”

You inclined your head. “Yes, Sire. I could not accept then… but I could not let her be taken again.”

The King’s stern expression softened, giving way to gratitude and relief. “Twice you have risked your life for my daughter. I am indebted to you.”

You just removed your hat and bowed.

Yuri stepped closer, brushing her hand against yours. “Father… I no longer wish to remain a noble. I want to leave with him.”

The King raised an eyebrow, concern flickering in his gaze. “Do you understand what it means to live among the common people?”

“Yes, Father. I… I’ve been living with him these past months, helping in his shop,” Yuri confessed, cheeks flushing. “I escaped the castle myself.”

The King’s eyes widened in surprise, then shifted between the two of you. After a long pause, he nodded slowly, a quiet approval in his gaze. “Very well. It seems I don’t have to be worried as long as you’re with him.”

Yuri’s shoulders relaxed, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips.

“And… have you decided to marry my daughter now?” the King asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. “After all you have done?”

You looked at Yuri, exhaled, and smiled. “Yes. I will marry her.”

A gasp escaped Yuri’s lips before she flung herself into your arms, kissing you and clinging tightly. You laughed softly, holding her close.

And so, hand in hand, the princess and the knight left the castle behind to live a life of their own. Together, you rebuilt the shop, free of the harassment of the IRS, and business flourished with your wife at your side. And thus they lived happily ever after.

THE END

Written, 12 July - 18 August 2025

Author's note

I wrote this after watching The Princess Bride and Robin Hood: Men in Tights. They're great movies and very funny, so I recommend them to everyone. I'm not used to writing this stuff, so it is very rough, but I still hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading it.

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ducktoo · 1 day ago

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Basically me and creative works in general-

Hate how excitement for writing a story just disappears out of nowhere, for no apparent reason.

Spend all day at work thinking of the plot, dying to get home and have free time to write. Once I'm home and free, the excitement is nowhere to be found😒

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ducktoo · 1 day ago

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i want ice cream....

Nea-fucking-politan

tripleS Yoon Seoyeon, Seo Dahyun, Hsu Nien Tzu

Wordcount: 1.5k

a/n: fuck it. sayang naman bfh!! no edit but u alr knew that I have another one in the works (sorry @kwilquib I'm hoping I get it out within the week tho) also @firagaarmor @sinswithpleasure @whichaeyoung

~~~

Seo Dahyun is nothing without these three things: her beautiful voice, her insane stamina, and her absolute willingness for anything and everything under the sun. It started with a tub of ice cream shared amongst the three of you, yet now it lies forgotten, half-eaten and half-melted on the table receiving secondhand shocks from the bouncing on the bed.

Her legs shake in Nien’s arms, her whimpers making their way into your ears behind her. Holding her up is starting to become a chore, but watching her pupils drift up and into the back of her skull is something truly out of this fucking world. She has a hand on your shoulder, holding on for dear life, with her other arm hooked around Nien’s neck, trying to find some semblance of stability past the two dildos invading her front and back at the same time. NIen herself has her eyes shut tight, teeth embedded into Dahyun’s shoulder, her hands gripping Dahyun’s hips so impossibly tight as she bounces her on her strap. You grow just the slightest bit jealous, knowing that Dahyun’s asshole was the more sensitive of the two, but you tuck it away knowing you’ll have your turn with it eventually.

It’s one solid twitch, starting from Dahyun’s core outward, making her thighs jiggle beautifully and sending her toes curling and uncurling like nothing she’s ever felt. It travels up her tightening abs, through her flailing arms, down to her fingers that grip ever tightening onto anything she can grab. Your shoulder is one victim, and the slight pain fights its way through the “worth its” of how good she looks taking both straps at the same time. She’s begging, “Nien, Seoyeon, please,” in that sultry, pervy voice that betrays her real desires: do as she says, not as she does.

You yank yourself out of her abused cunt, and immediately she lets out a stream of cum that soaks you up to the abs. Her squirt is warm and slick on your skin, addictively sweet like her voice that continues rising and rising as you rub the underside of your dildo onto her throbbing clit. Nien doesn’t stop, revelling in watching Soda pop and burst, shooting her cum all over your lower half. The look in Nien’s eye reveals something sinister: it’s her turn.

“Spit roast, spit roast,” Nien chants as she throws Dahyun forward onto the bed. She pants like she’s only relearned how to breathe, but ever the trooper, gets up and fiddles with the buckles and clips of Nien’s strap. She clicks it on herself just as sluggishly, aiming the other side of the strap inside her cunt. She shivers again, breasts heaving as she violates herself, while Nien shocks you awake from the daze and takes your lips and chest for herself. She rubs your nipples like you’re all hers, and honestly, you could do with a bit more of this attention. You came first, after all, and getting touched again so soon out of turn is a fucking blessing. She strokes your cock, stimulating your inside as the nub over your clit whirrs as it vibrates, getting you ready for her instructions:

“Seoyeon, pussy, Dahyun, throat,” Nien says with much too much innocent-sounding excitement for what she’s asking you to do. But Dahyun doesn’t mind; as soon as Nien falls back and gets comfy, a pillow under the small of her back and her legs spread apart for you, Dahyun inches her cock closer to Nien’s face like it’s the only place it’ll ever go. Nien parts her lips for her, wanting to get a few licks in first, but Dahyun doesn’t notice—or doesn’t want to notice—inches her cock straight into Nien’s throat instead. She has her eyes shut, still hazy from the earlier orgasm that still stains your abs and whimpering from how the tightness of Nien’s neck makes the other side of the dildo inside her go crazy, while Nien gets a hold on her thighs, seemingly unsure of whether to push her off or pull her deeper. The gluck-gluck-gluck that escapes from Nien’s throat fills your head with a haze of your own, and you take your place in between her legs, longing for that same attention.

Somehow, she’s tighter. It takes a bit more effort to push past the resistance that is Nien’s pussy, and with the way you slide in as your tip finally—violently—clears her entrance, you’d wager that Nien would have screamed her lungs out if she could. Instead she’s left with nothing but a strangled whimper, with more than just moans caught in her throat as you repeatedly feel yourself hit her deepest and most intimate spots. She reaches out to you, trying to find something of yours to have and hold, but all you do is watch as her hand flails around, signalling her begging for mercy. It’s what she wanted, right? To use and be used, just like Dahyun, just like you. The haze thickens in your head, threatening worse things to inflict on Nien’s body, and you, like Dahyun with her hands on Nien’s bouncing tits, give in.

You take the ice cream tub from the table, contemplating which flavor to have: chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry, and trying your hardest at that. It’s all but fruitful though, and as the vibrator buzzes against your clit, your fucking Nien making it all the more intense, you just pick what any other person in your position would pick: all of the above.

You turn the tub over, and the semi-melted mixture falls onto Nien’s chest. She shivers from the cold—her tits and thighs shake as it makes contact with her skin—but there’s not a single care or thought in your head past the anticipation of licking all that yummy ice cream off her juicy tits. But it’s one last thing: Dahyun reaches her hand out, asking for the tub. Wordlessly it changes hands, and the only thing she can do, through half-lidded eyes no less, was to dip Nien’s toes in what little of it was left. She takes her by the ankle, and thank God for Nien’s flexibility, sucks each and every single one of her toes in turn, humming with every pop of her lips.

Nien grips the sheets, threatening to pull it off the corners of the bed, as the overwhelming battering of sensations overtake every single one of her senses. Dahyun doesn’t notice—or doesn’t want to notice—as she happily moans with each jerk of Nien’s toes against her tongue, each gluck of her throat sending delicious vibrations through her strap and into her own cunt leaking onto Nien’s face underneath her. It’s too much, much too much for Nien, but you can’t help it: her tits look so fucking good.

You bend down onto Nien’s chest, and Nien finally finds you; your teeth close gently around her nipple, and she grabs a fistful of your hair. Nien holds you closer, rubs your face all over her chest, smearing the ice cream all over your cheeks, nose and eyes, all the while you carry on feeling the soft flesh of her tits against your face. Try as you might, Nien fails to allow you long drags of your tongue on her boobs, so you settle for tiny licks, pecks, and nuzzles on her bouncing flesh. You’re thankful, at the very least, for Dahyun who fucks Nien’s throat so hard she fucks her onto your strap as well—you’re much too busy trying to catch Nien’s nipples again as the sticky cream gets in the way of your eyes.

And it’s the same ending all over again; you assume it must have been that way with you too. Nien starts to shake, her fingers wrapping around your hair, tugging at your scalp harder than any hair dye ever could. You feel her thighs jiggling against yours, her chest heaving against your tongue, and the one thing you see past the vanilla in your eyelashes is the bulge of Dahyun’s cock pumping up and down Nien’s throat. She’s probably crying, but with the way she pushes neither of you off, you can tell she loves these types of connected, dialed in, late night activities. It’s an insane way to go, you think, as you listen to how she almost gets “Seoyeon, Seoyeon, Seoyeon” right despite the cock violating her throat. It barely registers, the way her pussy tightens around your strap, before she splashes her own cum right on top of Dahyun’s earlier orgasm. You try pulling out, but the moment your cock vacates her sore pussy, it falls right back down and slaps her clit one last time: another fresh stream of squirt douses your abs as you rock your strap back and forth over her throbbing nub.

Dahyun yanks herself out, seemingly having cum herself, and as she pulls out, you find Nien’s face soaked with Dahyun’s slick all the same. She chokes, coughs, wheezes as her lungs cry and scream for just one proper breath of air, and in that moment, only one thought is in your head:

“Dahyun, ass, Nien, throat.”

~~~

238 notes · View notes

ducktoo · 2 days ago

Text

Triple flavour, triple the fun

Nea-fucking-politan

tripleS Yoon Seoyeon, Seo Dahyun, Hsu Nien Tzu

Wordcount: 1.5k

~~~

“Dahyun, ass, Nien, throat.”

~~~

238 notes · View notes

ducktoo · 2 days ago

Text

Fckk u telling me this is the high standard of writing im sharing this platform with…?

The part where they drink beer is lowkey the best part 👍 oc just fcking gun for it

DEPARTURE

male reader x hwang yeji

13k words

So far as you can tell, Yeji never loved you. A wish beyond your reach.

April, and you were barely seventeen. It was spring, but the weather hadn’t gotten wind of that just yet. So—cool, rainy, just like every April before it.

Yeji’s voice stuck a perfect landing in your ears. "You know what’s crazy?"

"No?" you responded cautiously.

"Apparently this stuff starts out as a wheat, or a rye. You believe that?"

You paused. "What the hell is rye?"

"It’s… well, it’s like a wheat."

The wood crackled again, embers sent flying into the chill night air. Now that the fire had already begun burning out in front of you, you pulled your jacket tight around your shoulders.

"Okay. Ready? On three."

"Wait a second." You raised a finger in the air. "One, two, three?—or, one, two, three go?"

"Who on earth does one, two, three, go?"

"I dunno."

Yeji twisted an eyebrow without saying anything and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. The coals and dying gasps of the bonfire between you illuminated the sharp, perfected features of her face, casting a set of even sharper shadows.

"I mean some people do," you added.

"Do I look like some people?"

That mischievous smirk again pulled at the corner of her lip. It was dark and hard to see, but you could feel it.

"You look like you’re trying to get me sick," you said.

"Don’t be such a baby about it. Just do it with me."

"On go?"

"On three." She curled her lip, dissatisfied with you yet again. "One. Two. Three."

Eyes closed, you tilted the cup back against your lips. A dark, dreadful liquor pooled in your cheeks. And against your better judgment, it finally seared its way down your throat. For a moment, it sat woefully in your stomach, like a question mark. Your eyes watered, your chest heaved, coughing and choking.

It took a beat, but eventually you would make peace with it, the beverage equivalent of a kick to the head. You were just thankful it had not elected to leave the same way it came.

"Ugh," you sputtered, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. "I swear it’s like someone wondered what would happen if you tried to drink dirt." Your eyes drew over the bonfire—or at least what was left of it—to find a face beaming with the smuggest grin you’d ever seen, the drink in her hands entirely untouched.

"Gotcha," she lilted.

"Oh of course, you ass."

Yeji’s hand covered a laugh, the corners of her mouth sneaking out from behind it. The sound of it alone made nearly puking worth it. She stood. And in one uninterested motion, tossed the contents of her cup—a kind of alcohol you’d only learn later in life could probably be used to start a car—right out into the grass. Twisting the insides of her jacket pockets, she sauntered around the pit, briefly lit in the spits and licks of the dying fire.

"Think there’s any room on that tree stump for one more?"

Her eyes, sharp and magnetic, always pulled you deeply into her. She held you in them for a moment, a long couple of moments, and the flickers of the fire painted bright streaks of gold in those whirlpools of deep, earthen brown. When she smiled, the corners of her eyes creased, snapping at your attention.

"You deaf?"

"Dunno. Depends," you said, still clutching your chest and clearing your throat. "Who’s asking?"

Hwang Yeji. Your first kiss. Your first a lot of things actually. However for the sake of this story, your first kiss. It was somewhat crude how she’d stolen it off you too. Though still that was your fault mostly. It’s only fair that you got what was coming to you for the way you had dragged your feet.

A playful slap landed on your shoulder. "Scoot over."

You think about it less and less now, and as a result, the actual details of it have begun to elude you. Obviously you remember kissing her—or rather her kissing you—but that’s just about all you remember. There’s the way it started; her fingers under your chin, dragging your eyes away from the pile of embers that glowed in the fire pit. And of course how it ended; a wide smile dimpling her cheeks as her lips pulled away from yours. But everything in between? Years after the fact? God, your guess is as good as anyone’s.

Still, in spite of their incompleteness, Yeji shows up in a lot of your memories, the good ones anyway. You tease them through your head time and time again just to make sure they’re still there, intact.

She’d been around for a lot of the growing up you had to do in school, persistently dissatisfied you wouldn’t do it any faster. Never before had you gotten that close to anyone, let alone someone as vibrantly charismatic and beautiful as her. Allowing yourself to think back on it, there was a lot of downtime, time where nothing in particular was happening at all—the walks home after classes and clubs, Saturday afternoons just spent hanging out on your parent’s couch, not to mention all those late night runs on the local Pelicana for more chicken wings than anyone should ever eat—it all seemed like such a big deal at the time (though arguably, Pelicana is still a big deal).

To be clear, no, the two of you never dated. It was far too difficult to describe it like that. When one of you would turn eyes to the other for comfort, for compassion, for a sincerity absent in those everyday flirtations, you’d always find her—or she’d find you—with eyes pointed away, thoughts elsewhere. Though that didn’t mean you wouldn’t get teased about it, relentlessly you might add. Your friends would see the Friday evenings and Sunday mornings you’d spend together on what must’ve looked like nothing other than what they were: dates.

But the truth was more complicated than you ever cared to explain. So—you let them think what they wanted. You’d always return back to them and field twenty questions about what the two of you got up to, if she was good at kissing, what position she liked, how she was down there, whatever the color was of the underwear she wore that day. You’d make up your own answers, the ones they wanted to hear. It always did shut them up.

So, officially, you were friends. And you were the first person she came to when she got the news.

"In Seoul, huh?" You shoved your hands in your pockets.

"Yep."

"For how long?"

"No one knows." She twisted at the collar of her shirt, pulling and turning it into a tight knot. "For some people it’s a year and then they know it's not really gonna work out. For others it’s a whole lot longer."

"Well, it’ll get pretty quiet around here then won’t it."

Yeji smiled. "You’ll survive. I know you will."

A brief silence hung between you, different from any of the other lulls in conversation or times just spent quietly in your thoughts. Dry leaves crunched and mashed as you walked, and you could hear the wind shake old tree branches of whatever was still left on them.

"I bet you’d be good at it."

"What’s with that?" A muted laugh and Yeji’s eyes were again pointed up to the sky, as if she were counting stars. Always she was looking at the sky like that. You knew it. Maybe she knew it too. She didn’t belong here.

You let out a short sigh and shrugged your shoulders. "Just a hunch."

Five years had passed now, and you still remember vividly the conversation that had become your last. A fresh blanket of snow over the street hadn’t yet been disturbed by the morning traffic. Yeji’s hands were balled into two tiny fists, hidden in the long sleeves of the overcoat of her school uniform, a hand-me-down from her older sister ostensibly. Her hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, a pair of white earmuffs sitting atop it, and for the first time you’d ever known, she searched and searched for that bright smile—only she came up empty.

She told you she was leaving. She told you she wasn’t coming back. And then without skipping a beat, tears welling in her eyes, she told you not to wait for her.

See, our memories are a rather peculiar thing. In the backyard of that party neither of you belonged at, when the two of you were kissing beside those dying embers, you thought it’d be the memory you always play back in your head, clutching it tightly to your breast like your life depended on it. But truth be told, you can’t even tell at this point what’s fact and what you’ve since fabricated to fill the gaps.

As fate would have it, it’s that scene—in the middle of your driveway at four-fifteen in the morning—you remember it perfectly. While it played out, you made no special notice of it. You’d never stopped to think what a lasting impression it would make on you, how five years after the fact you’d manage to recall it in excruciating detail.

You had paid no attention to all that scenery around you either, the stars disappearing to make way for the sun, the sound of snow crunching beneath your feet, the gentle hum of the electric generator heating your home, or the white puffs of air that leaked off your chest. No, you were paying attention to yourself, the things you felt. You were paying attention to that unfairly beautiful girl standing arm’s length in front of you. Your thoughts wandered about the two of you together, and then again, retired solemnly back to yourself.

To make matters worse, you were in love. A troublesome, frustrating, complicated love.

With very little to say, you said very little. She said she’d call. She didn’t. You understood. Time passed. And then some. Later, you’d hammer out a drunken text message on New Year’s Eve the next year. A final albeit clumsy effort to hold your world together. Sent, but never opened.

And that was it. There was little else to do about it. You figured it was time to move on. Not that you had even an inkling of an idea how. Playing it back again in your head only ever filled your teary eyes with an almost unbearable sorrow. Realizing you’d never know if Yeji loved you.

It’s October and you’ll soon be twenty-four. The seat belt sign above you lights up. The cabin shakes and struggles. And your ears ring as the aircraft begins its descent onto a runway at Heathrow Airport. You typically enjoyed the window seat to get a good picture of where it was you were arriving—even if it wasn’t new—the layouts of highways, parks, train stations, large construction projects, all the things that made a city unique. But by the time the aircraft breaks through dark cloud cover, the only thing you can see beyond the ground crew in rain jackets and the chain linked fences around the tarmac, beyond the cold autumn rain beating down upon it, is that unyielding, gloomy sky. Again—London.

Buckles unlatch and passengers stand, gathering their belongings from the overhead bins. You remain stuck in your seat, chin resting on your hand, gazing at the backpack of the woman across the aisle—the contents that peek out of it blindsiding you: a copy of Vogue magazine with five unbelievably gorgeous faces on it, Yeji’s most noticeably staring back at you.

You’d groan out loud if you weren’t surrounded by people. It was becoming untenable.

Most of the reason you’d taken your job abroad was to keep from seeing her at every turn. There were the advertisements, the billboards, the promotional material you’d find on buses, subways, anywhere with decent foot traffic really, and that’s just what you could see. Her voice was always in your ear, and her name on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

And now it seems that even all the way out here, on a short flight from Zurich to London, that plan to escape her is already now showing delicate cracks in its optimistic veneer.

Perhaps it was the way your lips twist, or how your eyebrows furrow—you’ll never know—but a stewardess feels it within reason to check up on you, to see how you’re doing. She asks first in German, and then in French, and then finally in English that you can understand.

"I’m okay—just a little lightheaded."

"Are you sure?"

"I’m fine, thanks," you say, pulling your gatherings together from beneath your seat.

You’re not crazy, no more than anyone else. So it logically follows that you don’t believe in ghosts. At least certainly not in the colloquial sense. And the queue for immigration and customs at London Heathrow Airport has to be about the last place on earth anyone would choose to loiter about for eternity. But those ones you create for yourself? The ones that haunt you?

"I told you! I packed them in a little gray bag! The one you threw across the room at me!"

Those are real.

"Why the hell would you pack them away—when it’s the first thing you’re going to need to get off the plane?"

"Maybe I packed them away safely because we’d need them first thing."

Yeji waves her hand flippantly at the girl beside whose hair was dyed a garish blonde. She rolls her eyes with enough disdain that it drags her face over her shoulder. You watch her do a double, a triple take and your eyes lock with hers. Be it accident, be it fate, it doesn’t matter—it makes it hard to breathe. You shake your head, blink your eyes, but the two of you are stuck in each other’s gaze like it were a finger trap, unable to look away.

Nevertheless there’s some part of you still that refuses to believe in what is now a few feet in front of you. The same scene, playing out back home—assuredly there would be no end to the camera flashes and people chasing and begging for autographs. If anything, the only interest it gathers here, halfway around the world, is impatience from the scowls of grumpy travelers who’d rather be anywhere else.

"Yeji?" The girl beside her, whom you now absolutely recognize—god, you wish it was a mystery to you, what all Yeji had been up to since she walked right out of your life—she asks again, frustrated, "are you even listening to me?"

"Hang on. Give me a second."

She walks with purpose, an insatiable curiosity gnawing at her thoughts. Those heeled boots that tucked in the bottom of her jeans tap loudly against the concrete beneath your feet. And her hair bounces in place against the shoulder of a beige knit sweater on each step. The baggy garment’s sleeves are long, just as she always liked them, hiding her hands in their cuffs as she marches toward you.

Each step leads into the next with such grace and poise it leaves you frozen. Yeji had always been easy on the eyes. And of course you’d seen her everywhere, seen the beautiful woman she’d grown into, taking mental note of it more times than you could count. But even your most particular memories—no matter how bold you chose to remember her—they never could’ve imagined this confidence, the way she carried herself with such raw assurance and certainty.

She sweeps the hair out of her face, looking up at you, confirming exactly what it was she thought she saw. Glistening, her eyes widen, and she holds you in them for the first time in years. You can feel your chest tighten and your stomach twist—she’s so unbelievably pretty it hurts. It’s something like the way you experience a master painting, a Rembrandt or a Hals, by not only letting it steal your breath from far away, but also up close, where you might appreciate the brush strokes.

Shaking her head, laughing quietly to herself in disbelief, she leaps headlong into the silence. "What are you doing here?"

See, this had been a scenario you’d puzzled over a million times in your head already. She’d find you, or perhaps you’d find her, and the two of you would smile, before saying something cute, something that would instantly return you to where you left things five years ago. But even in the pages of your most speculative efforts, it would never quite look like this. You struggle to remember any of those quippy one-offs you thought you’d say. In fact, the breath you draw in, swirling knots of air in your chest, it simply finds no words to speak at all. Upon realizing its uselessness, it falls off your tongue, silent.

After all, you hadn’t talked to her in years. What reason do you have that makes you think you’d start now?

"Yeji, I—" Even her name is a cursed utterance at this point, the way it makes you strain and choke. It takes you a moment, but a dry laugh leads your response upon realizing the absurdity of the question. "Yeji, I live here."

"You live here?" Her eyes open further in shock. "What? Why?"

"Work." It wasn’t a lie, but the simplest answer conveniently hid the fact you’d picked up your entire life and settled thousands of kilometers to get away from her.

She furrows her brow and tilts her head inquisitively. "You’re pulling my leg."

"Well, I’m certainly not on vacation."

She crosses her arms, thinking for a moment before blurting out the first thing that came to her head as she was so often wont to do. Raking her fingers through her hair, gathering stares of everyone around you, she finally responds, "I’m just—I’m having a hard time—I really had no idea."

Accusative, "I mean… Yeji. Does that surprise you?"

Her lips narrow and tuck against her teeth. She twists the collar of her sweater between two perfectly manicured fingernails, painted dark with meticulous white detailing. Further and further, she knots it beneath the pale skin of her neck. It’s the same anxious tic she’d always indulge.

Her voice, tender and choked up, reaches out to you "I’m sorry."

You hadn’t much to respond to it. Your thoughts were tied and shackled to the fact that you were now suddenly eighteen again, staring down the barrel of the girl who broke your heart. Again, tongue-twisted, you search the look on Yeji’s face—eyebrows knit together, and the corner of her lip pulled back into an unsure smile. It defies logic—and reasonably so—it’s beyond the grave, the relationship you thought you’d buried years ago.

"And so when we got off the plane, we were still missing the better half of our passports." Yeji pulls her shoulders up into a hopeless shrug, her hands still in her pockets. "I guess they’re just going to sit and wait in customs until someone can do something about it."

"Bleak."

"Tell me about it."

"You’re just gonna leave them there?"

Yeji laughs to herself. "Trust me, I need a break from those girls. And now you’re here? Talk about a silver lining."

The two of you had made a loop around the terminal concourse god knows how many times now. You could feel the strain of walking the circuit start to make your knees ache and your muscles sting, but you weren’t about to complain.

Things felt different, but also not so far off from the way they always were. Both of you were older, more mature, found more interesting things to talk about. Your words carried a certain edge to them, a cleverness that might not have been so present back then, but still—Yeji talked, and you listened. That’s how it always was. And Yeji could talk for hours.

She stops short, finding a railing to lean herself against. And she asks, "What are you doing out here anyway?"

"Well believe it or not, I passed the national service exam—" You pause with your mouth agape, remembering just how badly you wished you could’ve told her while holding a shredded letter in one hand and the results in the other. "And now I’m here."

"Like in an embassy or something?"

"Yep."

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"It’s half as cool as it sounds," you say, running your fingers through your hair, "I stamp visas for a living."

"Ugh." Yeji punches playfully at your shoulder. "I could’ve used you about two hours ago."

That’s not how any of it worked of course, but you weren’t about to correct her.

She quickly shoves in front of you a more interesting question, "so you’ve gotta live pretty close to here I imagine."

"I dunno. How close is forty minutes?"

"Close enough." Nearly jumping, she stands herself up onto her feet. "C’mon. I’m not going to forgive you if you don’t show me your place."

