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lexalith · 4 days ago

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HIDDEN || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: when you land an internship on the dearMoon project, you’re just trying to keep your head down, do your job, and survive under the watchful eye of your mother—the mission’s lead director. falling for someone is not part of the plan. especially not choi seunghyun. but that doesn’t stop him from wanting you. and it doesn’t stop you from letting him. you thought you could handle the consequences—you didn’t expect to lose everything else along the way.

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised). female reader. age gap (reader is 22, seunghyun is 35 and they’re very dramatic about it!). smut (oral sex m+f, p in v, public sex, unprotected sex, phone sex, praising, degradation, rough sex, dirty talk, soft dom!seunghyun, he freaky freakyyyyyy). reader has absolutely no self-preservation. seunghyun has zero restraint. secret relationship situation. fwb situation for a bit. seunghyun blocking people like it’s a hobby, as usual, and being extremely paranoid. reader’s mom being a pain in the ass and the biggest opp in this fic. crazy tension. reader is down BAD and frequently delusional. angst (miscommunication, troubled past, bickering, reader is passive-aggressive sometimes, name-calling, emotional repression, unresolved trauma, heartbreak, guilt, public exposure and fallout, timing never being right, love not being enough). seunghyun has huge trust issues and should probably work on himself. reader sacrifices way too much and deserves better. this story doesn’t have a happy ending. sorry in advance.

a/n: this is my interpretation of seunghyun. it’s totally okay if it doesn’t match the version you have in your head, but please be respectful! (or i’ll cry) this fic doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and there are moments where seunghyun is put in a bad light. if that’s not something you’re comfortable reading, it’s okay to skip this one. also: i did research (or at least i tried to), but there were moments where i simply didn’t know what the hell i was yapping about and i stand by it anyway lmaoo. this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic). english isn’t my first language. seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: the abyss — the weeknd, lana del rey || no one noticed — the marías || champagne coast — blood orange

you remember your mother’s words clear as day: “do not approach the crew. do not talk to them unless strictly necessary. you’re an intern.” like you needed the reminder. you press your lips together, trying not to roll your eyes as you clutch the flimsy cardboard tray in your hands, ten coffees deep into a task that feels more like humiliation than help. hazelnut latte, two oat milk cappuccinos, black americano, iced matcha, double espresso, vanilla cold brew, two caramel macchiatos, and some complicated mocha monstrosity you didn’t bother memorizing—you just wrote it down and prayed for forgiveness. because god forbid you mess up the orders. this wasn’t what you signed up for. technically, you’re an intern under mission integration, shadowing one of the highest-ranking officers on the dearmoon project. realistically? you’re the designated errand girl—her errand girl. your mother’s name holds weight in every room, and you’re still stuck delivering caffeine like a professional barista.

the crew lounge is too loud. laughter bounces off the walls, layered over music and the hiss of a nearby espresso machine that makes your entire trip feel even more pointless. you hover awkwardly by the entrance, tray in hand, waiting for someone to notice you, because you’re under strict instructions not to call attention to yourself. you catch glimpses of them. the crew. the artists. the chosen ones. and then you spot him. choi seunghyun. t.o.p. he’s sitting alone near the back of the room, half-sunk into a chair with one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on indoors. he’s scrolling through something on his phone, ignoring everyone around him. you recognize the haircut first—faint lavender under the artificial lights. it’s faded since the official crew announcement, but it still stands out in the crowd. just like he does. you’ve been intrigued by him from the start—since the very first time you saw him during a crew briefing your mom dragged you to. there’s something about him. you’ve never had a real conversation with seunghyun—just exchanged the occasional good morning or evening when you passed him in the hall, polite. but that hasn’t stopped your brain from doing what it does best… fantasizing.

sometimes, it makes you feel seventeen again. that stupid kind of crush that creeps in—the one that makes your chest tighten when you see him and has you overthinking every time you accidentally make eye contact. you’re twenty-two. you know better. and he’s—what? thirty-five? thirty-six? a world away from you in age, experience, in every possible sense. he’s lived a thousand lives. performed in front of stadiums. disappeared from the spotlight. flown halfway around the world to join a mission that’ll orbit the moon. meanwhile, you’re here, fighting off heart palpitations because he once held the elevator door for you. kinda pathetic! you know there’s no point. you’re not delusional (right?). he probably doesn’t even know your name. but that doesn’t stop your chest from doing that annoying fluttery thing every time you see him.

you shift your weight from one foot to the other. no one’s acknowledged you yet—too busy talking, laughing, moving through the room. and then someone glances over—a crew assistant, you think—and waves you in with a casual, “you can just bring them in.” you take a deep breath and step forward, gripping the tray tighter than necessary. your palms are already clammy, your heart annoyingly aware of the fact that he’s still sitting right there, probably not even noticing you. except… you feel it. his gaze. not full-on staring—he’s more subtle than that. but it’s there, following you quietly as you move through the room, delivering each cup of coffee with a forced smile and careful hands. you don’t look at him, but you can sense it—like the heat from sunlight on skin. it makes your hands shake more than they should.

you finally reach the last cup. the mocha monstrosity. no one’s claimed it yet, and you’re standing there like a glitch in the system, eyes scanning the room. you’re about to set it down on the edge of the counter and make your exit when a voice cuts through the noise. “that one’s mine.” you glance up. seunghyun’s standing a few steps away now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sunglasses gone and… his eyes are on you. you freeze for a beat too long. then, carefully, you pass him the cup, praying your hands aren’t shaking the way they feel like they are. he takes it with one hand, glances at the label, then back at you. “thanks,” he says, his voice low and smooth, with that same faint rasp you’ve heard in old interviews. and that sexy accent… you nod. “sure.” “i was starting to think you got lost.” “what?” there’s a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “you’ve been standing there for a while.” oh. right. you consider saying something witty, or at least normal, but all that comes out is a flat, “yeah. sorry.” smooth. very professional. he doesn’t seem bothered, though. he just hums and takes a sip of the drink. you shift the tray in your arms, suddenly too aware of how out of place you feel. you should leave. but before you can, he speaks again. “you’re the intern,” he says. and you’re surprised when he pronounces your name. “you—you know my name?” you feel so ridiculous the moment those words slip past your lips. oh, god. you want to crawl into the nearest air duct and vanish forever. “it’s in your tag,” he replies, eyes flickering to the member card you have hanging from your neck. right. of course it is. you’re wearing the stupid lanyard like a badge of shame—the word intern in big block letters. “oh. right.” your cheeks burn. “still,” he adds, after a beat, “i remembered it.” that makes it worse. or better. you can’t decide. you nod again. “your mom’s the one who runs this whole thing,” he says. you hesitate. nod. why can’t you stop nodding? “unfortunately.” “must be weird.” “what, getting coffee for people my mom outranks?” he laughs, soft and short. “i was gonna say working under her. but yeah. that too.” you smile, despite yourself. it slips out before you can catch it. “next time, you should bring one for yourself.” “hm?” “a cup of coffee.” “oh! oh, no,” you shake your head, flustered. “i—i’m working. and my mom wouldn’t allow it.” great. now you sound like a teenager whose mom still grounds her. if you didn’t want to remind him of the age gap, you’re definitely not doing a good job. he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “she doesn’t let you drink coffee?” “she doesn’t let me sit and drink coffee with the crew,” you clarify quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. “not professional. her words.” “mm.” he hums, sipping his drink. “sounds strict.” you nod, exhaling slowly. “yeah”

and then—just your luck—you hear it. the distinct click of heels and the firm, clipped tone of your mother’s voice entering the room. “can i have everyone’s attention for a quick update?” shit. you don’t even look back. instinct kicks in before you can think—before she can see you standing here, talking to one of the crew. “i—i should go,” you mumble, gripping the tray like a shield again. “duty calls.” he doesn’t stop you. just gives you the faintest nod. “see you.” you slip out of the room before your mom can scan the space and realize you were standing way too close to choi seunghyun, having a conversation with someone technically under her jurisdiction. the door clicks shut behind you, and only then do you let out the breath you’ve been holding.

that is the only exchange of words you have with seunghyun for around two more weeks. you see him around, of course. it’s hard not to. he’s always somewhere on the edge of things—quiet in briefings, off to the side during training simulations, headphones on and eyes somewhere far away. you pass each other in the halls sometimes. a quiet good morning. a nod. once, a half-smile you’re not sure was meant for you. and then—one night, you’re still at headquarters long after most people have gone home. you’ve been buried in a mess of schedule revisions—crew rotations, simulation prep, meal timings, pr appearance blocks—all things that should probably be handled by someone more qualified. but when you’d tried to point that out, your mom just handed you a list and said, “if you want to learn, start doing.” so you did. and you’re still doing it, hours later, eyes bleary from staring at spreadsheets, cross-checking calendars, rescheduling something that had already been rescheduled four times because someone didn’t check with the engineers. you’re tired. starving. and the last few edits you made are starting to blur together in your brain. you save the file. close your laptop. tell yourself you’re just taking a break. wander down the hall toward the crew lounge, hoping to steal a minute of quiet—and maybe one of the energy bars someone always stashes near the fridge.

the lights are dim, the room mostly empty. you think it’s quiet until you hear it. music. low, distant. piano or strings—you can’t tell. then you see him. seunghyun’s sitting on the floor in the far corner, back resting against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. hoodie on, hair messy, phone beside him playing something soft and slow, a notebook open in his lap, pen twirling in his fingers. he doesn’t notice you at first. or maybe he does and doesn’t show it. you hesitate. not because you’re not allowed here, but because it feels private. like you’ve stumbled into something you shouldn’t have. and then, without even glancing up, “you always haunt the halls at this hour?” his voice cuts gently through the quiet. casual, like he’s known you long enough to joke with you, even though he hasn’t. you blink, caught off guard. “what?” he finally looks over, eyes flicking up from the notebook resting on his knees. “you’ve got that vibe,” he says. “ghost girl with a clipboard.” you huff a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. “i could say the same to you.” he shrugs, lips twitching. “i was here first.”

you drift toward the fridge, grabbing the nearest snack you don’t even want anymore. just something to do with your hands. you feel weirdly self-conscious under his gaze—like he’s seeing too much. he taps the end of his pen against his knee. “you can sit,” he says after a moment. “i don’t mind.” you hesitate. then cross the room and sink into the couch behind him, keeping enough space between you. you rest your head back against the cushions, listening to the soft music coming from his phone. something instrumental, slow and kind of sad. after a minute, he speaks again, “does she make you stay this late?” you glance over. “my mom?” he hums. you sigh. “she says if i want to be taken seriously, i need to prove i can handle real responsibility.” he pauses, then mutters, “like coffee runs and color-coded spreadsheets.” you let out a small laugh. “exactly.” he doesn’t smile, but there’s something in the way his shoulders relax that tells you he meant it as a joke. or maybe not a joke… maybe just the truth. “what about you?” you ask, voice quiet. “why are you here so late?” “i usually stay around for a bit after things wrap up,” he says. “didn’t check the time tonight, i guess. my bad.” you huff softly. “you say that like anyone’s going to tell you off.” he glances at you, the faintest trace of a smile in his eyes. “well, i’m sure your mom would if she thought i was distracting her intern.” you roll your eyes. “you think everything i do gets reported back to her?” “doesn’t it?” you pause. fair point. he leans his head back against the couch, then glances over at you. “so,” he starts, voice casual, “you just finished school?” “yeah. last spring.” he hums, almost like he’s filing that away. “twenty-one, then?” “twenty-two,” you correct. “hm. college?” he asks, like he’s double-checking. “or grad?” “graduated.” you pause, then add, “aerospace management.” “impressive.” you shrug. “it sounds fancier than what i actually do here. i’m still in that awkward trial period.” that makes him laugh—quiet, under his breath. “how old were you when you started? in your… path.” “eighteen. bigbang debuted in 2006. after that, things moved fast.” “you were already acting by twenty-two, right? iris?” he looks at you, a little surprised. “you’ve seen it?” “not when it aired, clearly,” you admit. “my mom did. she rewatched it a few months ago.” he raises an eyebrow, amused. “of course she did.” “she has opinions, by the way,” you add. “on your acting.” “do i want to hear them?” you laugh. “probably not.” he snorts. “i was seven when ‘iris’ came out.” “seven,” he repeats, like he needs to hear it again to believe it. he lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “you were a literal child. great,” he says. “now i feel ancient.” “you are,” you tease, then immediately regret it. “i mean—not ancient, just—” “no, no, it’s fine.” he waves a hand, still grinning. “i’ll start bringing a cane with me.” you laugh, the sound slipping out easier than you expect. and he laughs too—a low, real laugh that feels more genuine than anything you’ve heard from him in before.

“do you like it?” he asks. you glance at him. “what?” “being here.” you pause, caught off guard by the question. you could lie and say it’s exciting, that you’re grateful, that you’re learning a lot. it would all be technically true. but instead—“i don’t know,” you admit. “i think i thought i’d feel more useful by now.” he nods like he gets that, but doesn’t say anything, giving you space to go on. “most days, i just run errands. print things. fix schedules that get messed up again an hour later.” you huff a laugh, dry. “i haven’t done anything that couldn’t be done by a very motivated toddler.” his mouth twitches, like he wants to laugh but doesn’t. “but you still stay late,” he says. “that’s not really optional when your mom runs the show.” seunghyun watches you for a beat. thoughtful. “you don’t talk much,” he says. you blink. “what?” “around the others,” he clarifies. “you’re always there. you just don’t say a lot.” you shrug, suddenly unsure where to look. “they don’t really notice me.” he tilts his head a little. “i noticed.” the words hit in a weird, soft way. they don’t sound like a line. they don’t even sound like he meant to say them out loud. you laugh, light and a little breathless. “well… thanks.” he nods, and the way his eyes linger on you just a little longer than usual makes your heart race.

your phone buzzes. you fish it out of your pocket, and there it is—mom. one notification. three words. where are you. you don’t even open it, you already feel the heat of the guilt radiating through the screen like she implanted a microchip in your soul at birth.“i should go. she’s probably wondering why i’m not home yet.” “you heading home?” “yeah.” you stand up, brushing invisible crumbs from your jeans because you suddenly feel like you’ve been sitting too comfortably close to him for too long. “i still have to catch the late bus.” his eyebrows lift. “the bus?” “yeah. glamorous, i know.” he checks the wall clock, then glances toward the hallway. “my driver’s out front. i can give you a ride, if you want.” you freeze for a millisecond. maybe less. long enough to process all the possible realities in which your mother finds out you accepted a ride from one of her crew members and personally launches you into orbit. “thanks, but—i can’t.” you smile, apologetic. “my mom would kill me if she found out i left with one of the crew.” “worth a shot.” your stomach does that stupid little flip again. “see you tomorrow?” you ask, indirectly declining the offer again, already taking a step toward the door. “yeah.” he leans back on the couch. “goodnight.” “goodnight.” and for the rest of the walk, all the way out of the building, through the quiet parking lot and onto the freezing bus bench, you replay the conversation in your head on a loop.

the following month is… weird. not bad-weird. just the kind of weird that makes your stomach flutter at completely inappropriate times and your brain question everything. because suddenly, choi seunghyun is around. not constantly, but enough for you to start wondering if the universe is messing with you. it starts with the coffee. he catches you yawning in the break room one morning. you mumble something about caffeine being the only thing keeping your soul tethered to your body. the next day, he’s already there when you walk in. he doesn’t say anything. just slides a cup across the counter in your direction. “you like it like that, right?” you freeze. nod. take it. try not to die. “thanks,” you manage to say, very calmly and professionally, like you’re not actively going crazy inside. “don’t mention it,” he says. and goes back to his phone like this is a normal thing he does now. then there’s the time you’re hunched over your laptop in one of the shared workspaces, surrounded by notes and three different color-coded schedules because someone decided to change the entire week’s layout again. he walks by, glances at the chaos in front of you, and casually drops a protein bar on the desk without stopping. “you skipped lunch.” you stare at it for a full minute before touching it. how did he know that? why does he know that? you do not recover. and it keeps happening. he starts asking for your help with things that don’t make sense. “what time is this briefing again?” … “you made that chart, right?” … “can you double-check this?” you’re not even on the same team half the time. but you help him, because… what else are you supposed to do? maybe you’re reading too much into it. maybe he’s just nice. maybe this is just what he’s like with everyone. maybe he sees you as a little sister or god knows what… you’re definitely overthinking it. probably.

it’s a thursday night and you’re already in bed. face washed, teeth brushed, oversized t-shirt on—officially clocked out of both your shift and your social battery. you’ve just gotten under the covers, wrapped yourself in a blanket burrito, about to turn on do not disturb when your phone buzzes. weird. no one ever texts you this late. you check it, assuming it’s one of your friends or some scheduling update from the team chat. but it’s not. unknown number.

Hey. You left this in the conference room.

photo attachment: your notebook, half-open on a table, very clearly yours.

I figured it was yours. It’s the one you always carry.

sorry, who’s this?

Seung-Hyun

Choi Seung-Hyun

your heart lurches in a way that feels unreasonable. first of all—yes, it is your notebook. and second of all—how does he have your number. you sit up a little in bed, suddenly very awake.

oh, hey. thank you :) how did you get my number?

I asked comms.

you blink. comms. like it’s not completely insane that he went out of his way to ask someone for your contact info because of a notebook. another message comes in:

Didn’t think you’d want to show up tomorrow and panic about it.

you assumed correctly! hahaha, i would’ve freaked out🥲

I’ll leave it at your desk.

Unless you want to come get it now.

your breath catches. you’re in pajamas. your hair’s a mess. your face is 50% moisturizer. you reread the message three times. he’s joking probably. but still.

i’ll survive until tomorrow. but thanks again, seriously :))

Anytime👍🏼

you think that’s it. except it’s not. because when you’re back to lying in bed, staring at your ceiling like a maniac, heart thumping for absolutely no reason, your phone buzzes again. you scramble to check it so fast you nearly drop the phone on your face.

Love the doodles in the margins.

please don’t judge my little planets…🙃

I only judged the one that looks like a sad potato hahaha

rude... jokes! that’s jupiter

Sorry, Jupiter.

Do you always stay up this late?

sometimes! usually because i’m overthinking everything i said that day or regretting the amount of caffeine i had at 4pm💔

We have that in common😅

you smile again, this slow stupid grin that refuses to leave.

You should sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.

okay, i will🫡 you too!

Goodnight🌙

they organize a crew hangout on a friday night. something casual, they say. the place they picked is one of those trendy, semi-industrial spots with exposed brick walls and edison bulbs hanging from long wires. there’s a giant neon sign on one wall that says something vague, and music is playing just loud enough to make you question whether or not someone said hi to you or just sneezed nearby. you’re standing at the entrance, half-rethinking your outfit choices and half-contemplating if turning around and pretending you got lost is still a viable option. you’re in jeans—the good pair that fit right every time—white sneakers that aren’t brand new but still pass as clean, and a navy blue sweater. it’s casual, but cute. very different from what you wear to work. you scan the room. there’s a crowd already gathered around one of the tall tables—people from different teams, laughing, sipping drinks, leaning in like they’re all lifelong friends. you spot your teammates near the bar—one of them waves you over, and you exhale, shoulders dropping slightly in relief as you walk toward them. “you made it!” one of the engineers grins, raising a drink. “barely,” you say with a smile. “i spent fifteen minutes arguing with myself about whether to show up.” “glad you did!” someone adds. you laugh, already relaxing. and then you hear her voice. “i didn’t know you were invited.” you turn, and of course—your mom. she’s standing there, drink in hand, eyebrows slightly raised. she’s not being openly hostile—just… mom-ing. disapproval wrapped in polite interest. she’s in her work blazer, still dressed like she just walked out of a meeting. which, knowing her, she probably did. “they extended the invite to support staff,” you say, keeping your voice neutral. “figured i’d show up.” “just remember,” she says, “this isn’t a college mixer.” you smile tightly. “noted.” she gives you one more lingering look—the kind that says i’m watching you without actually saying it—then steps away, probably to go judge someone else from the comms team.

you turn back toward your group, and before you can go to order a drink, you feel it—someone approaching. “hey,” comes that familiar low voice. you glance over. seunghyun’s standing a few feet away, drink in hand, dressed in black jeans and a slate-gray button-up. you offer a smile. “hey.” “wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says. his gaze flicks over you for a beat—brief, subtle, but very much a look. “you look nice, by the way.” “thanks,” you manage to reply, trying to smile like your skin isn’t buzzing and you aren’t immediately aware of your mother’s presence somewhere nearby, probably developing a sixth sense for this exact interaction. “you want a drink?” he asks, nodding toward the bar. your hesitation must show, because his gaze flicks down and then back to your face. “it’s just a drink,” he says. your lips part, and for a second, all you can think is that’s easy for you to say. “uh…” your eyes flick automatically toward your mom—deep in conversation, but still there. you can feel her existence like it’s a rule you’re breaking just by thinking about accepting a free drink. “i mean, i… i don’t know if i should—my mom’s here,” you mumble, gesturing vaguely. he follows your glance, nods, then looks back at you. “we work together,” he says simply. “i’m offering you a drink, not hard drugs.” you snort, caught off guard. “okay, true.” “so?” “yeah. sure.” “what do you want?” “surprise me,” you say, voice softer than you meant. he nods once and heads for the bar.

he rests one arm on the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish mixing. lets the noise of the room bleed into the background. he could’ve talked to someone else tonight. easily. there are three girls—maybe more—who’ve been circling him since he walked in. laughing a little too loud at things he didn’t say. brushing their hands against his arm. like that assistant with red lipstick and a habit of leaning too close. he could’ve given her attention and shut off the part of his brain that keeps dragging you to the front of it. but here he is… buying you a drink. he’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing. he wraps his fingers around the glass the bartender sets down, cold against his palm. he should walk away. he should hand you your drink, nod politely, make small talk, and blend into the crowd again like nothing’s ever crossed his mind. like he didn’t clock every inch of you when you walked in—those jeans hugging your legs, the way your sweater hangs just loose enough to be soft but not enough to hide the shape of you beneath it. you’re twenty-two. and that number rattles around in his skull like something radioactive. you’re too young. too off-limits. he knows what people would say. and yet, the image of you standing there, makes his mouth dry.

he’s had easier women. older than you. confident. women who know what to do with their hands, with their mouths. one of them, barely two weeks ago, had him up against the wall of his bathroom—lipstick smeared, hand down his pants, telling him she didn’t care if he had to be back at starbase by sunrise... it was good. but he doesn’t think about her now. he thinks about you. he thinks about how soft your skin looked when he brushed past you earlier that day, and how long it would take for you to open up for someone—for him. how your voice would sound whimpering his name. how you’d taste. if you’d let him talk you through it. if you’d get flustered when he touched you. if you’d beg. and he knows it’s fucked up. it’s not just unprofessional—it’s dangerous. you’re her daughter. and again, you’re young. bright-eyed, too smart for your own good, still trying to figure yourself out young. he wonders if that’s part of it. the age difference. he wonders if some awful, hungry part of him is drawn to the soft energy you carry around like a scent. and he hates himself for even thinking it, but it doesn’t stop him. maybe it’s the worst part of him—the part that’s already ruined good things before and never learned his lesson. because this? you? you are a terrible idea.

he exhales slowly, shuts his eyes for half a second, tells himself to keep it together. then turns and walks back to you. drink in hand. you smile when he hands it to you. “thank you.” “figured you’d like it,” he says. “you seem like the type to order something sweet.” you glance down at the drink—soft pink, citrusy, chilled. “you’re not wrong,” you say, sipping. “it’s good.” he gives you a small nod. “glad.” and then he just stands there. not close, but not far either. you’re not sure what to say. or if you should say anything. there’s no reason for him to be here, talking to you. no real benefit. “this place is nicer than i thought it’d be,” you offer, trying to fill the silence. “honestly assumed it’d be a sad buffet and corporate music.” that earns a quiet laugh. “you haven’t seen the karaoke room yet.” your eyebrows lift. “karaoke room?” “mhm.” “i’m curious now.” you look away, sipping your drink. he hums, and you both fall into silence again, not uncomfortable—but not quite easy, either. you glance at him from the corner of your eye. he’s scanning the room, eyes lingering briefly on a group near the back. then he looks back at you, calm as ever. “glad you came,” he says, quietly. your throat goes dry. “yeah?” “yeah,” he nods. “it’s good to see more than the same ten faces outside the station.” right, right. that’s what he meant. you’re part of the group. just another familiar face. you take another sip of your drink, mostly just to have something to do with your hands. “what do you do when you’re not fetching reports and dodging your mom?” “like… outside of work?” he nods, lifting his glass. “assuming you’re legally allowed to have a life.” you snort. “that’s debatable.” he hums like he figured. “i write sometimes,” you say. “i hang out with my friends and i read when i have time.” he lets out a quiet laugh. “so you’re secretly a writer.” “no, i’m a disaster with a notes app.” he chuckles. “what kind of stuff do you write?” you hesitate. “honestly? mostly like… like romance novels.” why does saying that out loud make you feel stupid? you try to advert the attention, asking, “what about you? what do you do in your free time?” “paint,” he answers. “listen to music... make music. i also train at home. and sleep, when the universe allows.” “i feel like your sleep schedule is fucked up.” “that’s generous. it’s dead.” you laugh again, softer this time.

you’re mid-conversation—finally relaxed enough to enjoy the drink he brought you, answering some question he asked about your music taste—when you hear her voice. “sweetheart, there you are.” you turn and see her weaving through the crowd toward you. your mom. her smile is tight, practiced. she glances at seunghyun, and it immediately softens by about 40%. classic. “hello, seunghyun,” she says, calm and professional, like she didn’t spend all of last week sighing at you for mixing up launch logs. “i didn’t realize you two were chatting.” you force a smile. “yeah, we were just talking.” “mm.” she nods, then turns her attention fully to you. “can i borrow you for a moment? someone from comms had a question about the event schedule, and i thought you could walk them through your edits.” your drink is still halfway to your lips. your stomach sinks. “…sure,” you say, already stepping back. she glances once—just once—at the glass in your hand. “you’re drinking?” it’s not judgmental. just… pointed. “it’s one drink.” she hums again—noncommittal, but loaded. “i’ll be right there,” you mutter, and you turn to seunghyun with a tight smile. “thanks for the drink. i’ll… see you around.” he nods once. “yeah. of course.”

seunghyun has realized that it’s impossible to talk to you when your mother is around. so he stops trying to talk to you when she’s near. what’s the point? but that doesn’t stop him from finding other ways. he texts you more now. nothing inappropriate. just little things, one message every couple of days. something about a malfunctioning printer, or a meeting that could’ve been an email. but then it doesn’t stop. he texts you at weird hours—never too late, but always just late enough that you know it’s deliberate. the kind of times where you’d normally be scrolling aimlessly or lying on your bed staring at the ceiling. and you find yourself answering. every time.

You still at Starbase?

leaving now :) are you?

No, I left a while ago.

oh okay, need anything?

Nothing important.

How was your day?☀️

good! not too busy :)) yours?

Good. I didn’t see you.

oh, so that’s why it was good?😭😭💀💀help

No! No, no. Sorry, I should’ve written that differently🤦‍♂️I didn’t mean it like that.

ik, i was joking! :)

Ohh😅😂 hahaha

i was with the engineers today, on the other side of the building. we had an issue with monday’s schedule

Ah, it’s alright👍🏼

you wanted to see me?

I did🙂

hahaha i’ll be back with my team tomorrow :)

Good🫰🏼

I’m going to sleep. You should too.

Good night🌙

good night!

it keeps happening. you’re finally home, still in your work clothes, hair a mess from the wind and your brain fried from trying to stay alert during seven hours of logistical chaos. they had you shadowing part of a field integration check today—some outdoor systems test with one of the ground teams, all wires and temp sensors and someone yelling over a radio every five minutes. you spent most of it holding a clipboard and pretending you weren’t fucking freezing. now, you’re on your bed, one shoe off, jacket still on, face buried in your pillow, debating whether or not you have the energy to shower. your phone buzzes somewhere near your hip. you reach for it without looking, an instant smile on your face when you see it’s seunghyun.

Hi. I didn’t see you today.

hey! :) ik, i was outside doing checks. how are you?

Good😄 You?

i’m fine!! but very very tired, i think i’ll be going to sleep a bit earlier today

Yes, you should rest.

you too tho, don’t you have a test tomorrow?

We have a systems failure simulation.

ik i scheduled it… whoops

Hahaha, I know😉

you’re gonna do great tho :)

You think so?

of course! will you let me know how it goes?

You won’t be there?

no, i have to help the integration team tomorrow

we’re reviewing hardware compatibility for one of the supply modules, helpme😭

it’s gonna take all day probably :(

Ohhh busy girl.

hahaha could say the same about you! no but it’s only this week! then i’ll be back to making coffee lol, you’ll see🥲

They should hire you! I’ll text you after the test🙂

yayyyy okay!!

Also, I’m hosting a small dinner on saturday night. Just some of the team. Would you like to come?

oh!! yes, i’d love to :)) thanks for inviting me!🩷

Of course. It’ll be relaxed.

do you want me to bring anything?

No need, just yourself.

okay :) i’ll be there

I’ll send you the address tomorrow. I’m glad you’re coming🫰🏼

saturday night rolls around. and for once, the universe is on your side: your mom can’t go. apparently, she made plans to have dinner with friends she hadn’t seen in ‘literal decades’ (her words), and when you’d asked if she was still planning to stop by the dinner at seunghyun’s afterward, she just said, “i’ll be too tired. and you shouldn’t stay there for too long.” you nodded. smiled. pretended like your entire nervous system didn’t do a backflip of pure relief. because going to his place—his place, as in choi seunghyun’s penthouse—is already enough of a mental minefield. the last thing you need is your mother there, hovering in the corner like a threat in heels. you change clothes three times before settling on something that doesn’t make you want to implode: a light denim skirt that hits mid-thigh and your favorite white knit sweater—the one that tucks in just right at the waist. so now you’re alone in your room, standing in front of your mirror, staring at yourself. you remember reading the list when it was first announced—devin, the photographer from ireland. yemi a.d., the creative director. karim, the documentarian. steve, tim, rhiannon, t.o.p… it felt surreal even then. and now you’ve been invited to dinner with them. by t.o.p himself. which is… funny. and terrifying. and funny again. you’ve spoken to devin maybe twice. yemi once. tim nodded at you in the hallway last week—crazy. you’ve seen these people every day for months, and seunghyun is the only one you actually talk to. you try not to think about how you’ll be the only intern there, too.

the elevator is glass-walled and completely silent, which only makes it worse. you stare at your reflection in the metal trim, fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater like that’ll somehow distract you from the fact that you’re currently ascending to choi seunghyun’s penthouse like this is a normal saturday. your stomach is tight. it doesn’t help that the building itself is beautiful—cool, polished, expensive in the quiet, intimidating way. you try not to think about how weird this is. how out of place you’ll feel the second those elevator doors open. how this is his home. his actual space. where he lives and sleeps and keeps things like toothpaste. where he probably masturbates as well—okay, pause. you need to calm down.

the elevator dings softly. top floor. and then the doors slide open—he’s already there, leaning casually against the wall across from the elevator. he’s in a dark sweater—deep navy with a subtle pattern stitched through it, something geometric and barely noticeable unless you’re looking closely (which you immediately are). the beige cargo pants are a surprise, cuffed just above a pair of sleek black sneakers that definitely weren’t cheap. “hi,” he says. you smile, a little shy. “hi.” his eyes scan you for a second—he doesn’t say anything about how you look, but his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary. “you found it okay?” he asks, stepping forward. you nod. “yeah. almost rang the wrong apartment though.” you joke and he chuckles. “i was waiting for you.” he steps aside, gently motioning for you to come in. you do.

the place is beautiful. of course it is. it’s not flashy—just quiet luxury, the kind of space that whispers money without needing to shout. clean lines, warm lighting, furniture that’s probably custom-built and doesn’t squeak when you sit on it. paintings line the walls and they all have the same effect: making you feel like you’ve just stepped into a gallery instead of someone’s home. one abstract piece near the hallway practically buzzes with color. another—something monochrome and moody—hangs over a sideboard with crystal decanters and tiny, absurdly aesthetic glass cups. your eyes move across the walls slowly, taking it all in. “did you bring all this from korea?” you ask, voice soft. he glances over at you. “not all of it,” he says. “but most. the ones i didn’t want to leave behind.” you nod, eyes still drifting. “i would’ve assumed they came with the penthouse.” he smiles faintly. “no. this place was nearly empty when i moved in. i just… filled it the way i wanted.” you hum quietly. “well, you’ve got taste.” “i’d hope so,” he says. “i spent enough time hunting half of this down.” he gestures down the hallway. “they’re in the living room. come on. i’ll walk you in.” you follow him, your footsteps almost too loud on the hardwood floors. you can hear voices now—someone laughing, music playing softly from somewhere, a low hum of conversation that means you’re the last one here. “are they gonna think it’s weird?” you ask quietly. “who?” “everyone. that i’m here.” he pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. “do you think it’s weird?” you open your mouth, then close it again. “i don’t know. maybe a little.” he turns fully to face you now, the soft murmur of the living room fading into the background. “why?” you hesitate, eyes flicking to the floor for a second. “because i’m… the intern. and i’m young.” his gaze moves over your face like he’s trying to decide something. “you’re not that young,” he says eventually. “i’m twenty-two.” “i know.” you can hear your own heartbeat. “and you’re…” you trail off. “thirty-five,” he finishes for you. you nod once, small. “right.” there’s a pause. his eyes are still on you. you can feel the weight of them on your skin, like the room’s gotten warmer, like the sweater you’re wearing is suddenly too much. then he tilts his head a little. “does that bother you?” you swallow. you want to say no. you want to say yes, obviously, look at me losing my mind over a man who’s over ten years older than me and worldwide famous. but instead, you just look up at him and say, “should it?” he doesn’t answer right away. and maybe that’s the answer. “come on,” he says, gently, gesturing to the living room with his head. and you follow.

the night goes better than you expect. you recognize more faces than you thought you would—some of your own teammates are there, including two engineers from your floor who wave when they see you. everyone’s friendly and no one makes you feel out of place. good! you’re fine. you’re actually more than fine. no one questions your presence. no one even raises an eyebrow. and somehow, being invited has turned you into someone people want to talk to.

the lights are dim, the music soft, and the wine is doing that thing where it goes straight to your legs. you’re perched on a low couch with a drink in one hand and a tiny, overpriced-looking tart in the other, nodding along as one of your teammates goes on about a recent systems bug with the attitude of someone who has clearly had three beers and no fear. you’ve been careful not to drink too much—just enough to keep your nerves dull around the edges.

seunghyun is across the room—but every time your eyes drift to him, he’s already looking at you. the first time it happens, you think: oh, okay. coincidence. the second time, you think: he’s probably making sure i’m okay and having a good time… that’s so kind of him! but by the third glance—the one where your eyes catch across the room and he doesn’t look away—you have to admit it. at least to yourself… oh, wait. is he checking me out…? then, immediately—no, he isn’t. you’re reading into it. how could he be interested in a twenty-two year old? are you crazy? calm down, girl. drink water. he’s older than you, what are you even thinking? he would never.

he is, in fact, checking you out. there’s no noble excuse left. he’s barely registered half the conversation happening beside him because your legs are in his line of sight and he’s somehow forgotten how to be normal about it. that skirt should be illegal. it rides just high enough when you shift in your seat and that has him clenching his jaw and thinking about pacing his own hallway. he should be mingling, engaging in conversation. pretending he’s not entirely too aware of the curve of your thigh and the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you’re not absolutely wrecking his concentration. god. he’s being so fucking obvious.

the dinner hang out winds down slowly. guests begin to trickle out of seunghyun’s penthouse, leaving behind the comfortable hum of a gathering well-enjoyed. you wave at people as they leave, sipping the last of your drink. at some point, it’s just you, seunghyun, and tim dodd, who’s perched near the window talking about… what was he talking about? you’re not entirely sure. the wine has worn off just enough to make you aware of how warm your cheeks are again. tim finishes whatever story he was telling, laughs at his own joke (you love that for him), then glances at his phone. “alright,” he says, standing up with a slight groan. “if i don’t leave now, i’ll end up sleeping on your couch, and nobody wants that.” seunghyun chuckles, following him to the door. “thanks for coming.” tim waves at you on his way out. “you’ve got a good energy,” he says, vaguely. “i like your vibe.” “thanks!” you say with a smile. and then—it’s just you and seunghyun. you look around. the apartment is dimmer now, the music is still playing. he turns toward you. “you heading out too?” he asks, voice soft. you blink. “oh. um—no. i was gonna stay a bit. help you clean up?” he tilts his head, brow lifting slightly. “you don’t have to do that.” “i know, but i want to.” you shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at your shoes, suddenly uncertain again. “unless…” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’d rather be alone or something. i don’t want to overstay—” “you’re not,” he cuts in. you glance up and his eyes hold yours. “you can stay,” he says. “i don’t mind.” you nod, cheeks warming. “okay. cool.” cool? you internally scream. COOL? girl...

he turns, and you trail after him into the kitchen, the two of you slipping into the leftover mess together. you start picking up glasses from the table while he stacks empty bottles near the sink. the music is still going, and the hum of the fridge fills in the blanks between clinks of glass and footsteps on hardwood. you grab a plate and start stacking it with a few stray forks. he’s at the sink now, already rinsing out the wine glasses, sleeves rolled. focused. you’re halfway through wiping down the counter when he speaks. “did you have fun?” “hm?” he looks over, mouth tugging into a smile. “tonight. did you enjoy it?” “yeah,” you say. “i did. surprisingly.” his brow lifts slightly. “surprisingly?” you shrug, smiling a little. “i thought i’d be a lot more out of place. or awkward.” your shoulders bump lightly when you try to move past him. “sorry,” you mutter. he steps back slightly. “don’t worry.” then, after a pause, he says, “you didn’t seem out of place.” “well, thank you for lying!” you laugh softly. “i’m not,” he says, rinsing a glass. “you were fine.” you glance over at him. and, because you’re feeling a little bold, you test the waters. “you looked over at me a few times.” he doesn’t deny it. he pauses mid-motion, glass still in hand, and you catch the way he swallows before he sets it down and reaches for the towel to dry it off. “i was checking to see if you were okay.” “and?” he finally looks at you, eyes a little softer now. “you looked like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.” you shouldn’t be affected by that. it’s a nice thing to say. but it lands low in your stomach anyway. you swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing to him—how the counter behind you keeps you from stepping back, and how there’s barely space between your bodies. “so you’ve been observing me, huh?” you huff a laugh. “it’s hard not to.” is he flirting? no, he isn’t. he isn’t, right? wait… maybe he is. you laugh, not sure what to do with yourself anymore. “is that a compliment?” “depends,” he says, glancing over again. “do you want it to be?” you open your mouth but he cuts in before you can speak. “mind if i smoke?” “oh. no, no. i mean… sure go ahead, it’s your house.”

he chuckles as he steps away from the sink. he opens a drawer near where you stand and pulls out a new pack of cigarettes. a lighter, a soft click, and then he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, cigarette between his fingers, exhaling slow. he watches you for a beat, then lifts the pack slightly in your direction. “want one?” you snort. “what part of me gives off cigarette energy?” he laughs softly. “you’re right.” he watches the smoke rise before he looks at you again. “your mom would kill me for this,” he says, not sounding all that sorry. “for offering me a cigarette?” “for letting you stay this long.” you lean against the counter, arms folded. “i’m off work, technically.” he raises a brow. “and,” you add, “i don’t think my mom gets to control what i do after 8 p.m.” he exhales a short laugh through his nose, dragging once more from the cigarette. “that’s a dangerous thing to say out loud.” “she can’t ground me anymore.” he glances sideways at you, something soft playing at the edge of his expression. “still,” he says, tapping ash into the ashtray, “feels like you’re using your after-hours freedom on something pretty boring.” “helping clean up your house is peak thrill-seeking, what do you mean?” he really laughs at that—head tilted slightly back, cigarette between two fingers, the kind of laugh that sounds like it surprised even him. you grin, pleased with yourself, but try not to make a big deal out of it.

the conversation between you and seunghyun flows like you’ve known each other forever. it’s weird. because how is it this easy? how did you go from awkwardly handing him coffee to laughing on his couch with a full glass of wine like you hang out all the time? the cleaning is fully abandoned now. dishes? what dishes? he’s funny, you learn. genuinely funny. kind of loud when he wants to be, in a way that catches you off guard—like you weren’t expecting him to throw his head back and laugh that hard at your story about your first week at starbase. when you were nervously trying to make a good impression and walked into what you thought was an empty conference room, only to find it occupied by the entire senior staff. in your panic to exit gracefully, you somehow managed to walk straight into the glass door. you don’t remember what hurt more—your nose or your pride. there’s something about the way he tells his own stories, too—animated, but not performative. relaxed. he talks with his hands. he smiles while he speaks, like whatever he’s remembering is still happening somewhere in the back of his mind. and maybe it’s the wine—because there’s definitely a slow warmth in your chest and your cheeks—but you’re pretty sure that’s not all of it. he doesn’t look buzzed. no flushed cheeks, no stumbling over words. which means… he’s just comfortable. with you. and if he’s comfortable, then maybe you’re not imagining the way he keeps leaning a little closer when he talks. or how his eyes linger when you laugh. or how he hasn’t checked the time once.

you take another sip of wine just as he starts talking about high school—and it’s not some lighthearted, nostalgic ‘back in the day’ story. no. he jumps straight into it with a half-laugh and a “i was the kind of kid teachers warned other kids about,” like he’s letting you in on a private joke. except it doesn’t really sound funny. he talks about how he didn’t care about school. at all. how he’d hang around with the other so-called ‘problem kids,’ the ones who were always skipping class or standing too long in the halls. he shrugs when he mentions getting kicked out. glosses over it like it’s not worth unpacking. “i transferred a few times,” he says, casual. “got really good at packing.” he makes it sound like he’s joking, but his hand tightens slightly around the wine glass when he says it, and you notice that. every now and then, he’ll drop something heavier—like how he hated the way adults looked at kids like him, like they were broken parts to be thrown out. but he never lingers. he moves past it fast. throws in a sarcastic comment, changes the subject slightly, makes fun of himself. you get the sense that he’s had this script for a while now—polished just enough that it doesn’t sound like a cry for help. and yet, it still kind of is. you think: he’s been through more than he lets on. but you don’t say anything.

he leans back a little, swirling what’s left of his wine like he’s mulling something over. then he glances sideways at you, eyebrow raised, voice light. “what about you?” he says. “since, you know… high school wasn’t that long ago for you.” you make a face. “wow. age shaming now?” he grins. “i’m just saying. and if i remember correctly, you shamed me for mine first. called me ancient.” “hey!” you laugh. “you called yourself ancient, i just agreed!” he laughs and you roll your eyes, sinking deeper into the couch. “i was… i was one of the good kids.” he raises both eyebrows. “good? how good?” “like… sat in the front row, color-coded notes, cried when i got a b+ kind of good.” he tilts his head, deeply impressed. but he jokes, “wow. so… the annoying type.” you snort. “don’t act like that’s not exactly the kind of person you would’ve copied homework from.” “yeah,” he admits, smirking into his glass. “but i would’ve made fun of you for it first. kept you humble.” “you would’ve bullied me?” he grins. “no, of course not. i’d have sat behind you, tapped your chair with my pen until you snapped, and then made you feel bad about yelling at me.” “oh my god, you’re that guy.” “absolutely.” you stare at him, and he’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching. you’re still smiling. your cheeks hurt a little. “i’m joking,” he says “you were probably the kid i’d avoid in high school.” you raise your brows. “why? because i did my homework?” “because you would’ve made me feel like i was already behind.” you smile, even though your heart stutters a little. “and you would’ve scared the hell out of me.” “yeah?” he leans his elbow on the back of the couch, turning slightly toward you. “why’s that?” you gesture vaguely at him. “the whole… mysterious brooding hot guy thing.” did you just call him hot? yeah, you did. the wine’s starting to do its magic. he laughs, and it makes you laugh, too. “i was not hot in high school.” “i don’t believe you,” you say immediately, grinning over the rim of your glass. “you definitely pulled. probably had girls lining up for you in the hallway.” he snorts. “no. i had terrible eating habits. no confidence. zero social skills. girls didn’t want anything to do with me.” you stare at him, unconvinced. “and yet…” he smirks, doesn’t look at you when he says it. “my first girlfriend was five years older.” your jaw drops. “what?” “yeah.” “okay, so you say you weren’t pulling, but you’re out here dating older women?” he laughs, loud and unfiltered, and you have to bite back your own. you shake your head, grinning. “so much for not being hot.” he shrugs. “maybe she just felt bad for me.” “sure. she was just doing charity work.” he chuckles again, a little quieter this time, gaze drifting back to his glass.

a beat of silence stretches between you. you finish the last sip of your wine and lean forward to set the glass down on the small table in front of the couch, suddenly very aware of how warm your cheeks are. then, like he’s been thinking about it for a minute, he asks, “have you ever dated older guys?”your brain lags. like—hello? your heart skips in that very specific, very annoying way it does when something sounds innocent but feels… not. because the way he says it isn’t just curiosity. it’s something else. you glance at him, trying to read his expression, but he’s still looking at his glass. like maybe he didn’t mean for it to come out that way. or maybe he did, and just doesn’t want to make it worse by looking at you while your soul leaves your body. you clear your throat, trying to play it cool. “um… a few. like, two years older. max.” your mouth moves before your brain can stop it. “why?” that gets him to glance over. the corner of his mouth twitches. “just curious.” you tilt your head slightly, studying him for a beat. “have you dated younger?” his lips twitch like he was expecting the question. like he knew it was coming the second he asked you. “yeah.” “how much younger?” he shrugs, swirling what’s left in his glass before finishing it. “a few years.” “define a few.” “less than six.” you hum, swirling your own glass now. “so… younger, but not that young.” “young enough.” your lips twitch. “you mean not as young as me.” if it wasn’t obvious before that you had a crush on him, it is now! wow, good job! his mouth lifts at the corner—like he hears the shift in your tone. like he notices that you didn’t say it as a joke. “no,” he says, quiet. “not as young as you.” it hangs there, weirdly loud.

you’re immediately aware of how quiet the room has gotten. or maybe it’s just your brain going absolutely still, like it’s buffering. like it’s realizing, a little too late, that yes, you did just say that. and yes, he definitely caught it. you let out a weak laugh—your go-to defense. “well,” you mumble, looking anywhere but at him, “guess i’m out of the running then.” he hums, low in his throat. “who said that?” you freeze. okay. that didn’t sound like a joke. not entirely. you turn your head slowly, and he’s already looking at you—one eyebrow slightly raised, that tiny not-quite-a-smile playing on his lips like he knows exactly what he just did to you. “are you flirting with me right now?” “depends,” he says, leaning back just slightly. “would it be a problem if i was?” you open your mouth. close it. open it again. “i mean—yes. no. maybe. i don’t know.” you groan. “don’t ask me complicated questions when i’ve had wine.” he laughs again, softer this time, and that only makes it worse because it’s so genuine. like he’s enjoying watching you scramble. you shift slightly. “i’m thirteen years younger than you, you know?” it’s barely above a whisper, but it lands like a confession. there’s a pause. he doesn’t laugh this time. “yeah,” he says, just as quiet. “i know.” you nod, like that settles it. it doesn’t. seunghyun runs a hand through his white hair, like he’s trying to scrub the thought from his head. “you don’t have to remind me.” “someone should,” you say, attempting to lighten the moment, but your voice wavers, betraying you. “in case you forgot.” “i didn’t forget.” his voice is lower now. “i haven’t forgotten once.” “then maybe you should,” you murmur. “i’ve tried.” his eyes drop to your lips—long enough to make your pulse pick up. enough that your breath falters slightly in your chest. “it’d be easier,” you say, quieter now, like speaking any louder might break whatever this is turning into. “so much easier,” he agrees, voice rougher than before as he leans closer. your knees are brushing, and he doesn’t move. his hand’s on the couch cushion now, just beside your thigh. the space between your faces is shrinking, inch by inch, like neither of you’s quite aware you’re moving. “this is a bad idea,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he’s trying to convince himself. “the worst,” you breathe. but your voice cracks halfway through it, and he hears it. you know he does, because that’s when his gaze flickers to your eyes, then back to your lips. again. he lets out a breathy laugh. “so we agree.” you nod. “we agree.” but your faces are so close now, you can feel the warmth of his breath. his hand brushes your jaw first—light, like he’s still giving you time to pull away. and when you don’t—when your lips part and your breath catches—he kisses you.

he kisses you like he’s been holding back for weeks. because he has. all teeth and lips and breathless noise as his mouth slants over yours, deeper, hungrier. your hand fists in the fabric of his sweater almost instantly, anchoring yourself, because your whole body jolts with it—like every nerve’s been waiting for this exact thing. he groans into your mouth, low and rough, and the sound shoots straight through you. he kisses you like he’s angry about it—about wanting you this much, about how good it feels to finally stop pretending. you gasp when his knee pushes between yours, nudging your thighs apart just enough to press in closer. his weight follows, shifting over you until you’re half beneath him and your back hits the cushions. your skirt rides up with the movement, denim bunching at your hips, and his hand trails down over the exposed skin of your thigh like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. he breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you, breathing hard. his eyes are blown wide, mouth slightly parted, and there’s a kind of stunned silence between you—like neither of you can believe you let it get this far. like you’re both trying to decide if you care. you don’t. he leans in again, mouth catching yours in another kiss, slower this time but no less intense. your hands slide up beneath his sweater, fingers grazing over the heat of his skin, and his breath stutters as he presses closer—hips against yours. his thumb brushes over the inside of your thigh, inching higher, dragging fire along your nerves with every soft pass. you arch slightly into him, and that’s all it takes—his hand glides up, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear.

you don’t even hear it at first—the vibration somewhere near your head, buried in the couch cushions, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears. but then the buzzing cuts through again, insistent. you break the kiss, breathless, dazed, lips swollen. “wait—my phone…” he shifts off of you just enough for you to reach back, fumbling between the cushions until you find it. and there it is. your mom’s name glowing across the screen. “shit,” you whisper, sitting up fast. your skirt’s bunched up your thighs, his sweater is crooked, your heartbeat is in the stratosphere. “it’s my mom.” he straightens up too, running a hand through his hair, as you swipe to answer. “hello?” “where are you?” she asks. “it’s four in the morning.” you blink. “wait—it’s what?” you glance at the time. 4:02 am. you shoot seunghyun a wide-eyed look, which he returns with a raised brow and a small, almost apologetic shrug. “i’m—i’m sorry,” you say quickly into the phone, trying to stand and fix your clothes at the same time. “i lost track of time. i’m fine. i’ll head home now.” “we’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, clipped. “get home safe.” the line goes dead. your hands are shaky as you smooth down your skirt, still very aware of how flustered you must look—and how recently his mouth was on yours. “i—i have to go,” you say, still catching your breath. “she’s gonna kill me.” seunghyun lifts an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “didn’t you say your mom doesn’t control what you do past 8 p.m.?” “yeah, well. that rule apparently doesn’t apply when i disappear until four in the morning.” he chuckles under his breath. “sorry,” you say, voice small. “i didn’t mean to just—run off like this.” he shakes his head. “don’t be sorry.” “i’ll call a cab—” “don’t,” he says, already pulling his own phone from his pocket. “i’ll call my driver. he’s on standby.” you hesitate. “at 4 a.m? you really don’t have to—” “i’d rather not end the night worrying if you made it home okay.” “…okay.”

you wake up at 12:47 p.m. the next day. sunday. your pillow is on the floor, your phone’s tangled in your sheets, and you’re still wearing last night’s eyeliner, which has now officially migrated to your left eyebrow. cute. you stare at the ceiling for a beat, blinking. okay, okay… last night wasn’t a dream. you kissed seunghyun. no—you made out with him. on his couch. he was on top of you. there was hand placement. breathy sounds. you exhale, then sit up straight, remembering your jacket. your favorite one, the denim one with the little patch on the sleeve… you left it at his place. you groan softly, flopping back against the pillows. of course you did. it was on the couch, folded beside you at some point, probably got shoved aside when he—when you—yeah. you reach for your phone, already smiling like an idiot, fingers tapping open your messages. you type out:

hey! :) morning, i hope you slept well, i think i left my jacket at your place lol

and hit send. the message bubble appears. green. what? you stare. flip your phone face down like that’s going to fix something. what the hell…? did he block you? no, it can’t be. why would he? you open instagram, heart rate slowly climbing, and search his profile. user not found. you blink. refresh. nothing... blocked. oh wow. okay. cool cool cool. almost fucked you on his couch yesterday and now he’s blocked you everywhere. totally normal adult behavior! you flop back on your bed, phone on your chest, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation. is he stupid? like genuinely? because there is no point in blocking you if he still has to see your face every day at starbase. like… hello? you didn’t meet on tinder, you work in the same goddamn building. what’s the plan here, exactly? pretend you don’t exist? nod politely while you hand him his schedule and just never acknowledge the fact that his hands were up your skirt? sure. yeah. seems sustainable. you open the old message thread, scroll through a bit. you groan. you swipe out of messages. close instagram. reopen messages again. you sigh dramatically and throw your phone across the bed. why did he do it? he literally kissed you the night before. wait… did he block you because you didn’t sleep with him? what the fuck is his issue? you’re angry now.

so of course, when monday comes, you wake up before your alarm. not because you’re well-rested. you’re not, you barely slept. your brain spent the whole night playing an endless loop of what the fuck was that and how dare he and was i actually that bad of a kisser? followed by a mental rewatch of the kiss from five different angles, followed by another loop of seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with him. you get out of bed like a woman on a mission. shower, skincare, outfit—everything is crisp. you look like someone who wouldn’t even know what a block button is because you’ve never been rejected in your life. you get to the station early. normally, someone from your team will poke their head into your desk area and ask, “hey, can you grab coffee for the crew again?” and you’ll sigh and nod and go along with it because—well, intern. but not today. today, before anyone even opens their mouth, you’re already on your feet. you don’t even need the order list. you know the order list. you’ve practically tattooed it to your brain.

when you walk into the crew room, he’s already there, scrolling through his phone. you straighten your shoulders and walk in. a few people notice you, offer lazy smiles and tired thank-yous as you pass out coffees like usual. like your entire ego hasn’t just been crushed and set on fire by the man currently pretending very hard not to see you. you make your rounds and, last but absolutely not least—seunghyun. he doesn’t look up when you stop in front of him. just keeps scrolling, like the light of his phone is more interesting. coward. you smile. and very, very gently—you tilt the cup. just enough for a soft splash of coffee to spill right onto his thigh. he jerks slightly. eyes snap up. “shibal—” “oh my god!” you gasp, completely fake, already reaching for tissues from the center table. “i am so sorry.” you’re not. you immediately bend over and start dabbing at the spot on his pants like your life depends on it. “hey—” he shifts in his seat, trying to back away, but you keep pressing the tissues to his leg, overly focused. “i’m really, really sorry—“ “stop. seriously, it’s fine.” “no, i feel awful,” you say, voice still sugary sweet. “these pants must be expensive.” you hope they are, just out of spite. “stop. now.” “just let me—” he curses in his mother tongue before he grabs your wrist—not hard, but enough to make you pause—and leans in slightly. no one else is paying attention. the crew is too busy chatting, arguing about something across the room. “what the hell are you doing?” he mutters, jaw tight. you blink up at him, innocent. “helping.” “helping,” he repeats under his breath, eyes narrowing. “mhm.” you press the napkin to the damp spot on his pants one more time before finally pulling back and tossing the now coffee-stained tissue into the trash. “by the way,” you add, “did you find my jacket? i left it at your place, i texted you about it yesterday. or at least, i tried to. but then i realized you blocked me… crazy! if you could bring it tomorrow, that’d be great! i really liked that one.” “can you not do that?” “do what?” he exhales through his nose like he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper in front of a room full of people. “this,” he says, voice still quiet. “right now.” you blink, all faux confusion and polite concern. “sorry, you’ll have to be more specific.” he lowers his voice even more. “we can talk later.”

you wonder what his perception of ‘later’ is, because a week has gone by and he still hasn’t talked to you. great. seven entire business days of nothing. he hasn’t given you your jacket back either which, frankly, is insulting. because that was a nice jacket. and you’re starting to think he’s keeping it on purpose. like a hostage. probably folded in his closet next to his designer sweaters. but that’s not all. he’s not staying late at the station anymore—not like he used to. no more mysterious 10 p.m. coffee breaks or pretend meetings that just happened to line up with yours. no more loitering by your desk asking you questions he already knows the answer to. no. he’s been the first to leave every day, like he’s allergic to your existence. like he’s on a tight schedule now that doesn’t include pretending you didn’t almost hook up in his stupid penthouse. and you—you’re overthinking everything more than you should. but what did you expect, really? he’s him. choi fucking seunghyun. a literal celebrity. he’s stadium-filling, broke-the-internet-level famous. and you’re you. a twenty-two-year-old intern with an overused tote bag and anxiety. he’s probably entertaining another girl by now. someone older. someone hotter. someone who’s currently giving him the sloppiest head imaginable while you spiral alone on your mattress floor-camping because you’re too sad to do laundry.

it’s just a briefing. that’s what you tell yourself when you walk into the small mission room with your tablet tucked under your arm, already scrolling through the latest schedule revision. it’s just a technical review—twenty, thirty minutes, tops. you’ve done dozens of these. what’s not fine is that it’s just you, one guy from systems, and seunghyun. and seunghyun’s the one who asked for this. specifically requested someone from the integration team walk him through the final verifications on the updated protocol for emergency launch procedures—redundancy checks, automated override responses, eva lockdown sequencing. stuff he’s already been briefed on before. twice. but sure. you’re the intern, you show up when asked. you sit at the far end of the table and pull up the files. the systems engineer arrives a minute later and nods to you. “he should be here in a sec,” he says, setting down his tablet. you nod, trying to stay focused. and then the door opens. seunghyun walks in like he didn’t ruin your entire week, barely glancing at you, taking the seat across the table. the systems guy starts walking you both through the revised plans—delays in the pressure stabilization sequence, last-minute adjustments to the backup thruster commands. you’re expected to confirm how the integration team’s handling the adjusted timeline. what redundancy tests are still running. whether everything will be clean by launch. and then—halfway through discussing the comms systems auto-failover—the systems engineer’s phone buzzes. he checks it. grimaces. “sorry,” he mutters, getting up. “i’ve got to take this—it’s about the diagnostic we kicked off this morning. i’ll be right back.” and just like that, you’re alone with seunghyun.

“i have your jacket,” he says after a beat of uncomfortable silence. you scoff. “oh wow. an entire week later. should i thank you for the honor?” his lips press into a thin line. “i’m sorry.” you stare at him for a second, deadpan. “for the jacket? or for blocking me after making out with me?” “for all of it.” “why’d you do it?” you press. “because i didn’t sleep with you? because—” “no,” he cuts in quickly, offended. “of course not. it wasn’t that.” you cross your arms, waiting. “you’re… young,” he says finally. “and i’ve been through too much shit.” you roll your eyes. “please.” “i’m serious.” “what are you—” “you know what happened,” he cuts in. “everyone does.” and you do. the articles. the headlines. the trial. the overdosing. the netizen comments that called him a disgrace. the years of silence and exile that followed. “i’ve been dragged through every headline in korea,” he adds. “and people still follow me around, waiting for me to fuck up again. i thought—i thought it’d be better. for you. for me.” he rubs a hand across his jaw. “you think anyone would let me get involved with someone like you? twenty-two? i’d be dragged again. you’d be dragged with me. i can’t afford that.” “why? famous men date younger girls all the time and—” “and how many of them are hated by their entire country?” you shake your head, not even angry now—just tired. “then you shouldn’t have kissed me.” he looks at you for a long time. “i know.” silence. you look down at your hands. “you didn’t even talk to me. i just woke up the next day and… poof, gone.” “i know. i panicked.” “did you think i wouldn’t notice?” “i knew you would. but i—” the door creaks open again. “alright, sorry about that,” the systems engineer says, walking back in. “they’re pushing the diagnostics briefing to wednesday, so we’re good to move forward here.” you and seunghyun both sit a little straighter, shifting back into neutral, like flipping a switch. “where were we?” the engineer asks, tapping his tablet.

the day was long. the lights over your desk flick off with a soft click, and you rub your eyes as the screen fades to black. everything’s packed—tablet in your bag, notes tucked under your arm, keycard clipped to your sweater. your body’s tired in that slow, heavy way it always is after too many hours spent double-checking timelines no one will remember until something goes wrong. you grab your keys and head for the door, already thinking about what leftovers you’re going to microwave for dinner—your phone buzzes. you check it, thumb swiping without thinking—until your brain catches up with what you’re looking at.

