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jupiterpilgrim · 9 days ago

Text

After All

Kwon Eunbi x male reader

word count: 20k

commissioned fic

The clock’s ticking past midnight, and Eunbi’s apartment is a battlefield of empty soju bottles, crumpled napkins, and half-eaten trays of tteokbokki scattered across her sleek kitchen island. It’s her 30th birthday, and you're resting on her couch, nursing a lukewarm beer you’ve been sipping for the last hour, more out of habit than any real desire to get trashed. The private party’s been a chaotic little mess—just a handful of her closest friends, some industry folks she trusts not to leak shit, and you, her self-appointed babysitter for the night. The music’s still humming low from her Bluetooth speaker, but the vibe’s shifted from rowdy laughter to a quieter, sloppier haze now that everyone’s stumbled out the door. You’re watching her sway around the living room in a pair of mismatched socks—one pink with little stars, the other a plain gray that’s probably yours from some sleepover months back—her hair a wild tangle from all the times she’s run her hands through it while belting out karaoke off-key. She’s drunk as hell, giggling at nothing, and you can’t help but grin despite the ache in your legs from chasing her around all night.

She’s been clinging to you since the third shot of peach soju hit her system, her arm looped through yours like you’re her personal anchor, dragging you into every conversation with slurred enthusiasm. “You should’ve seen his face when I told him I’m 30 now—30!—like, bitch, I’m still hotter than your girlfriend,” she’d crowed earlier, leaning into you so hard you nearly toppled into the snack table. For everyone else, she’s Kwon Eunbi, the idol with the killer voice and curves that make headlines, but for you, she’s just Eunbi—Eunbi who used to steal your crayons in third grade, who’d cry when you beat her at Mario Kart, who’d text you at 3 a.m. during her trainee days just to say she missed your dumb jokes. Now, she’s flopped onto the floor in front of the coffee table, legs splayed out, her oversized hoodie riding up to show a sliver of her stomach as she tries to stack beer cans into a wobbly tower. “Look, I’m an architect,” she declares, tongue poking out in concentration, and you snort, knowing damn well it’s gonna collapse in three seconds flat.

The party’s over, and you’re the last one standing—well, sitting, technically—because there’s no way you’re leaving her like this. She’s a disaster when she’s sober, let alone after a night of drinking her age in shots. You’ve already started picking up the wreckage, tossing plastic cups into a trash bag while she watches you with hazy eyes, chin propped on her hand like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “You’re so good to me,” she mumbles. “Yeah, yeah, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t pass out in a pile of kimchi fries,” you shoot back, grabbing a sponge to tackle the sticky mess on the counter where someone—probably her—spilled a whole bottle of soda. She laughs, loud and unfiltered, then hiccups, and it’s so ridiculously Eunbi that you can’t help but chuckle too.

She’s still chattering away, even as you move around her apartment, picking up streamers and wiping down surfaces. “Did you see Chae’s face when I did that twerk? She was, like, scandalized—I’ve got moves, right? Tell me I’ve got moves.” She’s trying to wiggle her hips from her spot on the floor, but it’s more of a sad little shimmy, and you bite back a laugh. “Oh, you’ve got something, alright. I think the word’s embarrassing, though,” you tease, dodging the balled-up napkin she chucks at you. It misses by a mile, landing somewhere near the TV, and she pouts, all dramatic and exaggerated, like she’s auditioning for a rom-com. “You’re so mean to me. Always so mean... And yet, here you are, cleaning my shit up like a good little boyfriend.” The word slips out casual as hell, but it lands like a grenade, and you freeze for half a second, sponge dripping in your hand, before brushing it off with a grunt. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive, dumbass. And I’m not your boyfriend—yet.”