You study her face for a clue, a hint, a tell—surely she was joking. Though you realize it soon enough: those arching brows above her eyes remain resolute, cheeks refuse to dimple, and her long, dark eyelashes don’t even dare to flutter. Nothing moves an inch.

You swallow hard. "You don’t have anywhere to be?"

"Manager told me to go straight to the room and read a book or something."

"Then shouldn’t you go to your room and read a book or—"

"Uhh-uh. No way." A smirk and her eyes sharpen. "I’ve got the rest of my life to follow the rules."

So, now—there you are, your jacket drawn over both your heads, a poor excuse of an umbrella. Holding open the door to the backseat of a cab for the most spectacularly gorgeous woman you’d ever known, the girl who shattered your heart into a million pieces and then some. In your pocket, a text message on your phone, curious about your flight home—the girl you’d been casually seeing for the past couple weeks—waits for a response.

Though truthfully, you haven’t a clue what you’re doing.

The ride to your apartment is mostly quiet, listening close to the sounds of rain against the windows and the occasional turn signal from the driver’s seat. And for the first time you’ve ever recognized, the silence between you makes you feel uneasy. You had a thousand questions burning a hole in the pocket of your heart and you didn’t even know where to begin. Those questions, they weren’t interested in her schedules, the places she’d been, the things she’d seen, her life in the limelight, how she’d eventually introduce herself to all the heroes and idols you’d known as a kid. In fact, it’s the same way a map that has too much information is effectively useless at helping you navigate. You needed to ask her where you were. Where you stood. Where you were going.

It’s been ages since you’d both had a girl in your apartment and the two of you weren’t immediately en route to your bedroom. You struggle to call back to how your parents might host a guest in your home.

"Yeji," you yell from in front of your refrigerator, "can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"It’s a little late for caffeine don’t you think?" The cushions of your couch groan as Yeji collapses into them. "A beer would hit the spot if you have one though. Especially after today."

You scan the contents of a mostly empty fridge and find it, raising your eyebrows at the six pack on the shelf in front of you, one beer already missing from its cardboard holder. It was mostly the thing you were hoping to avoid.

"It’s nice," she says, grabbing the beer out of your hand and taking in the view of your apartment. "Cleaner than I expected too."

"That’s not really a compliment now is it?"

Her shoulders shrug as she pops the tab of the drink and lifts it to her lips. A refreshed ‘ah’ precedes her. "It does feel a little like I’m sitting in an IKEA showroom though."

"Yeah. Well, guilty as charged I guess."

She laughs, head on a swivel, taking note of—silently judging—your furnishings. "I mean you are probably the only person I know—" She stands, wandering through your apartment to the wall between your living room and your kitchen. "With a calendar that has no pictures, words, or anything." She rifles its pages with her thumb. "It’s just a damn calendar. You don’t even mark it or anything."

"It’s functional."

"It’s weird."

Rain continues to pelt down on your windows, permeating the brief silences between your conversations, but soon you can barely notice it. It becomes so natural the way you wrap yourself up in her stories, and hers in yours. And if the hour hand moving quickly about the face on your clock above the mantle was at all an indicator, neither of you had any deficiency of things to share.

Though still, there remained something noticeably off. You’d spent a lifetime listening to Yeji, and it was always so effortless the way she commanded your attention. But the nature of her speaking, it was although she were a machine struggling with a loose bolt or a stripped screw. See, it was the space between the stories that had your curiosity piqued. She’d start to tell you about subject A and move quickly into subject B and then before you knew it you were in subject C with no real rhyme or reason. You recognized the incongruity immediately, but it took a few beers and hours of listening to pinpoint the cause.

She’d start. Her voice soothing and relaxing. You’d both reminisce. And the moment the story began to find itself concerned with you, with the two of you, she’d swerve around it. Like a car trying to avoid a squirrel that foolishly darts across the highway.

It’s what makes it all the more surprising when she asks a simple question, "So—are you seeing anyone right now?"

You have to clear your throat before you can answer. "Kinda. On and off. You?"

"Yeah; kinda. On and off." She sinks her gaze into her lap. "She nice?"

"She’s fine."

"Good." Her eyes, glistening up at you from under her lashes, find you again. "You deserve a nice girl."

It had been one of those questions aching to leap off your heart and onto your tongue. And now that it had been asked—and so succinctly answered—you felt robbed of everything it was supposed to give you. A deafening silence fills the room. The clock ticks mercilessly and you listen again to the rain coming down on your windows.

You can feel it. You’d be shocked if she couldn’t feel it. That unceasing tension. Yeji stands, pulling the hem of her sweater around her thighs, selfishly hiding the curves of her hips along with it. "It’s late. I should probably get going."

And then with hardly any flash or fanfare, she hugs you. Her arms refuse to linger and the purposeful gap between your chests remains obstinate and unmovable. You show her the door and she takes a long step through it. She smiles, her eyes creasing, but her mouth barely moves.

"Till next time," you say, wondering when that might ever be.

"Till next time—good night."

You wave. She waves back. And the door closes—the evening along with it.

That was it. Again. Sifting like sand through your fingers. So consistently she could just walk away from you and be done with it. Every time you’d imagined this miracle meeting in your head, it would start like it did. But then ultimately the two of you would always tear each other’s clothes off in frustration. So that two broken souls might ever become whole again.

But you know it now. Yeji was never broken. For as long as you’d ever known her, she was like a rocket, launching onto a journey to the furthest stars in the night sky. Face pointed away. Thoughts elsewhere. She never really looked at you. And because of that you often wept.

So far as you can tell, Yeji never loved you. A wish beyond your reach.

Your head hangs against the wall beside the door and you gaze at your feet, maybe hoping to find some comfort hidden away in the striped pattern on your socks. You consider for a moment simply just standing outside on the balcony, letting the rain soak you completely in your clothes.

A knock at your door holds you accountable for at least a moment longer.

You sigh. It’s unfair really. Cruel even. She stands in front of you again. Only this time her hair slightly damp, raindrop stains on the shoulders of her sweater. You feel the stitch on your heart—a delicate, haphazard patchwork of time—its last suture coming undone. And boy, does that hurt.

"Hey, sorry. I realized I have no idea how to call a taxi. Can you lend me a—"

It can’t be instantaneous. But you don’t quite know how it happens either. Something pushed you to drag her through that opening and your hands held Yeji’s face, backing her against the door, now shut. Her eyes become stuck on you and her lips part. If she says anything, it’s far too hard to hear beyond that dull drum of blood, beating loudly between your ears. A shared breath, slow and purposeful, fills your lungs and hers.

Boldly, without reservation, you leap. Thousands of kilometers apart, reduced to a distance known now only by breaths hot across your cheeks, you find her again.

It’s soft the way you kiss her, as though you hadn’t done it hundreds of times, more of a question than it could ever be an answer. Her lips are soft, cool and wet, unbelievably perfect. A breeze through your hair on a hot summer day. In fact, they’re everything you remember, even competing midst those memories you’d embellished. Your fingers run through the smooth locks of Yeji’s hair that bundle in your hands, cold to the touch. It quickly becomes a handle, a grip, tilting her head up toward you as you pull her tight into your chest.

Her lower lip quivers gently against yours, and in a single shuddering breath, gathers itself enough to kiss you back. Hands grabbing tight around your shoulders, she lets a soft cry sink into your mouth.

You could listen to her talk for hours. And you did. But you needed to hear her say it—the way her lips capture yours, the way she tells you she missed you. It’s not some grand romantic gesture. There is no sunset, or gentle call of the ocean waves, no extraordinary vista, no candlelit room to bathe you in its soft glow. There is only Yeji, and that alone makes it perfect.

Her voice falters against you; the sound it makes whenever she’d need to hold back a tear or two. "Thank god the dumb taxis are so confusing…"

You kiss her again. That's all you know. The only way to possibly make right of this strange world.

It’s wild. Pressed firmly against your face is hers—the one you couldn’t stop seeing; the one that demanded so selfishly the attention of cameras and eyes around the world; only it had managed to seize your heart so very long ago. The roundness in her cheeks spreads around you and her nose struggles against yours. You hold her lips tight, the ever persistent worry they might disappear from you again forever biting at your thoughts.

Even though it’s not within your means to fall for her any harder than you have, you do. You always do.

"Mnph…" A quiet smack arrives on your lips. Another one. She starts to find an old rhythm, the way she used to kiss you when she was angry, when she was overwhelmed, or whenever she was just plain wound up. You grab a fistful of a sweater and turn her away from the door, stepping slowly into the foyer of your apartment.

The only thing more desperate than the lips pressed against yours becomes Yeji’s fingers, clutching tightly against the fabric of your shirt. Hums and moans pour from her throat to meet yours. She sways and sinks, leaning against the closet door you’d left open in the middle of the hallway. Her mouth tightens and you recognize the shy smile that fills across it.

Her cheeks, rosy now, burn bright against you and her voice rasps. "Don’t you dare go anywhere."

You had nowhere to be. Hell, you were already home. It’s confusing when you think about it. So you choose not to as best you can. Instead, you tease gently at the backs of her thighs, the roughness of denim meeting your fingertips. It’s Pavlovian perhaps, the way she jumps into your arms at your touch—never forgetting those secret traditions shared between you.

Her arms around your neck and her thighs over your elbows, you grip as timidly as might ever be possible onto the two handfuls of Yeji’s ass filling out between your fingers. Though you realize quick that whatever worries you harbor still are unnecessary, that strange boundary between clearly crossed. A soft moan, and her tongue begins to invade your mouth, marking and claiming the space she determined might just as well belong to her.

There’s this instant familiarity your hands find on Yeji’s body. Her svelte frame beneath that baggy sweater is the same perfect shape you’d held onto god knows how many times. The way she kisses you, pulling and massaging at the swell of your lip, it’s as though you’d never missed a beat, as though it had been Yeji’s kisses alone you found comfort in for the last five years. Though now, the flavor of her lipstick is noticeably different. It’s far more muted than the cheap fruity stuff she used to buy, but you recognize that taste of need and want off her lips still all the same.

Your fingers squeeze at the soft, pliable flesh that stretches all along Yeji’s thighs and rear, still protected by that sturdy pair of jeans—an obstacle now to be overcome. Feet and legs swing behind you as you step your haphazard union down the hallway. With any luck, she won’t knock any of the pictures or posters off your walls.

A light bite at your lip sends a surge of fiery pain down your neck. At that, you push Yeji’s back to the wall, another door behind her rattling in its frame and a soft moan escaping her chest.

She whispers against your cheek, "This your bedroom?"

"No. Not quite. Laundry."

"Ah. Well, as nice as that sounds; I’ve already got a washer at home—isn’t there some place that’s better for—ya know—the two of us?"

Thoughts stuck on the idea of Yeji sitting atop yours, hers, any washing machine and getting herself off makes your pants tighten. You groan softly, repositioning her weight in your hands and pulling her away from the door. "Bed or sofa?’

"You tell me."

You consider it for just a moment, unable to remember the state you’d left your room in before your trip. Is your bed made? Are your clothes put away? No idea. So you don’t tell her. You show her. Holding her tight, you navigate a brief waddle into your living room and your hands release her from their grips, sending her into the cushions of the couch beneath you.

"Really? On the leather—"

"Don’t care," you stop the complaint before it has time to marinate in your head. You knew she was right.

Her voice rattles at a faux concern, "what would IKEA think?"

"They’d be wondering who the two good-looking people on their couch are. Or how they got a free promotion out of you—who knows."

She stifles a laugh and motions her hands to your shoulders. "Come here, you."

She fits underneath your weight—your arms around her shoulders, and her legs entwined amidst yours—with such incredible ease. You sink into a kiss against the pale, tender skin that you find beneath her jaw. It’s delicate, easy to bruise, and it begs for a roughness only your lips could ever hope to provide. The more-than-welcome touch coaxes a moan, breathy and sudden, from her chest—a sound you’d only heard in your thoughts for so long.

Her fingers tease at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up along your chest and off over your head. "I missed you."

"You have no idea."

"Well—maybe some idea," she says, a hand quietly brushing against the hardness she finds at the front of your pants.

You trail up along her neck, the ridge of her jaw, until again you find your way back to the swell of Yeji’s soft, plump, ever-so-kissable lips. Your knee between her thighs, pushing her legs around you, legs that wrap and hook onto the backs of yours, knocks on the rise of her jeans. She lets out a quiet whimper, the sound reverberating through your chest.

There’s this thing about the way Yeji kisses you. Her hands run along your scalp, burying themselves in your hair. And she steals kisses off your lips with such an immediate urgency, with a hunger of someone who’d been starved for so long. You’d have chalked it up to the lapse of time you spent apart, years spent finding, failing love in different places, but she has always been like this—needy.

"Ugh," she sighs, amusing her hands on the shape of your chest, your back, your neck. She’s careful not to let the pointed tips of her fingernails scratch deeply at your skin, lightly caressing her way down to where your pants sit on your waist. Though you admire the thought, you had no intention of letting this woman undress you first.

Defiant, you lift your lips off hers. And a suspicious expression fills in the sharp features of her face. You can feel the skepticism building in those eyes that look you over.

"What’s the matter?" she asks, quietly trying to pull your shoulders back down to where she wanted you.

"I, uh—" You give your throat a good, solid clearing. "I’m going to take your clothes off. Right now."

Yeji raises an eyebrow, scooting up and resting on an elbow. "Talk about forward."

"No real use pussyfooting around it now."

Yeji twists her lip between her teeth and then slowly, she draws a line with her finger from your belly button, along your stomach and up your sternum until it holds your chin, making you look down your nose at her. "Someone teach you how to finally be direct with your words while I was gone?"

Maybe. Maybe not. You’d spent a good deal of time now practically inoculated to the fear of rejection from other girls—considering you’d already seen the worst of it. "Something like that."

"Then tell me Mr. Straight-shooter. What do you want to take off first?"

"First?" you say, letting a smirk drag at your mouth. "Well—no shoes on the sofa. House rule."

One thud, and then another as Yeji kicks off her boots onto the floor behind her. She keeps the intensity in her eyes locked on you—smoldering. "What else?"

"The sweater has gotta go."

"Only if you promise to keep me warm—"

"Easy—deal."

Yeji squirms out from underneath you while the sound of rain continues beating the side of your apartment. Your hands offer what is probably unnecessary help, grabbing onto the hem of her sweatshirt, scrunching it up along the toned muscles of her stomach. And after a short struggle, off over the top of her head, you reveal her slender, gorgeous figure.

She refuses to lose you in her cat-like eyes still for even a second. Even while she airs the garment out between her hands, neatly folds it, and gently sets it down onto your coffee table.

It ought to be criminal to be as charming and beautiful as Yeji is. She’s got these delicate collarbones, shoulders that round off the tops of her arms and run the distance to the skin on her neck you yourself couldn’t get enough of—there’s a tiny freckle here and there, none of them as prominent as the one that proudly sits on the bridge of her nose—though there’s nothing she has that no one else doesn’t, it’s the way everything manages to come together, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle, lightly fitting itself in place—it’s simply perfect.

"You’re staring."

You blink yourself out of that momentary trance before letting yourself laugh about it. Clearing your throat, you smile and return the jeer, "Yeji—absolutely I am."

Standing herself from the couch, she smiles at you with her eyes. Her fingers tease under the waistband of her jeans—the biggest challenge of what all was left—and she asks, "I’m guessing you want these too?"

"I mean look—you know how it is. House rules and all."

"Those pesky rules again, huh." She laughs quietly to herself. "Whoever it is that came up with them—I’d like to give them a piece of my mind."

You simply shrug. That nothing I can do about it message clear enough as she begins to unbutton the top of her pants.

The fact that she has to wiggle her hips to peel the tight denim from her waist and down her thighs is a show in of itself. Inch by inch, slowly, meticulously, she reveals her legs to you—long and unending, toned and sculpted now in that manner that only the physical regimen of someone like her might yield. A pair of high cut athletic underwear—gray and pilling at its edges—hardly matches the navy nylon bra cupping Yeji’s soft breasts against her chest. But it’s not like you were going to complain about it. After all, she’d been traveling. Not to mind the fact you’d have to be insane to find anything worth complaining over in the visage standing in front of you.

She saunters over to where you now sit on the sofa, each step every bit as deliberate as the last. You can’t help but bring your face against her stomach as Yeji arrives in front of you. With your lips you can feel the goosebumps that rise atop the smooth skin across her abs, your kisses running the edge of her bottom-most ribs.

Her fingers stroke through your hair, and she lets her voice reach down to your ears. "Hey, I’m cold."

Those soft, ephemeral hairs that stand on end along her stomach, her back and the skin along her thighs corroborated the statement. However between her legs, where the darkened gray fabric hugged tightly against her entrance, where you could make out the shape of her lips imprinted into it, she was anything but cold.

Kissing her stomach again with lips that drag against the taut, velvety skin they find all over it, you place your fingers against that warmth. It’s instant—the quick spasm her diaphragm makes, knocking on your forehead, and Yeji gasps for air.

You follow the long, endless curves of her leg until it arrives on a perfect handful of ass that spills through the gaps in your fingers—fingers that tuck and dive into the back of her underwear, the thin fabric easy to twist and manipulate. Delighted, you listen close to how Yeji pulls fast breaths through her chest as you start to tease her body.

Your voice nearly chokes as you tell her what both of you already so clearly understood.

"Do you have any idea how bad I want you?"

Yeji’s eyes lock with yours, her chin tucked against her chest. "Show me."

Now, it’s important to mention again that this girl had left you absolutely devastated. In the years since she’d left, you wouldn’t have described yourself as particularly loose or rakish, but you weren’t ever one to turn down an opportunity at finding a momentary comfort in the embrace of another either. And the first chances came fast. Home for winter break along with everyone else, suffocating in nostalgia—a handful of girls you’d gone to school with would only see Yeji’s sudden disappearance as something to celebrate, a long awaited opportunity. It was shocking how fast they pounced on you.

It always felt good—for a second. And it’d wear off fast as they spent more time than you ever cared for snuggling up to you as if the sex was anything to write home about. The worst was when all you wanted to do was turn over in the cheap hotel sheets and they’d start to ask you a million questions: How was university going? Are your grades good? Do you have a girlfriend? What’s your blood type? Do you have a career in mind? How much money do you think you’ll make? Do you think my boobs are too small? Should we get breakfast in the morning? When will I see you again?—it was endless.

You put up with it for the most part. It helped you forget if at least for a moment what a shitty hand of cards you’d been dealt. There was a predictable formula too—you’d meet up for drinks, and before the waiter could take orders for seconds, you and her were making out on the curb, waiting for a cab. The hotel room lights would flip on (or stay off, depending on how horny and desperate you were). And you’d begin that necessary formality of going down on her—so that she might let you use her as you pleased. Always mechanical, robotic, transactional.

But Yeji’s legs resting on your shoulders, your face inches away from the damp fabric covering her hole, you wanted nothing other than to take your time.

It’s not too unlike the way you’d pluck at keys on the piano. Some touches quiet and pleasing to the ear, some loud and heavy and boisterous—you tease your fingers around the ‘V’ of cloth between her thighs, some notes playing soft subtle whimpers and others a lilting moan.

"Mmmph…" Yeji raises her hips gently, the backs of her knees rubbing at your shoulders. Impatient—rightfully so—she lifts the edge of her underwear, pulling it aside and offering you her glistening entrance. She’s wet, sopping and needy, and she’s begging for you.

Your kisses continue along the inside of a thigh, lingering longer and longer against the creamy skin that leads you to her heat. That addictive smell of sweat, lust and excitement fills your nose alongside the long breath you draw through your chest.

The way your palm brushes against her swollen clit makes Yeji shudder and jolt her hips—your finger diving down between the cleft of her bare lips to where she was really just utterly soaked. You trade your mouth across the gap to the other thigh you’d neglected, but Yeji can only reward you with her frustration—"please."

Maybe it’s because she’s always had this intense look about her—like she could take on the world with one hand behind her back and win—and it’s not like you haven’t noticed the way her company plays it up either. The girl you knew who was always fierce, plucky—lionhearted—the face looking at you now, eyes down her nose over the top of two navy clad breasts, it’s so soft. Even those sharp eyes, so often beguiling, had become tender—filling fast with lust and want and need and desire—like she’s pleading for you to save her, to rescue her, in the ways only your mouth and fingers might ever know how.

"Please—I need it," she rasps.

"Yeji," you weave into the sounds of her whines. "Trust—I’m gonna take good care of you."

Your mouth hovers against her. And just above where your fingers play and tease at her folds, your lips part. It’s not on purpose, and it’d be a little cruel if it were, but a hot, wet breath spills lax from lungs, off your tongue and out of your mouth. It crashes and collides, rolling and tumbling about the aching skin around her hole. It’s not possible to touch someone less if you tried—and it brings Yeji to wit’s end.

She sucks a sudden, whistling bout of air past her teeth. Her fingers thread themselves through your hair and pull you into her. Your nose meets her hip, tickled by the soft patch of neatly trimmed hair she saves for you, and you watch her head roll back on her shoulders. A reveal of the raw, tender skin you’d all but bruised along her neck and her whole body sighs, her body saying, without speaking, finally.

Yeji hums in delight as you take care of her. There’s your tongue, brushing up and down the hoods and folds of delicious skin that struggle to contain the scorching heat that burns fast between them—your hands, one teasing the narrow depths at the tightness just beyond her entrance, the other holding her hip, firm, to keep it from evading you—your unapologetic lips, grasping and sucking around her clit—your tongue again tapping and caressing it.

"Fuck," she hisses.

A word that is so usually rough and abhorrent and grizzled, and it’s never sounded so elegant. You can only imagine how bottled a profanity like it must be—there’s such oppressive decorum to follow when you’re on television, soundbites repeating like a million broken records across the internet, a voice that speaks for all to hear. And that goes doubly so for someone like her.

You dive into her, hard, and she rewards you with the airy, sing-song moans that fill your apartment, meshing themselves against the unyielding pitter-patter of rain.

"Oh my god—you’ve got some real talent." A thick, strained laughter leaves her throat and Yeji collapses back into the cushions of the sofa, brown leather now dark and staining with her wetness, a problem for tomorrow. Perhaps unfixable; worst case scenario, you could always get a new couch.

Rain hits hard against your home. It mixes a delightful track to your onslaught and a finger brings Yeji to her knees.

"Please, please, please—keep doing that."

It doesn’t have to search far, the soft pad of your fingertip finding that familiar stretch of dangerously sensitive skin. You curl at the knuckle—and Yeji becomes an extension of your will—her hips quake, relaxing only when you do. Your finger flexes. You tap, rub and tease. Each time a reaction, more wild and unrestrained than the last.

"F-Fuck. Just right—there," she squeals.

Her thighs wrap tight against your ears, all those sounds of your apartment quickly mute and muffled. The fruits of your labor pool, run wet, beading into droplets at the bottom of your chin.

"Please do—not—stop," she begs, breathing fast and heavy. Her eyes find you again, lip twisted mercilessly between those perfect teeth. And at a quiver that shakes and pulls her muscles taut—she closes her eyes and she growls through gritted teeth, "you’re gonna make me fucking cum."

There were a lot of memories you struggle now to piece together. Like having dropped a stack of papers or a pile of laundry, each time you bend down to pick something up, you’ve lost another in its stead. It’s become its own awful tragedy in a sense. But if there’s anything imprinted so permanently into the deep inner workings of your thoughts—you remember when Yeji cums, she cums hard.

Entirely overwhelmed, Yeji pushes your tongue away from her overstimulated bud. Her fingers grip tight at your hair, and she locks and clenches her body around your fingers. That twisted, unrestrained expression, eyes clenching and lips curling into a beautiful ‘O,’ she finds the release she so desperately needs.

All kinds of sounds, full of watery, anguished breaths, and whimpered moans leak through the seal her thighs make around your ears. You recognize a few words, a lot of them curses and profane mewling—nonsense mostly—but just as readily, your name gets thrown haphazardly into that lustful mix. Perhaps for good measure.

It’s only once she��s let those waves of pleasure dissipate through her entire body, squeezing and gripping you in the vice her legs make around you, that she lets herself relax and releases you to speak.

"Well that was something," you tease, wiping your mouth and chin with the back of a wrist, "been a while?"

"Oh—come—on," she says, heavy breaths still laboring to catch up to her, "don’t be cute. It’s not my fault if you’ve been practicing."

You smirk, lifting yourself up and finally freeing your legs of those stiff pants that were struggling impossibly to keep your cock calm and demure. "So? What now?"

Yeji returns herself to a halfway decent posture, the sweat on her back sticking to the leather as she does so. "What do you think?"

"Hmm." Shuffling your pants free from your thighs you tap at your chin, playful. "How many guesses are you giving me?"

"Zero. Get those things off. I’m gonna ride the fuck out of you."

"Yeah?" A bout of laughter forces your smile. "I can’t help but wonder what people might think if they heard ITZY’s fearless leader talking like that."

Standing, she slides that pair of soaked underwear down off her legs, and in a quick practiced motion, hooks an ankle behind yours. A push and you’re sent tumbling into the couch.

"What? You don’t think they’d be cranking one out to it?"

"The girls or the boys?"

She smirks. "Both. Though I imagine it would be all together kinda frustrating, huh?" She puzzles, straddling your legs. "Never being able to actually fuck me."

It’s unclear to you if she always preferred being on top because she forced it out of you, or if it's because you let her—but that’s how it goes. Your cock is already at full attention, standing proud like it wanted Yeji to know it needed her. It twitches noticeably as she rubs her pussy against it.

"What’s the matter? Been a while?"

"Yeah, because it’s so easy to get off on a business trip."

"Mnh-nh. I don’t want to hear excuses." She teases the head of your cock between the soaking lips of her pussy, kissing your tip with her heat.

Her lips purse, her eyes shut and she blows a purposeful breath of cool air out of her chest, out the narrow hole her mouth makes—an enticing shape you’ll have trouble getting out of your head—as she begins to take you into her, adjusting to the shape of your cock.

You both groan, two wildly different noises, but the same heavenly feeling communicated. She holds the base of your shaft steady with her fingers as you’re pushed past the muscles clamping around you. It’s warm and it’s wet and it’s fucking unbelievably tight. It’s enough to make you feel dizzy, stars appearing in your eyelids.