Hi. Like I said earlier, I’ve got your jacket. Driver’s outside the main gate for a few more mins.

you freeze in the middle of the hallway. oh. okay, so he unblocked you. you consider ignoring it. letting it rot in his backseat for eternity. but… it’s your favorite jacket. and, well, fine. maybe part of you wants to see him again. just for a second. so you head for the front gate. his car’s there—same sleek, black, low-key pretentious sedan, parked like it’s never known a traffic ticket in its life. you spot him through the tinted window before you’re even close. and of course, he sees you coming. as you approach, the back door swings open from the inside. you stop just outside the door. “you could’ve just left it with your driver,” you say. “didn’t want to.” “fine. then give it to me.” a pause. he hesitates. your eyes narrow. “don’t tell me you forgot it.” “i don’t have it with me.” “are you serious?” you scoff. “i needed to talk to you,” he says. you laugh. like actually laugh. “oh, that’s rich. now you want to talk?” you shake your head. “we talked this morning,” you remind him. “not like that,” he says quietly. “and what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he doesn’t answer immediately. just glances toward the front seat. and that’s when you realize: the driver’s still there, eyes locked straight ahead, hands resting on the wheel. he hasn’t moved, but he’s absolutely listening. you and seunghyun both know it. so when he turns back to you, voice lower now, and says, “somewhere private,” it lands different. you exhale. your hand tightens around the strap of your bag, glancing around before sliding in the backseat.

the ride is silent. but it doesn’t feel silent. you’re sitting close—closer than necessary—and his stupid long legs are taking up all the damn space. one of his knees brushes against yours and your skin burns with the contact, like your body hasn’t moved on from last week. you shift slightly, glancing at him. god. he’s so fine. so fine it makes you mad. ugh and his lips were so soft against yours… his hand was so warm… his weight, the way he—nope. enough. you shake your head like that’ll do anything to stop the thoughts. you try to focus on anything else. the road. the seatbelt indentation on your thigh… you should have a little more dignity. you really should. but honestly? you are mentally restraining yourself from throwing yourself at him and kissing him again right there in the damn car.

apparently you have more self-control than seunghyun. because the moment you both step into his penthouse, finally alone, he kisses you. you barely register the sound of the door shutting before he’s turning to you—hand already finding your waist, and then suddenly his mouth is on yours. your brain trips over itself, trying to catch up with what the fuck is happening. your hands are still clutched around your bag, your body stiff, too surprised to do anything but stand there like you’ve just been struck by lightning. because—what? but then his fingers tighten at your side, warm through your clothes. his lips part slightly against yours, like he’s about to pull away, and that snaps you out of it. you drop your bag to the floor and your hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer as you kiss him back. the second your lips move with his, it’s like something clicks into place. he groans quietly against your mouth, and then he’s moving—walking you backwards through the foyer like he doesn’t care where you end up, as long as he can keep touching you. your back hits the wall and his body follow, pressing against yours. his mouth moves with yours, hungry and rough now. he shifts again, slotting a thigh between yours, and your back arches—body chasing the pressure before your brain can even catch up. his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your chin as he tilts your face to kiss you harder. deeper. and for a moment, you let him. you let yourself fall into it. but then you pull back. your heart is racing, lips swollen as your hands find his chest. you hold him there, a few inches away, eyebrows furrowed. “what are—” you whisper, breathless. “what are you doing?” his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, mouth parted like he wants to dive right back in. but he stills, hands lingering on your waist. your eyes flick up to meet his. “you said you couldn’t do this. that i’m too young, and it would ruin you, and—” “i know what i said,” he interrupts. “i shouldn’t want you. but i do.” he means it.

it lives in his gut, coils low in his spine, this itch he’s never been able to fully kill. this need for things he knows damn well he shouldn’t touch. the more off-limits something is, the more his body seems to reach for it. the more it feels like gravity. he knows this. he’s aware of this. his therapist would probably applaud him for the insight. but apparently, all that self-awareness still hasn’t translated into impulse control. because you’re standing in front of him right now with your lips parted and your eyes searching his, like you don’t fully understand the war happening inside his head—and instead of backing away, instead of doing the decent, adult, responsible thing… he wants to kiss you again. worse than that—he wants to ruin you. he wants to have you, in every way he’s not supposed to. and then he wants to go back in time and erase the part of him that thinks like that.

you shift your weight, heartbeat loud in your ears. he’s watching you like he’s looking for a sign—some kind of clear answer written on your face that’ll make it easier to do the right thing. but there’s never been anything easy about this. “so… so what do we do?” you ask. “if we do this…” his voice drops even lower. “you’ll need to sign an nda.” you exhale, a half-laugh slipping out. “jesus. an nda?” “i know how that sounds—” “like you don’t trust me?” “it’s not about trust,” he says sharply, then softens. “it’s about protection. mine, mostly.” you watch him. he looks like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. like he’s been trying to talk himself out of it and just lost the argument. “this—” he gestures between you two. “this can’t come back to me.” he says. “i got involved with the wrong girl once and it ruined my life… i can’t let that happen again.” you swallow, throat dry. “so you want me to sign something that says i won’t tell anyone we slept together.” “yeah. that’s what i want.”

you should say no. the thought floats to the surface like a stubborn bubble, persistent even through the thick fog of heat in your chest. you should say no and leave with what little pride you’ve got left. you might be young but you’re not naive, you’ve seen how this kind of thing plays out—older man, younger girl, too many power imbalances to count, and a whole minefield of feelings that only one of you will have to deal with afterward. it doesn’t end well. and still—there’s this stupid part of you that wants to say yes anyway. because you’ve spent the last few months orbiting this man like a fucking satellite (ironically enough) and now he wants you. and he’s handing you the terms of your own undoing like he’s done the math and decided you’re worth the risk only if you’re kept quiet about it. one of the most beautiful men in the industry—hell, in the entire world—wants you. maybe not for the right reasons. maybe not in the way you’ve dreamed about late at night, face buried in your pillow, replaying every brush of his hand. but still. he wants you. and you’re just a girl, after all. a girl with a big fat crush, the kind that makes you feel a little sick and a little stupid. do it for the plot, says the voice in your head. because you could get something out of this too, right? probably good sex—great sex, even—with a man people would kill to even breathe next to. so, inevitably… you exhale, feeling the weight of the moment settle over your shoulders before finally looking up at him. “okay. i’ll sign it.”

your hand hovers over the first page for a second too long—long enough to register the bold, all-caps title: NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT — PERSONAL RELATIONS. you skim the rest, though it’s all the usual corporate-sounding nonsense dressed up in legalese: ‘i, the undersigned, agree to refrain from discussing, disclosing, hinting at, or vaguely subtweeting any private or intimate interactions with choi seunghyun […] including, but not limited to, verbal exchanges, physical contact, romantic entanglements, and/or sexual activities, whether in person or via social media, messaging apps, podcasts […]’ there’s even a clause about not sharing screenshots. of course there is. your fingers tighten around the pen. and in one neat, traitorous motion, you sign your name at the bottom like you’re checking into a hotel. and that’s how you end up in his bed. half of your body naked, top forgotten somewhere on the wooden floor, jeans tugged halfway down your thighs before he got impatient and shoved them the rest of the way off. his mouth is on your right breast, closing around your nipple, sucking gently as his teeth graze the sensitive peak. your bare back arches off the bed, pressing more of your breast against his mouth. the sight of him is amazing, there’s something powerful about having an older man sucking on your tits like a damn baby. you almost laugh at the thought—till you feel his knee nudge between yours, parting them, and your breath catches.

he leans over you, bracing himself with one hand pressed into the mattress near your head, the other slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, and the look on his face is pure hunger. his fingers find your clit and you can feel him smile against your skin before pulling away from your breast. “can you feel it, hm? can you feel how wet you are for me already?” he asks. his fingers move slow on purpose, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you twitch. and the way you moan for him damn… it goes straight to his cock. he tells himself to go slow, to be careful. but it’s getting harder by the second. “you’ve been waiting for this ever since you saw me, haven’t you?” he murmurs. you’re barely holding yourself together—pussy dripping, hips rolling into his touch, every nerve frayed—but somehow you manage to smirk, just a little. “you should say that to yourself,” you whisper, biting back a moan. “you’re the one who’s been waiting.” seunghyun chuckles. because you’re right, he has been waiting. and you’re so cocky and smug in your wrecked little state… soaked and trembling under his hands, still mouthing off like you’ve got the upper hand. he fucking loves it. “you’re a fucking brat,” he mutters. his fingers don’t slow. they speed up. like he’s punishing you for opening that pretty little mouth and pushing his buttons. your back arches. your thighs start to shake. “mhm,” you pant. “and you love it.” “oh, i do. trust me.” he leans in, lips barely brushing your ear as he murmurs, “but what would your mom think if she saw you like this, though?” you freeze for half a second and seunghyun smiles. “all needy for me. squirming under my fingers. begging for someone almost twice your age to fuck you stupid.” and then he plunges his fingers deep, curling them hard, dragging them against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. “fuck! s-seunghyun!—” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open like you can’t keep anything in anymore. he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, filthy and desperate. it’s the first time you’ve said it like that. his thumb finds your clit again, circling tight and fast, and you’re already so close it’s pathetic—hips bucking up into his hand, fingers clawing at the sheets like you need something to anchor you. “you like that?” he murmurs, watching you. “knowing how wrong this is? knowing she trusts me and here you are, letting me finger you like a little slut in my bed?” you moan so loud you’re pretty sure the neighbors heard, your entire body clenching, everything snapping.

he fucking feels it—how close you are, how your walls flutter around his fingers like they don’t want to let him go. he wants to make you cum on them, then again on his cock, then maybe once more just because he can. “yeah,” he smirks. “you like that.” you nod, frantic, breath catching on every stroke of his fingers. your thighs are shaking now, walls clenching around his fingers, hips stuttering like you can’t decide whether to push against his hand or pull away from how intense it is. he drags his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, your neck—biting down when you moan again. “so fucking desperate,” he murmurs against your skin. “look at you. you wanna cum for me, baby?” you nod again, breathless. “please—” “yeah?” he thrusts his fingers harder, faster. “shit! please! p-please, seunghyun!” “cum for me, pretty girl.” and you do. your whole body seizes under him—back arching, mouth falling open around a ragged moan that sounds like his name but doesn’t come out fully formed. your thighs clamp tight around his wrist, your cunt pulses around his fingers, wet and hot and so fucking tight he almost loses it just watching you. he slows his hand, finally easing you down, then pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth sucking them clean. “you taste so good,” he says.

you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling in uneven waves, your body limp and spent against his sheets. his hand smooths over your stomach, up your chest, until he wraps it gently around your throat—not rough (yet…) he leans down, lips barely an inch from yours. “you think i’m done with you?” you blink up at him, still hazy, still trying to come down. but you already know the answer. you feel the answer, actually—pressed against your hip, hard and aching under the fabric of his black jeans. he shifts his hips just enough for you to feel it clearer, grinding against your skin like punctuation. “i’m still dressed,” he whispers. “haven’t even taken my fucking belt off.” you smirk. “then what the fuck are you waiting for?” he lets out a low, humorless laugh, then pulls back to look down at you, his eyes dark. “careful,” he mutters, voice rough now. hoarse. “you keep talking like that, and i’m not gonna be gentle.” “i don’t want you to be.” fucking hell... you want it rough? you’re gonna get it. “i’m gonna fuck you now,” he says. “and you’re gonna take it, all of it, like the good girl i know you are.”

his hand moves to his belt. “eyes on me,” he says. the sharp clink of his belt buckle makes your breath hitch. he’s watching you—eyes locked on your face, like he��ll know if you even think about looking away. your heart pounds. you can’t look anywhere else even if you tried. he unthreads the belt slow, letting it drag through the loops of his jeans with a quiet, deliberate sound. he drops it onto the floor without looking. your eyes follow his hands, the way they move to his waistband. the way he undoes the button, then lowers the zipper. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he leans in, kisses you again, rougher this time. his hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he pulls back to look at you while he pushes his pants and briefs down just far enough to free his cock. and fuck, he’s thick, hard, and leaking at the tip. seunghyun catches your gaze when your eyes flick down and smirks. lord jesus. your mouth parts like you might say something but nothing comes out. “you can take it,” he mutters. “you’re gonna take every inch for me, yeah?” you nod as he puts a condom on, then he strokes himself twice, just to line up—guiding the thick head to your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds. you whimper at the feeling, legs falling open again, hips lifting. “fuck me,” you beg, voice desperate. “please.” his hand grips your thigh, and then he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch, filling you so much you forget how to breathe. his jaw clenches. his brow furrows. seunghyun lets out a broken sound as your cunt pulls him in, hot and tight. “fuck,” he gasps. “you feel—shit! you f-feel better than i even imagined.” and he did imagine it. way too many times. late at night, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this exact moment—your legs around him and your pussy swallowing him whole.

he stays still for a second, buried to the hilt, breathing hard through his nose like he’s fighting for his life. “jesus christ,” he mutters,“you’re so tight… so fucking warm—” you whimper underneath him, fingers scrambling across his back, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. “move,” you breathe. “please, seunghyun, move.” his hips pull back an inch. maybe two. then he pushes back in slow, dragging every inch through you until you’re arching off the bed with a broken moan. and that’s it. because after that first thrust, he loses the last bit of control he was holding onto. he starts fucking you hard and deep—so hard the headboard starts knocking against the wall. your body jolts with every thrust, your mouth open, eyes glassy, completely ruined beneath him. “that what you wanted?” he pants, pulling back to slam into you again. “you wanted—fuck!—you wanted me to fuck you like this? huh?” you nod frantically, but it’s not enough, he wants to hear you say it. “answer,” he snaps, thrusting even harder. “say it, baby.” “y-yes!” you gasp, voice needy. “wanted this—mmmh!—wanted this so m-much.” he groans like he’s in pain, dropping his head to your chest, mouth latching onto the curve of your breast, sucking a bruise into your skin. your hands tangle in his hair, your legs wrap tighter around him, and the sound of his balls slapping fast against your ass fills the room. seunghyun’s gripping your hips, pulling you toward him with every thrust, burying himself so deep you swear you can feel him up in your stomach.

he’s been fucking you for what feels like forever, like he’s trying to carve the shape of his cock into your body. he shifts your legs higher around his waist, changes the angle, and fuck, you feel it deeper, rougher, somehow even better. he groans when your pussy clamps down around him, and slams into you harder, more desperate now. he’s soaked in sweat, drenched. his forehead is dripping, beads sliding down his temple, catching on the curve of his neck. even his shirt—still on, clinging to him like a second skin—is plastered to his back and chest, soaked through. you don’t know why he hasn’t taken the damn thing off. either way, he looks wrecked, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. your skin’s slick with sweat too, voice hoarse from moaning his name, and your thighs are already trembling. you’re going to cum again. and judging by the way his mouth drops open, his thrusts growing erratic—so is he. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it fast, in time with his thrusts. “that’s it,” he says. “be my good little s-slut. cum—cum all over my cock. show me… show me how good this pussy gets, baby. i know you want to.” “fuck—s-seunghyun!” you cry out, unable to say anything else. and as your back arches off the mattress, mind going white with it, the one absurd thought that flashes through your head is: well, the nda’s paying off! he thrusts through it, chasing his own high now, gritting his teeth as your walls milk his cock so tight he sees stars.

he made you cum three times that day. because, yes, he still had enough stamina to go for a second round after that one! and somehow, he’d been even filthier the second time. you hadn’t expected it to be like that. you figured it’d be good—obviously. it’s choi seunghyun. but this was something else. you thought this would be a one time thing, just to shake the tension off. you know… sign the nda, fuck it out, move on… but no. it starts with text messages. the next morning, you’re back at the station, pretending to focus on your intern checklist, sipping coffee with trembling hands and sore thighs, when your phone buzzes.

Nice skirt.

you like it?

I do. Very much.

i’m glad ;)

Still sore?

a little

Poor you😉

you shouldn’t be texting me at these hours yk? we’re working, sir!!!

I know.

But I was thinking about how tight you were and I couldn’t resist. Sorry.

liar… you’re not sorry lmao

Not even a little.

You looked so good when you walked past me earlier, I almost stopped you.

almost?

Wasn’t sure if you could take it again.

aw, so thoughtful of you, always looking out for my wellbeing!

Someone has to! You looked wobbly on the stairs🙂

shut up, you’re not funny

I think I am.

sigh… sigh, sigh, sigh… sassy men apocalypse

Where are you?

third floor, why? :)

Because I’m on my way.

um, i’m working👎

You won’t be in about two minutes.

you’re crazy, old man

And you’re probably already wet under that little skirt. Could slide in so easily.

well… guilty ;) five minutes is all i have, take it or leave it

Oh, I’ll take it.

hurry up then😚

and just like that, you find yourself standing, pressed up between the wall and his chest, as he fucks you—skirt shoved up around your waist, panties pushed to the side and his fingers digging into your ass to keep you in place while your body rocks with every thrust. you don’t even make it to five minutes. he makes you cum in three.

it becomes a habit. and before you realize it, months have passed. you’ve lost count of how many times it’s happened—bent over the bathroom sink at the launch site before a morning briefing, your lanyard still around your neck, trying not to make a sound while seunghyun fucks you from behind with his hand over your mouth, whispering, “you better keep quiet. door’s not even locked.” … tucked between rows of astronaut suits in the integration lab storage, pressed up against a shelf while he hikes your dress up and fingers you—the sound of your wetness obscene in the quiet, sterile room … perched on the edge of a conference table after hours, legs spread, his mouth between your thighs while your laptop is still open next to you, some unfinished spreadsheet glowing on the screen—your ankles over his shoulders, his tongue circling your clit, making you moan … riding him in your desk chair during a remote call with your mom—his boss—on speaker. she’s going over deadlines. you’re pretending to listen while his cock’s buried inside you and his hand is wrapped around your throat, whispering, “don’t let it show, baby. be good.” … underneath that same desk, the office dimly lit, his fingers tangled in your hair while you take him down your throat—slow, because he told you to … pressed up against the window of his penthouse with the city glittering behind you, knees weak and breath fogging the glass as he fucks you from behind, one hand over your mouth just in case the neighbors can hear how loud you get when he hits that spot … even through the phone, he finds ways to get to you—one hand on the phone, the other between your legs, moaning into the quiet while he talks you through it “rub your clit, baby. slow. i want you begging by the time you cum.” and then, “wish i was there to watch you. you’d be so loud for me, right baby?”

you’ve learned a lot about seunghyun during these months. and let’s just say—he’s not the easiest person to deal with. he has his moments. days where he completely shuts down, needs space, and disappears for hours without saying a word, leaving you on read even when you’ve asked him something important, something that required an answer. at first, it drove you a little crazy (you’re not gonna lie) but eventually you learned to stop expecting him to be someone he’s not. you tell yourself it’s fine, that it’s not like you’re his girlfriend or anything, that he doesn’t owe you an explanation. you remind yourself that he’s older and usually a lot busier than you, that he probably has a million other things to think about, and that you’re just… there. just a part of his life he visits when he wants to. not the center of it. and yeah, that stings a little sometimes, but you get it. you understand him. you want to give him his space, even when it makes your chest feel weird and tight for a bit. you won’t deny it—you’ve done your research. let’s not call it stalking because that feels a little too accusatory (it is stalking 100%) , but you’ve definitely looked into him more than is strictly necessary for someone you’re not officially dating. you knew stuff about him before, of course, but now it’s different. there’s this aching need to figure him out, like if you just look hard enough, pay close enough attention, you’ll finally understand what’s going on in that beautifully fucked-up head of his. so, yeah! you’ve watched all the interviews, the documentaries, the films and shows and guest appearances. you’ve read every article, even the ones that feel like they were written by a fan with too much time and zero critical thinking skills. you’ve stayed up at night scrolling through reddit threads like a lunatic, trying to connect dots that probably aren’t even there. he doesn’t know about this, obviously, and he never will, because you’re pretty sure he’d block your number for stalker behavior real fast. which is fair. but honestly? you’re doing it with good intentions. you’re not trying to be creepy, you’re just trying to get him. decode him. understand how someone like him works. and more importantly, where the hell you fit into all of it. but eventually you realize it’s kind of pointless. because the seunghyun you see when you’re alone with him doesn’t match any of the versions of him you find online. the public version of him feels like a character he plays—perfectly curated.

you don’t really realize when it stops being about sex. maybe it stopped being only about sex when you started spending full weekends at his penthouse, lying to your mom about crashing at a friend’s place while you were actually curled up on his couch—only when he was in the mood for cuddling, of course—watching movies or playing board games while his unreleased tracks played in the background. sometimes he’ll play you something he’s working on and sit quietly beside you, waiting for your reaction. and when you tell him it’s beautiful—because it always is—he just shrugs and says, “it’s not done yet.” but there’s something in the way he says it. something that sounds a lot like thank you. he never says why he shows you, he just does. or maybe it was when he started buying you things out of nowhere. thoughtful things. unnecessary things. like that matching silk pajama set he picked up ‘for sleepovers’ so you’d have something to leave at his place—never mind the fact that matching with his own wasn’t required and he absolutely could’ve gotten you something completely different. or the shoes you’d been eyeing for weeks but didn’t buy because they were way too expensive, and then suddenly they just… showed up. in your size. in his hands. and now you have to explain to your mom how a broke intern magically afforded designer footwear. there was the cartier bracelet. the van cleef earrings. both of which you now casually refer to as ‘dupes’ because the truth would raise more than a few eyebrows. he’s even emptied a drawer in his bedroom just so you can put your things when you stay over. he pays for your manicures too. picks the design himself. says it’s to “decorate the hand that’s going to wrap around my dick.” which is… charming?

maybe it stopped being just sex when you got sick and he took care of you for three days straight. made you hot meals, brought you medicine, insisted you sleep in his bed instead of going home. the food was mostly inedible—he’s a terrible cook—but you were too congested to taste anything anyway, so it worked out. maybe it was how he started saving things for you. a piece of cake from a crew celebration you missed, a keychain from a trip, a book he thought you’d like… or when he let you see him on his worst days—the ones where he barely talks, where he gets lost in his own head, where the silence feels heavy. the days he doesn’t touch you at all, just lets you sit there next to him on the couch in quiet solidarity (and sometimes snapping at you for no reason as well…). or maybe it was when he started taking you out. quietly, of course. always in private rooms, always through back entrances, always with that underlying sense of this can’t be seen. but still. that has to mean something, right? or when he looks at you when you’re lying next to him after sex, with your hair messy and his hand resting on your bare stomach like he forgot to move it. those are the moments that make your chest ache. because it’s in those looks, that you start to realize he might actually feel something for you.

everything kinda solidifies when he takes you on vacation to barbados. you tell your mom you’re taking a break for your mental health, which isn’t technically a lie, but also not… the whole truth. her reaction is immediate and skeptical. “you’re off this week?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “isn’t that when the rest of the crew is off too?” you pause. try to remember the script you came up with two days ago. “yeah,” you say, nodding way too fast. “thought it’d be smart to, like… rest at the same time.” she stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. eventually, after enough vague hand gestures and forced yawns about how ‘burnt out’ you’ve been, she buys it. saying, “well, good luck with whatever mess you get yourself into. i’ll be too busy working.” rude, as usual. you throw in something about needing to be alone and she backs off, probably thinking you’re going through a breakup you’ve failed to mention. which is ironic. but let her believe that. it’s easier than explaining the reality. you don’t tell her that you’ll be on a beach in barbados, drinking overpriced cocktails out of a coconut while choi seunghyun rubs sunscreen on your back and pretends not to look at your ass every five seconds. the trip itself is… surreal. private flight, of course. he’s casual about it, in a way that makes you feel casual, until you’re halfway across the world and he’s feeding you bites of tropical fruit on a balcony with the ocean stretched out behind him. you stay in a beachfront villa with a private pool and views that look like they were pulled off a screensaver. you spend the days doing absolutely nothing. you paddleboard, laugh too much, make questionable bets over mini-golf, drink things with too many garnishes, get sunburned, sneak kisses when no one’s watching, and fuck like it’s a limited-time offer and neither of you plans on wasting a single second.

but even here, you have to be careful. no photos, no being seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. when you go out to explore—because you’re in barbados and you should at least try to act like tourists—he dresses like he’s on the run from interpol. sunglasses, a mask, and a cap pulled low enough to practically blind him. long sleeves too, because apparently discretion is more important than not passing out from heatstroke. you walk through the historic streets of speightstown, visiting art galleries and tiny bookstores, and he’s dripping sweat but pretending everything is fine. you offer him water and he refuses out of pride. and when you point out that he’s two degrees away from spontaneous combustion, he tells you to keep walking. you go to harrison’s cave and take one of those little trams underground, and he keeps his head down the entire time like the rock formations might recognize him. you tour animal flower cave, stand at the edge of the cliffs while the wind tries to rip your hat off, and he holds your hand the entire time. you take photos of the view, but not of him. you stop at a roadside stand to try fish cakes and roasted breadfruit, and he stands awkwardly behind you like your very tall, very sweaty security guard, occasionally pulling you back by the waist when someone walks too close. he complains about the heat once—just once—and immediately tries to pretend he didn’t. you don’t let it go for the rest of the day.

on your second to last night in barbados, there’s a local festival happening near the beach—a community event with food stalls, live music, people dancing barefoot in the sand, and fireworks scheduled after sunset. the kind of thing tourists stumble into and locals grow up loving. you hear about it from the bartender while ordering two margaritas, and you’re already smiling halfway through the conversation, already imagining how nice it would be to go. seunghyun isn’t thrilled. you bring it up while the sun’s still low in the sky, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with damp hair (that he had dyed black just before the trip) and a towel around his neck. you mention the fireworks, the food, how it’s walking distance from the villa, and he barely looks up. “crowds,” he says. “we can stay in the back,” you offer, trying not to sound too hopeful. “just to watch the fireworks. it won’t be that busy.” he lifts an eyebrow. “it’s a festival. it’ll be busy.” “okay, but you’ll be in a mask and a hat and sunglasses like usual. no one’s going to recognize you.” he exhales, leans back on his hands, and watches you for a moment. he knows there’s no real point in arguing with you once you’ve got an idea stuck in your head. “you really want to go?” he asks eventually. you nod without hesitating. “yeah. i want to see fireworks with you.” he closes his eyes for a second like he’s pretending to weigh the pros and cons, and you stand there watching him with that little smile you know he hates because it means you’re about to do something mildly manipulative and very effective. “please?” you say, voice soft and teasing as you step closer, hands sliding up his bare back. “i really want to go,” you say, voice soft, lips brushing the side of his neck, your body pressed against his. “but if you need extra motivation…” your hand drifts to his front, dragging slow over his waistband, and you feel the way his breath catches even though he doesn’t move. “let me suck your dick,” you whisper. his jaw flexes. you let your nails scrape lightly along the front of his briefs, just enough pressure to make him grunt. “you’re bribing me with head?” “well… yeah. is it working?” he doesn’t need to reply. you can feel the way his cock is already hard beneath the thin fabric. he’s trying so hard to keep it together. and you love watching him try. you press a kiss to his jaw, just below it. your mouth trails down his neck. “c’mon, old man…” you tease, laughing softly against his skin. “i’ll let you fuck my throat, if that’s what you want.” he swallows hard, still pretending to think it over like he has any self-control left at all. so you press your hand between his legs, palm firm, rubbing over the bulge in slow, lazy strokes that make his breath catch again. “you’re lucky i’m weak.” “i know.”

and you do. because a few minutes later, you’re on your knees with his cock deep in your throat, spit slicking your chin, eyes watery, mascara smudged, and he’s fucking into your mouth—both hands tangled in your hair, hips snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that make your throat burn and your cunt throb all at once. he’s cursing under his breath, looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe this is real, like the sight of you gagging around him is too good to be true, praising you through gritted teeth. “fuck, just like that! f-fuck yeah, baby, you’re s-so fucking good.” you moan around him, choking on the sound, tears slipping down your cheeks. his rhythm stutters and he groans, deep and ragged, coming hard down your throat while your lips stay wrapped tight around him, swallowing like a good fucking girl, not stopping until he finally pulls back, panting.

you really must have been good, because even though you’ve already given him what he wanted and already got him to agree, he doesn’t let you leave it there. instead, he pulls you up with both hands and tosses you onto the bed with zero ceremony, and says,“now spread your fucking legs. i’m not going anywhere ‘til i taste this pussy.” before you can say a word, he’s got your legs over his shoulders, your panties peeled off and discarded somewhere on the floor, and his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving for it—tongue dragging through your folds, lips wrapping around your clit, hands gripping your thighs, holding them open, keeping you still while he devours you like it’s his goddamn mission. his tongue moves in slow circles before flattening out and licking up every drop of slick dripping down your cunt. your fingers dig into his hair, your hips grinding against his face on instinct, and he just lets you, groaning like your desperation only makes him more focused. he doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, moaning, cumming all over his tongue—soaking his mouth, your thighs shaking against his grip.

seunghyun was right. it is crowded. way too many people, too much noise, too many phones in the air, and someone’s already spilled something sticky near his shoe. it’s hot, and the humidity has turned the inside of his shirt into a damn sauna. he wants to complain. he really, really does. but your fingers are laced through his, and your eyes are glowing like you’ve been waiting for this exact night your entire life. you look so cute he bites his tongue and toughs it out for you. “come on, we have to find a good spot!” you say over your shoulder, tugging his hand. “somewhere we can actually see when the fireworks start!” he nods, even though the idea of standing still in the middle of all this chaos isn’t exactly appealing. you don’t seem to care. you’re on a mission—darting between couples and vendors and wide-eyed kids with glowing bracelets, scanning the shoreline for the perfect stretch of beach. and all he can do is follow.

you find a spot eventually—a quiet stretch of sand tucked behind a cluster of food stalls, far enough from the main crowd that it feels almost private. it’s not perfect, but you can see the sky, and the ocean’s just close enough that the waves drown out the worst of the noise. you sit first, legs curled in the sand, already scanning the sky for the best angles. seunghyun doesn’t sit right away. he’s hovering beside you, looking over his shoulder like he’s waiting for someone to yell hey, aren’t you— followed by his full government name. “that lady keeps staring at me. i think she recognized me,” he mutters under his breath. you’re sipping some sugary drink out of a plastic cup, legs stretched across the sand, completely unbothered. “what lady?” he tilts his chin discreetly toward a woman near a vendor cart, halfway through a beer, holding a paper tray of something fried. “red shirt.” you squint. “she isn’t staring at you, she’s just drunk, seunghyun.” “i’m serious.” “so am i.” he doesn’t look convinced. he adjusts his cap, shifts his weight like he’s about to go and relocate for the third time. “hey,” you say softly, tugging his hand. he glances down. “breathe. you’re fine. she’s probably just wondering why there’s a six-foot-tall man wearing sunglasses at night, and a surgical mask on a tropical island.” he glares at you through his sunglasses. you smile at him. “or maybe she just thinks you’re hot. which is very true,” you add. he exhales a short laugh, looks away like he’s trying not to let your words soothe him—but they do. you pat the spot next to you and eventually, after one more suspicious glance toward the woman, he sits. his hand stays close to yours in the sand, fingertips brushing like he’s grounding himself without meaning to.

the first firework goes off—bright and loud, lighting up the sky in a burst of silver and blue. you gasp, eyes lighting up instantly as you look up, totally transfixed. he doesn’t look at the sky. he looks at you. and in that second, nothing else matters. everything fades into background noise, swallowed up by the sound of your laughter and the glow of your face, painted gold and blue and violet as the fireworks burst in waves above you, lighting you up in flickers like someone’s holding a candle behind stained glass. you’re looking up at the sky, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and full of something he hasn’t let himself feel in a long time—something soft and open and painfully alive—and all he can do is stare at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

it should be nothing. just a warm night on an island, tucked far enough from the rest of the world that he convinced himself he could keep this thing between you light and quiet, separate from the parts of himself that are still recovering. but here you are, smiling like you’re in love with the whole damn sky, your knee touching his in the sand, your fingers brushing his hand… and something in his chest pulls tight. he knows that feeling. he’s felt it before. and he thought—genuinely believed—that he’d buried it. years ago. deep enough that it couldn’t crawl its way back to the surface. but now it’s here again, rising like it never left, like it’s been waiting quietly in the corners of his ribs for the right person to walk in and shake everything loose. and it’s you. you, with your bad jokes and your ability to make him feel safe in a body that’s spent years trying not to be seen. you, with your stubbornness and your quiet kindness and the way you make space for him without asking for anything in return. you, who never demanded more, who never pushed, who kept letting this be whatever it needed to be—even when it started turning into something else entirely. he thought this was just sex. but now, he realizes he’s been wrong. he feels it in the way his chest won’t stop aching, in the way his throat feels tight even though he hasn’t said a word, in the way he wants to reach out and touch your face, like it would help him understand how he ended up feeling this much for someone he didn’t mean to let in like that. he didn’t think he could do this again. didn’t think he’d ever want to. but he does. he wants this. you. and that truth settles into him so quietly, so completely, it almost scares him.

the next day is quiet. you’re both at the villa, sun-drunk and still soft from the night before, lounging on the deck after falling asleep tangled together with sand in your hair. he’s lying on a lounger in swim trunks, sunglasses on, head tilted back toward the sun. you’re beside him in one of his shirts and a bikini bottom, legs stretched out, knees up. lazily flipping through a book you haven’t actually read a word of in the last thirty minutes. not when he looks like that. you pretend to be focused, but really, you’re watching him. the line of his jaw. the rise and fall of his chest. the way he licks a drop of condensation off his lip like he doesn’t know you’re dying a little bit every time he moves. you don’t say anything for a while. it’s easy not to. the breeze is warm, the air smells like salt, and your skin is buzzing from too much sun and too many feelings you’re pretending not to feel. but eventually, the question slips out. a question that’s been annoying you since the second you woke up, you say, “so. how many girls have you brought here?” he doesn’t even look up. “what?” “here,” you repeat. “or vacations in general. just wondering.” he snorts. “you’re not wondering. you’re overthinking.” he pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and turns to face you more fully, propping himself up on one elbow. “why do you want to know?” you shrug. “i’m just curious.” “curious? you sound insecure.” “oh, wow. okay.” “you asked.” “i was being chill.” “you were being nosy,” he retorts. “and weirdly passive-aggressive about it.” you scoff, grabbing your drink and taking a long sip just to avoid responding. he lets the silence hang there a moment, then shifts in his chair. “if you want to know something, just ask,” he says. “i’m not gonna lie to you. but i’m also not going to play into this kind of shit—i’m too old for it.” you glare at him over your glass. “what kind of shit?” he shrugs, like it’s obvious. “you know exactly what i mean.” he pauses, then adds, “and no. i haven’t brought anyone on vacation before. or done this—whatever this is—with anyone else.” “really?” he raises a brow. “you think i fly across the world to sneak around with girls i don’t give a fuck about?” you blink. the words hit, but it’s not even that. it’s the tone. the way he says it like you’re being ridiculous, like the whole conversation is beneath him, like your feelings are something he doesn’t have the patience for. and maybe you were being a little insecure. maybe you were poking at something just to see how much it could hold. but still—he didn’t have to talk to you like that. he didn’t have to say it like he was teaching you a lesson you should’ve already learned. “okay,” you mutter, setting your glass down a little too firmly. he glances over, confused. “what?” you stand up, brushing sand off your thighs, heart pounding in that specific, bitter way it does when you’ve just been embarrassed by someone you didn’t think had the power to embarrass you. “nothing. forget it.” “hey—“ “you don’t have to be such a dick about it, seunghyun,” you say, grabbing your towel and turning toward the villa. he sits up straighter. “i wasn’t—” “you called me insecure like i’m some fucking child.” you don’t wait for a response. you just go across the deck, then through the open doors. you don’t slam them, but you think about it.

he doesn’t move right away. just sits there, staring at the space where you’d been, your glass still sitting half-full next to his, the door swinging shut behind you like punctuation. and for a second, he lets himself wonder if maybe he should just stay out here, give you space, let it cool off—because that’s what he usually does when things get tense. but no, he stands. mutters a quiet fuck under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, and follows you inside. he’s not even sure what he’s going to say. you’re in the bedroom, standing by the window with your arms crossed and your back to him, stiff and silent. you don’t turn when he walks in, but you know he’s there—he can see the way your shoulders shift slightly, like you’re bracing for something. “i was an asshole,” he says finally. “i shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” you don’t answer, and he deserves that silence. he does. but he keeps going anyway, slowly stepping closer. “you asked me something that clearly mattered to you, and i got defensive.” he exhales through his nose, drags a hand down his face. “i wasn’t trying to call you insecure, i didn’t mean it like that—i really didn’t. but it came out like shit.” “yeah,” you mutter, voice tight. “it did.” “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this,” he says. “but i care about you. and maybe that’s why i handled it the way i did, because it freaks me out how fast this has turned into something i don’t want to fuck up.” you turn then. eyes sharp, but softer around the edges now. “then why do you talk to me like i don’t matter the second you get uncomfortable?” that one lands. because it’s true. “i don’t mean to,” he says, quieter now. “i just don’t always know how to be close to someone without pushing them first. but you didn’t deserve that. and i know that. i’m sorry.” you exhale. some of the tension in your shoulders starts to slip away. you turn to look at him. “it’s okay.” “you asked if i’d brought anyone else on vacation before,” he says. “and the answer’s no. just you.” he’s standing here, scratching at the back of his neck, trying to decide if he should leave it at the apology or say the thing that’s been sitting in the back of his head for weeks now, annoying the hell out of him every time you smile at him from across the room. “i’ve been thinking,” he says finally. “for a while now.” you glance up at him, hesitant. “about what?” he shifts his weight, like the floor just got a little less stable. “about us. this thing. whatever we’re doing.” he pauses, shrugs a little. “i mean—we’re basically together already. it just doesn’t have a label. i’m not—i’m not saying we go public or start holding hands in front of the press,” he adds quickly. “i just mean… i’d like it if you were mine. officially.” he scratches at his jaw. “i want to call you my girlfriend.” he looks at you for a beat. he’s being honest, laying it down so you know where he stands. “but only if you want that too.” and then, after a second, with a slight smirk, “we’ve been fake-honeymooning in barbados all week. figured it’s only fair to start calling you that.” you blink at him once, then again, like you’re double-checking he actually said what you think he said. but he’s not messing with you. and you smile—wider than you mean to—because suddenly your whole chest feels warm and buzzy. “yeah,” you say, and it comes out lighter than expected. a little breathless. “of course.” his brows lift slightly. “yeah?” “don’t act surprised,” you say. “you’ve had me in a chokehold for months.”

when you get back from barbados, everything feels stupidly perfect for a while. you’re still technically sneaking around, still careful at work, still lying to your mom when you sleep over—but something has shifted. the label’s there now. and every night ends the same: you in his bed, wrapped in one of his shirts, brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror like this has been your life for years. you’re in that stage where everything feels light. it’s easy… until it isn’t. he gets the call on a thursday. his phone buzzes and he frowns down at it, stands up from the table like the name alone has changed the air in the room. you’re in the kitchen, making tea, half-listening to him talk to someone on the phone with his usual flat tone, saying, “yeah,” and “right,” and “i’ll think about it”. until he hangs up and stands there for a beat too long, hand still on the counter, like he’s processing something in real time. “that was my agent,” he says eventually. “they offered me something.” “yeah?” “squid game season 2.” you actually laugh at first. like a full, surprised laugh, because what the fuck? “wait, seriously? like—the squid game?” he nods once, slowly, like he’s still not sure if this is something to be excited about. “yes. well, they didn’t technically offer it, but hwang donghyuk asked for me. wants me to read for it.” “who?” “the director. he brought me up first. said he thinks i’d get it… they want me to play one of the new players.” and at first, you’re thrilled. you react like any reasonable person would—with excitement and some very high-pitched noise you don’t entirely recognize as your own. your face lights up without you even meaning to. “that’s insane! seunghyun, that’s huge!” “mhm,” he says. and that’s when you realize—he’s not smiling. you step closer, watching him carefully now. “what’s the role?” he hesitates for a second, then exhales through his nose. “player 230. he’s a rapper who uses drugs to cope with the pressure of the games.” you immediately understand why he isn’t excited. the character is like a version of himself he’s worked hard to bury. and now someone’s offering to pay him to resurrect it. you don’t know what to say to that, not right away. the excitement dips, replaced by something heavier. “i don’t know,” he continues, rubbing a hand over his face. “it’s a lot. and kind of close to… everything. i don’t know if i can do it. i mean, i can. obviously. but i don’t know if i should.”

he’s quiet about it for the rest of the day, and you let him be. he’s never been the type to talk in circles about something he hasn’t decided on yet. but later that night, while you’re lying next to him, scrolling through your phone and trying to pretend like you’re not waiting for him to bring it up again, you finally just say it: “you’d be good in it.” he doesn’t look at you, just exhales. “that’s not the problem.” “i know,” you say. “but still. you’d be good in it.” he’s silent for a long time after that. then: “it’d be weird, though. playing someone that close. putting it on camera.” “yeah,” you say softly. “but maybe that’s exactly why it should be you.” he finally turns his head, looking at you like he’s trying to read between your words. “maybe this is the kind of thing that means more coming from someone who’s been through it. maybe the story hits harder that way.” he doesn’t say anything. “i’m not saying it won’t suck,” you continue. “it might. it might dig things up. but you’re not that person anymore, hyun. you’re not who you were. and that’s the difference.” he sighs. “it’s not just about playing the part. it’s about how people would look at me after. what they’ll think it means.” you tilt your head. “who cares what they think it means? you know what it means. yeah, okay, people might talk. but you’ve survived worse than people talking.” his eyes soften. he reaches for your hand and you smile at the gesture. “i think you should do it,” you say gently before snuggling closer to him and kissing his temple. “and if you get the role, i think it’ll be hard. but i also think it’ll be worth it.” he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t make a decision in that moment. but he’s still holding your hand that night while he falls asleep. and the next morning, he sends his agent a text. he says yes, that he’ll audition.

and he gets the part! of course he does. even if he pretends like he’s not sure until the last second, even if he downplays it when the call comes through, you can tell he’s proud. maybe a little scared, but still proud. and you’re proud too, probably more than him. but then reality sets in... filming starts soon. and not just anywhere—in korea. for weeks at a time, sometimes more. meanwhile, you’re in texas, working twelve-hour days at starbase (sometimes even more), still technically an intern, but somehow also the one trusted with way too much responsibility. it’s all hands on deck all the time, and now those hands are going to be in different countries. no one tells you how to handle long-distance when you’re trying to keep the relationship a secret.

no one prepares you for the part where you’re up at 3am reading over crew schedules while texting him between takes, or how weird it feels to miss someone who’s not even in the same timezone. and just to make things even more complicated, they assign you—of all people—the task of helping coordinate his travel between texas and seoul. you know the mission schedule better than anyone, you’ve worked on his time blocks before. but now? you’re suddenly the one making sure his launch prep rehearsals don’t overlap with overnight shoots, the one counting rest days and memorizing airport codes and praying he doesn’t fall asleep mid-sim because he just flew halfway across the world on four hours of sleep and two cups of convenience store coffee. the hard work pays off because, finally, after all these months of being an intern… they give you the job! but you’re tired. not just physically, but in that low, dull way that creeps in when you miss someone constantly but don’t have the space to say it out loud.

he doesn’t make it harder. he texts. he calls. he sends stupid pictures from set—one of his costume—with his freshly dyed purple hair and painted nails—one of him holding a boom mic like he’s about to switch careers, one of him giving you the finger when you ask if he’s drinking enough water. he’s trying. he wants to be present, even if most days all he can offer is a photo and a few words. and at first you don’t complain when you go days without hearing his voice, because this is what it means to support someone who’s chasing something big. but some days you can feel the space between you like a real thing. like distance has weight.

hey, baby :) long day?

seen 10:08 PM

i’ll take that as a yes. still on set? hope you’re surviving! miss you xx

Yeah, just wrapped. Heading back now. Miss you too❤️

don’t forget to eat something

and drink water, your skin was looking a little tragic in that last selfie💔

Lol, thanks.

was that sarcasm or are you genuinely thankful for my skincare critique

u r still hot asfff old man😼

i want youuu baddddd

seen 12:11 AM

everything okay? did i upset you?

Everything’s fine. Sorry, baby. I’m tired.

oh, okay :) get some rest then 🩷 mwah

Will do, goodnight for you🌙😘

then, another day:

Hi, baby❤️

How are you?

oh hey. nice to see you finally remembered you have a gf!

it’s been four days

I know.

you left me on read

I know.

I needed time for myself.

i get that you needed time for yourself, and i do give you space when you need it. but like… you gotta remember there are people who actually worry about you now

it’s not like when you were still here in texas 24/7

this is a relationship. it comes with a little responsibility

I know what a relationship is.

doesn’t seem like it! :)

a quick “hey i’m gonna be off for a few days” would’ve been fine

but you didn’t even tell me you landed, seunghyun

I forgot, I was jetlagged.

Sorry.

right

Don’t do that.

what?

Reply to me with one word texts.

well, i’m upset, what do you want me to do?

you disappear, then come back like nothing

you’re not the only one who’s tired, yk

I never said you weren’t.

no, but you act like i’m just supposed to be okay with this, like i’m not working my ass off to keep things together on both ends

I know how much you’re doing.

You think I don’t feel guilty about it?

I didn’t ask you to take that on.

wow, okay! 🥰

That’s not how i meant it.

And stop being passive aggressive. You know I hate that shit.

I’m just saying this is hard for me too.

It’s not easy here. 👍🏼

dw, i can tell! i’ll let you get some sleep

Don’t leave like this, let’s talk.

Can I call you?

Hello?

Why are you leaving me on read?

isn’t it almost 4am for you?

Yes.

you need to sleep, you’ve got filming in a few hours

Can we speak on the phone? Just five minutes.

fine, call me

you always manage to get through the little bumps in your relationship. sometimes it’s a few tired texts exchanged after hours of silence—just one of you reaching out with a soft hey, and suddenly you’re back on the same page like nothing happened. other times it’s more stubborn—one of you waiting for the other to fold first, and the distance feels so thick it starts to ache in your chest. more often than not, it’s you who folds, who decides it’s not worth the pride, not when you love him this much. but sometimes it’s him. calling you in the middle of the night with a voice so low and quiet it makes you want to cry. showing up in your city like he couldn’t wait one more day. saying things like, “i don’t like when we’re not okay.” you always find your way back. and when you do—when you finally see him again after too long—everything else falls away. your body remembers before your brain does. you’re wet the second he gets his hands on you, soaked and pulsing with need, and he doesn’t even try to tease. he gets your panties off and buries his face between your legs like it’s the only thing he came home for. tongue slow at first, groaning against you when you grab his hair and roll your hips up into his mouth. he eats you like he missed the taste, like he could live off it—tongue flicking over your clit just right, fingers deep inside you, curling in that spot until your legs are shaking and your stomach’s pulling tight and you’re begging without realizing you’re saying anything at all. he makes you cum once like that, and then barely gives you a chance to recover before he’s flipping you over and fucking you from behind, one hand gripping your hip, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you still while he thrusts into you hard and fast, like he’s trying to make up for lost time in every stroke. saying things like “this pussy missed me, huh?” and “gonna fuck you so good you won’t forget it next time i’m gone.” and you moan, loud, because you did miss it. you missed him.

and over time, the distance starts to change the way you touch each other. it’s more desperate, greedy, something tangled up in the fear of losing each other. he fucks you like he’s trying to make the memory last through the days he can’t have you, and you take him like his cock is the only thing that’s going to keep you sane until he’s back again. and when he finally comes back—he’s only home for three days, exhausted from shooting, eyes heavy and voice low from lack of sleep—you don’t even wait to get fully undressed. you crawl into his lap like you’ve been waiting your whole life to sit there again, straddle him on the couch with his hoodie still clinging to your body and nothing but a pair of thin cotton panties underneath. you kiss him as you start grinding against him through your underwear, his cock already hard under you and your breath catching in your throat from how badly you want it, how long you’ve wanted it, how long you’ve been aching just to be this close again. he’s sitting back on the couch, legs spread, hair still damp from the shower, and you’re only half-dressed, no bra, your panties already soaked through, already sticking to your folds from how wet you are just from kissing him. “you’re dripping,” he says when he runs his fingers over the fabric, already thinking about how he’s going to fuck it out of you. “so desperate. what’d you do while i was gone, baby? rub that needy pussy on your pillow and pretend it was me?” “mhm,” you answer. you reach down and push his sweats down just enough to free his dick, hard and flushed and leaking at the tip, and when he reaches for the bag beside the couch—hand going for the condoms—you grab his wrist and shake your head, eyes locked on his. he pauses, squints at you like he’s trying to read your expression in the low light. “are you sure?” you nod. “i want all of it.” he still hesitates. not because he doesn’t want it, but because he does—so badly he looks like it’s physically hurting him to hold back. “you let me fuck you raw, i’m not gonna be nice,” he says, almost a warning. “you’ll be lucky if you can walk tomorrow.” “good,” you say, already pulling your panties to the side, already lining him up beneath you with one hand, the other braced on his chest, your heart racing so fast it feels like it’s in your throat. he mutters a curse in his mother tongue as you sink down onto him, inch by inch, your cunt stretching around him, the feeling so intense it knocks the breath out of both of you—he grabs your hips, digs his nails in, head falling back for a second as he groans through his teeth, like he’s trying to keep from losing it too fast.

you start moving slowly at first, just rocking your hips, getting used to how full you feel, how bare it is. but it doesn’t take long before your thighs start burning as you fuck yourself down harder, faster, bouncing in his lap. he lets you ride him like that, mouth parted, chest rising fast, until his hands suddenly grab your jaw, fingers slipping into your mouth as he tilts your face down toward him, voice low and breathless and mean. “missed me that much, baby?” he mutters, breathless. “f-fuck, you’re so—mmhhh—you’re so cock-hungry you just wanted me in, wanted to be fucked raw like a filthy little slut.” you moan around his fingers, nodding, eyes glazed, body trembling as you grind down harder, chasing it. he laughs under his breath. “yeah? i—i missed you too, baby—shit!—jerking off to the sound of your voice in my head every night. fuck, you don’t even know.” you fuck him harder and faster, your moans turning to whines as your orgasm builds sharp and fast in your gut, the angle just right, the pressure unbearable, his cock hitting so deep inside you it makes your vision blur. “you gonna come on my cock like this?” he growls, hands bruising into your ass cheeks as he fucks up into you, matching your rhythm now. “gonna soak me like a good fucking girl?” “yes! y-yes, fuck, please—” you reach your orgasm on top of him, legs shaking, pussy clenching around him so tight he moans loud into your neck and spills into you without warning. neither of you stops moving, dragging it out until the overstimulation makes your thighs twitch and your body go limp against him.

the panic sets in the next morning. there’s a moment when you’re brushing your teeth, catching a glimpse of the lovebite on your collarbone, the bruises blooming around your hips, thinking, yeah, we fucked the hell out of each other. slay! but then, somewhere between breakfast and pretending you’re both going to be productive that day, it creeps in—the realization that not a single precaution was taken. the panic turns real enough that he sends his assistant out for a plan b while you sit on his couch. and by the end of the week, you’re on the pill.

being seunghyun’s girlfriend is fun. more fun than you ever expected it to be. sometimes kind of lonely, sure—but still, fun. he’s got this thing that makes it impossible to be bored around him. he’s funny, without trying too hard. playful in a way that makes you forget he’s in his thirties. sometimes he feels like a kid in a man’s body. sometimes he feels like a man who never got the chance to be a kid. either way, he keeps you laughing—even when you’re annoyed. of course, dating someone like him means learning how to live in the quiet margins of his life. it means celebrating holidays off-schedule, showing affection in private, keeping entire parts of your life off social media like they don’t even exist. it means deleting photos, not tagging locations, smiling politely when someone asks if you’re seeing anyone and pretending your phone isn’t buzzing in your pocket with a text from him... he misses your birthday. you don’t blame him—he’s on set, exhausted and overcommitted and two plane rides away—but it still stings a little when you wake up alone. the time difference doesn’t help, and the day feels heavier than you expect it to. he sends a gift, of course—his assistant drops it off at your door. and a big bouquet of flowers—dramatic, over-the-top, the kind that takes up half the kitchen table and makes your mom narrow her eyes when she comes home with a bag of pastries and that look she gets when she knows something isn’t adding up. you lie, say it’s from an old college friend. a girl, obviously. she raises a brow, hums a little, doesn’t push, but you can tell she doesn’t fully buy it. the card tucked in the bouquet doesn’t help either: not signed, just a ‘Happy birthday, pretty girl. Wish I was there to see your face. I miss you.’

his birthday is better. he flies you to seoul. you land late, tired and a little anxious, and he’s waiting outside baggage claim in a surgical mask and a hoodie pulled so low you can barely see his eyes—until you get close enough, and then it’s unmistakable, the way he lights up when he sees you, like you’re the only thing that’s gone right all week. he doesn’t tell anyone you’re there. or—more accurately—he tells almost no one. his driver picks you up, takes the long way around to his house, and when you ask what the plan is, he shrugs like the whole point is that there isn’t one. for the next twenty-four hours, you do nothing but nap, eat, have sex, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. the next night, he takes you to dinner—not just the two of you this time. it’s private enough that he doesn’t flinch every time the door opens. a few of his closest friends are already there when you arrive. he introduces you like he’s been practicing the line all day—“this is my friend,” and nothing else. everyone else pretends not to notice how he never stops looking at you. they’re kind. smart enough to read between the lines and respectful enough not to push. you eat too much. laugh until your face hurts. drink exactly one glass of wine before realizing that staying sober is your best shot at not saying anything incriminating. and he’s just happy to be out with people he trusts.

you don’t spend new year’s together. it would’ve raised too many questions, started the kind of speculation that neither of you can afford. so you agree that this one will have to be split. he’s in seoul for a last-minute event, while you’re in texas, at a friend’s party you almost bailed on, counting down with people who don’t know that the person you actually want to spend it with is already fourteen hours into the new year. your phone buzzed around 10 a.m.—midnight his time—and it was a photo. blurry, overexposed, too close to his face, with a gold paper hat tilted on his head and the world’s most unimpressed expression. under it, a caption: Happy 2024, baby😊😍❤️Pretend I kissed you. And pretend I don’t look drunk. I miss you so much.

you laughed in the middle of the kitchen, toast in hand, your mom asking what’s so funny while you shook your head and said “nothing” a little too fast. he’s asleep by the time it’s your midnight—completely dead to the world, probably unaware that you’ve just made your way through a countdown with a group of half-drunken twenty-somethings and an aggressive spotify playlist. you check your phone at 12:01, just in case. nothing. not that you expected anything. still, you open his message again and read it twice before sliding your phone face-down and letting the rest of the party blur around you.

and then, before you know it, a whole year has passed. you hit your one year anniversary on a tuesday. he books the rooftop of a small bar tucked between buildings in a part of brownsville neither of you frequents, somewhere out of sight. he’s in all black and his cologne clings to him—the one you like most—when he leans in to kiss your cheek. the food is good but secondary; the real focus is seunghyun, across the table, glass in hand, eyes soft when they settle on you as he tells you how filming is almost done, how he’s completely drained but still thinking about you all the time, how he can’t wait to come back and finally give you all of his time, all of his attention, without splitting himself in twenty directions. you tell him how things are going back at starbase—how it’s quieter when he’s not around. you mention, offhand, how your friends have started trying to set you up with someone they know, how they’re convinced you’ve been single for too long, how you’re growing tired of making excuses, of declining invites you never wanted in the first place. you say it lightly, like it’s funny, but you hope it lands like a question. how long are we going to keep hiding? but he doesn’t take the bait (or maybe he just ignores it). he hums in response, pours you more wine, and says something about how good you look in this lighting.

you didn’t think it would bother you—not at first, anyway. when it all started, sneaking around and pretending not to exist in each other’s lives in public was exciting. and sure, fine, it was kind of hot for a while—private, protected, untouched by the noise and the press and the people who would try to make it into something it’s not. but now it’s been over a year, and it starts feeling like a question that no one’s answering. because you were fine with keeping it quiet while it was still fragile and new, while neither of you really knew what it was yet—but you do now. you know what it is. you know how you feel. and you thought he did too. so the longer it stays secret, the more your brain starts doing that thing it always does—overthink. maybe he’s just private. fine. maybe he’s protecting you. okay. maybe he’s just used to hiding things because of who he is and how long he’s been doing it, and he doesn’t realize how much it’s started to chip away at you, how sometimes it makes you feel like a placeholder. or maybe—and this is the one that keeps you up at night even though you hate how dramatic it sounds—maybe he’s keeping it secret because he doesn’t see it the way you do. you try not to think like that. you really do. and most days you’re fine. but some others you aren’t.

it happens on a warm night in brownsville, the kind of humid texas evening where the air feels heavy even after sunset, like the heat’s still clinging to the sidewalks and the inside of your clothes. you’d gone out to dinner. it was good, all of it—better than good, actually. he was in a rare mood: relaxed, talkative, the kind of version of him you don’t always get when he’s coming off back-to-back flights or prepping for his next shoot. you’d call it a perfect night, if you didn’t know what was coming. you’re halfway down the sidewalk, walking back toward the car—his usual driver, waiting for you both—when you suddenly stop and frown. “shit,” you mutter. “i forgot my purse.” he pauses with you, already reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “want me to get it?” you shake your head. “no, it’s fine. i’ll be fast.” seunghyun nods, gestures toward the car. “okay, babe. i’ll be right here.” you head back inside. the hostess smiles and hands you the purse before you even ask—she remembers you. you thank her, fingers already digging through the front pocket to make sure your keys are still there, your lip balm, your phone. nothing’s missing. everything’s fine. when you step outside again, seunghyun’s exactly where you left him—leaned against the side of the car, cigarette lit, the tip glowing soft in the dark. his eyes flick up when he sees you, and he gives a lazy half-smile around the smoke. “got it,” you say as you approach, holding the purse up by the strap like proof. before he can reply, you hear a voice just off to the left. “um, excuse me?” you both turn, and that’s when you see them—two girls, maybe early twenties, standing a few feet away with nervous smiles and hesitant body language, like they’re not totally sure if they’re allowed to be doing this but can’t not try. “sorry,” one of them says, smiling. “we just—are you choi seunghyun? t.o.p?” his posture shifts slightly—that thing he does when he flips into professional mode. he straightens, pushes off the car, tucks the cigarette behind his back like it never happened. “yeah,” he says, calm and quiet. “hi.” “can we take a picture with you, please? we’re big fans.” he smiles, polite. “yes, of course.” you take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your purse strap. one of the girls lights up, already pulling her phone out of her back pocket and turning to you. “would you mind taking a photo of us?” you blink, then nod, already reaching for the phone without even thinking about it. “sure.”

you take the photo—three, just in case—frame them up neatly, make sure the lighting’s okay, that no one’s blinking, that he’s centered between them. one of them leans in close, her arm sliding gently around his back like she’s not totally sure if she’s allowed to touch him, but not stopping herself either. the other rests a hand lightly on his chest. you snap the photos quickly, then hand the phone back with a polite smile and a soft “here you go.” they both look at the screen, whisper something excited to each other, and then, almost simultaneously, step forward and hug him. not just a side squeeze either—full, arms-around-the-shoulders hugs like they’ve been waiting years for this moment. he lets them, offers a small, tense chuckle, one hand patting a shoulder. “i was really sad when you left big bang last year,” one of them says softly as she pulls back, and that’s the only moment he shifts. you see it though—the faint tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. he handles it well, nods once, expression neutral and calm, like this is just another thing he’s learned to fold up and put away. “thank you,” he says. “i appreciate that.” the girls are still hovering, soft smiles still plastered on their faces, that little sparkle of disbelief in their eyes like they can’t believe they just ran into him in a parking lot. one of them glances at you again, and this time she squints slightly, like she’s only just started to register that you’re not just some girl walking past—that you were standing with him. “wait—are you a fan too?” she asks. you open your mouth, not totally sure what you’re going to say, but he beats you to it. “yeah, she had just asked for a picture,” he says, light and easy, flashing a quick smile in your direction. “right?” you smile back, because what else can you do? you play along. “yeah, right.” one of the girls brightens immediately. “we can take it for you, if you want,” she offers, the purest kind of fan energy pulsing from her like she genuinely thinks she’s doing you a favor. “here—give me your phone.” you hesitate. you open your mouth to say no, to brush it off with something polite, but she’s already waiting, and her friend is nodding like they’re gifting you this golden moment. “okay,” you say, voice thinner than you want it to be as you hand her your phone. “sure. thank you.”

and then you’re standing beside him. like a stranger. he shifts slightly, angles his body toward you the way he always does when someone’s got a camera pointed at him, easy and practiced and distant. your breath hitches, just a little. “okay—one, two, three,” the girl says, and the shutter clicks. you smile like it doesn’t feel like your heart just gave a quiet, tired lurch in your chest. when they hand you the phone back, you murmur a thank you, eyes already flicking down to the screen before they’ve even turned away. and there it is. the first photo of you and seunghyun that anyone has ever taken. the only one. and it hits you harder than you expect, the weight of that. you’re standing side by side, the two of you framed perfectly in the center, golden light spilling from a nearby lamppost. there’s a careful few inches between you, no warmth. and that’s what crushes you. the fact that this is it. this is all you have. a full year, a whole relationship, and the only image that exists of you two together is one where he pretended you were just another fan. it doesn’t even look like you know each other. you’re starting to hate this. you want to be able to post a picture with him, you want to tell your friends the truth when they ask who you’ve been seeing. you want to kiss him on the sidewalk, you want him to say you’re his girlfriend when someone asks who you are. you want to be acknowledged. and you hate that this is the thing that’s undoing you—not a fight, not some betrayal—but a photo. a dumb, fucking photo that should’ve been something sweet to keep. but instead, it’s just another reminder of how invisible you’ve had to become in order to stay his.

you slide into the car after the girls finally walk away, your heart still beating too fast, your phone still warm in your palm. the air inside is cooler than outside, the ac humming low. he gets in beside you a second later, door shutting with a soft thud, and he doesn’t look at you. he just runs a hand through his hair, exhales, taps twice on the window, and the driver pulls out. the silence stretches, thick and oddly loud despite the hum of the engine. you’re still staring at the picture—your mouth curved in a tight, forced smile. then, without looking at you, he says, “you should probably delete that.” you blink slowly, thumb hovering just over the screen, and then tilt the phone slightly in his direction. “why?” you ask, tone deliberately flat. “it’s a nice picture.” you don’t even like it. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, just a flicker of irritation behind it. “you know why.” you shrug, playing dumb. “i mean, it’s not that bad. we’re coworkers after all. and i think i look okay. you look great too, it’s cute.” you can feel his patience shift. “don’t do that.” “do what?” you ask, your voice all sugar. “i just want to keep a perfectly good picture of my favorite idol.” “this isn’t funny,” he says with that clipped sort of frustration he uses when he thinks you’re being unreasonable. you glance over. “who said i was joking?” he doesn’t respond at first—he just shakes his head slightly, jaw tight. you know that look. you’ve learned to recognize all of them by now. “you knew this is what it had to be,” he mutters eventually, as if that justifies anything. “i know—i know i’m supposed to stay quiet and off to the side. i’m really good at it, aren’t i?” you let out a little laugh that doesn’t sound like one. “i didn’t even flinch when you told those girls i was just a fan. really selling it.” he glances at you then, and there’s something in his expression that looks almost like guilt, but he still says, “i had to say something.” “yeah, you had to. god forbid they see you standing next to me and start making assumptions.” his eyes narrow, and you can feel the irritation radiating off him now. “don’t make it sound like i’m ashamed of you.” “aren’t you, though?” the words come out before you can soften them, too sharp to take back. “because that’s what it feels like.” he sighs, rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to ground himself. “you knew what this was when we started.” “yeah, i did,” you say. “i just didn’t think it would still feel like this after a year.” “feel like what?” he snaps, his voice a little too loud in the tight space of the car. “like we have to be careful with something that could ruin both of us?” “ruin you, you mean.” “you think this is easy for me? you think i like this?” “no. i think you like me, until someone’s watching.” he shakes his head. “jesus christ, you’re being—” “what?” you cut him off. “dramatic? needy?” your chest feels tight now, your throat hot. “you’re thirty-six, right? maybe don’t fuck a twenty-three-year-old if you don’t want someone who actually gives a shit about being hidden.” low blow. “that’s not what this is,” he says through his teeth. “don’t fucking reduce it to that.” you don’t back down. “then what is it, seunghyun? because from where i’m sitting, it looks a lot like i’m good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be seen with.”

he leans back like he’s trying to give himself space, but there’s nowhere to go in the car, and his jaw is tight again, his hands clenched in his lap. “this is exactly why i didn’t want to get involved. because you’d start asking for shit i can’t give.” oh! your stomach drops, but you don’t let it show. you nod slowly, like that’s all the confirmation you needed. “right,” you murmur, voice going cold. “thanks for clearing that up.” “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “baby, that’s not what i meant—” “no, you did,” you say, staring straight ahead now, your voice steady but low, like you’re holding something in your mouth you don’t trust yourself to swallow. “you did.” there’s a beat of silence—you’re waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. so you keep going. “you asked me to be your girlfriend, seunghyun. back in barbados. don’t act like this was all me pushing for more. you made it official. you said you wanted that. you said it was already that, we were just putting a name on it.” he exhales, like the memory is inconvenient now. “and i meant it.” “really? because it doesn’t feel like it. it feels like i’m asking for too much.” “because you are,” he snaps, defensive, like he’s been holding it in for too long. “you think i can just post a photo or walk around holding your hand and people will clap for us? i’m not some rising star with a clean slate. half the world fucking hates me. they’ve hated me for years.”

you let the weight of his words sit for a second. he’s right. you know that. but still. “i understand,” you say, finally, and your voice is quieter now. “i do. i get why you’re scared. i get that you’ve been through shit i’ll probably never fully understand. but what i don’t get is how long you think this is supposed to go on.” he doesn’t answer. “because people hate you? okay. they’ve hated you. and maybe they always will. but does that mean you’re just gonna live like this forever? hiding? pretending the people you care about don’t exist? because that’s not protection, hyun. that’s punishment. and i’m the one getting punished for something i didn’t even do.” “this isn’t about punishment.” “no? then what is it? i’ve lied for you. i’ve kept quiet. i’ve kept my distance. but how much longer do you expect me to do this for?” he shakes his head, like you’re missing the point, like you’re being young and idealistic and selfish—which only pisses you off more. “you think it’s that simple?” he says, voice tight. “you think i can just undo everything that comes with who i am, and suddenly be the kind of boyfriend you want?” his hands flex against his knees, the exhaustion starting to bleed into every edge of his voice. “i’m too old for this.” again with that. you blink. “for what, exactly?” “for this kind of drama,” he mutters. “for tiptoeing around your feelings every time reality kicks in. i can’t do what you want me do to, alright? not when things are finally starting to get better.” “so what? i’m just supposed to stay quiet forever? wait for the perfect moment that’s never gonna come?” he shrugs helplessly, and that’s somehow worse than anything else. “i don’t know. maybe.” you laugh. not because it’s funny, but because it’s so fucking sad that this is where you are—a year in, and he still doesn’t see a version of this where you’re allowed to exist beside him. “you’re not too old,” you say, bitterly now, the hurt curling up and turning sour in your throat. “you’re just too scared. and that… that’s fucking sad, hyun.”

the next morning is thick with silence—no texts, no calls, not even a half-hearted meme sent as a peace offering like he sometimes does when he wants to pretend everything’s fine without saying so. you barely slept, but you still wake up with that stiff ache behind your eyes, like your body’s been carrying tension in places you didn’t realize until now. you check your phone out of habit, even though you know better, and sure enough—nothing from him. you don’t reach out. not because you’re trying to punish him or be dramatic, but because you genuinely don’t know what you’d say. and you’re tired of being the one who keeps swallowing things to keep the peace. you go through your day like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. everything feels a little off. you make your coffee, stare blankly at your laptop, reply to some emails, ignore your mom when she complains about how long you took in the shower, scroll through instagram and tiktok, read a little… it’s just past noon when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with his name.

Hi. Are you busy?

no, why? what’s up?

I don’t like when we’re like this

me neither

I could’ve handled things better last night. I’m sorry.

I was tense because they mentioned Big Bang.

ik, it’s okay, i’m sorry too

i just wanted you to hear me

I did. And I understand.

I just need time. I’m not ready for anything public.

okay

Okay?

i just want you to answer something honestly

no bullshit

Of course.

do you see yourself with me in a few years? like, really with me. not hiding.

Yes, I do. But not right now.

i didn’t say right now, i said in a few years

I know, I know.

Yes.

okay, i just needed to know that

because i can wait, but i can’t wait for something that’s never going to happen

I know.

And I wouldn’t ask you to.

I need you to trust me.

i trust you

Thank you, baby.

I want to see you❤️ I’m leaving again tomorrow.

ik ;( i’m gonna miss you

I’m gonna miss you too, baby.