That “yet” hangs in the air, and her eyes lock onto yours, wide and suddenly sharper despite the drunken flush on her cheeks. You both know about the pact—some stupid, half-serious promise you made back when you were hormonal teens sneaking cheap beer behind her parents’ garage, laughing about how if you both hit 30 and still hadn’t found “the one,” you’d just marry each other. It was a joke, or at least it started that way, but now here you are, 30 and single, and she’s 30 and single, and she’s staring at you like she’s daring you to bring it up first. You don’t. Instead, you turn back to the counter, scrubbing harder than necessary, while she drags herself up off the floor, stumbling over to you with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “You’re staying, right?” she asks, leaning against the counter so close her elbow bumps yours, her voice dropping into that bossy tone she gets when she wants something. “Gotta tuck me in, make sure I don’t die in my sleep or whatever.”

You smirk, glancing at her out of the corner of your eye—she’s a mess, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick faded into a pink stain, but still unfairly gorgeous. “Yeah, ‘cause I’d hate to explain to your fans why their precious Eunbi choked on her own drool. I’ll stay, but you’re sleeping on the couch if you puke on me.” She grins, triumphant, and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a sloppy half-hug that smells like soju and her floral perfume. “My hero,” she coos, sarcastic as hell, but there’s a flicker of something real in it. You shake it off, steering her toward the bedroom with a hand on her back, her weight leaning into you more with every step. She’s still rambling—about the party, about how you’re the only one who gets her, about how she’s gonna make you cook her hangover soup tomorrow—and you’re only half-listening, too focused on getting her to bed without tripping over the rug.

By the time you hit the hallway, she’s practically dead weight, her head lolling against your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. You nudge her bedroom door open with your foot, the soft glow of her fairy lights spilling out, and ease her onto the mattress, where she flops down with a groan. “You’re the best,” she slurs, grabbing your wrist before you can pull away, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks ready to pass out. “Don’t go far, ‘kay? Need you here.” It’s the alcohol talking, you tell yourself, but the way her fingers linger on your skin feels too deliberate, too loaded. You mutter something about getting her water, slipping out of her hold, and as you head back to the kitchen.

You’re back in her bedroom, a glass of water in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other, figuring she’ll thank you later for not letting her wake up looking like a raccoon with last night’s makeup smeared everywhere. The fairy lights are still doing their thing, casting a warm, golden glow over the room, and Eunbi’s sprawled out on her bed, one arm flung over her face like she’s trying to block out the world—or maybe just the spins. Her hoodie’s ridden up again, showing off that stupidly toned stomach she’s always flexing on Instagram, and her socks are half-off, one dangling from her toes like it’s staging a breakout. She looks like a hot mess, but it’s Eunbi, so she’s still pulling it off somehow. You set the glass on her nightstand and nudge her leg with your knee. “Hey, drunkass, sit up for a sec. You need water or you’re gonna hate me tomorrow.”

She groans, dramatic as fuck, but peels her arm off her face and squints at you, eyes glassy and unfocused. “You’re so bossy,” she mumbles, but there’s a grin tugging at her lips, sloppy and real, and she fumbles to prop herself up on her elbows. Her hair’s a disaster, falling into her face, and you reach over without thinking, brushing it back with your fingers. She leans into it, just a little, and for a second, it’s quiet—just the hum of the speaker still looping that lo-fi track and her breathing, slow and heavy. You hand her the water, and she takes it with both hands like a kid, gulping it down so fast some of it dribbles down her chin. “Classy,” you tease, wiping it off with the washcloth before she can bitch about it, and she snickers, batting your hand away halfheartedly. “Shut up, you love me,” she slurs.

You’re about to fire back—something dumb like “yeah, when you’re not a walking tornado”—but she cuts you off, setting the glass down with a clumsy clink and grabbing your wrist again, pulling you closer. “You remember that pact we made?” Her voice is softer now, less playful, and there’s this edge to it that makes your stomach twist. You know exactly what she’s talking about, but you play dumb anyway, raising an eyebrow. “What, the one where we said we’d rob a bank if we ever got broke? ‘Cause I’m still down, but you’re the one with the idol cash now.” She doesn’t laugh, though, just shakes her head, and her grip tightens, nails digging into your skin a little. “No, dumbass. The marriage one. When we were, like, sixteen? Said if we hit 30 and no one else locked us down, we’d just marry each other. You swore on it—pinky promise and everything.”