"Phew." Yeji drags her knees toward, sitting back on your cock. "That always feels so fucking good. Don’t worry I’ll go slow."

"Yeah, sure—but it has been a while, right?"

Leaning forward, she smiles against your cheek. "If that’s what you want me to say, then yeah—sure, it’s been a long while."

"I’m ignoring that." You reach your hands up onto her waist, the soft curve of her hips making for two perfect handles. "I’m ignoring you."

She laughs, the melodic sound again filling your head. "That’s fine—but I’m not going to let you ignore this."

There’s this moment, her ass suspended high above your hips, the tip of your cock barely held in place by her pussy’s grip. You’ve felt it before on roller coasters mostly, at the peak of the tallest drop—the car hanging in suspense, the strangest knot twisting in your stomach. Of course, the moment doesn’t last long. No, not when Yeji slides herself down along your length in the quickest of motions, the base of your cock kissing those wet lips again.

A sound, not particularly describable or even repeatable punches through your throat, and your eyes widen.

And then she does it again.

Quick, your voices melt into one another, the pleasure that rips through your thoughts—from the entire length of your cock buried deeper into her cunt than either of you can pretend to not notice. It’s immaculate.

But it’s fucking dangerous.

You’d noticed them before—those legs that she’d worked on for years, built and perfected by hours in the gym. See, she lifts herself up on your length again, some crude combination of cum, spit and sweat leaving a sticky trail between your thighs. A soft moan announces the end of the motion and then without remorse or hesitation, she finds herself flush against your hips again. It’s tiring no doubt, but you find Yeji relentless.

She brushes her hair out of her face. And those eyes–smoldering with lust–study the indecent expressions you make as she impales herself repeatedly on your cock. Her hands find a home on the muscles above your breast. And the reasonably flat support gives her everything she needs to lift and roll her hips against you with little resistance.

It’s not the angle, the depth, the tightness, or the technique—and god, does she know exactly what she’s doing—it’s the damn speed. Even when you were both eighteen, cutting classes at the end of your schedules, a pair of horny teenagers aptly described as rabbits, she had never fucked you like this.

"Fucking christ, Yeji." You grit your teeth and squeeze hard on her hips, bracing for impact on each downward thrust. "So much for slow—you trying to kill me?"

"Well I was thinking about it. And I changed my mind." Bouncing away still, eagerly taking your length in and out of her tight hole, she sits herself up and reaches her hands behind her back, unclasping the navy bra across her chest. "It might be better if you just cum now, since you’re so pent up—you might actually be able to enjoy yourself on the next one."

The straps come down over her shoulders and the bra lands somewhere in your room. It sounded like the floor. You don’t really care though, not while Yeji is lifting your hands from her hips and placing them on those two beautifully soft mounds that hang shyly off chest.

Frustrated perhaps with the shyness in your touch, she palms her hands over yours, squeezing and massaging at her own breasts until you find the touch she craves all on your own.

You groan again, loudly enough to make a smug smile stretch across Yeji’s cheeks. "Then tell me—is it a bad time of the month? Where do you want me to cum?"

She leans forward, breath hot against your ear. "Anywhere you want."

At that, you reach a hand around her, palming the back of her neck and holding her tight against you. The suddenness of it makes her yelp and squirm, but you hold her firm, and she realizes exactly what it is you need as you slide yourself lower on the sofa, a new angle with an entirely unrealized potential waiting for you there.

"That’s it—" she gasps, struggling in the strength of your grip, "make this pussy yours—use me."

Her body flush against yours, you hear every little gasp, every sultry moan that leaks off her lips. It drives you faster, more wild and feckless on each thrust, burying yourself hard into the heat of her cunt. Your throbbing shaft inside of her—it feels as though she was made with your cock in mind, made for you, designed—a perfect fit, the way she wraps and grasps around you. Without hesitation, you settle your hips into a rhythm that you know beyond a shadow of doubt will send you hurdling into those irreversible triggers of your orgasm.

"Mph…"" Your thighs slap against hers, that sound of wet skin on wet skin filling your apartment and drowning out the rain. Your cock disappears so neatly between her legs, and your hips move immediately to bury it there again, desperate for her warmth, her tightness. Beads of sweat pool at your back, and every time you should shift your weight, you become stuck to the leather sofa beneath you.

Yeji’s words continue to pour into your ear, though they too seem to be growing disjointed and bewildered at the motion between your hips. Her shoulders collapse against you and her face buries into the cushion aside yours.

"Yeji—I cant," you sigh, and your chest shudders in anticipation. "I’m going to fucking—cum in this—"

"No!" her voice cries, muffled into the leather of the couch beside you, "It feels—so deep—I’m close!"

"Yeji," you groan, "please."

Don’t you fucking dare," she husks, a voice desperate for you, "don’t—You can’t cum, you can’t—fuck!" Writhing again, she lifts herself on her elbows, observing how your face twists and contorts beneath her as if her own wasn’t every bit as wrought and agitated. "Babe! Your cock feels too—fucking amazing!"

She grabs your cheeks with her hand, pulling your attention away from her breasts shaking wildly, jostled about by your thrusts. Those eyes—they hold you deeply, begging you to hold on.

"You’re asking for a fucking lot here, Yeji I swear—"

"No—fuck," she gasps. Eyebrows twist. Her eyes shut tight. And her lips mouth the words that might release you, I’m cumming again.

It’s always like this.

She leads, you follow.

And it’s far and away too much for you to handle—the gorgeous woman on top of you, straining an expression only meant for you to see—it’s just too much. Plundering the depths of her pussy for pleasure you didn’t even know could wrack you like it does, you follow her into that unthinkable bliss. Her mouth hangs open, her muscles lock again and she quivers and quakes around you.

Your hands slap down hard onto her ass cheeks, searching desperately for a brief reprieve of something other than the warm, tight cunt that’s been rocking your thoughts senseless. You press your fingers into her creamy skin, hard enough that it’s sure to leave a mark, and in a thundering moment of pure, unbridled lust, you let it all out. Honestly, your thoughts are all so crudely whiplashed by everything that you make little notice of how much hot cum your thrusts pump up into the deepest reaches of Yeji’s pussy. It’s already something spectacular as it arrives, erupting unabashedly from your throbbing cock, but then it just keeps going. It fills around you, an unthinkable lubricant against the way her walls clamp and squeeze around you. And then you feel it, dripping and leaking out of her hole and onto your thighs.

A gasp bellows from your chest and your voice, raw and hoarse, punctuates the heavy panting between your crumpled, tired bodies. "Fuck. Me. Yeji."

Prudence would’ve been closing the curtains, turning into your pillow and catching whatever was left of the night to rest before you’d wake for work tomorrow. So, a simple fade to black. But you’d spent years searching and seeking for what is now between your hands—if there was any mistake you’d made, it was that you hadn’t kissed her sooner.

You remember it now, the way your family would host guests: there of course was that initial cup of tea, or whatever could be cooked up quickly in the kettle, but a tour of the house had always followed close in its wake.

And so a tour you two ventured. The rest of living room (though you worry about how thin the walls are you share with your neighbor), the kitchen, the bathroom, the laundry room. Any place with a surface you could either bend her over or sit her on really—until finally you two might enter your bedroom and fuck like a pair of functioning adults.

You lean back, grasping the bed sheets between your fingers. A heavy sigh pulls at your shoulders while Yeji runs her tongue up along the side of your cock. She’s got this wicked touch, her fingers wrapping ever so perfectly around your shaft, knowing just what firmness will send you reeling.

"Shit," you hiss, watching Yeji’s tongue swirl the head of your cock before her lips swallow it whole.

She’s methodical. Her tongue slips and darts beneath the sensitive skin under your shaft as she takes you in her mouth further and further. And in excruciating increments she nuzzles her nose against your waist, eyes just beginning to water. She’ll hold it—hold you, cock filling the lovely sleeve that is her throat—and then release. Just like that.

"Yeah—I don’t care what you say." You run your hand along the side of her head, her makeshift ponytail of smooth, silky hair now a perfect grip for your fingers. "You didn’t learn how to do that from those women’s magazines."

She pulls herself off your shaft, cock popping out of her mouth. Hands stacked, one on top of the other, she abuses you with that slobbery layer of saliva in between her fingers. Her eyes poke out, smiling over the top of it all. "I’m new to this—I promise."

"Uh-huh."

"So." Belly against the mattress, she pulls her knees forward, swaying her ass behind her head where you could see it. It’s a whole spectacle with this girl. She taps and teases at the tip of your cock, amused at the precum that sticks to the pad of her thumb, before again finding you with her eyes.

"So," you repeat back.

"How do you want to cum?"

You lean your head back on your shoulders, eyes up at the ceiling—a break. "If you’re not careful, it’s going to be down your throat."

"Well that’d be a waste."

"Oh yeah? How you figure?"

"When you could do it inside my cunt?" She narrows her eyes and raises an eyebrow, hands gingerly pumping at your shaft. "Yeah. A waste."

Yeji’s tongue and fingers work and tease in perfect union along your length. And you blow a steady breath through your lungs to rally your thoughts. "Let me think."

"You’re good, take a breather. I’ve got a nice, beautiful cock here to keep me entertained." And like that, she simply swallows you again.

Her drool continues to spill unapologetic down your shaft, catching itself between Yeji’s fingers and spreading out everywhere along your sensitive skin. A hand twisting, pumping—she has you so effortlessly figured out.

You help her head along as you puzzle about the many possibilities in front of you. Holding her hair, guiding her slack jaw and perfect lips up and down your throbbing cock feels—and you’re a little ashamed to say it—feels like using a toy. A toy that’s hot and hums and vibrates as you fuck it. And that’s exactly what you want to do.

"Yeah, I think—I want this mouth Yeji."

Before she can protest, you guide her again down your shaft, the perfect seal of her lips parting around your tip and swallowing your length. She glides and slips up and down you, the tiniest sounds of her throat struggling to accommodate you reaching your ears.

With her hand pulling yours away, Yeji pushes herself off you, your cock again leaving her lips with a pop.

"Well aren’t you selfish." She pushes gently at your chest with her fingers, "Let me at least take care of you."

You’d been catching yourself staring at her lips all evening, the way they curve and pull themselves up into that irresistible bowing figure—you’d had them running through your thoughts long before today—and now they’re all over your cock. She kisses you, caresses you, exploring every inch of vulnerable skin she can find all along your shaft.

The brief moment exists each time she swallows you, just the second before her lips part and seal around you. A hot, wet breath, spiraling and barely in control, wraps itself around you as her mouth hovers just over the tip of your aching cock—a blanket of warmth surrounding it. She takes you, all of you—again.

If it’s not the tightness of her throat or the doubled effort of ten slender fingers all fighting over one another to try and to send you to the edge, it’s that wet, smooth tongue. With it, Yeji brings your hips forward, bucking into the air above your sheets. A simple lick and you groan. Flattening it and adding it to the friction you find at the back of her throat? You’ve become putty in her hands.

"Fuck… Yeji, that feels incredible."

She hums a self-satisfied note, buzzing it all down your shaft, before pulling herself off your cock and finding you with her eyes once more.

"Tell me what you want," she says, holding your skin taut with her fingers and pumping a tight, squelching fist at the top of your cock.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Yeji—"

"No—tell me."

It’s the heart beating in your throat, it’s the sloppy noise her fingers make as she tries to pull every last ounce of cum out of your cock, it’s the sound of the god damn fucking rain hitting your windows—you whisper beneath it all, "I want to fucking cum in your mouth Yeji."

She lifts an eyebrow, cruelly pulling her hands away from your cock. "And then?"

"And then you’re gonna swallow it."

It all happens so fast. She takes you again into her mouth, fucking you with her throat and tongue—your hands are in her hair, finding the exact contact and warmth you need—and you struggle to do anything beyond holding your breath and closing your eyes tight.

"Mnph."

Your voice spits, "Fuck—"

"Mnmnph."

While you cum inside Yeji’s mouth, into the wonderful shape of her throat, she coughs and sputters, struggling to hold you in her grip, fingers splayed wide against your hips. You can see a good amount of your orgasm almost immediately leak from her lips, spilling down her chin and staining the sheets of your bed—again, tomorrow’s problem.

You grab her Kleenex, water, and anything she might really now need (a good hug more than anything).

Nighttime routines, finding her a pair of pajamas—ones that fit loosely on your body already mind you—a trip to the bathroom, and you’re both brushing your teeth, staring at each other's naked reflection when it really hits you—and together, you just start laughing. Those contagious giggles and bouts of laughter that make you remember just how much you missed the girl who’d forever been your best friend, the girl you loved.

The two of you are quick to find the blankets on your bed, the comfort beneath them. Arms untangle from each other, a quick kiss and a reach for the night stand, Yeji allows a complete darkness into your room.

"Till next time," she whispers into your ear.

The rain had finally stopped, but that doesn’t mean the sun harbored any intention of coming out. It was always kind of stubborn like that.

Rolling out of bed, you’re exhausted, mentally and physically. But you’re not sixteen anymore; you couldn’t fake a cough and tell your mom you were running a fever, take an indulgent day off. So—work it was.

Slacks come on, a dress shirt stuffed hastily into them, and you look over your shoulder to see Yeji’s more or less unidentifiable shape bundled beneath the blankets she’d spent all night stealing from your side of the bed.

"Yeji," you call out.

A soft groan marks the extent of her response as you watch her hand stretch into the air before falling defeated back against your mattress.

"I don’t know where, but—I’m sure you have somewhere to be." You draw the curtains open wide to your room, particularly dissatisfied by just how little light it earns you.

You fish from your suitcase a tie and the top half of your suit before finding your way to the bathroom. When you’re brushing your teeth, you again watch Yeji’s reflection stumble across the mirror, rubbing at her eyes. It took her little time to cop one of your sweatshirts. And you begin to wonder how many of yours you’ve seen taken up like this—now only to be never seen again.

"Good morning," she says, blinking at you.

Even in her least put together state, hair tousled and eyes sleepy, she possesses a certain charm that you struggle to put into any words beyond the obvious ones—she’s cute.

"Man." She looks at your reflection in the mirror–the marks along your neck. "I really roughed you up good, huh."

Usually the tie around your neck was enough to cover up those lip-shaped bruises on your Adam’s apple. You pull at the knot, the silky fabric sliding through your fingers. It’s probably optimistic to think another attempt at tying it might yield better results, but you haven’t all that much choice.

"Nope." Yeji hides her grin with a closed fist, her other hand hanging off your shoulder. "You can still definitely see them."

"Well, shit." A heavy sigh leaves your chest as your hands find your hips. "How bad is it?"

You turn from the mirror, searching for any reassurance in those soft, dark eyes. But the muted laugh, that painfully smug smile, those mischievous hands sneaking around your waist—it’s bad.

"Yeji. I can’t—" You grab onto her hips, trying to stem the flow of laughter that pours from her chest. "Yeji."

Grinning, "gotcha."

You roll your eyes back to your reflection. "I can’t go to work like this."

Yeji takes a second to think through her response, which makes the solution that ends up coming off her tongue even less impressive. "Then don’t."

"Hah. I bet you think you’re clever."

"I do." She runs her fingers through her hair, head tilting and eyes looking up at you. You wish she was just a little less dangerous. "What all is a day off going to do to you? You stamp visas for a living. Remember?"

And so for about a week, the two of you would run through a variation of this same conversation every morning. If it were a test in temperance, you failed it every time. It was sex, it was sleeping, it was cheap take out, it was more sex, but it was also just a lot of time to sit and talk. Like you used to.

Yeji wipes the sweat off her brow and lifts herself off your hips, her nude body cuddling up alongside you, her head resting on your chest. That soft voice of hers again lands perfectly in your ears, "You know what’s crazy?"

"That whiskey is made from wheat or rye?"

"Well, no—" Her chin turns on your chest to look you in the eyes. "What?"

You chuckle. "It’s nothing."

She takes a beat to regather her thoughts. "I was going to say I felt awful for years about it." A soft sigh moves her whole body, the cool breath landing on your chin. "But I never doubted for a second—I knew I’d find you."

You puzzle it through your thoughts. "How’d you figure?"

"Well—because I love you."

Easy, effortless, straightforward—the words spill from her mouth. You wonder for a second if perhaps you were mid-sip a cup of nostalgia instead, burying yourself in memories that never existed. But the soft touch of her hair against your chest, the way her face rises and falls as your chest draws breath, the sweat still lingering and stuck between your bodies—it’s all too real.

Your voice, watery and choked, manages to push a breath through your throat, "I know I can be a cynic—but that’s not really a whole lot to put faith in."

"Maybe. But you said it too."

Your eyes widen and your brow furrows. "When?"

"Couple years ago now. By text—because you’re an asshole."

The memory of it, sorrowful for as long you can remember, comes crashing back to you. "You—you never even opened it."

"I didn’t need to—not a whole lot else getting said in a text message at three in the morning. On New Year’s no less."

You sit in a brief silence, confounded by the old wound. The feeling of her fingertips caressing the skin atop your chest provokes a question, "But then why not respond?"

"You think reading it would’ve made it any easier on me?" She reaches again for the night stand, flipping out the lights from your room with the switch. "What was I supposed to tell you? Suffer in silence and wait for me?"

"Yeji. I’d have done it."

There’s a brief quiet as she moves back into the bed, only the sounds of her shuffling about reaching your ears. You feel her face press against yours in the dark, hot tears streaming down her cheek. "But would you do it still?"

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ducktoo · 3 days ago

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Friend: What r yall being up to btw?

Me (outside): just doing my uni work

Me (inside):

(This fcking woman-)

#babymonster asa

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ducktoo · 4 days ago

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And me. Now write more bangers or else-

Ok but who asked

The voices in my head.

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ducktoo · 4 days ago

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Dont- u have backlogs of fics waiting for u XD

JIHYO for SINGLES MAGAZINE

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ducktoo · 4 days ago

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How did u get to 700-

(Guys, genuinely appreciate yall for enjoying it)

Cheeky

IVE’s An Yujin x M!Reader

Note: Thank u @mintwithchoco for the prompt! It was fun to write this! (I might have post it a bit early but It's a bit too fluff to rot in the jail-

Hope yall got enough dose of lethal Yujin. Here’s a cutie Yujin for yall

(Can this woman not make me blush every single time-)

You have heard many opinions about An Yujin through her online exposure. Gorgeous yet strict, a natural professional and one of the most popular idols in the business.

So when you got hired as a personal bodyguard to IVE, you knew you had to be in your best behaviour. You were expecting a professional introduction. Maybe a polite handshake, a simple exchange of names, and a respectful nod—just like how it had been with every other client before.

But no. Instead, the first thing you got was laughter.

Loud, unabashed laughter.

You had barely stepped into the practice room, clad in your sharp black suit with an earpiece securely in place, when Yujin spun around mid-dance routine, caught sight of you, and nearly collapsed from laughing too hard.

"Oh my god, you look so serious!" She practically wheezed, hands on her knees.

You blinked, your professional composure wavering just slightly. That’s not the usual reaction.

"...Excuse me?"

She straightened up, still giggling, and gave you a once-over. "You're my new bodyguard, right? Wow, we’re the same age, but you look like you’re about to arrest me or something."

Yujin wiped at the corner of her eyes and grinned as she strolled up to you, radiating the kind of unbothered energy that made your brow twitch. Well this is…going to be a pain.

"Well at least I do look the part, no?" you asked, straightening your vest as you clear your throat . "I’m literally here to keep you safe."

"Oh, I’m very grateful." Yujin smirked, stepping closer with a mischievous glint in her eye. "But I was kinda hoping for someone... I don’t know, scarier? You look way too nice."

You stared at her, unimpressed. "I can be scary."

"Yeah?" She raised an eyebrow. "Prove it."

You sighed and took a step forward, dropping your voice into a low, stern tone. "If you don't follow security protocol, I will personally make sure you regret it."

For a moment, Yujin's eyes widened, and you thought—just for a second—that she would actually take you seriously.

Then she grinned even wider.

“Ohhh,” she mused, stepping even closer, her face just inches from yours. “I like you already.”

You had a very bad feeling about this.

If you had known what was coming, you would’ve quit on the spot.

An Yujin, despite her public image of being a charming, responsible leader, was actually a menace.

If she wasn’t sneaking off to buy snacks at the nearby convenience stores without telling anyone, she was hiding behind doors just to jump-scare you. And the worst part? The other IVE members had joined in on it…but mostly Yujin.

"Come on, just one smile," Yujin teased one afternoon, poking your cheek while you stood guard by the van. "You've been with us for months, and I still haven't seen you laugh."

You exhaled through your nose. "My job is to protect you, not to entertain you."

"That’s so boring. How do you survive without fun?"

"By keeping a certain someone out of trouble." You shot her a pointed look.

Yujin gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Wow. Is that how you see me? Just a walking headache?"

You opened your mouth—because yes she was a giant headache to you—but she cut you off, suddenly leaning in way too close.

"What if I am your problem, huh?" she whispered, eyes glinting with playful challenge.

You held your ground, staring her down. "...Then I'll have to handle you accordingly, I suppose."

Instead of backing off, Yujin grinned wider. "I’d like to see you try."

Oh, she was insufferable. And unfortunately, you were stuck with her.

"You know," Yujin drawled, stretching across the couch in the waiting room like a cat in the sun. One arm hung off the side lazily, while the other rested behind her head, eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. "I think you like me more than you let on."

You sighed, already used to her antics. "What makes you think that?"

Her lips curled upward, slow and knowing, like she had already won whatever game she was playing. "Because I'm fun. And charming. And incredibly good-looking." She struck an exaggerated pose, tilting her chin up dramatically like some kind of historical monarch.

Across the room, Wonyoung groaned, rubbing her temples. "Unnie, please. Have some dignity."

"You don’t want me to tell the truth?" Yujin gasped, clutching her chest in mock devastation, her mouth slightly parted as if she had just been personally attacked.

"I don't want you to embarrass us in front of our bodyguard," Wonyoung corrected, glancing at you apologetically.

You just shook your head, lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm used to it."

Yujin’s eyes flickered with amusement, but instead of making another joke, her expression softened just slightly—like she had caught something in your tone that intrigued her. Then, just as quickly, the mischief returned. "See? That's basically an admission that you enjoy my company."

You gave her a deadpan look. "That is not what I said."

"Too late, I'm taking it as fact." She stretched her arms over her head, looking far too pleased with herself.

You exhaled through your nose, choosing to ignore her. If there was one thing you'd learned about An Yujin, it was that engaging with her nonsense only fuelled her further.

But despite all her teasing and the way she constantly pushed your buttons, there were moments when she reminded you why she was the leader of IVE.

Like now.

Liz sat in the corner of the room, staring down at her phone with her lips pressed into a tight line. She was fidgeting, her hands twisting together in her lap—a stark contrast to the usual easygoing energy she carried.

Yujin noticed instantly. Her playful expression melted away, replaced by something steadier. More grounded. She pushed herself off the couch, crossing the room in a few quick strides before crouching beside Liz.

"Jiwonie," she called softly, nudging her knee against Liz’s. "What’s up?"

Liz hesitated before sighing. "I feel like I keep messing up my parts in the choreography."

Yujin tilted her head, studying her with an unreadable expression. Then, instead of immediately reassuring her, she took a moment. Just a beat of silence—enough to let Liz’s words settle before responding.

"You don’t," Yujin said firmly. "We practiced together, remember? You’re doing fine."

"But—"

"No buts." Yujin stood up, walked over, and slung an arm around Liz’s shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "You know what I told you? The best performers aren’t the ones who get everything perfect all the time. They’re the ones who keep going no matter what."

Liz still looked uncertain, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "You really think so?"

"I know so." Yujin grinned. "Besides, if you mess up, I’ll just mess up too. That way, we’re both in trouble."

"That’s a terrible encouragement," you muttered.

Yujin turned her head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, and the glint in her eyes was back. The glint. The one that usually meant trouble.

"It’s called leadership," Yujin shot back. "Ever heard of it?"

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but you didn’t argue. Liz was smiling now, and that was proof enough that whatever Yujin was doing was working. She had a way of lifting her members’ spirits that was genuinely impressive.

Liz laughed, looking much more relaxed. "Thanks, unnie."

"Anytime," Yujin replied, patting her head before making her way back to her spot on the couch. As she passed you, she glanced up, smirking.

"See? I'm not just a pain in your ass."

"I never said that," you replied, but she only winked before plopping back onto the couch like she hadn’t just effortlessly reassured one of her members.

You sighed. Protecting An Yujin was exhausting… but you didn’t mind as much as you pretended to.

Your day off. A rare and precious thing.

You had been looking forward to it—no earpiece, no schedule to follow, no six-foot radius of hyper-vigilance around an overgrown puppy disguised as an idol. Just a quiet, peaceful day to yourself.

Or so you thought.

The realization hit you like a cruel joke when you spotted her.

An Yujin. Hoodie up, mask on, but you’d recognize her anywhere. The way she walked, slightly loose-limbed and confident, like the world was hers to navigate. The way she hummed under her breath as she glanced at store signs, completely unaware of how reckless she was being.

You groaned under your breath. Of course.

But before you could even question why she was out alone, without security, without backup, you saw him. A man. Mid-thirties. Dark hoodie. His posture was too stiff, his steps too calculated. He lingered a few feet behind Yujin, never overtaking her, never slowing down. His gaze flickered to her every few seconds, fingers twitching slightly as if waiting for something.

Your instincts kicked in immediately.

You followed her into a convenience store, keeping to the shelves as she strolled past the snack aisle. She had no idea. Her biggest concern at the moment was probably whether to get banana milk or iced coffee—completely oblivious to the shadow tailing her.

He lingered near the entrance, pretending to look at snacks but never actually picking anything up. His eyes were locked on Yujin, and his fingers twitched like he was waiting for the right moment.

Sasaeng. Your stomach turned cold.

You moved fast.

The moment Yujin left the store, you followed right behind. And just as the man reached out—

You grabbed his wrist. Tight.