I’m sending my driver to pick you up now🫰🏼

Is that okay?

yeah okay :)🩷

you don’t plan on having sex the moment you walk through the door, but that’s exactly what ends up happening. you barely register the way he pulls you in, or how you end up stumbling backward into the bedroom with your fingers tugging at his shirt and his hands already under yours, hungry and fast and careful all at once, like he’s not sure if he wants to fuck you or apologize again first. everything moves quickly but also somehow slow, too—both of you half-undressed by the time you reach the bed and he’s pushing you gently onto your back. he eats you out, fucks you slow at first, then faster, then slow again when your thighs start shaking too much. he tells you to look at him while he’s inside you, and you do, because you want him to see what he does to you, want him to see all of it. it’s the best sex you’ve had in your entire relationship, like your bodies are just trying to make up for every hour you spent apart thinking maybe this was the one fight you wouldn’t come back from. and when you cum the second time with his name on your lips, he says it. so close to your skin you almost think you imagined it. “i love you.”

the words are there, hanging heavy in the space between your chests. and for a second, you freeze—not because you’re surprised that he feels it, but because you’re surprised he said it. because he’s never said it before. not in a year. not in the hundreds of times you thought he might. and you never asked, never wanted to make him say something he wasn’t ready for, never wanted it to come from pressure or guilt or some awkward moment where he’d choke on the words and resent you for dragging them out of him. but now, he’s the one who says it first, and you know he means it because his whole body softens after, like he’s been holding that one sentence under his tongue for months and it finally slipped out without permission. you don’t say anything right away. you just run your fingers through his damp purple hair, press a kiss to his sweaty temple, breathe him in like you always do when you’re trying not to fall apart. and then, when your voice works again, you say it back—because god, it’s about time. you stay wrapped up in each other for a while after, skin warm and sticky, his heartbeat finally slowing under your palm, and even though your legs are shaking and you’re ninety percent sure you’ve pulled a muscle somewhere in your back, you don’t move. you just lie there and let it sink in.

for a while, everything is soft and steady, like the storm passed and left something gentler behind. you’re texting constantly, calling when your time zones line up. seunghyun tells you he loves you more often now—carefully, like he’s still getting used to how the words feel in his mouth—but he says it. and you never ask for more than he can give, and he never pushes you away like he used to. things are good… until they’re not (again). you’re the first person in your department to see it. a short, painfully bland email flagged high priority, buried under a dozen others in your inbox. ‘effective immediately, the dearmoon project has been suspended indefinitely. this decision comes in response to the ongoing uncertainty surrounding the starship launch schedule. a full internal briefing is being prepared. please do not share or discuss this information outside of your team until official communication is released. yusaku maezawa will be arriving on-site to meet with the full crew and key personnel later this week. further details to follow.’ your stomach sinks before your brain fully processes it. you read it twice, three times. you’re still sitting at your desk when the rest of the notifications start going out—emails, alerts, whispers down the hall. someone walks past your office a few minutes later with their phone pressed to their ear, saying, “wait—what do you mean canceled?” and that’s when you know it’s real. you stand up so fast your chair scrapes the floor, heart racing as you leave your desk, phone already in your hand. seunghyun picks up on the fourth ring, groggy. he must’ve been sleeping. “hey, princess,” he mumbles, voice thick. “everything okay?” “no,” you say, stepping outside into the texas heat, the sun suddenly feeling way too bright. “i just got an internal notice. the project’s being suspended.” he goes quiet. you press your fingers to your temple, still pacing. “they haven’t told the crew yet. they’re about to send out an official statement. everyone’s gonna know in like… an hour.” “wait—what—what do you mean suspended?” he’s more awake now. “like, paused? or—” “they didn’t say. just ‘indefinitely.’” you pause. “and maezawa’s flying in. he wants to meet with everyone in person. full crew meeting this weekend. they want everyone present.” “fuck,” he mutters. “you need to come back.” “i will,” he says. “well—i don’t know. i’ll see what i can do. i’ll try to be there.” “it’s important.” “i know, baby.” and then it’s quiet again, just your breathing in your ears, your mind spinning faster than your mouth can keep up. you don’t know what this means. not for the mission, not for your job, not for him. but you know it means change.

the meeting is held two days after the news drop. maezawa makes a short speech, all polished disappointment and regretful phrasing, and everyone listens in stunned silence, trying to decide whether to be shocked or just pissed off. seunghyun sits near the back, arms crossed, and from a distance he looks perfectly composed—cool, like this isn’t affecting him at all—but the second you’re alone again, he starts pacing and muttering under his breath about how “they could’ve at least fucking consulted us,” and “we wasted over a year prepping for this.” your mom takes the news like a soldier. she’s reassigned to another high-level project at starbase almost immediately, and to your surprise (and slight guilt), so are you: a new position on a systems coordination team for satellite payloads, which isn’t exactly your dream, but it’s solid and most importantly, it means you still have a job. seunghyun, though, has nothing left in texas. the mission’s over, and there’s no real reason for him to stay. the filming of squid game isn’t even done yet—he’s still got a month left of production in seoul—and he’s already talking about moving back permanently, which makes sense: the job’s done, texas was temporary, and korea is home. and you get it, but that doesn’t stop the rising panic in your chest when you hear him say it out loud, when the quiet reality starts to hit that this thing you’ve been holding together with duct tape is about to hit a wall you can’t ignore.

for a few days you walk around half-waiting for the breakup. but the breakup never comes. you spend the weekend in this weird kind of limbo—your body curled into his at night, his fingers on your skin, both of you pretending nothing’s changing even though everything clearly is. he tells you the night before he’s set to fly back to korea, mid-conversation, somewhere between talking about the mess at starbase and the fact that he forgot to pack his chargers again, which would be funny if your heart wasn’t already thudding unevenly from the way he’s been moving around you all day—like someone tying up invisible loose ends. you’re sitting on the edge of his bed putting some lotion on, and then he says it: “you should come with me.” and for a second, you don’t register it—your brain catches on the words but doesn’t fully process the shape of them, doesn’t quite believe that this is how he’s choosing to say something that might completely change your life. so you just blink at him, and when you ask “what?” it’s not because you didn’t hear him—it’s because you want to give him a second to take it back, but he doesn’t back down. he just shrugs a little, like it’s a logical next step instead of the emotional earthquake it is, and says, “come to seoul. you know i’m moving back after filming. there’s nothing left for me here. and if we keep doing this—this long distance thing, we’re gonna lose it. i can feel it already. and i don’t want to.” and you don’t know what to say to that, because you do want to be with him, you do, but this isn’t just moving in together, this is leaving behind your job, your family, your friends, the small, carefully-built life you spent the last two years crawling toward… and he says it so simply, like it’s the only thing that makes sense, like your entire world is something he expects you to pack neatly into a suitcase because love is supposed to be enough. and maybe it is. maybe it will be. but right now, you just sit there in the too-quiet space between you, wondering how long you can keep pretending that loving seunghyun doesn’t sometimes feel like choosing between him and the rest of your life.

but you still choose him. not right away. not without three nights of overthinking yourself into a stomachache, but eventually, after the noise settles and your heart stops trying to talk over your brain, you come to the same quiet answer you’ve always known was waiting underneath: it’s him. it’s always him. when the moment comes, you tell him through text, typed out at 2:14 a.m. while you’re lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, your phone burning a little in your hand.

i’ll move in with you :)

you stare at it for a full minute before you hit send, reread it twice after it delivers, and then immediately toss your phone onto the other side of the bed like that’ll somehow undo the life-altering choice you just made in a single text. you pick it up when you get a notification with his reply.

What?

Really?😊❤️

yessiiir!

i love you, old man

I love you, princess🌙❤️

I’m very happy🫰🏼

And I miss you a lot

i miss you too

but i’m kinda scared tho, ngl 💔

he calls you immediately, and you can hear the relief in his voice—the way he breathes out like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until now. he just says “we’ll figure it out, baby. i can’t wait to have you here with me. i love you.”

the next part is harder. telling your mom feels like walking into a trap you know you built yourself. she’s on the couch when you bring it up, sipping tea and scrolling through some mission status reports even though she swears she’s not a workaholic, and you’re sitting across from her rehearsing the opening line in your head like you’re about to confess a felony. “so…” you clear your throat “i’m moving to korea.” you say it as casually as you can, all breezy and upbeat, like you’re announcing a vacation and not the start of a new life, and she freezes for half a second before she looks up, squinting like she misheard you. “you—you’re what?” and then you launch into the half-truth you’ve been crafting all week—about how ever since you and seunghyun became friends, you’ve learned so much about the culture, the language, the food, how you’ve never really traveled and this feels like the right time, how it’s temporary (you stress that part because that woman is terrifying sometimes), and how you’ve already looked into a possible internal transfer through the company’s international partnership program, which is technically not a lie if you squint hard enough. she nods slowly, lips tight. “well, if this is what you want…” she says. and you just smile. “it is.”

she sees it coming before you say a word. she knows you—knows the way you over-explain when you’re trying to lie, the way your voice lifts a little too high when you’re avoiding something. your mom’s suspected it for months. you always got defensive when seunghyun came up in conversation. you started wearing nicer things to work. you checked your phone like something important was always waiting for you, but never shared what. and she knew the way he looked at you—amused in that vaguely inappropriate way that men look at girls they think they’ve figured out. and now here you are, talking about new chapters and traveling and getting out of your comfort zone, and she’s supposed to sit there and smile like she doesn’t know exactly what—or who—you’re chasing. of course she let you speak, nodded and even smiled a little because she’s polite like that. but inside, she’s already decided: you’re full of shit. and worse, you think she’s stupid enough to believe you. you forget who you’re talking to! she didn’t raise you to be this naive. she didn’t spend her career climbing to the top of one of the most competitive aerospace programs in the world just to watch you throw it all away for a man. a man she’s sat across from in meetings. a man who smiled at her, shook her hand, called her ma’am, while fucking her daughter behind her back. so when you go to bed that night, she opens your laptop with intention. she’s not pretending it’s about concern anymore, she wants to find proof. something she can use. she starts with your photos, then your notes, then she checks the messages, searches his name. and it doesn’t take long. because of course you saved everything. she scrolls through the texts. ‘i’ll move in with you :)’ … ‘I love you, princess🌙❤️’ … ‘call me when you’re free plss i miss you, old man ;(( wanna see your stupid face’ … ‘Happy birthday, baby. You’re everything. Wish I could be there.🫰🏼But you should be getting something soon. Check your front door.’ … ‘still can’t walk right, thanks!👎’ … ‘You’ve got no idea how many nights I’ve fallen asleep hard just thinking about your mouth. You make me so horny, baby.’ … ‘you looked so good on that meeting, i wanted to crawl under the table🩷’ … ‘Got the flights to Barbados!😎🙂Private villa too.’ … ‘thank u for flying me to seoul!!! :))) i feel so spoiled it’s actually embarrassing, help. and i don’t think i’ve thanked u enough😭 also ur friends are v nice! but one of them def knows we’re fucking lol’ … ‘Happy one year anniversary❤️😘 You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.’ … ‘thinking bout you! :) i hope filming is going okay, baby’

she wants to puke. her stomach turns, not from shock but from how deep the lie runs. not weeks. not months. a full year. a year of lying to her face building this entire parallel life. a year of her daughter playing house with a man almost twice her age and absolutely old enough to know better. and now you’re about to leave the country for him. abandon everything for someone who not only kept you hidden, but encouraged you to throw it all away, too. her jaw clenches. her fingers twitch. and for a moment she just stares at the screen, the glowing proof of how completely you’ve betrayed her—and for what? for him? and this is the part that really pisses her off—not the secret itself, but how convinced you are that this is some grand, defiant kind of love. like you’re the main character in a sweeping drama and not a twenty-three-year-old girl following a man halfway across the world because he made you feel special in the dark. like you didn’t have every opportunity right here. like she didn’t set you up for something better. you’re throwing away your future for someone who doesn’t even claim you in public. and she can’t decide what stings more—your stupidity, or his nerve. she sits there for a long time, long enough for the screen to go black, and then she closes the laptop, folds her hands in her lap, and starts thinking. because if you’re not going to stop yourself, she will.

your gate is loud, full of crying toddlers and rolling suitcases and the dull voice of the airline agent calling boarding groups over a crackling speaker, but none of it really sinks in—you’re in that pre-flight fog, headphones on, phone half-charged, texting seunghyun stupid things about how you better be greeted with food and a kiss when you land. he hasn’t replied yet, but you figure he’s busy, maybe still on set or in traffic, so you scroll a little and sip your coffee. and that’s when your phone buzzes—his name lighting up your lock screen, followed by something that makes your stomach dip like you’ve just missed a step.

What the fuck is this?

at first, you think maybe it’s about a message you sent. maybe a text that didn’t land the way you thought—but when you unlock your phone, you see the link. you tap it. and it’s immediate—the headline slaps you in the face before the page even finishes loading: “FORMER BIG BANG MEMBER CHOI SEUNGHYUN (T.O.P) REPORTEDLY DATING 23-YEAR-OLD—SOURCE SAYS YEAR-LONG RELATIONSHIP BEGAN DURING DEARMOON PROJECT” your mouth goes dry as you scroll, and even though the wi-fi keeps lagging and the article loads in patches, it’s enough to make your stomach twist, because they have your face. full front-facing, well-lit, smiling in a selfie you posted to your story months ago, wearing the silk pajama set seunghyun also owns because he bought both. and now it’s a side-by-side comparison, captioned something like ‘coincidence?’ with a screenshot of his pajama from that live he did. there are other photos too—zoomed-in shots of your jewelry, the cartier bracelet he gave you for your birthday that you thought looked subtle enough to pass as a dupe, a blurry reflection of your silhouette in a window that someone must’ve enhanced within an inch of its pixels, because it sure as hell wasn’t that obvious when he posted it. they know about barbados, the villa, the timing of your ‘week off,’ the flights, the seoul trip you told no one about. they’re questioning how you can afford your clothes, your nails, your jewelry, as if the only possible explanation is that you’re getting fully sponsored by a thirty-six-year-old man. and your heart starts racing, because how the fuck do they know this? how do they have dates? how do they have details?

i don’t know

You don’t know?

i don’t

where’s this even coming from???

You tell me.

what

you think i did this????

wtf

i’m literally at the gate right now, i board in like 10 minutes

Then how the fuck do they know where we went? What we did?

i don’t know????????

They know things only you could’ve told someone.

are you serious rn, seunghyun??

i didn’t leak anything

and i didn’t talk to anyone

Then explain it to me.

hello???? what’s not clicking?? i can’t explain something i didn’t do

i don’t know how this happened, but it wasn’t me

Then how the fuck does the internet know shit only you and I knew?

i’m fucking telling you!!!! I DON’T KNOOOOW DUDEEEE

Quit the attitude.

so stop accusing me, thanks!

you should quit the attitude too btw

it wasn’t me

i would never do that to you, seunghyun

you know that

That’s not good enough right now.

and what do you want me to say??

i’m standing at the gate shaking and you’re being a fucking asshole to me for no reason

like i haven’t been lying to everyone i love for you

And now it’s all out there.

they’re boarding, i have to go

please don’t make up your mind about me before i even get there

please

wait until i land and we’ll talk properly, okay?

i love you, baby

you’re there in the plane, phone in hand, face burning like you’ve been physically exposed, like someone reached through your screen and dragged your relationship out into the open with a pair of dirty hands, and there’s nothing you can do. you land in seoul fifteen hours later, eyes sore from sleeping in short bursts, your heart beating faster with every slow step off the plane. immigration feels endless. baggage claim feels worse. you check your phone the second you get signal back—nothing from him. not a single message. just the same conversation frozen where you left it. your eyes drag across every face until you spot his driver standing off to the side, holding that same discreet little sign like he always does. you force a smile, greet the driver with a soft hello and a bow, and wheel your suitcase to the car without asking too many questions. it’s not until you’re inside—seatbelt clicked, door shut—that you finally ask. “where’s seunghyun?” he always comes with the driver to pick you up. always. the driver glances at you in the mirror. “he said he had work. asked me to bring you straight to his place.” you nod like it doesn’t sting. you stare out the window the entire ride, trying not to think too much about the way your hands won’t stop fidgeting in your lap. because if he didn’t come to pick you up, then maybe he’s still angry.

you’re standing in front of his door when it starts to hit you, when the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settles fully into your chest. you press the buzzer once, gently, even though you know he’s expecting you. you stand still for another full minute, maybe more, breathing slow and shallow, trying to keep your hands from shaking. and just as your stomach starts to twist with the awful, embarrassing thought that he might not answer at all—that he might actually leave you standing there like punishment—the door finally opens. he’s dressed down—sweatpants and a t-shirt, purple hair slightly messy. he doesn’t even gesture for you to come in but you step inside anyway. the silence between you is thick enough to bite through as the door shuts behind you with a soft click. you step into him without thinking, arms slipping around his waist in a soft, searching hug, and after a long second, he wraps his arms around you too, but it’s not the kind of hug you’ve missed—it’s stiff, like he’s already somewhere else in his head; you tilt your face up and kiss him anyway, just a small press of your lips to his, hoping it’ll soften something between you, but when he kisses you back it feels automatic, and when you pull away, your heart already knows what your brain hasn’t caught up to yet—he’s not very happy to see you. “i thought you were coming with the driver,” you say after a few seconds, voice small. “i missed you, you know?” he doesn’t answer, just turns and starts walking toward the living room, voice low and empty as he throws over his shoulder, “how was the flight?” you stare at the back of his head for a beat, then follow. “fine,” you say. “long.” he hums in response—the kind of sound you’d expect from a stranger you’re making small talk with, not the man who once kissed every inch of your body and whispered how much he loved you against your skin.

he sits down on the couch without looking at you, elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly like he’s trying to collect himself or maybe just avoid the sight of you, and you hover there for a moment in the, unsure if you’re supposed to follow. when you finally sit, the distance between you feels bigger than the flight. you sit in silence for longer than you want to admit, glancing over at him, waiting for him to express what he’s feeling. but he doesn’t. so you speak, soft, like you’re testing the waters. “are you okay?” he doesn’t meet your eyes, just says, “what do you think?” you let out a quiet breath, more to steady yourself than anything, and for a moment you think about saying something gentle, but there’s already a wall between you, so instead you shift slightly where you sit, eyes still on him. “i didn’t do it.” he exhales through his nose, sharp, the kind of sound that’s halfway between disbelief and exhaustion. “someone did.” “yeah. but not me.” he doesn’t reply at first, gaze fixed on the floor like it might open up and hand him the answer he’s looking for. and then—“i don’t believe that.” the words hit like a slap. because he says them so plainly… like they’re just a fact. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. you’ve played this moment out in your head—him being angry, confused, upset—but never once did you imagine he’d look you in the eye and just… choose not to believe you. “you don’t believe me?” you say, and your voice breaks a little on the last word. “you wanted this to be public months ago. so maybe you got tired of waiting.” oh! the fucking nerve this man has to say that like you haven’t bent yourself backward for over a year to protect him, to protect this. “what—are you fucking serious? you really think i leaked our entire relationship?” “i don’t know what to think anymore.” he shrugs. “you wanted to stop hiding. now you don’t have to.” you laugh, because it’s so fucking absurd that it’s either that or scream. “wow. that’s where we’re at? i move to a whole new country for you, lie to my own mother for you, rearrange my entire fucking life to be with you, and the second something goes wrong, you act like i’m out here trying to fuck you over? for what? why would i do that?”

he shakes his head, voice rising now. “i don’t fucking know! maybe you wanted to stop lying, maybe you thought it would make things easier if it was just—out there. i don’t know, okay? i don’t know!” your mouth drops open, stunned, because it’s like he’s rewriting your entire history in real time, erasing every quiet sacrifice you made to protect him, every time you swallowed a question or smiled through the ache of being invisible. “really? this is fucking unbelievable, hyun! you—you’re being unbelievable.” “i told you why i couldn’t give you what you wanted yet,” he continues, angrier than you’ve seen him in a long time. “i told you from the beginning—i warned you what it would be like, what i could handle.” “no,” you say, pointing at him now. “what you said was that you couldn’t make it public yet. yet, as in not now, not never, and i respected that! i waited, i stayed quiet, i made myself small for you, and you—” your throat tightens suddenly, your chest rising and falling too fast. “you really think i’d burn all of that down on purpose? after everything?” “i don’t know what to think, okay? i’m freaking the fuck out, this was supposed to be private! and now the whole fucking world is talking about it, picking it apart, dissecting you, dissecting me, tying it back to all the shit i’ve tried to put behind me—” “and somehow that’s my fault?” you cut in. “you think i wanted that? you think i wanted to be the girl everyone’s calling a gold digger and a hooker? you think this is what i wanted?”

he starts pacing the room, back and forth across the same stretch of hardwood like if he just keeps moving the problem will solve itself, like he can walk the discomfort out of his body. and maybe that’s why you say it—like a fragile idea you’re not even sure you believe in yet, something you’re still trying to convince yourself could be true. “maybe this doesn’t have to be the end of the world,” you say, and your voice isn’t angry anymore, it’s tired, worn down to the bone. “maybe this is the worst way it could’ve happened, yeah. but now that it has—now that people know—maybe it’s… i don’t know. maybe it’s a chance to stop hiding. to just—to be normal.” you look at him, hoping to see even a flicker of something—anything that might tell you he hears what you’re actually saying. but instead, his expression twists into something unfamiliar, and he lets out a breathy laugh with no humor in it. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” your stomach tightens. “this is good news to you?” he asks. “this whole thing worked out exactly how you wanted, right?” “what?” you say, blinking. “no—i didn’t say—” but he’s not listening anymore. his hands fly up in frustration as he mutters something sharp under his breath in korean—words you can’t catch but don’t need to, because you know that tone, you know that edge in his voice, and you know when he’s cursing. “hey—don’t do that!” he doesn’t stop pacing. “hyun, don’t fucking do that! don’t start speaking korean to me!” he scoffs, bitter, and then another string of angry words slip out like a reflex, too quick for your brain to untangle but not quick enough to miss the way they’re aimed at you, even if not directly. “stop it! stop—seunghyun! i can’t fucking understand you!” nope. he continues. and now he’s doing it on purpose, which only makes your eyes water. “fuck off!” you snap, taking a step forward now. “speak to me in english, asshole! stop talking around me like i’m not in the fucking room!” that gets him to turn. “i’m not—” “yes! yes, you are!” you shoot back, fury crackling now. “you do this every time you don’t want me to know what the fuck you’re saying, every time you’re pissed but too much of a coward to say it to my damn face.” “don’t call me a coward,” he snaps. “then stop hiding behind a language you know i don’t fucking understand! i’m not fucking stupid, i know what cursing sounds like!”

your voice breaks, and suddenly the tears are there—blurring your vision before you can even try to blink them back. you press your palms to your eyes, cursing under your breath, trying to stop it, but it’s too late. “i didn’t do this,” you whisper, sobbing. “i didn’t fucking do this. stop—stop treating me like this.” his face shifts the moment the sob hits your throat, the sound of it cracking something in him. he exhales and steps forward instinctively. “fuck—” he mutters, under his breath now, softer. “don’t cry, baby. please don’t cry.” his hand hovers near your arm but doesn’t land. like he knows he lost the right to touch you somewhere back in the middle of this mess. “i’m sorry. i didn’t want to hurt you. i don’t want to see you like this.” but the apology is heavy with something else—the anger still buzzing under his skin like a second heartbeat. he runs a hand down his face, eyes closing for a second. “but you have to understand,” he continues. “i can’t shake the feeling that someone let it out. and i don’t know who else it could’ve been.” “you still think it was me,” you say quietly. “even now? after all of this?” “i don’t know what to think. i want to believe you. i do. but it’s a fucking mess. i’m asking you to understand what this is doing to me,” he says, desperate now, voice cracking under the weight of everything he hasn’t said. “i love you. i’m scared. and i’m fucking angry, too. and i don’t know where to put it, and—” he cuts himself off, eyes shining. seunghyun exhales hard, the kind of breath that drags through his whole body, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter—it’s the voice he uses when he’s already made up his mind about something painful. “i think we need space,” he says. “everything’s out of control right now, and this… whatever this is between us, it’s not helping.”

your heart kicks hard against your chest. “what are you saying?” “i just think—i think maybe we need to take a step back. figure things out separately.” “are you—are you breaking up with me?” you ask. he looks at you. and the way he hesitates tells you everything. you take a step back, the tears coming back. “oh my god. oh my fucking god, seunghyun.” you turn away from him, hands trembling, wiping at your face like that’ll somehow help you get a grip on yourself. he takes a few steps toward you, stops, then sighs. “you don’t get it,” he says, his tone clipped. “this couldn’t have come at a worse time.” you spin back toward him. “worse time for what?” he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. “for everything! squid game 2 is airing in december. i’m already walking into it with a target on my back because of the character i’m playing, and now this shit—now they’ve got a real-life scandal to feed off of too.” “wow. okay.” he keeps going. “you don’t understand the pressure. i’ve worked so hard to get back to this point—to even have this kind of opportunity again. and now the timing’s fucked.” “you think i don’t understand pressure?” you snap. “i gave up everything to be here with you! everything! and you’re standing there acting like i’m a fucking stain on your reputation instead of your fucking girlfriend.” “don’t twist this.” “i’m not twisting anything!” your voice breaks again, high and hoarse. “i’m reacting to the fact that you’ve made it very clear what matters most to you right now, and it’s not me.” “you don’t understand what this show means. it’s—this is a second chance. and i’ve worked too fucking hard to have it fall apart because of—” “because of me?” you scoff. “you were never going to take it, hyun! remember? you were terrified of playing that character, of opening that part of yourself, and i’m the one who talked you into it. i told you it would be worth it. i told you to go for it even though it scared you, and now you’re throwing it back at me like i’ve fucked your career!” “because this is my name on the line!” you cross your arms, eyes stinging again, furious at the way his voice is getting louder, harder, like you’re the unreasonable one here. “i’m trying to protect my future! and you’re acting like i’ve just kicked your puppy.” “don’t talk to me like that!” “then stop acting like a fucking child!”

your jaw drops. he sees it—how much that lands—and he hesitates for a second, like maybe he regrets it. but not enough to take it back. “i gave up everything for you, you asshole. and you still talk to me like i’m some immature little girl who doesn’t get how the world works.” “because you don’t!” he snaps. “excuse me?” “you don’t get what this means, what it costs to have a life like mine.” “i do get it. don’t act like i haven’t been right there—next to you—for over a fucking year, hyun! i’ve seen what it costs, i’ve seen how this life eats you alive some days. i’ve held you when you couldn’t sleep, i wiped away your damn tears. i’ve stayed quiet, i’ve kept secrets, i’ve swallowed so much shit just to protect you—and you think i don’t get it? seriously? i’ve fucking lived it, seunghyun!” “you think that’s the same?” he fires back, eyes narrowing. “you being there when shit got hard—you think that means you understand it? you’re twenty-three. you haven’t lived through what i have. you’ve barely started your life. this—it’s different for you.” you let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “oh, so now it’s about my age?” “that’s not what i—” “no, go ahead. keep talking. because it’s fucking hilarious. you didn’t care about my age when you were fucking me raw and cumming inside of me.” his jaw tightens. “don’t.” “don’t what? don’t remind you? because i fucking remember all of it. every time you’ve called me baby, every time you’ve said you missed me, every time you’ve begged me to ride you because i was so tight you couldn’t think straight—was i too young then?” “stop it,” he growls. “that’s not what this is.” “isn’t it?” you demand, eyes burning. “you’re the one who told me none of that shit mattered. and now you’re flipping it, practically calling me stupid, acting like it’s all too complicated for me to understand. because you’re terrified people are gonna call you what you’ve already been calling yourself in your own fucking head.” he stares at you for a second, eyes narrowed. “and what the fuck do you think that is?” “that you’re sick,” you say. “that you—that you’re fucked in the head. you’ve been punishing yourself for years, hyun, and you cling to that. it gives you an excuse to push people away so they don’t have to see who you really are.” “you think i want to be like this?!” he shouts. “i think you don’t know how to be anything else!” oh, that hurt. that hurt a lot. he takes a step back, like the words physically knock him off balance, tears pooling in this eyes. “you act like if you don’t preempt the world’s hate, it’ll swallow you whole, so you push people away before they get the chance. you make me the villain before anyone else can. and now you’re so deep in your own fucking shame—in your own guilt and paranoia—you’d rather believe i betrayed you than consider the fact that i love you. because i do. i love you so fucking much it hurts. so if you wanna break up with me, then fine, hyun. do it. because i’m fucking tired.”

it hurts to say it. because some part of you still wants him to stop you, to reach for you, to take back everything he’s said and cry in your arms and tell you he doesn’t mean it, that he’s just scared and tired and overwhelmed and that he still wants this, wants you. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t speak at first. just stands there, breathing hard, blinking like he’s trying to see through what you just said. he heard every word but can’t seem to hold onto any of them, can’t figure out where to begin or how to stop this thing from crashing down. “i love you too,” he says. “but you don’t trust me. you don’t believe—” “but i do love you. you know i do.” your heart aches. “then why are you doing this?” “because i don’t think i know how to love you the way you want to be loved, the way you deserve. i thought i did—i wanted to. but i can’t. and i think if we keep going, things will only get worse.” “so that’s it?” you say, your voice shaky. “you’d rather let me go than figure it out together?” “no. it’s not that simple. don’t make it sound like i want this, because i don’t.” you blink through the sting in your eyes. you’re crying, but you’re not sure when it started. “but you do want this, hyun. you’re the one ending it.” “because i think it’s the right thing to do,” he says, frustrated. “right for who?” he doesn’t answer. “right for who, hyun?” you repeat. “because it’s sure as hell not fucking right for me.” “for both of us.” you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “don’t lie, you’re doing this for you.” his eyes flick up to yours, and they’re tired. “i’ve spent years trying to put my life back together. trying to build a life that doesn’t make me want to kill myself. and this—” he gestures vaguely. “this is setting it off again. you need to understand that.” “i would’ve stood next to you through it,” you say. “if you’d let me.” “i know,” he says. “but i can’t—i can’t do it. i can’t do this.” he pauses. then adds quietly, “i’ll book you a hotel. i’ll pay for everything. you don’t have to go back to texas right away, but you shouldn’t stay here… i’m sorry.” and he’s already pulling out his phone, not meeting your eyes. and you nod, even though everything inside you is screaming.

he’s quick to block you. you find out the next morning, still laying on the hotel bed he booked for you, surrounded by pristine sheets. and maybe you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, he ended it—but it still makes you cry for two hours straight. you stay in seoul for a few more days. not because you want to, but because the idea of rushing home feels worse. the suite is beautiful and you barely leave it. you eat toast and drink water and lie on your side for hours, just staring, letting the weight of everything press down on you until it feels hard to move. and you cry. you cry a lot. still shocked by how quickly things ended. how he decided to throw away a year of love in a single night and left you with nothing but a suitcase and the memory of the way he looked when he said i love you and i can’t do this in the same breath. a few days later, it starts showing up on your feed—not from him directly, of course, but through tiktoks and screenshots, fan accounts posting cropped images of his comment section under a recent photo, where someone asked if the rumors were true and he replied: ‘Don’t believe everything you read.’ another asks if he was really in a year-long relationship with a younger girl, and he writes, ‘Stop spreading this bullshit.’ and the story he posts hours later—plain white text on black background—feels like a final punch to the gut: ‘No, I’m not dating anyone and I haven’t been dating anyone. Please stop spreading misinformation. Recent rumors circulating online are false.’ just like that.

still, you wait for him to come back to you. to apologize, to tell you how much he missed and needed you. but as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks become months, you stop expecting to hear from him, even though some small, traitorous part of you still hopes. you never find out what your mother did—you imagine a hundred different versions, each one worse than the last, but the truth never surfaces. and then squid game 2 comes out. it’s everywhere almost immediately—clips spreading faster than you can scroll, his face showing up everywhere. and people love him. they love the character, the performance, the way he fits into the story. you’re happy for him, genuinely, even when it aches, because you remember how scared he was to take the role, how close he came to walking away from it entirely, how he almost let the past win. you even think about reaching out. more than once, actually. with something like: hey, sorry to bother… i’ve seen the show, you did amazing! congrats, seunghyun. i’m really proud of you. you type it out a few times, stare at the words on your screen and then you remember—you’re still blocked.

and when the spotlight swings to him, it finds you too. people start digging as soon as the rumor of you and him being together resurfaces. they pick apart your face, your clothes, your age… and the comments aren’t just invasive—they’re cruel in the way that strangers can be when they’ve convinced themselves you deserve it. so you make your accounts private. and when that doesn’t work, you start deleting. one by one, until there’s nothing left to find. that’s when it hits you—even now, even after the breakup, you’re still reacting to him. it’s his silence, his shame, his decision to pretend you never happened that pushed you into hiding, and suddenly it feels like maybe you never really left the relationship at all—just shifted into some sad, invisible version of it where you’re still being shaped by the parts of him you don’t even have access to anymore. and you ask yourself, more than once, if i’d known it would end like this, would i still have done it? would i still have loved him? and you want to say no. you wish you could say no. but the truth is, you don’t know. you’re not sure you ever will.

pls don’t hate me for this😔💀 anyway… if you got this far ily!💗🥹

taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy

#choi seunghyun #seunghyun x reader #t.o.p bigbang #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p x you #bigbang x reader #top bigbang #top x reader #bigbang #thanos squid game #big bang #thanos smut #smut

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lexalith · 7 days ago

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Hii how are you? I hope you've had an amazing day!

Now I'm curious WHO is on your pfp, because she is absolutely beautiful.

Have a great day/night <3 I love your fics sooo much keep up the good work!

hii, i’m doing good!! just a bit tired bc uni is kinda kicking my ass rn help, but we move‼️😭 and yess that’s margaret qualley on my pfp!!! she’s soooo gorgeous it’s unreal. also omg thank you sm for the love on my fics, that means the world to me!💗 i hope you’re doing good too and that life’s treating you kindly wherever you are!! —lex

#margaret qualley #choi seunghyun #choi su bong #thanos imagine #squid game #t.o.p bigbang

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lexalith · 8 days ago

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I sound like such an absolute beg but would you ever write for player 124/namgyu ?

omg nooo you don’t sound like a beg at all‼️💗 i’m currently finishing a seunghyun fic that i’m gonna post in the next few days😼 and i also have a thanos one sitting in my drafts staring at me like >:( so i need to finish that one too… BUT after that i can 100% write for namgyu!!! i already have a little idea brewing in my brain for him so stay tuned 🫡💗 —lex

#choi seunghyun #thanos imagine #seunghyun x reader #choi su bong #thanos squid game #nam gyu #squid game #player 124

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lexalith · 24 days ago

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your seunghyun fic made me so emotional. Now I wish I had a boyfriend who's like your interpretation of him 🥹

AAA thank you so much for reading‼️💗 atp i’m literally manifesting through my writing…😭 i’m so glad you enjoyed my take on him! it was sooooo much fun writing for seunghyun, i just feel like he’d be the absolute sweetest lover🥹

that said… i’m actually drafting another seunghyun fic, and let’s just say it’s gonna be far less soft and sweet than ‘something real’ 👀 i really wanna explore his darker side this time. he’s always had that mysterious, reserved aura, and i’m hoping to tap into that with this next one… we’ll see how it goes!

thank you again for your support, it seriously means the world to me!! sending you lots of love wherever you are💗 —lex

#choi seunghyun #seunghyun x reader #t.o.p bigbang #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p fanfic #thank you so much for reading

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lexalith · 25 days ago

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SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.�� he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

#choi seunghyun #seunghyun x reader #top bigbang #big bang #big bang top #top x reader #smut #kpop #t.o.p #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang x reader

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lexalith · 1 month ago

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GIRL you’re so talented like actually omg❤️❤️❤️😭😭🙏🙏🙏if u ever leave tumblr please keep writing just in general. the subong fix is so special.

i literally LOVE YOU omg thank you sooo much!! 😭💗 i had so many doubts about it, so it actually surprised me that so many people liked it! i’m not planning on stopping writing anytime soon! i was (and still am, whoops…) a wattpad writer, but i decided to try posting here since i’ve been using tumblr for years—i just never had the courage to actually share my stuff😭 people here have been nothing but insanely kind to me, so i’m really glad i got over that fear🥹

anyway!! thank you so much again for taking the time to read my writing and even leaving such a sweet message! i appreciate it a lot!! and guess what?😼 i’m almost done with a seunghyun fic, and i’m already drafting another subong one…👀 (the obsession is getting a little out of hand i’d say, but… can you blame me?)

hope you have an amazing day/night!! sending you lots of love!! 💖 —lex

#thanos imagine #thanos squid game #choi seunghyun #choi su bong #choi su bong imagine #seunghyun x reader #wattpad #thank you so much for reading #forever grateful #squid game s2 #squid game

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lexalith · 1 month ago

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another absolute masterpiece. everyone should read this, it’s painfully beautiful

i take, you give — choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains wealthy fem aged up reader, age gap (reader is 27, subong is 32), takes place before the games, always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but anyone can read, made up lore to build dynamic between subong and reader, reader is both inexperienced and not (it'll make sense trust), subong can be very soft and loving in this because yes he is a human!, he also def corrupts her in more ways that one, SMUT (no distinct section, it is imbedded throughout: foreplay, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong and sub!reader; roles also switch, subong teaches reader, both reader and subong are possessive, praise, rough, in the car, in the shower, in the pool, over the phone, in front of the mirror, dirty talk, some degradation, in public; people can walk by or overhear), ANGST (miscommunication, toxic dynamic, messy relationship where power dynamics make lines blur, subong talks about his life at home, reader's parents are overbearing, powerful, and strict, arguing, gaslighting, invasion of privacy, theft, dubious practices of the wealthy, insults, unexpected pregnancy; this does not have a happy ending), mentions of drugs and drinking, reader is at times out of touch, a hypocrite, and can have a bit of a savior complex, blatantly problematic subong who can't accept his feelings for the life of him, both him and reader deserve better, my attempt at writing lyrics, and inevitable typos.

requested? the idea of subong x wealthy fem reader was graciously bestowed upon me by @lexalith! i thank you wholeheartedly for not only trusting me with the idea, but allowing me to expand on it. i owe my notes app blowing up with ideas for this fic to her. this is very long. like, detailing the relationship from the very beginning to the very end, long. this is my interpretation of this character in this dynamic. i hope you like it and please be nice! enjoy!

“fuck off, old man. i’m not paying you shit.” subong slammed the taxi door shut. the driver frantically pressed down on the power window switch controlling the passenger seat’s window to retaliate, but subong was one step ahead of him. “you purposefully took the longer route!” he shouted through the window. “you’re not getting my fucking money!” he wagged his pointer finger side to side. “don’t you dare curse at me!” the driver yelled. “don’t you know this neighborhood? it’s not easy to get to! look at the time—look how late it is!” the driver pointed right back at subong, lunging forward, forgetting he still had his seatbelt on. his pushed his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “hey!” he yelled at subong’s back, not yielding to the wild expression on his face. “i have a family to feed!” “hey! if they’re so important to you, why’d you cruise around for half an hour when i could’ve been here in ten!?” subong’s voice echoed down the sidewalk. he kissed his teeth, waving dismissively. “man, go home to your family instead of cheating me. you’re lucky you have your benefits. its because of leeches like you that i have to work as hard as i do.” with that, subong turned around and walked away. flabbergasted, and downright offended, the driver had no choice but to leave, too, begrudgingly accepting a new ride request downtown. subong took out his phone, reading the texts from his dealer: Got blue and red; followed by a house address; Lmk when ur here ill let u in. subong switched to his maps app—the house was a seven minute walk away. he turned with his phone west, seeing the arrow align with the blue highlighted route. he looked up, seeing an alleyway before him, followed by trees. since when did a pill run become a zelda-style side quest …

the sound of rain-soaked pavement skidding underneath his sneakers soon changed to the rustling of gravel. subong periodically checked the route, seeing he was going the right way. he couldn’t brush off the uneasiness tickling his underarms from walking in the woods at half past ten at night—sucking in a tight breath after stepping on a branch, walking quickly at any noise deemed as natural and unthreatening in the daylight but sinister at this hour. there was music that sounded a whole lot like a party in the near distance, so he took his first chance to send Here to his dealer, looking up and taking in the sight of what looked to be a lodge. when he approached the gate (first of all: a gate?), the realization of just how big this place is hit him … three floors all illuminated with warm toned chandeliers, huge windows, an open space on the ground floor with a fire pit and an abnormally large couch curving with the wall. all of this, in the middle of nowhere? some chaebol shit. subong thought to himself. and he was right, because when he walked into the lodge with his dealer, he marveled at the sea of luxury cars parked outside: a mercedes … cadillacs … the amount of teslas made it seem they were as affordable as used toyotas … two party-goers casually parking their respective lamborghinis … and was that—was that a rolls royce? with a chauffeur sat inside, scrolling on his phone, dressed like he’s a member of the secret service?

“since when were you in the in-group?” subong quipped over the loud music, a smirk on his face as he looked around at all the well-groomed, straight-postured socialites shuffling through the long hallways and spacious living room. some hastily wiped white powder off their nostrils with the back of their hand. others checked the time on their watches with dials as big as their faces; how busy the watches multiple sub-dials were akin to an ancient riddle even indiana jones couldn’t crack. “they want the most, and pay even more.” answered his dealer. “c'mon. your stash is upstairs in the bathroom.”

its always been the sweetest money subong could ever spend. rap gigs never paid much, but they paid enough to open his third eye to mute—or exacerbate the fun parts—his mind for the next few hours. he didn’t take any that night, however, because he wanted to remember every single detail of this ridiculous atmosphere. the music was god awful, and it’s not every day you walk into a party where someone’s wearing your life savings around their neck, but that same necklace is paired with the most atrocious designer outfit he couldn’t dream of if he tried. a few paintings and photos hung along the walls of the hallway he walked down, stopping at the landing, looking over the banister to those mingling below. it held a sense of power, subong fully aware it existed only to himself, but who wouldn’t relish in literally standing above the rich? they could very well just be ignoring him—like a pest or a member of the labor party’s attempt to re-write the tax code—but to subong, this warranted a shit-eating smirk. he turned to his right, walking down a different hallway, mindlessly clutching the cross he wore around his neck housing his stash, his thumb running over the metal imprint adorning the trinket.

tucking the necklace behind his shirt, subong pushed a slightly cracked open door with his fingers, peering inside the one of probably many bedrooms throughout the lodge. the lights were on, but it looked untouched; the bed made, tv off, no sign of movement whatsoever. he still took precaution: “anyone in here?” he asked aloud. no answer. he walked in, hands in his pockets after closing the door behind him, eyes perusing. he opened the closet doors, disappointed by the (yet again) lackluster designer garments hung on velvet coat-hangers. closing it, he turned to the nearest bedside table, seeing a jumble of documents, a passport, pens, and other accessories, including a diamond bracelet that looked to have just been thrown into the corner of the drawer. subong fished it out, bringing it up to his eyes, seeing how it glimmered atop his fingers. he pocketed it without hesitation: it’s pocket change to them. he thought to himself. shoving the drawer closed with his knee, he looked to his left, seeing a balcony overlooking the woods. he walked around the bed, pushed the unexpectedly heavy sliding door open, stepping outside.

his eyebrows furrowed feeling his flat left pocket. shit—that’s right. forgot to pick up a pack before calling the cab. he took his blue puff bar out of his right pocket, inhaling. he took another hit before the translucent cloud fully disappeared into the night, exhaling through his nostrils. fuck, this balcony’s huge. it was wide and long, gaps of light glazing the wooden panelling in designated spaces; it stretched along three rooms, like a hotel. subong smirked. shit at clothes, shit at architecture, too. he brought his puff bar to his mouth for a third hit, attention diverting to his left at the sound of a sliding door opening. you stepped outside, onto the complete opposite end of the balcony, talking into your phone. “for the millionth time, i’m not getting into the car.” you spoke to your mother on the other side of the line. you ignored the rehash of the same argument she’d been recycling for the past ten minutes, switching the hand you’d been holding your phone with to check the time on your watch. “it’s barely past 11:15 on a saturday night. how ludicrous is that, to ask me—someone who’s nearing thirty—to prescribe me a curfew like i’m not a day past sixteen? and for what? last i checked, father’s still at davos. what do you need me for?” perhaps it was your loafers sinking into the back of your ankles that made you so irritable. but why did it take so long to break them in after weeks of wear, and why were you still on the phone? you walked unknowingly towards subong, too busy rubbing your palm against your face whilst he took a hit of his puff bar, trying to mind his business. you stopped at about two thirds of the way down from him, in front the middle one of the rooms lining the balcony, fingers wrapping around the railing before shooting up a gesture as if your mother was standing before you. “if you’re ‘so worried’ about him sitting in the car for hours, maybe you should pay him more. perhaps then he’ll have the audacity to talk back to tell you how he feels. i’ll be home later.” you hung up the call, putting it on silent and sliding it into the pocket of your blazer. a long breath left your diaphragm, both hands grabbing onto the railing, trying to ease your frustration with closed eyes.

subong couldn’t help himself. “rough night?” “what?” you looked to your right. “oh god, you just heard all of that.” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “some parts.” subong said truthfully. “but enough to know someone’s being really fucking annoying.” you exhaled through your nose. “you could say that.” subong brings his gaze back to the trees in front of him, raising his puff bar to his lips. “come here with somebody?” he kept the conversation casual. “a friend.” you answered. “she’s somewhere downstairs, i think.” you shook your head; another goddamn thing to worry about. “she's—she’s much better at these things than i am. we separated almost instantaneously once we arrived.” “'these things,’ as in parties?” subong asked, looking at you to his left. “yeah, that.” you nodded, arms crossing over your chest, looking at the trees. in your movement, subong not only noticed the van cleef bracelet and watch stacked on your wrist, but also your dark grey blazer paired with black slacks and matching loafers. he smirked. “i figured. you look like you don’t belong here.” he said. that’s when you looked at him for the first time, met with his side profile. “excuse me?” you asked, offended. “i mean,” subong exhaled, a cloud of smoke whirring past his ears when a subtle gust of wind flew by. “at a normal party, people don’t dress like they’re at a business conference. they would dress like me.” not seeing his point, you took him in impatiently: a boxy, oversized yellow graphic tee with some indecipherable graphic of the sun, cargo denim shorts, and scuffed sneakers. “but i guess i’m not at a normal party, so i’m the odd one out.” subong chuckled to himself. “my bad, my bad.” he put his hands up in faux-defeat.

you sighed, finally understanding. it wasn’t a normal party whatsoever. “you’re right.” you gave in. “i don’t get out much.” you ran your palm over your face, peering over at him, slightly embarrassed. “do you?” you asked timidly. subong nodded, “i do. for work.” “what do you do?” “i’m an entertainer.” your eyebrows raised. “you are? have i seen you anywhere?” subong shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, putting his puff bar away in his pocket. “maybe. are you on social media?” “sometimes.” you answered, taking your phone out. “i’ll search you up. what’s your name?” “thanos.” he was confused by your laughter. “what’s so funny?” he laughed along, but ready to be on the offensive. “there’s no way that’s your name.” you shook your head, chuckling, clicking your phone off. “oh yeah?” he challenged. he walked up to you, illuminated by the lights on in the room behind you two. subong gestured to his purple hair. “what’s this, then?” he showed you his nails next, equipped with multiple colors. “got all the infinity stones here, too.” his smug grin rivaled yours acknowledging playful defeat. “i stand corrected.” you said, looking up, meeting his eyes. within a matter of seconds, his cockiness dissipated so fast it could’ve induced vertigo. you were fine as fuck. a moderate height difference, sure, but not enough to elicit chronic neck pain in his near future. skin that looked so soft and moisturized even with the limited light of the room behind you, his eyes following your nails manicured black when you reached up to fix your hair; the van cleefs tinkering in the movement of your wrist.

“i take it you’re a musician, then?” your voice took him out of his trance. “rapper.” he cleared his throat, realizing he didn’t say a full sentence. “i’m a—i rap.” he nodded cooly, trying to get himself together with a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “i should’ve known.” you smiled. “i’d ask you to rap something for me, but i don’t want to put you on the spot.” “nah, nah. enough about me.” subong brushed off, shaking his head, face feeling warm because your smile made him feel things he can’t remember feeling before. he needed an excuse to look at you: “tell me about yourself.” “alright, fair enough.” you conceded. “well—” you looked to the trees, trying to figure out where to begin. “i’m currently pursuing my phd in international and global history. i’m on year two of five.” you began, seeing him nod in your periphery. subong caught sight of your two-toned pigmented lips, running his tongue over his own, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth. “i’m one of three. my parents, especially my father, travel often, so i don’t see them much. so i suppose its an excuse to focus on coursework—” “—what do they do?” subong interjected, curiosity poking through despite his brewing infatuation. “well,” you huffed. this is the last thing you wanted to talk about in any situation with anyone. all your life, tied to this question … even with a stranger. but it lingered in the air, and you wanted to get the answer out quickly to move on. “my father manages assets and my mother owns hospitals. i never liked it. nor agreed with it.” your voice dwindled, looking down at your shoes.

the cynicism capitalized on itself: “my older sister works in politics at home in tandem with my parents, but of course not without readying herself to inherit father’s business. my younger brother is currently in new zealand gaining an in with parliament—trying to break us into the english commonwealth. can’t ever stretch ourselves too thin, huh?” you ended on a sarcastic note, looking at subong with a bitter expression mis-directed at him. i don’t understand half of what she just said, but why did no one tell me how fucking hot anger could be? subong thought to himself. “so you’re the socially aware sibling?” he smirked, amused. “what’s the word they use in the states … woke? yeah, woke.” it was strangely disarming; the ability to make fun of yourself. your facial muscles loosened, a smile stretching across your face. “yeah, you could say that.” you laughed. “by process of elimination, i suppose. someone’s got to do it.” you shrugged your shoulders. “but yeah, i’m really nothing but a nepo baby.” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “a what?” an even bigger smile formed on your face, and subong felt that same tingling feeling from before return to his underarms. “what? i thought you were cognizant of all things internet slang.” you quipped. cogniwhat?—“oh, yeah.” subong nodded, hand scratching the back of his neck, his chuckle and smile working in tandem to thwart his flustered state. “yeah, i think i know that one.”

the conversation dwindled, replaced by intermittent silence. subong, working up the courage, landed imperfectly: “listen, uh—” he cleared his throat, glancing at you before sticking his gaze completely. “you’re really beautiful.” “is this you hoping i have a record producer in the family?” you raise an eyebrow. she’s sharp, too? jesus … subong, though caught off guard yet again, snaps back into himself and returns the energy. well, he tried, because for some fuckass reason he can’t think after looking into your eyes for more than five seconds. “and what if i was?” he said curtly. “then i’d tell you you’re out of luck.” you responded. “i have nothing for you.” subong nodded, kissing his teeth in thought, looking at the trees: a nonverbal its okay. you might have read it as disappointment, but he was scrambling to keep him tethered to you by whatever means. he glanced at you, catching sight of your side profile. “i’m an honest man.” there was something different about his voice; he was sure. he was speaking directly to you, for no one else to hear. “you’re fine as hell.”

he inched closer to you, your eyes momentarily flittering downward upon hearing his ring scrape against the railing. you hadn’t noticed them before, along with the tattoos littering his hand—a thick ring adorning his pointer; a thinner one inked above a real ring on his middle; and a more distinct tattoo on his hand you couldn’t clearly make out in the night. you looked up, seeing he was not only much closer to you, but also realizing this was the first time during your back-and-forth that you were actually seeing the stranger you had been bantering with. he had to be older than you … exemplified by how his crow’s feet are the minute detail necessary to complete that seamless expression universally recognized as the look, but also his bravado of a voice, height and broad-shouldered stature with an air that could only be attributed to more time spent on this earth; no one your age could rival it if they tried. maybe this is why i’ve never liked anyone mother and father have set me up with …

he clearly didn’t belong here. he could have been a friend of a friend of a friend … you heard whispers of a dealer at the party whilst you helped yourself to some olives and cheese; not uncharacteristic whatsoever, considering some of the people you grew up with are admittedly unrecognizable without dilated pupils or fidgeting to cover their arms, but you saw them hover around him, and he looked nothing like the man stood before you now. the mystery perplexed you … but not as much as it exhilarated your senses … maybe, for once, i can have something just to myself … “yeah?” harnessing a flirtatious tone wasn’t exactly your forté, but it was enough to make subong swallow and adjust his posture. “you’re not so bad yourself.” you said. a smug grin captured his face, looking over his shoulder to the empty bedroom to his left, bringing his gaze back to you. “let me take you out to dinner.” “what? no!” you chuckled, a little taken aback, but relishing in it nonetheless. “why not?” subong didn’t act as if he’d been wronged with that lingering grin curving the corners of his mouth, eyes concentrated on you; he’s tethered to you, more than satisfied. “you haven’t even told me your real name.” you said, looking up at him. “subong.” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. “choi subong. i’ll show you my government id if i have to.”

“no, no. it’s fine. i trust you.” you laughed, shaking your hand in affirmation. you introduced yourself; shoving your arms back into crossing over your chest to stifle the inherent muscle memory of putting your hand out for a handshake—a gesture you were conditioned with since sentience, but the last fucking thing to do if you wanted to seem normal. “alright.” he nodded, confidence in full swing. “then at least come see me perform. c'mon, i thought you wanted to hear me rap?” “i do.” you admitted. “i’m performing next saturday with some friends at club pentagon. you heard of it? its in itaewon.” “i can find out.” you nodded. the way your voice sounded just now … he had to divert his eyes to the trees. “we should be on at 10:30. i think that’s when our slot is.” so the next seven days came and went, and subong kicked himself for not getting your number. as saturday came closer, he wondered if you would actually show up … there’s no way, right? from what he searched up about your parents (no matter how many times he looked over your father’s company profile, or read the definition of what a hedge fund manager is, he felt his iq actively deplete; your mother’s photos on google images looked at him like he was the problem, even if her pearly white smile was intended to mean otherwise; he found your older sister’s op-eds and various articles written about her; your younger brother was virtually undetectable, other than photos of him at the olympic trials for horseback riding a couple of years ago and the one family photo the public was deemed worthy to have), you seemed to be the utmost exclusive … your time was indeed money … overthinking himself to the point where his ego deflated. he was a smooth talker, and relatively confident in his ability to win over women. but there was something about you that made him feel like the smallest man in the world. not insecure, per sé, or even insignificant … but if he got close enough, he would be at your complete helm. alluring or sexy were childish descriptors to capture your essence … perhaps intoxicating would suffice better. or maybe he’s just been daydreaming way too fucking much. something about that new batch of blue pills has been hitting different lately …

you walked into the club at 10:36 pm. it was dimly lit with shades of neon pink and purple, washing over the couches and bar top with a surprisingly cinematic glow. people were huddled with their friends around the small tables scattered throughout the club, booming music not being able to mask a contentious conversation an apparent bachelorette was having some feet away with the bartender. you blended into the crowd standing before the stage, looking up when the music abruptly changed to an edm trap beat. subong came onto stage with three men differing in age but similar in aura; domineering with their own verses, riffing off of one another towards the end. it went on like this for twenty minutes, through various instrumentals and at some point one of them started beatboxing. subong built a sweat under his hoodie, letting it trickle down his temple as it was his turn to talk his shit into the microphone. you were floored, peering over people’s shoulders to get a better view. your eyes never wavered from the unmistakable head of purple hair no matter how many times he changed positions on stage; bobbing his head to the beat, holding the microphone akin to personal munition, walking around the stage like he’s got the biggest dick on the block. can’t forget the lip curl he does when the beat drops, or upon hearing someone pull a clever bar out of thin air during their respective freestyles he puts his hands up in surrender; insincerely putting his microphone on the floor before hoisting it back up, laughter ringing out of him. oh. i want him. you thought to yourself.

he came into the crowd after the set wrapped, dapping up familiar faces and not-so-humbly taking compliments from whomever offered. “subong!” he felt a tap on his shoulder, turning around. his eyes widened at the sight of you, his boyish smile making an unabashed appearance. “you came!” he yelled over the music, turning to face you. “of course i did! how could i not!” you said back. your hand rested on his shoulder, standing on your toes to reach his ear, subong leaning in to hear you. “like you said, i wanted to see you perform!” you beamed, making him smile even harder. he leaned into yours: “what’d you think?” “i thought you were great! honestly, i’m a little speechless!” “good, good!” subong laughed. “c'mon, i know somewhere more quiet!” he took your hand without thinking, leading you to the other side of the room; the far-end of the bar. the music was still loud, but not the point where you risked losing your voice to hear each other. the lighting was also brighter, allowing subong to see your much more lax outfit than the one you met in. “you look different.” he said. “hm? oh.” it took a moment to register what he said, glancing down at your jeans and t-shirt after taking a sip of your mojito. “don’t get used to it. i have a change of clothes in the car.” you joked, making subong smirk. “my brother’s home for his birthday.” you explained. “it’s my one chance to not be the designated center of attention just because i’m within arms reach of mother and father.” “you’re not celebrating?” subong asked. “dinner ended just in time for me to come here, funnily enough.” you stirred your drink with your straw, looking up at him to your left. “so i dressed as fast as i could and made my way here. i’ve been waiting all week, if you could believe that.” “i can.” said subong. “i’ve been waiting, too.” your eyes stayed on each other’s until your flustered state gave you away, turning back to your straw. “good to know.” you said.

you chatted each other the fuck up at that bar. nothing but fruitful banter, surprisingly aligned humor for the most part, and no subtle glances at van cleef accessories since your wrists were barren, but instead subong felt his stomach drop to his ballsack at the sight of your wielding an american express black card to pay for your drink like it was a dollar bill. you thought he was a mystery to you? to subong, you were a figment of his imagination. walking into his life like a winning lottery ticket, as divinely beautiful as you are … he was afraid he was going to wake up in a cold sweat at any moment, sharply clutching his phone as it played on repeat whatever amateur porno video he was watching on twitter—the harsh, impending reality that this is all indeed a dream villainously concocted by his subconscious. but with every utterance of a syllable; glimmer of light washing over your supple skin; the tremor of his heart fastening when your arm rested along his bicep after you read a text from your chauffeur saying You are running late. Your mother has called twice., you gave subong a smile, saying “i unfortunately have to go. give me your phone, i’ll put my number in.”

“you better not forget about me.” you teased with a grin, getting up from the stool next to subong, opening your purse and placing your phone inside. “i won’t.” he shook his head, his face aching from how much he smiled tonight. how could he forget you? jesus fucking christ, he’d have to go to a hypnotist or dunk himself in ice cold water just to forget how it felt whenever your knees brushed together underneath the counter, let alone fight the urge to mewl like a fucking bitch when he couldn’t stop glancing at you re-applying your lip balm earlier. “i’ll call you tomorrow.” said subong. “i’ll be waiting. goodnight, subong.” “night.” he watched you leave, head following your movement, leaning a little to his right to peer through his limited angle of the window—just when he thought he’d seen it all, subong saw the car you got into—she’s the one with the fucking rolls royce? his jaw dropped, seeing the headlights turn on and disappear in the opposite direction.

he turned to the counter, flabbergasted. he could do nothing but laugh. at what? he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. he wasn’t a religious man, but the fact that the universe literally walked into his life a goldmine of a woman armed with a body and face that made his dick twitch; intellect he was nowhere near smart enough to even think to attempt to unpack but it didn’t fucking matter because he was too busy trying to keep up with your wit; eyes he could’ve sworn were putting him under some spell if he looked at them long enough—and not to mention, you’re fucking loaded—certainly felt like divine intervention at its finest. this could be his ticket out of his multigenerational household riddled with bitter silence and explosive rifts that raised him to believe he would be nothing but a failure, or mooching off of friends couches. how about now, dad? look what i’ve got in my back fucking pocket. god really must love me now. he thought to himself. if he played his cards right … who knows where it would take him … a honeymoon in the maldives, maybe. birthdays in mykonos. fucking in her penthouse. shit, does she have one? what does her house look like? ten bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a pool … home theater, maybe? subong’s inner monologue ran wild, fingers toying with his ring as the bass shook the floor below him. all those connections … fuck, i’ll be headlining coa-fucking-chella it two years time, tops. he shook his head, chuckling. nah. can’t get too ahead of myself now …

he took his phone out of his pocket, opening his messages and clicking your contact. your phone vibrated as you pulled into your family’s estate: Hi this is subong. Making sure youre home safe, to which you chuckled pressing send on your response: Hi! I’m home. Wow. I’ve really landed myself a gentleman! subong stared at his screen with an upside down grin, clicking his phone off and stuffing it in his pocket when the warmth of his face didn’t let up. he tugged at the collar of his hoodie, a different question plaguing his mind: she isn’t snobby … she can make fun of herself … she doesn’t second-guess … so what’s her flaw, or vice? there’s got to be something … everyone’s got one. he’s right, because his dangled around his neck and manifests as his dubious moral guidepost. subong looked around in thought, as if some sign would show itself, but then it did: bills lodged underneath the small square napkin soaking in the condensation of your emptied glass, clearly meant as a cash tip for the bartender. subong looked up, seeing the bartender’s back was facing him some feet away, busy mixing a drink. subong slid the bills from the underneath the glass, counting them under the counter.

350,000 won. just there. given away like candy, not even well hidden under the napkin. oh—that’s it. she’s a fucking dumbass. leaving money out in the open like that … in a place like a busy club … you mentioned you hadn’t gone out much when you first met, so maybe this was a true sign of naivete, or perhaps just having too much faith in the world. you are younger than him, so it would make sense … but subong didn’t care all that much to properly make the distinction, pocketing those bills quicker than he stood up from his stool, grabbing the glass and chewing on the halfway melted ice as he walked out of the club richer than when he walked in.

you went to dinner two days later. you met him at a ramen shop close to where he lived, tucked away together in a booth in the corner. this night you did show up accessorized with van cleefs, although different ones than before, and now stacked with a cartier love bracelet on your left wrist. not to mention the matching taupe blazer and trousers paired with a creme white blouse, all the while subong showed up in aged sneakers a year past retirement, jeans, his rings he never takes off, and an oversized graphic tee he last washed maybe six months ago. even so, you were the one clearly overdressed, and he didn’t miss a beat in pointing it out: “did you fix the stock market before coming here?” he asked without looking up from his steaming bowl, slurping the soup off his spoon. you caught his drift, grinning. “i did, yeah.” you played along. “you’ve never heard of a woman with a work-life balance before?” you said back in a mocking tone. “ha ha, very funny. feminism, new world, yeah yeah yeah.” he descended into mutters, making you giggle, his face feeling hotter.

then it was a kimbap café … a tteokbokki stand … and another ramen shop, all within his vicinity, or at most a few blocks over. subong felt himself grow antsy come the end of the fourth date, hiding it behind eating the cheapest ice cream he bought for you two at a nearby convenience store with the last of his money. if only we went to another fucking bar … he thought to himself, throwing your wrappers away before returning to your side, walking the rest of the pathway circulating the park. he continued telling you about his first performance for the rap battleground competition he was admitted to shortly before you met; over 50k viewers on the livestream, and 32 contestants including himself, if you remembered correctly. “i sampled pink floyd’s money as a joke. it turned out to be a big hit, so i might keep that going.” subong chuckled, kicking a pebble away before you turned the corner together, now walking along the river. in your hum of acknowledgement, you wondered if subong would ask you to come and see him perform again … but that might be a step too far … were you even dating? like, official? even so, he did invite you before … and that was the first time you saw each other outside of the party … either way, you didn’t want to overstep, so you played it safe: “i’ll watch it when i get home.” you told him, glancing at him before fluttering your gaze back to the pavement below either of your feet. “you will?” subong raised his eyebrows, upside down grin making his gaze flutter to the empty benches. “shit, now i really have to do good.” he said, making the both of you laugh.

you shared your first kiss at the railing lining the river, his hands coming around your waist whilst yours held his cheeks between your palms. it was soft and purposeful; a natural progression. you can’t remember the last time you had such butterflies in your stomach for something that felt so organic. subong doesn’t know what he was thinking, because when he felt your fingers brush past his cartilage piercing to pull him in for another kiss—an emt wouldn’t be able to revive him, and his heart would be given up to a stranger since he mistakenly checked the donor box after passing his driver’s test. there wasn’t much height difference to compensate for since you showed up tonight in heels (“did you meet with the president before coming here?” “no. i did that after breakfast, obviously.”), so he pulled you in comfortably by your waist into him, his palms ghosting over the tops of either globes of your ass, arms securing you in his grasp. subong kissed you harder, tilting his head a little to the left after feeling the coolness of your cartier bracelet brush against his earlobe. he definitely hit a nerve, because when the smallest of moans vibrated against his lips, you ended the kiss rather abruptly. “i’m sorry. i—i got carried away.” you said. “its fine. it was fucking hot.” he assured. you couldn’t hold in your laugh, nudging your forehead against his, feeling his lips press a kiss onto your soft skin, arms holding you close.

“i want to do something you want to do.” said subong. “hm?” you lifted your head from his bicep, your arm locked with his whilst his hands stuffed his pockets. “i’m tired of you coming to me. i want to come to you.” subong said with unabashed intent. in other words show me how the rich live … “i just—” he kissed his teeth, shaking his head and looking at the river, trying to think of how to word this. “i just feel bad that i can’t pay for nicer things—” “—subong, stop.” your arm left his, crossing yours over your chest. subong’s eyes widened in worry; did i fuck up that badly, on the first fucking try? “i’ve been having a great time with you. you don’t need to worry about those things.” subong’s eyes nearly closed in relief, his hand traveling around your lower back to the other side of your waist. “i know, baby. i know.” his voice was low, smooth. his breath tickled your temple, lips pressing a chaste kiss. “but i just want to … i don’t know—” he shrugged his shoulders. “meet you where you are as best i can, if that makes sense.”

subong meant it, but he would be charged with fraud at the federal level if he denied the gluttonous curiosity playing into this. you didn’t say anything, which led his hand to bring your eyes to his. more importantly, your lips. he kissed you delicately; “hm? what do you think?” he whispered, not paying any mind to the group of high schoolers passing by on their bikes. he kissed you again. “wanna know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” said subong. the kiss broke slowly, in a way that made you feel you’d been wasting the past twenty seven years of your life. “okay.” you whispered, not realising how breathless you became. you inhaled, turning your head to look at him. “you’ll come for dinner after i come back.” “come back?” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “you’re leaving me already?” he quipped, chuckling when you nudged his chest with your shoulder. “i should’ve clarified.” you tutted to yourself. “i’ll be in macau for two days. my sister just got engaged to her fiancé who’s from there.” “i see.” said subong, nodding. he moved behind you, arms hugging you into his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. another place to drool over when i get home. he thought to himself, lips finding your cheek. “all my blessings to her,” he muttered, grinning against your skin at your scoff. “but don’t be gone for too long, hm?” “i won’t.” you told him, turning your head, kissing his lips gently. “i’ll be back before you know it.”

the following afternoon, you held your phone tightly against your ear with your shoulder—but to no avail on putting the seatbelt on right. “subong, i’m putting my phone down for a second. can’t get this on right.” you muttered. “got it.” he licked the rolling paper, lighting the spliff, blowing the smoke out the window as he sat on his windowsill, waving it away as extra precaution. a tiktok notification lit his screen, seeing the time was 12:21 pm. “okay, i’m back.” he heard you say over speakerphone. “isn’t your flight in ten minutes?” he asked. “yes. i’ve boarded.” you looked out the window to the tarmac, eyes temporarily watching the aircraft marshallers’ neon vests rustle in the new spring wind before your attention diverted to members of your family’s staff boarding the plane, clad in suits. subong’s never flown out of the country before, but he knew one thing from the movies: “aren’t you supposed to put your phone away?” he stuck the spliff out the window, flicking the ash before returning it between his lips. “cell service works fine on the jet.” you answered without thinking.

JET!? holy fuck, this should have been a no brainer … subong snatched his phone from his nightside table, putting you off speaker, looking over his shoulder at his closed bedroom door before pressing his phone to his ear; as if he’d been told highly-classified intel. this was the last thing his family needed to find out … “you have a private jet?” he asked lowly into the phone. you took a moment before answering. “i do.” “how many do you have?” “my family has several.” you said hesitantly. the silence that followed made your eyes close, a huff escaping your lips. “subong, i didn’t mean to—” “its fine!” he shook his head despite you not being able to see, forgetting to blow the smoke out the window, but not thwarting the dollar signs he saw in his eyes. “the words just came out of my mouth. you don’t have to be sorry about anything, baby.”“okay.” you said timidly, shame lingering. the jet began to move, slowly approaching the runway for takeoff. “tell me more about your upcoming performance, hm? you were thinking of writing about how you got your start, right?

your phone remained glued to your ear a majority of the flight. you waved off any chance your staff took to show you an important email or take a call to the point where they gave up altogether. you giggled into your phone like a teenager, manicured fingernail caught between your teeth through whatever cheeky remark he had in his arsenal, or trading anecdotes from one another’s life. “there was this one time i was set up with an oil executive’s son. i think it was right after i finished college.” you spoke, watching the clouds float past. “six and a half dates we went on. that half being i couldn’t take it anymore, so i left him to foot the bill he ran up himself. god, he was the most arrogant prick you’ll ever meet.” you shook your head, tsking. “fucked me up so bad i had to start reading kafka to cope.” you joked. subong learned to laugh through the references he didn’t understand. “that does sound bad.” he affirmed, watching his ceiling fan rotate as he laid in bed. “i’ve only had two girlfriends in my life. one in high school who broke up with me because i didn’t get high enough marks, and the second i was with the year before i enlisted. she left me because she was afraid i was going to propose.” “were you?” you heard him scoff on the other side of the line. “fuck no. our first argument was over that stupid perilla leaf debate you see online. i didn’t see a problem in peeling those leaves, but she did. we wouldn’t have lasted.” “to each their own, i suppose.” you chuckled, nodding in thanks to your assistant whom handed you a glass of ice water.