A sharp intake of breath. The man's head snapped toward you, eyes widening in shock and irritation.

"The hell—?" he hissed, jerking back, but you didn’t let go.

Yujin spun around, startled. "Huh?—"

"Good afternoon, mister." You pulled her behind you instinctively, keeping your grip on the man. "I don’t know what you think you’re doing," you said, voice low and firm, "but walk away. Now."

The man scowled, trying to yank his arm free. "Who the hell are you?"

"Her bodyguard," you answered coldly. "And if you don’t leave in the next five seconds, you won’t like what happens next."

A flicker of hesitation. His eyes darted between you and Yujin, who was standing rigid behind you now, her usual carefree energy drained into something tense and alert.

Then, finally, the man sneered and yanked his arm free. "Tch. Not worth it," he muttered before disappearing into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, making sure he was really gone, before exhaling.

And then you remembered the girl behind you.

"So…what the hell?" you snapped, turning to her. "Why are you alone?"

She blinked up at you, wide-eyed, still processing what just happened. "Uh…"

"You know how dangerous this is, right?" Your voice was sharper than usual, the adrenaline still running through you. "No staff, no backup, no security. What were you thinking?"

Yujin finally seemed to snap out of it, rubbing the back of her neck. "...I just wanted to go out for a bit. I didn’t want to bother anyone."

Your fists clenched, the lingering adrenaline making your chest feel too tight. "You call this not bothering anyone? You're lucky I decided to go out right now you dunce."

She hesitated, shifting on her feet. Then, in a small voice, she admitted, "I didn’t even realize he was following me."

You exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Yujin," you muttered, softer this time, "this is exactly why you can’t go out alone. It’s not about you wanting freedom, it’s about your safety. There are people out there who—" You stopped, shaking your head. "Just... don’t do this again."

Silence stretched between you for a few seconds before Yujin suddenly smiled.

It wasn’t her usual teasing grin. It was softer. Almost... grateful.

"You really do care about me, huh?"

You groaned. "That’s what you’re taking from this?"

Her lips twitched, and just like that, the mischievous glint in her eyes was back. She nudged your arm playfully. "Admit it. You’d miss me if I got kidnapped."

"Don't make me use profanity you—"

"Fine, fine!" She laughed, hands up in surrender. But then she let out a breath, gaze flickering down for a second before meeting yours again, more earnest this time.

"Seriously, though," she murmured. "Thanks. I mean it."

You watched her for a moment, noting the way her usual carefree mask had cracked just a little. The way her eyes, despite the teasing, held something like genuine gratitude. She nudged you playfully. "Guess I owe you one, huh?"

"More like you owe me about a hundred at this point," you muttered, finally relaxing.

Yujin grinned. "Then I’ll start by buying you lunch. C’mon, bodyguard. Let’s eat."

And despite everything, despite the fact that this was supposed to be your day off, you found yourself walking beside her, watching her laugh like nothing had happened.

You should’ve known saving An Yujin would have consequences.

Not in the form of a promotion or a bonus (though you wouldn’t say no to either), but in the absolute menace she had become ever since that day.

At first, you thought you were imagining things—the longer stares, the way her lips curled mischievously whenever she caught your eye, the subtle brushes of her fingers against your arm whenever she passed by.

Then, the touches became more deliberate. The teasing got more frequent. The closeness is more unbearable.

It was like a switch had flipped. Suddenly, your personal space was no longer yours. And the worst part? She did it so naturally, like she had always been this clingy with you.

Just like this one morning at the company building—

"Mr. Bodyguaaard~" Yujin sang as she threw an arm over your shoulders, completely ignoring the amused stares of the staff around you. "Walk me to the practice room!"

You exhaled. "Yujin, You know I’m going there anyway."

"But this way is more fun." She tightened her grip, practically hanging off you.

You gave her a look. "...Do you have to be this close?"

"Yes," she said simply, grinning.

It only got worse after a long schedule. You were expecting Yujin to slump in exhaustion like she usually did. Instead, the moment she climbed into the van, she scooted over without hesitation, settling in way too close before dropping her head onto your shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

Your entire body stiffened.

"What are you doing?" you asked, voice flat, not daring to move.

"Getting comfortable," she mumbled, shifting slightly as if trying to mold herself against you.

Your brow twitched. "You have an entire seat to yourself."

"But I don’t want to sit alone," she said simply, eyes fluttering shut. "You’re warm."

Across from you, Wonyoung and Liz exchanged knowing looks.

"Oh no," Gaeul muttered, covering her mouth to hide a laugh.

"I don’t get it," Wonyoung whispered, glancing between you and Yujin. "Since when were they this close?"

Liz smirked. "Since someone got rescued and suddenly realized how cool their bodyguard is."

You sighed. "I heard that, Jiwon."

"I'm glad you did," Liz cheekily shot back.

Meanwhile, Yujin hummed in contentment, completely ignoring the stares and the muffled giggles of her members. As if your shoulder was the perfect place to rest, she nestled in further, her soft breath fanning against your neck.

You felt heat creep up your collar.

"...Heavy," you muttered, shifting slightly.

"Comfy," she countered with a teasing lilt, her lips curling into a lazy grin.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Gaeul shaking her head. "This is getting dangerous."

Liz, meanwhile, giggled behind her hand. "We should start selling tickets to this slow-burn romance."

You groaned. Yujin? She just smirked.

Her clingy antics doesn't stop in the comfort of their dorm, unfortunately. Before their music show performance, you were standing near the dressing room door, waiting for the members to finish.

And then the door swung open.

Yujin strolled out like she was making a grand entrance, her hair freshly styled, her makeup flawless—looking every bit the idol she was.

And then, in one smooth motion, she reached out, grabbed your hand, and laced her fingers with yours.

Your brain lagged.

"Let’s go, mister!" she announced.

You blinked. "Why are you holding my hand—?"

"You saved me, so now I’m keeping you close!" she said cheerfully. "You're my lucky charm!"

Behind her, Leeseo’s jaw dropped. Liz and Rei had to turn away to hide their laughter.

"Yujin," you hissed under your breath, trying to pull away.

She only tightened her grip.

"Nope," she said. "Mine now."

You could physically feel Wonyoung’s migraine forming. "You cannot just say that out loud," Wonyoung groaned, covering her face.

"I just did." Yujin smirked, swinging your intertwined hands slightly, watching your reaction with delight.

Liz and Rei lost it, muffling their laughter behind their hands.

At that moment, a staff member walked by, did a double-take at your very obvious hand-holding situation, and nearly tripped.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

You really should have been more prepared for this.

It happened at the airport, in front of dozens of fans, reporters, and flashing cameras.

You were walking beside Yujin, scanning the crowd for any potential threats, keeping a careful distance—when suddenly—

"Honey~!"

You froze. The world stopped.

Gasps. Shrieks. Camera flashes directly in your face.

Even the security personnel ahead of you paused.

Your entire being short-circuited. "What did you just call me?"

Yujin, completely unbothered, turned to you with an innocent smile. "Honey~" she repeated, her voice sweet as sugar.

Wonyoung, Gaeul, and Rei screamed.

Leeseo was flabbergasted, with Liz quickly covering the youngest's ear from behind.

Even the fans were losing their minds.

"OH MY GOD—"

"WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY—"

"HUH?!?!?"

"YUJIN CALLED HER BODYGUARD HONEY?!?!"

"What. The. Hell. Yujin?!" Your ears burned with embarrassment. "Are you trying to make me headline Dispatch?"

"You take care of me," Yujin said smoothly, not missing a beat. "You protect me, you make sure I eat, you saved my life—so obviously, you're my honey."

"You cannot just say that out loud in public," you hissed, absolutely mortified.

"But I just did," she replied with a grin, eyes twinkling with mischief.

You quickly cover her mouth, frantically trying to damage control. "STOP!!!!"

At this point, Wonyoung had buried her face in her hands, physically unable to process what was happening. Gaeul was bent over, wheezing. Rei looked like she was watching the most dramatic plot twist unfold in real life.

A fan nearby whispered to their friend, "Do you think they’re dating?"

You nearly collapsed.

And Yujin?

She just tugged on your sleeve, eyes filled with amusement, and smiled. "Come on, honey. Let’s go."

And as you caught the knowing grins of her members, the delighted chaos among the fans, and the sheer horror on your own face reflected in the airport glass, you realized something.

You didn’t just save An Yujin.

You unleashed a monster.

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ducktoo · 5 days ago

Note

im taking it all-

can I have a minjeong? :(

— 📐

Take as many as you'd like.

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ducktoo · 5 days ago

Text

I decided to read this while working out…im hungry mannnn…..

Pineapple Cake

In what is more of a love letter to Vietnam than a straight-up smut, we have Nien in the lead. First time I tried adding an IRL picture to at least help myself a bit. I'm not gonna lie, I was missing the city more writing the first half, that's why it took so long. All vibes for this one.

We're going to another city next!

7,672 words of Nien. Enjoy!

Rain in Southeast Asia is nothing to scoff at. Particularly not when you’re informed to prepare to move for a company branch during said rainy season, worse, in short, a three-week notice. It brings an altogether sigh and a cold drink together, after which I would grab and wipe down my luggages and throw them open about two days before departing. It’s always an adventure, sure, and I look forward to the new person I will come out of the place. But it works altogether. However, I noticed another addition in the email order I received.

“Do not pass immigration until she has transferred from her Taipei flight. You must pass it together.”

Her? They typically do not say names, as HR doesn’t know or care who. I also understood it was not to stir a raised eyebrow from the immigration officer. But yes, the pronoun made my head tilt. Having had a “his” to partner me during the few work trips, and often than not, I just kept it professional. It is usually someone with a better-ish grasp of the local language than I. However, I almost always grab the free two-week language program, which is a good excuse to do other things during company time. It makes the white lie of “easily learns new languages” in my resumé seem worthwhile.

I wasn’t so glum about it. I was looking forward to it even, despite some naughty suggestions from my colleagues, I was firm that it was just another work deployment. Though I cannot deny myself the power of my imagination. I was young and single, so the idea never really left me. The idea made me ponder once or twice in the weeks leading up to the day, all while having no real imagination of who I had to live with for the next few months, except that it was a she. Given that it was Da Nang I was to leave for, there was quite a bit on my mind, though I doubt the adjustment wouldn’t be too hard. I’ve done this before, so it can’t be that different, can it?

In the meantime, I did what I could to get a clearer image of the place I would call home for a bit. I thought I had to grab a motorcycle if I wanted to go around on the weekends. However, I don't consider myself to be the most adventurous of people, but in a new country, I don't mind. I looked forward to sitting on a stool and eating whatever I picked; the good excuse of "I can jog this out tomorrow" always worked like a charm, and being used to greens helped.

Though that was all I did for the past three weeks. Now I'm a bit early at the airport, waiting outside a cafe, a large suitcase on one end, an empty plate and almost-finished mug on the table, and waiting on an empty chair while double-checking whether the documents I had were correct. Though I was just watching something on my phone when I got the message that she had arrived. Let's see if I was lucky, but now I just need to be professional. It did not take long before a tall lady, quite serious, searching, about five-foot-six, could tell from a glance she was Taiwanese, probably because she wasn't so pale. I thought maybe that was her. Then she saw me, looked at her phone, and walked towards me. Yep, that's her.

I stood up to meet her. A firm handshake but a carefree smile. Good impressions all around, she seemed very fun to be around, happy-go-lucky, as said. It was pretty easy to crack the ice, warming up to each other easily, as she had been my counterpart in the Taipei office for some time now. We were now the "traveling circus," since they had shifted from sending uninterested middle-aged executives a while ago. Yet her name was one of the things I asked first, so I have one: Hsu Nien Tzu.

I remember asking her one thing before standing up: if she could speak the language. I was not about to start a bad demonstration.

"I'm half-Vietnamese," Nien replied, "we're gonna be fine."

Save for the passing score I got when it came to comprehension, I was glad. Alright, this was going to be better than I had hoped. So we followed another set of orders: pass by immigration, eat, and wait for our flight to leave after sunset. I was constantly reminded that I needed to speak up more to my trip partners, so I decided to keep the conversation as natural as possible. Talking to Nien over dinner gave that, sharing an early phở before we left. It made me wonder why I didn't decide to set out and look for who I was going with on the trip. On trips before, I got my answer at least a week before we departed. Maybe I was too busy, or perhaps some part of me liked that anticipation, the waiting, yet it's not like I exclusively work with men, so what gives?

Maybe I’ve probably gotten too used to the scheduling. This was also my longest deployment so far, so there was probably more off time between us. I always make it a point not to make it too personal, but I value the companionship I get.

We passed the time that way, and before long, we were number two for takeoff on a rainy evening. It took a bit of both waiting and a little turbulence, with a loud turbofan roar and water flying by the window as we left the city. I saw it disappear behind the clouds; thick clouds only meant rain, and pretty much another goodbye. I hoped the rain wouldn’t follow us there as the plane settled into its climb, so I whispered it to Nien too; she was already, understandably, half-asleep, and she agreed. We were heading to a coastal city after all, and I knew it would be sooner or later. I just about remembered the slight pull of settling into cruising altitude as I dozed off, unable to put my book back and it on the tray table.

We were being told to put the tray tables up when we woke. I look outside and see spotlights on the water, equally spaced apart. The next thing my eyes saw was a mass of lights in a line, some were moving, but most were static; the unmistakable coastline, and a temporary new life. Our little residence should be across what seems to be the river, a little company present that overlooked the estuary. I could feel Nien was looking over, too.

“Fishing boats.” I blurted without question.

“Hm?” Nien sounded off. I asked, letting my thoughts known, “wanna grab something when we land?”

She just nodded.

That’s what we did. Getting our bags and getting into a company car took less than fifteen minutes. A junior representative welcomed us and discussed what to expect in our new residence. Trying not to space out and just look out the window, one moment we were at a stoplight with just a bit too many motorcycles, the next, we were on a bridge, a pretty well-lit one at that, glancing to see the many skyscrapers before looking back and trying to read the paper in the dark. We were told to split tasks for tomorrow as we needed to show up by Monday. I agreed that I was the one getting the long license conversion pipeline.

Unpacking our things, I gave a generous, well, a little too generous, tip to our welcoming party. It was a small third-floor accommodation, with a nice river view as I walked out onto the small balcony, with a row of sellers a few walks to the right. I remembered what I told her two hours ago on the plane. I turned around to see Nien had changed into more comfortable clothes, nothing unusual. She seemed to fit right in, and I did my part by changing into sandals. Our conversation took off where it was at the airport, no work yet, that was tomorrow’s problem, ending our first night with a celebratory beer and two bowls of noodles. I think it was Mì Quảng.

The next day came as it did, and we started working as the weekend passed. It only took about a week, and adding a few more, coupled with plastic bags of beer, or enjoying the long lunch breaks, to really get on their best graces. Before we knew it, we were almost halfway through our stay. They remarked from the first few days that they liked having someone closer to their age to mess around with. I also did, and having a roommate that the guys liked flirting with was fun to watch. It never crossed my mind to look at her differently, visually or personally—though I did understand why people wanted to flirt with her—perhaps keeping myself down, shifting into the college-age rhetoric of never getting involved with your colleagues. Even if we shared the same room, we had to run errands together sometimes. However, Nien did bring up a throwaway line when we were sharing a drink on the balcony once.

Nien asked, "You mentioned I'm the first girl you went on a visiting trip with?"

I replied, "Yeah, it was always men before that."

"Mine too. So you're my first guy partner." Nien answered, adding, "It's quite relaxing."

"And why's that?"

She replied, "You're not a bother," then paused again.

"If anything, I kind of forget we've been together for like, six weeks now."

I paused too, mid-sip, putting the glass away from my lips and corrected her, "Together in Da Nang, you mean."

Nien chuckled, taking it in stride, "Yeah, together in Da Nang," before taking a swig of her glass, which had already made her fingers cold and wet. She had held on to it for a bit too long.

We left it at that. A slight brush at the line. It was like that until we got to Huế.

The monsoon season came as I had predicted. Switching out the sticky, humid heat of mainland Southeast Asia for the torrential rain of its archipelagic neighbors. Save for the second morning, when we were able to tour a bit of the citadel and some of the city. We shared mugs of coffee when the heat got too much for us, which, by this point, was the bitterness we'd gotten used to. Now every other coffee will taste diluted. The rest of our week was forecasted to be just a gloomy morning, followed by an afternoon downpour, and evening rain, all in that order. I looked across the river, our cheap local hotel barely had a view over the river and to the citadel. I wondered to myself, "Just getting across that moat would've sucked."

Our actual reason for being in the older city was far outside the center. A site visit, about an hour or so via a rented motorcycle, amounted to us arriving at a small roadside site. Nien and I were just being toured around and gave pretty faces, maybe interviewing some folks, but all in a day's work; show up, play nice, lead them along, write the report the evening before we get on the bus Saturday morning. We arrived and finished early in the afternoon, which was unexpectedly sunny for that day, both much to our surprise. Changing into more comfortable, warm-weather clothes, we thought the same thing—there was enough time to kill.

It was a fine tour of the citadel, again this time with less time to beat, for ourselves. Perhaps the aspect of sightseeing while breaking a bit of a sweat endeared itself to Nien. Linking onto my arm as we walked to the lesser sights inside the walls, I didn't question it this time. Though maybe, earlier in our stay, I would've. It just never crossed my mind at this point to ask why she's doing it. Perhaps she could just do it because we weren't in our usual city, and I rolled with it. I asked, albeit a bit forcefully, when she pushed me to stand, pose, and take some pictures.

"I'm getting envious of everybody else here."

Hmm. Doesn't sound half bad, but it does sound like an excuse from Nien. To be fair, a more homebody like me became just a bit more adventurous because of her, even after we settled for our stay. Sooner, I told her that it might rain a little later, the grey clouds slowly swamping out the sunlight as we kept walking. We did have a foldable umbrella, but having seen it bent before, I didn't want to trust it if the wind blew. She argued that we could just keep taking our time, though, adding her point that there was more to explore beyond the moat.

Though the grey clouds, heavy as they were, rolled in faster than we anticipated. We were in a garden and managed to walk, almost into a jog, towards a pavilion as the raindrops began to fall heavily on us. When we got under the roof, it was dark. Nien and I caught ourselves for a moment before I started to notice the old wood, and I looked around. There was nobody else there.

“Well, let’s wait,” I said, looking out to the garden. The wind was coming in now.

I moved inside, adjusting my eyes from the hallway to see a sizable, but empty interior, almost cavernous because the roof was the ceiling itself. If we had run the other way, we would’ve ended up at a cafe. But we were here. Nien was on a bench, the second of three, scrolling on her phone.

“Internet’s pretty slow,” Nien remarked when I sat beside her.

I was about to space out, between staring at the interior and my phone, I considered just standing and walking around. The network is slow, as she said. Then Nien blurted out of the blue.

“Sometimes I wonder why you don’t ask me out?”

I heard her. I froze a bit, though it hit like an M79—thump!

“Hm?” I knew I would stutter as I met her stare. Though flatly, maybe firmly, I replied, “We’re workmates.”

That was just me trying to run for cover. Nien was a wily woman.

“And single.” Nien butted in. The free spirit had me cornered. Another one, thump!

I turned to look at her, possibly overreacting, “I sure hope you’re not asking for casual.”

“You know,” Nien grabbed my hand, squeezing it, “I have a visa,” her palm was sweating, “And you’re just an hour away.”

“I know, but I just hope you don’t have any silly surprises from Taipei.” I wasn’t willing to be a third party.

"How about you're my "silly" surprise then?" Nien replied. I was tense, but sneaked out a smile, mirroring her. I asked, "Hard to hold one down with our work, no?"

"Yeah, sounds nice sometimes..," I continued, "to settle." At the risk of sounding like a formal email. I couldn't think of saying anything else, really. Nien had other ideas besides just staring at me. Her gaze was on my lips. I was thinking about it, but she beat me to the chase again. I could only think; Please, don't just be another passing mirage. Yet she was a bold woman—asking for my commitment—there was no “no,” as her eyes locked onto me.

"Is that a yes or no?"

Responding with "maybe" was going to throw everything off. I did not doubt Nien, yet my doubt always forecasted itself when I needed it the least. It took me about a second to really gather my thoughts. This felt like the fucking interview again! I needed to think quickly. Nien was anything but bad. Whatever quirk I had thought of before, I forgot now, and in my recent attempts back home, they were all pale and shallow compared to where we were. It was half a calculation and boyish arrogance, and a matter of time before we reached this point. She got her reply.

A smile came from Nien, her mouth still closed, "I knew you'd say that."

Nien then held tighter, clasping over my palm, and shifted a bit closer. She was nervous. Her stare remained on my lips. We both took a breath, shut our eyes, and leaned into one another. It was no more than a smack, just two touches of our lips. It was juvenile in execution, both of us leaning in from a little too far. That's how I knew it'd been a long time coming for her, too. I leaned away from Nien, and she giggled a bit as I noticed she had already blushed red.

Nien turned to face me, then came in for another. The rain was falling a little harder now. Our hands rose, hers resting on my shoulder, mine on her neck as our lips came together again. She took the lead this time and pushed slightly forward. Lightly tugging at her neck, I pushed back. A smooch rang out, and for a second, somebody giggled. I was trying to remember how to do it right, immediately snapping out of my head when her lips pushed against me, another smooch rang out. My other hand let go of hers, tugging at her pants as it glided up her right leg. I could not recall when tongues started getting involved, nor when I began to leave soft kisses on her neck. I made sure there were no hickeys. Yet once I found Nien’s lips again, we were noticeably getting more handsy, as mine was high up her skirt, while hers rested between my thighs. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two of us just making out, and just as I grabbed her ass a little, breathlessly, she said.

“Hey,” tapping my chest, “Don’t get too playful.”

“I’m just listening to you.”

Nien just chuckled. Giving me another peck before we continued. She wasn’t stopping me at all. The rain was only falling harder now—time was almost up—and I needed to be bolder. Gently setting her on the bench, she must’ve known I was going to do something else. Pulling away just to see me dive to her neck again, though at the last second before I shut my eyes, hers looked downward. Giving her neck a few light kisses, moving often so as not to leave hickeys. My fingers were pulling on her drawstring, cradling her neck as my other arm meddled with the hem of her pants, sliding my fingers to her panties, but not into them. Letting out her first moan, weak, restrained, more of a hard breath, as my fingers pressed down on the warmest spot I could find. Beginning to draw in circles over the soft fabric as her breath hitched, she grabbed my arm as I moved faster.

I giggled to myself as Nien’s breath hitched again, turning into an actual, audible, but still weak moan this time. Though the grip of her fingers tightened, I wasn’t even going any faster. She became more tense, stirring, shallow breaths, her chest rising outward as she rang herself out more and more. She was getting wetter, and I could only imagine what she looked like, as I was just listening to her. Though of course, we couldn’t do anything more, perhaps some sort of shame came over us when she said,

“Stop.”

I did. Then I heard it, the rain was weaker now.

“We can’t do that here.”

I agreed, never intending to go all the way. Pulling my fingers out and letting her fix her string. Though what we did, a half-assed confession, an exchange of lips, under a reconstructed garden pavilion, in a former palace, during the middle of a monsoon shower, was something I was never ready for.

“You know, it would be hard to run outside if we get caught.”

She said, and was correct. Standing up like nothing happened, though visibly, she still looked a bit red. Almost surprised that we just did that. I stood up too and looked through the doorway, hoping not to catch a glimpse of anybody. I slung my bag around myself and took a sip. I needed to at least say something so as not to abruptly kill the tension.

“We could continue this at the hotel.”

Nien walked forward to kiss me, “I like that.”

I kissed her back. We just have to pretend nothing happened for now. Act cool, I thought, she must’ve too as she tapped on my shoulder, noticing I was a bit nervous. That ought to calm me down a bit, and I was less jittery by the time we were back out on the streets, seeing other visitors again. We hope nobody saw us.

Though for a time, as the sun slowly began to set over the horizon, we were able to see more courtyards and another garden. The sunlight peeped through, as if it only rained to give us that little tussle. Maybe, it winked at us for it. We almost forgot our little episode with just how large exploring the citadel complex was. Nien and I were able to hide behind ourselves the fact that we had just done something so risqué, at a place considered so regal. She was back to her usual self, smiling for her camera as always. However, she was tugging me closer now, letting my arm feel her chest so often when she'd look over for photos. I jokingly had to tell her to quit it, and she just smirked at me.

The golden sunset had already broken through the scattered greys when Nien and I hopped on our motorcycle and, not being the most skilled rider, just waited in traffic. I was sort of hungry, though a snack from a roadside stall before we left seemed to quell it, but I knew a late dinner was due. Nien was hugging me from behind, pressing herself—again—on my back. I was doing everything to not get hard in public.

"You feel it?" Nien asked, giggling.

"Yes," I replied.

Nien seemed to say something as the light turned green. So the only thing I heard was, beyond other vehicles on the road, and I revved the motorcycle, was myself going, "Huh?!"

By the time we turned onto our street. It was a quieter part of town that allowed me a glance upward for a second. The sky had turned a deep grey, and Nien and I were close to the hotel. I was doing my damndest to turn my nervousness around. I heard that imagining yourself succeeding, rather than just scaring yourself with nervousness, helps. It did. Yet, trying to ignore the boner forming in my pants, her hands wrapped around me, all the way to the moment I shut the motor off, wasn't helping.

Proceeding up to our room, the only person that bothered was the desk clerk. Finding ourselves proceeding down the same hallway as earlier, yet both of us seemed to be rushing towards our room. I fumbled the keys. Yes, keys, hurriedly picking them up. The jiggling nearly drove me mad because the lock decided to stiffen up just when we were going to get some. Almost barging inside, we threw our things onto the table, just enough time to switch the doorway light. We can't wait for the AC to cool, and we're next on the line.

Nien then put her hands on me just as she had earlier. Only taking a glance at my lips before leaning into them, meeting her halfway, with her reaching over my shoulders and grabbing my back and nape. I pulled her closer by her waist. Skipping from the shy kisses of earlier, our tongues and lips smacking almost as soon as we started. We weren’t going to get much standing up, though.

Facing Nien to the bed, I continued where I had already been earlier. Planting my lips downward on her neck, sucking harder the lower I went. As I got to the top of her chest, her breath hitched, knees buckling a bit at how suddenly I ramped things up. Carefully, I placed her down, not letting go of her neck for a second, though her slight bounce off the mattress took me away from her collarbone. I got myself back on her lips as she slowly slid herself further up, hovering over her. Now, more comfortably, I looked at her for a moment, lying down, expectant, vulnerable, waiting, on the second bed. My bed. She must’ve seen how nervous I was with the huff I let out, to which she asked.

“Take your time, what’s the rush?”

I just smiled back at Nien. She was rhetorical, through her eyes gazed downward. I answered with a deep kiss and went where her eyes were. Now I was truly hopping off where I was earlier, I slid my hands under her bra as I kissed her exposed chest. Catching on, her hands raised her shirt over her shoulders, and off her. Now, in her bra, it was wireless from the look of it, and easier to remove. She arched her back, but I stopped her from doing it herself, a series of kisses on her tits as my hands pushed her tits, petite, but soft, onto my face. Tick!

Getting Nien’s bra off her, the next sound it made was it being thrown against the wall. Not even giving her time to turn her head back to me as I took a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard. Perhaps a little too excitedly. Hearing her grimace, yet pushing her chest onto my face, I let go of her tit with a pop. Looking up to see her looking down too.

“Don’t stop that.”

I was about to give a boyish smile. In my head, at least. Following her, I clamped on her other nipple, circling my tongue around the small bud while looking up to see her shut her eyes, letting out a long exhale. My hand glided over her body, feeling her shift her hip to let my hand slide in between her legs, sliding my fingers over her panties. She was turning hot, but that warm spot on my fingertips told me everything. Looking at me again, I kept my eyes on her as I slipped my fingers under her pants again, pressing harder where I did earlier. Her brows furrowed, letting out an uncaged moan while her whole body rose up to me as I dug my fingers in. Sliding my fingers over a few times kept making her squirm, then I began tracing my lips downward to her toned tummy, then below that as my fingers slipped to the slide and from her back. Pulling down her pants, it seemed that Nien was more in a hurry to get it off than I was, having me stand as it lay on the floor. I hurried and stripped down, now we were naked.

Nien rose up to meet my lips while her hand grabbed at my cock. I was surprised at the sensation, her squeezing almost making me back off out of juvenile instinct—much like herself—it really had been a minute for us. It was semi-erect, stroking slowly, as we shared our tongues again.

“Haven’t seen one in a while,” she said with a slight giggle. I did too with a hand on her tit, “Me too.”

Slowly pushing her down, I kneeled and retraced where my lips had gone. Though with her pants out of the way, we both knew what I was going to do next. Holding her legs open, I slid my tongue up her thigh, though going down, the closer I got to her pussy, I began to suck at her skin. From a glance, her folds looked dry, but my fingers weren’t lying, they were beckoning me, and I obliged. A moan was building up as I licked around her folds, slowly making my tongue paint, and let her feel my saliva as I prepared. It was a feint. A sharp gasp left her as the sucking on her clit began, lapping up at the hood and teasing my tongue in her hole. I was famished and a bit showy, but was it all just for Nien? Absolutely.

Watching, with my fingers holding her legs open, let me feel her relax, then tense up, torso rising with just an upward swipe gave that shot of confidence I missed. Capturing her folds with my lips, the salty taste filling my imagination as I shut my eyes and just let what I knew how to do, let do. Focusing only on how my mouth slowly moved, hungered, and ate away at her. An arm reaching downward to grab me, only lightly, at my head. Listening, and feeling, hearing her low, buzzing moans would rise to gasps, and beg for just a little more. Even an instance where she slipped into Mandarin when I hit a good nerve with my tongue, even covering her mouth as Nien thought herself getting too loud, trying to hide her head sideways into the pillow.

Holding onto a leg, I took a hand, and, timing my tongue with her clit, slowly pushed a finger inside as she shifted again. Nien groaned as her own hips helped slip my only finger inside. Curling it, her tightness immediately made itself felt as her warmth wrapped around, while I pushed and pressed with my finger. I couldn’t tell if it was my tongue or fingers that worked, as a gasp, her fingers gripping the bed, and a breathy cry told me I had found my mark. So, I pushed, following with a second finger that made her squirm more, her moans now only second to the slobbering between her legs.

Then, Nien began to fall silent, though the same expression, now contorted—holding herself back—yet her body wasn’t lying. Her fingers grip on my hair slowly tightened as I licked and prodded away at her. My fingers almost found it hard to move as the inevitable came knocking. Her tightness made moving difficult, all the more with her twitching and shifting. Yet, she continued to roll her hips, as if she were riding on my fingers and leading herself on. Faster now. A messy dance on the mattress as she seemed more into it than I did, and with how she was grabbing my hair, I was to have my proof soon enough.

A short, breathy, unintelligible string of words left Nien. Then she cried out, sank her head onto the pillow, arched her back, and closed her legs. She came, and came faster than either of us must’ve thought. Looking up, the expression on her face read a mix of surprise and pleasure, but also of a strange relief, relishing that moment of release. Her mouth hanging open, weak moans leaving her while her eyebrows furrowed, rolling and lightly shaking as she let her body talk for itself. She waited for this. Her orgasm almost came in waves, shuddering for nearly a minute before, suddenly, she just plopped down, completely melted, her chest rising and falling, taking deep breaths as she looked like she was about to sleep.

“You okay?”

That was the first thing spoken in a while.

Nien, while still flushed, tried to sit up, but I was first. Getting back on the bed, my cock was now erect and needed to be inside her, fast. Through some sleight of hand, I was slowly stroking myself too as I listened to her. I pushed her down, and just smirked at me with her legs open—no problems—and after I took another smack of her nipple, put her arms over my shoulders.

Curious, I asked her how I did.

“Better than what I could do,” Nien answered. Having not wiped my lips, she beckoned me to kiss her, though not without sucking the two fingers that helped her cum just then. That ought to clean and taste herself. Reaching my arm down, I slipped my hand under her knee and pushed her leg open, her left foot high up in the air, the right over my back. My hand grabbed hers, holding tight and staring at me hard. We knew what was next. I glanced down and lined myself up, planted my knees, and slid in. Both of us moaned as my hips, only on instinct, told me to just push. Halfway inside, I stopped, letting myself feel her tightness, then Nien interrupted.

“Keep going.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. So I did. Holding my breath as I moved my hips, I watched her bite her lip, keeping her gaze as I thrust all the way inside Nien. Letting out sighs as I filled her, relaxing myself, as I slid back and began to move. A renewed but also arrogant vigor came to me as I paced myself, enjoying watching her take me. She watched for a second before one thrust hit her, shutting her eyes as I thrusted deep. Not too fast now, not too fast. Burying her head on the pillow as she tried to get a hold of herself, getting over the short, passing tinge of pain of her first time in a while, and me trying to make that while last. She wanted this, and our pieces were in play now.

Getting at a pace, I found myself moaning along with Nien. Sometimes, I shut my eyes as I dove down to kiss her neck, just to feel how my cock split and felt her pussy contract. When I would see her, the way her body moved, pinned, shivering, and nipples fully erect, a light sheen of sweat already making itself seen. Even with her eyes closed, her fingers unchanged in their tight grip, she let herself feel all of it. In the few shared glances, she looked on, satisfied. My face probably told her that too, tapping me on the cheek and flashing a shy smile before snapping back with a thrust. If I had told myself a few months ago that I would fuck my foreign work visit partner, I wouldn’t believe it, and neither would she.

Straightening myself, I pull Nien’s legs along and hold her at her hip. Picking my pace up a bit, I could feel myself throbbing, while trying to ignore how quickly that building weight of my orgasm rang into my head. Her grip on my wrists tightened and arched her back at the new tempo, her slight movements just a little more pronounced. Giving herself up as she let go and just grabbed wherever onto the sheets—yet it was too overwhelming—from the wet sound of contact, the sensation of her walls choking me, sliding by raw. Trying to focus on her, or even thinking of work, hell, counting numbers even, was useless. That made me cut my run short, barely pulling myself out of her in time. Catching my breath, the whole effort made it look like I finished a little early.

“You came?”

I shook my head, trying to force myself to relax while my cock, undeniably wet even in the poor light, twitched. Nien then switched the lamp on, seeing it better for herself as she sat across from me, the tip had turned red from how close I was.

“You?” I asked back.

“I think I did,” she said with a slight giggle, trailing off with, “maybe a few.”

Though now, Nien had her chance. As I waited, she did too. Knowing that she wanted to blow me earlier, I decided to just sit there, my legs wide open, cock hanging in the air, and she took the bait. Kneeling, her hand wrapped around my base and her lips, looking plumpier than I bothered to, just inches away from the tip. Glancing up at me, she met me looking down, anticipating the first blow I’ve had in a while. Sticking her tongue out, she seemed unsure and kept her gaze at me, slowly licking along the shaft from where her hand was up. Licking her lips, she opened and slowly sank herself downward. I was bracing that she’d be reckless, but she was careful, a rather shy blow rather than a gaudy one. Her lips wrapped around my cock as her neck bobbed at that pace, her glancing so often as if waiting for a thumbs-up from me. The single “fuck,” I breathily uttered, gave me away.

Releasing me with a pop, Nien stroked it twice before she rose up. She then told me to just.

“Stay there.”

Straddling me, Nien lay her hands on her shoulder, straightened herself, and with a deep kiss, sat down on my cock. Grabbing her ass and squeezing, as an arm of hers pressed down on my leg, trying to stop me from slipping all the way in. She wanted the pleasure of riding it down her way. Breaking away just to let out a moan as she sprang back up, going deeper every time she came down, moaning at every inch. Then she began to roll her hips, which seemed to get her more tense and hot. Now she had found the perfect motion to ride me in. Moaning more freely now as I let go of her lips and put mine on her neck, slowly kissing at it as the tightest sensation on my cock signaled where her spot was, shuddering as she forced herself to keep steady. At times, it sounded like she was forcing herself a bit, straining to keep herself going, not going any faster, but just enough to enjoy herself. It wasn’t even long before she started to mount me. I knew her stamina was high, yet maybe we had overestimated ourselves.

“Are you usually this shaky?”

“Not really. I’ve been only using my fingers,” Nien replied.

“Oh?” Maybe my short reply said the quiet part a bit too loud.

“You don’t believe me?” Nien almost stopped and was just about to mope. Her expression was a 180 from a few seconds ago.

“I do,” I must’ve been too blunt, and said an actual truth, “we’re always outside together.”

Nien smiled. Phew. Then whispered something out of the blue. It wasn’t out of character for an extrovert, “Not even my toys are close to yours.”

I must’ve smiled too, because she gave it back, leaning her neck down and kissing me as she continued to ride. I was getting all the attention she could give, and I was bashful about it still. I tried my luck again.

“You seem a little tired already.”

Nien was much sweatier now than when I first noticed. She tried to brush it off, but it was just a ruse. I began thrusting upward. Her other arm swung onto my shoulder as I took over again, both of us moving, pushing with our bodies only to meet halfway. Biting down hard on my tongue as I kept fucking her from below. It didn’t take long before she shot me a look of shock and disbelief, pulling me towards her as she kept moving. The telling twitching of an orgasm surprised both of us, groaning as she rode her own orgasm out. I was desperate to not follow, relaxing my lower half, in contrast to her twitching and squeezing. At the same time, my lips were planted on her chest, sucking away. Forget not leaving hickeys now. Then, just as quickly, she stopped, huffing. I considered myself lucky this time. Pushing her forward a bit so I can suck on her tits while thinking of what to do next.

Then I remembered what I saw once when she wore a backless dress for a function.

“Turn around,” I told Nien. Getting off me, she did as such. Giving me a view of the ass I’d been gripping at since the afternoon. Turning her head to look at me as I slid myself inside, bucking my hips the moment I got past the tighter ring of flesh, huffing as the feeling, the sheer tightness of it, as I went deeper always caught me off guard. Grabbing her wrist, I pinned it down to her back as I began to move, her face dropping almost instantly into the mattress as the first thrust hit. Pulling from her hip, I dug in.

Nien’s muffled moans filled the air. Her back muscles showed while I had my show of athleticism. Abruptly cutting my pace, I watched the length of my cock disappear in and out of her, slipping carelessly with her wetness aiding. That small, but willing resistance of her flesh overcomes my hips, while she groaned and squeezed me from below. Then, through the sound of our sex slapping together, the familiar, sinking weight that I had held back earlier began to rear itself again. Feeling more sensitive, I was twitching, faking out was a kamikaze’s errand. Not wanting to waste such a pretty face, I pulled her upwards, not knowing it would only leave my cock in such a spot that left it lodged deep. Greeting me with a kiss, she could probably tell I was barely holding on, so Nien asked.

“Are you close?”

I answered. Of course I was. Placing her lips on mine, Nien began to move. A reversal of our roles earlier, now she was fucking herself on my cock. I groaned even if my tongue was in her mouth, my hand traveling up her torso, the other, with her wrist guiding it, came up to her neck. Leaning forward, I pulled her closer to me, face to face, feeling our breaths coming right on our skin as we stared each other down. She knew I was ticking, her hips becoming all the more unbearable as I was close to no return.

“You want me to pull out?” I asked Nien. Her face went neutral.

“No,” she replied, kissing me, “You can pull out another time.”

Sounds like we’re not done with one. An exchange of tongues ensued, with Nien continuing to move, now set on making me cum inside her. I did too, fighting back with my own hips as I pushed as deep as I could, her arm reaching backward to my head as her moans continued to rise. Letting our lips go to a cuss for a second, only to return much bolder, sloppier as I picked up my pace. She had completely stopped by this point. I was fucking her as hard as it would allow me.

Taking my lips off Nien’s, I could feel myself at my orgasm’s door, with my cock as the ram. She was loud, and we shared the same chorus in the room. I was the quieter one, grunting and moaning on my own, while she was begging for me to keep fucking her. It seemed she was going too. Trying to keep herself steady as that same stirring and twitching, her hands were gripped hard. All of that only drove my cock at its deepest into her. I couldn’t even tell her, but I knew that she knew. Then we came—Nien was first, and I followed—letting out a gasp as she threw her head back, as I groaned while my lips kissed her back, pushing her, pushing myself, as deep as I could. My cock, having been denied itself a few times before, now relented, flooding her as it squeezed its own load out. Like her, it took me longer than usual to ride my orgasm down. Yet our lips never broke once.

We were tired. Huffing as I spilled onto the bed, while Nien pulled herself away, I grabbed the tissues at the nightstand for her. Given how sweaty we were, it was wise not to crash and lie on the mattress. We both just sat on the edge as I caught my breath, leaning her head onto me. It was a mirror of what we did at the citadel. Now, it was her turn to say the quiet part out loud.

"That was," she paused, "intense."

I agreed. Both of us tried to compliment each other. Nien took it in stride, smiling at me. Finally, that smile again. Meanwhile, I remained shy about it, telling her I must've been lucky making her cum that much. She confided she was also surprised about that. She did her best to make me accept it, putting her foot down with a somewhat cryptic statement.

"That only means you're good to me."

Perhaps I was dense to understand. Nien knew it.

"You figured me out quickly," she said, leaning over to kiss me, "You can't do that if you don't like somebody."

Then Nien stood up and got in the shower. I followed her, though cleaning ourselves wasn't exactly the first priority. It was a tight fit, only made tighter by two horny adults sharing the same space. Taking a cold bath, she knelt down on the tiled floor to suck at my cock as soon as I washed it. Without any intention of really pacing myself this time, I bent her over under the showerhead in return—she was even louder in the shower—cumming inside her mouth this time. That made an ordinary bath much longer than it should have been. Switching to a lazy dinner outfit, by the time I had strung the "for cleaning" sign on the door, we were dragging ourselves by our steps, almost shuffling as we left the hotel. Bún bò Huế and vegetables to restore our spent stamina were what we had in mind. Though linked to my shoulder while we walked down the evening in Huế, she cheekily asked some.

"Maybe a few beers and one more round."

I liked that proposition simply because Nien said it.

449 notes · View notes

ducktoo · 5 days ago

Text

I fcking love this gaeul fic a lot (idc if it is freader)

smoke slow (w/ Gaeul)

female reader x ive gaeul

angst & smut, 18k words - religion, relationships, really quite raw, sexuality and standards, feels like a gutpunch and will leave a bruise - written with @majorblinks !

Four days before your wedding, your ex is watching you smoke a cigarette in the parking lot.

It’s not like it’s a purposeful thing. You’ve been sitting in your car with the windows down and the sunroof open wide for the past hour, give or take. Lately you’ve taken up the habit of going through your own Instagram in an attempt to see what your life looks like from the outside. The verdict is: gorgeous, enviable, perfect. Your smiling face and your fiancé’s smiling face. You at your bachelorette party; you and that huge fucking ring on your finger. You’ve made it all the way to the engagement photos when you look up and see Kim Gaeul standing in front of your car.

“Hey,” she says.

You don’t scream but it’s close. You flinch so badly your wrist jostles into the horn.

“Whoa,” Gaeul says. It’s past midnight. Under the light pouring out from the front of the hotel her hair looks darker than you remember. Longer, too. But it’s been three years; that’s a given. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to - sorry.”

She’s smiling like something’s funny. Even in the dark you can see the sharklike flash of teeth. You wait until she steps up to your window before you say: “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“You knew I was coming,” Gaeul says. “I RSVPed. There’s literally no way you didn’t know.”

You have nothing to say to that. You must be making some sort of bitchy face because now Gaeul is looking at you with the same grin she wore back in college when she used to ruffle your hair and call you difficult, call you baby.

“Same hotel, though?” she continues. She might be staring at your mouth or maybe just the cigarette. “Kind of a wild coincidence.”

She doesn’t believe in coincidences; she’s waiting for you to tell her this. Most likely so she can say something flirtatious and smarmy about it. Like: Oh, honey. Look at you. You can’t forget a single thing about me.

“It’s the closest to the venue,” you say instead. “The entire wedding party is at this hotel. So.”

“Right, right,” says Gaeul. Then she nods to your cigarette. “Can I have one?”

You reach for your pack. “I’m supposed to be quitting,” you say as you hand one to her. But she leans down for a light and you give it to her; you’re nothing if not a girl with some manners.

She laughs. The flame catches. “You’re never quitting.” Then she adds, like it’s an afterthought and not the whole reason you’re both here: “Congrats on getting married, by the way.”

Your fiancé is upstairs, already asleep, tolerant of your vice but unwilling to stomach the smell. You’re already in your pajamas but when you go back upstairs you’ll have to hop in the shower again just to scrub the smoke from your hair. Somehow Gaeul’s tone suggests she knows all this. Or maybe she just remembers what you look like when you’re doing something you shouldn’t.

In your lap, your phone is still open to your own Instagram pictures of your engagement. You’re on a beach in a white dress. Very unsubtle bride-to-be. You’re clasping your hands to your mouth like you’re surprised but your manicure is fresh and your hair is blown-out. Your fiancé’s down on one knee, not even hunched over unattractively or anything. His posture is so perfect it makes you think of Prince Charming on horseback. Your caption even says something about this day being a fairytale, totally unreal.

Probably Gaeul has never seen these photos. You blocked her on all your social media years ago. Then again, there are ways around that - friends’ accounts, incognito tabs. If she wanted to see your face she would. She’s certainly seeing it now.

“Well, in four days,” you say. “I’m not married yet.”

Around her cigarette, Gaeul smiles.

You’re using the term ex loosely. More accurately, to you, Kim Gaeul is this:

Freshman year of college and you’re at some party that your new roommate dragged you to. You say roommate and not friend because it is quickly becoming clear you two have nothing in common. Case in point: she’s drinking and you’re not and you began developing a tension headache the instant you stepped into this intolerably hot frat house and you’re still stuck here an hour later because she is, apparently, having the best time.

“Really? I’m glad,” you say, for the tenth time tonight. You think your pasted-on smile might be starting to look a little scary. “I’m so glad you’re having the best time.”

Fortunately she’s too drunk to detect sarcasm. She’s also too drunk to notice that you’re not really looking at her.

Instead, you’re staring at Kim Gaeul across the room.

You have never met Kim Gaeul. You share no classes and no mutual friends; you’re pretty sure she’s older than you, surely not a freshman. You only know Kim Gaeul’s name because twenty minutes ago you accidentally caught her gaze and for some reason found yourself unable to get untangled from it. After about a minute of almost competitively intense eye contact you said to your roommate: Who’s that?

Kim Gaeul, your roommate said. And then: Oh, I didn’t know you were gay.

You are not gay. You told your roommate this very firmly. The fact that you’re still staring at Gaeul twenty minutes later means nothing. You’re just trying to figure out whether she’s tiny or all her friends are abnormally tall. Also she’s wearing something kind of atrocious, this overly loud patterned button-up with the sleeves pushed to her elbows. You haven’t decided whether this outfit is a cry for help or not.

It’s nothing. Natural curiosity. Her hair’s up and she’s pressing a beer bottle to the side of her neck to cool off. You stare for too long, or you must, because when you look up at Gaeul’s face she’s looking back at you.

“She’s pretty infamous,” says your roommate. She sounds proud of herself for already knowing this essential detail about your university’s social ecosystem less than a month into the semester. “Among the gay crowd.”

Gaeul’s on the move, coming closer now. Definitely not towards you; definitely just walking towards the door. Her hair must be cut short because half of it has already fallen out of her bun to frame her face. When she tucks it back you’re suddenly somewhat distracted by her fingers, blunt unpainted nails, the delicate shell of her ear.

“I’m literally not gay,” you say, just as Kim Gaeul comes to a deliberate stop right in front of you.

“I’m sorry?” Gaeul says, after a moment. The side of her neck is still slick with condensation.

Her voice is softer than you thought it’d be. “Nothing,” you say. “I didn’t say anything. Hi.”

“Hi,” Gaeul says. She’s got these real big eyes and a look on her face like you two are already friends. “Do you smoke?”

“What?” you say, a bit offended. You’re touching the cross around your neck and you have a bow in your hair, shiny Mary Janes and socks with a frill. “No.”

She grins a little. Her lips are chapped and her eyeliner’s melting at the edges, clumsily applied. Pretty is the wrong word for her but it’s the only thing coming to mind. “You wanna try?”

Jesus, this girl. Sorry, Jesus. “Um, no thank you.”

Gaeul shrugs. She wiggles her hand in a little wave. “If you change your mind,” she says, while you’re still staring at all the rings on her fingers. Then she turns and walks out the door.

Once she’s gone it’s like the sound kicks back in all at once. The whooping frat guys and some awful pop song, your heartbeat loud as a gunshot in your ears. The dry click of your throat as you swallow, then swallow again. Your roommate leaning close, saying for some inane reason: “She likes you.”

“I’m just really likable,” you say, which is something you’ve learned through several years of enthusiastic feedback of your job performance as a counselor at church camp. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Nah,” your roommate says sagely. “It definitely means something.”

It doesn’t, though, is the thing. You’re certain it never will.

Roughly ten minutes later you’re in the front yard of this shitty frat house, melting in your sweet sundress in the late-August heat, watching Kim Gaeul smoke a cigarette. When you first came out here you were seriously considering walking right past her, pretending you’d never spoken. But she turns and pins you with heavy dark eyes before you can. The whole thing sort of feels like a foregone conclusion. The corner of her mouth curls like a beckoning finger.

You drift closer. “I didn’t mean to be rude, earlier,” you say. “I’ve just never, uh.”

You gesture dumbly at the cigarette in her mouth. Gaeul’s eyes crinkle. “I figured,” she says. “Look at you. You’re a very good girl.”

Your mouth falls open.

The phrase itself is generally inoffensive. Actually several people in your life have said this to you. Teachers, tennis coaches, your youth pastor when you were fifteen. Sometimes you even preened at this: yes, of course, you’re the best, a straight-A student, a perfect backhand, an invaluable voice in church choir. But Gaeul says the words good girl and then she smiles like there’s a joke you’re not in on and not unlike the cigarette between her teeth your whole body flares red-hot.

From anger, probably. Because this is ludicrous. So you say: “Not that good.”

One brow hooks upwards. “No?”

“No,” you say. “Give me one.”

Of course the cigarette is horrible and you cough like you’re hacking up a lung and Gaeul makes fun of you a lot. But there’s a thrill to it, too, knowing you’ve just gotten away with something forbidden. You still wrinkle up your nose. Gaeul grins at you like she’s charmed. There’s a sweet little dimple in her cheek.

You think: Oh, right. This is how people get addicted to this shit. Then you take another drag.

Afterwards she offers so you let her walk you back to your dorm. You talk. You give her your class schedule and your Spotify account. You find out she is a little older, a sophomore; she shit-talks one of your professors at length until you laugh so hard tears spring to your eyes. You give her the rest of your cigarette and she puts her mouth right where your shiny ring of lip gloss is. You keep fretting with your hair, holding it to your nose; you’re becoming a bit paranoid that you’ll never get the smell of smoke out. She asks you what you’re doing and you tell her as much.

At first she snorts at your prissiness. Then she leans in close to check. “Oh, you’re fine.”

“Fine?” Your voice comes out all garbled. It’s really very embarrassing; she’s not even touching you.

Gaeul looks up at you through her lashes. You were right; she’s small, or at least small compared to you. “Good,” she says, smiling. There it is again. “You’re good.”

Then she pulls back like it’s nothing, and also like she knows you’ll be thinking about this for hours, the word good in her soft little voice, while showering and brushing your teeth and doing your skincare and between your sheets, biting down on the edge of the cross on your necklace. And in the morning too, when you wake up in a guilty sweat, still halfway in a dream of someone’s fingers and a lit match and a house fire, everything you’ve ever known going up in flames. You don’t put that one in the dream journal. You know exactly what it means.