“you know, with you visiting your sister and all,” subong’s transition wasn’t the smoothest, but it was too late to retract. “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever been proposed to.” you swallowed your sip of water, “oh, trust me,” you answered without hesitation. “they’ve tried.” “they have?” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “who?” “that oil exec fuck brought it up on the way to our second date. pardon my language, i’m known to be rather diplomatic.” subong exhaled through his nose, sitting up with his back to the wall, amused. “at my twenty-five birthday dinner—my father, and i’m using his words, 'cordially invited’ his colleague’s nephew. same age as me, but definitely some lights weren’t on in that head of his. i remember so clearly—like it was yesterday, subong—sitting outside on the balcony, drinking mimosas after dinner with my friends.” you took another drink of your water. “and he came up to us—i mean me, got down on one knee and asked the question. with a ring and everything.” “what?” subong was taken aback. “what’d you do?” “we laughed right in his face.” you heard his laughter ring into your ear, making you laugh in return. “because who the fuck are you!” you gestured with your hand out over the small table before you, a smile on your face. “like, what happened to 'hi, hello, how are you’? subong, the shit i’ve witnessed … it’d take an eternity to fold through it.”

“was the ring nice?” he asked. “well …” you tried to dance around it, but did away with that. “it could’ve been better.” you giggled, hearing subong chuckle. “oh my goodness, how could i forget the time the son of the department head i studied under at oxford?” you thought aloud. “he trailed me down at every party i went to, only to tell me 'you need to lose a few pounds if ever want enough room to be loved’ after i rejected him. not a proposal, but a classic nonetheless.” “jesus, baby.” subong was borderline baffled with how casually you spoke about this. “your people sound ruthless.” “it’s alright. my father got him expelled, anyway.” “what!?” “i’m kidding!” you said, smiling. “he was booted for plagiarism. did such shit job at it, too. i mean, who doesn’t check if your name’s on the paper? only a fool, and that’s what he was. an emasculated fool.”

“so no real boyfriend then, hm?” subong wondered aloud. you jutted out your bottom lip, shaking your head. “nope. its kind of hard for it to be real when your parents are behind everything, or go as far as to sit at the same table as you.” “jesus—” “i know, i know.” you nodded. “but it feels like its real with you, though.” you said without thinking. subong ceased toying with his short’s drawstring, a smirk tugging at his mouth. she’s fucking adorable. “i-i mean—it could be, if you wanted it to. i don’t know how you feel but—” “i feel the same.” he nodded. “it feels real with you, too.” the silence made subong’s back straighten, checking his phone to see the call had reached the two hours mark, but worried it was cut off nonetheless. “hello? baby? are you there? fuck.” “good to know.” you spoke sweetly, hiding your face that felt it had been set ablaze behind your palm. you were sat in a seat not facing your staff, or anyone for that matter, or you were hiding from no one; subong was over one thousand miles away, but it was as if you felt his eyes boring into you. thank goodness he can’t see me right now.

subong ran his palm over his face. “you had me worried there for a second.” he chuckled. the moment called for his next question, but no matter how many times he practiced in his head (or in the bathroom mirror, too), he felt his throat dry up. but he pushed through: “listen, you know the uh—rap battleground? yeah, i have an extra ticket for any guests at the filming studio, if you’d want to come and see me? if—” he cleared his throat. “if you’re not busy, is all.” you emerged from hiding, your palm this time irrationally hiding your stupidly big smile. finally! “when is it, subong?” “sundays at eight pm. the day after we have dinner at your place, funnily enough.” he answered quicker than he intended, trying to take a breath to calm himself down. “eliminations happen on monday at the same time. you don’t have to come to that, or either.” he was the king of being nonchalant, but the universe swung him a big fuck you by making his voice crack at the end of his sentence. “holy fuck,” he squeezed the bridge of his nose, mumbling into his phone. “you have me sounding like i don’t have my lights on.” he hid his face underneath his shirt hearing you laugh, groaning into the fabric. thank god she can’t see me right now, holy shit. “i’ll go both days, subong. send me the name of the venue. i’ll make arrangements.”

when you said you'd send a car to pick subong up for dinner, you weren't fucking lying—he set the ramen shop where you had your first date as the pick up site, fucking bewildered to find the black rolls royce waiting for him in the street. subong unceremoniously knocked on the tinted driver's seat window, his other hand holding the last bouquet of daisies the neighborhood florist had; cheaper than usual from how some already wilted, but were well-hidden. the window rolled down, subong seeing a different man than the one he saw sitting there when walking into the lodge. "choi subong?" the man asked. he was older than subong, but subong himself was too busy staring at his earpiece to gather an answer quickly. "y-yeah. that's me." he nodded, inhaling through his nose, trying to keep his cool. "i have a date with—" "yes, with ma'am. please find your way inside. we will arrive in about twenty minutes. there's refreshments, too, for your leisure." refreshments? the fuck? "alright, thank you." subong said curtly, opening the door and sitting inside the car. subong froze when the car moved and the lights turned on, slowly lifting his head, seeing the headliner lit akin to a constellation. he marveled at how wide the seats are, his right palm running over the shiny black leather whilst the fingers of his left traced the dark wood accenting the car door. she rides in this every fucking day? just when he thought he could begin to process, his eyes found it: the champagne. he slid quickly to the other side of the three-seater, grabbing it, nearly knocking down the flute glasses in the cupholders in front of him. he brought the label closer to his eyes, squinting to read the french name. "louis roederer . . . cristal vintage . . ." his voice trailed, pulling his phone out, typing into the google search bar with his thumb. "holy shit!" he whispered to himself—he was holding 20 million won in his hand, just casually in this luxury fucking car, and by the feeling of the golden foil wrapped around the top of the bottle keeping the cork in, its collecting dust.

subong put the bottle back, posture stiffening in his seat. he’s spent years dreaming of living like this, wanting so badly to mimic the aura of the rappers he’s looked up to … to somehow wake up in one of those lavish music videos stacked with sports cars, beautiful women, and the finest things money can buy. but here he was now, surrounded by those exact things and on his way to see a woman that he couldn’t dream of having in his wildest fantasies; sat on his hands like a coward, petrified that if he touched anything he would automatically be reprimanded by the authorities. did it all start to feel too real? did he finally take a step a little too ahead of himself, throwing him into something he can’t go back on? what was this feeling—nerves? anxiety? fear of not making a good impression? he felt so dumb … he’s been on dates before … and its not like he was meeting your parents or anything … but he was entering your world, even if you two were going to be alone in your house; free from other eyes. as its always been to this point. he looked down at his outfit, rubbing his sweaty palms on cargo denim shorts he’s worn nearly every time he’s seen you, an over-sized black t-shirt, and sneakers he’s worn on every date. for once, get some new clothes, motherfucker …

you greeted him with that beautiful smile of yours at the door. “hi!” you said cheerfully, reaching up for his face, bringing his lips to yours. “missed you.” you murmured, feeling him re-connect the kiss. “missed you too, baby.” the rustling of the bouquet caught your attention. “how thoughtful.” you grinned, taking the bouquet whilst the other hand came up to his cheek, bringing the one closer to your lips. “thank you, subong.” ’s no problem.“ he took your hand, placing kisses on your palm and inner wrist, glancing at your tiffany & co. heart charm bracelet before intertwining his fingers with yours. "come, i’ll take you to the grill outside. i got us some beef to cook together, and the chefs made side dishes earlier this evening.” “oh, okay.” you saw him visibly pause, able to guess what was running through his mind. “or you could tell me when its cooked,” you offered, bringing his attention back to you. “i’ve always been bad at that.” you smiled. subong shook his head. “its okay. we’ll do it together. c'mon, show me.”

you pulled him along. thank the universe he was behind you, because his jaw hung open looking around the house. it was sleek and modern, accented with dark toned wood, warm lighting, and huge windows looking out onto the massive grassy terrain—similar to the lodge in that respect, but even in those first few footsteps past a sitting room and down a long hallway, it felt very personal to you: vintage film posters hung tastefully on the walls; couches and cushioned chairs that actually looked comfortable and weren’t just for show; a painting certainly much older than him hanging above an opulent fireplace; a staircase leading to the second floor and presumably your bedroom; turning a corner and seeing what looked to be your study, equipped with textbooks sprawled out on a large wooden desk and an imac left on—subong felt himself start to huff and puff. holy shit, the fuck is the square footage of this place?

“i thought you lived with your parents?” subong brought up later in the evening, re-filling your respective shots of soju. “i do, technically.” you were cutting the meat; one hand holding the slab of bulgogi with tongs, the other wielding kitchen shears, letting the pieces fall onto the sizzling grill. after downing his shot, he brought your glass to you, carefully tipping it with your head going back. you swallowed with the usual small grimace, hanging onto the fleeting peach flavor. “they’re just up the hill.” “up the hill? what do you mean?” “look around that corner over there,” you gestured with your head. “passed the tree and the carnations. i’ll keep an eye on the meat.” subong followed, walking off the cobblestone pavement onto the grass, looking around the corner and finding a mansion. it was opulent. regal, even. a giant’s ultimate dollhouse. something that was the physical manifestation of generational wealth, looking into the viewer’s eyes and saying i invented the term 'net worth.’ the architecture looked historical, like many lives have been lived within those walls, but it would take an eternity to walk from one end of the home to the other. the lights were on and very loud about it; illuminating staff tending to various areas of the estate even from the sizable distance subong stood at. he could hear dogs barking and see them running around. she’s the princess and i’m the fucking frog, man. he thought to himself.

you weren’t looking forward to what he was going to say; uncomfortable by the circumstance, never wanting to intentionally flaunt your wealth, but he was going to find out soon enough. “was it too big for you?” you could hear his shit-eating grin. you stirred the meat on the grill without looking up at him. “too quiet.” you corrected. “at least here the silence is my own.” subong can tell he hit a nerve, but doesn’t necessarily retract. he stood behind you, leaning over your shoulder, pressing his cheek against yours; either of your eyes watching the grill. “cook it for a little longer.” said subong, voice low by your ear. “i figured.” you cleared your throat. you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind. “did they build this place for you?” he asked. “well, no.” you started curtly. “my grandmother lived here before she moved back to her estate in italy. but yeah, it was renovated before i moved in when i started my phd.” subong didn’t respond immediately, only holding you closer, his lips finding a spot underneath your ear. “you don’t have to hesitate to show me your life.” he said. you huffed. “i don’t want to show off, subong.” “i didn’t know telling the truth was considered 'showing off.’” he countered. you tsked, “you know what i mean.” his lips lingered by your earlobe. “i’m only here for you.” subong whispered, hearing your small gasp. “do you believe me?” it took a moment, but you nodded: “i do.” you said truthfully.

you and subong ate good food, but it must have been the soju that loosened you up, because his tongue wrestled with yours not even an hour later. it was gentle and smooth, but not without intention. subong’s hand traveled up the side of your thigh, encouraging you to deepen the kiss to which you did; hand holding his cheek as you tilted your head to your left, the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your lips upon hearing the tinker of your charm bracelet by his ear. he broke the kiss momentarily to catch his breath, feeling your lips find his cheek. he looked down at his hand, rubbing slowly but with purpose, biting his bottom lip. he sucked in a breath of surprise when he looked up, seeing three housekeepers gathering the empty dishes and used cutlery. they were at the very most ten feet away from where you two were currently swallowing each other’s faces on the modular outdoor sofa. subong was petrified. “baby?” he said softly, only for you to hear. you emerged from your spot on his cheek. “hm?” “do they—” subong wasn’t sure how to address them, let alone talk about this. “do they usually work late?” “what time is it? nine?” you turned to your side, tapping your phone screen; like it was the most casual fucking thing in the world. “8:41. they’re wrapping up for the night.” “they don't—” he still couldn’t find the words, clearing his throat. “they don't—” “—they won’t do anything, subong. they just mind their own business. now, come here.” you said gently, bringing your lips back to his.

subong tried to zero back in, but the sound of a housekeeper emptying the grease from the grill took him right out. “have you done this before?” he whispered, glancing at them before turning to you. you shook your head. “what? no. they’ve known me all my life is what i meant. they know what to expect.” “doesn’t that make it weirder?�� he questioned, looking at you, anxious. you smiled knowingly. “i thought you’d be one for some risk.” you teased. “i am,” he corrected you quickly. “i am. don’t be like that.” he tutted, making you chuckle. “i just want to be alone with you, is all. make up for lost time after you were gone.” said subong. “i need you too.” you told him, fingers re-centering the necklace hanging his cross tucked behind his shirt. “how about we go up to your room then, hm?” he suggested. you smirked. “a bit forward. that’s more like it.” you quipped, getting up from your seat. subong followed you up the floating staircase, one hand in yours as the other grazed the dark wooden railing. he looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire wall at the upstairs landing, catching a glimpse of the balcony lining the huge corner; the view being the family house up the hill. “in here.” your voice brought him back to you. “the first door on your left.”

your room was as big as his family’s apartment, if not bigger. the layout was similar, too, with three doors leading to different spaces—only subong’s were for his, his parents, and his grandmother’s rooms respectively whereas yours were for your en suite bathroom and two walk-in closets. a chandelier lit aglow on the high ceiling, illuminating the creme-colored walls and your pristinely-made king-sized bed with a vanity bench in front; a pair of heels he recognized from a date on the carpeted floors next to a half unpacked carry-on. “sorry for the mess.” your voice, once again, brought subong out of his trance. he shook his head, mouth slightly agape in awe. “s'fine, baby.” he muttered. he felt a gust of him, seeing you on the other side of the room, a pair of curved-top doors open leading to a balcony. “its a little stuffy in here. the house is old, and i haven’t been up here a majority of the day. it can get like that.” you explained, growing more timid with every word, the realization that this fine ass man was really just in your room sinking in. “its no problem.” subong assured, hand resting on your waist. he looked out the balcony, seeing it was above most of the trees, the city skyline in the distance. he felt you tug at his shirt. “so …” you said quietly, not having the gall to look him in the eye through your wordless plea. an upside down grin tugged at his mouth. fucking adorable. “right, my bad. come here.”

he had you backed against the wall, his rings scraping along the edge of your desk whenever he adjusted his grip on your hips. your hands were in his hair; the kiss deep and sensual. subong slid his tongue in whenever he could, eyebrows furrowing in concentration hearing your small moans muffled against his lips. “you know how you said you’ve never had a real boyfriend?” “mhm,” you kissed him back with fervor, the loss of his lips for even a second making you putty in his hands. “why?” “with your sexy fucking body, baby,” subong’s hands rounded your wide hips once more, reaching back to either globes of your ass and squeezing firmly. you gasped, breaking the kiss. the back of your head hit the wall, his lips hovering your jaw. you felt them brush against your skin when he spoke, “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever had a real fuck. or an orgasm.” he squeezed again, teeth raking over his bottom lip as his eyes watched yours bite your own. “hm? have you?” you shook your head. “no,” you swallowed, throat dry. “only by myself.” you whispered. “i’m gonna change that, okay?” subong said, nodding. “okay.” you said, hands holding his face, horny out of your fucking mind.

“i’m gonna start by taking care of these.” subong began unbuttoning your black blouse. he leaned down, kissing the bare, supple skin of your chest before seeing your matching lace bralette. “jesus fucking christ.” he murmured. he felt you shake. “hey, what’s wrong?” he looked up at you. “its just me.” “that’s the problem, subong.” you said, thumb tracing his smile line. “you make me really fucking nervous.” you chuckled, hearing him playfully scoff. the arrogant smirk that stretched across his face made your mind start drafting the dimensions of turning the storage room down the hall into a nursery. he licked his lips, leaning down and kissing you tenderly, his palms holding either side of your neck. “nothing to be nervous about, baby.” he said, kissing you again. “here. i’ll take my shirt off, too.” “oh, subong, you don’t have to—” but it was too late. he pulled his shirt off from the top, discarding it onto your desk with his cross, too. he was toned and lean, his melanin nurtured gingerly underneath the warm hues of the chandelier. you noticed how his back tattoo peeked over either of his shoulders, but also the lion’s mane on his abdomen; a constellation with a date in roman numerals just a couple of inches below his collarbone. i feel lightheaded already … “what?” subong’s voice brought you back down. he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from you. “you just made it a whole lot worse.” you said, your palm covering your mouth.

subong snickered. his fingers wrapped around your wrist, bringing your palm down. “i take it you like what you see, hm?” “i do.” you said breathily. subong nodded, eyes fluttering down to your chest, past the stretch marks on your stomach to the hem of your jeans. “yeah. i like what i see, too.” his eyes returned to you. “you can touch me, baby.” he spoke to you like you were the only two people in the world, even if you were completely alone. “you can touch me all you want.” and you do: your fingers trace his shoulders, ghosting past the divot of his collarbone before cascading down his chest, following his toned torso. your eyes traveled with your hands down his body, but his stayed on you. his dick was begging to breath. he leaned into your ear, “this is all yours.” he whispered, breath tickling your neck. your eyes fluttered closed; a small, vulnerable moan leaving your lips. your back arched subconsciously, sending your chest to collide with his. his hand came up, kneading your left breast through the bralette. “and this is all fucking mine.” he said whilst you gasped. he felt your nipple harden in his palm. “do you understand me?” “y-yes subong.” you nodded, looking up at him, eyebrows knit together. the day we get to fuck, i’m going to need a defibrillator. he thought to himself. “good.” he nodded, watching you. “can i suck on these perfect tits, baby? hm? can i make you feel good?” you nodded vigorously, making him smirk. “yes—oh my god, please.”

the exposed part of your left breast felt soft and bouncy against subong’s lips—lush, even. his fingers hooked past the lace, carefully taking your breast out of the confines of the bralette. his tongue nurtured your already peaky areola, hearing and feeling your shudder in his palms on your lower back. your eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape, shallow gasps leaving your lungs. your manicured nails clawed at the back of his bare shoulder, making subong moan against your nipple and run his tongue faster. your back arched unexpectedly, nearly making him lose his spot, but he held your breast in place with his hand, his other arm wrapping around your waist, squeezing your left globe. he popped off of your nipple with precision, humming to himself in satisfaction at the sight. “fucking perfect.” he murmured. subong’s arms switched places, shifting his focus onto your right breast. he followed the same procedure, fishing it out and letting it hang off your bralette and between his lips. he kissed your nipple with his tongue repeatedly, hearing you gasp, but no moan just yet. “does it feel good?” he asked, not stopping his ministrations. “outrageously.” you whispered, feeling him chuckle. “those rich boys never made you feel like this, huh?” “n-no.” you shook your head. you gasped upon watching his tongue run over your nipple, coupled with how mind-numbingly good it fucking felt—holy shit. subong popped off a few times: “i figured.” he muttered. his fingers lightly smacked your breast, seeing it jiggle just the way he liked.

he raised his head, eyes looking into yours. his hand came up, holding either side of your jaw, making your gaze stick to his. “i want you to suck my cock and i wanna eat your pussy.” he was sure he’d hear you moan now. “how’s that sound, hm?” “good.” you answered, nodding in his grasp, cheek bunching up. “i want to.” “good.” subong said. he leaned in, and your lips moved for a kiss, but he didn’t close the gap entirely. “but here’s the thing,” he whispered, breath pushing past your upper lip. “i’m gonna make you fucking work for it.” “s-subongie—” you whimpered desperately, hands finding his belt and trying to undo it. it took everything in him to halt your movements in the midst of hearing that pet name for the first time, hand holding your wrist firmly. and with her fucking tits out, looking up at me like that? jesus … “uh-uh.” he tutted condescendingly. subong leaned in and tilted his head as if to kiss you, but his lips hovered. “fucking work for it.” he breathed your desperation in, hand falling to your side when you brought him into you with your tongue. your hands held his face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, tongue toying with his. that’s right, he thought to himself, keep going.

you can’t remember the last time your mind felt this fuzzy. when i found my clit for the first time? maybe … when i got my new vibrator? not even close … you felt his palms make residence on your ass once again, squeezing down tenderly. this fine ass older man’s swollen lips against yours, his tongue just as desperate … you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth, but this felt like winning the fucking lottery, bitch. this felt like being god’s fucking favorite. your hand trailed to his jeans, finding his bulge and tracing it with your palm. his shoulders shuddered, but caught himself with your lips; muffling his own moan. “s-shit.” subong tried to hide it, but when you pressed down again, he abruptly ended the kiss. “get the fuck over here.” he muttered, grabbing your hand and pulling you to sit beside him on the edge of your bed. he must have forgotten all about his singular condition, because he undid his own belt, pulling down his jeans and briefs, letting it fall to his ankles. “we’re gonna take it slow.” he half-told you and half-himself. “come here.” subong leaned in, hand traveling over your thick fucking thighs and up your waist, fondling your left breast. he smacked it lightly, kneading it firmly afterward each time. your hand reached for his hardened cock, with the wrist adorned by your tiffany & co. bracelet nonetheless, slowly stroking.

he was long and slender, his tip curving slightly left. your palm felt soft and plush—fucking heavenly in comparison to his somewhat calloused hand, no matter how much lotion he used—making his kisses stutter when you built up a pace. he eventually broke it to catch his breath. “h-have you done this before? s-shit!” subong bit his bottom lip, eyebrows contorted, watching you pump his cock in a daze, the wristlet tinkering with your ministrations. “mhm, i have.” you nodded, watching your hand, feeling his precum increasingly slick his cock. you turned your head to look at him, seeing his eyes closed shut and quietly muttering profanities to himself. you smiled, biting your bottom lip in satisfaction, leaning close to his ear. “but he didn’t last long enough for me to actually work my wrist. so i must be pretty good.” you giggled knowingly, ego boosted by his vulnerable moan. subong nodded, swallowing, mouth dry as shit. “you—you are.” he concurred. “just go a l-little s-slower—f-fuck!” he gasped. one hand held the base of his cock steady, whilst your other focused solely on pumping his tip. “slowly? like that?” your teasing tone made him see the light. his stomach caved inward, fighting the looming orgasm. “you’re f-fucking crazy.” his voice barely rose above a whisper. you couldn’t help but giggle, proud of yourself.

you slowly came to a halt, sparing him, amused by how deeply he was breathing. “on your knees.” he rasped, swallowing. “get on your knees.” you didn’t need to be told twice. you knelt between his knees, fingers holding the base of his cock, his tip brushing against your lips. “go slow.” he instructed. and you did, taking his tip between your lips, slowly sinking down. he felt warm in your mouth and tasted slightly salty, taking him about halfway before your mouth traveled back up his cock. you sunk in a little deeper this time, adding your tongue into the mix, hearing his shudder above you. your head began to bob up and down, hand with the wristlet taking care of whatever you couldn’t fit. subong’s breath was shallow and inconsistent, eyes shut tightly and eyebrows furrowed even more-so. hearing and feeling your mouth wrapped around him, the sounds of your fucking throat opening and closing … he opened his eyes, looking down at the sight, biting his lip at how your tits hanged. “h-hollow your cheeks—hngh!” you sucked harder and faster, both hands pumping the base of his cock as you bobbed up and down. subong’s toes curled into the carpeted floors, hand lifeless on the back of your head. he was completely at your helm; mind fucking mush. “f-fuck—ngh! o-oh my f-fuck—” he cried out, unable to look away. “your mouth feels so good when you suck me like that, baby! fuck!” his voice cracked, vision going blurry. you then dealt the card that made him yelp aloud, expediting that unraveling knot in his abdomen: sucking on that curved tip. he let out a sound you thought only existed in your dreams: “w-wait! n-no, stop! i’m gonna—fuck!” subong planned on cumming in your mouth, but was so caught off guard by how good you were and how quickly he reached that high, that he took his cock out of your mouth, spilling onto the floor.

“h—ha—f-fu—ngh!” he mewled. you sat back on your knees, fingers pressed to your lips, shocked yourself. once his senses cleared, he realised what he’d done. “i didn’t mean to ruin your—” “—its fine,” you cut him off, not even worrying about it. “i’ll have it cleaned in the morning.” subong leaned down, bringing his lips to yours. there was a newfound hunger in the kiss, latching onto your mouth after his newfound discovery that just re-constructed his libido. “on the bed. now.” you did as he said, head on the pillow as he got up, kicking his jeans off and pulling up his briefs. subong unbuttoned your jeans, pulling them off and discarding them on the vanity couch. his knees sunk into the duvet, taking off your panties before traveling down the king-sized mattress, settling comfortably on his stomach. you spread your legs, hand in his hair as his tongue led kisses down your inner thighs, subong humming in content upon feeling the divots of your cellulite against his lips. he couldn’t see your ass, but relished in how thick it looked and felt against his elbows, palms running up and down your sides; past your rolls, fingers fluttering over your stretch marks. “anybody eat this pussy before?” he asked, taking in your scent. he felt his dick start to harden again. you shook your head, lip caught in between your teeth, heartbeat in your throat. “tried to. was never good.” “i’ll be good.” subong nodded to himself. “i’ll be real fucking good.”

if he could bottle up your gasp and get drunk on it forever, he would. your thighs encased his head, muffling his senses, but this would be the best way to go out. oh … she tastes fucking good … he made out with your puffy lips, encouraged by your breathy gasps and wriggling waist. “s-subong.” you said meekly, him glancing up to only see your chin; your head thrown back into your pillow. “tell me, baby.” he murmured against your pussy. “tell me how good it feels.” his warm tongue dove between your folds, lapping and swallowing anything he found. his pointer in tandem with his middle finger separated your puffy lips, tongue toying around. “this sweet pussy,” he popped off the top, feeling he was coming closer from how the muscles in your thighs tightened. “all these years, neglected. not treated right.” his tongue went a little lower, hearing your ragged breath. he popped off the spot again, middle finger sinking between your lips, rubbing side to side to find it. “what a pity.” he tsked. your back arched, hoping it would shift his finger into place, but to no avail. if only if he pressed a little deeper—your loudest gasp yet rattled off the walls: “s-subong!” you yelped, palm covering your mouth. “its fine, though, because im about to eat this pussy every fucking day to make up for it.”

with that, he dived right back in, lapping your clit like it was nobody’s business—because it wasn’t. you’re his and you’ve been his; there’s no going back for either of you. subong knew he found that bundle of nerves from how your legs separated, knees hovering barely over the duvet; your hand sinking his face deeper into your cunt. subong snickered. “feels good, baby, doesn’t it?” “y-yes!” you whimpered. subong reached up, fondling your breasts in his palms as he continued to show little mercy to your sweet clit. even then, there wasn’t a moan from you. nothing outside of a sharp gasp, shallow breaths, and whimpering his name. he wondered if you were the quiet type … he’ll definitely work on that later … “taste so fucking good.” he murmured to himself. “gonna live off this pussy.” your eyes rolled to the back of your head, jaw hung open, hair messy along the pillowcase. it was an unbelievable sensation; one that made you want to hump his face like a pathetic fucking whore, but also frozen in time, succumbed to his divine touch. all you could do was lay there and take it. not that you were fucking complaining, though, because you were wondering when the universe was going to start treating you like the goddess you are. now here he was, drunk on your pussy on the first fucking try. “s-subong, i-i’m gonna—” “—give it the fuck to me. it belongs to me.” you cried out, your orgasm taking over your entire body. subong’s arms held your waist down at best he could, eating you out through the high. you felt born anew catching your breath, looking down at his head between your thighs, brushing his hair back as he kissed your thighs; your essence dripping down his chin.

“stay for breakfast.” you told him softly. the lights were off, balcony door closed; the both of you tucked underneath the duvet. your palm held subong’s cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone back and forth. “its already late as is.” he quipped. he’s right: it was nearing half two in the morning. “i’d feel bad asking someone to drive me now.” he wouldn’t, but niceties always looked better. you called him out on his bullshit. “no you wouldn’t.” you scoffed. “yes i would!” he retorted. you turned onto your back, looking at your ceiling. “i wouldn’t. i’ll admit that.” you shrugged your shoulders. you looked to subong. “if there’s somewhere i have to go, i’ll need to be driven.” subong smirked, scooting closer to you. his lips kissed your temple before resting his chin atop your head; sharing your pillow. “i always knew you were a spoiled brat.” “i’m not!” “yes, you are.”

subong left the next afternoon, the night previous’s dinner and the morning’s breakfast filling his stomach so much he can’t remember feeling this way last (“why’d you prepare so much?” “i wasn’t sure what you liked, so there’s a little bit of everything from the garden and our farm.” “garden? hold on, you have a fucking farm?”). he gave you sweet kisses before getting in the rolls royce to be driven to rehearsals, hesitant to do anything heavier since your chauffeur was standing there holding the door open. “i had a great time last night.” subong told you, pressing a kiss onto your forehead, his arms wrapped around your waist. your hands tenderly rubbed his back, “me too.” you stepped out of his embrace, looking up at him. “thank you for, uh—” you cleared your throat, sheepish. “making up for lost time.” you nodded, seeing an upside-down grin on his face. “its only right.” he teased, kissing your temple. “i’ll see you tonight at eight, baby.” “see you.” you kissed his lips. “let me know when you get there.” “i will.”

and you show the fuck up you did: a matching black blazer and trouser set, heels, sunglasses, a james allen piece adorning your neck. of course you were going to show up for your man (though the need for confirmation really intensified these last few days …) and in fucking style! you sat in your suite overlooking the television studio; it was moderately busy, cameramen getting into position, judges sat at their table in front of the stage, producers either sat in the crowd or getting last minute things in order. the competition started on time, subong slated to go sixth after the name draw before showtime, so you spectated with ease. your posture strengthened in your seat during the commercial break before subong’s performance, taking your sunglasses off, holding them idly in your lap. he was a natural on stage, and ate up those two and a half minutes allotted to him with his sampling of a fugees song. it was like he made the tv studio into a makeshift kingdom, though his disciples were numbered and scattered—the power was omnipresent. the lyrics weren’t half bad either, rather clever with a humorous touch. and there’s something about the way he holds that fucking microphone so close to his lips … as if to say you will fucking hear me, and you will like it. his outfit could use some fine-tuning though. you thought to yourself. maybe drop the shirt and shorts, throw in some jewelry and a nice tracksuit … sneakers … sunglasses … silk chiffon might look nice, too … i’ll look around next i go shopping—hold on, why am i acting like his wife?

before you could process, as if on cue, you heard your phone ding in your purse. there were two texts from subong: Hi my baby howd you like it?; Where are you sitting. he nearly choked on his water in the green room backstage reading your messages: Hi subongie :) You did so well!!; I think I need my vibrator; I’m sat up top, in one of the suites. a few minutes later, subong responded: Youre so fancy baby; Haha Ill help u in the car after😏😏—you showed up the next day for the eliminations, jumping out of your seat in applause and cheers when subong was the second person voted through to the next round. he could hear you from his spot on stage; viewers clueless as to why he was smiling wider than usual that night.

he celebrated by getting to the bottom of why you were so quiet in bed. call it gluttony; obsession; or whatever the fuck—he needed to know and squash that shit like a bug. so here subong was, underneath your duvet after making love to your areolas with his unforgiving tongue, fingering your tight pussy with his middle and ring fingers. you looked so gorgeously fucked out; trying to kiss him back, holding onto the back of his neck to bringing him into your lips, but succumbing to the unbridled pleasure. instead of his fingers going in and out, they remained inside your lush walls; his palm laid flat against your pussy, inadvertently also taking care of your clit, repeatedly moving up and down in quick ministrations to create a sensation akin to him fucking you. subong, being the motherfucker he is, didn’t lay back on his own pillow when you struggled to kiss him back, but watched your every move closely. “what is it, baby?” his voice, though low, was almost rarely audible with the lewd sound coming from underneath the duvet. “you can tell me.” he said knowingly.

all that came out of you were gasps and shallow breaths. subong had enough: “we’re in your fucking kingdom of a house. why don’t you make some noise?” his hand showed mercy, fingers tracing your puffy lips to hear your response. “i’ve never.” you shook your head, swallowing. you opened your eyes, looking at him. “not even when i touch myself. what if they overhear?” subong tsked. he leaned down, hovering his lips above yours. “but you have no problem shoving your tongue down my throat in front of them, huh? don’t act so fucking innocent.” he purposefully backed away when you tried to kiss him, biting his lip hearing you whimper so needily. “i thought you liked it.” your hand reached up to cup his face, eyes pleading and cloudy. you looked so beautiful and so fucking hot that subong couldn’t help himself, giving you his lips, kissing you harder upon feeling your hand travel up the back of his head into his hair. “i do,” he murmured against your lips. his fingers slipped back into you, continuing his ministrations like no time had passed. you gasped, breaking the kiss, your eyes on one another’s. “but i hate hypocrites even more.”

your eyes became glossy. “oh,” subong voice curiously. “are you crying?” you shook your head in disbelief. you had no idea your body could feel this amazing, let alone from one fucking hand. “it f-feels so good.” you could barely muster a whisper. “yeah? i know, mama, i know.” he jutted out his bottom lip, kissing your lips softly, his tongue teasing yours. his hand quickened its pace, making you inhale sharply. “now fucking act like it.” said subong, turning to look at the rising and lowering peak of his arm working you under the duvet. he heard you whimper and mewl: “s-su-subong!” “thats it, baby. that’s it. c'mon. you can do it, i know you can.” he encouraged, tongue running along his bottom lip, ignoring the mounting ache of his wrist. you whimpered until you couldn’t anymore; a guttural moan rang straight from your diaphragm and into the acoustics of your bedroom, back arching off your mattress through your orgasm, toes curling into the linen. triumphant, subong smiled wider than he did on stage earlier tonight. “yes! that’s it, there you go.” he praised. he slowed his hand down, sucking his fingers clean. he leaned over to your exhausted state, kissing your face tenderly. “that’s my girl. that’s my fucking girl. you did so well. i’m so proud of you.”

you fell for him quickly. perhaps a little … too quickly … but you didn’t have time to rake over the details, you were too busy trying to make his dick fit a week and a half later. you imagined this is what prom night looked like for a lot of young adults: desperate, clingy, and a little bit awkward. your hands held onto subong’s shoulders, the both of you watching the sight below you: his fingers holding the base of his condom-wrapped cock, his tip inside of you. subong didn’t have a good feel of you yet, but from now warm his tip alone felt, he’d have to reinvent his sense of self control. he pushed in slowly, halting when hearing you wince. “it hurts so bad.” you whispered, eyebrows furrowed in pain. “i know, baby.” he said, free hand cupping your cheek, bringing the one closest to his lips. “should’ve gotten the more lubricated ones. fuck.” you muttered, somewhat frustrated. subong could sense it: “we’ll make it work.” he said. he peered downward. “you think i can move?” you nodded. “try.” he was barely a centimeter deeper when the discomfort doubled. you shook your head, “nope.” “should i take it out—” “—no, it’ll be worse if we start all over again.” he ate you out like a man starved before putting the condom on, so why weren’t your muscles relaxed enough to make this at least a little more easier? his hardened cock weighed him down like a fucking boulder, keeping himself afloat with his elbows sinking into the mattress. “you need to relax.” he observed, his arms on either side of your head. “don’t be so nervous.” you huffed, annoyed at yourself. “that’s the problem, subong. you make me nervous—” “i’m tired of hearing that shit.” he cut you off, looking right into your eyes, his palms holding your head in place. “get this through your fucking head: you want me like i want you. probably even more than me from how wet you fucking are. let yourself have it.”

there was something new in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen before. “okay.” you whispered, nodding. “i will.” “fucking finally.” subong looked back down. “i’m going to move again.” he was deeper than before, on the precipice of stretching you out. a strange mix of discomfort and an ache blossoming into looming pleasure stirred throughout your body, jaw falling open. “jesus fucking christ!” you exclaimed in a whisper. “why do you have to be so big!” you glanced at his face, seeing his shit-eating fucking upside down grin; smugger than a motherfucker. “i mean …” subong smirked, tilting his head to the left as if in thought. “i’d say i’m average, but if you say so.” you tsked. “oh god, i shouldn’t have said anything.” “no no,” subong couldn’t hold back his chuckle. “there’s nothing wrong in telling the truth, baby.” he laughed when he felt your palm smack his shoulder, the annoyed look on your face something he’s ready to see into his next life. “make it fucking fit, if you’re so good at this.” “okay,” he gave in. he held your hands over your head, intertwining your fingers together. “breath for me. in,” you inhaled together. “and out. in,” you did it again. before subong could pronounce the last syllable, your bare chest crashed into his, his cock inside you. “and out—” “—fuck!” his thrusts were deep and calculated, grunting as your tight pussy held his cock for ransom with every movement. “you d-don’t know how much i’m holding b-back r-right now.” subong mumured, voice deep and breath hot, his heavy balls plopping against the bottom of your ass. “this tight fucking pussy … all for me … baby, i won the fucking lottery.” he cut himself off with a shaky moan, hips stuttering. “s-subong!” your voice cracked into a mewl, head sinking into the pillow as your back arched, speechless at how divinely he filled you up. subong’s eyes seered into your face, nodding as he fucked you harder and deeper, “that’s right. feel every fucking inch of me—f-fuck! ngh!—t-that’s right. squeeze me with that tight fucking pussy. c'mon. make me yours.”

condom disposed of and carnal aches taken care of, you and subong laid peacefully in bed afterward, the both of you watching your fingers re-intertwine. something lingered in the air after he made you cum so hard that your chest convulsed and he gave himself a charley’s horse from how tightly his toes curled: a new portal of vulnerability, a sense of trust if either of you dared to think. “do you really have to go?” he asked quietly. “i do. its for my phd.” you turned your head on your pillow to look at him, but his eyes remained on his and your hands. “it’ll only be for a week.” you were set to travel briefly to south africa in the coming days to visit libraries and historical archives for your course-assigned research; the appointments booked months before you met subong. he didn’t think it would affect him whatsoever. you were just another girl, someone he’d ring up once a while had passed … but with how he cowardly avoided eye contact, and felt anxious at the thought of you boarding that jet … no—he bought himself some time: “what’s it for, again?” he mumbled. “its for my study of presidents and their influence on democracies.” you watched your fingers cross between the crevices of his. “south africa’s democracy is very new, so its a unique point of reference. plus, i’ve always wanted to visit.” you looked at him again, his focus still elsewhere. you’d be remised to not see the signs: “it’s only for a week, subong.” you repeated, tone gentle. “i know.” his voice lower than usual, almost defeated.

you put your hand down, turning onto your side, closer to him. your lips pressed a kiss to his temple. “i’ll miss you.” you whispered. he shook his head, not liking this complicated feeling stirring in his chest. “don’t do that.” he said sternly. he saw the appalled look you gave him from his periphery. “take your own advice: let yourself fucking have this.” you said sharply, poking his shoulder with your finger for emphasis. subong took a sideways glance at you, kissing his teeth, trying to add his own fuel to the fire—but he just couldn’t. you were right; unequivocally and wholeheartedly. he grew tired of throwing his silent tantrum, turning on his side to face you. you didn’t look at him. it’s not like he deserved it. “don’t be gone for too long.” he said. “i’ll …” he hesitated. “i’ll feel weird.” okay, he wasn’t the best, but it was a start. being vulnerable felt foreign, but a welcome change in his subconscious; goosebumps formed on his arms. “i won’t.” you muttered. “i’ll be back before you know it.” subong scooted closer to you, fixating his gaze downward onto the linen, mirroring you. a moment went by before he had the gall again, albeit subdued. “i didn’t know i was dating a humanitarian.” he said quietly. your eyes shot up. “we’re dating?”

for the first time in a long time, subong fell flustered. “i mean, yeah …” his voice trailed, grinning so hard his eyes kissed at the end, smile lines deepening as the memory etched into his skin. “i just fucked the shit out of you, so i’d hope i would be your boyfriend after that.” without warning, you grabbed his face, pressing kisses all over his cheeks and forehead. his knees felt like jelly, and his face started to hurt from how much he’d been smiling. “okay, that’s enough.” he chuckled. you didn’t relent, only kissing his skin more tenderly. “stop acting so nonchalant, boy.” you murmured against his warm skin, each touch sweeter than the last. “boy?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow, eyeing you. his perpetually amused grin basked you in. “i’m six years your senior.” “what do you prefer, then?” you pressed your last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “ahjussi?” subong scoffed. “fuck no.” “exactly.” you said. you couldn’t resist kissing his cheek, pressing yours against his afterward. “my boy. my man. my baby. my subongie.” you listed aloud. he exhaled through his nose, hands tracing the curve of your hips, arms bringing you into him. “my girl, hm?” he said gently. “i like the sound of that.”

the night before you flew out, you held subong in your arms, his head on your chest. he would never admit in the a million fucking years that he liked to be coddled like this, even if he did out himself earlier in the afternoon, having fallen asleep in the same exact position, just in your backyard hammock to the sound of a nearby fountain. your fingers combed through his purple hair; his roots had grown in, the volume gone, laying charmingly flat on his forehead. he’s in need for a touch-up. i’ll make an appointment when i come back. you thought to yourself, hearing his steady breaths, eyes closed. “you don’t need me to do well on sunday, you know.” you told him gently, lips finding the top of his forehead. “you’ll do just fine, if not better.” subong grumbled something incoherent, moving his head to lay on his other cheek, pressing a kiss into the fabric of your shirt where the valley of your breasts would be before settling with a content huff. “i’ll be okay.” he told a half-truth. “i don’t think my eyes will leave your suite, though.”

it was well past two in the morning; less than five hours before your flight, but sleep wasn’t in sight. you found yourselves talking about anything and everything. it could have been exhaustion-induced, but subong couldn’t stop talking to you. five silent minutes went by, and he thought of something else: “do you think i’d look good with a puffer jacket on stage?” he murmured. “i think you’d look really hot. very british, too.” “thank you, baby. i don’t know if that last part was a compliment, though.” you did, too: “ant-man was always my least favorite avenger. he was pushed too hard. i mean, did anyone even go see that movie?” “why’re you asking me? i can’t look into other people’s minds.” “well, you’re thanos, for one. you should’ve wiped him out sooner.” “i will in another life, baby.”

then three o'clock came, and things took a turn. you brought up your families: “my sister looked out for me the most when i was growing up.” you told him, hearing him hum as he listened, the both of you tucked underneath the fluffy duvet. “there’s eight years between us, but she made it feel like eight days with how close we were.” you grinned, the warmth of the memories heating your cheeks. “she’s the first person i ever saw defy my parents. if she didn’t like their chosen suitor, she’d tell them. loudly, too. all the while i was just to eating my salmon and asparagus without a clue in the world.” you exhaled through your nose, hearing his low chuckle. “things changed when she went to study at harvard. i can’t blame her; she had other things to do. new priorities, a life to live.” you nodded to yourself, your silk pillowcase rubbing against your cheek. “but i still felt the loss as a little girl. when she graduated, it was even more different … she wasn’t unrecognizable, but a lot more … uh … in order, if that makes sense.” “would you say she fell in line?” subong asked. you hesitated, but the truth showed itself. “i would, yeah.” you nodded, looking at him. “what about your brother?” “oh,” you scoffed. “he’s about as open as i am unbothered; not much.” you chuckled, but subong didn’t reciprocate. he watched you intently, feeling a common thread about to be unearthed. “well,” you began. “when he was last home for his birthday, we probably said about ten words to each other. before that, i phoned him a couple weeks after the fall semester started. the call was less than three minutes long.” embarrassment mounted, reluctantly looking at subong. “we don’t talk much.” you said. “i try, but he doesn’t. its hard to explain.”

“you don’t have to.” subong shook his head. “i know how it feels.” “you do?” “i don’t have any siblings, but my dad’s been a drunkard since i can remember. the type where he comes home late at night and says the government’s spying on him or some shit. i’m surprised it hasn’t taken him yet.” he attempted to joke, but your worried expression wiped his grin clean off. “my mother’s always been kind of pathetic, too. i’ve tried to get through to her, and i still do today. so that left my grandmother. she raised me, like how your sister raised you, i would say.” he nodded, hearing you hum. “when things got bad, i didn’t go home. i went to stay at a friend’s house. but she always welcomed me back. with a smile, too, and good kimbap. she didn’t understand why i wanted to rap, but she respected that i wanted to do something with my life, period.” he felt his throat close up, tongue running quickly over his lips, silence taking over. his eyes darted to yours, a little uncomfortable by his sudden emotional state, diverting to the linen. “my family—we’ve never really been close.” he said, inhaling through his nostrils. “mine neither.” you concurred. “they didn't—” he cleared his throat. “they didn’t show up to my enlistment ceremony.” he admitted. “i lost my grandmother two years before i had to go, so she couldn’t come.” he inhaled again, blinking quickly. “i haven’t, uh,” he took a moment, shaking his head. “i haven’t been the same since.”

his words sunk into your consciousness. you moved closer to him, closing the remainder of the already small gap. your hand came up to his face, thumb tracing his cheekbone, bringing the one closer to your lips. subong didn’t flinch or show any sign of retaliation. his face felt heavy, breathing through the small part of his lips, sitting with his feelings. he felt you press your cheek onto his, yours lips by his ear. “she would’ve come.” you whispered. his bottom lip quivered, glossy eyes hurriedly dashing around the ceiling. he blinked his tears away, not enough to deter his shaky voice: “i know.” he nodded. “i know she would have.” he lays there in your understanding touch, eyes squeezed shut to keep himself afloat. he grabbed your wrist, turning his head and planting kisses on your palm. his last kiss had him holding your fingers to his forehead, his eyes closing again, almost in silent prayer; i’ve found her. his inner monologue said freely, him fighting a sob. this is the one.

you lifted your head, seeing his pained expression. your fingers slipped out of his, going back to his cheek, kissing his temple in silent assurance; bringing him back down to earth. he opened his eyes, nodding curtly to himself, clearing his throat. he tried to move up his pillow and out of the way, but you kept him in place, returning your cheek to his, your eyelashes tickling his cheekbone, lips in a similar pout. he fucking loved snuggling like this—not only was it lethally adorable, and so preciously needy, but he felt cared for; enough to have skin-to-skin contact, enough for your body temperatures to become one. he turned his head, pressing a kiss onto your supple skin. “you should call your sister.” he told you sincerely, low voice, breath warm against your ear. “i bet she misses you a lot.” your sinuses started to loosen, lips tightening together. “you don’t get to make me cry.” you said, grinning upon hearing and feeling the vibrations of his chuckle.

something in subong’s psyche indefinitely changed. he checked his phone constantly, having added the timezone to his phone to see when it would be okay to call you. his eyes watched your empty suite like a hawk through soundcheck to the point where one of the producers told him to focus on the camera. he looked fondly at his phone screen scrolling through your photos throughout your trip sent daily. it was his middle of the night and your early evening, but he felt his heart swell at seeing you visit a national park at sunrise, smiling so beautiful in your seat for the safari, another photo of you looking back at the herd of zebras in the near distance; a mirror selfie showing what you wore to one of many libraries you visited, his favorite being the tan matching trouser set paired with an white linen shirt and cartier bracelet, the blazer resting on your shoulders; one of food so delectable it made his stomach grumble, and one of you stood at the beach that woke his dick up. So beautiful baby, he wrote back. Can’t wait to talk to you when you wake up:)

subong pummeled you from below when you came back; your hand on the headboard, both of his separating your cheeks, his feet almost flat against the duvet, giving him the utmost leverage. he was whimpering pathetically, face contorted in pleasure he hadn’t felt in years. he tried to protect his pride, biting his lip and letting that vein pop out of his temple, but the sound of your fucking moans, man … and your breasts dangling in his face like that … you felt so relaxed, so open that he fucked you with ease, his balls plopping against you with every thrust. “you feel how fucking heavy my balls are, baby?” subong said through gritted teeth, stomach caving inward, trying to stop that knot from unraveling. “you feel that, yeah?” “y-yes!” you cried out. “yeah? that’s all because of you—f-fuck! a—agh! ngh!” you clenched around him, making his thrusts momentarily subside, cock pulsating in the condom. subong grunted through his racing heartbeat, his nose smushed against your cheek. he adjusted his grip, continuing his unrelenting pace. his eyes rolled back. “o-oh fuck yeah,” his head rested on his pillow, mouth slack. “that’s fucking right. take that fucking dick.”

you gasped, looking down to see your left nipple in his mouth, his tongue running over the hardened peak. his eyes were closed contently, suckling in peace whilst he fucked you. “that f-feels so good, subong.” you bit your bottom lip, eyebrows turning upward. “k-keep—mmph!—keep sucking.” “yeah? you like that, baby?” he hummed, satisfied. he leaned up to kiss you, fucking you faster. you shot up, both of your hands now on the headboard, moaning helplessly, taking it like the good girl you are. “your s-subongie had s-such a—fuck—hard time without you.” he said from beneath you. “i t-tried to touch myself after one of our calls, looking at you looking so fine on the beach,” he swallowed, mouth dry, thrusts becoming sloppy. “but—but i couldn’t, baby.” he shook his head, eyes glossy. “did you get everything you need on your trip, baby? for your research?” the genuine sincerity in his tone contrasted greatly with his lewd actions, making you moan louder than before. you had this man so down bad he sent you the wikipedia page link for a random political leader from a completely different nation than you traveled to, saying it was interesting just to feel some sort of proximity to you during your time apart. “i did, subongie, i—h-haa! i did.” “good, baby.” he smiled. “i’m glad. your s-subongie is so fucking glad!” he whined, punctuating his sentence when hard thrusts. “i couldn’t get off without you—oh fuck!” you fucked him back, meeting his thrusts, balls slamming into you. “h—haa, f-fuck—ngh—baby! baby, baby, i’m gonna—” “show me how much you m-missed me.” you suffocated his cock through your orgasm, looking down to see subong looking ghostly; sweat shining on his forehead, hot cum dripping out of the condom and down his emptied ballsack.

needless to say, he’s locked the fuck in. you ride in the rolls royce with him to drop him off at rehearsals, giving him a farewell kiss before he leaves the car akin to a wife sending her husband off to his 9-5. you’re locked in, too, sat in your suite watching him on stage like he is your husband, of the last ten years matter of fact, and you have four kids together. his strategy of sampling songs increased in virality every time he stepped on stage, launching not only the competition’s growing viewership (“they just told me over one hundred and eighty thousand people watched me rap to justin timberlake.”), but also his overall popularity, too. his social media began blowing up, along with the work email listed in his instagram bio that’s collected dust. his swagger permeated onto everyone’s feeds, particularly from his most recent performance with a very characteristically raunchy line placed notably cleverly that even the judges couldn’t keep a straight face. he rode the chorus of suit & tie with unbridled ease: “that’s right,” he nodded. “she my girl, my señorita. there ain’t nothing i can’t teach her. when she says 'baby have you ever tried…’ like JT i go—” he raised his hands in false surrender, a fine ass smile on his face when the original song goes ’let me show you a few things,’ before bringing the microphone back to his mouth, finishing his verse.

you fucked in the backseat of the rolls royce after he survived elimination night. you let your chauffeur off early, making sure the partition was up since you felt somewhat shameful for doing this so publicly, but not enough to stop. you bounced on his cock like it was the last thing you’d ever do, whorish moans mixing with his pathetic whimpers. his hands lifeless on your hips; head thrown back on the seat as drool teased the corner of his mouth. your thighs burned, and your knees wanted to do away with continuously rubbing against the leather, but it didn’t fucking matter; you fucked him like you owned it. “f-fuck, baby!” he exclaimed. “just like that, just like that!” you raised your head, pressing your nose against his temple, swiveling your hips. a grunt forced its way out of his diaphragm, fingers sinking into the powdery skin of your ass, his belt and jeans tinkering on the floor as he moved his feet. “am i taking you well, subongie?” he nearly fell apart at that, crying out desperately, arms wrapping around you, holding himself close to you whilst you showed no mercy to his helpless dick. “hm? am i t-taking—f-fuck! ngh!—am i taking your big fucking cock well? is this tight pussy making you feel good? yeah?” throwing his words back at him would have made you a mother if not for the condom, along with the feeling of your bulgari diamond earrings pressing against his cheekbone.

“y-yes! yes, baby!” he pleaded, voice a noticeable octave higher. “you take this dick so well i’m not gonna have any—fuck!—i’m not gonna have any cum left after this!” he cried. a strong wave of pleasure washed over your body, making you slam down onto him and clench around his cock—a moan so guttural rang out of him that it made you jump, quickly covering his mouth with your palm. he opened his half-lidded, glossy eyes, confused. “someone’ll fucking hear you!” you shushed. he flicked your hand away, breathing heavily, words slurring a little. “you’re fucking me in a car that’s worth more than i’ll ever make.” he took a deep breath. “and you want me to keep quiet? shut the fuck up.” you tightened around him, making him bite his bottom lip, sharply slapping your right globe. “who told you to stop, hm?” he asked, kneading your ass before smacking it again. “if you don’t move, i’m going to take over.” he said. you sat up, hands moving to his shoulders, and started moving your hips again. “mhm, that’s right.” he praised, spreading his legs further. “no one knows this dick like you do.” you started bouncing again, biting your lip through your aching thighs, watching his face contort meekly. his breath hitched every time your inner thighs met his lower stomach. “just like that!” he cried out. “f-fuck, baby! just like that! f-fuck, you own this fucking dick—” he gasped when you grabbed his jaw, pushing head back over the seat. “stop talking so much. let me fucking focus.” “p-please! please, baby! i’m so close, i’m so fucking close!” he begged. a housekeeper accidentally overheard the muffled commotion, rushing back into the guesthouse to trade heated gossip.

it was the hottest ticket in town to work in your household. perhaps the most eventful thing in recent years. its true that a majority of your staff had known you your whole life, unequivocally in tune with your habits, food and laundry preferences, how your mood might differ depending on the weather—anything, really. but it was the newer recruits who had just signed the dotted line on their non-disclosure agreements that stood in shock in the hallway outside of your bedroom, vacuum on and in hand, hearing repeated banging of a wall. she turned it off, carefully walking up to the closed door, gasping when she heard something crash followed by a cacophony of grunts and moans. you’d just hoisted yourself up onto your desk, shoving your stationary out of the way onto the floor. subong quickly grabbed your ass, pulling himself into you hard and roughly; grunting with every thrust. “harder, subong! h-harder!” “if i go any h-harder, i’m gonna fucking pass the fuck out! f-fuck, baby!” another recruit emerged from a nearby room after cleaning it, the one by your door hurriedly hushing them over. their upcoming weekend off was about to be one for the ages.

he tried to plan dates without feeling like a coward. key word: tried. “i know a nice restaurant with a karaoke place next to it.” he told you over the phone, entering his neighborhood convenience mart. “that sounds fun, subong.” you spoke from your end of the line. you carefully set down a plate filled with freshly-made food by your chefs for lunch: a loaded smoked salmon sandwich with homemade fries. a majority of your day had been spent in your study working on a report for one of your courses, phoning subong during your lunch break. “where is it?” you asked, sitting down on your desk chair. “in itaewon, actually. not far from club pentagon.” subong looked over his shoulder, seeing the cashier was occupied with a customer, quickly pocketing two pre-packaged rolls of kimbap in his hoodie. “i know someone who works there. i can—i can probably get us in there for free.” why did every word feel more embarrassing than the last? she just dropped everything and went to south fucking africa, and i’m offering free karaoke? he ran his palm over his face, sitting on the curb outside of a laundromat. he kept his phone to his ear with his shoulder, taking a roll out and opening the package. “i can pay, subong.” you said after swallowing a bite of your sandwich. “no, no. its fine. its my—its my treat.” he said, chewing on a slice of kimbap. it was dry as shit, but he made due. he shook his head, grimacing at himself. how much more embarrassing can i be? “i’m your boyfriend.” the sentiment was sweet, but the unavoidable truths of your dynamic made it cringe. at least to him. “i should be doing things for you.” he stuffed another slice in his mouth before he could humiliate himself any further.

you smiled sweetly despite him not being able to see, dipping your fry into a small bowl of homemade honey mustard. you matched his typical energy: “you do more than enough with how i remember the shape of it.” he smiled greatly, growing sheepish. “you got that right, baby.” he chuckled. “does friday work for you? i can come over on saturday, like we usually do.” “that should be fine—hold on. is this friday the ninth?” “i think so.” subong pulled the wrapper down, sliding another slice into his mouth. “why?” you got up, checking the calendar hung next to your framed oxford degree. “shit. i have a gala that day.” “a what?”“a gala.”“the fuck is a gala?”“a fundraising event.” you answered, sitting back down in your desk chair. “have you heard of the met gala? its like that, just with less photographers.”“yeah, i know: the place where people wear clothes that don’t make sense.” he said with a full mouth, swallowing as he heard you laugh. “that’s one way of putting it, yes.” “what do you do there?”“well, i dress up really pretty,” you began, grabbing your glass of water, taking a sip. “and then i go and sit. take photos. mingle. network. i’m standing in for my parents.” “mingle?” subong was taken aback, a grain of rice stuck on the corner of his bottom lip. “network? what are you even talking about? you should be at the club. with me.”“i have to go. for image.” “whatever that means.” said subong, tsking. “i know, i know.” you agreed. an upside-down grin tugged at your lips, going forth with pulling his leg some more: “maybe i should tell you about our stakeholders.”“you know,” he swallowed, this bite not going down as easily as the others. he should’ve knicked a water bottle, too. “you make my dick so hard that it fucking scares me, but that just made it limp so quick that i’m starting to feel lightheaded.”“subong!” “what? i’m being for real!”

subong should have already known he had fallen in love like a fucking fool. he made the photo you sent from the gala his lockscreen a little too quickly … on the deck of a yacht, a saturated golden hue of the sunset behind you turning the crisp blue ocean water into an enriched shade of violet; million dollar smile on your gorgeous fucking face, flute glass of bubbly in hand, long sleeve burgundy gown leaving nothing to his imagination—all tied together with the accompanying Missing you!!🥰. or when he was picked up late that friday night, waking up the late the next morning, aimlessly walking into your sunlit en suite bathroom with a raging case of morning wood after falling asleep with his dick against your plush ass. the discomfort from peeing woke his senses enough to open his eyes somewhat when washing his hands. he lifted his head, looking at himself shirtless in the spacious vanity mirror, momentary caught off hard by the dark red lipstick kiss marks trailing his cheeks, neck, and collarbone—until he remembered the previous night’s events. his fingers touched the blurred marks lightly, a smug grin appearing on his face. he heard his phone ding, seeing he left it charging on your sink, next to your augustinus bader moisturizer. there were a couple of texts that came in overnight, business emails he didn’t know what to do with, two mg coin youtube notifications, and three from his crypto app. he turned it on silent, walking back to bed, hearing you mutter his name.

he found himself thinking about the way your fingers pushed strands of his hair off his sweaty forehead after making love—making love? since when did he stop calling it fucking … hearing your quiet “come here” or “i need you,” and subong would not hesitate to oblige, letting himself fall into your embrace, steadying his heartbeat with yours. how about when he was taking off your jeans to eat you out, and he’d see the fraying inner hems from your thighs rubbing together when walking? or when you haven’t realized the denim’s worn out … and there’s that little peek of skin … jesus … he’s never seen anything sexier in his life. he wanted to be buried there forever. or when you couldn’t keep your hands off one another to last a shower together, the acoustics of the en suite making your moans drill into his ears without mercy in tandem with the overwhelming steam of the running water. your tits pressed up against the glass, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you from behind, mouth breathing down your ear. “that’s right. take it like the whore you are—the whore you turn me into— f-fuck!” he pulled out, cumming hard onto the shower floor. his lips found the back of your bare shoulder as you came down from your high—“my girl, you’re my fucking girl.” murmured subong, lips nipping at your ear. “no one knows this pussy like i do. no one.”

however, through it all, his initial question remained valid: what do you get or do for someone who already has it all, and if they don’t, with a swipe of a card, they do? he was dreadfully nervous stepping out of that rolls royce, arriving at the guesthouse for your three month anniversary dinner clutching a gift bag housing a book you mentioned wanting to read recently. he was moderately proud of himself when seeing your smile upon opening your gift; the awkwardness of inferiority looming over him like an oncoming storm cloud nonetheless. his mind went blank, though, when you brought out your gifts, staring at the table with his mouth agape at the sight of a brand new rolex and gucci tennis shoes. “is it too much?” you asked worriedly, taking a sip of your rosé, seeing the look on his face. “no, it’s fine.” he shook his head. “it’s just that … i got you a fucking book.” “and i love it! i’ve been wanting to read it for a long time.” you quickly reassured, nodding. your fingers fixed his hair—freshly dyed a much more suitable shade of darker purple for his skintone; subong had his appointment at your salon two days previous—“just wanted to spoil you, is all.” you said gently, a warm grin on your face. “spoil a broke old man, hm?” he muttered cynically. you tsked, “don’t say that.” you warned. “it’s the truth.” subong retorted. “stop it.” you said with finality. “so what if you’re older? i don’t see how that’s a hinderance.” you shook your head. “i can’t expect everyone around me to have their shit in order when mine was before i was even a thought, or a consideration to my parents.” you said. “subong,” you let out a breath. “when i first met you, one of the first things i noticed was your wrinkles. don’t give me that look just yet, let me say my case.” he deflated his offended expression, sinking back into his cushioned chair, hearing the cicadas chirp in the trees surrounding the backyard. “i see these,” your manicured thumb brushed his smile lines, crow’s feet, and forehead wrinkles, “and i see someone who knows what he wants, because he’s lived long enough to know.” you told him. “in three months, i’ve experienced more with you than i have in years. years, subong, and forgive me if i want my man to look fly on stage in return.” you put your hands up in surrender, hearing him laugh lowly.

“at least let me put the watch on you? to see how it looks?” you implored gently. you smiled seeing him nod, “okay.” you took the golden watch out of its box, opening the clasp and settling the band around his wrist, closing the clasp securely. it looked natural on him. “what do you think, baby?” you asked. subong examined his wrist, feeling the comfortable weight of the 18 karat gold. “i like it.” his grin turned into a full-on smile. “i like it a lot.” “its look so good on you!” you beamed, embracing him. subong tried the shoes, too, feeling confident enough to model them for you around the table you were having dinner at. he temporarily left his steak and beer behind to practice poses he was going to do on stage: “i’ll hit them with this,” he curled his upper lip, crossing his arms over his chest, legs at a wide stance. “and then this.” he turned around, looking over his shoulder, watch on display behind him. “yes!” you cheered, clapping after finishing your glass of rosé, “you look so sick, baby.”

later in the evening, you two were laid up together in the spacious hammock. subong actively fought falling asleep on your chest—lulled by the subdued chittering of cicadas joined by crickets; gucci tennis shoes off and politely put to the side to avoid creasing them. it was barely past nine thirty pm, and subong’s eyelids weighed him down heavier than his rolex laden wrist. it was a lethal combination: the early summer heat that was more nurturing rather than humid, the subtle breeze brushing past his ears as the hammock rocked side to side, your fingers combing through his hair … if he wasn’t careful enough, he was going to leave a trail of drool on your blouse that felt like butter against his skin—holy shit, how many thousands of dollars am i just breathing on right now? he quickly opened his eyes, switching the cheek he was laying on, humming in content when your fingers returned to his hair, hearing your stacked cartier and van cleef bracelets tinker together softly. “baby?” he muttered. “hm?” “i have a question.” you smirked, finding his polite approach amusing. “go ahead, subong.” “throughout all the times i’ve been to your kingdom, i can’t help but wonder why you don’t have a pool. or, like, even a jacuzzi.” he spoke. “when i was a kid, that was all i knew about the rich from movies. or the music videos i would watch.” “i see, i see.” you said, understanding. “well,” you let out a breath. “i don’t have one, but my parents do.” “are they home?” you shook your head. “no. one’s in macau, the other’s in tokyo.” subong raised his head. “see, now this is a moment straight out of a movie.” he said, smiling when you let out a laugh. “do you want to head up there? its only about a five minute walk.” “the fuck? of course.”

it was a bit more casual than subong expected it to look: lights illuminating the water, a few cushioned lounge chairs, a couch, and what looked to be an open bar or makeshift barbecue space on the opposite end. the house behind him—or fucking giant’s dollhouse, more aptly put—was another thing to unpack a different time entirely. he kicked the withered sneakers he came tonight with off, stripping himself of his jeans and t-shirt, discarding the garments on a nearby lounge chair. he looked up, seeing you struggle to undo the button on the back of your neck holding your blouse up. he reached over, humming in acknowledgement after your quiet “thank you.” you turned around, tossing your blouse with his clothes, seeing him take off his watch, rings and chain holding his cross, placing them carefully beside his shirt. “can i try one?” you asked, unbuttoning your trousers, pushing them down to your ankles. subong turned his head, a slightly bewildered expression on his face. “you know what’s in there?” his tone wavered with unease with the slightest hint of shame; like he’d been caught. you assured him with ease: “i do.” you spoke, nodding like nothing was wrong. “you—you always wear it.” it was your turn to feel ashamed, the upcoming confession certainly not the best. “so when you were in the shower one day … i suppose i became curious. so i held it, and i heard something shake around, if that makes sense. then i felt a small hatch.” the rest of the story filled itself in. “i-i'm—i’m not judging you, or anything!” you quickly, but earnestly defended, waving either of your hands for emphasis. “there are more people than i can count that i grew up with that are arguably unrecognizable without dilated pupils. i guess what i’m trying to say is … i’m not entirely unfamiliar.” “have you done anything before?” subong asked. “i mean,” you shrugged your shoulders. “if you count a brownie i ate on a ski trip with friends a couple of years ago, and instead of shutting up i actually spoke more than i usually do, then yes. i’ve done something before.” he snickered, making you grin. “i don’t know. i guess my curiosity can be a bit of a—a bit of a vice, sometimes.”