A few days later you run into Kim Gaeul in the dining hall. She’s with one of her freakishly tall friends and has somehow figured out your name. She says it when she sees you, says hi.

“Hi,” you say, primly. You’re touching your cross again.

“We should hang out,” she says, smiling. House fire. Blaring sirens. You think you can maybe smell smoke.

But you are a good girl with good-girl manners, and nothing if not obedient. Also you have not stopped thinking about her in the last thirty-six hours and you’re wondering if one cigarette is enough to trigger withdrawal symptoms. So you say, breathlessly: “Okay.”

“Okay,” says Gaeul, and smiles wider, until that dimple appears.

So:

No, Kim Gaeul isn’t exactly your ex. But she is the first time you’ve ever looked at a girl’s mouth and thought: Well, fuck.

Speaking of firsts:

For almost two months you both do a very decent job at pretending like you aren’t going to end up in her bed. She isn’t forward with you. She actually seems to make a concerted effort not to touch you at all. No flirting, no nothing. Totally platonic and PG. It’s possible she took what you said about not being gay to heart.

But you start to hang out all the time. You two live too close together. You find it too easy to send a text at any hour of the day and she always texts back, indulges you, says i’m bored, says let’s go out, let’s stay in, let’s skip class, let’s go to that place downtown, let’s get takeout and get drunk, come on, come over here, let’s get together. She lives with a few of her freakishly tall friends and then she kicks them all out so you can come over and watch some Disney Channel Original Movie made for preteens on her couch. She wears ratty jeans that are too big for her and sings along to all the songs. She makes microwave popcorn and your hands never brush in the bowl, not even when you reach in at the same time. Obviously this is purposeful, her not ever making physical contact. You could get really insecure about this if you thought about it too hard. You watch her slender little wrist and think: God, maybe I’m repulsive. But you wear all your prettiest dresses and curl your hair every time you go over and your roommate’s brows fly up whenever she sees the way you look before you leave. So probably you’re just not even Gaeul’s type.

“You so aren’t,” Gaeul says, when you bring this up. She doesn’t even pause the movie. “No offense. You couldn’t be further from my type.”

“Yeah, but, like.” You’re trying to stop yourself from pouting about it. “What does that mean?”

Gaeul wrinkles up her nose, thinking. On-screen someone’s on the verge of breaking into song; the music’s kicking in. “You,” she says finally. “You’re an angel. I think I like my girls a little bit less…” She glances your way. Her big eyes track a path down your throat to your cross. “Wholesome.”

You cross your arms and look away. Ridiculous. You’re a good girl, but you’re not perfect. Sometimes you swear and all the time you believe in dinosaurs and evolution and honestly you get a kick out of really gory R-rated horror movies. Sure, you’re good where it counts: church, prayer, volunteer work. You’re nice to basically everyone and only occasionally patronizing about it. You don’t even really take the Lord’s name in vain. But that doesn’t mean you’re an angel.

“I get it,” you say, primly. Gaeul opens her mouth. “No, no, I understand. You think I’m boring.”

“You’re being so…” You can physically see Gaeul stop herself before she can say the word bratty. You hang out too much these days and you’re getting a little too good at reading her mind. Gaeul squints at you and says: “Why do you even care?”

But she says it smiling, like she already knows the answer. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Sure, but,” says Gaeul. She cocks a brow at you. “You’re not even gay.”

Right. What you actually are: the girl who last weekend opened the door to your shitty dorm room and let Kim Gaeul show you half a season of Glee on her laptop on her ex’s Disney Plus account. You also let her sing over ninety percent of all the songs until you turned to her with a glare that’d make all the kids in youth group tremble. Shut up, you said. I can’t hear them. Sorry, she said. Am I that bad? Shoulder-to-shoulder, you still weren’t touching, but when you turned to look at her your faces were so close they could collide. She was smiling; she knew she was great, that bright clear voice of hers. She’d done high school choir, she told you once. Always in the front row, too small to be anywhere else. You stared hard at Gaeul’s mouth, all those pretty white teeth. You smelled smoke. You said: Worse.

Certainly none of this is gay at all. “Uh, obviously,” you say.

“I’m just saying. That was literally the first thing you ever said to me.”

“I didn’t say it to you.” Ugh: you hate that she remembers that. Double ugh: you also like that she’s kind of always making fun of you.

“No, you definitely did,” Gaeul says. Her legs are tucked underneath her and you want to press your thumb into the dime-sized bruise above her knee. “You said, I’m not gay, and I’ll never smoke a cigarette in my life because Jesus said it’s bad, and I’ll pray for you, you heathen.”

She loves doing bits like these, putting words in your mouth, saying Jesus in a high voice when she does her impression of you. It’s like you’re the first religious person she’s ever met. “Okay, well, clearly not all of those things are true.”

Gaeul’s mouth tilts at the corners.

“The cigarettes, idiot,” you say. You are loath to admit that college has brought about more than a few bad habits for you. Your sleep schedule’s fucked and you’ve stopped counting calories and every time Gaeul steps outside to smoke she offers you one and every time you decide it’d be very impolite to turn down such generosity. The rush hasn’t worn off yet. You’re afraid you maybe don’t actually hate the smell. But you’re gonna blame that one on Gaeul.

“Right.”

“I am praying for you, though. You need it.”

In the movie, some big grand gesture’s happening. Someone’s getting asked to the school dance with flowers and confetti, all those sugary song lyrics. Gaeul watches the way you go for the cross around your neck and says: “And the other thing?”

The popcorn bowl’s abandoned on the coffee table. She’s still not touching you and maybe she never will. “What other thing?”

“Jesus Christ, woman,” says Gaeul. She’s turned to you now, not even looking at the movie. She even sounds a little admiring. “You just love being difficult, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” she says, “you do.” Then she’s getting closer and everything becomes abruptly really focused and clear: her pupils fat with want, the curl of each individual eyelash. The way she’s looking at you makes you suddenly realize that the only thing she ever wanted to do was touch you, this whole time.

And, well. Unfortunately she’s right about you. You like to think of difficult things like being a new and necessary test from God. It’s one of those things they taught in Sunday school and you internalized when you were still prepubescent. You’re supposed to go through hard times so you can come out better on the other side, cleaner, smarter, more devout. This is what you told yourself when your parents fought and your dog died and your high school best friend went to college across the country from you and you found out it’s maybe more complicated than you thought to schedule FaceTime calls around the time difference. You forget that some things are allowed to be easy.

“Okay, fine,” you say, heart high and unsteady in your throat. “Maybe I do.”

But you remember now. So you do the easiest thing: you let Gaeul thread a hand through your hair and kiss you.

Technically, you still don’t end up in her bed. She fucks you right there on her couch. She fists her hands in your pretty dress and puts that mouth beneath the neckline, lower and then higher again, teeth against the skin-warmed gold of your necklace. She’s real gentle, dark-eyed and cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave. She’s got two fingers inside of you when you say: “I haven’t actually done this before.”

Say is generous. Actually she’s got most of the fingers on her other hand in your mouth so you kind of slur it all out in a disgusting droolly rush. Gaeul only blinks at you, and then the trail of spit running down her wrist. Then she says: “Um, I kind of figured.”

“You’re not, like-”

You make a rather unflattering squeaking noise when she slips her soaked fingers out of your cunt and keeps the ones in your mouth exactly where they are. “I don’t mind teaching you,” Gaeul says. Even now her voice is all soft, smirk paradoxically vicious. “Girl like you - I bet you’re a fast learner.”

You’re too appalled and also too wet to fight her on this. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

It’s less effective when it comes out this distorted, your tongue and teeth and her sharp bony knuckles. “That mouth,” says Gaeul, delighted. She pulls away but then puts her little spit-wet thumb into the swell of your bottom lip. “What would God say?”

“God loves me, actually.” you say, winded. Gaeul presses down, to feel the easy give of your mouth. “He’d blame you.”

“For what?”

She’s unreal; she really is so gorgeous. Her dark hair’s falling in her eyes. It’s only the kind thing to do, to tuck it behind her ears for her, and touch the cool metal of her piercings on the way there. “For ruining me.”

Gaeul seems to consider this. Your white dress with the full skirt, hemline once to your knees and now rucked up around your waist. Your cross necklace and your hair rumpled, and your underwear with the little bow at the front, now discarded somewhere on the floor. So maybe it’s true that wholesome isn’t her type. She seems to like you best all fucked out and sloppy. She’s making this face that’s mostly spellbound and a little smug, too, pleased with the mess she’s made.

“Fine,” she says, shrugging, and gets her fingers inside of you again just to hear you gasp. “I think I can be okay with that.”

Despite what Gaeul says, it’s sort of a mutually educational thing. You teach her plenty of things too, such as: what you like, where to touch, what to say, exactly how rough to pull your hair. The sound you make when she sinks teeth into your inner thigh and the exact color of the blush in your cheeks when she calls you anything crass. She leans into it hard, gets a little brutal with it, says you’re dirty, filthy, nasty. You hiccup and scrabble at her wrist and whine like a hit animal and say: But I’m not, I swear, I’m really not.

“You so are.” Gaeul props her slick chin on your thigh and blinks her huge round eyes at you. “I thought you were supposed to be a good girl.”

“I am.” There are tears building on your lashes. “I am.”

Gaeul pets her thumb over the line of your hip bone and spreads your thighs wide. Honestly it’s overwhelming to be held open and touched like this, so intimate and exposed. Two months, Lord. It’s too soon. You don’t really know Gaeul, not in the same way you know the girls from your hometown, years of schoolyard injuries and cafeteria gossip, everybody in everyone else’s business, everybody packed into the same megachurch. Gaeul doesn’t know you like that. But she does know your mouth around a cigarette, your favorite R-rated movie and your least favorite thing about Sunday service, your voice saying Jesus Christ, more, harder. Your laugh when you’re drunk and she’s just said something totally awful. Your bare skin beneath your clothes. No one else knows these things about you. She’s the first and only. Framed like this it’s possible she knows you better than anyone ever has.

“Huh,” Gaeul says. She’s smiling. Dimple, all teeth. Oh, no. You really do like her so much. “Needy little cunt like this? I don’t think so.”

You’re so embarrassed you cover your face with your hands. Because - like, ew. She’s just so vulgar about it. But then again, so are you, you fucking hypocrite: swearing your sweet God-fearing head off the moment she lowers her mouth to your cunt.

Afterwards, Gaeul gathers you into her lap and studies your face for a long time. Then she says: “Any particular thoughts you wanna share?”

You’re still caught somewhere between your last two orgasms. Your brain is gooey mush and probably leaking out of your ears all over Gaeul’s already desecrated couch. “Sorry?”

“Like, um.” Oh, wow: she’s bad at this. Gaeul scrunches up her nose and touches the delicate chain of your necklace with genuine concern. “Do you need to have a crisis about this?”

A crisis. Like fucking her is going to trigger a legitimate medical emergency. You weren’t that good, you want to say, but that would be an egregious lie even for you. “Excuse me?”

She seems to catch on that you’re kind of laughing at her. “Okay, look - I’m just trying to make sure you don’t run screaming out of here.” As she talks Gaeul pulls her hands through your hair even though you’d made valiant attempts to smooth it flat earlier; apparently it’s difficult to temper the instinct to fuck you up. Still, her voice is gentle when she says: “You were pretty adamant about not being. You know. Gay.”

“I’m not,” you say automatically. Then you bury your face in her neck and say: “I’m not thinking about it right now.”

Most likely it’s not that big of a deal. You’re not your mother or all your high school friends; you’ve always believed being gay is probably fine and not a one-way ticket to hell. When Gaeul made you watch all those episodes of Glee you were like, yeah, whatever, Santana’s pretty cool. But you’re not thinking about it. Save it for the journal. Save it for late-night talks to Jesus and summer break when you’re back in your hometown church and its pews where you always sit and feel vivisected, like God himself can see every disgusting evil thing inside of you.

The crisis will just have to wait until then. For now: “Okay,” Gaeul says, smiling slowly. “No thoughts.” She presses her mouth to the crown of your head. “Feelings, then?”

“Uh.” You put your mouth into the divot above her collarbone. “I feel like maybe you were supposed to be nicer to me.”

Gaeul bursts out laughing. Actually you’re just giving her shit: you’re really thinking that you shouldn’t have been into getting called gross as much as you were. It’s possible everything boys at your high school said about sexually repressed chicks was totally true.

“Oh, sure,” Gaeul says. She takes you by the hair and drags you out of the hiding place you’ve made of her skin. When she looks you in the face her mouth is a stern line, but her eyes are mischievous and bright, maybe even a little bit tender. “How many times did I make you cum again?”

You fold your lips together, chastened. Truth is: whatever, you lost count.

“I’m literally the nicest girl in the world,” decides Gaeul. Then she kisses you, all cute and quick, right on the very tip of your nose.

“You know you have to marry me now, right?” you tell her. “That’s what the Bible says.”

“Does it?” You’re laying on her chest. Her voice and her eyes are both tired. She smells like you, your sweat and perfume. You wonder if her friends will notice, if maybe she’s a little altered now too. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Gaeul,” you say. You’re whining, your fingers beneath the hem of her top. Your hairspray hadn’t held up against the strenuous activity and all the neat curls have fallen out of your hair. But your cross stays exactly where it is, until Gaeul takes it between her fingers and touches one sharp corner in the same soft careful way she first touched you.

“Okay,” says Gaeul, laughing like it’s just the funniest thing. “Okay, Jesus, crazy girl. I’m marrying you.”

For the journal:

but is that literally not What College is For????????? it is so MOM to be so logical, so stuck up, so feelings secondary about everything. why is it bad to explore????

it is so insidious to overspiritualize. i am figuring Myself out by putting me out there - see Going to The Party (!!!) - and this is the result of that. it’s fine. it’s literally so fine.

Six is the number of times Gaeul makes you cum that night on her couch, you don’t quantify how queer you think you are, and the moment after you ink it into your journal you try and pray and try and pray and try and pray and try and pray until you give out on your bed.

So, in the end, you make the executive decision to not become your mother. You decide to do this by spending the rest of freshman year of college in Kim Gaeul’s bed.

Hyperbole, obviously. You almost never skip class. But it’s true that you spend more time in her apartment than your own dorm room. A not insignificant number of floral sundresses have migrated into her closet, and at least two pairs of your sandals with the delicate gold buckles.

“You’re U-Hauling,” your roommate says about it. “That’s a lesbian classic.”

“I am not a lesbian,” you say, with a bruise from Gaeul’s teeth smarting on your inner thigh. “When did you say your next class was again?”

You say this with your phone pressed to your ear. Gaeul’s on the other line and also loitering outside, waiting for your roommate to leave so she can come in and fuck you half to death. Your roommate rolls her eyes and grabs her bag and says: “Now.”

This is your life now. Breakfast together in the dining hall, parties and binge-watching Netflix on weekends. Mediocre sushi at that place downtown; you duck out into alleyways to smoke together so people don’t glare at you. More than once you fall asleep on the phone with each other. Eighteen and you feel really adult, super grown up, except sometimes she does go out of her way to walk you to class. Which is just so high school, you tell her; what are you gonna do, ask me to the dance? She smiles at you with those carnivorous shark teeth. She says: You wish, prom queen. Then she kisses you right there in public so long that people have to move around you on the sidewalk. You’re that couple; it’s sickening.

Not that you’re actually a couple - whatever. It’s complicated. It’s college. It’s fine.

It’s probably casual, except for the parts where you see her every day and your lives become irreversibly intertwined. You show up at parties together, stupid school events, club rush. Gaeul even introduces you to all her cool sophomore friends. The only hiccup with this arrangement is that you literally hate her friends.

It’s not really a big thing. It’s just that they all reference TV shows you’ve never watched and they make a big show of covering their mouths and glancing at you apologetically every time they swear. Also they like to burst into inexplicable laughter and never explain any of their jokes. Also every story is infuriatingly vague and includes at least ten you-just-had-to-be-theres and whenever you ask for clarification they awww at you like you’re someone’s wide-eyed little pet. The worst offender: Gaeul’s roommate, Yujin, who is also her best friend and her ex-girlfriend. Though you’re pretty sure the second you learned that last part the whole thing was a lost cause, anyway.

Oh my God, we dated a million years ago, Gaeul says about it, and not much else. Also sometimes: She was literally the worst girlfriend ever. Or: We’re so much better as friends. Or: Okay, I get it. You’re precious when you’re jealous. C’mon, get over here. It’s, like, a crime that I’m not fucking you right now.

“Tell me you like me better,” you demand, with your hands in her hair and her shirt somewhere on your dorm room floor. “Don’t you like me better?”

“You’re insane,” says Gaeul, laughing, and, “I’m obsessed with you,” and then she fucks you until you cry, which is basically a good enough answer, anyway.

Other than that it’s perfect. She smokes too much but so do you; her friends make you feel lame and insecure but she doesn’t even force you to hang out with them that often. She shows you all her favorite movies and watches yours, too, and even writes long and thoughtful Letterboxd reviews for each one. One weekend you get a phone call from your mom that makes you weird and weepy all day, and Gaeul doesn’t complain, just holds you while you talk in circles about home. She’s got this band tee from a band you don’t listen to that she lets you cut the neckline out of, lets you wear it to class slipping off one shoulder. She kisses you on that shoulder, and on your neck and collarbone. Sometimes she even bites you hard enough to bruise. You wear that out, too. You sort of like the looks you get, sort of like almost belonging to someone.

You’re having fun. You don’t think too hard. You don’t talk to her or anyone about God. Your body is so well-fucked that it can no longer tell the difference between shame and guilt and want and need. It’s all fuel to the same forest fire, anyway, and by now you’ve gotten used to the smoke.

There’s this one weekend. You’ve just gotten back from some excruciating outing with her and her friends. You’re complaining about them and the way they talk to you; you’re a little touchy and sensitive tonight. She’s trying to make you feel better in her own way: by getting dramatic, romantic, not very serious. That’s how she’s learned to get a smile from you. So she’s talking to you at length about zodiac signs. Apparently it’s ridiculous that you know nothing about those. Like, what kind of lesbian are you? Gaeul says, to which you tell her that you are not a lesbian. Also your mother staunchly believes that astrology is tantamount to witchcraft. She’d banned discussion of star signs and Harry Potter from your household with equal urgency.

“All I’m saying is that we’re so compatible,” says Gaeul, scrolling through a summary on her phone from some totally legit astrology-related website, or maybe Reddit. “We probably knew each other in every single life before this and we’ll know each other in every one after. Like, forever and ever, amen.”

She’s laying completely on top of you. She does this often and every time makes a lot of jokes about being your weighted blanket. Your cure-all for anxiety, she says, which always makes you die laughing.

“Oh,” you say, perturbed. “I don’t believe in that.”

Gaeul’s head lolls to the side. Bangs in her eyes, hair blow-dried to a shine; you’d used your Dyson Airwrap on her after the shower sex. Sometimes she gets a kick out of letting you fuss over her, do her makeup, pick out jeans. Secretly you think she likes being your little dress-up doll. “In soulmates?”

“In other lives. I think this is all we get. And then we go to… you know.”

“Heaven or hell,” Gaeul supplies, smiling. She wriggles to the side and runs a finger over the sweet lace trim on your dress. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You have briefly lost track of the conversation; your brain got stuck somewhere around her hand slipping up your inner thigh. Momentarily you can’t comprehend the question. Like: Where am I going? Your arms, your bed. Crawling right into your ribcage so we’re never apart. But then she laughs at you and you’re right back in it.

“Heaven, obviously,” you say. “I’m an angel, remember?”

“You think?” She props her chin in her hand. Her elbow’s digging into your ribs hard; you like her enough to let it happen. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

You’re not sure either, these days. But that’s alright. When Gaeul bites at the cross sitting at your sternum you think that God will see the fucking demon you’ve been up against out here and take pity on you. Look at her. He’d understand.

“What about you?” you ask with one hand on the back of her head, to keep her right where she is. “Where are you going?”

Finally Gaeul moves your cross aside and puts her mouth there instead. “Wherever you are.”

In October, you start having these recurring dreams. You’re stuck inside a burning building where all the walls are painted blue like your childhood bedroom. You’re trying to scream but you keep choking on smoke instead. You wake up with Gaeul’s hair in your mouth and your throat inexplicably sore. You try to put down the dreams in your journal but you just end up doodling instead. Random things. Your favorite stuffed animal when you were five and your old ballet shoes. Concert ticket, family computer, Barbie doll, matchbook, fire truck, open flame, ash.

Your mom calls you one night and interrogates you about what you’ve been up to at college. Are you watering your plants? Feeding yourself? Passing your classes? Making friends? Settling in okay?

Yeah, sure, for the most part. But:

This morning you’d let yourself into Gaeul’s place - she and her stupid roommates are always leaving the door unlocked, like they want to get robbed blind so bad. You were about to walk in and lecture her about it but then you heard voices in the kitchen. Gaeul and best-friend-ex-girlfriend Yujin. They were talking about you, some ribbon you’d left on the kitchen counter, and the cross around your neck, and something you’d said the other day, gosh or goodness instead of God. You heard Yujin laugh and say: I don’t understand how you’re dating that girl.

Gaeul laughed too. Well, she said. We’re not dating.

“I’m just checking,” your mom says on the phone. “I worry about you, you know. You’ve never been this far from home.”

You don’t understand this, the not-dating thing. You’re pretty sure you kind of are dating. You do all the dating stuff. Gaeul keeps making you watch movies so old they still have, like, Audrey Hepburn in them. She’s a cinephile, she tells you. Last week she sat you down and made you watch The Wizard Of Oz. It was a big deal that you’d never seen it before. But you knew enough to catch Gaeul’s references: every time you wear your hair in two braids she pulls on one and calls you Dorothy. You thought this was cute before you actually saw the movie. Now when she says it you can’t think of anything else but being swept up in a storm, and stranded miles and miles from anywhere recognizable, your church and your old school, your dentist and your local cemetery and your favorite dog park, anyone who’s ever loved you and meant it.

You still use Google Maps so you don’t get lost on campus and your dorm room gets so cold at night. You think momentarily of telling your mom that there really is no place like home.

“It’s amazing here,” you say brightly instead. “I’m having so much fun, I’m great. I’m really not homesick at all.”

“Okay,” says your mom, after a moment. And then: “Well, we miss you.”

“Miss you too,” you say. You’re smiling on purpose. She’d be able to tell if you weren’t. “But you should know I’m doing alright.”

There’s been something in your mom’s voice this whole call. You wonder if she’s thinking of you standing in your dorm the day she dropped you off, the way you screwed up your mouth when she tried to rearrange your room, hang and mark your calendar, color-code your clothes in your dresser. I’m not a kid, you said snappishly. I know what I’m doing. You didn’t really mean it at the time; you were just tired of her hands all over everything. You’re not sure if you ever really know what you’re doing. But you said it and now you have to stand by it.

“I’m glad you’re doing well, honey,” your mom tells you, before she hangs up. “Be good.”

It’s so funny; it’s hysterical. “Always am.”

It doesn’t matter that Gaeul’s basically become your whole life; you don’t bring up her name in any capacity on any call, ever. It’s entirely paranoia on your part. It’s not like your mom would know anything just from hearing her name. But every time you think about it - of saying something simple and innocuous, my friend Gaeul and I hung out today - you get the sense that your mom would intuit the truth somehow. Like you’d say Gaeul’s name and from miles away your mom would hear your tone and sit up very straight and say: What in God’s name has that girl done to you?

So. Better to not bring her up at all. It’s not really a lie, and even if it is God will forgive you. He’s supposed to be benevolent like that.

For a while, you succeed at not thinking about any of this or what it means or if it matters or if you need to consult the Lord about it in salacious detail. And then there’s the Halloween party.

First, about An Yujin:

You’re not jealous of her at all. You think it’s totally fine that Gaeul still kept all those pictures of her up on her Instagram. It’s really very cute that Gaeul has a post up for Yujin’s nineteenth birthday where in the caption she calls her, quote-unquote, her twin flame. There’s nothing wrong with them being friends: it’s just, like, how gay people do it. They’re cool and community-oriented like that.

Gaeul’s been trying to organize something between just the three of you for a while now. She says it’s because you and Yujin are her two favorite people in the world and she’d probably kill herself if you didn’t get along. She first told you this with Yujin in the room, sitting on their kitchen counter and smiling beatifically at you. Yujin said: Girl, I’ve been dying to hang out with you. There was a look on her face like there was a joke you weren’t in on. You stared at Yujin’s low-rise jeans and messy hair and messier eyeliner, one lacy bra strap slipping out from beneath her top and down her shoulder. You thought of Gaeul’s mouth saying she likes her girls a little less wholesome and then you thought of her mouth on Yujin’s shoulder instead of yours. You were, technically, not even dating Kim Gaeul, and still aren’t. So you don’t get a say.

But you do what you can to avoid disaster. You are excellent at avoiding any further direct contact with An Yujin by making excuses and filling your schedule with imaginary meetings with your professors whenever Gaeul tries to make group plans. But then Halloween comes around and you make the mistake of mentioning that you want to be an angel. More angel than you usually are, anyway: you’ve got this frilly white skirt, fuzzy halo headband, Party City wings. You’re thinking something of the Victoria’s Secret variety, squeezing into a corset top.

“That’s perfect,” says Gaeul, when you tell her this. She actually claps a hand to her chest in delight. “We are so going out.”

There is an unnerving emphasis on the first part of that sentence. You’re starting to think you should’ve kept your mouth shut. “We?”

So, apparently for Halloween Yujin’s been planning to dress up as a slutty devil - actually Gaeul just says devil, but this is An Yujin we’re talking about; the slutty is implied. Gaeul thinks this is a hilarious coincidence and takes the opportunity to make it a group costume among the three of you. She’s so excited about it, too; you kind of can’t bear to say no to those eyes. So you zip it and just nod along to everything she says and pray every night that Yujin comes down with mono in the interim.

Unfortunately God doesn’t love you that much. On Halloween night Gaeul opens the door wearing her regular clothes - flannel, baseball cap, baggy jeans. “Um,” you say.

“See?” Gaeul says, and pops a hand on her hip like she’s wearing something extra sexy and not the same shit she wears to her 9 AM lecture. “I told you. It’s the perfect costume. I’m the normal girl. And you two are the angel and devil on my shoulders.”

Yujin appears behind her, tiny pointed horns and red lipstick, tight latex and a grin. You prissily adjust the halo over your head and say: “Awesome.”

Genuinely it is maybe the shittiest night of your entire life. Gaeul and Yujin both get trashed and seem to mostly forget you exist. You can’t stand the way they talk to each other, so in tune they’re practically finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at things that aren’t funny and then telling you you wouldn’t understand. You especially cannot stand Yujin’s little latex skirt riding higher up her thighs with each passing minute and the way she puts her hand on the crook on Gaeul’s elbow and flashes those deep double dimples at her. She still calls Gaeul babe. It’s nauseating. So you spend the whole night resentfully chain-smoking cigarettes on the back porch, freezing in your tulle skirt and fishnets, wondering why they ever broke up if they’re clearly so fucking perfect together. Also wondering why you’re even here at all. Also you’re wearing these white platform boots borrowed from your roommate and they’re pinching your toes severely and Halloween sucks and everything sucks and you really just want to go home.

Gaeul finds you after an hour or two. “Hey,” she says, so drunk. She’s not wearing her hat and you are terrified that you will look inside that frat house and find it sitting on An Yujin’s stupid shiny head of hair, right along with the devil horns. “The costume doesn’t make as much sense without you.”

She’s literally not even wearing a costume, though. No effort at all. You say nothing.

Gaeul sits beside you on the porch, and scoots until your elbows knock together. “Baby,” she says. Slurs, actually, more than says. Drawing it out in a sweet little singsong like you won’t be mad if she’s just cute enough about it. “You know nothing makes sense without you.”

“You’re drunk,” you say flatly.

“Nuh-uh.” Her nose crinkles, reconsidering. “Well, yeah. But it’s like that thing people say. Drunken words, sober thoughts.” She bumps your shoulder with her own. “And all my thoughts are about you.”

You really look at Gaeul, then, the flush in her cheeks and her red, wet mouth, the small silver hoops in her ears. You are so confused all the time, about everything. You feel like you’re thirteen, wanting to ask like a child: Do you like me? No, really. Do you like-like me?

“You and me,” you say, which is marginally more mature. “Are we…?”

But Gaeul doesn’t even let you finish the question. She trots out the same routine she performs any time you bring up anything serious regarding the two of you. Smiles wide, shows the dimples, kisses you somewhere on your face, says nothing real or of substantial value, says nothing about you ever being her girlfriend. “We’re, like, soul-tied,” she tells you instead, and touches her lips to the corner of your overglossed mouth. “We’re tethered.” When she pulls back, she looks very proud of herself for being so charming.

You are so tired. You’re three months in. You’re the angel on her shoulder; you are wearing feathery wings on your back. She is so pretty and so drunk and ninety percent of the time so nice to you. You can’t grab her by the throat and demand a real fucking answer. You can’t be sure she’d give you one even if you did.

“Okay,” you say, defeated, and let her kiss you again, and tell yourself it’s enough.

You go home with Gaeul. You spend the night at her place and even while drunk she does your skincare routine for you and lets you wear that band tee you love so much. In the morning, she makes up for everything: she’s real sweet and apologetic enough and eats you out even though she’s practically disintegrating from her hangover. Chivalry isn’t dead, she says, with her mouth on your cunt, and then makes you cum like a million times. You can’t argue with her when the sex is this good. So then and there you make the executive and highly mature decision to kind of just forgive and forget. Gaeul seems rather committed to fucking every bad thought right out of your head, anyways.

You make sure to tell her how much you appreciate the gesture, in your own way. If you’re louder than usual in the hopes that Yujin’s listening through the wall, you’re never going to admit that to anyone, not even God.

“Maybe it’s just the culture,” your roommate says later, when you ask her for advice about the whole no-labels moderate-commitment situationship thing. Okay, so maybe you lied about forgetting. “I’ve heard gay people, like, hate monogamy.”

“That feels like an unfair stereotype,” you say, frowning. But Gaeul does know like three separate people at your school who are in honest-to-God polycules, so.

You make a valiant attempt at asking her before winter break. You’re talking about Christmas presents, wondering pointedly about the protocol. How much is too much? How much are you allowed to spend before it gets awkward? You’re trying to wrangle this into some sort of clumsy segue - you’d be able to go all out if you were together, if she was your girlfriend, isn’t that funny, isn’t that some food for thought. But:

“Well, of course I’m getting you a present,” Gaeul says casually, legs tangled with yours on the couch. “You’re my best friend.”

“Uh,” you say, your neck so mauled from her teeth one girl in your class actually gasped when she saw you today. Gaeul leans in for a kiss; you lose the words and your nerve; the moment for confrontation passes. You’ll wait for a better time.

But she really does get you a great present - a new journal, and a very nice pen to go along with it. She brings them to you at the start of spring semester in a red-and-white striped gift bag, glittery tissue paper. It’s a lovely thing to do. You thank her profusely. You’re thinking this is an opportunity for a fresh start, to draft shiny new resolutions. You’re going to be less of a coward this year, get some real answers, be all grown-up about it. You’re totally quitting smoking, too.

“I’m kicking all my bad habits,” you say to Gaeul with a flourish, printing your name inside the journal’s front cover, proof that at least one thing here belongs to you. “New year, new me.”

“Of course, baby,” Gaeul replies seriously, then cracks up like she knows you’re full of shit.

The next time you ask Gaeul about it, she’s nonchalant. Frustratingly noncommittal, noninterestingly - read: stylistically, literally non-interested in you - so:

“I’m marrying you! What else could we be?”

The next, next time: the spring before review week and quiet focus and finals:

“What do you want?” and “Can I have a cigarette?”

Except you don’t really get to ask then.

So your freshman year comes and it goes. Before you know it you’re packing up all your clothes to go back home from the summer. Your grades so far have been serviceable; you’ll see what finals do for you. Your roommate’s already gone. Gaeul’s on the phone as you fold your dresses into neat little squares, pair up and put away all your frilly socks. Packing up the entire last year of your life into suitcases as she talks about the horror movie you made her watch last night, how she couldn’t sleep at all and never will again. You’ve been waiting for a better time but maybe this is all the time you get.

“Gaeul,” you say. Last ditch-efforts.

“Yeah?”

“How serious is this?”

Silence. For a moment you think she’ll pretend she doesn’t know what you’re talking about, like she doesn’t know you well enough to read your mind. But then she does the next worst thing.

“How serious? Come on. We’re, like, so serious,” Gaeul says, not serious at all. “I literally took your virginity and everything.”

She’s being funny about it, even sort of laughing. But it makes you stop cold.

Virginity. Huh. That was a big deal to you, once. Your virginity was always meant to be given away - maybe not on your wedding night; you’re not, like, fucking Mormon - after an appropriate amount of time spent with a long-term boyfriend who you were definitely going to marry someday, and had probably given you a promise ring. Certainly to someone who was genuinely devoted to you, and even said it out loud.

“I guess I…” The dress you wore the night you met Gaeul is crumpled at the foot of your bed. “Hm.”

“It still counts if it’s with a girl, you know.”

“No, I know that. I just…”

You don’t know how to say what you’re really thinking, which is: It’s summer. I am currently running through my entire ten-year plan in my head. I am thinking about going home and going through my old diaries and telling that little girl: You will not become who you thought you’d be.

You’re not really sure why this is all hitting you like this now. Maybe because your first year of college is finally over and done and you’re going to see your family again tomorrow for the first time in months and you still wear the same sundresses you wore when you were sixteen and Gaeul had the nerve to use the word virginity. It feels staggering, that you are not the same person you were in August. Now you’re thinking of every single milestone you pictured for yourself when you were a kid. You’ve had a wedding Pinterest board since you were, like, twelve. You showed your mom once and she oohed and aahed over it, gave her opinions on dresses and decor. She said something about you marrying a man who could afford to make all your fairytale dreams come true. She would never forgive you if she knew what you’d done with your body this year.

“You just what?” Gaeul’s walking fast. You can hear it in how she’s slightly out of breath, the smack of her heavy boots on pavement. You imagine her cheeks going pink from the effort. Cute. So cute. The image is so sweet it briefly blots out everything else. For a few moments everything is fine.

“Nothing,” you say.

It is fine, really. It’s all fine. You just always hoped your parents would come to your Pinterest board wedding and they’d even be proud of you and the choices you’d made. Although that’s a privilege, not a given; Gaeul’s told you about her friends who’ve been thrown out of their houses. It wouldn’t be like that with your family, most likely. But they’d never look at you the same again.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You’re not home yet; you’re not in pieces in a church pew. You are not going to think about it.

“Hey-”

“Tell me something,” you say. “Do you actually ever want to get married?”

“What, to you?” She’s like ten seconds from making the same joke she always does. Yes, baby, of course; yes, ma’am, I’ve got the ring, I’m right outside, let’s get hitched.

“No. No. Just in general.”

You’ve heard Gaeul’s friends talk about it. Yujin especially, rolling her eyes and flicking her dark hair back: God, girl, I’m never getting married. Something something patriarchal institution, et cetera. You suddenly wonder if this was something her and Gaeul talked about. Nope, no; you’re not going to think about that either.

“Yeah, someday,” says Gaeul. She even sounds a little wistful. “Definitely.”

“Tell me about it. Dream wedding. Go.”

She wants a lot of things. She wants small and intimate. No kids. No roses, ew. Too cliché. She’s mildly familiar with flower language and wants it to be intentional. Lilies for life, peonies for luck. She wants it somewhere beachy, close to the sea. She loves the ocean; she’s got a lot of water signs in her birth chart. She wants to wear white, and a dress, something loose and simple. She doesn’t care that it’s traditional. She says: Babe, I’m not that butch. It’s actually not that far off from your Pinterest board except for the most important part. But now you’re starting to think that the most important part is the only part that matters. She talks about all of this the entire way to your door and only hangs up the phone when she’s looking you right in the face.

“So,” you say, and put your phone down too. “Summer.”

“Baby,” says Gaeul, cheek dimpling with her smile, “I’ll call you every single day.”

You waver in the middle of folding a too-revealing top you thrifted out here that you will not be caught dead wearing in your hometown. But there’s a lot of things you have out here that you won’t be taking home. “And we’ll still…”

Gaeul tilts her head at you from the doorway, unlit cigarette between her teeth. Those cigarettes - another vice that isn’t coming back with you. Nine months in and the same old story. She says: “We’ll still be us.”

Of course. Us, she says, which is not an actual label, or anything stable to hold onto. Us, which could mean: lovers, best friends, fuckbuddies, soulmates, strangers, meant to be, nothing at all.

Nobody knows jack shit about quitting.

It’s supposedly a substitute; supposedly going to wean you off your cravings one hit at a time - your first hit from an electric cigarette fires Cool Cucumber into the back of your throat harder than anything you’ve ever hit with tobacco.

And it’s poetic, really -

Summertime is a reset, a temporal hall pass, a beat in between seasons where the orchids vermillion and indigo in show-off full-bloom; summertime is when you fall to your knees in church, tears hot like nettles stinging at your eyes.

You blame it on the semblance.

Your first Sunday back from college, you’re folded seamlessly back into routine. It’s easier on the entire family if you make the drive into the city a whole day ordeal, so much faster than you’d like you find yourself in denim on denim, hands awkwardly outstretched from the front left pew of the local megachurch. It’s half-worship: too much thinking. Are your eyes supposed to be closed? How would you read the lyrics? Where do you raise your hands until? Slow songs always scared you a little: there was so much lingering in them, space borne in melody that your head wanted to resolve.

The entirety of the past year feels like it bubbles up and coagulates in your chest. Sticky, confusing, ill-defined and all-consuming; the congregation gets past the pre-chorus and you want to throw up. It’s so much tension. It’s soul-wrecking, spellbinding, super embarrassing. It’s the bass leveled just right, drumming out the beat that the skeletons in your closet walk out to - how they stream through confessional in your head, in-then-out of a mahogany door that rightsizes their vertebrae, cleanses them of sin. It’s the air conditioning notched at sixty eight - how the gold cross at your neck tempers, nestled at the bottom of your throat, cold cutting, skin singeing. It’s the floodlights angled onto the audience - how you feel when raycast, under the yellow just oh-so golden that it makes you feel haloed, beholden to something greater. It’s Gaeul - everything she means to you; Pavlovian - how wet your eyes get in singalong surrender.

(Semblance is the only way you could describe it -) You breathe a sigh only a smoker could, and drop your head into the cushion of your car headrest.

(Walking through the debris of a house fire, wading through charred insides -) You were more of a bitch than necessary when your parents dropped you off at college. Way too upfront about independence, wanton for a foot outside your town, white-knuckle that only unshackled could you make a difference.

(Looking for what you recognize, signs of survival, toeing cigarette butts like they were stones unturned -) Highlighted by Monday daybreak, the first bits of light at six-ten in the morning throw spotlight on cardstock jutting out of your sunshade.

Christmas twenty-eighteen was a cute one: above a font hellishly festive, your family in the background behind Ricky as Rudolph, red ball on his snout.

Cool Cucumber in your lungs, tears tracing your cheeks hot in the fresh warmth of dawn breaking through your windshield, suffocating in the cabin of your mom’s old Chrysler - you are grounded.

In the homely sense: this was where you spent at least one senior year evening every other week, fresh after a debate you had with your mom about Christianity - she would never look for you out here, and picked up eventually that you always came back.

In the rooted sense: you always came back.

That’s Buddha, no? you remember quipping, life is suffering, the cherry on top that beckons a lecture on polytheism. Life is suffering is perseverance, she quotes, hiking up an eyebrow at your vague pithy high school drama. Preaching: A house burned up rewards her builder even only as one escaping the flame. Sensitive, teary, and blinded by ego: you never felt like she understood you. After midnight, confronted by cut fruit and whatever signed permission slip needed signing on the kitchen island, selectively removed from your journal and secret to only whenever you read the pages back: you never felt like she never did.

Home will be here forever, the card reads.

Tethered to a force magnetic, staked well below ground level: ash from open flame, fire truck, matchbook; Barbie doll, family computer, concert ticket, ballet shoes, your favorite stuffed animal when you were five - so will you.

Worth noting: you cry a lot over summer.

There are bad cries.

The one you choke out through hiccups and snot nose behind a fast food joint, breaths slow and measured as you glare down your last ever pack of cigarettes that you threw against the wall - tobacco honeyed, freeze dried, and currently frayed all around asphalt. Two sticks roll away on their own, one pursuing the other down the sidewalk, the first rolling away significantly faster.

The one after Gaeul finally texts you, hearts all of your iMessages her way. Something about not thinking she’d be this busy over summer. Another thing about Lollapalooza and hard drugs and An Yujin. You don’t read the rest of it.

The one that leaves tearstains in your dream journal when you read through every nightmare you woke up to in the semester. This one feels like it rends your soul: hits you like a gutpunch, bruises like a motherfucker - you are wailing and incoherent and ripped apart by your heartstrings, tendril after needling tendril. You are sympathetic, and cannot stop feeling sorry for yourself, cannot stop saying sorry out loud - looking for forgiveness, bearing your heart for godly grace. You are gutturally broken, in your mom’s lap at nineteen - she doesn’t say much at all, just brushes your hair, catching stray tears with a watchful thumb.

There are good cries.

The one right after service one Sunday, after the worship leader jogs over to you and your family, letting you and the public forum know that you went to the same family of colleges, that you both attended that spring weekend seminar on psychology and pedagogy in early childhood education, the one right after you end up spending the whole day together, after he joins your family for lunch and then you until three-thirty in the morning, cleaning house at the Sunday then Monday sections of the New York Times’ online Games.

The one you share with him flipping through pages of your ninth grade journal, in response to him telling you that you probably needed childhood pedagogy.

The one on your fifth date, with the windows down in your mom’s Chrysler, weaving itself out of your belly in between whiny complaints about plot points, tighter writing, and your spiel that you’ve saved up forever about how much of a gimmick Chekhov’s gun as a rhetorical device has become. He races you out of the door after service every Sunday; you purposely book the middle seats of the twelve-fifteen showings because it means your hearts are beating as you make it in just before the last trailer, adrenaline racing and ripe to digest the latest B-movie you both upload a review for on your shared Letterboxd account.

It’s prescient, really: a summer that shapes you, one that lends itself well to autobiography - a chapter titled What is Love? How much weight do you give love that is subtle - demarcated by plates of cut fruit and bearing feelings on your sleeve, pillared by inside jokes, puppy love, and parking lot conversations that intertwine you forever? How does that compare to love that is cantankerous - fast, fiery, fullmetal, white-hot and welcoming of the subsequent burnout: love that will burn you alive in hopes that you are flameproof - love that starts house fires?

From a reflection in your journal about survival:

who the hell likes living just to die?

Summer comes and goes and before the end of it, you strike out the rest of that page in your journal.

Then you do the same with the rest of them.

Sophomore year. You’re two weeks in before you make an attempt to break the news to Gaeul. Naturally it goes poorly. Actually it was probably destined to go poorly from the beginning because every conversation you’ve had since you got back to school has been tense and passive-aggressive ever since you saw she’d dyed her hair blonde. It’s not the color itself that’s the problem; of course it’s flattering and gorgeous and she knows it, too, tilts her head just right as you stare gape-mouthed on your first day back on campus, face haloed gold in the late-fall light. It’s that you asked her how many hours in the salon chair it took to get her hair so light and she said: Yujin did it for me, actually.

You said nothing. Probably you were making a supremely unkind face. Gaeul said: Oh, come on.

You said: I didn’t say anything.

Gaeul rolled her eyes. She said: It was, like, so casual.

That sounds like you, you said, and neither of you spoke after that, and it was clear the conversation was over.

So you spend another week dodging Gaeul’s calls. Then you run into her in the dining hall and she gives you those big eyes with genuine bruised-purple bags underneath like you’re the sole reason she’s been losing sleep. You can’t help it; it’s like turning away a kicked puppy. You cave. A day later you’re meeting at your old favorite café downtown. You spend about twenty minutes each recapping your summers: you do your very best not to grimace at any mention of spiritually transformative music festivals or who she might have spent all her time with at them. And then you tell her about your boyfriend.

Like a spit-take in a bad movie, Gaeul actually chokes on her latte. “Your what?”

You watch as she wipes the trickle of coffee off her chin with the back of her hand. Her watch is new, cute. Expensive. Way too stylish for her to pick out for herself and almost certainly a gift from someone. “My boyfriend.”

“Your what?”

“He sings at my church,” you say inanely, like it matters. “He’s a really great guy.”

“I’m sorry, I think I’m hallucinating,” says Gaeul. She’s blinking very fast. She leans forward and takes your hand with urgency. “Baby. What? You’re gay.”

You delicately remove your hand from hers. “I’ve told you plenty of times that I’m not.”

Gaeul’s staring at you like she doesn’t even recognize you. Just as well; you’re wearing your hair up, the way your boyfriend likes. You’re in a little wrap skirt he bought for you. She’s not the only one who gets to have a transformative summer. “Then what the fuck do you think you and I have been doing all this time?”

“I don’t know, Gaeul.” Your tone is pleasant and only a little poisonous. “What have we been doing all this time?”

Her mouth opens. Hangs there, jaw unhinged, all her vicious teeth. She turns away and you see the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, dark roots creeping into the pale blonde dye job. She can’t give you an answer. What, you think of telling her, did you think I’d wait for you forever? But you know she did. She looks at you and still thinks of you as the good girl at the frat party with the ribbon in her hair. That first conversation and first cigarette, her with all the experience, you blissfully ignorant of all the consequences.

But everything is different now; you won’t let it be the same. “Congrats,” Gaeul says finally, voice tight. “On the boyfriend.”

Your face is hot with anger and victory. You look at the rings on her fingers, the white knuckles of her fists. You think: I fucking hate you. You think: I will never let you touch me again.

“Thanks so much,” you say, and stand up, and walk out. You feel her eyes watching you the whole way out the door. It’s the same rush as it always is, having her attention, the same addictive feverish heat. But you’ve had a lot of practice beating cravings this summer and now you’re somewhat confident that you’re mostly finally clean.

So sophomore year you make a promise to yourself and God about this one. You tell yourself you’ll never make that same mistake again.

This lasts a few more weeks - three, tops. And then you and Gaeul end up in the same party in the same room on a Saturday night. And then she looks at you like she wants to make amends and takes you outside and suffocates you with her secondhand smoke until everything gets a little hazy around the edges, like a dream, something with zero real repercussions. And then she apologizes like she means it; for everything, she says, emphatically. And then she tilts her head and runs a hand through her chemically fried hair and smiles real sweet and honest with that dimple and everything and says softly: I really missed you, you know. And it’s - well. Behind your eyelids your entire childhood bedroom is burning again. And you realize that you maybe will never feel this way about anyone else, ever. Sometimes it only takes a moment.

I know, you say, body on fire, consumed. And then you make that same mistake again.

And then, maybe, you make it a habit. Shhh. Don’t tell your boyfriend. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and you’re pretty sure the Bible says only God can judge you, anyway.

“Ugh,” Gaeul grunts as the banjos kick in. “I love this version.”

There’s a second wind in her lips on yours to the picking of steel string, a humming on your mouth to the melody line. Under your shirt, she runs her thumbs along your collarbones like they control the volume, demanding more from the music, more from you - cupping your push up bra, clawing your chest.

Kissing Gaeul never felt far from nicotine - the bitter bits of a cigarette fresh on her breath, the tang of the cucumber lip gloss she left in your dorm room reapplied on her lips; the last bits of summer dwindling out of your window, the push-and-pull by the loops of low-rise jeans - all of it sates your withdrawals.

“Tell me, lover,” she whispers in the space between your breaths. The strings slow to a picking; the vocals center stage. “Now that you made your change -

Was your soul rediscovered?

Was your heart rearranged?”

The new thing she makes you do is take your necklace off when you make out - says it gets in the way. And when she’s pressing her thumb right into the space at your sternum when her mouth’s over yours, making you draw from her lifeblood, suffocating you from yours, the cool mint of her lips and the salty brush of her tongue all you can grasp on - you say so too.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she goads, snaking a hand in your hair, tipping you to look up at her.

Difficult is a good start.

Wanton is much warmer. Gaeul kisses you like you were always promised - forever. She caresses her thumb around your ear, and a jolt runs down your spine. It makes you red-hot: how embarrassing it is how pliant you are for her; it makes you red-hot: how everywhere she brushes her slender fingers on your skin, traces a short nude nail around the back of your neck, splays a hand across your belly, rips you from where you sit onto her lap: how it brings blood to the surface. Kim Gaeul knows all your soft spots like the back of her hand - she’s invaded all your secret places with the fronts of them.

Sacrilegious is a next step. Gaeul is your will-o’-the-wisp, forever taunting, forever coaxing you deeper into the abyss. Her whisper is hot on your earlobe, whimpering sirenic to your nervous system. She taints you: draws her thumb across the spit between your lips, then under the button of your jeans. You lose to yourself every night: tell yourself nothing’s going to happen while you shave your body touchable, double down on the notion as you ditch wearing underwear. Gaeul is your will-o’-the-wisp - you dive headfirst into the water and chase yellow oh-so golden into the mouth of the anglerfish.

Sacrificial is what it really is. There’s a verse in Romans that haunts you like a perpetual nightmare, hangs in the imbalance. You pretend like you don’t remember it and flinch in response all the same: The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God, it says. Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God. Gaeul slides the palms of her hands down your jeans, forever wanting, forever dictating. You cannot please God.

“Lover,” you’re sounding around your toothbrush, “is a jump, by the way.”

And as much as you think the always-too-bright bathroom lights, a mouth-mid-mouthwash, and wearing your pajama pants might be a handicap, Gaeul’s eye roll hits home all the same.

“Don’t get too wet,” she’s saying, patting the side of your waist, “it was in the lyrics.”

“Yeah?” you pull the thread. “You’d convince me.”

Truth be told, you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s grasping at the loosest of ends, it’s opening the doors just to see what’s behind them - it’s the most recent conversation you’ve had about the two of you with Gaeul sober.

Standing in the doorway of your bathroom, drowning in your faded high school t-shirt - it’s the kind of picturesque that sitcom would kill for. It’s the always-too-bright bathroom lights shining a megawatt spotlight on the details of her face: the dark circles under her eyes a shade too tough for concealer, the eyebrows she had to fill in tomorrow morning, the laugh lines you hoped were from you. It’s all the words unsaid, all the fill-in-the-blanks, and in the silence, all the insinuation, all the blanks filled.

“What do you want?” Gaeul starts, cocking her head to one side. It’s cute, genuinely; it’s a routine you know well. There’s the blonde, the shark teeth, the forward tilt of her chin - as if to poke into your space, make an opening, slip the light of the anglerfish in unnoticed.

“Affection? Someone to come home to? Something every college freshman yearns for?” you suffix again, again, then again. You’re in soprano by the last one, somewhere between pretend pearl-clutching and actually acidic. You’re more practiced these days: mockingly bit-ty, malleable to play-along, maybe too honest.

Gaeul shifts her weight. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head to the other side, looks like she suppresses the smile playing at her lips.

“You just love being difficult, huh?”

Definitely too honest.

She physically stuns, like there’s a cosmic whiplash, like she takes psychic damage. Kim Gaeul blinks twenty blinks in the silence, one after the other.

Then, once she rightsizes: “What do you want?” Meek, no venom, no veneer.

You take a couple of blinks yourself. In the decrescendo, just as you thought you were settling from the soprano, the sound in your head is replaced by a bassline more prominent: one that gives the stanza sound, feelings full body; one that was always there, building, building, building. Ears hot, snake-tongued and tasting fire, fully lucid: your hands are balled up into fists at your sides, there are tears welling hot in your eyes, and you’re burning at the tips - fiery and cigarette-orange everywhere Gaeul was: her fingers, her lips, her tongue.