“listen, i don’t know what the fuck 'a vice’ means, but you being curious isn’t a bad thing.” said subong, walking up to you. he turned his head to his left, eyeing the pool before returning his gaze to yours. “but not tonight, baby.” he said gently, shaking his head. “the shit i have is crazy. don’t want any accidents to happen.” “okay.” you nodded, feeling his lips coming down and kissing your temple, his hands coming up your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. his fingers hooked underneath the hem of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles, pressing a kiss to your right hip and shoulder on his way back up. he quickly shoved his briefs off, taking your hand leading you down the steps into the pool. he swam in the warm water with open joy, dipping around and wetting his hair. he caught your hand, pulling you towards him. his palms lifted your thick thighs submerged in the water, satisfied upon feeling your legs wrap around his waist; the buoyancy of the water letting him hold you with ease. your hands held his face, bringing him in for a sweet kiss. “always wanted to fuck you like this, y'know.” he murmured, kissing you back. “would be so fucking hot.” you scoffed. “i would snap you in half.” “no, no.” he tutted, wanting your lips back. “i can do it. i can handle all that.” you gave him your lips, only to quip back. “that can be debatable, at times.” you teased. “no its not.” whined subong, kissing your jaw, trailing down the side of your neck. “whenever i’m on top, you look ghostly.” “doesn’t mean i can’t handle it.” said subong. “you might throw your back out trying to hold me against the wall.” you joked, not sure how he would react. you failed horrendously at holding your laugh in when he nudged you off. “fuck this.” he muttered. “when i’m trying to be all sensual and shit, set the mood—” “—no, come back! i was only kidding! you can handle all this!”

by the time you and subong wrapped up in the pool, it was late enough where neither of you wanted to walk back to the guesthouse—opting to stay. subong did not have the brainpower whatsoever to process the fucking museum of a family home he walked into, but did garner enough to greet the two dogs that came running across the marble-tiled floors to you two—a portuguese water dog named nana, and a shibu inu called sunny—after entering the home through the poolside entryway. the both of you, barefoot with dampened clothes, walked up the staircase leaving what he thought to be one of many kitchens throughout the manor, zigzagging (to him) through various hallways, climbing up another staircase. you opened the door to what was once your childhood bedroom. you hadn’t actively lived in your family’s home for some time, but remnants of your past self were still present in the alanis morissette poster on the wall by your balcony, or the family photos lining the mantelpiece above the fireplace. no dust had dared accumulate, either; a direct result of your family’s loyal, diligent staff. you and subong washed off in the shower before heading to bed, knocking out damn near immediately after his head hit the plush pillow.

subong woke up at around half four in the morning, shuffling to the en suite, his mouth dry. he tried to relieve it by gurgling some water from the sink, but to no avail. he was thirsty. do i even remember the way to the kitchen? he thought to himself, opening the bedroom door, walking into the hallway. in his sleepy state, he took note of his surroundings: yeah, i remember that photo there … then there was that painting before the second staircase … before making it back to the kitchen. the dogs came over to him when he found a glass in one of the many cabinets, shoving it under the fridge’s water dispenser. after a few pats, he made his way back up. in the midst of his chugging, he took a wrong turn—turning left at the second landing as opposed to the right, where your bedroom was. he entered a random bedroom, reflexively turning on the light, remembering that you were asleep.

“shit. sorry, baby.” he whispered, turning the light off. it was in that sudden flash of visibility that he caught sight of the room he walked into; it didn’t look familiar whatsoever. intrigued, subong turned the light on again. he momentarily squinted whilst his vision adjusted to the bright glow of the humungous chandelier hanging in the middle of the high ceiling. subong had walked into what was undeniably the master suite that could not belong to anyone else but your parents—evident in not only the massive bed frame, but just how spacious the room is, spotting an archway leading to another corridor that subong could only assume led to their bathrooms, closets, and whatever else. there were fancy looking mirrors and thick curtains framing the tall windows, too, and he could see a view of the guesthouse on the far left. he walked in, bare feet touching the velvety carpet that felt like he was walking on clouds.

he walked underneath the regal archway, down the small hallway. its walls were decorated with paintings he could only imagine the price tags of, fingertips tracing the wooden paneling you would only see in palaces. my girl does live in a fucking kingdom. he walked past a dark room, unintentionally triggering its motion-sensor lighting. subong nearly dropped his glass at the walk-in closet before him. its his-and-hers layout was apparent; the garments were similar—blazers, suits, majority businesswear—but what differed were the color palettes. your father’s was on the left, his side featuring no other hues besides dark blue, black, and a rare dark brown. your mother’s side had slightly more variation both in color and fabric but was equally filled to the brim, the sheen of a lolite blue silk blazer contrasting with the enriching shade of the dark crimson wool sports jacket a few hangers down.

but nothing captured subong’s attention that the long, narrow cabinet standing in the middle of the room as a makeshift divider. subong opened the top drawer, eyes feasting on the jewelry before him: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, cufflinks, rings all laid out efficiently in black velvet trays without a speck of dust on them. his fingers traced the gold, silver … diamonds … sapphires … and pearls … swiping a pair of earrings, bracelet, and a ring, enclosed in his palm. “pocket change to them.” he muttered to himself, closing the drawer. he walked down the hallway and out of the suite after turning off the light, closing the door. subong returned to your room, seeing you were sound asleep in bed, having not moved. he set his glass down on the mantelpiece, picking his jeans up from the floor, pocketing the jewelry. he climbed back into bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead before dozing off.

for you, it was hard not to fall in love with subong. like, really hard. in between the night after dinner and karaoke, walking out of the bar into bustling itaewon nightlife at half past two in the morning, he reached behind him for your hand, charging through the congested walkways, guiding you to where the rolls royce was to head home, to when he’d take off your panties to eat you out, his finger outing your slick. “you’re so wet, baby.” he’d watch his middle finger disappear between your puffy lips. “who did that?” a devious, knowing grin stretched his mouth. “it wasn’t me, was it? all i did was kiss you…” to seeing him on that fucking stage, stomping around in those gucci tennis shoes and blinding the camera with the shine of his rolex, spectating in your suite like the motherfucking queen you are. or on those rides home after he survived elimination night yet again and so easily, always one of the first people voted through to the next round if not the first. he stepped into the rolls royce with a sweet grin on his face, giving you an even sweeter kiss, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “another round in the bag, lucky charm.” it was a name he rarely called you, but was very affectionate nonetheless. “did i make you proud? hm?” he asked, kissing your temple. “did your subongie make you proud?” all culminating to the partition going up, your hand making his tip red and angry, him muffling his whimpers and whines with your mouth.

his rising popularity paralleled your belief in subong, leading you to book studios for him to record his mixtape. you asked your staff to contact any notable producers willing to work with subong, sitting behind them, tending to your own business, as they worked and he was behind the mic. you looked up from the business email you were responding to on your ipad, eyebrows furrowing at subong’s attempted adlibs. you leaned over to your right, looking past one of the producers, seeing subong all up in that mic, making gestures and sounds like he was from a different neighborhood. you put your ipad aside, getting up. “which one do i press for me to hear him? thank you.” you were directed to a small red button to your right. the music stopped abruptly in subong’s headphones, catching him off guard. “subong? can you hear me?” “yeah—yeah, baby.” “stop making those noises. you’re from korea.” “but its for the image.” “you’re from korea.” you repeated, letting the button go, catching sight of the producer holding in his laugh in your periphery.

the mixtape did well—over 500,000 streams in total, and mounting jealousy from his fellow contestants. it soon became anything he needed, you got it for him … his manicure chipped? “subongie, does tuesday at two work for you? my nail tech has an opening.”; he’s feeling under the weather? Hi my honey, a reminder that check-up is at 12:30. The car will come at noon; his roots are coming in? you’re sat in a chair reading one of the many lifestyle magazines left out for customers to peruse through, giving your hairdresser a 550,000 won tip on the way out; he shows you pictures of tooth gems, thinking it might be cool to have one for his upcoming performance sampling lady gaga? he’s in that dentist’s chair by friday, smiling cheekily into the camera come sunday, purple butterflies twinkling on his pincers; you’re out shopping, and see a puffer jacket from prada that’d look good on him? you’re walking with it out the door less than five minutes later. not to mention the legal team you had on standby after hearing rumors he was going to be sued for sampling other music.

taking care of your man felt good … like, really fucking good. you’ve always daydreamed about spoiling someone who deserved it, and he fit the bill. you would be remised if you didn’t notice he liked being spoiled, too, with that glint in his eyes or increased bravado in every step he took; the flair of arrogance that fueled his ego both on stage and not, making your thighs rub together subconsciously in your suite or watching him manspread in the rolls royce. it was all so alluring and characteristically him … even if it came at a cost … and to his detriment, too. as the rap battleground competition proceeded, and his popularity increased, so did the amount of people waiting for him after the show. it started off harmless: a group of fanboys here, college girls there, fellow underground rappers who were hoping to qualify for next season … but then, some people got a little too comfortable: holding his hand in their photo with him, hands traveling up his arm when he told a joke, or simply just standing too fucking close—all the while you were sat in your own brewing storm cloud, watching in silence in your rolls royce, waiting for him to come to you.

you never left his line of sight—or line of desire, rather—but one thing you had left to learn about him is that no matter what, no matter how much he is given, some part of him, no matter how small, will always remain insatiable. you would end up learning that the hard way; this was just the beginning. your lingering frustration manifested in a myriad of admittedly petty ways: not giving subong the satisfaction of moaning loudly when he made you cum, shoving his face deeper into your cunt to shut him the fuck up; especially on the nights you’re sat on your family’s poolside, toes in the water, his knees on the steps, palms holding your thighs up, or giving him a curt kiss before he left the car for rehearsals. you felt utmost defeat the weekend after your four month anniversary, watching him from the car behind your sunglasses as he mingled with fans. it was the largest crowd yet following his sampling of bruno mars—and that wasn’t the problem, per sé. it was the group of women very clearly your age, but nothing was more clearer than the fact the one currently clinging to his arm, laying her head on his bicep, and strategically pulling down her tank top, was very desperately trying to communicate that she wants to fuck him.

perhaps the most painful part was the realization that you couldn’t blame her. she was very beautiful and incredibly mystifying; the type of allure that can be felt even from a distance, and certainly the kind men like subong pray for each night before bed. who the fuck am i? your inner monologue voiced bitterly. you turned away when her friend’s camera flash went off, her lips kissing his cheek whilst he wore the prada puffer jacket you got him and the bottega sunglasses you gifted him the previous weekend, his smile showing off the tooth gems you were over the moon to get him. is this another person thats going to slip from my fingers? you thought to yourself. you felt your bottom lip quiver, eyes becoming misty—the door opened, subong climbing in. you straightened your posture, quietly clearing your throat, glancing at him and seeing a lipstick mark on the corner of his jaw. “jesus.” you whispered under your breath, feeling your fucking heart decay.

subong moved as he normally did when the car drove out of the studio lot: wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “another one down, lucky charm. i can feel it.” he grinned proudly. you felt nauseous. “what’d you think? hm?” subong asked. “you like the performance?” “mhm.” you said plainly, moving away from his embrace, back into your own seat. “it was good.” subong’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “something’s been bothering you these past couple of weeks.” he said. “you’ve had that look on your face.” you turned, looking at him behind your sunglasses, stoic. “what look?” “just like that.” he pointed at you, not even trying to hide his grin. “unreadable. almost rotten.” he leaned in a little. “bitchy.” you looked ahead of you, catching sight of your chauffeur glancing at you and subong through the rearview mirror. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you said blankly, cheeks growing warm from embarrassment. “nah, i think you do.” subong retorted, nodding. “with how much you talk about your phd, i thought you’d be smart enough to tell me what’s wrong. but i was wrong, because you’ve been pushing my face into your pussy instead of telling me what the fuck has been bothering you.” you didn’t say anything, not even daring to look at the rearview mirror. subong shook his head. “i don’t have time for petty shit. i’m too old for this.”

you turned your head sharply at him. “oh really?” you questioned. “then what do you have time for, hm? letting her believe she gets to fuck you whilst you make your girlfriend wait in the car, like i don’t have something better to be doing?” you gestured to his jaw. “and then—and then you come in here acting like everything’s okay when her lipstick is on your face!” you exclaimed, eyebrows raised. “what do you expect me to do? sit idly, clueless?” the end of your sentence came out fragmented, frustration clogging your throat. “you expect me not to show my fans love?” subong’s tone was as defensive as yours. you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. either he doesn’t get it, or has purposefully weaponized his incompetence, or both. “you’re taking it too far, subong.” you said. ��no, i’m not taking anything 'too far.’” he mocked those last words, shaking his head, scoffing. “i worked for this shit. i’m not going to say sorry because you feel fucking insecure.”

that was your last straw. “see this?” you pointed at him, then to yourself. “this is what i don’t have time for.” you shook your head. “your blatant disregard for what or why i’m feeling this way; dismissing it like its some joke, or that you’re so high and mighty above it all that you can’t even begin to acknowledge it. like, because it isn’t fodder for your ego, its ludicrous.” subong shook his head, turning away from you, looking out his window. “speak like a fucking human, man.” he kissed his teeth, muttering. “i feel like i’m at my fucking court date or some shit.” “drop him off at the ramen shop.” “yes ma'am.” said your chauffeur. subong looked at you sharply. “the fuck?” “the fuck?” you mocked right back. “i’m too old for disrespect, subong.” “like i’m getting out of this fucking car.” he grumbled to himself. “oh, yes you are.” you said back.

your chauffeur pulled into the front of the ramen shop. silence washed over the car for a couple of minutes. “get out of the car, subong.” “i’m not leaving.” “get out of the car.” he looked at you, annoyed and defiant. “can’t you fucking hear me? i’m not leaving.” you looked at him, leaning closer. “get out of the fucking car.” you repeated without hesitation. you looked out your window, seeing a friend group walk out of the shop that looked similar to the ones from before. “look, subong. there’s your type.” you pointed. “go and see if they know who you are. i’m sure they’ll give you a kiss, too.” “are you fucking crazy?” subong was taken aback. he put his hand on your shoulder, making you look at him. “is something not right up here?” he pressed his fingers to his temple, eyebrows furrowing. “you’re my fucking type.” he pointed to you. “i don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.” “like you ever did.” you said in a dismissive tone. silence brewed once more. you reminded him again: “get out of the car, subong.” “i’m not going anywhere—” “—get out of my fucking car!” you exclaimed, voice cracking.

this was subong’s last straw: a reminder of his inherent inferiority in your dynamic. fire brewed in his chest, cornering his mind towards his sharpest rebuttal: reminding you of what you hate most—that you’re nobody without your surname. “your car?” subong tilted his head. “you mean the one mommy and daddy bought you?” he voiced condescendingly. he tutted, “you’re just like the rest of them.” that punctured your soul. “you know that’s not true.” you said, defeated. “you’ve never shown me the alternative.” said subong, putting his hands up in surrender, lying through his teeth. he always needed to one-up the other person, its the only air-tight defense mechanism he’s ever had. you raised your head, looking at him, a fallen tear trailing your cheek. his face fell upon realizing he’s made you cry. your voice remained steady: “you know full fucking well that’s not true.”

it was too late to take it back, but he attempted nonetheless, until you cut him off—“get out of the car, subong. i’m not going to ask you again.” “but … but baby,” he said genuinely, ignoring your scoff. “you leave for beijing tomorrow.” you shook your head in disbelief. “that’s what you bring up now?” you were floored. “well, maybe you should have thought of that before you came to me with some other bitch’s lipstick on your fucking face.” you retaliated, looking out your window. “i’ll see you when i get back.” you said curtly. subong, dismissed to the fullest degree with no wiggle room, turned to another crucial tool in his arsenal: reactionary language. “fuck this shit, man.” he muttered, opening the door, stepping out of the car. “spoiled fucking brat.” he slammed the door behind him, spitting on the pavement, walking away without looking back.

you made up when you were abroad. perhaps it was the fact that subong apologized to you over the phone that made it easier for him to do so. its not that he didn’t know that he was in the wrong— because he did—and he accepted full-throttle that he’d rather shit himself and eat it on national television than ever lose you; willing to ensure that by whatever means necessary. but still, it didn’t mean he didn’t have his forehead against his wall when saying his piece, mentally scrutinizing himself over his word choice, or trying to communicate how he felt (“i fucked up. bad.” “you’re telling me, subong.” “i should have … i should have listened to you.” “mhm.” “i shouldn’t have gotten mad quickly.” “mhm.” “i shouldn’t have spat.” “mhm.” “are you only going to give me short answers?” “i’ll make it even shorter and hang up.” “wait—fuck! i’m sorry! don’t do that. hello? baby?” “i’m here.” “okay, good. fuck.”)

the flight home was quiet. it always was. you sat in a quadrant of seats, facing your parents. your mother never liked clutter, so the only things she accepted on the small table between you two were her copy of today’s financial times, a singular bottle of sparkling water, and cups for whomever wishes to drink. you alternated between scrolling through your ipad in your lap or watching the clouds float by, keeping to yourself. you may not be the heir and are merely the middle child, but that did not mean you were permitted to fall out of line, or succumb to expectations from those in your family’s inner and outer circles that you existed only as the spare, even if that was the silent part said out loud. but under your mother’s watchful gaze, that is and will never be the case. she is the physical manifestation of the phrase the woman behind the man—but she is no mere shadow. she is the entire being; the sacrosanct consciousness that kept this show on the road. if anyone dared to forget, or worse—impede or overstep—a quick flash of the sapphire on her ring finger would whip them right back into shape. she wears the one hundred year old family heirloom with a sense of both pride and fuck around and find out. even when she’s not wearing it—every two weeks on the dot for at most two hours when she’s getting it cleaned—the air of her prowess is omnipresent. she took on the duty of being ringleader forty-five years ago, building her legacy as an air-tight leader, rounding her disciples up, weeding out the weak and not leaving power behind. that also included you, resulting in scooping you up randomly to take you alongside her business ventures with no other choice. she would never say this part out loud, but it was present in how your oatmeal was always sweetened to your liking no matter the part of the world you were in, or had the biscuits you’ve liked since you were a little girl on the table every day at family tea: you’re the last of her children that still lived at home under your own volition.

a member of your father’s team came over, summoning him to the other cabin on the jet to take a phone call. your mother didn’t move from her newspaper, but you glanced up at his back when re-adjusting your posture in your seat. you felt your phone vibrate, reaching into your pocket and seeing texts from subong: Been bored as shit without u; I had to no idea 12 days could feel like 12 years. you grinned, typing: You big baby. I miss you too :); Can you still come for dinner? I should be home at 8. Ofc i can baby i wouldnt miss it, he wrote back. Your driver says he will come @ 7:30. your mother glanced up, seeing the grin on your face. I’ll be a little late. Is that okay? your phone vibrated a couple minutes later. More than ok baby; Ill keep myself busy waiting for u ;). you smirked at your screen. Pervert. You make me that way subong typed back. Let me know when u land, ill tell u when I’m in the car. your thumbs twiddled over the keyboard, I will my honey. See you then

you clicked your phone off and set it face down in your lap, leaning into your seat, looking out the window. your mother looked up again as she turned the page, gaze momentarily flittering to the staff member entering the bathroom near your seats. when she saw the door lock, she made her chess move: “i know what you’ve been doing.” she said. you didn’t panic. you’ve been through this many times before as her daughter, both with your personal life and whats been prescribed as professional. you crossed your arms over your chest, keeping your gaze out the window, seeing buildings and bridges pass below you. “its none of your business.” you answered, tone leveled. your mother’s eyes met your side profile. she heard your father’s voice emerge from behind, not wanting to bring an unnecessary person into the conversation. “you’re smarter than this.” was all she said, going to turn the page, but instead being ushered out of her seat, a stakeholder requesting her on the phone, too.

subong waited over an hour for you to come home. he was a good enough conversationalist and knew your staff amiably to pass the time with friendly banter, or kicking pebbles in the backyard. you had texted him earlier in the evening Have to do something with my mom, shouldn’t take too long, but when he checked the time on his watch and saw it was close to 9:30, hearing his stomach grumble, he couldn’t help but grow impatient. he called you twice and was left on voicemail both times. he bit his fingernail as the time surpassed 10:15, head turning sharply right hearing a door slam shut. he walked quickly into the guesthouse, speeding down the hallway and turning the corner, seeing you. the sound of your heel against the wooden flooring was more pronounced than usual, looming yet hidden frustration intensifying the weight of your steps. you took off your coat with a disgruntled huff, throwing it so hastily towards a nearby cushioned chair that it landed mostly on the floor; housekeepers silently rushing over to put it away in your closet after you passed by. subong approached you when you came close enough with a welcoming grin on his face, unaware. “hi, baby.” he spoke. “i missed you—” “let’s eat.” you cut him off, walking by and into the backyard.

from his experiences growing up, and just from general context clues, subong gathered things with your mother did not go over well. what it was about, he didn’t know. however, it was definitely an argument from the way you both ate in silence, or a disagreement with how your utensils scratched against your plate as you cut into your steak—or both, considering you didn’t look him in the eye, but rather the trees around you whilst you shared a slice of homemade tiramisu. subong looked into his wine glass later in the evening, swirling the last few sips around whilst he sat next to you in the modular couch, quiet as ever. he glanced at you from time to time, seeing an expression he would recognize on himself in an instant: stoic, headstrong; but if he looked close enough and didn’t blink, your eyes would give you away. you finished your glass, gripping the long stem in your palm, thumb nail scratching one part repeatedly as you stared at the field before you in thought. subong swallowed, nerves percolating. “listen, i don’t know what happened between you and your mom.” your eyes closed. “but i’m here.” said subong.

he wasn’t sure if he communicated that correctly, but it was the best he could do. with a breath, his gaze followed yours to watch the trees soaked in the darkness of nightfall, only to turn his head sharply upon hearing you cry. “s-she can be so mean.” your voice was barely above a whisper, punctuated by a sniffle. subong felt his heart sink, but didn’t know what to do. he carefully put his glass down, scooting closer to you on the couch, and proceeded to do what you do when he’s feeling down, or at least what he wanted all those nights he ran away as a teenager: “its not your fault.” he said softly, kissing your temple before bringing your head to his chest. you turned to him, hand reaching for the back of his head as you quietly cried into his shoulder. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. “its not your fault.” he repeated, voice shaking. he cleared his throat. “i’m here, baby. i’m here.”

he made love to you sweetly and with purpose, rolling his hips into yours as you moaned so unabashedly and longingly underneath him. it was a newfound sense of intimacy; one that people envy not having no matter how many times they visit a sex therapist, or sculptors immortalize to live on in museums for eternity. “thats right, thats right—s-shit!” subong’s hips stuttered, feeling your gummy walls clench down on him deliciously. he bit his bottom lip, looking down at his condom-wrapped cock. he looked up at you, seeing your eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed in divine pleasure, lips moving against his when he leaned down to kiss you. he stretched you out in the way you needed—to forget, but more importantly, to love. your hands came up to his face, kissing him deeply and with fervor, whimpering feeling his cock move in and out of you again. “a—ah! s-subong!” you moaned gorgeously, breaking the kiss, feeling his lips press into your cheek, your back arching. “feel good with me, baby.” he panted, building a sweat. “feel good with your subongie.” he reached down for your clit, making you gasp, feet rubbing brashly against the linen. “yes! y-yes! s-subong—oh my god!” “my—my b-beautiful fucking woman!” subong mewled, crying out as his thrusts stuttered through your suffocation of his cock. “my beautiful fucking girl. come here, let me look at you. let me see your beautiful face.” he came at the sight of your heavily hooded, glossy eyes peering up at him—“fuck! you’re so fucking sexy, baby!"—choked moans from either of you filled the room as your orgasms hit powerfully in tandem.

subong watched you from his side of the bed, elbow on his pillow, propping his head up with his palm. the day of travel and emotional exhaustion caught up with you, coupled with the soothing relief of your orgasm that lulled you closer to sleep with every small breath. you turned onto your side to face him, eyes closed, comfortably nestled against your pillow. a small grin teased the corners of his mouth at the sound of your content hum when his fingers take your hair out of your face, brisk chill of his rings gliding lightly across your cheekbone. he basked in your effortless fucking beauty, momentarily captivated by your slightly swollen lips from when you kissed each other so hungrily not even an hour ago; your skin’s subtle glow even in the darkness of the bedroom—either a result of your skincare lining your sink, or maybe you really are just an angel. and no, he’s past the point of caring how corny that might have sounded to him four months ago; or how sweet your soft breaths sounded—so serene, so safe. subong didn’t feel as if he was looking at someone who looked at the world with rose-colored lenses, but rather the same ones he did—nuanced, pained, and sometimes even dark.

your similar dynamics with your respective parents made him feel not only validated in his own struggle throughout a life where no one’s given him mercy, but guilty to know someone like you could be so generous. his mouth suddenly twitched into a frown, remembering when he snuck in to both your parents and presumably older sister’s bedrooms, pocketing jewelry and anything else within arm’s reach whilst you were asleep and unaware. it was a few weeks ago, the night he knew something was up from how curt you were during dinner, or more quiet whilst he ate you out by the pool. it was a mix of bitter frustration and resentment towards you on his part. he felt it was more childish that he threw a tantrum so silently and so calculated instead of fucking saying something—ultimately throwing that projection right back at you in the car at some nights later—but not enough to stop himself from walking into the pawn shop, transferring the 75 million won to his bank account, funneling most of it into his cryptocurrency investments and leaving a chunk for anything else: food, pills, etc. he rubbed his eyes when his mind reminded him of when he swiped three of your cartier bracelets in his bitterness, having thought to himself she has thirty of these. she won’t fucking notice shit.

i need to live. even if i am a low-life. he reminded himself. or tried to, because when he couldn’t look away from how innocent you looked tucked under the duvet, cheek pressed against the silk pillowcase, his eyes felt misty. subong inhaled sharply through his nostrils, tightening his lips when they threatened to wobble. he quickly leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, bringing his head to his pillow. he scooted closer to your tired form, not being able to help kissing your soft skin again, heart fluttering hearing your quiet hum. ”i don’t like seeing you like that.“ he said lowly, only for you to hear, despite you two being alone. "hm?” you hummed weakly; registering that he said something, but no recognition of what. subong mistook it as need for clarification. “all sad.” he muttered, doe eyes taking you in, his sentiment sincere. “it doesn't—” here it comes. “it doesn’t suit … you. it doesn’t suit you.” he said, tonally awkward. he shut his eyes, surprised at himself. i’m thirty fucking two years old, man. subong opened his eyes, seeing you fast asleep. he let out a breath, leaning in and tenderly kissing your cheek. in that moment, he figured he at least owed you this: “i love you too much.” he whispered, falling asleep with his fingers holding yours.

the next night, the high from sampling lee hyori wore off fast. subong didn’t even stay to watch his fellow contestants’ performances from the green room, sneaking out of the studio lot after his suggestion to leave early. there was a two week break following elimination night to go to the semi-finals, and with how subong had just reached 120k followers on instagram, his mixtape surpassing 1.7 million streams in total, and him wracking viewership in the hundreds of thousands when performances are uploaded to youtube after the stream—its more than safe to say that he doesn’t have to worry about shit. he said hello to the fans waiting outside and took at most three photos, but that first opening he saw, he took it, scurrying off to the other side of the lot—often times having to evade more hyper fans—slamming the door shut without an ounce of hesitation. it was times like these where he wondered how speculation of your relationship didn’t drift around online. it could’ve been direct handiwork of your staff, or maybe your family was just that exclusive that the press didn’t even know where to start with coverage. after all, when it comes to the uber exclusive rich and socialites alike, does anyone know who’s really in charge?

“how’s my baby, hm?” subong put his bottega sunglasses in his hair, rolex falling further down his wrist. he leaned down, kissing your lips when the rolls royce drove out of the lot. “didn’t make you wait too long, did i?” “no, no. was here for barely five minutes.” you said, reconnecting the kiss. “good.” he muttered against your mouth. subong’s arm came around your shoulders, lips finding your temple before scooting closer to you. “can i ask you something?” you said. your hand reached up, thumb wiping away your lip balm from underneath his bottom lip. “its been pestering my mind all day.” “pestering?” subong smirked, amused. “well, i gotta know now, baby.” “what was it you said to me last night before i fell asleep?” you asked, looking at him. truth is, you knew. you fell for this man so fast and so deeply that your subconscious did the work for you, capturing his words in your memory right before you succumbed to sleep, remembering when you woke up. you just wanted to see if he would say it again.

“uh,” subong was caught off guard. he felt his cheeks tingle, warmth riding up his neck. “it was—it was nothing.” he shook his head, looking at you, downplaying it. “just something about your mom being shitty to you.” he told a half-truth. a knowing smile dared to show on your face. “okay.” you said, nodding. you gestured for him to come closer. you leaned in, mouth right by his ear. “i love you too much, too.” you whispered, kissing his temple. you giggled sweetly at his scoff, shyness radiating off him. “so you did overhear, huh?” he murmured, timid. “of course i did.” you said lovingly, taking your time with your kisses on his skin, each one longer than the last. he felt warm against you, upside down grin bunching his cheeks up just the way you loved it. “how could i not remember my sweet subongie’s words, hm?” you jutted out your bottom lip, knowing how it softened him to mush whenever you did. you grinned, chuckling with success when he rested his forehead against yours. he closed the gap, kissing you with intent. “i’m a man of my word.” he told you. “i meant what i said.” “me too.” you told him sincerely. “of course i love your fine ass.” you smiled, sweet laughter ringing out of you when his lips kissed your neck, the vibrations of his chuckles tickling you.

you and subong spent the next two weeks partying in the amalfi coast. what was the reason? subong didn’t know why; was it a friend’s birthday? bachelorette party, maybe? whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t fucking care—if there’s one thing you’ve inexplicably taught him, its that the rich don’t need a reason to do something; they do it simply because they can. also, he was preoccupied with taking in his first time on a private jet, hands finding your hips like muscle memory when you sat on his thigh after take off, but his eyes kept staring around the luxury interior; the mini plasma screen displaying the weather and plane route; your friends sitting wherever throughout the cabin like it was second nature, because it fucking was. he didn’t even know where his carry-on was, pushing out the fleeting memory of hastily telling his parents he’d be gone for some time before running down the stairs to the car earlier that morning. not like they’d care much. they stopped checking in on him in his twenties, anyway.

he was also temporarily leaving behind ruminating beef with some of his fellow contestants—a mixture of more than apparent jealousy of growing popularity and successful mixtape, the competition’s producers shifting their favorability towards him, and perhaps a fight that broke out in the green room before sound check that was currently making its rounds on various chat forums online. not that subong cared, though. he was busy living the high life: blowing the smoke of his cigar out of the window of your cadillac, drinking alcohol with names he couldn’t pronounce on a yacht larger than he could ever imagine; clapping your cheeks like its his last night alive, and getting his dick sucked on one of the many balconies of your family’s villa (“f-fuck—relax y-your fucking jaw. i’m trying to last more than—shit! a—agh!—i’m trying to last more than five minutes here, baby. s-shit! stop doing that thing with your tongue—f-fuck!”)

this relationship was certainly a first for your friends to see. they had never seen you act this way before—so smitten, or desperate as some would say in hushed tones after you and subong walked out of sight, hand in hand, from where they were sitting in the yacht’s lounge, whispering behind their utensils. their gazes would linger from underneath their sun hats and behind their sunglasses, functionally ignoring the crisp blue water wetting their feet as they sat with them dangling off the private pier, catching glimpses of subong wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in for a squeeze; your giggle heard at a distance, watching him kiss your temple and lips, waiting for your drinks at the outdoor bar. you sat in his lap more often than your own seat at dinner or any meal, really—except breakfast. that’s when they can expect you two to trudge out of your shared room at half one in the afternoon, sat alone at the table by the poolside eating your respective omelets and whatever was left of the fresh fruit cut earlier in the morning; deep in conversation whilst he wore nothing but briefs and his cross, you in one of his graphic tees that went barely past half of your thigh with two hickeys on your neck.

the night you met, subong told you he was an entertainer, and he kept his word on this trip. his charisma and irreverent humor was a breath of fresh air for many of your friends, finding themselves trying not to choke on a freshly-made cannoli during an afternoon in town, or struggling to keep their humorously appalled expressions at bay whenever he made a flyaway comment about something or someone, eventually succumbing to laughter. he was clever and could read the room in record time, and even on a fucking bike. it was an afternoon where the lot of you cruised around the smooth terrain of admittedly narrow roadways, but far enough away from the nearby town where it was safe to do so. subong stuck out like a sore thumb with his shirt off and securely around his neck, contrasting with everyone else’s sundresses and light sweater vests. he warded off the humidity with the cool breeze generated by his speed, back tattoo spelling thanos in his mother tongue on full display as he swerved around everyone. a car came around the corner and was at a good enough distance to not warrant worry, but subong being the way he is, did not pay attention and got too close for comfort. instead of cowering away at the ear-splitting car honks, subong went right up to the driver’s window and yelled an insult so colorful an artist’s paint palette would never rival such intensity. your friends burst out into laughter as they rode by, and even harder at your attempt to get his attention. “subong! get the fuck back here!” you yelled, ringing your bike bell since you could do nothing else whilst you moved. “hold on!—” “get your ass back here!”

he was good at blending in or at least pretending to know, so he had no problem walking around like he had the biggest dick on the coastline—you two fucked like he did. it was in the creaking of the walls or muffled moans upon staying the night at your villa if they drank one too many, or hearing them in their rawest form at a distance as they walked underneath your open-door balcony you forgot to close; a cacophony of grunts, high-pitched moaning, and clapping of skin making them pick up the speed of their walk to their cars, putting the keys in their ignition to head back to their respective apartments or vacation homes. to some of your more pessimistic friends, it all reeked of a temporary fix. but hypocrite is as hypocrite does. none of them spoke up, because they knew they would be directly contradicting themselves—half were fucking their parents’ assistants whereas others were still in dubious contact with their college professors.

one of them was repeatedly internally taunted by the sounds of your illustrious moans, looking down after pulling into his driveway or rushing into the bathroom, surprised and confused by his growing erection. it was funny how you pestered peoples minds only after they find out you’re taken, and by a man that looks to be satisfying you in more ways than one, after years of either not being taken seriously or flat-out disrespected. subong sensed it those first few days on the coast. the first offense was observed from behind his bottega sunglasses at a brunch everyone was present for, swallowing his mouthful of frittata, washing it down with freshly-squeezed orange juice. you were stood at the opposite end of the table, conversing with who he remembered to be a childhood friend. he was also aboard the jet on the way here, and didn’t seem like a problem then, but with how stupidly fucking wide his smile was now when talking to you, subong thought maybe he just wanted to get her alone bitterly to himself. he turned away from the scene, downing the rest of his juice. i’m too fucking old to be jealous.

but he couldn’t help himself. not after that same friend invited you up to see the view from the helm of his yacht later that very afternoon, or finding flan in the fridge that subong learned he went out of his way to get you because its your utmost favorite. i should be doing this shit for her. he began to feel inadequate, awkwardly toying with his piece as you poured the both of you ice water to cool off from the mounting humidity. where would i go for this? and what would i even ask for—"how’s it taste, subongie?“ your voice cut his inner monologue, tuning back in to his taste buds. "do you like it?” “mhm. yeah.” he nodded. “the rum it has tastes good.” subong pissed himself off when his insecurities percolated persistently at the back of his mind whilst he fucked you from behind later that afternoon. your hands were on the wall, moaning so beautifully, feeling him work all of those places so fucking well—and here subong was, glancing at the balcony doors behind him, wishing they were open for that fucking friend to hear. “s-subongie …” your poetic voice brought him back down to earth, as it always did. “keep going. j-just like that.” your eyes rolled back, biting your bottom lip. he looked down at his palms running over your ass, watching your supple skin recoil with every thrust. “like that? yeah?” he asked lowly. “i’ll keep going. just like this, baby. for you.”

minutes later, he pounded into you, balls heavy and angry. your back arched, mouth hung open as you stuttered through his unrelenting pace; one hand on his that snuck through the neckline of your linen shirtdress, holding your breast, the other holding his head as he grunted in your ear, your cartier bracelets tinkering in his. subong halted when you clenched around him, feeling his stomach cave in behind his shirt, biting his bottom lip. he looked up, seeing your face in the body mirror by the door. he eyed the way your dress ruffled above your ass, and how fucking it looked seeing his shorts around his ankles and your panties on the floor, too. “you see us, baby?” he asked, clearing your lust-clouded senses with a kiss to your temple. “in the mirror? you see the look on your face?” he watched you open your eyes. “who makes you look like that, huh? who makes you look so fucking hot and bothered? hm?” he asked sharply, purposefully ignoring your incoherent whines to keep fucking you, and his own carnal desire. “answer me.” “y-you do, subongie.” you responded meekly, pushing yourself into him. you yelped when he smacked your left globe. “that’s right.” he confirmed, moving his hips again. instead of returning to your neckline, subong’s hand grabbed your face, turning so you looked at the mirror with him, the chill of his rolex against your cheek. “you better fucking look at me when i make love to you—f-fuck! hngh!”

“fuck! a—ah!” he cried, seeing how creamy the condom was. he kept going, pushing his head into the back of shoulder, keeping your gaze to the mirror. “i f-fucking hate these condoms s-sometimes, baby.” his eyes rolled back, squeezing them shut. “would you ever let me fuck you without one? hm?” his mouth came up to your ear. his teeth gritted when you tightened around him, eyebrows furrowing upward from how delicately and helplessly you moaned at the thought. “would you let me fuck this tight pussy all nice and raw? yeah?” the fantasy made his eyes water, abdomen stirring. “y-yes!” you cried out. “o-oh my god, yes!” “thats right. thats fucking right.” he egged on, thrusts becoming sloppy. that motherfucker could never have her like this. all needy, so fucking whiny, all his. he’ll never know her like i do. he’ll never be able to ask her this, no matter how many times he gets her favorite fucking flan—f-fuck! how are her thighs so strong?—or lets her drive his stupid fucking yacht. her’s is better, anyway: “you got so tight when i asked you that, baby.” subong’s arm left your waist, reaching into your neckline, letting your soft stomach hang. “you like that idea? of having subongie's—f-fuck!—of having subongie’s baby? you want an older man to knock up this sweet, tight fucking cunt? y-yeah—fuck!”

subong thought he would be safe from his own jealousy on the day he was set to meet your grandmother. she heard you were in town and extended an invite to all who came with you if they wished to come. he was surprised by how no one else was as game about it as he was. in fact, most of your friends didn’t look like they cared. i guess they’re so high nosed they forgot to have manners. it was the first time he had ever “dressed up,” albeit with the swipe of your card, and a frantic afternoon visit to a tailor in town the day before you were to have lunch and tea together. “they’ve met her a million times before, subong.” you told him as your chauffeur pulled back in to the villa. it was your third time today explaining why none of your friends were preparing like him. “its only a courtesy that she’s inviting everyone.” he stepped out of the cadillac, holding the tom ford bag in his hand, pushing his sunglasses into his hair. “but its your fucking grandmother.” he implored when you came around the car. “do they not have any respect or something?” he asked as you walked up the cobblestone steps, opening the door for you. “they do, albeit selectively.” you said. it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he cared so deeply. his devout love for his grandmother always lingered at the back of your mind; manifesting in the tenderness of his voice when he senses something’s wrong, jokes that easily out his age sometimes, and how he offers his arm wordlessly when you need to fix your shoes. you shrugged your shoulders, looking at his confused expression. “its just the way they are.” “you’re friends with some real fucking assholes.” “i know. but they’re the only people i’ve ever known.”

it was a short boat ride across the river from your family’s villa to your grandmother’s estate. he left his rings by the sink in the bathroom, but for the first time in his life, he questioned why he just had to extend his tattoos to his hands, and have a manicure. his hair was brushed downward onto his forehead—prime product of overthinking. you saw him continuously glance at his hands, taking his left in your lap. its as if you read his mind: “she’s more progressive than you might expect.” you told him. “she enjoys good banter, too. so you’ll be a good fit.” he chuckled at that, pressing a kiss to your forehead, silently grateful for your assurance. you were wholeheartedly, if not overwhelmingly correct, because he can’t remember the last time he felt so at ease in front of an authority figure. his hand shook when he went in to shake hers, but after the first course, his posture relaxed in his cushioned chair. your grandmother looked like the ultimate matriarch: wispy, yet soft looking dark grey hair, a lip color that suited her skin tone so well that it only illustrated her time on earth more vividly; to know herself so well, and the warmth of her aura that felt universal for all grandmothers, no matter societal class. over tea, it was the first time you explicitly told a member of your family that subong is your boyfriend. he laughed out loud when she said “finally, you bring home a fun one” in response, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “that’s what i told her!” he said cheerfully. “or, at least try to, if i don’t annoy her first.” he grinned when you scoffed and nudged his bicep, smiling greatly upon hearing your grandmother chuckle.

later that night, you were laid up in bed together, subong pressing his cheek against yours as he held you close, a movie playing on the television. you traded your dress for a shirt whilst subong lounged in his briefs, comfortable after a hearty dinner of lobster pasta paired with aged whisky. he turned his head to press a kiss onto your temple when you felt your phone vibrate beneath you. he glanced at your screen, seeing it was a group chat with your friends. he almost looked away, only to stare from a sideways glance at the photo that fucking friend sent in, shirtless, holding a fish he had caught on a boat earlier that day, around the time you were having tea with your grandmother. that’s what he did instead? and he has the audacity to send it there, with her? holy fucking shit, this guy is more forward than me. subong returned his cheek to yours when you clicked your phone off. he tried to hold it in, but couldn’t: “does he like you?” “hm? who?” “that guy.” he said quietly. “the one you got you the flan. and let you drive his boat.” you shrugged your shoulders. “who knows? maybe.” subong furrowed his eyebrows. “who knows?” he repeated, confused. “i mean, you should. because from what i’ve seen, he does like you.” you huffed. “he’s just a friend.” you said. “a stupid one, too. we only keep in touch because his parents have a massive share in my father’s company.” you turned your head to look at him. “he’s just a friend, subong.” you repeated, voice soft. “i’m not going anywhere.” you leaned in, kissing his cheek. “like the fuck you are.” he tried to tough it out, only for his face to warm at the sound of your chuckle.

as the movie progressed, subong’s palm found the side of your bare thigh, rubbing up and down tenderly. this touch wasn’t unfamiliar. he often did this to lull himself to sleep, or ensure proximity. he moved into your chest, smelling the last of your dior perfume from your spritz earlier in the afternoon. he closed his eyes, letting the movie become secondary noise to the feeling of your chest rising and falling against his cheek. his palm kept rubbing up and down tenderly, inching higher with no other intention other than to share your presence—until he didn’t feel a hem. he opened his eyes: is she not wearing any—his hand went higher, palm soon holding your left globe—fuck … how did i not notice before? he bit his bottom lip, exhaling through his nostrils, watching his hand disappear underneath your shirt. he peppered kiss along your jaw, humming to himself. “i’m watching a movie.” you muttered. “no one told you to stop watching.” he muttered back, lips moving to your neck. his palm traveled to your lower back before descending back down to the powdery, lush skin of your ass, groping gently. “so fucking sexy.” he whispered, nuzzling more into your neck. you kissed your teeth, eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance. “subong, i can’t hear the tv.” of course, right when this dumbass movie is getting good, he has to start acting up. he didn’t answer, too lost in his own world of you. “subong, i’m being serious.” you warned. “so am i.” you scoffed, fighting the temptation to roll your eyes back when his tongue ran over your skin. “i think this is the most unserious you’ve ever been.” you said. “i mean, during a buddy comedy?” “i have something real funny to show you.” he muttered into your neck, reaching below him for your hand, bringing it to his bulge. you gasped, not holding back your laugh. “you’re impossible!” you exclaimed, feeling him chuckle against you.

“s-slow down! slow down!” subong panted, unable to look away from your hand pumping his cock. the sound was already so lewd not even five minutes in, his precum coating his stiffened, angry cock with a clear, wet glow. he squirmed when you focused only on his tip, yelping vulnerably feeling your thumb repeatedly trace the slit; back arching as his hips bucked up desperately. you hadn’t broke a sweat, nor were you anywhere near. “hold still.” your tongue ran over your bottom lip in concentration, working your wrist, eyes staying on the television through the prolonged action sequence. “i-i can’t! h—aa—” he whined. subong bucked his hips up again, making your hand lose your grip, slipping off. you tsked, subong seeing you roll your eyes. he was so horny he nearly burst into tears. he couldn’t explain what this feeling was, or why he was so enamored with it when it came about. subong felt like such a pervert for employing the possibility that it was because you were younger, and you having so much control was the hottest fucking thing in the world. he loved being pampered and spoiled since day one—good food, even better pussy, gifts that weighed his wrists down by not as much as his pockets, shown off as your boyfriend whilst surrounded by the most beautiful things money both can and can’t buy. he had his cocky ego flared at the behest of insulting your dumbass friends whilst also dining as finely as they did, but reduced to nothing but a whiny bitch at the sight of your eyes sparkling from below, or the round of your ass curved in your jeans, or watching you pick your jewelry out in the morning. or maybe he just really loved being taken care of, and by a fine ass woman nonetheless.

his breath hitched when you began stroking again. “y-your hand f-feels so g-good, baby—” “—shut up.” subong bit back a moan. “they’re about to solve the case. could’ve watched in peace, and had a quiet night, but no.” you ignored his breathy mewls after your grip became the slightest bit of firmer. “had to go and ruin it by being all needy, hm?” “y-yes!” he gasped, turning his head to look at you with his hooded eyes. you didn’t even give him a glance. “can't—can’t help it, baby. you’re so f-fucking—ngh!—you’re so f-fucking sex—sexy! just like that…” he pleaded. his eyes drifted to your chest, picturing your breasts behind the cloth of your shirt. “can i … can i suck on your tits, baby?” “no.” you said curtly, pressing your thighs together, but masking it as adjusting your posture. “you don’t get to after you’ve been bad.” there it was. “i’ve been … i’ve b-been bad?” he felt his abdomen tighten. “i’m s-sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to.” he shook his head pathetically, watching your side profile. he leaned in, breath hot against you. “i c-can be good.” he nodded, the lewd sound of your stroking his cock doubling in the acoustics of the room. “i can be good for you.” you turned your head, tip of your nose brushing against his. you took your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling heat between your thighs, wrist beginning to ache. “you wanna be good for me? yeah?” your delicate tone made him mewl. how did i last this long having the sexiest fucking woman in the world!? “yes.” he whispered, nodding. “i’ll be good for you.”

you kissed him slowly and with intent, re-connecting your lips after they barely separated. subong took whatever you offered him like the good boy he was; keeping his hands in place at his sides, hips stationary. for the most part, anyway. he cried out when your free hand reached over, kneading his heavy balls in your palm, his eyes rolling back and squeezing shut at the lethal combination. your mouth hovered before his ear, tip of your nose pressing into his cheek. “did you ever think about fucking them, subong?” you asked, voice hushed and lustful. “those groupies that waited for you outside? hm?” you worked his cock with purpose through this subtle interrogation. “you can tell me, subong. you can be honest with me.”“n-no! never!” he panted, shaking his head, saying his truth against an invisible timer. “i never did, baby! i’m b-being for real!” subong leaned in to kiss you, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction. “f-fuck.” he muttered, eyes rolling back. he swallowed, “they’re n-nothing like you, baby. they—they d-don’t e-even come close.” you didn’t say anything. not that you didn’t believe him—you were too busy trying to keep your moan in and not give yourself away. “do you …” subong spoke. “do you ever think about fucking him—” “—the fact that you still employ that thought tells me you shouldn’t fucking cum.”“n-no!” he cried pathetically. “n-no! f-fuck—i take that back, i take that b-back!” his moan was at a noticeably higher pitch. “oh my—fuck!—please, baby. i-i’m sorry! let me cum, let me cum! i’ll be good!”

you turned your head, seeing his head nearly hanging sliding off his pillow from how his back was arching. a devious smile stretched across your face, thighs rubbing together. “if only your friends could see you now, subongie. what would they think, hm?” you laughed with delightful glee when you stroked his tip, hearing his sharp gasp, seeing the muscles in his thighs tighten. “those you’re in the competition with, all upset about you being so successful? what would they think, seeing the man that pisses them off, all bitchy and whiny?” “i d-don’t give a fuck about them.” he shook his head. “they don’t have you. they d-don’t have the best fucking pussy. they don’t get to f-fuck you—fuck!” you sucked on his tip hard. you needed him. “you better cum now before i lose my patience.” subong watched as hot, creamy strings coated his stomach as it caved inward, stuttering through his orgasm. “f-fuck! yeah! y-yeah! oh, fuck yeah, baby! fuck me!” you wiped your hand unceremoniously on his bare thigh, tutting when you glanced at his dick, seeing it still hover about his stomach albeit barely. “you’re still hard? after i just milked you for all you’re worth?” you laid on your back, turning your head towards him when silence filled the room. “well, are you going to fuck me, or not?”

he fucked you missionary, huffing and puffing like he was on his deathbed. you hid your laughter behind your palm, glancing at his cum dripping down his thighs, moving his hips slowly. “i’m really bored, subong.” you said. “i could fall asleep like this.” “just—just give me a minute.” he implored, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. you were so warm and so fucking tight. no wonder he felt lightheaded, after the mind-melting orgasm from earlier. “you really are an old man.” you grinned, teasing him knowingly. “no i’m not.” “you’re not proving otherwise.” you shook your head, yelping when he suddenly thrusted into harshly. “that’s more fucking like it.” you spread your legs further, palms grabbing his ass when his elbows stationed themselves on either side of your head, pushing his hips into yours. he fucked you like it was a workout, skin plomping against yours. “work those hips, come on. make me f-feel something.” his condom-less cock was deep inside and furious, hitting those spots so deliciously your feet rose from the linen an inch or two. subong’s hand reached down to hold the side of your thigh, using it was leverage to fuck you faster. your breath hitched, hands jumping to hold his shoulders, jaw hung open, eyes squeezed shut. “yes! y-yes! that’s it! just like that, subongie!” you whined, moans delicate and whorish. your nails raked down his back tattoo, returning to his ass. you smacked his left cheek, making hips stutter and cry from his diaphragm. “keep f-fucking me, baby! your b-big—mmph!—your cock feels so good f-fucking me raw!” you whimpered. “you’re g-gonna milk me for all i’m worth.” he whispered frantically into your ear as if it was a lifeline. “i'm—i’m gonna b-burst, baby—agh!” you smacked his ass again. “m-more.” he said, moving his hips steadily after feeling the familiar sting on his right cheek. subong hastily pushed your shirt up, capturing your right nipple and sucking diligently, encouraged by how you held his neck. he pulled out after you came, spilling onto your stomach, crossing with your stretch marks.

you found yourself in a similar situation not even sixteen hours later, about to get your back blown out after breakfast. not everyone showed up to eat at the villa, sleeping in to either tend to their hangovers or unwillingly pulled back home by their parents, but if one person did it was the fucking friend. he showed up right on time, barely five minutes past ten thirty, taking you away from subong. you shifted from your seat next to him on the hanging daybed, returning your feet to your sandals. “have to go say hello.” you tell him, seeing the grimace on his face, not even well-hidden behind his sunglasses. he adjusted himself, manspreading more than before; trying to assert dominance, but it amounted to nothing, considering the friend was looking down at his watch. your hand on his thigh brought him back to you. “you know how things are.” “yeah. and i don’t fuckin’ like them.” he murmured back. “let me come with you.” you raised your eyebrows, visible behind your sunglasses. “and what? bash his face in?” “yeah. maybe i fucking will.” subong retorted. “maybe he’ll finally respect the fact that you’re with me.” “he might be stupid enough to act that way, but i’m not stupid enough to let him.” your hand trailed higher up his thigh, rubbing the fabric of his shorts gingerly. “give me a kiss. show him.” you said. subong glanced over, seeing that he was watching. he leaned in, kissing your lips slowly yet deeply, hand reaching over and groping your ass. he held your wrist when you got up, kissing the back of it before fixing your sundress. “all good?” you asked with dual meaning. “mhm.” he nodded. you held his face, giving him one last kiss. “i love you tenderly.” “love you too.”

perhaps you did … play it up … a little to rile him up. you’ve never felt so desired by someone in your life, so pardon yourself if you wanted to see how far it could take you. you didn’t outright betray subong, but you didn’t hold back the very obviously overly-animated laugh when your friend told the worst fucking executed joke you’ve ever heard, or taking off your bracelet to show him the detailing, scooting closer to point them out. subong sat with his arms crossed in his seat, plate emptied and glass still half-full. he got up when you came over: “i’m this fucking close to—” “if you do anything, they’ll sue you until you have nothing left.” he tightened his jaw, looking away, shaking his head. he knew you were right, but the frustration was palpable. “why do you let your parents do this to you?” “its complicated, subong.” you answered. “yeah. everything is.” he said. “man, fuck this shit. i’m going upstairs.” you came up to your shared room sometime later, finding him sat on the edge of the messy, unmade bed, taking a hit of his vape. “i can’t understand you, sometimes.” said subong, feeling you lock your arm with his, laying your head on his bicep. “you’re not the easiest puzzle to solve, either.” you told him. “see, and you speak in these fucking riddles.” he exhaled, translucent cloud disappearing. “i’ve spent this entire trip with you in my arms. fucking you. kissing you. making love, and there’s still not an ounce of respect.” he huffed. “i know i’m a fucking joke to them; i’m not stupid, okay? but this shit … man, it’s like they want to spite me.” you looked up, seeing the balcony doors were wide open. “show them who’s yours.” you spoke, only for him to hear.

his tip traced your puffy lips, pushing his tip in and out agonizingly slow. he watched the scene with the hem of his shirt between his teeth, watching your bare ass. he smacked your right cheek harshly, making you gasp, bottom lip caught between your teeth. “beg thanos for it.” “p-please, thanos—” you gasped, feeling your left globe sting. “f-fuck this tight pussy. n-need you so badly—f-fuck!” he watched your cheek recoil. “again.” “please, thanos. give—give me your fat fucking cock.” you said, pawing at the linen, looking over your shoulder, seeing your sundress pulled up and panties at your knees. “no one gets to fuck this pussy but me.” he muttered to himself. “no one knows this pussy like me.” he pushed his cock in, stretching you out, setting off on an unforgiving rhythm. “yes! yes!” the clapping was loud and lewd, subong grunting every so often watching his pelvis ram into your ass. the thrusts were deep and hard, the curve of his dick making your eyes roll back. “is this what you wanted? a jealous boyfriend? hm?” he stripped himself of his shirt, hands taking hold of your hips. “deeper, subongie. d-deeper.” his palm pushed your back down a little more into the bed, hitting the spot that made a guttural moan travel into the backyard. “yes!” you cried. “just like that!”

your walls swallowed him whole. “let them fucking hear you.” said subong. “they fucking hate me, so its my fucking duty to remind them what they can’t have. that they can’t have this f-fucking pussy.” his breath shook. “i’m so lucky to have someone else’s dream girl in my bed, buried in her pussy. because you’re mine, right? tell me.” “i’m y-yours, subongie!” “that’s right.” he praised, looking down at his cock disappearing inside of you. “i’m yours.” he whimpered, going faster, but just as deep. “i-imagine—hngh!—imagine what they’d do if they saw you like this, moaning and fucking crying over how good my cock feels, while they—they go home to their f-fucking mansions and—shit!—touch themselves to photos of you. f-fuck! oh my god, y-you feel so f-fucking good!” the bed frame creaked against the wall, creating a cacophony with his balls slapping against you. your moans were needy and carnal; the rawest form of pleasure. “you’re my baby. you’re my fucking girl—s-shit!” he pounded into you. “no one k-knows this p-pussy like i do. you taught your good boy so w-well how to make you feel s-so good, fuck! f-fucked the shit out of you last night, and you still want my cock. that’s what i n-need to do, baby. i need to k-keep fucking you good, so y-you don’t even think about other g-guys. n-need to keep you needy, like me. like your subongie.”

“c-can you blame me?” a sweat built up on your forehead, taking him like the good girl you are. “f-felt you raw the first time. c-cant get enough. neither—neither of us went to get condoms t-this morning, so i guess you feel the same.” its true: either the terrain of the amalfi coast was too rocky and narrow, or you both are equally whorish. its a win-win. “need this dick every f-fucking day—oh my god!” you grunted. “keep going, k-keep fucking me.” he leaned down, arm coming around to support your neck, keeping your head in place, his nose sunken into your cheek. you yelped when he started fucking you faster, the sound bouncing off the walls. “i’ll keep you fucking addicted.” he whispered, breath ragged. “my best fucking girl. i love you so—t-too much—fuck!” you clenched around him tighter than before, making his hips stutter. “you’re making your man feel so good right now, you know that? your g-good boy feels so good.” his eyebrows furrowed so deeply they turned upward, feeling the knot tease unraveling. “a-are you close? i’m s-so fucking close, baby.” “y-yes,” your toes curled around nothing. “want you to cum in me. m'on the pill.” “what? f-fuck—” his voice rasped beside your ear. “h-have you been on it—have you been on it this entire time?” “since after y-you first came over. hoped you wanted me. i became a lucky g-girl.” you smiled, moaning. “i was—i was a little scared. b-but not anymore—mmph!—need it. need all of it. cum in this tight pussy you can’t shut the—shut the fuck up about.” subong nearly went cross-eyed. “y-you’re gonna be the death of me, baby.” he whimpered when he heard you laugh. “gonna give you every last drop—fuck!”

your mother watched practically the entire trip go down. her secretaries kept eyes on her children all of their lives, but even more-so when they went abroad for schooling. you and your older sister had the same teams on standby at oxford and harvard, respectively, whilst new recruits tagged along with senior officials for your younger brother in auckland. it was no different if any of you defied your parents in some way—rejecting a suitor; not showing up to meetings; giving the wrong look during dinner—in fact, the ante rose tremendously. take your trip to the amalfi coast, for example. it wasn’t unusual for a member of the family to take a lavish vacation, let alone to one of many residences you have around the globe—but it was the whispers of a new man in your life that perks your mother’s eyes and ears like a hawk. call it intuition, or just straight-up psychic sorcery, but she knows you a lot more than you will admit in your lifetime. she doesn’t attribute it to a certain glow, or whatever those silly romance films and novellas say, but rather an air of naivete. blinded by glee. untempered faith. your mother was not cold-hearted (and no, she did not pay that new york times reporter to alter their word choice), but a realist to her detriment, above all else. its what got her out of her middle-class neighborhood, landed her that ring, and granted her role as almighty powerful shadow to the king. so she did what she usually does when she feels something in the air: pulls her strings, makes people talk, and expect updates every twelve hours.

its what landed her here on her private jet, flying to macau for the third time in two weeks to start planning your older sister’s wedding, ipad in her lap. he reached down to her left leg, pinching the fabric of her black pantsuit, adjusting her compression sock, her other hand scrolling through photos. she had her secretaries round up her personal investigators, lurking around the villa and your travels around the coast at formidable distances; undetected, unbothered. her face remained stoic as she took in the photos of you and subong at the givenchy outlet, you zipping up the tracksuit you got him for the semi-finals, stacked cuban links adorning his neck; subong feeding you cantaloupe whilst the both of you were practically half-naked eating breakfast mid-afternoon by the pool; his arm around your shoulders one evening as you sat together on the hanging outdoor daybed, manspreading beyond belief as he lit a cigar she recognized from your father’s collection held between his teeth; a sequence of photos taken late at night of him on the balcony shirtless smoking a cigarette (i can’t imagine how rancid it must smell there, she thought to herself), you coming out onto the balcony, sharing a kiss, moving to your jaw, past your neck, the last one landing on your chest—only this was blurry, as the private investigator had now realized what was going on and quickly moved away. your mother huffed, pushing the ipad onto the table in front of her, looking out the window. she didn’t need to see her daughter in such a compromised position, let alone so openly. her mind lingered to a previous photo looking into your room, balcony doors shut, him stood on the other side of the room; both of you in the midst of conversation. were they arguing? she wondered. little did she know, you were both high off of your fucking rockers.

on your second to last night on the coast, subong gave you one of his pills (“take the blue one, baby. its not too crazy—should be fine for your first time. here, i’ll take it too.”) the thought had brewed in the back of both your minds for the last near two weeks, finally coming to fruition after subong couldn’t help but make sure you ate and drank enough during dinner (“like i’d let anything bad happen to my baby.”), and went the extra mile to lock the balcony doors just in case. the sensation, at first, brewed in your underarms, slowly traveling down your torso and legs. when it landed in your head, you turned into a giggly mess on the bed. subong was too busy dancing in his place next to you, gesturing to the ceiling to an imaginary beat in his head. he turned his head when yours landed on his shoulder, hearing you burp involuntarily, and then giggling even harder. “feel good?” he asked. “i feel funny.” your face hurt from how hard you were smiling, nuzzling into his shoulder. “everything’s just really funny.” it felt like you were holding in your pee when the beat in his head somehow inspired him to get up and start reminiscing his adolescence—specifically when he used to breakdance. “nah, baby. i used to feel so free!” he exclaimed, putting his hands up. “i used to pop and lock like this,” he puffed out his chest, moving his hips and elbows in a way that had your fingers clutching your lips to hold your laughter in. you blinked tears away when he bumped into the nearby dresser after attempting some footwork that certainly … spotlighted the … rust in his kinks. “shit—move out of the fucking way.” he said to nothing, getting into position again. you burst into loud laughter, falling back onto the bed; vibrations percolate everywhere. “hey! the fuck is so funny?” he saw you clutch your stomach. “i miss this shit so much. i wish i didn’t drop it when i was fifteen—fuck off!”

he owned those motherfucking semi-finals. subong walked out onto stage, melanin aglow by the amalfi coast sun, clad in his forest green givenchy; cuban links; sunglasses; rolex, bobbing his head to the start of the sopranos theme song. the inspiration for his choice of sampling was on the nose, but clever nonetheless. as the beat ruminated, he pulled the corner of his mouth with his pinky, showing off both that fine ass smile of his and tooth gem. “lets get it,” he said into the microphone before the beat took off. you toyed with your necklace as he rode that shit like a wave, observing from your suite like a queen on her throne. if only i was toying with an engagement ring … jesus fucking christ. “i feel like tony soprano, the way i got a blue moon in my eye,” subong licked his lips, bringing the microphone right back. “we both cold like the winter soldier. when she says 'subong, more, more,’ i’m ready to comply.” he winked into the camera, finishing his verse and allotted time with ease. subong was the first one voted through to the finals—his performance racking over 850,000 views in less than a week.

there was another two week break meant for the four finalists to prep material—subong practically moved in with you. he strutted around like he had lived there is whole life: barefoot, in either just in briefs or with a t-shirt at any given moment, snooping in the fridge, and asking your chefs to make a certain stew he used to have as a kid. he was in and out of the house, either to go on a pill run or do some club gigs he booked from his evergreen popularity. you were always there no matter what—that meeting can fucking end early, and that phone call wasn’t important, anyway. it was a routine subong welcomed jubilantly: step out of the rolls royce; coming home generally at 1:30 in the morning as his slots usually ran late, eat whatever leftovers in the fridge, fuck you silly, snore into la la land—repeat. on nights he didn’t have gigs, you took a swim at your family’s estate, lulling you to sleep after pummeling your puffy pussy before nearly breaking his dick in half in your old bedroom, before he snuck off to the other side of the floor; pocketing whatever he could scoop up, coupling the pawn money with his miniscule club earnings. talk about perfect harmony.

you celebrated your five months together the night before the finals, you having to wipe your lipstick off subong’s chin and mouth to prevent staining after he fucked you hard from behind. the day of, subong left earlier than usual for rehearsal as the finals were taking place in a different venue entirely: a sold out indoor amphitheater holding upwards of 1,500, and a projected 675,000 to be watching on the livestream. an unexpected meeting threw your intended routine out of whack, leading you to the car forty-five minutes past the time you wanted to leave. you slammed the car door shut with a huff, subong’s text from forty minutes ago reading I get second in the coin toss on continuous display in your mind. “what’s the eta?” you asked your chauffeur without your usual polite greeting. “an hour fifteen, ma'am. its rush hour, and traffic is heavier than usual.” “hour fifteen?” you raised your eyebrows. it usually took no longer than twenty minutes. you checked the time on your phone—the show was starting in thirty-five minutes. “oh fuck no.” you muttered, getting out of the rolls royce without another word, slamming the door. you ran your hand through your hair after dialing your secretary, cursing aloud when your van cleef caught a strand—“jesus fucking—” “hello? is everything okay?” “i need a chopper.” you said curtly, pacing in the grass. “what do you mean there’s no landing pad? its fucking seoul!” you exclaimed, gesturing to your right towards the direction of the city in frustration. “then make one!” you said irrationally. “it better be here in ten fucking minutes. i’ll be waiting in my parents’ backyard.” you entered and exited the helicopter wordlessly, shoving the protective headset to the concrete before getting in the stationed chevrolet suburban your staff put together on short notice, arriving to your suite two minutes before showtime.

“fucking hell.” you muttered, lifting your sunglasses, wiping the sweat from underneath your eyes. Just got here you texted subong after your flurried back-and-forth of updates. Treat it just like another day; You got this my love; I love you. to your surprise, he responded quickly. Im so glad u made it safe baby; Thank u love you too. Cheer for me. first up was the two and half minute acapella freestyle. the four finalists stood on the stage in line side by side, called in the order decided by the coin toss before the show. subong’s bars flowed smoothly and transitioned seamlessly, but his charismatic aura felt a bit subdued, and to a critic’s eye, watered down. it was his first time seeing the live studio audience, and that shit was filled to the brim. he fought his unexpected nerves by carrying himself through the various woops and hollers of encouragement from fans in the crowd, but lost touch in his closing sentence, stuttering his last two words before time was called. subong’s face didn’t drop, keen on making the haters fucking irate, instead offering a grin of thanks before returning to his spot on stage. live voting was currently underway for the audience in studio and at home to bring four down to two, set to close during the next commercial break—real fucking cut-throat. despite his minor flub, subong was the first one voted through, giving the crowd a thankful nod before heading backstage to prepare for showing what he’s been cooking up to bring it on home.