There was no way out of this besides definitely honest. Heart in your throat, honest without a hitch: “What are we, Gaeul?”

The light hits just right, the dialogue is perfectly paced; the plot is infallible, the writing the tightest it’s ever been, Chekhov fires his gun - the full-pan shot of the both of you in your tiny apartment bathroom receives a standing ovation in the writer’s room because like it’s inherent, in-character, fully rehearsed, and method acted to the nines: Kim Gaeul blows you off.

In one motion, shorter shot-for-shot than your entire exchange: Gaeul gets a text from Yujin, offers you one-tenth of a smile, and leaves your room, only lingering to fix her hair in the mirror and make sure she never looks you in the eyes.

In the background, Noah Kahan picks up on the second verse. Live from Fenway Park, accompanied by harmony:

You don’t hate the summers

You’re just afraid of the space

…

Tell me, lover

Once you’ve had a change of heart

…

We’re no more than the fossils

At Crescent Beach State Park

The hometown baseball cap you bring for Gaeul sits in your closet, packaged in glittery tissue paper now unwrapped, peppered with perfume now unsmelled, and placed under a one year anniversary card now pretty un-fucking-meaningless.

You won’t let it be the same, so it’s not. It’s so much worse.

For the first time in a long time: you wake up in your own bed.

Not the first time: you wake up to paragraphs of texts from Gaeul - precisely: seven hundred words, sectioned out in the grey bubbles with the spaces in between them, thirteen missed calls, two voicemails, and nothing less.

i’m sorry, she starts, and that’s a stray thought that you shouldn’t give any water: you wonder the number of times Gaeul wasn’t apologizing for something. You’re afraid of the implication: white lies were no fun if they weren’t at least believable.

i know I touched a nerve, and wanted to give you the space. honestly i’m still a little shocked about the boyfriend thing - because of course - you should’ve texted me!!!!

Of many things you know about Kim Gaeul: it’s never her fault. In your most cynical, hidden in between the paragraphs of your journal, you can’t imagine it’s not exhausting: warping reality, distortion in the first degree, making a story bend over so far backwards that it calls the convict blameless. In the pages, struck through with ballpoint pen: you can’t blame a girl like her for trying - Artemis incarnate, a vixen in a past life; a she-wolf full-circle, a dark haired deity now transformed, moon-kissed; Medusa touched by Midas, golden hair serpentine - poison to a bloodstream, petrifying to a demigod, pretty and she knew it.

She tilts her head and gets what she wants.

Gaeul’s texts are beyond incoherent - slurring and sliding across ideas so much you smell the sleazy slap-bag wine on them. It does take you breakfast and a real, genuine effort, but across alcoholic messages, you’re able to lift halloween kickback, some of my girlfriends, and tomorrow night.

we’ll hash it out tomorrow night. promise!!

It’s gross.

The premise, the phrasing - all of it.

But God as your witness: you are nothing if not a sinner.

Call it mythological - you are struck by the arrow of Artemis, line of sight with the gorgon, personally stitched into the Theogeny - whatever:

Call it honest. You are whipped beyond humanlikeness for Kim Gaeul, a martyr, forgiving and forgetting - the line between faith and delusion is millimeters wide, and you are magnetically bipolar:

Call it what it is. You are nothing if not a good girl, so you halloween kickback.

There’s a lot of drama regarding what you’re going to wear. You threaten to kill yourself and let your body rot in her apartment if she makes you do a trio Halloween costume with An Yujin again. What the fuck, Gaeul says, appalled, I thought suicide was a sin. You jab your French-manicured fingernail towards the hickey on your neck and say: Gaeul, lots of things are sins.

“Like going as yourself on Halloween,” you elaborate, thinking of last year and her stupid baseball cap. “It’s super lame. Someone should smite you.”

Gaeul smiles wide. Inexplicably this seems to have charmed her. She says, “Fine. I’ll go as you and be a sweet little princess all night, how’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” you say. “I’ll go as you and be a huge dick.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gaeul tells you, and kisses you hard.

It’s all one huge bit up until the moment you’re taking off your cross necklace and dropping it into her palm and she’s rifling through the clothes you keep in her dresser to find something that fits her okay. You put an egregious amount of product in your hair - to get that patented Kim Gaeul just rolled out of bed after fucking your girlfriend look - and a tank top, button-up, no bra, a pair of her jeans. Silver hoops in your ears, all her rings. Gaeul’s hogging the bathroom so you do your makeup in your selfie camera, which is not very intense - Chapstick and the world’s sloppiest eyeliner. You make a face at yourself, displeased. You are not exactly you without your lip gloss.

Your phone dings while you’re in the middle of deciding between sneakers or beat-up combat boots. Gaeul. Several photos of Gaeul, actually halfway into her best impression of you. Little pressed polo shirt, lace at the collar, skirt with ruffles. Her hair’s falling in glossy prom-queen waves; she probably used your Dyson and all your nice hair oil to do it. She’s wearing a pair of your earrings, dainty pearls from your mother. She’s fastened your golden cross around her neck.

It’s funny because she’s actually pulling it off. The blonde hair, pixie face, fluttering lashes. Like this, she’s playing a better good girl than you ever could. Like this, you could take her home, take her to meet your family, say this is my best friend, Gaeul and be reasonably confident your mom wouldn’t have a conniption. Obviously you couldn’t say, like, we fuck on the weekends, too. But your mom would definitely approve of the company you’re keeping if the company looked like that. Like this, She might even insist on taking Gaeul to church.

Gaeul in church. Now that’s a riot. You can picture her there, rolling her eyes at the pastor, raising her brows at the rapt people in the pews. The way they stand for the music, clasp hands to their chest. One of your neighbors always sits in the front row and gets really into it, tears up and everything. You can imagine Gaeul seeing this and snickering, leaning in to whisper to you. These people are fucking nuts, she’d say. She’d meet your boyfriend and she’d make fun of him too. And then she’d call Yujin afterwards and laugh for hours and go: If that’s what it takes to get to heaven, I’m hell all the way, honey.

No. No. You take her to church and she’d leave halfway through the service to chain-smoke in the parking lot and probably somehow end up burning the whole place down. You can picture seeing her through the window from the lobby, her blonde hair catching the light like a flame, the smoke spiraling into the sky.

You’d never take her to church.

The thought is suddenly revolting. You stare at your cross around Gaeul’s neck and feel your heart creep into your throat. Briefly you are so nauseous it almost bowls you over. But then Gaeul steps out of the bathroom and you swallow it all down.

“Hey, sexy,” she says. She’s making her voice all high in a truly poor attempt at being you; her voice is usually softer than yours, most days. “Bathroom’s all yours.” She puts her thumb against your cheek and presses down. You realize she’s touching your dimple the way you touch hers. “I can wait, like, forever.”

Your necklace flickers at her neck, gold like her hair, gold like the halo you wore last Halloween that you lost somewhere on the walk home and have never been able to find again. You should touch the cross like Gaeul does when you’re wearing it but you don’t think you could bear it.

“I’m good,” you say, and make your voice inaccurately deep, just to counter her. “I think I matched the effort you put into your look on a daily basis.”

“Ouch,” sighs Gaeul, twirling her hair, which is something you never do, or at least not even that often. “But also, true.” She tilts her head to one side, then the other. Her eyes look even more ginormous with your usual makeup, the false lashes and the shimmer. She’s like a Disney cartoon animal; it’s almost freaking you out. “Trust me. You look hot.”

“I believe you, baby,” you tell her. But you still chance a glance at yourself in the bathroom mirror on your way out the door.

The thing is you don’t actually see yourself in the mirror - simple present.

It freaks you out when you linger, look at the details. Frankly: you don’t recognize yourself at all. A hickey here, a blue-green bruise there - points of poison, signs of shark bites.

One of your newest vices is looking through your Instagram in an attempt to find the turning point, triangulate the exact coordinates where you were rearranged, changed for good. It’s a worthless exercise, part because you cannot complete it without crying halfway through, another because you know transfiguration takes time.

It’s reptilian how you shapeshift on a dime, chameleon to what you’re called for: you’re coiled around your boyfriend’s arm, making small talk that goes nowhere above an espresso martini, hair in a high pony, streaks of a yellow ribbon in your hair that goes divine with a tiny cotton Hermes in spring-season citrine, turning heads at the country club then immediately shedding that skin, wearing all but nothing so that Gaeul debases you, sharing smoke, creating cusswords, licking at the air - turning into twists of fire interwoven. Make no mistake: you were her twin flame - one of many snakes in the gorgon’s wolf-cut, but the one she knew by name.

You look at yourself in the selfie camera and are displeased. You are not exactly you without your lip gloss; you are not exactly you at all. You give your cross away, you sell yourself for parts, you are lukewarm. You shapeshift to please the flesh, and it is forever hungry - you yearn and yearn and yearn, and lose all that is worth having.

Your reflection smirks at you through the glass - like she knows something you don’t, like she’s going to make you the body double.

You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror and see through yourself - and that’s the scariest reflection of all.

The Halloween party is both worse and better than the first. You don’t see An Yujin all night - that’s a plus. But Gaeul gets too drunk and she’s wearing your clothes and your cross and you practically have to carry her home, one arm around her waist, her head lolling across your shoulder. She’s a big flirt to anyone she comes across, bats her lashes and clings to your necklace. She’s not you; maybe she’s not even trying to be.

But you ask anyway. “Is this what I am to you?”

You’re halfway through the walk home; she’s freezing in your little getup, goosebumps all over her arms. Gaeul peers up at you through the false lashes. “What?”

This, meaning: needy. Pathetic. Helpless. Some sad little girl, always out of her depth, always having to be led around like a lamb to the slaughter. Ripe for sacrifice.

But you don’t even get the chance to elaborate. Gaeul seems to comprehend the question, belatedly; she scrunches up her nose, then smiles all pretty at you.

“Oh, yeah, exactly.” She’s making her voice all false and high again. It’s repulsive. When she sobers up you’re going to let her fuck you like this: even more repulsive. “I just know you too well. I’ve got your number, angel.”

“You’re full of shit,” you tell her. Now you really sound like her. “You don’t have anything.”

Gaeul tilts her head, cranes her cross-adorned neck, pouts her lips for a kiss. Dark eyes, silk hair, pink flush in her cheeks. She’s got it all wrong, you both have; she’s been the angel the whole time. “I have you.”

A couple of texts for your hometown boyfriend, and the iterations they go through before you hit send:

gaeul the girl i’m cheating on you with literally pisses me off. her nails in my scalp where she kisses my thighs the cute tiny panties i buy for her to stuff in my mouth. i hate that our love is all but nonexistent she’s all i think about she’s why my gpa is fucked she’s the reason i smoke she’s fucked me over and over and over and i cannot stop coming back for more.

yujin is no different. i hate her guts her entire being her chocolate hair her golden skin. i hate that i compare myself to her how much she’s embraced her sexuality how much she fills out the size zero miniskirts how good she looks in lulu how there is nothing that could bother her and even then if it did how it would look sexier on her than me. i hate that i know gaeul would keel over for her if she said she was remotely jealous.

but otherwise good!!! i’ve been going to the gym a lot more lately! yujin is no different. i hate her guts her entire being her chocolate hair her golden skin. i hate that i compare myself to her how much she’s embraced her sexuality how much she fills out the size zero miniskirts how good she looks in lulu how there is nothing that could bother her and even then if it did how it would look sexier on her than me. i hate that i know gaeul would keel over for her if she said she was remotely jealous.

i think i’m mostly gay and i am scared that i am leading you on. i hate the part of me that tells me that i am doing to you exactly what gaeul is to me and my nightmares have changed and i am so haunted i take the strongest melatonin and have earphones in at full blast sixteen hours of the day i am -

love ya :-)

You make it to confessional, by the way.

It’s genuinely a cute setup: Master’s students regardless of denominational alignment on weekend notice, part college peers, part spiritual siblings.

Except you fill out the intake form and get an email that tells you to come in instead - they want your experience to be guided by a senior licensed professional. You imagine they touch base with an exorcist.

You Google Maps your way to a room in a building in a part of campus that you’ve never been to, painted eggshell white and adorned with so many orchids that it actually makes you feel like Dorothy. It’s fitting: you practically skip up the yellow brick pavement in your sweetest gingham dress over a cream long sleeve - covering up the eyesores, laying the goodest girl on thick.

It’s what makes your experience so stark, really.

Halfway through your conversation, the senior licensed professional is fetching for a box of tissues, the student-in-training slack-jawed, stuck with a hand over her mouth. It’s so you to look for immediate sympathy, to rip your heart out and serve it up on a silver platter for social surgery - or maybe you’re just being honest.

But the unexpected happens.

You get ready to be ushered out of the building, to sign a ticket outside for your reprehensible trauma dumping, but find yourself eventually holding up the box of tissues, indulging this woman twice your age on her very vivid recounting of losing her family home in a recent, scathing series of house fires.

She opens up about the immense loss, rewarding vulnerability with vulnerability - bearing it all at your altar, and tells you at the end that it was worth it. Dabbing at her tears: (1) that there are feelings of spent - indulging the truly real - that are truly worth it with the right crowd, and (2) that the builder on the foundation of gold is rewarded - If his work is burned up, he will suffer loss, though he himself will be saved, even only as him through fire.

“1 Corinthians 3,” you complete, nice and neat and prim.

And it’s a privilege of a subtlety that floors you like you’re back in her big-ass Chrysler: your mom always replaced the his in verses with an intentional her.

It makes you give her a call. The first one is awkward, most of it is silence, and in the middle of it she legitimately asks verbatim why you are calling her, but it does get better. Eventually you tell her about your boyfriend.

You even crack open a new journal, write in it with the same very nice pen that Kim Gaeul got you as a set in Christmas of freshman year - worth a shot: maybe you use her for once.

Okay, so it’s corny - grow up.

For the uninspired: clichés exist for a reason. Life is more shared than you think, and you promise in prayer that you don’t try to be special anymore.

The fact of the matter is you are in your early twenties - you are antithesis personified. You are incredibly doted on and yet feel so alone, you think you know it all and get proven wrong about this every other day, you have an incredible boyfriend that you’re going to never tell that you’re kinda maybe sorta pretty much gay.

Or maybe you might. Something to pray about. In the interim, that stays between you and God - He’s benevolent like that.

Speaking of God: one Sunday while you’re uncoiling a vacuum you hit play on all your songs and physically freeze up when a worship song comes on in rotation. Your mouth goes dry, it feels like your heart becomes heavier than the rest of your chest, and you are genuinely, spiritually, physically, fully literally grounded. The song continues through to its chorus, guided by piano, and you are brought to your knees. Rooted in place, heartbeat thumping in your eardrums, in what feels like something between a panic attack and alien abduction, you rip your head upwards beholden to the bay windows you scamper across everyday, in the apartment you’ve had for almost a year, and notice that the grille is shaped like a giant cross. You cry and reach your hands out and try and pray and for the first time in a long time feel like your soul sings.

Sometime towards the end of the semester, because (1) who would’ve thought: you’re able to focus in class once you block Gaeul’s number and (2) hey, your GPA actually really fucking depends on it, your neurology professor launches into a monologue before class starts. Beyond the usual pep talk, he is more-than vulnerable about how his life has changed because of his two-month old newborn. It’s pithy, high-level, and falls on the deafer ears of students taking the class not for the major, too adult for NEURO 141, but to you: man, I have to be dating myself here, but it’s like that saying goes, right … how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time?

You hang one right next to your golden cross: glittery pink and animated, frozen mid-bite, in-metaphor ready to conquer the world. You like when the two pieces clink together, think it means something deep.

You try to chase the spiritual rending you encounter that ordinary Sunday and never get there. You feel your heart take on ten pounds whenever you close your eyes, steeling yourself for the g-force that you feel like is always going to come, but it never does.

The fact of the matter is you have a couple more blocked accounts on Instagram, a relationship with your mom that you’re figuring out, a new roommate that you’re trying to this time not sexile, a GPA that you are actively nursing, and that’s enough for you to think about for now - you will take one bite at a time.

That’s just the way life is sometimes, beckoning for you to surrender and see. By the end of sophomore year, you are still scared of being alone in your head, but have healthier mediums - no more sixteen hours of Spotify, and a little more cold turkey - you’ve weaned yourself down to 0.5mg pulls of nicotine from your vape.

The high is half-real when it’s not a cigarette, but you’ve realized that some things are more important.

Fire is necessary sometimes - to burn fat, render a cut down to its leanest form, reduce something otherwise watery and formless to its full potential, concentrate dilution to its most flavorful parts -

- you’ve also developed an unhealthy obsession with The Bear.

Life is suffering is perseverance, and for the still uninspired: actually, whatever - you’ll save the vulnerability for the right crowd.

Lots of people wouldn’t know capital ‘c’ Craft it it hit them like a train, anyway - they probably write awful Letterboxd reviews: #awful #media #consumers.

For the real readers: yes chef, the end.

The end as you know it:

Senior year. Gaeul has already graduated; you haven’t seen very much of her this year, or anything at all, except for the things she posts on her Instagram story. You don’t text her anymore and she never calls. And then without any regard for her horrible timing it’s the beginning of finals week and she shows up at your door.

You’ve just come back from spring break at your parents’ house. You had a long talk with your boyfriend about commitment and the future and what you want out of life and what you want to call home. You are wearing a ring on your finger.

“You’re twenty-one years old.” Gaeul can’t stop staring at it. She sounds hollow, all empty inside. “You can’t get married.”

Your parents got married that young, and plenty of people from your high school. But you don’t tell her that, that in your world, where you come from, it’s just the thing to do. She would never understand. “Well, not now, obviously. We’ll be engaged for a while. But he says he doesn’t want to live without me.”

Gaeul is staring at you, very pale. She looks like she’s going to vomit. She doesn’t say anything for a long time and when she does it’s barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do this,” she says. Meaning: don’t do this to me, or don’t do this to yourself. “You don’t want this.”

You are holding the cross at your neck like a lifeline. You are staring right into the sun. You didn’t want me, you want to say. Maybe I would’ve given up everything for you, if you’d loved me, if you’d just said it out loud. I loved you so much it made me ill. I would’ve burned my whole life down. But it’s been four years and you never did a fucking thing. So now this is how it has to be. I’m going to have the life I was always meant to have, you know. I’m going to get exactly what I deserve.

Instead you say: “I don’t want you.”

Gaeul doesn’t say baby, then; she says your name. Once, then twice, shakier each time. She presses a hand over her mouth. She’s shaking a little, swaying on her feet; you realize she really is going to be sick. So you gently close the door and when you turn around you don’t look back.

That’s the last time you’ve spoken, until now.

For years you’ve wondered how Gaeul tells this story, if she even tells it at all.

You have your theories. Maybe she goes out and gets drunk and talks to strangers about you and gets on an incognito browser and goes to your Instagram account and makes fun of every outfit you wear, every photo of you flashing your ring. She could say: I used to fuck that girl stupid; she loved me to death; seriously, dude, she doesn’t even like men. She could pull up all the pictures she probably still has on her phone, of you in her clothes and out of them, you in her bed, you kissing her cheek. She could match up those selfies of her in your cross and point to the one you’re wearing in your engagement photos and say: Look, see? A part of her belonged to me, at least for a little while. She could brag about it. She could lie about it, but you’re not sure there’s anything she could say that was more outrageous or devastating than the truth. She’d have her hair up, maybe dark, maybe still blonde, most likely still a disaster. She’d still be wearing all her silver rings. She’d be exactly as you remember her, that dimple and those teeth. She wouldn’t have changed at all. When she’s wasted she always loves an audience, talking shit about her exes, telling her little mean and snarky stories. Yours, you’ve always imagined, would be the meanest of them all.

“After all this time,” Gaeul says now, in the passenger seat of your car, four days before your wedding. “It’s still you, huh?”

Her voice is a croak. She looks beautiful and terrible, and like she hasn’t really slept in days, or in the last three years. This close to her you can now see the cracks forming in the act. She is, you realize, a little bit drunk. She smiles tremulously around her cigarette.

It’s funny, how she says this. Like, despite everything, you’re exactly as she remembers you, too. Like: Oh, honey. Look at me. I can’t forget a single thing about you.

Maybe when she tells this story it isn’t anything like you imagined. Maybe she’d look up with tears in her eyes and say to anyone who would listen: I loved her.

You’re thinking this because that’s exactly how she’s looking at you now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, quietly.

“You invited me,” Gaeul says. “You wanted me here.”

She leans closer. You realize she thinks she’s going to kiss you. But you must have some look in your eyes, something severe and serious. Maybe a little disgusted, or pitying. Gaeul blinks rapidly but it doesn’t clear the tears from her eyes. She doesn’t come any closer.

Gaeul says: “I thought-”

“I know what you thought.”

She thought she would come here and you would be trapped, desperate for her to come and save you. She thought you’d be grateful. She thought you’d be the girl from the movies who never gets over her first love. Princess in a tower, knight in shining armor. All these years and you’d still be hers. She thought you’d wait for her forever.

“I didn’t want you here,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d actually have the nerve to show up.” Your voice is cordial and even. It’s almost like she’s a stranger. “It was a courtesy invite, obviously. It would’ve been weird if I left you out. I asked all my college friends.”

“Friends?” says Gaeul. Her brows are raised incredulously.

“Yeah,” you say, and search for the same old anger at her gall - she’s the one who drew those lines. But none of it arises. You’re all burnt out. “Exactly. Friends. You and I never dated, remember? You and I were nothing.”

Gaeul’s bottom lip wobbles. She looks, in that second, almost like a child. “How can you - how can you say that?”

“I didn’t say that,” you say. You are thinking of all those nights in college. You are thinking that maybe she doesn’t even remember this story at all, or at least tells herself a much different version of it. Such is life. “You said that. So now it’s true.”

“I didn’t mean,” Gaeul says, but the sentence never comes to fruition. She tries again, several times. “I just wanted - I was stupid - I didn’t know - I made a mistake-”

“Yeah, well,” you say. You can feel the ghost of every bruise she’s ever left on your body, the imprint of her teeth. So distant now as to almost be meaningless. “I made a lot of mistakes back then, too.”

“Don’t say that,” says Gaeul. She’s crying openly now, sniffling and snotty.

“It’s true.”

“Baby.” Her face is pinched with desperation. “I love you.”

She says it like these are the magic words. Open sesame. You’ll let her into heaven; you’ll let her back into your arms. You stare at Gaeul. You waited so long to hear her say this and it seems like she knows it. She says it again, more brokenly: “I love you.”

She says a lot more after this, too. She’s always loved you, she tells you. Don’t do this. Don’t do this. She says: Remember all the years we spent together? Remember the parties and you as me and me as you and your cross around my neck? Remember how I was the first person to ever really know you? I think about it all the time. I think of how I fucked up and I should’ve done this and that and been better and nicer and less of a dick and not made you cry so much. But I’m here now. Doesn’t that count for something? I’m here and I’m telling you not to do this and I want to be with you. I’m being honest for the first time in a long time. I wonder if you still remember what that’s like, being honest. She says: You’ll never love him. You’ll never be happy. You’ll have to fake it for the rest of your life and it’ll kill you, one day, I know it will. I know you. All this time and I still know you. Oh, God. I’ll never get over you.

You say nothing, for a long time. You squeeze Gaeul’s hand, once.

The thing is:

You could make this happen, if you wanted. You could run away with her. Sneak up to your hotel room with your sleeping husband-to-be and pack a bag and disappear. Run down and out of the lobby and right into Gaeul’s passenger side, and her waiting arms. Or you could do it four days from now, for maximum drama - she could come to the wedding and get to her feet and shock all your family and scream that you’re the fucking love of her life. You could book it out of the venue in your white dress and put your bouquet and your cross necklace and your beating, bleeding heart in the sweet little palm of her hand. You could kiss her perfect mouth. You could toss your cigarette and burn your whole life down like you’d once dreamt of doing as a teenager. She’s so gorgeous. She’s still capable of tilting her head and getting everything she wants. There was a time you thought you’d love her forever. Sometimes it only takes a moment.

But she’s drunk. And you’re sick and tired of this same old story. And it only takes a moment, but now the moment is gone.

The end as you know it, for real this time, and forever. Gaeul says, gasps, choking on how hard she’s crying: “I could give you something real. Real love.”

The last six years play on repeat in your head. At eighteen this would have shattered you. But you’re twenty-four now and you know better.

“Baby?”

It’s true, she’s right. You might never love your husband. But he can give you everything you’ve ever wanted. The choice isn’t really a choice at all.

You touch your cross and you look Gaeul in those big wet eyes, a plea for forgiveness, amnesty, absolution, another chance, a new life. So much hope in there, too. You feel bad for her. You think: I’m sorry. It’s true, I loved you. I would’ve given up heaven for you. But it’s just too late now.

You say, finally: “Some things are more important than love.”

And then you let go of her hand.

For the record, your wedding is gorgeous. No lilies, no peonies, no beach wedding, no too-slow songs with too much silence, no girl in the room in a white dress but you. Your husband is perfect. Your Pinterest board would be jealous. Your mother cries and you cry too, in front of God and everybody, and they’re happy tears, it’s so happy, it’s the happiest day of your life.

Gaeul doesn’t attend. It’s for the best, really. You know from experience that there’s only so much heartbreak a person can take.

to the real readers :-)

thank you @usedpidemo for the community prompt that this spawned from! creation is a slog sometimes, and it really is bonkers what timeboxing and constraints can do - this fic doesn't come out without you!

and thank you always @majorblinks - hidden in the depths of the fic signoff so i can deny it at surface level, in the raw and no veneer: there is no one else that gets it. craft is by nature unreasonable and a dying quantity, but when was it ever plentiful? i'm unsurprised at the coincidences these days, and have a dumb grin whenever i think about the fact that this time last year i was just a fan. you will always be the blueprint as long as you eat the elephant (read: forever). ok now sleeper agent activation phrase: purple pi y***** y***** connections writers hammers yenachomp starkidpotter sicknasty thegoodbutter yang xiao long bedfuton senior citizens sweet implies augmentation .......... loserbug. loserbug!!!!!!!

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