It’s okay he read your text when he returned to the green room. You did so well. your phone vibrated. Thank u baby; I feel so fly bc of you. he returned to stage ten minutes later with his opponent for the second coin toss, deciding who would go first. subong picked heads, earning him the first spot by chance. he nodded his head, stacked cuban links falling atop one another, diamonds twinkling under the stage lights. he opened his performance with the lyric he started the competition with: “i’m gonna kill half of humanity with my raps—bam. let’s hit it.” before pointing at the dj, grooving cooly to the beat of big poppa. it certainly was a bold choice of sampling, considering not only the utter legendary status of the original artist, but attempt to fine tune his own flow with that of biggie’s or reinvention—of course a motherfucker like subong would go about it. plus, the song was currently trending on tiktok, so he hoped to capitalize on that. he did his first verse with no problems, wiping the sweat off his forehead, walking around the stage to thwart his fastening heartbeat as he always did. the chorus went by with ease, but when subong brought the microphone to usher in the second verse—his mind went blank. before the realization sinked into his conscious, his cues with the beat left him behind. the realization brought you to your feet—“oh god. no. no.” you murmured, shaking your head, unable to look away from stage like it was a car crash.

subong stood there, frozen. it was a visceral kind of shock—he felt wholly aware but equally dumbfounded. the confused murmurs throughout the crowd brought him back to life, but at an deeply embarrassing cost, because all he could muster was an awkward sway of his body and half of a grin on his face to ride the beat until the end. the debacle lasted no longer than thirty seconds, but it felt like thirty fucking years. he doesn’t know how he stood there with the host, watching his opponent perform. he was stoic through the commercial break leading into the announcement of the final result, wishing that he chose to wear those stupid fucking sunglasses to hide behind. it was no surprise that he was the runner-up, leaving the stage before the confetti hit the floor, apathetically snubbing the friendly handshake offered to him by the winner. subong yanked the charging chord off the wall, seeing there was no text from you. what do you even say in a moment like this? It’s okay? because it’s not. You tried your best, subongie? because he fucking didn’t. he embarrassed himself like an inept fucking fool in front of thousands of people, flubbing like a fucking lunatic after shoving his ego down everyone’s throat akin to his third fucking leg of a dick. worst of all—he handed his enemies a win in the easiest, most stupid fucking way possible.

the ride home was silent. subong stared at the window, eyes behind his sunglasses, as you looked ahead of you. you periodically glanced over, seeing he didn’t move a mere centimeter—completely concrete. it was only when you pulled into the driveway of the guesthouse, you dismissing your chauffeur for the night, that the air began to clear. “you did the best you could.” you said quietly. “i did too much.” subong muttered, looking out his window to nothing but grass. you shook your head, turning to look at the back of his head. “no you didn’t. there’s nothing wrong with ambition.” your comforting words severed the heavy tension ruminating in the air of the car; suffocating and berating his psyche, putting his inner self-criticism on blast. he fucking hated feeling stupid, or being made to feel so. to think, it was done on his own volition, and he didn’t even know why? his crypto dependency could be explain with a few scrolls through his phone and how he knows he has an addictive personality, but THIS? something he worked so fucking hard for, knew like the back of his hand, and only with thirty fucking seconds of the song left? this shit was going to weigh him down for life, no matter how big or small, one way or another. the blame game was to begin soon, but not now—he felt his eyes become misty when you reached over for his hand.

“subongie…” you called for him softly. “talk to me. please.” your fingers held his hand, but didn’t intertwine until subong moved, meeting your eyes. “i—i don’t know what happened.” he shook his head, voice low. your heart sunk upon seeing a tear escape. subong shrugged his shoulders, at a loss for words. “i don't—i don’t know what happened up there, baby.” “oh, my love.” you said in a tone that made his sinuses heavier. you took his sunglasses off, wiping his tears with the delicate touch of your thumb. “things happen, and i don’t know why either.” you said. “but you know i’m proud of you, right? i’m so fucking proud of you, subong.” he cried into your palm, fingers longingly clawing at your hips. “come here, my love.” you beckoned, ushering him to your shoulder. he cried and cried, holding onto you for dear life. “i’m a f-fucking failure. my dad was right.” “no he’s not.” you said sharply, hand reaching up, wiping your own fallen tear. “there’s no world where he’s right, subong. not in ours.”

it was a slow descent. subong would stay at the club longer after a gig, stumbling into bed at half four in the morning with his clothes still on. sometimes he wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom, or up the stairs. there were mornings where staff would arrive to the guesthouse to begin their usual routines and errands, only to find subong laying on his side in the lawn, or sprawled out after barely making it through the door—the chill of the marbled floor tiles having lulled him to sleep after one too many. they would try their best to wake him, or carry him to the nearest couch for comfort when he was so far gone that it wasn’t in their pay grade to even attempt bringing him to the bedroom. what brought forth the severity of the circumstance was the evening you returned from a three day trip to bangkok you were roped into by your mother, falling asleep as soon as you arrived home from how demanding it the quick turn-around period was. you awoke at 3:45, mouth dry and thirsty, slightly confused as to why the bed felt emptier than usual—the lingering sleep clouding your logic and not connecting the dots just yet. you walked down the steps, about to turn the corner to the kitchen, until you heard muffled groaning. you walked down the opposite hall, finding subong with his head down on a couch, legs lifeless on the floor with his pants halfway down his thighs from the leak he took in the bushes before walking in, and missing a shoe.

“oh my god,” you bent down, shaking his shoulder. “subong? subong? are you awake?” “mmph?” he was disoriented, raising his head upon feeling your fingers brush his hair back; eyes barely open, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth. you jumped into action, a scene you were all too familiar with growing up: “can you get up for me?” you asked softly. “your back is going to hurt if you sleep like this.” “mhm. give—give me a sec.” his words slurred, slowly rising to his feet, nearly tripping when taking a step forward, halted by his fallen jeans—sending the corner of the couch back a few inches. “my—” a burp gurgled from his chest. you noticed the wet spot trailing down his boxers. “my pants are off.” “its okay, just leave them there. someone’ll get them in the morning.” you took his arm, slinging it over your shoulders. your arm came around his waist, trying to usher him into the hall, but he was persistent. “i think i’m missing a shoe.” he wiped his face messily. “its okay, i’ll get you new ones. lets just go upstairs.” he slid it off, kicking it to the wall, leaving a skid mark. “great. now come with me, subongie. let’s go.”

he plopped onto bed face down with a groan, you coming up for air, chest heaving. it was no easy feat getting him up those stairs with how out of it he was, leaving your mouth dryer than before. “subong, hey,” you leaned down, pushing his hair out of his face with your fingers; trying to keep his attention before he drifted off. “have you been like this since i was gone?” “m'not really.” he muttered. “couple times … i think.” “okay.” you said softly. there was no way it was only a mere 'couple times,’ and you knew that. subong was a partier, but he could hold his own, even upon going overboard. but this was something else—heavier; a warning sign. “get some rest, okay? i’ll be here for you when you wake up.” subong hummed meekly in response, letting slumber take him. you kissed his temple, pressing your forehead to it afterward. a surplus of questions ran through your mind—what do i need to do for him? how could he have done this to himself? has he been crying for help this entire time? is this because he forgot those lyrics? has anyone else noticed? how do i keep him safe from himself?—slowly getting up and walking to the kitchen, bringing two glasses of water, putting his on the bedside table. you slipped into bed after downing yours, only to woken up four hours later by subong’s retching onto the carpet.

your days ended late, but you slept later waiting for him to come home. on the evenings you were free to go to one of his gigs, or hit a club with him, you witnessed first hand how easy it was to succumb to such a vulnerable state: his stage presence was increasingly reactionary and angry now; not like he had something to prove, but rather negate or dissipate, some songs would just ended with an incoherent slew of curse words often egged by the crowd, disappearing to the bar to grab whatever he could get or going to whomever to buy some temporary relief—he was only somewhat above water when you were there, distracted by your hand on his chest, lips on his, or ass against his hardening cock on the dance floor. but when you weren’t, which was unfortunately more often than not, since a number of your staff were handing in their resignations in an unexpected influx, leaving you with unpredictable days and worrisome nights. you were given less grace every time you returned to an empty home; unanswered texts for hours; no sign of subong since you left that morning to head to brunch with your father and his stakeholders before running miscellaneous errands, subong waking up at half two in the afternoon before leaving to universe only knows where.

your stubborn tendencies kept you up those late, clueless hours, directing your staff on what to do. “check these clubs. i’ve already forwarded the addresses to you.” you pointed to the text thread on your phone, your secretaries nodding. “check pentagon first, then the ramen shop two blocks down. if he’s not there, then check the other two. if you find him, call when he’s in the car. if not, please update me within the hour.” subong stumbled into the guesthouse, held up by two of your stronger secretaries, cold sweat shining on his forehead, eyes barely open. he was brought to your en suite, laying comfortably in the bath you drew for him, arm hooked to an iv at your request from the lifelong family doctor. you sat with subong until the water went cold, coinciding with the sun rising, helping him dress into clean clothes and heading to bed. you got up a couple of hours later with not even a wink of sleep, staring at yourself in the mirror as tears fell down your cheeks—bags deepened, lips dry, eyes perpetually glossy, brain foggy, skin oily and unclean. you were meeting a husk of yourself. it was nowhere near the first time, however—the cards you’ve been dealt with both on your merit and before you were born have landed you in this same situation before. this husk was added to the list, but it felt deeper. more back-handed, more personal. you were fighting for the love of your life—to keep him at bay, preserve him, protect him. like he was an oath. you wiped your tears, double cleansing your face, applying more concealer than usual, heading to your closet to change like it was another day. if you didn’t, you’d shatter.

it went on like this for a few months, until subong got his wake up call on his own volition. he opened his eyes midday after yet another night of mixing his pills with stolen drinks left astray at the bar. his headache pounded between his temples without mercy, throat burning with sickness he doesn’t even remember leaving his body, only to turn his head to see two strangers insert something into his arm. it was two housekeepers he’s known since yours and his first night together—one lightly tapping his arm to encourage a vein to show itself, the other prepping the iv to hydrate him as per your instructions—but subong’s deliriousness corrupted his common sense, unexpectedly jolting out of bed, frightening the two women and knicking himself in the arm as a result. “fuck off!” he yelled, voice cracking after not using it for hours, wincing as his head pounded more viscerally from his sudden movements. “get the fuck away from me!” he bellowed. “what is this you’re putting in me? the fuck is this shit?” he kicked the iv stand down, the bad snagging on the corner of your desk, sending the fluid gushing all over the carpet. “you’re not putting that shit in me!” he pointed at them, ignoring the frightened yelps of the housekeepers, stumbling to out of the bedroom door; unsure of where he was going, but led by confusion, diluted anger, and heightened fear.

chaos ensued for the next ten minutes—your secretaries, housekeepers, and even chefs abandoned making lunch in an attempt to calm subong down. he was unruly and reactionary, cut on his arm burning and inflaming the cloudy look in his eyes as he trudged to wherever his feet led him, pushing defensively against the same secretaries that have been carrying him home these past months. you pulled into the driveway, stepping out of the rolls royce, greeted at the entrance by a disheveled housekeeper, her hand on your wrist. “ma'am, he's—he’s distressed.” she shook her head, unsure of what to do, looking to you for next steps. “its alright.” you mediated without hesitation. “ill speak with him. thank you for your help.” you dropped your purse, turning down the hallway, eyes widening at the sight of him throwing a punch at your secretary—narrowly missing, nearly losing his balance. “subong!” you exclaimed. “subong!” you yelled, voice cracking, grabbing his shirt to turn him towards you. “what—what happened?” “they were trying to inject me with something!” his voice boomed throughout the acoustics of the house, turning around and pointing at the staff surrounding you. “i woke up, and they were sticking a needle into me while i was fucking asleep!”

“subong,” your hands laid on his chest, trying to bring his attention back to you, but also ground yourself from your suffocating nerves from the escalating situation. “subong—listen to me. its an iv. they were just doing what i told them to—” “i don’t need that shit!” he interrupted stubbornly, a nasty snarl on his face. “i’m perfectly fine.” “without it, you wouldn’t even be able to stand right now—” “i’m fucking fine!” he yelled at you, making you gasp. “i don’t need this bullshit! if anythings going to make me not fucking stand, its this.” he showed you the cut on his arm from when he got up hastily. “look at how they cut me.” he looked at you with widened, wild eyes. “look at how they fucking cut me, baby. they’re out to get me, don’t you see?” you were floored. tears threatened to brew. “out to—subong, no. no.” you shook your head. you balled his shirt in your hands, bottom lip quivering. “i—i know you haven’t look in the mirror in a while.” you spoke quietly, just for him to hear, even as staff stood close by. “but … but i have.” you swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “i see that—i see that i’m losing myself because i’m losing you.” you looked up at him, mouth tugged downward in a frown, tears trailing your supple cheeks. you shrugged your shoulders. “its a truth of the matter, subong.” your breath shook upon an inhale. “there’s no refuting it. i can’t deny it any longer.” you shook your head, beginning to plead: “please don’t say we’re trying to hurt you. i’ve done nothing but try to help, subong. i’ve grown so weary, but i’m trying to hard for you.”

you grabbed subong’s face, desperation so personal that some staff turned away from the sight: “you mean so much to me that it fucking scares me.” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his, stifling a sob. “please, i beg of you, don’t start acting like your father. don’t do that, subong.” you shook your head against his—that’s what woke him the fuck up; snapped him back to reality; terrified him the most. his senses began to clear, muscle memory kicking in as his hands found your lower back, pulling you into him as you cried—simultaneously realizing he’s the reason for that, too. oh, he fucking hated himself. “i won’t.” he shook his head, his sinuses feeling heavier, inhaling sharply through his nostrils. “i won’t, baby. you hear me? i won’t turn into him.” his tone returned to normal, tightening his lips when the bottom one quivered. “i’m sorry.” he whispered, bringing you into his tight embrace. “i’m sorry for scaring you, baby, won’t happen again.”

subong scared himself so badly he didn’t go near the clubbing scene for a few months. after the air settled, you both returning to your shared room, putting a bandage on his arm, sitting in silence in your bed together as the same housekeepers from before cleaned up the tainted iv—the embarrassment seeped into subong’s pores, burying his face into your neck underneath the duvet to hide. he didn’t have the gall to look any of your staff in the eyes, sheepishly asking you to bring lunch and dinner up to eat in your own privacy. you obliged merrily, satisfied to not only see him normal again, but warm, and wanting you. it was the side you never got to see when your friends had one too many at school events, galas, or parties—they were either dragged away by their personnel to prevent furthering tarnishing their family’s reputation, or pushed you away after gaining back consciousness after passing out on the bathroom floor; avoiding confrontation. of course, it wasn’t completely black-and-white, but you would be remised to not feel as if holding subong in your arms after months of seeing him dragged by his own was akin to reaping the fruits of your labor; validated for your efforts. “there was—there was a night where, i think you were in bangkok,” subong’s voice was low, cheek pressed to your chest, head practically hidden underneath the fluffy duvet, encouraged and beloved by the touch of your thumb tracing his cheekbone. “i felt so … my mind was so fucking loud. i could hear it over the music, and it made me so mad. i didn’t … i don’t like that feeling.” you listened carefully, subong continuing after feeling the vibration of your acknowledging hum. “at some point, i just realized that … i didn’t know where i was. i didn't—i didn’t know anyone there. i was out of my fucking mind, finally, but i …” his voice trailed. he closed his eyes when your hand stopped moving. “it felt really heavy.” he said. “i don’t want to feel that way anymore. i don’t want to feel numb.” “you don’t have to.” you told him, goosebumps trailing down his spine when your fingers found his hair. “not with me.”

it felt like everything was falling back into place. subong slept at normal times, spending his days lounging in the backyard, or watching whatever series caught his eye on your plasma smart tv, waiting peacefully for you to come home. he mended his relationship with your staff, not necessarily apologizing (the emotions were too layered to him to even begin unpacking), but leaving subtle signs of thanks: attempting to make the bed himself after he woke up, only to give up halfway when the top of the duvet wouldn’t fold in the way he wanted it too, or the way housekeepers always leave it so tidy; not taking that big of a portion when the in-house chefs prepare lunch every day at 1:30 pm on the dot, retreating back to his spot in the sitting room upstairs to watch his show at a lower volume for reasons he can’t pinpoint. he inevitably returned to the kitchen when his stomach grumbled an hour later, shocked to see a fresh batch of fries left for him on the granite counter with the sauce they know he loves; or waving politely after he woke up from his power nap in the hammock, seeing the gardeners tend to the bushes.

it felt good to come home to him, making the sweetest and steamiest of love before bed. on days your schedule was more lax, subong kept you in bed as long as he could, stuck until mid-morning with kisses and wandering hands. “don’t leave. haven’t gotten my fill yet.” his breath was warm against you, lips adorning your face and lips, palm resting comfortably on your ass. “you corny ass motherfucker.” you giggled, laughing when the vibrations of his chuckle tickled your neck. you joined him in watching his series at dinner, humorously baffled by the dramatics of what played out on screen before you, even more so when you looked to your right and saw he was locked the fuck in, eyes glued to the television as he ate his pasta, watching the female lead tell her friend off about dating one of her exes behind her back. it was an endearing scene seeing your man, decadent in various tattoos and known for the gnarliest of bars at times and fucked like he was in heat, humming in affirmation with the character he agreed with. “i didn’t know you liked soap operas.” you said, taking a bite of your pasta. “you’re forgetting i was raised by an eighty-three year old.” he answered with a full mouth, swallowing. “now shhh. i’ve been waiting to her to talk her shit—her friend’s been a bitch from the start.” “okay, okay. sorry.” you said, holding in your laughter.

you celebrated your nine months together just like this: his arm around you on the couch, clinking your glasses of rosé together, making love when the credits of the movie rolled. he fucked into you deep and good, one of your legs hanging off the edge of the couch as your other foot rested on his lower back, lips entangled, subong egged on by your palms kneading his ass the way he can’t fucking get enough of, guiding him into you. it was beautifully intimate, the room filled with nothing but vulnerable pants and needy slapping of skin—seeing white when your orgasms broke in tandem.

you went to japan for subong’s birthday. it was a four day long trip, spent at a small airbnb used only for sleep and rummaging the cupboards for various snacks you bought upon landing before heading out the door for the day. you and subong spent time like tourists: taking dorky photos in front of tokyo tower (“does it look like i’m holding it?” “not even close, subong.”), bringing him to your personal favorite spots from your frequent travels to the country since you were younger (“i didn’t know cat cafés were a thing?” “well, your life’s about to change, then.”), and eating good food; clinking your glasses of sake together at your favorite luxury sushi bar, surrounded by dark wood accents and gold-toned lighting, sharing a special-made platter. he felt like himself on this trip, ushering in with thirty-third year of life with someone who’s completely changed it. he felt cherished, not only with how his life has turned around, but how he was cared for. it radiated off him like a glow when he stepped out of the bathroom after showering, hair wet and flat on his forehead, surprised to see you with the sweetest smile on your face, holding a small cake with a candle lit, singing the song he didn’t hear much growing up. there was a glimmer in his eyes, kissing your lips fondly after blowing the candle out. i have to get my shit together. for her. he thought to himself. need to get my shit right. maybe it was a reach, or your own form of self-validation, but you could’ve sworn the look in his eyes gave way to his soul starting to heal. it was precisely why you planned the trip to be as personal and intimate, to just focus on yourselves for a little while, away from it all. a voice percolating at the back of your head also worried he might relapse if he stayed home for the occasion, quickly making preparations with your staff shortly after your nine month anniversary.

the day you were set to travel home, you woke early. the jet wouldn’t be ready until one, so you spent the morning living slowly, emptying the cupboards or whatever else was laying about the apartment to make for swift check-out, and also make it to your breakfast reservation on time, which wasn’t either of yours or subong’s strong-suits this trip. you walked past his sleeping state to the bathroom, washing your hands after relieving yourself. before brushing your teeth, however, catching an unsuspecting whiff of your minty toothpaste unexpectedly made your stomach churn—within a flash, you set your toothbrush down on the counter, hurriedly grabbing the small bin by the toilet and retched into it. you were momentarily baffled, looking into the mirror after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, seeing your watering eyes. “christ,” you whispered, wiping away the unintended tears. you set the bin down, hand reaching for the sink, rinsing your mouth. could’ve been the sushi. my stomach’s never really rested well if i have a certain amount. you thought to yourself, brushing your teeth with slight caution in case you felt sick again. you spit and rinsed your mouth of the foamy toothpaste, gurgling away the lingering sting in your throat.

you dabbed your mouth dry with a towel, pressing down on the bottom right corner of the mirror, opening it and fishing out your face wash, moisturizer, and other skincare from the makeshift cabinet. could it have been the sashimi? you wondered, lathering your face wash in your hands. or perhaps the—hold on, when was the last time i had my period? you froze. your eyes darted around the sink, but in your head, you were going through flashes of the last month. i got it when i was in the netherlands with mom and dad, and that was—your eyes widened—that was two months ago. your lips parted, chest feeling heavier, the remnants of panic beginning to ensue—but if you’ve been taught anything, its how to contain crisis, or at least keep it quiet for long enough. you quickly rinsed your hands, hastily drying them on your shirt, opening the bathroom door. you silently grabbed your phone from the bedside table, hearing subong’s snores, quickly yet quietly closing the bedroom door behind you, dialing your secretary and pacing the living room. “hi. yes, everything’s okay,” you spoke quietly, realizing you just lied to yourself, running your hand over your face, gnawing at your bottom lip. “i need you … i need you to book an appointment with my ob. preferably after we land—this evening, actually. its—its urgent. and, uh,” you swallowed. “please keep it between us for now. thank you.”

you were with child. not long enough to know the sex, but long enough to feel doomsday upon you. you stared out the window blankly on the car ride home, not mustering enough strength to utter a hello to your chauffeur. how could i have been so stupid, and just when things we’re starting to get better … you wiped your tear before it could out itself on your cheek, but it wasn’t enough to mask your frown. you were nowhere near emotionally ready to be a mother, nor was that stage of your life in the consideration of entering your periphery. you wanted to be close with your children whenever you chose to have a family, and not only be a known figure in their lives but a consistent one, unlike your parents. your mother is a consistent force, indeed, but that’s the longstanding issue responsible for molding your psyche and divergent moral compass: she’s a force, not a presence. nothing is normal about the life you were born into and live, and bringing a child into it? now? oh my goodness, and subong … your eyes closed, a long huff leaving your nostrils. you’ve never employed the thought of marriage. plus, was he even the type to do that sort of thing? how would he react, let alone be as a parent? you haven’t introduced him to your parents, let alone the remainder of your immediate family—do i initiate it now that i’m carrying his child? is he in it for the long haul? you pestered in your mind. from the moment you found out you were pregnant, you knew you wouldn’t be a mother. not now. but what really solidified it was your next unabashed thought: i can’t imagine him being a father.

you sat on it for a few days, allowing time to get your things in order and garner the courage to tell subong. the clock was ticking, as there were only so many times you could prevent your muscles from tightening when his hand ghosted over your stomach, or silence the irrational fear that he could smell it on you. or maybe it wasn’t that outlandish, because a week later, he caught you off guard: “i’ll be heading out soon—meeting my mother for lunch before we meet my father at his office.” you walked out of the bathroom, straightening the sleeve of your blouse after washing your hands. “i think i told you last night.” “you did,” said subong, putting his shirt over his head, having woken up a half hour ago. he let out a yawn, stretching his arms. “won’t leave me alone for too long, will you?” he asked. “course not.” you smiled. you walked over, hands reaching up, holding his face. “c'mere.” you beckoned sweetly, subong bringing his lips to yours. you giggled when he re-connected the kiss, hands falling to either side of his neck. his hand traveled up your waist, past your stomach and to your chest with the intention of kneading your breast, but the kiss suddenly ended, not giving him enough time to un-pucker his lips fully. his gaze stayed on you, turning around as you entered your closet to pick out a coat. you emerged a few moments later, stepping in front of a nearby body mirror to fix the collar.

“has—uh,” subong, scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how to word this. “has something been bothering you?” you glanced at him through the mirror. “no?” you answered cooly, continuing to fix your collar. “why would i be bothered?” “i don’t know,” subong shrugged his shoulders. “its just—i don’t know … like, did i—did i do something? you just seem, like …” you turned around, looking at him. subong’s eyes scattered around the floor, trying to find the words. “like something’s on your mind.” he said, meeting your gaze. you jutted out your bottom lip slightly, shaking your head, calm since there wasn’t any indication that he knew, or put the pieces together. “no,” you repeated. it would look off if you didn’t reciprocate: “has something been on your mind, baby?” you asked, coming up to him, hands traveling up his biceps before resting on his shoulders—perhaps your subconscious attempting to butter him up, eyes raking his face for any sign. any. “no, no,” subong shook his head, looking down as his hands made their usual residence on your hips—a good sign. “its just that . . .” he thought aloud. “you’ve been getting a little … uncomfortable when—when i touch, or get close to you, lately.” “uncomfortable?” you questioned softly. “but you’re touching me right now.” you teased with a smile, making him chuckle. “yeah,” he nodded, grinning. “but thats not—thats not what i meant. i wouldn’t say you’re … ignoring me, but, its like you’re different. or something.” a hand of yours came up, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “i’m okay, subongie.” “are you, though?” he asked, not leaning in to your touch. you nodded, second hand coming up to hold either side of his face. “i am.” you say, looking into his eyes. “i promise.”

subong takes a beat to respond, watching your face intently. he nodded, albeit with a tinge of reluctance: “okay. c'mere.” he said, leaning down, capturing your lips with his. his palms slid down to your ass, groping like muscle memory, smacking down lightly on your right globe. you let out a small yelp, followed by a sweet-sounding chuckle. he brings your lips back to his without a moment’s hesitation. “love you too much, you know that?” he murmured, hand coming up to hold your cheek. “love you too much, too.” you said. subong’s hand trailed down your chest, knuckles brushing past your stomach to hold your waist—you ended the kiss, your lips finding his cheek. “have to go. will be late.” you muttered, giving his other cheek a kiss for good measure before leaving his embrace. thats exactly what i mean. subong thought to himself, watching you walk to the door. thats what she does when i—wait. he turned his body, raising his finger, vaguely pointing at his temple as the cogs began to turn. “nah, nah.” he muttered, shaking his head, disbelieving—but it was all starting to make sense. you turned around, hand on the doorknob. “hm? did you say something?”

subong walked up to you. “you trust me, right baby?” your hand remained on the doorknob. you nodded, “of course i do.” he blurted it out without thinking: “are you pregnant?” your face went cold; mind blank; paralyzed with surprise and dilapidating fear. you and subong stared at each other. he correctly took it as confirmation. “i’m gonna be a dad?” he questioned; his tone the utmost gentle, the realization hitting him, smile widening with each passing second. “i’m gonna be a dad!” he repeated, only this time as a statement; a true fact. a housekeeper overheard him on the other side of the closed door, stopping dead in her tracks, caddy with cleaning supplies in hand. subong embraced you tightly, his sounds of awe and excitement invading your ears like a war siren. you were immobile in his grasp, utterly terrified: how am i going to tell him i don’t want to be a mother right now? as if on cue, the universe decided to remind you if its cruel sense of humor: “i guess pills don’t fix anything for anyone, huh baby?” subong exhaled, his remark both tragically self-referential and darkly humorous. you closed your eyes in defeat, landing your forehead on his shoulder—all the while, your hand stayed on that doorknob.

“subong…” you said meekly. “yeah, baby?” he lifted his head. his face dropped a little; a tad confused. “hey,” his hand held your cheek, ushering you to look at him. “everything okay—” he cut himself off at the sight of your regretful, teary face. “you’re not…” his voice trailed. “you’re not thinking of—” “—i’m nowhere near ready to be a mother, subong.” you shook your head, looking at him pleadingly. he looked at you with an unreadable expression before sharply turning and walking away wordlessly, beginning to pace in front of the balcony doors. “subong,” you called for him, your hand finally leaving the doorknob. you walked over to him across the room, “subong, just please listen to me—” “how long have you known?” he asked, impatient. “how long have you known?” “since we came back from japan.” he stared at you indignantly: “you’re telling me you’ve known this entire time?” his voice was eerily leveled; calm, but pointed. he pointed to the bed: “you’re telling me you slept next me, knowing you have my fucking kid inside you, and didn’t think to fucking tell me?” “i was going to tell you soon, subong.” you said earnestly. “but i just—i just wasn’t ready yet.” “the fuck were you waiting for, huh?” he retorted sharply, leaning closer to you. “when you have your appointment at the clinic, and i’m in the rolls royce with my head hanging in shame?”

you were appalled at his vulgar, inflammatory rhetoric laced with misunderstanding. “if you’re looking for me to bow my head in shame and apologize for having autonomy, you’re out of luck.” you raised your finger, wagging it with your shaking head, returning his energy. subong scoffed, but you remained defiant: “i’m not ready to be a mother, and i’m not going to have this baby just because you bullied me into it.” “bullied?” he was baffled, repeating your word back to you with a smug, humored expression. “maybe i missed something, but how does me caring about my kid make me a fucking villain?” “because you’re not respecting the wishes of our child’s mother.” “you have everything!” subong exclaimed, he pointed throughout your bedroom—a gesture meant to extend through the entire guesthouse and neighboring estate. “the best schools, the biggest fucking houses,” he listed on his fingers, looking at you with wide, begging eyes. “nannies, chefs, and even dogs! what’s the problem here?” “for starters, you’re not listening to me.” you pointed at his face when he scoffed and rolled his eyes, speaking more firmly to keep his attention: “secondly, just because i can, doesn’t mean i should! i don’t wan’t to be like my mother, subong.” you said, planting your palm against your chest. he looked down at you with a tightened jaw, face stoic. “distant, severed, thinking i know everything when i haven’t the faintest fucking clue.” you shook your head. “that’s not me—i know it isn’t. but … if i have this baby right now, subong … in the middle of my phd, when i don’t even have a place of my own yet—or a sense of it, rather … i’m afraid that’s what i’ll inevitably turn into. i don’t want that. a child doesn’t deserve that.”

“you’ll be a good mother.” he spoke in an absolute, tone subtly argumentative. “don’t hold yourself back.” “i’m not holding myself!—” you exclaimed, cutting yourself off out of frustration. you pinched your nose, “i’m not ‘holding myself back,’ subong. i’m being honest. i’m being for real.” subong stared at you like you were an equation to solve, arms crossed against his chest, looking down at you past his nose. tainted by his re-surfaced insecurities that never really went away, only buried underneath the safety blanket of good times and even better sex, did his inferiority complex start coming back in full swing. he felt his chest inflame with his all-too-familiar clouded sense of logic, coming to a conclusion that made sense to him, but nearly left you speechless: “do you want to break up with me? is that what this is? you don’t want to be with me anymore?” “what!?” you looked around the room like a camera crew was going to come out. “how did you even deduce that from—” “what am i supposed to do, huh?” subong felt the power of the conversation return to his hands—running with it entirely. “see you on social media, or in some magazine at the fucking convenience store with some rich guy, knowing you’re pregnant with my fucking son, like the orange-haired cuck from 'boys over flowers'—” “—we don’t even know if its a boy or a girl yet!—” “—you were always embarrassed of me, anyway. you never told your parents about us, right?” “you know exactly why i haven’t done so.” “oh, really? do your charity of reminding me.” he said condescendingly.

you tut, shaking your head, expression annoyed. “don’t act like you have selective hearing or some shit. don’t go and weaponize your incompetence in front of me.” “speak fucking normally, man.” subong ran his hands over his face. “this is my normal!” you exclaimed, pointing at the carpeted floors. “this is what we bonded over, on my bed, after you basically became the first person i’ve ever had sex with.” your voice descended into a whisper, gesturing to your bed behind you. “our parents don’t see us as people, subong. we only exist for them to project their failures onto.” “we can fix that with our kid.” “are you even ready to be a father!?” you blurted out, riddled with frustration. “do you have an iota of a clue of what that entails, subong?” he leaned down, getting up in your face. “the only thing our parents taught us is how to not be like them.” he said, staring into your eyes. you stood your ground. he shook his head, “so don’t tell me how to be a father to our son.” “you’re so adamant about proving yourself that you don’t have room to employ the thought that she might be a girl, who’s scared shitless like her mother?” “listen, i know things.” he tapped his temple with his finger. “and i know some part of you has always seen me as some fucking joke, or this low-life to play with—”

“where are you getting this?” you were floored, crossing your arms over your chest; horrendously, deeply offended. “where, subong? where!?” you demanded, jaw fallen. “is me—is me going to your performances week after week making you a joke? how about the studio i booked for you, or the five fucking attorneys i had on standby to protect you after someone else in the competition concocted a lie to piss you the fuck off?” you cut him off when he attempted to speak over you. “if you’re the jokester, and i’m the one who played with you or dressed you up like a doll or whatever you’re saying, then give me back the rolex that you hate wearing so much.” you put out your palm. “matter of fact, give me those cuban links you slept in for days, the bottegas that became infused with your head, and i’ll book a dentist’s appointment to get those tooth gems off, too.” “fuck off, man.” subong dismissed. “yeah, fuck you too.” you bit back, scoffing, running your hands through your hair.

silence filled the room. you turned around, pacing back and forth, looking over your shoulder, seeing his face in his hands. “we can’t be reckless, subong.” you said. “oh, but we can be reckless enough for me to fill you with my cum?” he clapped back, looking up at you. “you need to pick one: be the mother of my kid or be a fucking whore.” you had enough: “who are you!?” you yelled suddenly, sound so visceral from your chest that your voice cracked. “what is this?” you questioned, directionless. “this—this hostility, these insults, these—you’re just being mean, at this point. no attempt at productive conversation, or being fucking adults. we’ve never talked about getting married, let alone starting a family! where’s this sudden interest coming from, subong? like—” you held your hands out in front of you, unable to think of the words immediately. “that’s not—that’s not where we are in our relationship right now.”

“what are you doing?” a senior housekeeper climbed the stairs, turning the corner to see the newer recruit outside of your door. “have you finished this floor?” “yes, but i—” she was internally freaking out, pointing to the door, but cut off. “have you let her know she’ll be late meeting her madam chairman? its almost one.” “i was just—”“its alright, let me do it.” there was a knock on the door, both you and subong turned your heads. “ma'am?” you heard her voice. “may i come in?” you walked to the door, opening it about halfway. “is everything alright?” you asked. your eyes were on the senior staffer who you’ve known since your early adolescence, whereas the new recruit looked as if she’d just been handed the nuclear codes. “its almost one. you’ll be late for lunch with madam chairman.” “right, thank you.” you nodded. “i’ll be out in a minute.” “like the fuck you are!” subong yelled as you closed the door. “jesus, subong!” you yelled back, the sudden ordeal making the senior housekeeper’s eyebrows raise, and the newer one wince. “what’s that all about?” the senior wondered aloud, planting her hands on her hips. “she’s pregnant.” the younger one blurted. the color drained from the senior’s face. “god almighty.”

“you have servants telling you your fucking mealtimes.” subong gestured to the door, other hand at his side. “out-of-touch bitch.” “if you insult me one more time, i’ll rut this conversation deeper into the ground more than you already have with no chance of resurfacing.” you walked up to him, pointing to his chest. this isn’t your first time at this rodeo; disrespected by insults used to mask the other’s incompetence. “don’t push it, subong.” you ordered, shaking your head. “not with me.” he swallowed, but didn’t say anything. you let out a breath, feeling punctured now that there was enough room for the weight of the conversation to settle. “i’m not ready to be a mother, subong.” you told him sincerely, voice fragile, only for him to hear. “i—i can’t do it. not right now.” his eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing. “what is wrong with you?” he questioned, genuinely curious. “people would kill to have your life. all this help you have—you live like royalty.” your chest sunk: he still wasn’t fucking getting it. “what good does it do if i still feel like a child myself sometimes, subong?” you took a step closer to him, palms laying on his chest as you looked up at him. “you said it yourself the night we met: i don’t look like i belong here, because i feel like i don’t. what good would it do to bring a child into that?”

“so its my fault, then? everything’s my fault?” he retorted lowly, tilting his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. “its not my fault you were locked away your entire fucking life.” “i’m not saying it is,” you said, losing patience. “but what i am saying is that i’ve told you repeatedly how i feel, yet you’re ignoring that. i don’t know what you want me to say to make it clear to you.” “i’m not ignoring shit,” he shook his head. “because what i’m hearing is that you’re trying to take my son away from me.” “i’m going to go fucking crazy.” you took your hands off his chest in makeshift surrender. “you’re talking in circles. i don’t have time for this.” you turned around, attempting to walk to the door, but subong stopped you, expression soured and defiant: “you’re not taking my son away from me! hey!” he grabbed your wrist, only for you to yank it out of his grasp. “you’re not taking shit—” “what if she’s a girl!” you yelled, turning sharply to subong, eyes glossy. “huh?” your vision blurred, blinking back the tears. “what if she’s a fucking girl, subong!?” “then i’ll be dad of the fucking year to her!” subong yelled back louder, making you wince; the two housekeepers outside unable to move.

silence brewed. it was subong’s turn to feel the weight of current circumstance. he was not only in a rush to win, but helplessly trying to find the fucking words. his breathing intensified with each passing second—he wanted this, he wanted this baby. the nuanced reasons as to why he would unpack later, if at all. could it be the fact that he would be tied to an absurdly wealthy family for the rest of his life, that he never thought about taking that next step but now that its here he’s game, or was this his chance at really renewing his life with you—perhaps all three? whatever it was, he leads with conviction; adamant. “don't—don’t i have a say in any of this?” he questioned, fingers on his chest for emphasis. “i mean,” he looked around the room, clueless, licking his lips in his disbelief. “i feel like i’m being told just to take it. just sit there, and take it.” he pushed at nothing to his left, honing his point. you crossed your arms over your chest, watching him carefully. “you’ve been fucked by and are fucking with someone who doesn’t fucking quit.” he wagged his finger, a dead serious look in his eyes. “you wanna get married? great, we can go to the courthouse and be back in time for dinner with your parents. you want a husband? i will kiss your feet to pay my debt to you, if thats what you fucking want.” “no, subong,” you shook your head. “thats not the—” “listen to me,” subong cut you off, stepping closer, fingers traveling from your elbows up your arms to keep your attention. “this might…” he took a breath, meeting your eyes. “this might be what sets me right, baby.”

your phone rang and rang in the second floor sitting room, where you left it after having breakfast earlier in the morning. “brat.” your mother tsked under her breath, sitting in the dining room nearest to the main entryway of the family house, clicking her phone off and setting it face-down on the table. it was nearly fifteen minutes past the time she told you to arrive for lunch. she tapped her foot, sitting with herself, until inevitably ringing you again. “are we supposed to touch that?” asked the younger housekeeper, shocked at how unapologetically her senior picked up your ringing phone perpetually displaying the contact name Mommy. “its a phone, not an explosive.” said the senior, walking out of the sitting room, her younger counterpart following closely behind. “come, i’ll give it to her.”“you want to take a gamble on something this serious?” you asked subong, staring into his eyes, expression unamused and unreadable. he’s more far out of reach than i thought, you inner monologue voiced. you were appalled at his proposition, to the point where you couldn’t gather enough care to raise your voice to to properly heard. because what was the point? the man before you was long gone from any logical voice of reason. he wasn’t listening to you nor himself—blatantly disregarding the tumultuous last few months that you picked up the pieces from. you were sick of this, unbelievably over it. subong wasn’t getting it, or choosing not to, and at some point it doesn’t become your fault anymore. you could only find so many words—plead so many times. but he continued pushing: “that’s not—” subong tried to combat, shaking his head. “that’s not what i meant.”

“i want you to keep our baby.” “no you don’t, subong.” “yes, i do!” he said back sharply. “relying on some innocent kid to fix you? why don’t you set yourself straight right fucking now!” the senior housekeeper went to knock on your door, stopping abruptly upon hearing your raised voice. “i was the one that saw you at those clubs. i was the one that got those calls saying you were face first in a bush, or laying by a dumpster. i was the one who washed you off after you soiled yourself.” you ended in a whisper, afraid if you spoke any louder, a damn would break loose from your eyes. your manicured nail dug into his chest, breath shaking. “and i never got a thank you. not even once.” his bottom lip quivered, breathing jagged through his nostrils. “my love, you’ve upended my life.” your hands traveled past his shoulders, up his neck, landing on either side of his face. “you have changed me for the better.” you grinned, letting your tears fall. subong didn’t move an inch; his face stoic, eyes glossy. “but this … this i can’t accept. i can’t do it, subong.” you shook your head. “please, try to understand. for me.” a beat went by before subong leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. you let out a small breath of relief at his movement, keeping his touch with your hand on the back of his head. “please.” you sniffled, voice delicate. subong licked his teeth, swallowing, eyes closed to keep his own frustrated tears at bay. “i’m not falling into line.” he told you. you let out a sob of utmost defeat. he opened his eyes, vision blurry. subong’s voice remained leveled: “you hear me?” he blinked hard, watching you cry. it was brutal, but he would rather perish than not protect himself, especially in sensitive situations like this. there was so much at stake. he was going to do everything he could to keep himself on that pedestal, even if it meant chipping away at your sense of worth. he planned on talking you in circles until his tongue ran dry and you went mute, and with how you looked now—posture cowered, shoulders lowered, face hidden—he seemed a good chunk of the way there.

“i’m not—” you cut him off with a brash push against his chest, walking away and behind him, stopping shortly before the balcony doors. “you’re breaking my heart, subong.” you cleared your throat, wiping whatever of your foundation came off after dabbing the remnants of tears away with your fingertips on your coat. “you’re really doing a number here.” your phone hadn’t rang since the housekeepers retrieved it. unbeknownst to anyone in the guesthouse, your mother was currently making her way down the hill, shooing away the family dogs at their attempt to follow her, beckoned away by staff. a guesthouse staffer saw her walk down the pavement and turn the corner to the nearest entrance, alerting everyone accordingly. “madam chairman is outside!” someone called from below. “what!?” the senior housekeeper looked over her shoulder, eyes widening. she made herself dizzy from how quickly she bolted down the stairs. the younger recruit ran to the banister lining the landing, dropping her caddy in panic.

“you know what, subong,” you sniffled, facing him as he turned to face you from across the room. you swallowed, straightening your posture, crossing your arms over your chest. it was time to bare your truth, no matter how ruthless it was: “this is precisely the reason why you’re the last person that should ever be a father.” subong’s anger turned sinister. you’d really done it this time. his eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes narrowing as his head tilted in basking in your, to him, utter audacity to say such a thing. “what did you just say?” he spoke quietly, jaw tightening. “it was one of the first thoughts i had when i found out i was pregnant, actually.” you said cooly, looking around at the walls, purposefully ignoring him. “sitting alone in my car, thinking how i could’ve been stupid enough to get knocked up. i know what your dumbass is going to say: oh, 'you asked for it, you begged me for my cum,’ just because it made me cum, doesn’t mean i’m going to reap what i sow, especially when there’s a fucking alternative i know that i want. if you don’t like it, i don’t have anything left to say to you on the matter. i just don’t.” you shrugged your shoulders. before he could interject, you raised your hand. “and i’m not saying you should leave, or that you should fall in line, or whatever fucking else you’re going to make up, because i don’t know who you think you are thinking you can talk to me like that.” you shook your head disapprovingly, standing your ground when he walked up to you. “that’s not going to fly by me. especially from a grown man like you. after everything i’ve done for you, too.”

“there really is something fucking missing up here.” subong rapidly tapped his temple in reference to yours. “i should have known from the first time i saw you all alone at that party.” “you were alone too!” you shouted back, gesturing at him with your hand. “we are one in the same, subong!” he ignored that, saying whatever statement came to mind; the sharpest weapon in his arsenal, personal attacks: “you were so desperate when we met,” he shook his head, playing up his pity. “asking me if i go out, looking at me with those sad fucking eyes.” he gestured to your face with his fingers, going right back into place after you attempted to shove them away with an air of annoyance. “after i showed up for you, time and time again—at your house, in your car, after a performance, ate your pussy until i nearly got fucking lockjaw, fucked you when i thought my dick was gonna split in two—” he listed off on his fingers. “got on a plane whenever you wanted, listened to you talk about things that don’t make sense for so-fucking-long!” towards the end he became genuinely frustrated, running his hands over his face dramatically. “oh my god—that was one of the worst parts.” his voice was muffled. he lifted his head, not even looking at you. “you need to know no one gives a fuck about your phd, baby, holy shit.”

“oh,” you nodded, tilting your head. “is that why you stuck to me like glue, and fucked me like a rabbit when i got back from south africa?” “i was a different person back then.” he muttered. you scoffed pitifully, “you’re such a bad liar, subong. sometimes you just talk to hear yourself speak.” “and you don’t!?” his eyebrows raised. “with yours galas and trips and study abroads and shit—man, who the fuck cares?” “that was just me telling you about my life!” “crazy fucking life you live,” he paced from the balcony doors to you. “all this money. all these resources, and you still don’t know anything about the real world. i should’ve known messing around with someone younger would fuck me over.” he shook his head to himself. “says the one who tells me he loves me, and calls himself an old man as an insult any chance he gets.” you rolled your eyes. “how convenient it must be for you to switch it up now.”

you hit him where it always hurts for men like subong: his pride. “you were horrendous in italy.” you tutted. “i thought getting with someone older meant you’d’ve been more sure of yourself; more secure. but then you let some twenty-four year old wall street wannabe run you like a circus animal. how ludicrous.” you shook your head. his chest gurgled with shame, heart irate. “you’re not gonna use that against me.” subong wanted to seem unaffected, but his subdued tone gave him away. “because i know damn well you liked that shit.” in the back of his head, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself more. before you registered it, you lied: “it was embarrassing.” you said, looking up at him pitifully. you weren’t helping his case against the supposed truth behind your intentions: am i project to her? was i just an accessory, proof that she’s open-minded and fucking charitable? was i just work to her—a hobby? subong’s utmost pet peeve was being made to feel stupid, the ultimate dumbass. to have his feelings or lack thereof used against him by whatever means; made to feel small, inconsequential; a ploy. he wasn’t going to be pulled up by strings like a marionette anymore, no, it was time for him to go in for the kill; tell his own lie to knock you down a peg, or several. he leaned down, face centimeters away from yours. “you should’ve fucked him.” he spoke lowly, nodding. “i should’ve given up our room as soon as i saw him grope you with his eyes.” subong watched you intently, tongue poking his inner cheek. you didn’t know where he was going with this, but you stood and matched his energy nonverbally; shoulders back, posture undeterred.

he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “that way i wouldn’t think twice about fucking a groupie once we got back.” you started to crumble, hating how fast your eyes watered. what was once a look of power became one of crippling humiliation—perhaps akin to your earliest memories of being picked on on the playground asphalt, but none more-so than the realization of if push comes to shove, he’s just like the rest of them. maybe you truly hadn’t the faintest clue of what it was like to be human, because at any chance it got, the universe humbled you in the most visceral of ways at any attempts of normalcy. or maybe i am young and naive, you thought to yourself, feeling your waterline give way. because some part of me still wants to fight for him, though he has no qualms with hurting me. “you don’t mean that.” you whispered. you shook your head, “you don’t mean—” “—i do. i fucking do.” subong lied through his teeth, nodding vigorously, keeping his momentum. “they would’ve sucked me dry knowing i have the most insecure bitch at home.” you let out a quiet sob. subong didn’t hold back: “and i would’ve loved every fucking second of it.” “s-stop! stop it!” you cried out, voice cracking. subong stood up straight, watching you with a satisfied expression. it was a necessary evil, he felt, even if he had to fight the tingling of his underarms in thwarting the urge to hold you. thats what you fucking get.

“madam chairwoman!” the senior housekeeper let out a flurry of quick breaths after scurrying down the long hall. “i didn’t expect—” “where is my daughter?” your mother asked bluntly, fixing her watch. “she’s upstairs, madam chairwoman.” said the housekeeper. “she’ll be right down—” “why do you have her cell phone?” your mother asked sharply. the housekeeper’s heart dropped, knowing what this looked like. “it was ringing in the upstairs sitting room as ma'am left it there after having breakfast earlier this—” your mother snatched it from her hand. “do we pay you to invade our privacy?” she scolded. “no, madam chairwoman. my apologies.” she bowed her head, hands in front of her. after a moment, your mother let out an unimpressed breath. “you said she’s in her bedroom. has she been there this entire time?” “yes.” the housekeeper answered without thinking, panic ensuing when your mother walked away without an additional word. you pushed past subong, standing near the bathroom—you needed to be as far from him as possible, completely overwhelmed. “y-you’re being so mean.” you wiped your tears, breath shaky. “i don't—i don’t know where this is coming from. i thought you loved me.” saying that last sentence aloud, though true, made you feel like a silly, impressionable young girl; too hopeful for the world, to keen on fantasies. “this is how i’ve always been!” subong exclaimed. “until you came in and … and—” he curled his fingers above his chest, looking around as if the words would present themselves to him. “fuck!” he shouted, outwardly frustrated at his ineptitude, running his hands messily through his hair before looking at you with widened eyes. “until you came in and changed me!” “i didn’t change you!” you shouted back. “i brought you into my life and had to save you from yourself!” there it was.

your mother noticed how empty the guesthouse was, keeping her thoughts to herself; ignoring all of the senior housekeeper’s attempts to get her attention. it really kicked in when she was walking up the stairs: “madam—madam chairwoman.” the housekeeper scurried, trying to think of anything. her younger counterpart was just as panicky as she was. when they turned the corner at the landing, she became desperate: “don't—don’t go in there!” she blurted, terrified when your mother stopped in her footsteps. “you’re telling me where to go in my own home?” she asked, voice eerily leveled. before she could answer, your mother continued walking, moving past the newer recruit without an iota of acknowledgement. “madam—madam chairwoman! please!” the senior sped up, narrowly beating her to the door. your mother looked thoroughly offended. “there's—she’s having a sensitive conversation!” “out of my way!” your mother scolded, aghast, not yet registering the commotion behind the door. “how dare you! what kind of circus is she running here?”

“i loved—i love you!” you yelled at subong. “forgive me if i don’t want to be bloated with your fucking baby!” you balled your fists by your sides, forcing your voice out of your diaphragm. “like anyone would be able to tell the difference, you fucking bitch!” he yelled right back, dismissing you with a wave before turning his back to you, putting his hands on his hips. you didn’t cry—you wanted to set the entire world on fire with how irate you felt. “stop acting like its my fault you forgot those stupid fucking lyrics, motherfucker!” you screamed with everything left in you. subong looked over his shoulder with a wild expression, turning to you to add fuel to the fire—the door opened; the world coming to a sudden halt.

your mother looked at subong with an air of we meet at last. it wasn't one of excitement or unexpected joy, but radical disdain. she was overtly unimpressed; face so stoic it was unnerving, making him switch his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. she already knew everything there is to know about subong through the nonchalant and undetectable abrasive wielding of her private investigators—"a thirty-three year old who's from a relatively penurious yet moderately respectable neighborhood in the city. he was honorably discharged after eighteen months of mandatory service shortly before his thirty-first birthday, and continues to pursue a music career in a myriad of ways. he has a distant relationship with his family and embattles addiction and debt; most likely meeting your daughter at a party."—to her own opinions of him, molded through photos on her ipad, keeping tabs on her children their entire lives, and looked at her with nothing but briefs and a shirt on in a house that cost more to remodel than it did to construct: pest. he wasn't even worth a raise of her eyebrow.

no one had to be a genius to know your mother was your mother. she held an aura captivating what hillary clinton couldn't be, but everything margaret thatcher wishes she was. dressed to the nines on a sunday afternoon—old-fashioned yet dripped out in the finest navy blue chiffon pantsuit tucked underneath a matching floor-length coat, adorned with one of her favorite brooches on the left side of the jacket's collar. she let out an uninterested exhale through his nostrils, deliberately fixing her hair with her left hand; subong catching sight of the sapphire. she looked at you, unamused. "you're late." she said, handing you your phone. "s-sorry, mom." you muttered, pocketing your phone. you were to the point of emotional exhaustion where you needed to just get away from subong, not necessarily registering the possibility your mother might have overheard the details of the shouting match. to your luck, she hadn't. "let's—let's go." you attempted to usher her out of the door—the housekeepers stood at a distance at the banister—but she saw the slivers of wetness on your cheeks, even after your brazen wiping; a mother could sense it anywhere. she stopped you: "have you been crying?" she asked. "mom, i'm okay. let's just go—" her hand held your arm. "did he hurt you?" "what?" you knew what she meant and were quick to correct it, taken aback. "no, mom. are you serious? he's done nothing but—" "—you can't be fucking serious, man." subong muttered to himself, running his hands over his face. he took a few steps towards you two. "do i look like i'd do that to a woman?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed, genuinely offended. he kept going despite your mother not looking at him through your continued attempt of assuring her truthfully. "is it because i have tattoos, or my hair? judgmental bitch."

"subong!" you exclaimed, appalled. "you're not exactly making a good first impression here!" your mother was undeterred, keeping her focus on you: let him keep showing her his true colors. maybe then, she'll realize. she thought to herself. "i'm not just going to let people insult me!" he blurted out, gesturing back and forth between himself and your mother. "you write insults for a living, you hypocrite!" you bit back. you mother returned her hand to her side, fixing her coat. "at least mine are tasteful! this shit was unprovoked!" "don't act so puritan!" you said back sharply. he waved you off, walking back to the desk. "here you go with these fucking words again—" "don't act like you're resolved of all . . . or—or all goddamn—all high and mighty!" you worked against an invisible timer, making your mother pinch the bridge of her nose. "you're the one who started fights backstage, and—and had that lyric they couldn't re-upload after the show!" "i told you: they censored me!" subong bickered with you back and forth, effectively forgetting your mother was there in a matter of seconds, rapidly sucked back into your own worlds. you took a step forward, waving your hand dismissively. "jesus christ—don't amuse me with acting like you know what that word means." "i do!" subong raised his voice, parring with yours, "because that's what happened to me!" you scoffed, silence filling the room. "this is who you want to spend your life with?" she asked lowly. "hm? someone who acted a complete dunce on that stage?"

it clicked in your head, but not subong's. "how do you . . . how does she know—" "again?" you asked your mother, unsurprised yet offended nonetheless. "you did it again, mom? after i told you not to last time?" "she did what again?" subong tried to be heard, but just looked between you and her cluelessly. "baby, what did she—" "am i not to know who my daughter surrounds herself with? brings into her home?" "you always frame it this way." you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "am i not my own person? i'm closer to thirty than i am fifteen." "clearly you haven't done much maturing since then, considering your home is akin to a circus and you surround yourself with such unpredictable, unreliable characters. out of the woodworks, i tell you." your mother quipped back without hesitation. "your father and i worked diligently to have such promising men court you—" "—see, that's the problem! your use of the word 'work,' its not supposed to feel that way! and they were never what i wanted!" "are the tears what you wanted?" she gestured to your face. "for me to come and collect you like an orphaned street dog? is that what i raised you to be? is this what i wanted you to be like when you became older?"

"hey! hey!" subong got your attention back. "what did she do again? hm?" he asked quickly, nervously glancing at your mother, who hadn't spared him another look just yet. "you also said 'like last time.' have you been with someone like me before?" "no, subong," you shook your head, thoughts fragmented from balancing both conversations. "i just meant—just meant in general." you muttered. "in general? what do you—" "my life—my life's kept track of. i don't know how else to say it." "i'm looking out for you. don't speak of it as some sort of hinderance." your mother interjected, staring at you. "it is the utmost definition." you said, seeing her shake her head disapprovingly. "goes to oxford, thinks she knows everything." she tutted under her breath; one of her favorite lines. "your life is tracked?" subong was bewildered, looking at your mother with a tinge of fear. would she know . . . no—don't go there. not yet. "jesus, baby. the fuck kind of family do you have?"

"don't you dare speak ill of this family!" your mother warned, pointing at subong, startling him somewhat. he didn't say anything. neither did you. she closed her eyes, taking a breath, regaining her composure. she turned to you, locating her voice of reason. "he's a grown man." "yes, and i'm a grown woman." you answered, unwavering. your mother let out a small huff. "fine." she said. "but, paying for his healthcare? buying him clothing? bringing him to our family home in italy? introducing him to my mother before me?" you crossed your arms over your chest, avoiding eye contact. "grandmother liked him. a lot." you muttered. your mother didn't cower—pushing the metaphorical knife even deeper. she took a step closer to you, her unrelenting gaze making your face burn. "naked in the same pool you learned how to swim in?" she spoke quietly, making sure you heard her. subong's face dropped. her family's fucked in the head. you sucked in a quick breath, eyes widening. "defiling the car your father and i bought you? for everyone to see?" "mom, stop—" "quiet!" she exclaimed, making you gasp. it was all purposeful: embarrassing you in front of an effective audience comprised of staff and the man you love. subong hadn't seen anything like it before, even in his own tumultuous upbringing—it was always shocking to see someone so sure of themselves cower to those they shouldn't, no matter how contradictory his own behavior may be. all those stories he heard . . . all those frustration rants you went on . . . none could effectively illustrate the dynamic more than seeing it firsthand. it was hard to watch, even for him.

"i didn't raise you to be indecent." your mother said. "to be so foully promiscuous. you should be ashamed." don't apologize. subong thought to himself. don't fucking— "i'm sorry." you said in a whisper. subong's eyes closed in second-hand defeat, running his hands through his hair. your mother studied your face carefully, her next words kicking subong's adrenaline into action: "i'll have the ndas ready within the hour. he can sign, and this'll all be behind us—" "what? no, mom, i don't want to break—" "i'm not signing shit!" subong exclaimed, shaking his head. "i'm afraid you have no choice." your mother said to him without raising her head to meet his eyes. "not when—" he began to say, the desperation in his eyes rivaling the pleading in yours. don't, you thought, shaking your head. "please." you whispered, looking at him. his eyes softened apologetically, but not enough to deter him from putting himself first: "not when she's pregnant with my baby!"

your mother's world collapsed. "you're . . . you're pregnant?" her voice withered like a neglected flower. you have never seen her look so defeated in all of your life—lips parted, thousand yard stare stuck on the carpeted floors, nearly stumbling when taking a step back, losing composure; completely thrown off. it terrified you. as much as her vitriolic rhetoric poisoned your veins, the loss of her familiar stature had you caving like an eight year old lost at the mall: "m-mommy, i'm so scared." you reached for her, teary-eyed. subong couldn't look away from the destruction he had caused, frozen in place. "god almighty—have mercy on me." your mother whispered to herself. she was at a loss for words. she tried to sort through her innate sense of rationale through her now discombobulated head. any parent would tell her to have seen this coming, but you . . . there was always something different about you. her darling second daughter; so beautiful, so kind, incredibly generous. too generous for her standards. not clueless, but a little too trusting. not the smartest person in the room, but with clever tact that could render anyone speechless. her eldest daughter's disciple, but a person in her own right, though your mother had inconsistencies with respecting that fact. graduating with highest distinction at oxford . . . the best at bantering on her entire side of the family . . . her mother's favorite grandchild . . . to amount to this. it was devastating. it was enraging.

"you silly, silly girl!" she swatted at your arms, making you gasp. the housekeepers looked in horror. "h-hey! hey—stop!" subong stepped in, moving on autopilot, pulling you to him. caught off guard by how quickly everything escalated, you didn't immediately recognize his embrace, but he tried to capture your attention. "you—you okay?" "w-what?" you asked, a little disoriented. your mother grabbed your arm, yanking you away from him, making you stumble. "get away from her! you've tainted her enough!" she looked him dead in the eyes for the first time since walking in. she then turned to you; so deeply hurt, feeling so betrayed by your irresponsibility that it was time she showed her true arsenal: "you haven't the faintest clue about him. you don't know what i know." subong started pacing on the other side of the room. you didn't know where to focus—how could things have gone south so fucking quickly? your mother's voice brought you back to her: "this is why you'll never be on your own," she shook her head. "this is will you'll never be ready to be on your own." "i am—i have been!" "and what's come from it!?" she yelled, making you flinch. "look at what you've done! not even a year with a man, and you've gotten yourself an illegitimate child! your sister's marrying in the spring. will you be in your bridesmaid's dress with a bump?" she took a breath. "you're in the middle of your phd. have you forgotten that, or must i remind you how much your father is paying for your seat?" "its impossible for me to forget. the reminders are everywhere. i live in one."

"you've practically sent me into cardiac arrest," your mother laid her palms against her chest. "and you remain blinded by your gall enough to still enact blame on me?" she was fully loaded now: "did he ever tell you about his debt?" subong's head whipped around. he felt his heart drop to his balls. your face went cold. your head shook before you squeaked out a measly answer: "n-no." "baby," subong took a few steps forward, but stopped himself short from going up to you directly. "baby—baby, don't listen to her." your mother let go of your arm, taking a step back, gesturing to subong with her hand. "go on. ask him about his ventures with cryptocurrency. i've had him looked into." she said. "how—shit!" subong cursed aloud, realizing he outed himself like a fucking moron; too much for his mind to keep track of, too much to keep at bay—the dam was going to break eventually. never mind the breach of privacy—he was about to fight for his fucking life. unbeknownst to him, the ship was already sinking.

you went on autopilot. you turned your head to look at him. "is it true?" you asked. you've been hit with so many things this last half-hour, you weren't sure what to feel anymore. you were actively running out of capacity; the small beat of silence allotted an attempt at clarity, but to no avail. subong became stand-offish, posture awkward, suddenly hyperaware of his arms; unsure what to do with his body. "is it true?" you repeated more firmly. his face flinched into one of obscene bitterness—cornered into a moral checkmate with nowhere to go. he could hear the blood trickle into his veins with how quiet it was not only in the bedroom, but the entirety of the guesthouse—perhaps the estate. "f-fuck . . ." he muttered in defeat, head sinking. he hated this feeling with a burning passion, and the sound of your sob, too, pushing him further into exponential ostracism. "subong, please." you begged him for an answer, though his lack of one served more than adequately. you just needed to hear it for yourself. "i—i can't—" "—yes." he said, avoiding your eyes. "its fucking true, okay?"

"how did you—how did you get into it?" "there's this . . . there's this guy on—on youtube." your head sunk. his eyes dodged your disappointed expression. "his name is mg coin—" "what is even happening anymore?" "tell her how much." your mother demanded. "fuck no!" subong retaliated. "you are the father of her child!" she looked nauseous saying that fact, but powered through. "its the least you could do, after all the trouble you've caused!" "listen—" subong walked up to your mother, pointing at her unabashedly. "she wanted to fuck me just as much i wanted to fuck her. don't call me evil because i wanted her. we're not in the wrong for fucking wanting each other!" "my goodness—are you capable of not talking so lewdly?" your mother snapped. "if you won't, then i'll tell her with how much you stole from us." shit. SHIT.

you looked up at him sharply. "you what?" you asked, eyebrows deeply furrowed. his mouth went dry, but he swallowed: "your mom's fucking lying," he only focused on you, taking a step closer, making sure he was your entire line of sight. "that's what you said she does. right, baby? makes you feel bad, even if it isn't true?" he spoke softly, pressing his forehead against yours, hands holding either side of your face. "i'm only here to love you, baby. i'm not perfect, and i know i said some mean shit earlier, but we can work it out. i know we can work it out." he pressed a kiss to your cheek, thumbs tracing your supple skin. focus on me, focus on me. his inner monologue chanted. to your mother, it was a pitiful scene to the point of amusement; metaphorically cracking her knuckles. "you make me feel normal—" "where're your sister's ruby and emerald rings she received from your eldest aunt for her sixteenth birthday?" subong halted his movements. "i haven't been able to find your father's piaget watch since your italian excursion. he wanted to wear it to his yearly stakeholder conference, and asked me to look for his other one, but that was missing, too." your face felt heavy. "some of my earrings have mysteriously vanished as well, including a one-hundred-year-old pearl necklace gifted to me from your father's mother the night before our wedding." "my god!" you felt faint, putting your face in your hands. subong and your mother stared at one another with mutual vitriol; a certain smugness on her face reading akin to game over.

"at first i suspected the maids, or other members of staff, which resulted in many terminations or forced resignations; hence the desertion present here." this was half-true; she ruthlessly suspected newer recruits for all of two days when she first noticed a pair of ruby and pearl earrings, respectively, were missing from her jewelry chest upon returning from her second trip to macau. she fired whomever had been allegedly near the master bedroom suite the previous two days, only to find out that no one from her staff had, but a secretary had found two rings on a poolside lounge chair that your mother did not recognize—until she watched subong's most recent rap battleground performance at the time on her ipad after her private investigator identified him when you returned from beijing, of course. her senior staff were utmost loyalists, not even daring to entertain the prospect of entering the master suite unless she was present, or provided written permission if she was abroad. other than that, the family home was just that—free for your parents, siblings, and visiting members to come and go as they please. until subong came along. your mother put two-and-two together when the aforementioned pearl necklace disappeared into thin air. but that was almost six months ago, and she wanted to pack an increasingly lethal punch of a lesson to bestow upon you. so she kept on firing people: loyal patrons who needed healthcare, newer recruits who needed to pay for school, and unsuspecting middlemen.

you needed an answer: "how much?" "what was that?" said your mother, not hearing you as your voice was muffled. "how much!" you yelled, subong flinching, seeing you at the end of your rope. you looked pathetic; at the end of your line. your mother was satisfied—her plan was working. "i tracked down the pawn shop you went to." she said to the back of his head. "fuck." subong walked away, looking out the closed balcony doors. he closed his eyes, hoping he could sink into a hole right then and there. "it amounts to over 450 million won." "subong, why? just why?" you were at a loss for words, sustaining a perpetual shake of the head. you couldn't even begin to process anything. at this point, the fact that you're pregnant felt like an afterthought on top of everything else. "i could've . . . i could've—i have more than enough to help you. i mean, that's what i did. yet . . . yet you—did i—did i mean nothing to you? what's going on?" it felt like your body couldn't generate more tears; reaching your bandwidth, not sure if what you were saying was making sense. truth be told, you weren't sure how you were even conscious right now. "its because he's a leech, that's why." your mother voiced, watching him carefully, counting down. "just like the rest of them."

"i am no fucking leech!" subong yelled, turned around, vein popping out his temple. he was provoked successfully, evident in how your mother strategically scurried out of the room when he came trudging forward. "who the fuck do you think you are!? i worked hard for what i have—the love i have! i'm not going to apologize for needing to fucking live!" he yelled, part of his face turning red with passion; one hand holding the door frame, the other pointing at your mother. you were subconsciously sick of sticking to the wall helplessly, moving like muscle memory to get subong from the doorframe—you were no stranger to contradiction at this point. its inherent in your blood, and now the way you love. you grabbed at his torso, tugging at his shirt. "subong, please—" "call security or there'll be a bounty on your heads." your mother told the two housekeepers at the banister with venom. they both scurried off down the staircase without hesitation, ignoring the pits of guilt gurgling in their stomachs.

"subong! subong!" you yanked his shirt with all of your weakened might, sending him momentarily stumbling backwards, turning around and temporarily out of his angered-filled haze. "what?" he wasn't aware of what was going on until you tugged aimlessly at the front of his shirt, bringing his forehead to yours, holding onto the back of his head desperately. "why'd you do it?" you asked him, pawing at his shoulder. "hm? why'd you do it, subongie? you can tell me. you can tell me why you couldn't be—why you couldn't be honest with your baby." in the whirlwind of your current mind, this was all you needed to know at this very moment. it was a pitiful scene of desperation, one ignored by your mother as she heard security personnel walk in, turning the corner of the long hallway. "i don't—i don't know." he shook his head, hearing your shaky breaths. he swallowed, tightening his lips when he felt his bottom lip quiver. "i have problems, baby. i need to get myself straight. too prideful. too—too messy for you." your face contorted into a sob, but your body physically couldn't generate anymore, intensifying the pounding between your temples. "we both have problems. that's why we met. that's why i love you." you brought him to your lips messily. subong kissed you harder, hands finding their home on your hips.

you kissed him harshly, anger brewing, hands pulling his head against yours. "people lost their jobs because of you." you cried in frustration, unable to hold yourself back from kissing him again. "i know, i know." he muttered, his sinuses feeling heavy. "you've upended me forever, and i hate that i still love you." you murmured against his lips, reconnecting the kiss. "i hate that i still want to make this work." "m'never leaving you, baby." said subong. "i'm never—" "subong!" he was yanked by either arm by two burly security guards out of the door. he put up a fight, or tried to, ending up being dragged across the floor and down the stairs. the two housekeepers from before watched in horror; surrounding staff either turning away or unable to from the sheer shock of circumstance. your mother watched from where she stood in the sitting room, in front of the same couch you stumbled upon a drunken subong months before. you nearly tripped from how you ran down the stairs, senses alive like you were under attack. "that's—that's the father of my baby!" you shouted helplessly. "stop being so fucking rough! stop!"

subong's legs were riddled with cuts and bruises from fighting the grip of the security guards in the house and being dragged across the gravel walkway outside, nearly pulling a muscle in resisting being thrown into a nondescript suv. "stop! stop! please!" you ran in front of him, grabbing hold of his face. "i'm coming back for you," he cleared his throat. "you hear me? i'm coming the fuck back." "okay—okay." you were panicking, moving so fast but simultaneously in slow motion, gasping when he was shoved into the car after your lips barely brushed together, driving off hte asphault driveway and leaving the gated estate.

ten minutes felt like ten hours as you sat in the heaviness lingering in the air of your bedroom. you existed in the heavy silence—too shocked to process, too exhausted to move. you felt the bed dip next to you, your mother settling in wordlessly. "its okay." she started. "its over now." her hand reached for yours, but you snatched it away. "don't even—don't even fucking try." "you will not curse at me." "i'll do whatever i fucking want! i'm old enough!" you yelled, fingers pounding your chest for desperate emphasis. "i mean—i mean—" you gestured aimlessly around you. "you just—you just took away the best thing thats ever happened to me, mom! where did he—where did he even go!?" "his parents home." she tried to calm you down, attempting to reach for your shoulders. "he was dropped at his family's home." "i don't—" you came to an embarrassing realization. "i don't even know where that is." your mother looked at you knowingly as the carpet caught your gaze again, holding your hands in hers. "i suppose he kept a lot from you, hm?"

you didn't answer—the confusion of your complex feelings blurred your senses. "come here, my love." your mother beckoned tenderly, hands rubbing up and down your back as your forehead laid against her shoulder. "he wasn't a good man." she projected. "he's out of your life, and that's a good thing." it felt of no use to argue, especially when you were so exhausted that you were empty of any strength. but still, an iota remained: "you have nothing in common." she added. "we have everything in common." you countered. "neither of us have places in our families." "shh. . ." your mother tutted before saying the line that defined your adolescence, and now, your foreseeable future: "you don't know what you're talking about." moments of silence went by, punctuated by the delayed growling of your stomach as lunchtime felt like hours ago—until your shoulders began to shake, and your chest convulsed. your mother held onto you tighter. "i see myself the most in you." she said, thwarting her own tears, unable to garner the courage to say what else swirled in her head: you can't leave us. not like that; not with him. but does say what she always does: "everything i do, no matter how it may frustrate you, is for your own good."

it was proof you were stuck in forever loop of fighting for self-preserving power until you inevitably cowered to either of your parents wishes: "you will be finishing your phd in auckland with your brother. you need time away from here. before that, we'll take care of your stomach." she said, holding you tighter when your cries became more visceral. "i've—i've made arrangements with the department head at the country's most prestigious university," she's had this planned for a while now. "you've changed. you need time alone in a different place, and come back when you're ready." translation, your inner monologue voiced as you sobbed egregiously, feeling faint: you're going to be shipped off to an alternate form of family headquarters to be monitored even more closely, and will only return with a parental-approved ring on your finger.

a year later, it was sunday afternoon. you set down a cup of homemade iced coffee on the sitting room table before you—crisp breeze of this early summer morning ushering in another day in auckland. your younger brother lived in the same luxury apartment complex as you, only a few floors down, but rarely came up to visit. you turned on the television, flipping through various channels before settling indifferently onto a local news station, sitting back on the couch and letting it seep into the background. your phone vibrated beside you, unlocking it to see several texts notifications from your friend group's chat—scrolling through messages about miscellaneous things, bickering, photos from trips, and half-hazard attempts at planning to come see you. you sent in whatever reply you could muster—the few memes scattered about the chat making you giggle—until you clicked your phone off. but then, like clockwork, your mind lingered. you picked your phone up again, unlocking it and scrolling down your messages, clicking on subong's. you stared at the last text sent, which was from him: Out in the hammock baby come by when u can. your thumb traced that gray text bubble like it was his cheekbone—back and forth . . . back and forth . . . back and forth . . .it was sent not even a full twenty-four hours until he disappeared from your life. not completely traceless, considering you saw him online on instagram a few times this past year, but not entirely tangible, since he hadn't reached out. there was a part of you that was strangely accepting of this. either because your parents have been responsible for such severed ties before, or that small twist of fate that lead you to the balcony that night was the first time you ever felt a sense of belonging.

honey's taglist! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf, @infinetlyforgotten, @riddlerloveb0t, @mesopotamism

#squid game #choi su bong #squid game s2 #choi su bong x reader #choi su bong imagine #thanos imagine #obsessed #the writing is so good #masterpiece

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lexalith · 1 month ago

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You let us live our trash!boyfriend fantasies without actually having to date one. Thank you for your service 🫡

happy to provide the drama without the trauma‼️ i’m glad you enjoyed, thank you for reading!💗 i’ll be writing more for choi subong, which means… more trash!boyfriend content coming soon! (hellyeahhh)

#thanos imagine #thanos squid game #choi su bong #choi su bong imagine #thank you so much for reading

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lexalith · 1 month ago

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guys, i’m literally speechless. thank you all so much for the love and support on my fic “FRIENDS || Choi Su-bong (Thanos)” i seriously didn’t expect it to get such a great response!😭 i didn’t even think anyone would read it at all, i was so self-conscious about it that i almost didn’t post it. words can’t even describe how thankful i am!💗

i’m currently working on a new fic, and this one’s gonna be a choi seunghyun story!😼 tiny spoiler: it’s called ‘something real,’ it’s also an au, and i plan for it to be just as long as my thanos fic (maybe even longer). stay tuned!

#top bigbang #choi seunghyun #thanos imagine #thanos squid game #new fic #thank you so so so much #seunghyun x reader

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lexalith · 1 month ago

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FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

#squid game #squid game 2 #choi seunghyun #choi su bong #thanos #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #thanos smut #choi subong x reader #squid game smut #choi su bong imagine #squid game season 2 #thanos imagine #top #bigbang #seunghyun x reader

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lexalith · 2 months ago

Text

old school love with choi seunghyun

notes minors dni contains fem reader, non idol au, seunghyun and reader are in their early twenties, always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but anyone can read, takes place in the late 2000s (hence the mention of specific phones, references to certain media, songs linked throughout, and party culture,) awkward yet cute first meeting, this very much slice of life, slight angst (a silly misunderstanding during the meet cute, reader brings up insecurities from not being experienced), tooth rotting fluff, a few appearances from jiyong because yes!, mentions of smoking and drinking, reader is inexperienced (never been kissed, never been confessed to; seunghyun is her first love), reader has strict parents which leads to seunghyun and reader having to sneak around, seunghyun and reader are down bad, smut (over the phone, in the car, oral f receiving, dirty talk, foreplay, p in v), and some inevitable typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! this was initially inspired by the mention of old school love in this song by zayn. i've always heard of the concept, and this is my take on it, told through vignettes of gentle young love. please request something if you'd like, and don't hesitate to check my pinned post. i love this man tenderly. please tell me you see the vision. enjoy!

new year's eve 2007. there's still three hours to midnight, and seunghyun's wondering why he chose to wear a hoodie with long sleeves underneath to a crowded house party. luckily he's got his own corner of the compact living room, standing between two friends he hitched a ride with there—his third being the host—so he aptly distracted himself from how hot it was with their banter as best he could, laughing into his red solo cup before taking a swig of whatever concoction his friend mixed for him in the kitchen earlier tonight. he hid his soured expression over the taste well, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. seunghyun remembers asking for a rum and coke, and he can definitely taste the latter ... but he'd know his enemy smirnoff anywhere ... it was way too stuffy to move, so he humbly took the loss.

"there you fuckin' are!" seunghyun looked up to see jiyong, the one hosting who already looked as if the night had taken its toll. "holy shit, man. i've been looking everywhere for you guys!" seunghyun had to squint to hear him over the loud music. the fact there wasn't much lighting besides a few lamps and multi-colored rotating disco party lights didn't help either. "c'mon. she just got here—in the kitchen." jiyong motioned his head to the left, the trio following him into the crowd. the kitchen was much more well lit and slightly less congested, but seunghyun nonetheless had to put his weight against the fridge to grant enough room to stand comfortably. he offered a polite grin and wave to the friend group mainly comprised of women his age in front of him, the one in the middle introduced as jiyong's girlfriend. you were closest to the counter, the left of everyone, cracking open a hard seltzer you picked from the cooler stationed beside the sink. you grimaced after taking a sip, bringing the can to your eyes to see the flavor that wronged you: lime. "christ, that's horrible." you shook your head, expression soured.

seunghyun didn't overhear, because he was too busy looking over his shoulder in amazement upon hearing one of his suggestions for the party mixtape blare throughout the house. reverting his attention back with a smug grin on his face, his eyes fluttered past you tugging at the collar of your sweater, pulling at it repeatedly for what looked to be air flow. seunghyun wondered if the party felt like an oven to you, too, and if you overdressed like him, because he started fanning himself without realizing.

an hour later, he couldn't take it anymore. "be right back, i'm going out for a smoke." he told a friend sat beside him on the couch. he could not have cared less that it was below freezing outside, or that the leftovers from the snow storm three weeks ago had probably frozen over into patches of black ice littering the deck—he needed to cool off. he closed the sliding door with a relieved huff, the party now muffled. the feet of his sneakers crunched against the snow, hands pushing his hood off his head, fingers brushing through his sweaty hair. "holy shit." he muttered to himself, pulling his sleeves up to his elbows. seunghyun could see his breath when he exhaled, and goosebumps rose along his bare arms, but as far as he was concerned, he would stay out here to ring in the new year if it meant he wouldn't have to suffer a heatstroke inside. he walked to a spot behind the wooden railing framing the entirety of the deck, his hand reaching into his pocket for his marlboros. he took out a cigarette, hanging it between his lips, searching for his lighter next. it was then he looked up and saw you standing at your own spot along the railing some feet away, having looked over your shoulder to see who else had come outside.

it was too late to ignore, or act like you didn't see each other, so he did the favor of making things less awkward. or trying to, as any twenty-something year old hopes: seunghyun took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. "hi," he spoke uncharacteristically quietly. "you're—" thank the universe he remembered her name, because the irrational nerves over making conversation were mounting quickly. "—friend, right?" you nodded. "you're jiyong's?" you asked. he smiled, nodding too. "i'm seunghyun. we met earlier, in the kitchen?" his tone asked if you remembered, his hand gesturing to the sliding door. "yes!" you responded a bit more enthusiastically than you intended to in your head, internally cringing. "i remember, i remember." you said, nodding. you didn't know what else to do. seunghyun must've felt the same, because he nodded at nothing.

you looked away from him, feeling flustered. he mimicked, hands balled up in his pockets. "you—" he cleared his throat. "you liking the party?" "hm?" you didn't expect him to continue the conversation. "yeah!" here you went again, sounding animated to the point that even he, a complete stranger, could tell you were over-compensating. "i mean," you let out a breath, shrugging your shoulders. "its okay. i don't really go to parties often, so i guess i could say i misjudged how hot it'd be to show up in a sweater with a thermal underneath." seunghyun exhaled through his nose, an upside down grin tugging at his lips. "i know." he agreed. "hot as shit in there, bro." you chuckled. "hot as shit indeed."

silence brewed. seunghyun didn't turn away, so you took it as your turn to fill the air. you pulled out the only card you had (bringing up a mutual friend,) even if he'd done so already: "how long have you—" the sudden dryness of your throat was certainly a sign from the universe to shut up, but it was too late to cut yourself off completely. you swallowed, continuing: "how long have you known jiyong?" "since we were kids. middle school, i think." seunghyun doesn't know why he implied he didn't know, because he certainly did. he also wondered why he nodded, again, at nothing. who boldfaced lied when they said your preteen years were the most awkward? because he wanted to curl into a ball right the fuck now. he was usually fine at making small talk, what was the difference now? why couldn't he stop nodding?? "how about you?" oh, great. now his voice was a noticeable octave higher, clearing his throat.

you knew what he meant. "we met each other our freshman year. she was in my first year seminar, and we kind of just clicked." "you go to school around here?" "mhm," you nodded. "the university that everyone we know goes to, it feels like." you quipped, making that upside down grin appear on his face again. "how about you?" "the community college that no one goes to." he answered, voice back to normal. "but i'm in the middle of transferring there, funnily enough." then ushered in another characteristically young adult conversation: your studies. it was standard and harmless. even so, you came across a different reason to break a sweat despite the bitter cold beginning to numb your cheeks, or the sharp, quick breaths through your periodically chattering teeth. seunghyun took a step closer to you in the midst telling an anecdote about the last exam he had before the holiday break, inadvertently putting himself in your direct line of view. you realized not only oh, wow. he's pretty tall, to yourself, lifting your head a little to look at him, but also oh, wow. he's pretty cute, when your eyes met. or when he continued looking at you, because he finished saying his piece some seconds ago, yet you hadn't said anything. the fleeting silence only made you become more flustered, really coming to terms with just how fine he is; all clashing with how you have no idea how to talk to someone this attractive.

"yeah, that sounds fucked up." you attempted to mask the fact that you did not process a word of what he just said with a chuckle, gaze lowering momentarily to your hands, tugging at your sleeves to shield them from the cold, or just to do something. the words felt foreign in your mouth—your inner monologue making you feel like you were trying too hard—though you weren't allergic to profanity whatsoever. seunghyun smirked to himself, his own gaze falling to the snowy deck, until you spoke: "i had, like, three exams all in one day—the day before break." you said, glancing up at him before chickening out, reverting back to your hands which were completely engulfed by your knit sweater. your thumb poked out of the sleeve, nail picking at a fraying thread. "i guess i'm still feeling the repercussions of it." the volume of your voice dwindled somewhat coupled your shy grin, your shoulders shrugging, looking up at him. even through his chuckle with a smile making the corners of his eyes kiss, or his affirming "its brutal. i get that.," you mentally berated yourself: holy shit, is that the best i can do? just continue talking about school? get yourself together!

the next bout of silence lasted for at most ten seconds, but with how you were scrambling, it felt like years; working against an invisible timer. unbeknownst to him, this was seunghyun's turn to look at you. the only word coming to mind was sweet. he was smart enough to put two-and-two together as to why you were, admittedly, visibly nervous as he's had a girlfriend before. he wasn't the type to use that to inflate his ego, but found it charming nonetheless. seeing the curvature of your cheeks when you looked down made his heart soften—his lips molding into that damn knowing grin—and it could've very well been the minute gust of wind, but the glint in your eyes when you looked at him, nodding politely ... he was a little taken aback. you were devastatingly adorable.

your eye caught the cigarette in his hand. "you smoke?" you blurted out without an iota of a thought, so quick that your tone was almost bland—a moment where the subconscious beat rationale. oh my god. you momentarily closed your eyes, shocked at yourself. are you kidding me? seunghyun held in a laugh, trying his best to wipe his smile off his face when you opened your eyes. you mistook it as a sign of second-hand embarrassment. "oh my god. i'm so sorry, i don't know why i said—" "—it's okay, you're good." seunghyun shook his head as further affirmation, waving his free hand. he had completely forgotten he was still holding the cigarette, anyway. "but, yeah. i do. sometimes." his face started to feel warm. not because he felt shamed, or belittled, or judged, but because he caught sight of your eyes again. he could've sworn they'd grown in the last fifteen seconds. "d—do you?" he suddenly became very aware of how deep his voice is. "my voice has always sounded like this." he explained, gesturing to his throat. he knew he was being irrational, but like you before, it was too late to cut himself off. "i'm not like—uh—dying, or anything." he brushed off with an animated chuckle.

you felt like the worst person in the world. the nervous smile on your face didn't move a millimeter. "i don't." you shook your head. "and it's okay! i didn't mean to—i like your voice." your eyes widened. seunghyun raised his eyebrows. "you do?" he couldn't hide his smile. he returned the boldness, even if yours was a slip of the mouth. "i like your face." he meant it. there isn't a timeline out there where that wouldn't be the truth. your surprised expression made him exhale through his nose, an admiring grin on his face. oh, he wanted you. flashes ran through his head: squishing what looked to be the softest cheeks in the world between his palms, pulling you close to his chest to help you warm up; pressing his cheek against yours as a makeshift heater since you've truly made him that flustered, and how you'd react upon him calling you "my girl." sure, he was moving a little quickly, considering he's just realized he never asked for your name, but that's what just crushes do. seunghyun could not help the dream-like state he entered, placing his hand on the railing, the unlit cigarette slipping from his fingers, lost in the grass below. you, on the other hand, were speechless. never before have you ever been flirted with—this was flirting, right? like, you weren't misreading anything, or making shit up? "you ... you do?"

before seunghyun could answer, the sliding door opened, the ruckus of the party no longer blocked out. "seunghyun!" it was jiyong. "it's thirty minutes 'til the ball drop. i need help setting up the champagne." jiyong saw you, nearly cowering at seunghyun's scathing look reading are you fucking serious? "m-my bad, you guys." jiyong laughed awkwardly, putting a hand up in surrender. "seunghyun, just come in whenever." the door closed, leaving you two alone again. you were sheepish out of your goddamn mind, unable to look at seunghyun, content with the fact that your eyes may just stay on the deck forever. "i meant it, by the way." you looked up. "hm?" "i like your face." seunghyun repeated. your full smile that appeared ... his knees might have buckled. "oh," a giggle left your lips. yeah, he was a goner. "thank you. i ... i like your face, too." your voice was gentle. it felt indescribable, flirting back. you weren't sure if you were doing it right, considering you were suddenly really interested in the shape of your pointer finger's nail bed right about now, thwarting this fire-pit of feelings in your chest ... to be desired, chatted up, or pursued like this ... by a fine ass man nonetheless ... after being sidelined for your whole life, watching your friends experience something you wanted so badly too. oh my goodness—maybe your friends weren't just trying to make you feel better when they told you ad nauseam that it comes when you least expect it. because out of everything, and you mean everything you expected to happen tonight, this wasn't even in the realm of the realm of the utmost realm of possibilities.

you warded off wanting to hold his hand by interlacing your fingers together. seunghyun couldn't stop the stupidly big smile stretching across his face if he tried. "cool," he said, nodding. "that's .... that's cool." his hand came up, scratching the back of his neck. "listen, i .. uh—" he gestured to the door. "i gotta go back inside and help jiyong with the—with the champagne. could i get your number? i'll call you tomorrow, if that's okay with you." "yes!" your heart stammered over how he smiled so big his eyes smiled with him. seunghyun gave you his nokia flip phone, letting you type your number in. "call yourself so you can have my number, too." said seunghyun, pulling his sleeves back down. you did so, satisfied hearing your phone ring, pulling it out of your pocket to end the call. "i never got your name." he said, putting his phone back into his pocket. when you told him, he didn't stop his inner monologue from adding his surname. call it a random impulsive thought or whatever, but he was being serious. "i'll see you inside?" he asked, halfway through walking to the door. "mhm!" you responded. "see you inside." seunghyun smiled, disappearing back into the party. you missed his fine ass already . . .

so there you were, the next evening, repeatedly glancing at your phone. you felt fine for a majority of the day; sleeping in after coming home late the night previous, treating your hovering hangover with plentiful amounts of water and falling asleep yet again, but within the first hour of fellowship of the ring (it was your first time in recent years defying your self-made new year's tradition), and hurriedly bringing your phone within eyesight if it did so much as beep. you wondered if seunghyun would actually call . . . it all seemed too good to be true . . . and you hoped that he'd just magically show up, looking over your shoulder and out the living room window for his car (did he even have one?) and walk up to your door (he hasn't the faintest clue where you live) with a bouquet of roses (he doesn't know they're your favorites. well, at least not yet) to profess his undying love to you (working on that too. the to do list is in your head). so when your phone rang after dinner, your hair still very much wet from your shower; the towel having just been thrown behind your desk chair, you momentarily froze. you grabbed your phone from your desk, confused by the unknown number. but then you recognized the area code as your own, realising that in the midst of your yearning, you completely forgot to save his number.

you pressed the answer button, bringing your phone to your ear. "hello?" "hey!" my goodness, it wasn't too good to be true. "happy new year! i wasn't able to find you after the ball dropped. so, yeah. here's me wishing you." he descended into a short, slightly nervous chuckle. he was looking for me!? oh my god!? "happy new year," you said back, closing your bedroom door. "you were looking for me? i left at around two, i think. how about you?" "five, maybe." seunghyun dodged the other question, his face already feeling warm not even a full minute in. "jiyong needed help cleaning up, and kicking people out." "five!?" you exclaimed, sitting on the edge of your bed. "and here i was, fighting sleep all day, whereas you sound unscathed." seunghyun laughed heartily. "i slept in until, like, two today. so i wouldn't say i was completely unaffected." "that's fair." you nodded, despite him not being able to see.

"how about you, hm?" he asked, voice smooth and low, even over the grainy audio. "did you sleep good?" "i did. better than usual." seunghyun smirked, fingers toying with the drawstring cords of his sweatpants. "how about you?" he heard your sweet voice ask. "i slept good, too. knowing i'd be talking to you the next day." you hid your eyes behind your palm, elbow resting atop your thigh. how you were able to get words out, you had no idea. "seunghyun," he could hear that on a loop for the rest of his life and he would die a happy man. "you can't just say shit like that." "why not?" the gentle, yet teasing lilt to his words made you feel dizzy. it was as if the universe finally aligned in your favor. what he would do to see the look on your face right now . . . "what? have you never been flirted with, or something?" he quipped playfully without much thought. "i haven't, no." you answered truthfully. "but you still can't say shit like that, seunghyun. i need a warning or something. it's like my mind stops working." you chuckled, pressing your phone to your ear like its the last thing you'll ever do.

seunghyun's eyebrows flinched in and out of a furrow. "no one's ever flirted with you? what do you mean?" the question aired out before thinking. the realised insensitivity of his words coupled with the unintended belittling tone made him backtrack almost immediately: "that was low of me to say. i'm sorry, that's my bad completely." he shook his head completely. "it's okay!" you shook your head, too. "you didn't know. it's fine." you took a breath. "but if we're being honest . . . no. i've never done anything like that before. i'm more used to seeing it happen to other people than experiencing it, if that makes sense." "it does." seunghyun was quick to affirm, nodding whilst he listening to your words carefully. "yeah," your palm slid up and down your thigh, subconsciously trying to self-sooth. "so . . . last night, when we were talking . . . i thought you were making fun of me. or pulling my leg. but then i realised my brain just wasn't letting me accept that . . . oh, this guy might think i'm cute, too." "i do. i do think that." seunghyun sat up in his bed, determined. "i would never do that. i'm not that type of guy. i don't know who you've met, or made you feel like this, but know i'm not like that."

there was a brief moment of silence from your end of the call. "are you sure you're not just saying that to me to be nice?" "of course not." he said sincerely, tone soft. "of course i'm not saying it to be nice. i mean it. i'll be honest, when i met you last night, you have some of the most kissable cheeks i've ever fucking seen." he pulled his legs up to sit criss-cross. this was serious to him. "how about when you casually mentioned you won an award for a policy paper you wrote about education? i didn't know i'd be at the same party as the future president." "oh my god!" you laughed, face feeling as if it was ablaze. "you're crazy." "look, people have decided to miss out on you, but i won't. are you free on friday? no—scratch that, we're on break until next week. are you free tomorrow?"

for the first time in your life, you didn't feel the need to convince yourself you were worthy of romance, because the universe rooted for you, too. "i am. all day." you said. "i'll take you to dinner. do you want to see a movie?" "i like them, yeah. but . . . i mean, i was watching fellowship of the ring earlier today." just say it. he's right there, on the other side of the line. just say it. ". . . but, i like talking to you. i'd—" you cleared your throat. "i'd rather do that then wait two hours to—uh—do so, if that makes sense." your palm started soothing your thigh again. seunghyun had the stupidest smile on his face. he refrained from hiding his head underneath his pillow. "but we can watch a movie! next time! if that's . . . if that's what you want!" your eyes closed in defeat, hiding your face from no one. "oh god, i'm digging myself into a hole here. i have no idea how to do this." "you're doing really well." said seunghyun. "enough to make my face feel like i have the highest fever ever." "you too." you responded sheepishly. "we'll finish fellowship of the ring on our second date. it's my favorite after return of the king, anyway." you hit the jackpot. "okay," you responded, how fucking sweet you sounded made his heart palpitate. "sounds good, seunghyun. i can't wait."

three months later, you beginning to feel those love songs you've heard all your life were onto something. something you come to terms with would pass you by as a way to cope—but here he was now, bending down onto his knee in the middle of a busy bookstore to tie your shoelace; buying the cds of your favorite artists that you mention either intentionally or off-the-cuff, downloading them to his ipod to listen in between lectures, doing coursework, or storing them into his cd wallet in the center console of his car to listen on his way to pick you up; or spending a lot of his time kissing those precious cheeks ("you're so sweet, you know that? so pretty, too." "seunghyun . . ." "see, that's what i mean.") he's a very smooth talker, doting, and affectionate. primarily because he cannot get enough of the look on your face whenever he makes a move, but also because you breath more life into him when he does so. to seunghyun's fault, however, he can get a little ahead of himself, and forget how shy you can be. so when the tension had been brewing throughout the entirety of your third date, you two sat in bashful silence in his car, him parked some feet away from your house. the music had since been lowered; one of the many cds he's bought since you started dating. seunghyun leaned over the center console towards you, only to retract somewhat when he heard a small gasp. "i'm sorry," he said. "did i—was that too quick?" "no, no. it's okay." you nodded in reassurance. "i just . . . i've just never kissed anyone before. sorry, i know that probably sounds really annoying by now." your hands were in your lap, thumb running over your knuckles to thwart the warmth traveling up your neck.

seunghyun shook his head. "its not. i told you its not." he said sincerely. its true, he has told you that it is and will never be a problem. how he giggles over the phone and presses kisses onto the back of your hand whenever he holds it serves as testament, but that voice in your head can be a bit louder. "i want to." you tell him, eyes meeting with his. seunghyun looked so fine it was almost offensive; his grown out black hair and choppy bangs messily framing his face albeit with effortless charm. he's told you he thinks it makes him look weird, hence how often he wears beanies and puts his hood up, but the moment you muttered "i think it makes you look really handsome," over the phone two nights ago, he showed up tonight letting it breath no problem. "but i don't know how." you told him, shaking your head. "its okay, baby," seunghyun reassured tenderly. it was the first time he called you that pet name, but he didn't think twice as it felt akin to natural instinct to call you that. you, on the other hand, were struggling to keep it together in the passenger's seat. i only have so much strength as a woman . . . you thought to yourself.

"we'll take it slow. just close your eyes and take a breath for me, okay? the rest'll come naturally. i promise." "okay." you nodded, trusting him. seunghyun leaned in again. you saw his eyes glance at your lips before returning to yours, your lids darkening your vision only when his nose brushed against yours. his lips were soft and wet as he had licked them before kissing you. yours were so fucking warm against seunghyun's, making him want to kiss you all the more harder, but he steadied himself, reconnecting gently. the side of his nose nestled against yours. "how was that?" he whispered. the cd had finished playing, so the car was quiet besides you and him. "good." you whispered back. "how did i . . . how did i do?" "good," he nodded, glancing at your lips again. "just . . . try kissing me back. don't think about it," your felt his hair tickle your forehead as he shook his head. "i know you'll be good."

to his delight, you were the one that closed the small gap between you. the kiss was so soft, almost nurturing; all the more intoxicating. you reconnected the kiss, pressing your lips onto his in a way that made his arms feel like tv static. "a little softer." he murmured, half-talking to you, but more-so to himself to come down. seunghyun went to kiss you again, but his lips landed on the corner of your opened mouth. "i-i'm sorry." "no, no. it's okay, baby," he tutted softly. christ, that fucking voice of his was going to end you one day. "come here. come here, baby." he got your lips back on his, but you broke it again, obscenely flustered. your heartbeat was in your temples, your palms sweaty in your lap. "seunghyun," you pleaded in that voice he would go to fucking war for. "you can't just call me that." "i can, and i will." he said. "now, come here, baby."

his hand reached over, holding both of yours beneath his palm. you brought a hand up to his jaw when he kissed you, feeling him hum against your lips in encouragement. seunghyun tilted his head a little to the left, deepening the kiss but not by too much, monitoring your reaction. his muscles relaxed upon feeling your exhale through your nose brush along his cheeks. the kiss ceased after a few moments by you once again, only this time to catch your breath. he rested his forehead against yours, breathless himself. "you're really good at this." he said, heartbeat stuttering when he heard your quiet "thank you." seunghyun blurted out this next question without much thought or reason, since he imagined the moment where he asked this to be more romantic, but he simply could not hold himself back: "can i—can i be your boyfriend?"

"yes, yes you can." you responded. both of your hands now held either side of his face, feeling his hand squeeze your thigh a little. "you can be my boyfriend, seunghyun." a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "i'll—i'll get you flowers and card, and ask you more properly next time." "its okay, its fine." you nodded against his forehead. your thumb traced his bottom lip, "just kiss me right now. i—i need—" you did not need to tell him twice. seunghyun reunited your lips, hand gripping your thigh when your fingers slipped into his hair.

even though you were well over the appropriate age to start dating, you just knew your parents would freak out if they knew you were running around with a boy. you didn't even think to employ the thought; it just wasn't an option. it would be something about distracting yourself from your studies (your grades were nowhere near subpar), or moving too quickly (hey! you're in college, by the way), or being subject to the ongoing mass, unreasonable hysteria over teen pregnancy perpetuated by national news editorials and shitty reality shows, making parents believe by standing near the opposite sex their daughters will somehow be with child (again, you're in your twenties and in college, and its also not your fault parents around the country treat mtv like its the second coming of the satanic panic of the eighties)—so you saved yourself the trouble. seunghyun understood wholeheartedly and took no issue with it, but that doesn't mean he didn't dare go against the grain.

a week before your two month anniversary, your ringtone rang, slightly muffled atop your duvet. you got up from your desk chair, leaving your coursework behind and walked to your bed, clicking the green call button. "hi seunghyun," your voice was soft. "everything okay?" "hey baby," he said. "i'm good, i'm good." he stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his puffer jacket, shivering. "how was your day, hm? i missed you." "fine," you answered, keeping your phone to your ear by raising your shoulder, flipping your textbook to the next chapter you needed to read to complete an assignment. "just a lot of work to do. you know how sundays are. i missed you, too." "i know, baby." his hand left his pocket, using the side of his thumb to wipe his nose. "you know, i'm happy to hear that you missed me, because i'm outside." you raised your head, alarmed, eyebrows knit in confusion. "what do you mean you're outside?" "i mean that i'm outside." "outside where?" "your window." his laugh was masked with a cough. "shit—it's really cold out here, baby." he muttered, looking around at the street lamps, his car parked some distance away. your room was on the lower floor of your family's home; the window on the side of the house and had some height to it, but not enough to ward off seunghyun's idea. so here he was, acting on it.

you hurriedly closed your bedroom door. "are you crazy!?" you whispered. "it's freezing outside! how long have you been out there?" "about ten minutes," seunghyun's tone was calm, as if it was just another day. "there isn't that much distance between your house and the street, but it took a while because i had to avoid the frozen over snow." "you're insane." you muttered. he smiled even wider. "let me see you, baby. c'mon. i miss you." you hung up the call. seunghyun watched the window before him, his upside down grin showing proudly when the curtains opened, revealing you. the snow crunched crisply underneath his feet, walking up when you unlocked and opened the window. "you're utterly insane," you said, resting your elbows on the windowsill, hearing him laugh. "its almost midnight. we both have class early tomorrow, and my parents could wake up at any moment!" you voice descended into a loud whisper. seunghyun waved his hand dismissively. "what did i tell you the other night? i'll drive you. you don't need to take the bus anymore." he spoke quietly, understanding the circumstance, even if he enjoyed teasing you. "you know what else you did the other night that you could've done now? call me." you retorted, but it was really hard to act upset. "you don't like my gesture?" he asked, not hiding his knowing smirk. "i'm saying you saw me two days ago, and you're seeing me every day before our anniversary." "i'd see you every hour in between, if i could."

you didn't have anything smart to say, so you succumbed to your flustered state. seunghyun, looking so princely in his puffer jacket with no beanie in sight, the distant cast of your nightside table lamp weakly illuminating his slightly reddened cheeks from the bitter cold, stepped closer. "give me a kiss and i'll go, baby. just needed to see you." your knees nestled onto the carpeted floors, your torso leaning out the window. seunghyun grabbed onto the ledge, hoisting himself onto the tips of his toes. it was enough for his head to be leveled with your bedroom, but not for long as his eyes fluttered closed to the feeling of your palms holding his face, bringing your lips to his in a tender, sweet kiss. his chin brushed against the ledge, tightening his grip when he re-connected the kiss, feeling his mouth thaw from the cold and ignoring how his under arms were beginning to burn. "can't last twelve hours without you." he murmured against your lips. "learn to." you whispered, kissing him back. "don't wanna." seunghyun took a quick breath when you kissed him one last time, the soft squeak of your lips parting making him feel light-headed.

he watched you in a daze when you returned to resting your elbows against the windowsill; you were as beautiful as a deity, so effortless with your allure. a content smile appeared on his face, eyes twinkling. "thank you, baby." his voice was smooth, turning his head to kiss your palm upon your fingers fixing his hair. he slowly let go of the ledge, paying no mind to how his palms ached. he glanced below him, "i'm sure if i bring a step stool big enough, it'll be no problem next time—" "—next time?" seunghyun looked up. "what? you don't want there to be a next time?" he asked, that goddamn teasing lilt in his voice. "i . . . i do." you spoke so sweetly, he thought he could muster the strength to jump inside. "but at least tell me ahead of time so you won't freeze to near fucking death."

seunghyun kept his word, because the night after your anniversary, he was back outside your window equipped with a step stool. thus began your very risky sneaking around: his arrival at your window at around 10 pm (or thirty minutes later if you went on a date, giving you enough time to return home without suspicion over where you've been, shower, and get ready for bed; either way, he was waiting for your signal of opening the curtains), speed walking to your window after locking his car, step stool in the other hand, climbing into your room after you opened your window, and settling beside you in bed. you spoke in the quietest of whispers, giggled into each other's shoulders, and shared delicate kisses. other times, you brought out your portable dvd player, snuggling into his chest whilst his arms wrapped around you. "my baby. my beautiful girl." he murmured into your supple skin before planting kisses on your forehead, laying his head atop yours. you two read the subtitles in peaceful silence—not daring to raise the volume—either fighting sleep or keeping awake with each other's lips.

he usually left at around one, but one night on the cusp of four months together, both of you fell asleep. you stirred awake, feeling the dvd player lodged uncomfortably underneath your thigh, gradually turning onto your side. seunghyun was in sound slumber, breaths coming in quiet, but curt whistles. your room wasn't completely dark, squinting at the lamp you forgot to turn off next to your bedside digital clock. you jolted awake upon seeing the time: 4:17 AM. "oh my god—" you murmured to yourself, yanking the duvet off of you and getting up in a panic. you turned to seunghyun's sleeping state in utmost dread, remembering he's a deep sleeper, and its a battle to wake him up. "fuck!" you whispered. you tried to think of something, lifting to the duvet further, spotting his ipod and wired headphones. you grabbed it, seeing it there was still half charge. you turned seunghyun's head upright, lodging the headphones in his ears. you scrolled through his library briefly, turning the dial to amp up the volume. "i'm sorry." you whispered apologetically, clicking play.

he stirred awake, sitting up on his elbows, headphones falling out of his ears. "whhaa—" "seunghyun? seunghyun, baby? its four in the morning." you whispered. he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. "its four am?" he mumbled, voice riddled with slumber, sounding lower than usual. "yes, baby," you whispered, the bed dipping next to him as you sat. "we fell asleep. i—i don't think my parents came in. but you have to go home." "i know. i know, baby." seunghyun mumbled, pushing the duvet off his jeans. "just—just give me a moment." "thank you." your hand lay on his cheek, bringing the closer one to your lips. seunghyun puckered his lips, still lost in his lingering sleep, humming lowly in satisfaction when he felt your chaste kiss. he climbed out of bed, leaving his ipod behind, stuffing his feet into his shoes by the window. you unlocked it, hearing him yawn, his palm covering his mouth. "i'll come back at ten." he told you, more awake than before. "okay." you spoke softly, entering his usual embrace, your arms wrapping around one another. "i'll see you then. call me when you get home." "i will, my beautiful girl." his breath was hot against your temple—your height only barely reaching his shoulder—pressing a kiss onto your skin before you lifted your head, bringing your lips to his. his thumb kept your chin in place, kissing you back. "i love you, baby." "i love you too, seunghyunie." with that, he climbed out of your window. he grabbed the step stool, walking to his car. the sunrise peered over your neighborhood, only to be shunned out with the closing of your window and drapes. it wasn't until you tucked the dvd player and his ipod away in your nightside drawer did you realize . . . wait . . . we just said i love you.

weekends are typically reserved for dates which largely consist of getting coffee, taking the train into the city to visit museums (and seunghyun nudging his forehead into your temple shyly whenever you lock your arm with his), or passing time walking throughout the mall; looking through various shops and boutiques with your hand in his (and him keeping his gaze on the kay jewelers for a little longer than he intended), sitting next to you as opposed to across during dinner, and ending the night by making out in the backseat of his car. your hand on his cheek, his on your thigh; tongues in fair play. you broke the kiss to look at the small analog clock on his dashboard, biting your bottom lip when his lips found their usual spot on your neck, barely hiding your whimper. "fuck." he muttered, moving to the other side of your neck. his hands rested on either of your hips, humming in content upon feeling your fingers find his hair. "s-seunghyun," you fought to keep your eyes open. "it's 11:10. i have to go inside." "your parents can wait five more minutes." he said. the feeling of his voice vibrating against your skin made your eyes roll back, thighs rubbing together. a small gasp reverberated through the car when seunghyun started running his tongue repeatedly over a spot of your warm skin, sucking and popping off of it. "i really have to go inside—" "—at least let me finish this, baby. the last one healed too quickly." "o-okay," you let out a shaky breath, holding the back of his head, letting your eyes flutter closed. "don't make it too big." "i won't."

sundays were spent at the university library. you two are in your own worlds, sharing a spacious table with various pieces of coursework, required readings, and notebooks sprawled out in a way that only makes sense to your respective minds—seunghyun with his hood up, wired headphones in and reading glasses on. your pen cap between your teeth whilst you read the third of five passages for an upcoming essay you had due; back and forth between taking notes and highlighting lines. you didn't study together much during the week since your lectures did not align most days. but on the mornings where it did, neither of you having classes until the afternoon, seunghyun came over no matter the time he slept or if he was there the night previous, but neither of you studied. he meant it when he said he would spend every hour with you if he could, because he wakes up early just to be with you. it doesn't matter if its to fall right back asleep in your bed after your parents left for work at nine, he was there.

his personal favorites were early saturday afternoons (bonus points if you were going to a party later that night): him laying on top of you, his temple against your chest, taking a nap. he would fall asleep to the sound of you turning the pages of your book, coupled with the steady rise and fall of your chest. by the sound of his quiet snores, you started to feel sleepy by proxy. you would give in after nearly dropping the paperback book on his head, putting it aside on your bedside table. your hand reached down your side for his hand, fishing it out of the warm duvet to set an hour timer on his watch. you brought the pads of his fingers to your lips, kissing them softly before nestling in for your own nap, holding your baby close to you.

you loved and trusted each other to the point of peaceful co-existence. you and seunghyun were alone in the house one saturday evening; him in your room, you in the bathroom down the hall. you were going to a mutual friend's party to dually celebrate both her birthday and the end of finals week that night. your bedroom door was wide open, seunghyun overhearing the rustling of your makeup bag as his eyes looked through your shelf of cds. songs in a minor, alicia keys .... everyone else is doing it, so why can't we?, the cranberries .... b'day, beyoncé .... parachutes, coldplay .... his copy of pink floyd's dark side of the moon that he lent you a couple weeks ago .... grace, jeff buckley .... until he came across the miseducation of lauryn hill towards the front of the shelf, carefully pulling it out and opening the case. he placed the cd in your player on the shelf below, closing the lid and pressing play. he skipped to track 4, lowering the volume to have it blend seamlessly into the background, feeling content.

"seunghyun?" "yeah, baby?" he called back. he turned around, seeing you at the doorway, holding two eyeliner pencils in your hand. "which one: black or dark brown?" he walked over, taking the pencils from your hands, looking them over his palm. "hm. . ." he pondered with genuine thought. "this one is metallic," you pointed to the dark brown liner. "so it has a little shine to it." "i remember," seunghyun nodded. "you wore this one when we went for brunch a couple weeks ago. it looked really pretty." "thank you." you said quietly, glancing down at the carpet. you still felt flustered receiving his compliments, even nearly half a year into your relationship. "so the brown liner, then?" "mhm." "okay. thank you, my love." your hands reached up to his face, bringing him in for a quick kiss. "anything for you, my beautiful girl." said seunghyun, placing purposeful kisses onto your temple and cheek.

you took the liners from him, your sweet laughter ringing in his ears as his arms made residence around your waist, pulling you close to him. your arms took in his shoulders, giggling at the ticklish feeling of his lips kissing a part of your exposed shoulder from the loose collar of your shirt. "my beautiful, beautiful girl." he murmured into your soft skin, kissing your lips once more. you loved how clingy he could be . . . though he would look like a deer in headlights, melting into a puddle of his own pride if it was pointed out. he loved being called seunghyunie. better yet, add "my" in front of that, and he'll have to take laps around the room. he's buried his head into your neck on many nights he snuck over, or even in his own bed, hiding his bashful state with incoherent mutterings of anything from "i'm going to go into heart failure early in my life" to "you make me lose all reason, and i love it."

you kissed him back, feeling his tongue collide with yours. seunghyun went in again, but you parted your lips, turning your head as a smile stretched across your face, his lips finding the corner of your mouth. "you're my big baby." you said sweetly, looking up at him. "my big, tall baby, seunghyunie. how's that, hm?" you erupted into a fit of giggles when seunghyun's forehead fell against your temple—a tell-tale sign that you hit the right bashful nerve—that, as far as seunghyun was concerned, sounded a whole lot like wedding bells. "baby . . ." he elongated his last syllable, voice so low it took a moment to understand. "see? you're already living up to the name." you said. your arms slid off the back of his shoulders, hands resting atop them as best they could whilst you held the liners, briefly standing on your toes to kiss his lips. "i have to go get ready." seunghyun's arms left your waist, resting on your hips. "i like the nickname." he admitted in a murmur. "i know." you nodded. "and i love you, too." "i love you so much." seunghyun couldn't help himself, lips peppering kisses onto the supple skin of your cheek, planting a final one on your lips.

one thing about seunghyun is he loves parties, but none more than being able to show you off. so when he's sat on one of the stools lining the host's kitchen island, you stood between his legs, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as his are tenderly around your waist; hands traveling your lower back—he feels like the hottest shit because he's got the hottest fucking girl. he will unabashedly pepper sweet kisses onto your neck and cheek if you're talking to somebody, or press his cheek against yours as you people watch together from your spot in the kitchen; giggling amongst yourselves in a way that would make even a pessimist's heart begin to thaw. it tugs at his heartstrings even more-so when you find him later in the night after catching up with your friends, a little tipsy with your red solo cup in hand, making residence on his thigh. seunghyun carefully took the cup out of your hand after the drink sloshed around in the midst of your abrupt movement, setting it on the coffee table before his hands dotingly rubbed the side of your thigh, looking up at the love of his life. he's long past the point of caring when his friends are around seeing you squish his cheeks together, kissing the pout that forms on his lips with an extra loud "muah!" that can be heard in the few seconds between songs. he's actually the one pulling you into the small crowd of people dancing in the living room, swaying together to the music.

to seunghyun, he might have looked awkward dancing—but to anyone else who caught a glimpse either from squeezing their way through the crowd to get to the other side of the room, or if they just looked up: you and seunghyun looked smooth; complementary; on the same wavelength. it was one of those moments they would recall to your mini-me twenty years down the line, opening the anecdote with "i remember when your parents . . ." he brought his forehead to yours—earning him the flustered laugh he could get drunk on—bringing his lips to yours when you pulled him in by the rims of his beanie. you turned around afterward, pressing your ass against him, starting to dance again. seunghyun got the message. he followed your movements, arm wrapping around the front of your waist, leaning down to kiss your cheek upon feeling your hand reach back for his hair.

seunghyun played a large hand in improving your confidence, especially when it came to intimacy of any kind. you've come a long way from your posture stiffening when he put his arm around you in the movie theater; your ghost of a returned grip when he held your hand; or backing out mid-makeout on his couch because your face felt so hot, the movie paused and long-forgotten about, the dvd logo bouncing from one side of the tv to the other ("i-i'm sorry—" "—it's okay. come back here, you were doing so good.") it wasn't as if you were a brand new person, but he nurtured a different side of you to come out; honored he was the one deemed worthy enough to witness it. he fucking loved it when you were stood in your own corner at a party, feeling dizzy whenever yours hands traveled underneath the hem of his shirt and around his waist . . . holy fuck . . . and the way you kissed him afterward, so soft and slow, deliberate . . . you might as well make him a father right there.

the tension brewed over time. you may be learning things as you go, but you would be remised to not pick up on seunghyun's not-so-subtle ways. every time he readjusted his position in your bed, arms holding you, you felt his hand traveled just a little lower down your hip. his lips kissed your cheek before returning his attention to space documentary he picked up from blockbuster before sneaking over, reading the captions on the portable dvd player propped up atop the duvet. he thought he was being slick. but when the documentary inevitably ended, and you inevitably pulled him into your lips to make him stay longer, his hand slipped underneath, squeezing your right globe. he'll never forget your sharp inhale, or how hard you kissed him in return.

or when you were stood in line at the mall food court (yes, you read that correctly), his fingers holding yours. he was being so sweet and flirtatious, looking at you with an admiring grin whilst you read the menu. he went back and forth between laying his hoodie-clad head atop yours, kissing your cheek, or leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. you saw in your periphery how he would stare and stare both longingly and knowingly. you didn't give in, until you couldn't hold it in anymore, failing horrendously at hiding your upside-down grin. "what?" you nudged his bicep with your shoulder, hearing him chuckle. "i'm just looking." he responded, voice smooth. you tsked, shaking your head. "you don't make any sense." his kiss to your temple brought your gaze back to him, looking up when he rested his forehead against yours. "that's because you take all of it from me." seunghyun lined the side of his nose with yours, bringing his lips to yours. he's done this countless times before, but it was how his lips lingered for a second or two that made all the difference . . . how they parted so slowly and deliberately . . . it made you think oh . . . this man may very well want me to have his baby! it wouldn't be far-fetched either, since on your four month anniversary, he told you he was ready to introduce you to his parents after your third date.

then came those saturday mornings . . . or mornings where neither of you had class until the afternoon . . . when you got up from bed, and he sees your shorts have ridden completely up your thighs in your sleep . . . how fucking delectable they look. your back is turned to him as you stretch your arms out and yawn, but seunghyun's stare is unabashed and hard. it starts as a sideways glance, like he doesn't want to get caught. but then he sees how they jiggle with every minute movement . . . he's enamored. he turns onto his side fully, studying how your cellulite adorns your skin so specifically . . . then his palms start to tingle, wanting to reach out and feel you in his hands. but all he does is cast his hand against your crisp bed sheets, wrinkled where you laid just moments ago. seunghyun then notices the slight sheen of your skin when you step into the sunlight pouring in from the window; the remnants of your moisturizer you apply before you sleep, he was sure. this is what makes his teeth rake against his bottom lip, quickly glancing up to see if you were still turned around, which you were. then came those imperfections he wanted so badly to kiss, to linger his tongue over: the small, translucent forever-bruise on the side of your left thigh that never healed; standing in a crowded train after spending the day with each other in the city, temporarily squished against the arm rest of a seat to make room for incoming passengers. your fucking tan line from your go-to denim shorts you wore during the summer jesus christ . . . and how some of your stomach spilled over your shorts, the thick curvature of your body akin to a fucking goddess's. what he would do to be trapped between them . . .

"i'll be right back." your voice took him out of his trance, seunghyun looking up to see you opening the bedroom door, walking to the bathroom down the hall. "okay, baby." his voice was gravely, clearing his throat afterward. seunghyun turned onto his back. he lifted the duvet, peeking underneath to see the bulge in his sweats. he let out a disbelieving huff, running his hands over his face. it's not even ten am yet. he thought to himself. it should be no surprise that when you came back into bed, his lips made residence on yours, hand slipping by your hip and grabbing your ass. seunghyun stopped periodically to place kisses on your chest, or moving the strap of your cami to trace the tip of his tongue along your stretch marks lining your shoulder before kissing them, too. "wanna try something new, baby." he murmured against your skin. "okay," you said, fingers brushing his hair back, watching as his lips returned to your chest. "what is it, seunghyun?" "wanna put these in my mouth—'nd taste you."

you nodded, hair rubbing against your pillowcase. "o-okay," your voice fell to a whisper, the birds chirping outside rivaling your volume. "go ahead, seunghyun." he lifted his head, kissing you. "tell me if it's too much, okay?" "i will." you said, kissing him. a shallow breath left your chest as his lips traveled down your chest. he's fondled your breasts before—in the backseat of his car, and when the portable dvd player is mere background noise, but nothing could have prepared him for now your left breast recoiled when he tugged that side of your cami down. it was so perky, so cute; happy to see him. he captured your areola in his mouth, running his warm tongue over it slowly. he's never heard you gasp like that before. "s—seunghyun!" you barely breathed, shuddering oxygen in and out. he quickly detached—"is it too much—" "—no, no! keep—keep going!" you whimpered, pushing the back of his head back down. he sucked with bliss, readjusting himself when you arched your back, his other hand kneading your right breast. he tugged that side of your cami down, showing that nipple less mercy than the other. "f-fuck!" you gasped, hand coming up to your mouth. "yes, yes! oh my god, seunghyun!" your body squirmed, thighs enclosing around his waist. he needed to move on. if he didn't, he was going to ruin his sweatpants.

he popped off of your hardened nipple gently, bringing his lips to yours. you latched onto him with needy fervor, kissing him quickly. "i'm gonna eat your pussy, okay baby?" he spoke against your lips. you whimpered into his mouth, eyebrows turning upward in desperation, hands holding onto the back of his shoulders. "gonna take care of you. tell me if you want to stop." "o—ngh!—okay." seunghyun pushed the duvet off the both of you, making his way down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. he stood on his knees as he pulled your shorts and underwear off, discarding them on his usual side of the bed. his hand slid down your left thigh, fingers running over that small bruise. he leaned down, pressing a kiss. he moved a couple of inches down the bed, settling his knees onto the carpeted floor, propping the upper-half of his body up with his elbows. you separated your legs. his tongue ran over his bottom lip, mouth watering.

he kissed the inner parts of your thighs, trailing where you needed him most. seunghyun wasted no time after that, plunging his tongue between your puffy folds. oh . . . you tasted good. the sensation was indescribable for you—a curt gasp all you could muster those first few seconds, palm covering your mouth as you devoured the unbelievable sight below you. your eyebrows were so deeply furrowed; a choked moan leaving your diaphragm as his tongue explored your divine essence. seunghyun separated your lips with his pointer and middle finger, trying to find that sweet bundle of nerves. he placed his tongue higher than before, taking note of your gasp. he pushed his head in deeper, knowing he was coming closer when your thighs brushed against his ears. seunghyun hit the jackpot when he pushed in a little deeper, arms quickly wrapping around your waist to keep you as still as he could when your body jolted, thighs closing in on him, effectively putting him in a still-moveable headlock. "o—oh m-my god—ngh! hngh!" you moaned helplessly. "s-seunghyun!" you cried, fingers disappearing into his hair, tugging. "feel good, baby? that feel good?" he asked quickly, voice muffled, not liking going mere seconds without you on his tongue. "y-yes! keep—keep—"

you couldn't finish your sentence, but he needed no further instruction. he nursed your clit unabashedly, his hand reaching up and kneading your right breast. "s-seunghyun, i'm gonna—i feel—" your breathing was heavy, eyes squeezed shut. "cum in my mouth." was all seunghyun said. your legs opened abruptly, back arching higher than before as your orgasm washed over your entire body. seunghyun kept working your clit, popping off of your sweet pussy through your delicate moans and mewls. he swallowed whatever you gave him, humming into you in satisfaction, relishing in how you breathily whined his name. he gradually latched off with tongue-led kisses, palming himself through his sweatpants. he left your pussy swiftly when he felt a wet patch, looking down to see that he, indeed, ruined his sweatpants.

then came a week later, when you made love for the first time at eleven am on a fucking tuesday morning. "breath for me." he told you gently, positioning his condom wrapped tip between your soft, puffy lips. "in," he inhaled through his nostrils, you mimicking. "and out." you exhaled together. he kissed your divine lips, hand coming up and holding your cheek. "my beautiful girl," he whispered. "i love you so much." "i love you too." your hands held the back of his neck, kissing him back. "this might hurt a little. we have all the time in the world. we'll take it easy." his lips pressed against your cheek, hearing your gentle "okay." he slowly pushed himself in, stopping halfway when you held tightly onto his shoulders. "f-fuck, ngh! it . . . it hurts." you whispered. "i know, i know baby." he low voice cooed, his hand holding your cheek, bringing the one closest to him to his lips. "keep going. slowly." "i will."

he thrusted slowly with half of his cock inside of you, listening to your every breath. "any better?" he whispered. he sucked in a tight breath, feeling how tight you are. "a . . . a little. try adding more each time." "anything for you." he kissed your temple, following your words. silence filled the room, nothing but the slight creak of your bed frame, shaky breaths, and rustling of the duvet against the linen. seunghyun's ears perked up when he heard a quiet moan, feeling your nails starting to dig into his bare shoulder. "s-seunghyun . . . m-more." "which one? faster or deeper, baby?" "deeper." you said, voice breathy. your eyebrows twitched as you were mostly adjusted, bottom lip captured between your teeth as he stretched you out. "mmf!" you yelped. "does—f-fuck—that feel g-good?" seunghyun was losing himself in you, struggling to keep his mind clear. "y-yes!" you moaned. "g-go faster, seunghyunie. p-please." "god fucking damn—f-fuck, baby!" he mewled, moaning into your ear. "you feel so fucking g-good, oh my god!" the rest of that morning was a haze of grunts, sweat, and chanting each other's names like prayers. to think you were in your intro to international democracies lecture not even four hours later was obscene.

neither of you trusted yourselves to keep quiet when he came over, but that doesn't mean you at least tried . . . albeit, over the phone. "you drive me fucking crazy, baby—fuck!" his phone fell from his ear, his free hand quickly grabbing it, his other showing little mercy to himself. you could hear the wet, slick sounds of his cock from your side of the line, your thighs trapping your wrist between your legs. "the—the way you—hngh!—l-looked at me from over your shoulder, the way you sounded when i fucked you from b-behind." he spoke into the phone lowly. "you looked so beautiful, and felt so f-fucking good. did it feel good baby, hm? did it feel good when i pounded that sweet pussy?" "s-seunghyun—" you sounded so delicate, so fragile. "i—ngh!—i n-need you so bad. i can't take it anymore." he heard your shaky gasp, sure you were close. "tell me, baby. i know you're close, i can hear it." he moaned hearing you whimper at his words, feeling the knot in his abdomen begin to unravel. "t-tell me—s-shit!—i-i'm, i'm close t-too. tell me, baby. you know you can tell your seunghyunie anything, right?"

when that wasn't enough (it never was), you took it to the backseat of his car. it was an unspoken rule; nonverbal pattern of events when he was to drop you home, but that something was in the air and could not go unaddressed—like the night of your friend's birthday party. he unlocked his trunk, folding the backseats forward to allow enough room for you to lay on your back. in your defense, you tried to keep quiet. you really did . . . considering it was well past one in the morning, your house was one measly block away, and your neighborhood was very much a quiet suburb. but the car was shaking, your toes pressed against the rear windshield, and his hand was slipping off the steaming window. if anyone walked by—universe help your neighbor that worked late shifts and walked his dog at this hour—a vague, passive aggressive memo in the neighborhood newsletter would certainly find you.

the torn condom wrapper fell between the seats, lost in a reach-less nook of the car as seunghyun fucked you deep and good. the sound was wet and mind-numbing, the heel of your left foot resting on his lower back whilst he pummeled you. "f-fuck! just like that, just like that!" you gasped, your moan sounding intoxicatingly needy, fingers rummaging aimlessly through his hair. seunghyun was a sweaty mess, his hair sticking to his forehead as he boiled in his long sleeve. but he could not have given less of a fuck. you felt fucking divine. he needed this, every last second, every last drop. your gummy walls and puffy lips were a blessing he would thank whatever higher force that existed out there for the rest of his life. "just like that? yeah?" he grunted, looking down at the scene, watching his cock disappear and reappear. "s-such f-fucking good pussy—fuck!"

there's a digital camera you both share (he bought it for you for your one year anniversary), housing the archive of your relationship. there's tons of photos on numerous sd cards: a photo of you two kissing in front of a mirror, the camera covering your mouths even after seunghyun's hilariously laborious attempts at angling it correctly, photos of you looking so effortlessly beautiful in your bed; elbow propped on your pillow, palm holding your cheek, the glow of the portable dvd player evident on your face, or one you took of him in his bed after you imitated his low laugh which made him laugh even harder, photos of seunghyun climbing through your window with a shy, unexpected smile on your face or looking cool driving his car, lots of photos with friends, and at parties; one in particular of him pretending to eat your cheek and your wide smile, drink in hand. he can hear your laughter whenever he looks at it.

several months after your two year anniversary, seunghyun found himself at the mall. he was free for the rest of the day whilst you were in for another two lectures. but, of course, he was picking you up for dinner that evening. he perused for your graduation gift; settling for a perfume, a book by your favorite author, and two cds of musicians you loved. like clockwork, his eyes found and stayed on kay jewelers. but unlike before, he walked in. he found the engagement rings with ease, even going as far as to tell the consultant that he was thinking about getting married. however, seunghyun didn't walk out with a ring. he figured well, we should graduate first . . . get jobs . . . move in together . . . and then talk about marriage. he's been locked in since your first kiss, but that's besides the point. but there's no harm in starting to save up for that ring, is there . . .

honey's taglist! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf, @infinetlyforgotten

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lexalith · 2 months ago

Text

life with choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains life before games, fem and aged up reader (same age as subong), always written with plus size reader in mind but truly anyone can read, a lot of made up lore to fill in gaps & build dynamic between subong and reader, smut (no distinct section. it is imbedded throughout; sexting, dirty talk, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong, handjob, p in v, non-protective sex (don't be stupid,) public sex, foreplay, squirting), angst (lying, deception, miscommunication, arguing and gaslighting: cursing, pushing each other, one body shaming remark, a lot of name calling, insults, mentions of death, just being mean; this does not having a happy ending), toxic dynamic, mentions of drinking, drug use, problematic reader if you squint, i don't know how crypto works so don't yell at me, blatantly problematic subong, reader deserves better, a lot of dumbassery and some typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! this is also my very first post, and i want to show what i can do! this is really long. like, really long. this is my interpretation of the character, i hope you like it and please be nice!

he was the nail that chipped the day after you painted them; the incessant promotional email that never filtered to the spam folder; the fly you repeatedly missed when swatting; the shoelaces that always came undone; the built up phlegm after a particularly nasty cough; the shirt that shrunk when you left it in the dryer too long. but what could you say? the dick was too fucking bomb ...

you met on the night of your friend's birthday. some time past eleven thirty pm on a saturday night at some dimly-lit nightclub in itaewon, you nursed a margarita, chatting with your friends and paying no mind to the re-arranging happening on the small stage some feet away from your table—a couple of speakers and a mic stand—nor did you look when the club manager made a half-assed announcement, followed by his exit and an old school hip hop instrumental filling the acoustics of the club.

subong was performing that night after begging the manager for weeks on end. it was a particularly difficult feat, considering the rap battle night he and seven other underground artists were part of two months prior ended in a fist fight after a set of insensitive bars about subong's opponent's family lineage spewed from his mouth without remorse. oh, can't forget the time he stole three bottles of cuervo tequila, or when he got so high he squirted someone in the eye with lime because they looked at him funny, or when he left such a monstrous shit in the toilet that he ended up flooding the bathroom when trying to flush.

alas, alas ... the melon streaming numbers spoke for itself (over 95k streams in total for his most recent mixtape), he just reached 10k followers on instagram, and all attention is good attention if you know how to work it ... and subong did, considering bookings went up when he announced he'd be performing this weekend prior to getting approval, cornering the club manager into a checkmate.

you noticed the slight commotion reverberating through the crowd when the music blared, but not enough to divert your attention wholly. when his set finished, he snuck into the crowd, snagging a rogue bloody mary from the bar and downing it without hesitation, turning his head sharply when someone from your party shouted his name.

your friend's boyfriend went to high school with him and hadn't seen him in years. with the way subong reacted, you would've thought they saw each other last week and were the best of friends, slinging his arm around his shoulders and capturing the attention of your table in a flurry. he was overtly charismatic, slowly coming around to your side of the table, eyeing you up and down without an iota of shame. he liked what he saw—his tongue running over his bottom lip.

he looked a bit try hard-y, in his loose fitting clothing, singular golden chain, and his black hair in an awkward stage of a grown out buzz cut—but admittedly he was fine. then you saw the layer of sweat shining on his tan skin ... oh ... he's fine.

"you like what you saw?" he shouted over the music, placing his hand on the table, inching towards you. he gestured to the now empty stage with a subtle flick of his head, leaning in to hear you. "that was you?" you said back. "i'm sorry, i wasn't watching!"

subong smirked, thinking you were joking, but his ego inflated nonetheless. "i—i rap!" he shouted, laying his palm against his chest. "i don't!" you quipped back with a grand smile, shaking your head. he had no idea his dick could get hard that quickly. "i work at a firm!" you say.

it could have been the sight of your glossed lips .. or his big brown eyes .. or your curvy hips .. full thighs .. his tattooed hands .. or the way his lips brushed against your earlobe for you to hear him .. or how your fingers brushed his hair back so he could hear you .. but next thing you know, his lips caught yours, and the next thing after that, his knees were on the porcelain tiles of the bathroom stall, head caught between your plush thighs, eating your pussy like a man starved.

subong's arms held your waist in place, not stopping your back from arching or your hands grasping onto either the wall or his hair, your breathy moans making his jeans feel as if he was wearing tight spandex. when you came—and you came hard—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into your hand, "number. now."

"fucking christ, i just came." you said, breathing labored. "hold on." when he stood up, you reached down, pulling your underwear up. you eyed the time on his phone whilst adding your number to his contacts, sending yourself a text. you caught sight of his bulge when you gave his phone back. "you'll have to take care of that yourself. i have to go." you say, running your hands through your hair in an effort to not look too disheveled, even if your friends were smart enough to put two and two together.

you noticed subong take a prolonged look at you. he read your mind: "taking a mental photo for later." he explained, inhaling sharply through his nose. a smirk tugged at your lips. "oh yeah? i'll make it 4d." you palmed his bulge. he nearly lost balance, his gasp sounding more vulnerable than he would've liked—"f-fuck—ngh!" he bit his bottom lip, planting his forehead against yours. your touch was slow and calculated but firm, applying enough pressure to make his vision go fuzzy. "you're f-fucking crazy," his voice shook pathetically, eyebrows contorted in deep pleasure. "y-you f-fucking—ngh!—crazy bitch!"

you stopped abruptly, grabbing subong through his pants harshly. he mewled pathetically in pain. "call me that shit one more time and see what happens." "i'm s-sorry! f-fuck, i'm sorry! i'm sorry! please!" his breath hitched. "oh my fuck—please, baby, i'm so sorry!"

you gradually began palming him again, feeling his deep breath brush against your skin as his forehead returned to yours. his lips eventually latched onto yours, and you couldn't help your thighs rubbing together from how long and slender he felt in your hand.

your phone started to ring in your purse, which hung off the hook at the top of the bathroom stall door, undoubtedly a friend looking for you. you broke the kiss and ceased your touch, stepping around him and fishing your phone out before slinging your purse over your shoulder. "you better fucking call me." you say, kissing his lips again. "i will, will."

you eye his tent. it looks like it hurts and the zipper could break off. you didn't even realise you were biting your bottom lip until your phone rang again. "best dick i'll ever have." subong heard you mutter as you walked away, his cocky smirk stretching across his face in no time. he bit his lip when he saw the wet spot on his jeans. unbeknownst to either of you, this night would become the defining vignette of your relationship.

he called you the very next day. when you didn't answer—because your phone was charging on your nightstand whilst you showered—he sent a dick pic with the bottom half of his face visible in the upper left corner with the accompanying text: Like what u see? he chuckled reading your response: should have kept it a surprise

from that point on he spent his spare money (he didn't have much to begin with) on e-cigarette refills, pills, eyebrow threading appointments (he swore you to secrecy), and, perhaps his most beloved purchase, condoms. he always kissed the wrapper before putting one on.

subong tries to give the impression of someone who fucks but the reality is .... well .... he wonders how he got so lucky whenever he's stood at your apartment door, waiting for you to open it after he's knocked. it's been a lot longer than he'd ever admit under sworn oath, but his erratic thrusts gave it away so quickly it was concerning.

don't get it twisted, it felt ... fine. maybe okay on a good day. he filled you up at the very least! but if only it could last longer ... and didn't feel so ... jabby ... and if only you didn't have to keep in your laughter when his forehead fell to your shoulder ... after he came so hard his vein bulged out of his temple and his breathing was deep enough to power a fucking windmill .. only for you to glance at the time on your phone when a notif popped up and think to yourself ... has it really only been four minutes?

so when he's thrusting into you from behind one night, panting like someone's choking him and drilling into you feverishly, you take his temporary halt to catch his breath as your moment. "subong..." your voice ruminates with lust, aided by the intoxicating feeling of his cock resting inside you. you look over your shoulder at his glistening body, illuminated even in your dimly lit bedroom. "you feel so good, baby." you half-lie, internally cringing. either way, he can't tell, he's too fucked out.

"but how about we ... go a little slower? so we can last longer? hm?" you say. his breath hitches when you roll your hips slowly, his palms laying against either globes of your ass lifelessly. you were struggling to keep it together, eyebrows contorted and mouth agape, stretching yourself out on him.

"like this, yeah?—mmf!" you bite your lip. this is the feeling you've been wanting ... you've been aching for. "it'll feel so much better, subong ..." "yeah, yeah ..." he was breathy. his palms slid to either side of your hips, pulling himself in slow and deep. you gasp, "yes! like that! start slow, then go faster ..."

the moans and whimpers that escaped your lips ran every single porno he's ever seen into the ground. he pounded into you when you told him to, feeling the gumminess of your tight walls hug his cock so divinely that he felt for a split second that maybe, just maybe, the cross he always wore served a different purpose than carrying his stash of pills. subong, unsurprisingly, did not last long, but for the first time, you didn't either. "b-baby! f-fuck—i'm gonna, i'm gonna!—" you clenched around him, and he saw white. subong thought he had transcended ... what better way to go out ... death by the best pussy ... he came so hard and so much that he felt himself drip down his thigh.

you first started calling him over on sundays. then he started to come on fridays ... then staying the weekend ... then he came by on wednesdays for a mid-week fuck .. and slowly, but surely, he essentially lived rent free in your apartment. it was a major plus for him. he'd just been floating from one friend's couch to another. your studio apartment was small as is, barely enough for someone a few years into the workforce and even less on affordability—you barely scraped by on groceries. you'd have to make a wish on a shooting star if you ever needed repairs or healthcare. subong, on the other hand? he finally got to sleep in a bed again, and he gets to not only bum it out on another couch, but also eat pussy, get his dick sucked, and fuck on it. 10/10 no notes from him

and christ did you fuck ... one ankle on the coffee table whilst the other rests atop the couch, him pounding into you deep and deliberately, his eyes boring into your face as yours rolled back, mouth agape. once he found his rhythm and knew your body more, it was over. by the grace of the universe, his stamina heightened, too. he thought about reading war and peace and the meticulous process of the seasonal fermentation of various vegetables to thwart his orgasm from coming too quickly, but fell into a mumble of incoherent whimpers and profanities when he heard your beautiful voice tell him to "h-harder, s-subong, harder," or the cacophony of stuttered grunts leaving both of your chests; sexual pleasure in its rawest form.

one friday evening he was sat at the top of your now shared bed with his back against the wall, legs spread and looking up at you with his mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed in inexplicable pleasure, watching you bounce up and down in fucked out bliss. you had a bullshit ass day at work—something about being denied a raise or being unfairly told off at a meeting—he didn't remember or really care, all he knew was he suggested you use him to relieve frustration, and you obliged. "that's it b-baby. give it all to me, u-use this dick." he bit his bottom lip, squeezing the side of your thigh as you slammed down onto him. "give all your stress to—ngh!—me. your subongie will help you relax." his hands trailed up your waist and kneaded your breasts, making you gasp. you rolled your hips to catch your breath, biting your lip.

you put your hands on his chest for support. "such good dick." you said breathily. "all mine." "that's right." he affirmed. one hand stationed beside your knee, the other reached to the nightside table for his e-cig, bringing it to his lips. you opened your eyes when the cloud of smoke brushed against your cheeks, filling your nostrils with the faint scent of strawberry.

"fuck you and your fuckass puff bar." you said, trying to take it, but he raised it in the air with a shit-eating grin. "what? are you jealous? hm? is my baby jealous?" he jutted out his bottom lip mockingly, chuckling when you swat the e-cig out of his hand. "the fuck would i be jealous about you destroying your lungs for?" you retort. he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "you think you're too good to be fucked by me that you needed to take the edge off." you say, throwing the e-cig onto the floor and ignoring his protests, only for them turn into sharp sucked-in breaths when you rolled your hips again. "th-that was my—shit!—my b-best fucking one," subong shuddered. "you want your best puff or pussy? hm?" you said sharply. with a whimper, he said "my best p-pussy." "i thought so. now say you're sorry until i believe you." you said, hearing him let out a wall-shattering moan when you began riding his long cock again. he would never admit to this in a million years, but this was his favorite way to fuck.

you were in denial for a long time that things had become more romantic and vulnerable. since it was unspoken between you two when he inconspicuously moved in (as irresponsible it is) ... to when he started calling you "my baby" two months in and him "your subongie" a couple weeks later ... to when steamy makeouts before bed remained just that, even through the hushed whimpers and dry humping ... to when he'd smoke a cigarette on the balcony after you routinely complained about the smell, him having you sit on his lap because "the cigarette doesn't hit the same," only to end up sucking the life out of his cock or him rutting into you from behind ... to when you'd wake up with his arm slung lazily across your waist and his head tucked into your neck ... he'd run verses by you and you'd unironically compliment them ... he unironically started going on grocery runs with you, and picking out your jewelry ... and to when sunday mornings became a lot more quieter than they used to be, you two sat on the small couch together, clad in nothing but your underwear, drinking stale black coffee as one of four channels you have play on your dinky tv. it might be due to the limited space, or something more, but his hand lay on your knee whilst yours mindlessly traced the tattoos on the back of his neck, or toyed with his cartilage piercing.

you couldn't kick the question out your mind anymore. "subong?" "hm?" he responded, eyes glued to the tv. "what are we?" he didn't budge. you nudged his shoulder, earning his attention but with a flutter of irritation. "huh? what'd you ask?" "i said what are we?" his eyebrows furrowed. "what do you mean?" you raised your eyebrows, losing patience. "you know exactly what i mean."

he takes a moment to rack his brain, and then gets it. "you're my girl. my señorita." his face fell when you scoffed and pushed him away. "talk to me when you want to be serious." "i am being serious!" he says defensively. "look, you're my girlfriend. we're together." he sets his coffee down, pulling you in for a kiss. he kept kissing you until you cracked a grin, which took all of two tries. he wields his big brown eyes like katanas looking into yours, raising a finger heart and pressing it against his lips. "i like you." he says, unable to hold back his smile when you moved his hand away.

subong leaned in closer, the tip of his nose feeling the warmth of your cheek. "do you like me, too? hm? you can tell me. i promise i'll keep it a secret. i won't tell anyone." he knew your answer, but teased nonetheless, shaking his head in affirmation. you shushed him gently, actively trying to thwart how flustered you've become. he only pushed more, pressing a purposely deep and obnoxious kiss onto your skin. "i'll be the best and sexiest boyfriend ever."

it felt so wrong that your heart beat a little faster. "i'm only saying okay so that you shut up." you muttered. a knowing grin stretched across subong's face. he placed a kiss on your neck and above the valley between your breasts, laying his temple on your chest, slinging his arms around you. he smirked when you wrapped your arm around his shoulder some minutes later, his eyes fluttering closed when your lips found the top of his head.

you made him start coughing up his earnings from gigs to go towards rent. considering he wasn't being paid much, bookings weren't predictable, and he'd sometimes try to hide his earnings from you (which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, and if he did it again, you threatened he'd be out on the balcony without a blanket) his contribution wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. you shut down any chance of retaliation from him with a look he's since named "period projection" or, depending on his mood, "viagra."

when a lot of time passed between gigs, subong was woken up by a notebook and pen thrown onto his chest. "if you don't have five songs written by the time i get back from work, you're pussyless for a week." you said, slinging your purse over your shoulder. he grunted, barely opening his eyes but sitting up, the notebook and pen falling onto the bed. you grabbed his face, pecking his cheek before heading out the door.

subong talked himself up if you were being particularly hard on him, or really, just not as delusional about his success. "baby, one day you won't have to worry about shit. i'll have us partying in mykonos by next valentine's and in switzerland to see the first snow." he said one morning, standing stupidly in the middle of the apartment with nothing but his briefs and a graphic tee that had stains you didn't want to know about. "book the flights when you stop eating week old beef and using my moisturizer." you mutter, shoving the vacuum cleaner in his hands, gesturing for him to hand over the shirt before heading to the basement of the building to do laundry.

if work permitted, you went to see him perform at whatever nightclub in the city. subong found you in the crowd after his set, giving you a sloppy kiss and wrapping his sweaty arms around you no matter if you came straight from work, still clad in business wear, or in something that made you look like the rapper girlfriend of his dreams. an air of added cockiness ruminated off him when you two tag-teamed hounding the club manager whenever they tried to lowball his pay. more often than not, they caved in and gave what was agreed to and then some after you shouted said your piece. either way, you end up on the dance floor wrestling with your tongues or him pounding into you from behind in a bathroom stall. everybody wins!

when you're at work and subong's at home, he films tiktoks and posts on his instagram to get his name out there. he also tries to start beef on various naver cafés, especially when he's bored. or texting you: Did u eat the last tico?; Hi baby I have a threading appt at 5 i will meet u at your work before we go to dinner; Highh as sht88df thikning about ❤️You girl❤️❤️❤️❤️; [insert photo of him flexing in the bathroom mirror] Come home for lunch

speaking of photos on his phone, he has quite the array—advertisements at the train and bus stations he finds funny; various hair colors from the department store he wants to try; mirror selfies of him either flexing or trying on shoes; a photo of his hand squishing your cheeks when you two were waiting in line for cheap street food for lunch; another photo of you looking rather disheveled in the kitchen when you two were unfairly woken up at 6 am one saturday morning by nearby construction, an adorably annoyed look on your face because he was standing in the way of the fridge; one selfie of him in bed hitting his e-cig; the next taken six minutes later with your tit in his mouth, his eyes looking at himself. if you didn't keep tabs on him, he would've made the latter the cover of his next mixtape.

some of your friends thought you were crazy for still being with him, someone who was barely scraping by and, from an outsider's pov, was a moocher. you'd shake your head, "you guys don't get it. i know what i'm doing. you don't need to worry." and you certainly did, considering whenever you came home to subong's big brown eyes, towering height, and his smooth, low voice asking "how was your day, baby?," or when his fingers traced a fresh hickey on your neck, or when he announced his presence by placing his hand teasingly low on your waist ... oh, you were just about ready to make him a father .... even if it would lower the nation's life expectancy rate.

you've caught yourself staring at him at night when you couldn't sleep, watching the way his lips parted every time he exhaled, or how his arms were sprawled out before him after he fell asleep with them crossed. you fought the fluttering of your heavy eyelids to just .... look at him. sometimes you succumb to slumber, pressing a gentle kiss onto his cheek before drifting off. but one night you were simply plagued by him, looking at subong as if he was a riddle to solve, until you realized with wide eyes that you were projecting: oh fuck no. i love him.

it terrified you, that strong feeling. but not enough to sit idly by if someone became a little too flirty with him at the club, or to slow your speed walk to the bathroom after a work conference to send him a picture after he sent one that morning—lowering your volume and pressing your phone to your ear, listening to the audio message he sent in response, subconsciously rubbing your thighs together: "god, you're so fucking hot baby. how did i get so lucky .... what am i supposed to do, hm? you made my dick so fucking hard .... and it's not even eleven am yet ... is this what you wanted, hm? to get me riled up first thing in the morning?" his voice was low, sleep still fresh in his tone, followed by wet strokes. "it's sad that you're at work for so long. leaving me here—f-fuck, yeah, just like th-that—all alone ... and so needy ..."

you fucked good and hard when subong got a spot in the rap battleground competition, landing him in a position to not only put his name out there, but possibly win some money that would make a difference. you were elated enough to go condom-less. "wanna make you feel good, baby," you murmured breathily, ass pushing against the kitchen countertop, subong standing between your warm thighs. "i'm just so—mmf!" you sucked in a breath when his lips and tongue found your neck. "s-so proud of you, subongie." oh. subong just knew something was up. but he wasn't stupid enough to question it, not when he knows he's about to enter the gates of heaven. "gonna let me fuck this tight pussy raw?" he muttered in that low voice of his, continuing his slow, wet kisses on your neck to avoid melting into a puddle of his libido. his voice quivered when you didn't answer, hidden well by your moan: "hm? gonna let me ruin this pussy—" "yes!" you whimpered.

in a moment of weakness, he bit his bottom lip. he grabbed your face with one hand, making you look him in the eye. even in his attempt at dominance, you saw the flickers of awe in his eyes. nothing filled the kitchen besides the sounds of your shaky breaths, his face studying yours. could this ... could he have just realized that ... he loves you, too? subong leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing with yours. you try to lean in, but his hold on your face stops you. you don't know what to make of his feelings with his next words, but with how his other hand comes up and combs your hair out of your face, and his forehead touches yours, its perhaps the most intimate moment of your relationship thus far: "you're finally gonna let me fuck what's mine?" he whispers. you nod silently.

subong bottomed out that night, cumming all over your stomach and back. your back arched like never before when he was pounding into you from behind, taking him deep into your gummy, warm walls. your fingernails clawed at your pillowcases and bed sheets, jaw hung open and eyes rolled back whilst his heavy balls hit the bottom of your stomach. your cunt suffocated his dick every time his palm smacked either globe of your ass—"take that fucking dick. take that fucking dick, just like that, yeah," he panted, palm rubbing over your hot skin before smacking it again. his voice cracked, "f-fuck! o-oh my god! fuck!" he squeezed your hips so hard you sucked a breath in through your teeth. his thrusts momentarily slowed, blinking hard when his vision began to blur at the sight of the creamy ring at the end of his cock. the noise was obnoxious, wet, and loud. you're everything he could ever hope for. in missionary, he tried so hard not to be a babbling mess, through his purposeful strokes. his hands held your head in place, his thumbs pressing into your temples, but his gaze failed to leave his cock fucking you. "give me that fucking puffy pussy." he murmured. he held his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning. "give me that puffy fucking—o-oh! ngh! f-fuck, you always know how to make me feel so f-fucking good, baby!"

you showered afterward together, momentarily forgetting about the water bill when your arms wrapped around subong's neck, your lips molding together. the kiss was soft and sensual. his hands massaged the same globes his palms set fire to whilst the remnants of his lust washed off your body and down the drain. he slept the best he had in weeks that night. a couple weeks later, you helped him dye his hair a deep purple a few days before the competition, just in time for him to adopt his new stage persona after becoming insufferable since watching "endgame," thanos.

the competition came and went, and he placed as a runner-up. he actually listened when you said you didn't want to head to the club since you had work early the next day, settling for a nice dinner and a bottle or two of soju instead. a group of fans of the show came up to him in the checkout line, and not only did you watch with an admiring grin, but your eyes widened surprise when he introduced you as his girlfriend after you were handed their phones to take a photo, harmlessly mistaken as a bystander. not only were you then asked to join the photo, but subong laughed heartily on the walk home upon hearing one of the girls' face dropped hearing the news that he's taken.

the bottles emptied on your coffee table, you ended the night rolling your hips atop his, holding onto his shoulders as his hands held onto either globes of your ass, looking up at you whilst you rode his cock. your dress pants for work were discarded on the floor, panties pushed to the side for his condom-less dick, biting your bottom lip when his palm massaged your breast through your blouse. nothing was in the room besides your breathy gasps, his low groans, the squeak of sweaty skin against the cheap faux leather of the couch, and his whispers . . . "you look so beautiful, baby. so fucking sexy." subong's eyebrows furrowed deeply, glancing at your swiveling hips before looking back up at you, despite your head being thrown back. "taking this cock so good...f-fuck ... know how to make me feel good, yeah? always know just how to squeeze me, how to make this big, fat cock cum, yeah? tell me, baby."

all you could muster was a whimper and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders, but that was more than okay with him. his hand trailed up the side of your neck, bringing your head forward. "come here, come here my beautiful baby. my beautiful fucking woman." his lips kissed yours, molding them together repeatedly. his tongue toyed with yours, picking up the speed of your hips, making him grunt into your mouth every time your inner thighs clapped against his lower stomach. you held onto each other tighter, the kiss becoming feverish, only to be broken when his thumb found your clit. you came in what felt like seconds, and before you knew it, the words slipped out: "i love you!" you whimpered, riding out the high of your intense orgasm, subong having pulled out and spilling onto his thigh. "i love you, i love you!" you repeated breathily. through the pounding of his temples, he heard. through your laborious breathing, you didn't register that he said nothing back.

subong loved you too. he's known for a while now. but that was precisely the problem—he knew, and he wasn't going to say shit. what was the reason? perhaps it was a fucked up way of protecting you by stonewalling that part of him, perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was the inferiority complex making him feel like he didn't deserve someone as patient, as transformative, and as loving as you, and he questioned every day why he hadn't been kicked to the fucking curb yet, even after a year and a half together. or maybe ... it was that fucking mg coin ...

he started watching that fuckass man a couple months before the rap battleground competition after a friend tipped him off about crypto. you peered over his shoulder after settling into bed, hearing parts of a youtube video through his phone speaker. "i stopped trying to understand that shit when they told me a picture of an ape is somehow currency." you muttered, making him laugh. "yeah. you're right, hm?" he let out a yawn, clicking his phone off before taking you in his arms, falling asleep with your head on his chest.

but then, it was like a flip switched. subong saw something you didn't (delusion), and seemed to be watching myung gi's videos at what felt like any chance he had. he watched him in the morning, sat at the small dining table in the kitchen as he ate leftover kimbap from dinner the night previous, already annoying you at barely 10 AM whilst pouring yourself cereal, sitting across from him on this rare saturday off. you eyed his phone, "i thought you dropped that shit." you said between chewing. his eyes stayed glued to his screen, putting another slice into his mouth. "i don't know, baby. i think he has a point. people are getting rich quick off this crypto shit. i might have to play my hand, y'know?" before you could respond, he reached over, wiping a rogue drop of milk that slipped from the corner of your mouth, sucking it off his thumb before pressing 'skip ad'. you reached over, clicking his phone off and turning it face down. "hey!—" "you talk like you routinely pay for this wifi." you said, looking into his eyes. "you talk about 'playing your hand' when you don't have the decency to spend 5,000 won on wired headphones so i don't have to hear this shit all day?"

his lip twitched in annoyance, eyes widening. "don't get smart with me!" he exclaimed. you scoffed and waved your hand dismissively, eating another scoop of your cereal. "i'll go get some headphones after i eat if that's what you really want, damn!" "if you invest in something invisible, you do it with your own money so you reap the punishment." you say. "i will." subong rolled his eyes, eating his last slice of kimbap, but irritably. "he knows his shit. says the coin'll blow up." he mumbled, glancing at you when you got up. you held his face, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. "that's what they all say, subong." you collected his and your dishes, bringing them to the sink and beginning to wash.

he funneled money into that coin behind your back no problem. every time a check came in, the slice that went to investing got larger and larger. he kept it hidden by putting aside just enough to not cause suspicion. and turning off notifs at specific times. he said he'd transfer a few months worth of the rent when the money hit his account after rap battleground and a couple of scheduled gigs he won as well, but it was a half-baked lie. he told you the money hit way after it actually did, giving you what he promised but keeping a large sum for himself, because he surprisingly got a return on his investment.

he kept going and going, the high of it all rivaling his pills. he bought limited edition shoes, a pair of earrings you'd been eyeing for a while for your anniversary, and got a couple new tattoos. all of it was hidden well behind his coincidentally coinciding success of his music in the wake of the competition ... damn ... he could get used to the universe dickriding him this hard ...

until it all came crashing down that night on the couch. the same night you confessed, he got a notif from one of his crypto apps that he had lost 30 million won. he bolted out of bed, leaving your sleeping, clueless form behind to smoke a cigarette outside, pacing back and forth in the street, trying to calm himself down at 2:30 in the morning. he stared at those numbers like they were going to change, ultimately convincing himself that it was a mere fluke and that money would come again in no time, stomping his cigarette into the asphalt and heading back upstairs.

it was like a routine: watch myung gi, take notes, invest. watch myung gi, take notes, invest. subong took it to heart when he said viewers would be foolish not to bet. he resented being made to feel stupid. even when the returns were slimmer with each swipe up to refresh, he kept going. he looked you straight in the eyes with an admiring grin on his face, lying through his teeth saying everything was okay. what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? right. but it ate away at him. subconsciously, then viscerally.

your confession hung at the back of subong's head for weeks. he tried to avoid it, even attempted to put that frustration into his music, but nothing was satisfactory. his inner turmoil flooded to the surface—avoiding your kiss in the morning before you headed to work, landing your lips on the corner of his mouth before he pecked yours without much thought. you didn't say those three words again, but he saw them on display in the softness of your eyes gazing up at him. he couldn't bare it. it was so easy for him to lie to your face about his whereabouts, how much of a fucking coward was he to not say three words back? especially when he felt them, too?

you noticed the change as well. he'd be gone for longer hours, only texting you back in the later evening. his hand stayed to hisself on sunday mornings. kisses were quick and choppy, not sensual and slow. sex was more rough and rushed. it made you feel so deeply embarrassed, like a teenaged girl made to feel silly and begging for her boyfriend's attention. you hated the feeling, but hated the fact that you let that confession slip more. you always felt he wasn't one to open up like that, but a girl can dream, can't she?

then it descended into utter madness. you came home from work later than usual, having to finish last minute assignments for someone who didn't show up. you nearly exploded at the haze of smoke filling your apartment, dropping your purse on the floor. there were bottles of soju and half-eaten food littering the kitchen counters and floor, the fridge left wide open, sure to have spoiled the rest of your leftovers. your eyes then found subong and his friend, a stranger to you, so fucking high that drool leaked out of the corner of their mouths.

"out!" you yelled, enraged. "get the fuck out!" neither of them moved until the piercing sound of the soju bottle you threw at the wall, shattering into pieces, jolted their senses awake. you grabbed the friend by his tank top, yanking him out of his seat like a fucking rag doll, and shoved him out the door. "the fuck! get ... get your—tell your bitch to fucking chill, bro!" the man's words slurred, only for him to nearly stumble down the stairs when you hurled another bottle at him. "don't ever fucking come back here!" you yelled.

"jesus fucking christ, you're so fucking loud." subong muttered, now standing and rubbing his fingers against his temples. "what the fuck is wrong with you! you've never done shit like this before!" you yelled, paying no mind to his wincing. "the fuck are you talking about? i get high, you know this—" "yeah, i do! but never like this. in our fucking house, subong!"

it was then that you saw the syringe and tinfoil on the coffee table. even in your blistering anger, you took his wrists in your hands, looking over his arms. "since when did you do hard shit? huh?" you muttered. his eyebrows furrowed, looking over to the table with hooded eyes. "what? i...i don't." his words slurred, a low burp gurgling out from his lips, shaking his head. "my friend fucks around with that. not me. i stick to pills and vape, baby. i swear."

you let go of his wrists, running a hand through your hair and pacing. the smoke had cleared. you turned around, seeing him laying his temple against the fridge, mouth hung open and eyes closed. you slowly walked up to him, not sure where to begin, your hands reaching up and holding his face. "baby." you said, him grunting in response. "i don't ... i don't know what's going been going on with you lately. you've been so distant and ... and cold. and then coming home to this ... subong, you're—you're scaring me a little."

he groaned weakly, chin sinking downward before you caught him, holding his face up whilst looking into his hooded eyes. your heart felt punctured. "is it ... is it because i said i love you? is it because of that?" his eyes opened, making way for his frustrated grimace. he shook his head, lip curling in what you mistook as disgust, when in reality he was outwardly sickened by himself. "you don't know fucking shit about anything, bitch."

your face fell, eyes watering. you let go of him, his cheek flattened against the fridge, barely stabilizing himself against it. you took a step back. a million thoughts ran through your mind, but one prevailed amongst all of them: what i've been avoiding has shown itself to be true. a tear escaped your waterline, but your voice was stable. "get out." you sniffled, wiping your cheek. "get out, subong."

"huh?" he mumbled, gradually opening his eyes. "i said get the fuck out of my house, subong." "what? i'm not going—" he burped again. "i'm not going fucking anywhere." he wagged a finger in your face. you swatted his arm away, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt and yanked him with all of your might, pushing his back, shoving him out the door even after he tripped over your purse. you slammed the door and locked it before he got to his feet again. "hey!" he yelled. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "open the damn door, you fucking bitch!" he pounded on the door with his palm. "come back when you stop acting like a fucking child!" you yelled, hitting the door back repeatedly. "and not turn my place into a fucking trap house, you piece of shit!"

"what about all that money i gave you, huh!? for rent? and your fucking groceries? give me those fucking earrings you have on, you never fucking deserved them anyway—" "fuck no!" you shouted over him. "this is the least i fucking deserve after your fucking pennies, you cheap piece of shit! if you're so loaded, then fuck off!" subong pressed his mouth to edge of the door, seething. "throwing your boyfriend out like this? when i'm making it big, huh? you'll come to regret this—" you bursted out laughing almost maniacally, a very strange mixture of anger, frustration, and hilarity brewing in your chest. he could be so fucking ridiculous. "m-making it big?" you repeated, laughing so hard you clutched your stomach and wiped tears from your face. it was cathartic. "i-if you're 'making it big,' subong, then—then i'm a lost member of the royal fucking family!" you exclaimed. "how's the fund for greece, huh? still plan on taking me for valentine's? or are you going to continue to clog my toilet because you're still too cheap to buy fresh meat?" "shut the fuck up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the door and wiggling the doorknob.

a neighbor opened their door, avoiding eye contact and stepping around the broken glass to take out their trash, visibly not wanting to be caught in the firestorm taking place in the hall. subong grew embarrassed, turning back to the closed door with a new plea to avoid the atomically sinking feeling. "open the door. please, baby. let's talk this out." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level, wiping his nose with the side of his thumb. when you didn't answer, he kept going. "i'm sorry for all the trouble, baby. let me make it up to you, yeah? just open the door, and we can talk this out. c'mon, baby, the neighbors'll hear—" "let them fucking hear!" you yelled, making him flinh. you leaned closer to the edge of the door, directly parallel to him. "what's that bullshit you always say, huh? any attention is good attention, if you know what to do with it? well, eat your fucking words then, subong! be a man for once in your stupid life!" his eyes widened, vein popping out of his temple. "fuck you, you fucking whore!" he slammed the door repeatedly, the two of you creating a cacophony when you started hitting it, too. "fuck you too, dumbass!"

it was eerily silent that evening in your apartment. you, alone, cleaning up the mess he left behind. carefully sweeping up shattered glass, plastic bags, food wrappers, washing the dishes, cleaning out the fridge, etc. subong was universe knows where. you didn't have the energy to think about him, not even bothering to look around on your walk to the convenience mart to buy ramen for dinner. the emotional turmoil sank into your chest when you sat at the same kitchen table where chaos unfolded at mere hours ago to eat. you barely swallowed the first mouthful before you sank into tears, shoulders shaking, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to console yourself. how could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

you and subong didn't speak for three months. he called and texted those first couple weeks, but that fizzled out, and you didn't answer at all. you didn't owe him anything, especially after the shit he put you through. the wound was still felt too fresh, sensitive enough to do anything but wallow in the silence, heading back out to bars with your friends on the weekends.

none of your friends dared to say much. you were offered apologetic words, but a fool wouldn't notice the air of i told you so in their tone. even with you ceasing caring to cover the healing hickies, being much more subdued on nights out, or your eye bags deepening in the wake of the break up, you were mainly left to wallow in your own grief. you felt it was half deserved and half fucking rude.

but as more time went on, you felt hurt by the fact that subong didn't show back up. not once. not even a mean note on your door, or sign of attempted entry. did he really not fucking care that much? he was just a man, after all ... but then again, not every man is reduced to grateful tears after eating pussy. or looks at you like a renaissance painting come to life when you're retouching his fucking hair dye. when you got home one night, a little tipsy from the cocktails you had, you clicked on those unread text messages— ranging from Baby i'm sorry please talk to me; Stop being so fucking stubborn; ileft my keytthere I dont wantt it back u fknng cnutt; to I don't deserve you i fucked up please baby—and listening to those voicemails.

one resonated with you, even in your inebriated state: "hi ... um, it's been, like, four days since we ... and i, uh—i feel weird. and i don't like it at all. i know you're at work right now but i can't bring myself to show my face and i fucking hate it. i don't like being a coward. but you ... you're ... you're just ... you need to stop. you can't keep doing this to me. you make me feel things i've never felt and it fucking scares me. and you cut me off before i could even say my bit. how is that fair? you can't just come into my life like that and walk away before i get a say. you can't change my life and me and then just throw me away. i know ... i know i'm not the best guy. but even i don't deserve to be thrown out like—" he was cut off and did not call back. "oh my god. what a fucking idiot." you murmured, rubbing your temple with your fingers.

but the universe loves to throw curveballs, because you saw him two weeks later at a bar a few blocks down from the club you first met at. subong saw you long before you saw him that night. he'd spent so much of the last four months feeling a spectrum of emotions, coping with his frustration by daydreaming about what he'd say the next time he saw you—all of the insults to suffice for his anger, all of the things he'd say to make you feel bad for how you treated him—all cogs in his self-deflection apparatus. but when he actually saw you, sat alone at the bar with no friend group in sight, drinking what looked to be martini, he was at a loss for words. even his emotionally daft ass was aware enough to sense something was different about you. more muted, more subdued. that's what she fucking gets. his inner monologue was unforgiving, only for him to peer over a tall strangers shoulder to keep his softened eyes on you. but she ... she can't be alone. not here.

subong was really good at blending into the crowd, until he got too close, and by chance you glanced up and saw him. he was close enough to hear you suck in a breath through your teeth, and see your eyes widen in panic the same time his did. without thinking, you got up from your seat, grabbing your purse hanging on the back of your chair, forgetting you hadn't even taken a second sip of your overpriced drink. subong stepped out of the crowd, "don't go." he said gentler than anticipated, before remembering he was supposed to be livid. his expression hardened, lips tightened, hand grabbing for your arm. "we need to talk."

"i don't have anything to fucking say to you." you say sharply, not looking at him, keeping your voice low to not cause commotion. "yes the fuck you do." he bit back. you tried to pull your arm out of his grip, failing. "let me go or i'll throw my drink in your face." "really?" he smirked. "i didn't take you to be so careless with your money." you look up, eyebrows raised, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. "oh, that's funny. do you still think you're up and coming? or have you come to terms with the fact that you're an illiterate fuck who steals IP just to still write shit fucking bars?"

subong closed much of the remaining gap between you. "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch." he seethed through gritted teeth. you look him dead in the eyes, "see what i mean? you still can't come up with anything new, and you've had all this time." you pulled at his grip again, but he was strong. "let me go." "you didn't listen to me before, so you're going to listen now." "like the fuck i am!" you looked at him like he was crazy. you pulled again, finally freeing your arm. you grabbed your drink, purse in your other hand. "now leave me alone." you say. "or i'll throw this drink right in your fucking eyes."

you turned and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar; just anywhere that was not where he was. you found an empty booth, sitting down with a huff, taking a hefty swig of your martini. you shot up when you saw him walk over, putting your arm in position, only for subong to put his hands up, one hovering over your drink. "don't throw it! don't!" "do you not know how to fucking listen!?" "you don't know how, either!" he shot back. "why did you never respond to my texts or calls?" "don't ask me that with that stupid look on your face like it's as bad as you bringing a fucking stranger and hard drugs into my home!" you exclaimed. "which, by the way, in all of your rambling voicemails and texts, you've never once apologized for." "so you did read them?" "that's not the fucking point, subong!" "yes, it is! to me!" "and what? you don't think it matters to me that you never said 'i love you' back? that i felt like a fucking teenage girl, waiting at her boyfriend's beck and call to care about her?"

people were starting to stare, but your sense of decorum was long gone. he got up in your face, and you took him up at that challenge. "i care! i fucking cared!" he stared into your eyes in frustration, pushing his fingers into his chest in a desperate gesture. "well, you didn't do a good job of showing it. because at some point, i felt my loneliest even when you were beside me, snoring like fucking pug and dutch ovening the blanket."

subong, at a loss for words, too choked up on his anger and long-suppressed complicated feelings boiling to the surface, turned to what he knew best: low hanging fruit. after a moment, he collects himself. a smug smirk stretches across his face, taking a step back and glancing at the dated wall art behind you. he shook his head, looking down at the floor with a chuckle. "and here i was, thinking you were secretly pregnant with my kid or something." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, deeply confused. this was stupid, even for him. "what?" you shook your head. "what the fuck are you talking about—" "—it makes sense that you wouldn't want to tell me. too much for you too handle. but then i saw you tonight, and you looked more bloated than usual, so i thought i was right. but then you were drinking—" he yelped when the cold gin splashed in his face, flinching at the glass bouncing off his chest, shattering next to his foot. gasps erupted throughout the room. subong hastily wiped his eyes, feeling them burn. "fucking bitch!" "your children would be lucky to never know their deadbeat of a fucking father."

you stormed off, heading into the nearby women's bathroom. heartbeat in your throat, you turned on a sink, rinsing the alcohol off your hands. you didn't look up when the door hit the wall, or when subong yelled "fuck off!" to the other three women in the room, causing a brief scurry of heels out the door. he pushed you out of the way, rinsing his eyes. "i should go and file a fucking police report on you." he mumbled. he looked up at you, expression angry, even with his squinting eyes. "i should've written 'sex slave' on my tax forms, too, with how you treated me!"

you pushed him right back, collecting a handful of water from the running sink with your palm, and throwing it at his face. "when was the last time you paid your taxes? hm!?" you exclaimed. "do you even know where your bank is? did you ever buy a new toothbrush after the one you had became a clump of bristles and i had to get one for you like a fucking mother!?" you yelled, using both palms and throwing more water; some hitting the floor, some splashing on yourself, but most wetting his face and clothing. "hey!" his voice boomed. he took a step forward, slipping, but caught himself on the edge of the sink. he turned the water off, landing your hand atop his in a failed effort to stop him. "you don't get to speak to me like that!" he yelled. "i can speak however i want to!" you yelled louder, making him wince, cursing under his breath. "you lost your chance when you made me feel crazy for loving you. i don't know how i could've even liked you!"

"hey!" subong's voice echoed off the walls. "your voice is so fucking shrill! you're giving me a fucking headache!" he pushed his fingers into his temple. he pointed at you, unwavering when you smacked it away. "don't act like you're fucking innocent, either—let me fucking finish!" you closed your mouth, crossing your arms over your chest. "see, this is what your problem is. you don't let anyone speak, or want to do anything i like. all those times you laughed in my face, didn't take me seriously, or tossed my career away like it was garbage, like some fucking fly you couldn't swat away." he waved his hand in front of his face, mimicking the gesture. "well, i'm sorry i put a roof over your head when you were piss poor broke." your voice was eerily leveled, staring so hard into his eyes you could've burned holes into his retinas. "and didn't act like you were nominated for grammys in fucking return."

"'laughed?' 'didn't take seriously?'" you repeated his words, eyebrows furrowing. "who dyed your stupid fucking purple hair? who reminded you to write songs? who pushed you to call clubs? who yelled at pervert managers to get you fair pay!?" your voice escalated. subong's eyes drifted to the tiled floor, head hanging lower than before. you took a breath. "subong, i—" he met your eyes at the mention of his name. "i invented you."

his expression soured, hating that you were right and faced with his own cowardice once again. but he would rather give himself up to his loan shark than show it. "invented is the right word." subong spoke lowly, nodding. his hand came up to his head, making a screwing gesture. "false ideas—you have false ideas of who i am. you played with me like a toy." you were in disbelief. "p-played you? like ... like a toy?" you began to stutter through this newfound upheaval of anger, something that made your face feel hot and stomach churn, increasingly irritated with each second you couldn't get the words out. "you!—you!" you hit your palm on the edge of the sink, sending your purse to the floor. "you came so hard that i thought i had to go to urgent care to get you an oxygen mask!" every word sounded more strained than before. you inhaled deeply, running against a ticking timer in your head to when he'd open his mouth next. you gestured at a bathroom stall door, but in your head, it was a memory. "you held onto me so tightly after your performances or at home or—or eating dinner to the point where i had to eat with one hand!" you closed the gap, your pointer finger brushing against the tip of his nose. "at some point, you couldn't fall asleep unless you felt my fucking heartbeat, motherfucker!"

"and you did all of that," you gestured around you. "just to fuck me over, and make me realize i've wasted my time loving someone who doesn't give half a fucking shit whether i live or die!" "i care!" his voice boomed. "how many times do i have to say that!?" "until your last goddamn breath." you retort without hesitation. "and with how you live, that should be right around the corner." "are you saying i should die?" "what? no, subong. of course not." you shook your head. "that's not what i—that's not what i meant." "so what did you mean?" "what i mean was—no, stop distracting. you know exactly what i meant." with your next look at him, you saw them: his manicured hands, equipped with different colors on all fingernails. oh, you hated how quickly your mind shifted gears, how quickly the worries of the imaginary teenage girl clouded your logic and best judgment, but none more than this being what your eyes began watering over. "who ... who did that?" you asked, your suddenly quieted voice catching subong off guard.

"what?" he asked, confused. his eyes followed your gaze, landing at his hands, eyebrows raising at the realization that this was his chance at getting the upper hand: "someone i saw." he lied. it wasn't wholly untrue, but dubiously framed; the nail tech was a woman, so he did see her, just not in the way he just purposefully vaguely implied. he needed something to jab at you, to knock you down a peg like it was a schoolyard fight, but even he couldn't smirk at the hurt on your face. in fact, he regretted those words the moment he said them. "who is she?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. subong had never seen you look so devastated like this before. it made him feel an instinct that straightened his posture, unaware of what to do next, standing awkwardly. he attempted to say these next words with venom, but he couldn't even believe them himself, almost sounding as subdued as you: "it's none of your fucking business."

your heart drops. you feel nauseous. if subong had blinked, he would've missed your curt nod. you didn't bother wiping the tear trailing your cheek, his eyes watching as you pick up your purse from the floor, ears perking at your sniffle. "okay." you whispered, but you were so quiet that your voice nearly blended with the air vent. you started walking, fully intending to never turn back around, until his hand on your wrist stopped you. "wait—" "stop!" you said sharply, yanking out of his grip before he could close his fingers entirely. you held your hands in the air before circling around, your eyes landing on his. his face fell. you looked perishable, drained of an essence he couldn't fathom you without. oh, he'd really done it this time.

you lunged forward, nail of your pointer finger scratching against his nose. "you don't get to do this to me, s-subong!" you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tears stifle the effort. you couldn't contain the sob. he was mortified at the sight. "it's ... it's not fair." you whispered meekly. your hands trailed to his chest, balling into fists as you cried. he stood there, frozen, mouth agape like a fool. subong raised his hand, petting your hair with a light, unsure touch. "it's fi—" he sucked in a surprised breath through his teeth when you started swatting his chest, pushing and shoving at him in a pitiful tantrum. subong took it silently, putting his hands up, face contorting uncomfortably at the sound of your cries. his bottom lip started to quiver as time went on. he couldn't tell what he hated more: the fact he lost the fight, or the fact he cared about that to begin with.

"that's enough. hey—" subong inhaled sharply through his nose. he grabbed both of your wrists, holding them in place. "that's enough." he hoped to whatever higher power you didn't hear the quiver. he swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. your hands went limp. he let go, feelings your palms trail up to his face. "you're mine." you spoke weakly. his mouth fell open, staring at your lips whilst you begged for his eyes; earning you such when your hand on his cheek guided him to your gaze. "do you hear me?" you whispered. "you're mine, subong. no one elses." you shook your forehead against his, your tragic desperation ailing him. "mhm." his hands trailed your waist. "i'm yours, baby. all yours."

with a shaky hand, your fingers ran through his hair, thumb so close to his lips he pressed a skeleton of a kiss onto it. "i'm sorry i threw my drink at you." you cry, voice stuck at a whisper. "i'm so sorry, subong—" "stop." his low voice shushes you, nose nestling beside yours, slowly trailing to your neck. he inhaled your scent, eyes rolling back when your fingers brushed past his cartilage piercing. "i had it coming." his nose found its way back to your cheek, pressing kisses onto the warm, wet skin. "why didn't you come home, subong? i .. i've been waiting for so long." his bottom lip quivered again, but his voice was utmost steady: "you never asked."

"i—i shouldn't have to!" you swatted at his chest. "you idiot!" "i know, i know. i've been really fucking stupid." his voice cracks. subong leans in, but you turn away. "i can't. it's not good for me." "can't you see we're dying without each other?" he pleads, his hands turning your head to look at him. "look at me, look at you! just one, baby. please." his breath brushed against your cheeks, his hands holding either side of your face. "i can't ... i can't go on without you."

with a shaky breath and fresh tears falling down your cheeks, you closed the gap. a guttural moan rumbled through your chest, subong whimpering desperately. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, your hands holding his face for dear life—the kiss slow and purposeful, making up for lost time, a conversation no words could say. subong's palms made way to your ass, acting on pure muscle memory. he angled his head, introducing his tongue into the equation, having to quickly bend his knees to catch your fidgety form. "i'm not going anywhere." he unintentionally stifled the most heavenly moan he's ever heard from you. you broke the kiss for air. subong wasted no time, returning to his favorite spot on your neck, holding you in place firmly. your head fell back, letting him do whatever he so pleased—your hand on the back of his head wielding the power of casting a centuries-long trance.

he sucked and licked with precision, like a day hadn't gone by. he even hummed in concentration, mouth popping off of your soft skin until the bruise was to his liking. "s-subong." you whined, needing his lips back, your fingers messily carding through his hair. "i'm almost done." he was gentle, even if he was ignoring the concrete fucking lump in his pants and starting to sweat over your warmth against his. he latched off, fingers tracing the bluish-red spot with satisfaction. "come here, pretty girl." his slightly swollen lips made your eyebrows furrow pathetically, the kiss felt sticky, your lips sown with his. "i need you." you murmured. "i need you." "stall. the bathroom stall."

you grabbed his hand, rushing to the closest one, pulling him inside. neither of you think to close the door, letting it bang against the wall after swinging it open. subong's lips returned to yours, but his hands pat his pockets, feeling his phone and wallet, unsure: "i don't—i don't have a condom." "it's okay, it's okay." you assure truthfully, hurriedly kissing him as if he'd disappear if you let go. "it'll be just like how we used to, hm?" "turn around for me."

you do, placing your hands on the bathroom stall wall to hold yourself up. subong pulls your pants down to your ankles, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to grind his hardened cock against your ass, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with the barrier of his briefs and your underwear. "s-subong!" you gasped, back arching, pushing your ass farther onto him, feeling his cock closer to your aching pussy but not quite there yet. "how could you take this away from me?" he whispered into your ear, breath hitching vulnerably as he tried to keep himself composed, the plush of your round ass making his mind mush. "from us?" subong's hands snuck past the hem, grabbing at the powdery softness of either globes of your ass. his bottom lip suffered between his teeth, watching his hands work underneath the fabric, squeezing firmly. your nails clawed at the wall, eyes fluttering closed whenever his cool rings cinched around your hot skin. "stop teasing." your cheek collided with his nose, not realizing how close his face was to yours.

subong kissed your supple skin like instinct. "you'll take this dick like a good fucking girl, right?" he was so close to your ear the tip of his nose smushed against the stall wall. "y-yes!" you helplessly paw at the wall. his hand pulled down your underwear, rutting himself against your bare ass. his fingers maneuvered between your legs, middle finger sinking between your folds and encircling, keeping you steady between him and the wall. when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, he feels faint, cursing under his breath as your guttural grunt that bounced off the walls. "s-subong—" your voice sounded dry from the earlier arguing and succumbing to your illustrious libido. "i know, baby, i know." his fingers were unrelenting. christ, you were so fucking wet. "just wait for a little longer, and i'll fuck this pussy like the good boy you know i fucking am."

his fingers came to a gradual halt. whilst your chest heaved, he sucked on the tip of his middle finger, licking it clean. "i'm getting on my knees. don't move." he pulled your underwear down, peering up at the puffy lips he has to thank for opening his third eye. you cover your mouth, his warm tongue delving between your folds, scared of what you might sound like if you let go. for the next minute, all that fills the bathroom are the lewd sounds of his tongue nursing your sweet pussy and your muffled whimpers. a crude smack on your left globe followed by a harsh squeeze was the unspoken: let me fucking hear you. "o-oh!" you cried out. "o-oh my fucking god!"

you pushed your ass onto his face, your eyes crossing over the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your clit, squeezing them shut. he lapped your hole repeatedly, swallowing, taking a breath before adjusting his knees on the floor. subong's thumbs spread your lips apart, latching his mouth onto your clit and sucking. the curvature of your back deepened, head thrown back, a cry of pure lust brewing out of your diaphragm, heartbeat stuttering when his tongue lapped the bundle without mercy. "r-right there! just, just—ngh! hngh!—just l-like that!" "where? here?" he asked knowingly, tongue replaced by his finger, rubbing your clit mercilessly. his other hand fished his cock out from his briefs, beginning to stroke himself.

it was a cacophony of wet slick, choked moans, and squelching heat. nothing could deter it, not even the pair of friends that walked in the bathroom, chatting away and completely unaware, only to quickly back out of the room widened eyes and whispers of "oh my god, did you see them?" and "on a tuesday?" it was a sight to behold: your ass in his face; a mixture of his saliva and your slick trailing down his chin, quickly wiped by the back of his hand when he took a breath, but smearing nonetheless; his precum leaking onto the floor; your moans so delicate and raw any erotic film director would beg on their knees to cast you; and subong's affirming mhms and thats rights as he sucks and laps your clit.

subong knew you were close when your thighs began to shake. "give it to me." his hand ceased pumping his dick, both thumbs separating your puffy lips farther than before, running his tongue over your clit. "give it to me, mama," your moan made his dick twitch, eyebrows deeply furrowed, fucked-out gloss coating his eyes. "give it to me, baby, come on—" "ngh!" your body squirmed, nails scraping against the wall, one hand reaching for the top, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm took over your body. subong was stubborn—his palms pressing your back down further, tongue unrelenting through your high, swallowing whatever you gave him. he slowed when your breathing leveled, suckling one last time before rising to his feet.

he pushed your shirt up, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder. "hey," he said gently, hearing your shaky breaths. "still with me?" "mhm." you nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth, trying your best to remain standing. his lips kissed your temple, "everything okay?" "mhm," was all you were able to muster. "f-felt really good. needed it." "me too. i dreamt about you, baby." he whined, lips pressed to your skin. "i dreamt about you so much." his breathing became ragged, tip of his cock red and angry. "tugged at my dick so much and i never came as good as when i was with you. now you made me cum just from eating your pussy. do you see what you've done to me? do you see what you've done to your precious subongie?"

you feel dizzy, lifting your head for air. "put it in." you whisper. you push your ass into him, moaning at the feeling of his cock rutting against you. "put it in, subongie." he slowly pushed his tip in, eventually enveloped by your gummy walls. his face contorted—"how're you so much tighter than before!?" his voice was notably higher, barely moving his hips, slowly inching out of you. "h-haven't had anyone else," you sucked in a tight breath. "b-been waiting for you—hngh!" oh, you were so back ... you couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across your face, ears filled with his needy whines and blubbering incoherently about how much he missed you, and his girthy cock stretching you out in the way you deserve. "fuck me, subongie," you said breathlessly. "fuck me the way you dream about." "i won't last, you're so fucking tight!—" "—be the good boy you said you'd be!"

with that, he got to work. his pelvis hit your ass, not rapidly, but with reverberating force, moaning and whining like it was the last thing he'd ever do. your mouth fell open, body shaking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut. you gasped when his hand reached into your bra, holding your left breast, biting your lip as your nipple hardened against his palm. you looked over your shoulder, catching sight of your jiggling globes every time he thrusted. "faster," you said. "faster and harder, s-subong. i—fuck!—i n-need you so b-badly!" he grabbed either side of your hips, pounding into you through his intensifying blurry haze, balls slapping against you so unapologetically that, if someone got close enough, it could've been heard from outside the door. subong wasn't showing off; he wasn't outdoing himself, to him, this was making love. here he was, fucking the woman of his dreams (he got her back!!,) hearing those moans he was so afraid would escape his memories, and fortunate to be feeling and fucking her divine pussy. talk about a jackpot.

"a-agh! f-fuck!" he cried out, hips stuttering as you began fucking him back. he looked down at the sight, watching his creamy cock disappear and reappear at your volition, his indescribable pleasure displayed on his face, envied by empty canvases wishing to capture such raw human emotion. "n-no, no!" he gasped, feeling your pussy clench around him, that knot forming in his abdomen. "y-you're killing me, baby," he panted. "b-baby—ngh!—s-stop, need to f-fuck you. m'gonna cum s'quick if you—if you, f-fuck!" you stopped abruptly, slamming against his pelvis with a shaky breath. "i'm almost there, too." you said. you sunk a little lower, pushing your ass against him. "k-keep going, my love. you're doing so good. always know how to fuck this pussy so good, hm? yeah? best dick i've ever fucking had." you whine, feeling his cock pulsate in your cunt. you look over your shoulder, feeling his hand squeeze your left asscheek, "wanna cum in me?" wanna cum in me so much that i make you a daddy? yeah?" a wall-rattling gasp shattered out of your lungs when he thrust into you hard, once. then twice. "you're going to be the fucking death of me."

subong pounded into your tight pussy mercilessly, brushing against that spongy spot deep in your cunt with little effort at the angle you were in now. "right there, right t-there! o-oh my god, f-fuck—fuck! s-subong—subong! keep going! you feel so f-f-fucking good!" your whorish mewls were no match for his. he was a goner; bottomed out; becoming lightheaded. he kept going, kept hitting that spongy haven, but it wasn't a knot in your abdomen that fleshed goosebumps across your skin, embarking on its unravel—it was deeper, more carnal than that—but before you could register it, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your leg felt wet. "o-oh—oh my g-god—" you were a mumbling mess through this indescribable orgasm, wholly aware of your body but lost in your lustful haze. subong knew exactly what was going on. it brought him over the edge. "f-fuck! fuck! fuck!" warmth coated your walls, chock-full of his cum, trailing down your thigh with your squirt. he slowed his thrusts, moving so delicately it was as if his cock was made of glass.

he stopped moving, cock resting inside your warm cunt. you were in your own world, weakly holding onto the wall, ears ringing, temples pounding. your senses cleared albeit minutely with his hands holding your shoulders, helping you stand up better. you raised your arm, planting it before you and resting your forehead against it, taking deep breaths. subong pulled out, tutting softly hearing your quiet gasp, palm tracing your lower back as a silent i know, i know. his chest heaving, subong's hand reached over, trying to tuck your hair behind your ear to talk to you, but stops when he sees your earrings—the ones he gave you all those months ago; the ones he said you didn't deserve during that explosive argument. unexpectedly to him, his eyes started to water, quickly pressing a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, mouth muffled against the fabric of your top. in the midst of your labored breathing, you don't overhear: "i love you," he whispered. he pressed another kiss. "i love you."

after a few moments, you stood up steadily, making subong lift his head. your hand aimlessly reached behind you for him."you made me ... you made me—" "—i know, i know." he spoke gently. your senses found him when his arm wrapped around your waist, lips pressing a kiss to your temple and staying there. your hand reached up, coaxing your fingers through his hair. "have we ... have we ever done that before?" "i don't think we did." "yeah ... i figured." your eyes were still closed, slowly opening when his lips peppered kisses on your jaw. "i don't—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "i don't know if i can walk straight." both of you couldn't help but laugh, his forehead resting against your temple. "you know," he cleared his throat. "i think someone came in when i was eating you out." "oh god." you murmured. "did they say anything?" "i was kinda busy to notice if they did." he chuckled lowly. "right, right."

the heat of your apartment woke you up in the middle of the night, lazily tugging the duvet of your sweaty body. subong's light snores became background noise after a press of a button, the air conditioning kicking in. in your sleepy state, you squinted at the time on the oven: 4:27 AM. shuffling to the bathroom, you emerged a few minutes later, filling a glass of water from the kitchen tap. after taking a sip, you walked to the ac unit, eyes closed whilst you cooled down, wind flowing modestly through your hair.

feeling refreshed enough, you headed back to bed. you carefully slid your glass onto the nightside table, hoping there was a enough space on the already small and cluttered surface—equipped with yours and subong's charging phones, hair ties, ibuprofen, whatever else you were too lazy to properly put away, and not lit since there was no room for a lamp—but guessed wrong, accidentally sliding both phones off. a loud clatter rang throughout the apartment, "shit!" you cursed under your breath, quickly eyeing subong. he didn't flinch, snoring peacefully. you picked the phones up, plugged his back in, and set them onto the table securely. a notif came up on his screen. by chance, your eyes glanced over. what was a mere peek became a full on stare.

it was from a crypto app. you didn't have to be a genius to know; the word was in the name of the fucking app. you read the notif before his screen went dark: You have an update on your investment. Tap to view. you have got to be fucking kidding me. you thought to yourself. without thinking, you unplugged his phone, tapping his screen to see it again. but the notif was now hidden, requiring his face id or passcode to view. is his passcode still the same as before? you wondered, thinking of those times he'd let you use his phone to connect him to the wifi, or send yourself photos from dates he'd always forget to. you look over your shoulder at his sleeping form, clueless. forget ethics, forget respecting privacy, forget trusting your partner; your brain was in overdrive. this better fucking work. you swipe up, typing 6969—it works. you tap the notif, the app loads quickly. your eyes run over an interface filled with lingo you don't know or care for and usernames that should be put on a watchlist, but then you find it: his profile. you click the icon on the bottom right corner, seeing the Investments tab with an encircled 1 next to it, clicking it, waiting for the screen to load. it only took a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to make you nervously gnaw at your bottom lip and tap your foot. then it loaded.

-850 MILLION KRW — in unmissable red at the top of the screen, above a graph you could only guess illustrated the fluctuation of his money, and other bullshit you couldn't comprehend in the moment. you stared. in silence, numb. before you knew it, the number changed: -1.19 BILLION KRW. your thumb acted before your brain could, scrolling, finding the extensive histories of his investments. he was betting hourly during the day with money he certainly did not have, losing thousands. you scrolled even deeper, finding investments from before you broke up. 50,000 krw here, 5 million there, 30 million another day .... he'd been lying that entire time. selfishly keeping more for himself, all the while consoling your crying state from not being able to make rent in time, even with what you suspected to be all he had ("i'm so sorry, baby. you don't deserve this. we don't deserve this. i'll fight your landlord for you, don't worry.") what utter bullshit.

it was all lies. it was all deception. and now he was back in your bed, peacefully asleep like everything was okay. you let him back into your life, thinking everything was going to be fucking okay. you squeeze his phone in your hand, arm shaking. your other hand sinks your fingers into your knee, as if to prevent from screaming; trying to find another outlet for the anger—fuck it! irate, you grab your glass of water and rush to his side of the bed, throwing it onto his face. he shot up immediately. you paced back and forth, eyes rolling at his coughing fit. "wha—what?" his voice was gravely, wiping his eyes. "was that—was that water?" he asked stupidly. "yes it was fucking water!" you spoke loudly, irritated at the sight of his barely opened eyes."what're you yelling for?" his voice was lower than usual, clouded by looming sleep. "it's, like, four in the morning, baby."

"don't you fucking 'baby' me." you muttered, marching up to him. you showed him his screen. "the fuck is this? hm?" "what?" he asked, wiping water off his forehead. you threw his phone onto his lap. "check your fucking investments." he picked up his phone and scrolled. he didn't say a word. you continued to pace like a madwoman, back and forth, nothing filling the air but the skid of the heels of your feet against the floor. you mentally cursed and screamed, thoughts so scrambled that if you opened your mouth all that would come out would be jibberish, so you paced. and paced. and paced. it could've been anywhere between five or ten minutes when you stopped. "well?" you asked sharply, arms crossed over your chest. "how much money did you fucking make?"

"why'd you look at my phone?" asked subong. he was trying so hard to avoid openly showing his shame; his pride prevailing. "that's—" you stuttered. "that's seriously what you're asking right now?" "yes, that's what i'm fucking asking right the fuck now." he looked up at you, meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression. "you just threw water in my face. i get to ask questions." "you're a billion in debt!" you whisper-yelled, afraid your eyes would water if you were any louder. you trudged to his side of the bed, eyes wide and finger to his chest. he stared at you blankly, a twitch of his eyebrow outed his mounting frustration at his stifled shame. "you're a billion in debt, subong. where did you ... where did you even get all that money?" you swallowed, taking a step back, eyes looking everywhere but him to thwart the mounting glossiness. "why did you lie to me? all those times, all those times where i felt like it was the end. where i felt like i was at a dead end." you gestured to the couch with your hand, staring at him. "and you ... you lied. you were selfish, and didn't want to help. i ... i saw everything, subong. i know you kept on lying about your earnings when we were together."

another beat of silence. "subong, why did you put so much money into—" "—why'd you look at my phone? hm?" he interrupted, eyes wide. "why couldn't you just mind your fucking business?" "you're a billion in debt—" "i didn't owe you anything!" subong suddenly yelled, catching you off guard. he ripped the duvet off, marching up to you, finger in your face. "i didn't owe you fucking anything." he repeated, breathing hard through his nostrils. "what was it you said to me? hm? that it's my money, my punishment to have? so let me fucking have it." "you owed me everything!" you yelled, smacking his hand away. "you owed me the fucking truth!" he turned around, walking to the window leading to the balcony, hands roughly rubbing his face and hair. "why didn't you just tell me? why did you hide—" "—i did it all for you."

your eyes widened and jaw fell, appalled. "oh my god." you muttered to yourself, but he overheard. "i'm going fucking crazy. i'm going fucking crazy." you ran your hands through your hair, pacing. "i know you did not just ... i know you did not just say that." you shook your head. "how could you be so fucking stupid. how could i be so fucking stupid?" subong whipped his head around. "hey! don't call me stupid!" he walked up to you, growing angrier with your ignoring him. "hey!" he exclaimed. "don't call me stupid! i'm not stupid for taking initiative, or, or doing shit because i care about you!" his arms flailed.

"oh..." you shook your head, facing him. he felt like a first grader being told off by his teacher, frustratingly shifting his weight between his feet, unsure of where to put this uncomfortable energy. "oh no, subong. this isn't caring. this is being a complete and utter dumbass." you said, eyes porous in realization. tears were no longer in the realm of possibility. now, it was just pity. "there's no coming back from this." you made sure he knew. "you're fucked." "i know that!" he yelled, vein tight in his temple. "you don't think i fucking know that!?" subong's eyebrows furrowed. it was his turn to avoid crying. he looked away hastily, cursing repeatedly under his breath as if it'd ward off his blurring vision. he blinked hard—"i ... i tried everything." he muttered, bottom lip quivering. "i ... made deals with dangerous p-people." he cleared his throat. "i slept on benches. my own mother wouldn't pick up my calls. i've disappointed her too many times. and you ... you," he cleared his throat again. "you weren't an option." he shook his head, a tear landing on his arm. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "but ... but i have this one last chance—"

"—you're hopeless." you cut him off. "you're the worst person i've ever fucking met." subong looked at you, silently pleading to take those words back. "no." he sounded wounded. "you don't ... you don't mean that." "i do. i mean every word." you nodded. "i must have done something really horrible in a past life to be cursed with loving someone as hurtful as you." "no ..." he shook his head, his palms flattening his hair. "you don't mean what you're saying." "i do!" you yelled, voice cracking, heartbeat in your throat. a shaky breath left his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling and blinking fast, waterline feeling heavy. "no ... no, no." he muttered to himself. he took your face in his hands, eyes darting around your features, making them out even in the meek lighting of the slowly emerging sunrise. you stared blankly at the floor, emotionless between his palms.

"you don't mean those words. i know you don't." he spoke aloud, trying to convince himself. "you don't mean them." his fingers combed your hair out of your face. "i've been trying so hard. i'm so fucking scared, baby." subong shook his head quickly, but it didn't halt his falling tears. "i f-fucked up so bad." he whispered, lips quivering. he pressed kisses to your supple skin, attempting to fill the eerie silence. "but i promise—" his lips peppering your face. "i promise i'm going to fix all of this. i have a plan." subong tasted something salty, seeing a tear having fallen down your cheek. "no, no." he tutted gently, kissing it away. "don't cry. you're too beautiful to cry over a loser like me, baby." he kissed that same spot. "no, no. don't cry. here, let me hold you. come here." his lips trailed to the back of your jaw, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. even in his desperation, he was unsure. his eyes glanced at the glimmer of your dainty diamond drop earrings. "the earrings look good on you. you've always had good taste." he muttered against your shoulder. you didn't move. nor say a word. the silence was killing him. "i've been scared for so long." he whispered. your shoulder felt wet. "please ... please hold me."

he said no apology. no "i'm sorry," no "i regret this." it was a tale as old as time: redirected sympathy; a murky, multi-layered distraction, him avoiding taking full responsibility. you sympathized with his pain, you felt his hurt and the monstrous circumstance, but at some fucking point, there is only so much you could do. there is so much strength one could muster; so much mercy a heart could offer. this wasn't your problem, and you weren't going to go out of your way to make it yours. it was time to draw the line. right here, right now. you didn't recognize the man before you. he was a stranger: "subong?" "yes?" he responded quickly, a hint of hope in his tone. "when were you going to tell me about your debt?"

subong was silent, but you spoke for him. "when i get a promotion? when i get laid off? when there's an eviction notice on my door? after we elope at the courthouse, or when i tell you you're the father of my baby? hm? when were you going to tell me?" your voice was unexpectedly gentle. his shoulders started to shake, quietly sobbing. "when, subong? when?" "forgive me." he pleaded. "forgive me. please, baby—" "—get off of me." you pushed him away, slipping out of his embrace. he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "you're the worst!" you exclaimed. "it's exhausting loving you! it's torture! i'm decaying from the inside!"

you took a breath, looking at this pathetic form. "i've forgiven you too much." you shook your head. "you've made me a stranger to myself. you take, and you take, and you take. i share my home, i let you fuck me, i let myself think you respect me—" "—i d-do, baby, i do! i lo—" "—i let you into the deepest, darkest pits of who i am, and you let me cry over your fucking nail polish while you were throwing away millions into something that isn't even fucking real. and you have the audacity to say it was for me?" you gesture to yourself. "as much as i tried to fix you, stupidity is in incurable disease. you're the dumbest person i've ever fucking met. you're not even smart enough to say 'i'm sorry.'"

"i never want to see you again." you turn around, your back facing him. "you don't know me. i don't know you. get out." this was it. you didn't move your eyes from the kitchen floor tiles as you heard him collect his things—the clinking of his belt; his shallow breaths; his heavy, stuttered footsteps; the clean swoosh of his pants as he put them on; over-pronounced inhales; his shoving of his feet into his sneakers—punctuated by the slam of the door. you slowly turned around. the oven read 4:53 AM. you sat on the couch, the silence heavy, only moderately cut through by the sporadic chirping of the birds outside. you sunk into the cheap cushions, hands coming up to your face, chest convulsing.

subong didn't know how long he'd been walking for. he was numb; eyes wet, cheeks swollen, snot dried, sneakers carelessly dragging against the sidewalk. the sun had risen. he could hear the taxis driving by, or catch in his peripheral vision the sight of people hurriedly leaving their apartment buildings as the morning commute commenced, but his gaze never shifted from aimless. he was wandering; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. his chest heaved and his heart pounded in his temples, feelings buried in an overly complicated web that made his ears ring. subong's tongue was dry from breathing through his mouth, but he was so out of it he didn't bother to close his jaw.

it was the ring of a pedestrian's bike bell that temporarily took him out of this trance, stumbling a few steps to the right, letting them pass. "i'm sorry." he muttered weakly. it was only then that he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was walking along a bridge. seeing the water flow below him without issue made him feel so inconsequentially small, almost as if the car driving by or the subtle whispers of the leaves rattling in the wind told him that no matter what he did, or what he went through, or what he said, nature will be there before and after. "excuse me, sir." a voice said. subong's head felt heavy, but he turned it nonetheless. it was the man in the suit from a week ago. "i forgot to give you this after our game last week." he handed subong what looked to be a business card. "my sincerest apologies. i kindly ask that you forgive me, sir." with that, he walked away.

you woke up on the couch in the late morning, having slept through your phone alarm. you had the day off, so that wasn't exactly a concern, only to jolt awake from seering pain on side of your neck and lower back from falling asleep in such a cramped, awkward position. it was hot in the apartment again. you gradually stood on your feet, carefully stretching. "fuck." you mutter under your breath. you moved to the bathroom. you peeled your clothes off, throwing them mindlessly into the hamper. before you stepped into the shower, the glimmer of your earrings caught your sight. you tucked your hair back, staring hard into the mirror. memories of the night previous came rushing back. your quivering lip made you mad all over again, quickly taking the earrings off, throwing them into the trash bin without second thought.

you did errands. you went to work the next day. you quit your job three months later, having landed a better paying one on the opposite side of the city. a year later, you were longed moved out of your small studio and into your one bedroom abode, equipped with an in house dryer and washer. you had new friends. you had a new life. in the end, you really did get your wish of never seeing subong again.

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