You try to laugh it off, because that’s your go-to when shit gets real—deflect, joke, anything to keep it light. “Yeah, I also swore I’d get a tattoo of your face on my ass, but you don’t see me running to the parlor,” you say, but it sounds weak even to you. She’s not buying it, and her eyes are searching your face now, all hazy and drunk but piercing, like she’s peeling back every layer you’ve ever put up. “Don’t bullshit me,” she says, and there’s that commanding tone she gets sometimes, the one that makes people sit up straight and listen, even when she’s three sheets to the wind. “We’re both 30 now. I’m 30 today. And you’re here, and I’m here, and—fuck, dude, why not? Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

Your heart’s doing some wild shit in your chest, pounding like you just ran a marathon, and you tell yourself it’s the alcohol talking. She’s plastered, emotional, probably doesn’t even mean it—she’ll wake up tomorrow and laugh her ass off at the thought, right? But she’s looking at you like she’s dead serious, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and there’s this raw, messy love in her voice that’s fucking with your head. “Eunbi, you’re drunk as hell,” you manage, voice rougher than you mean it to be. “You don’t just decide to marry someone ‘cause you had too much soju and feel mushy. Sleep it off, yeah? We’ll laugh about this in the morning.” You try to pull your wrist free, but she’s not letting go, and now she’s sitting up fully, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed so she’s right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the peach liquor on her breath, her free hand landing on your chest, fingers curling into your shirt.

“I’m not joking,” she says, quieter but fiercer, and her hand slides up, brushing your neck, her thumb grazing your jaw. “I’ve been thinking about it—today, this year, maybe longer. You’re my best friend, you dick. You’ve stuck with me through every breakup, every stage, every meltdown. I’ve got you too—always have. So why not? We’d kill it together.” Her voice wavers, and her eyes are shiny now, not just from the liquor, and it’s shredding you because she’s never this open, this raw.

“Eunbi, chill,” you say, softer, because snapping at her feels wrong when she’s spilling her soul like this. “You’re not thinking clear. You’re an idol—your life’s a circus, your fans would riot, and I’m just… me. The dude who can’t keep a cactus alive. You don’t mean this. Not really.” But your words are faltering, because she’s leaning in, her hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you down ‘til her forehead’s almost touching yours. “I don’t care about that,” she whispers, breath hot against your lips, and fuck, she’s so close you can taste the peach soju, feel the heat of her. “I don’t care about any of it if I’ve got you. I love you, you moron. Always have.”

It’s a fucking knockout blow, and your brain’s short-circuiting, every nerve screaming to just give in. Her lips brush yours—just a ghost of a touch, soft and trembling—and you almost lose it, almost let her pull you under. Your hands are on her shoulders, and for a split second, you’re kissing her back, tasting the liquor and the years of unspoken shit between you. But then your brain kicks in, screaming she’s drunk, this isn’t right, not like this. You pull back, heart pounding, hands shaking as you hold her at arm’s length. “Eunbi, no,” you say, firm but cracking. “Not like this. You’re wasted—you need to rest, not… this.” She whines, reaching for you again, but you dodge, standing up fast, chest heaving. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Just… get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She flops back on the bed, pouting hard, but her eyes are already drooping, the fight draining out of her. You grab the blanket, tucking it over her as she mumbles something incoherent, and you’re left standing there, reeling, wondering if you just dodged a bullet or broke something delicate.

—

A week’s rolled by since Eunbi’s wild 30th birthday bash, and it’s been radio silence from her end—zero texts, no drunk voicemails, not even a meme tossed your way, which is weird as hell because she’s usually blowing up your phone with random shit. You’ve been keeping busy, trying not to overthink it, but she’s been creeping into your head more than usual—those sloppy, half-serious words she slung at you about loving you, about wanting to marry you, the way she clung to you like you were her lifeline… The next day, though, she seemed fine. Hungover, but fine. Almost as if she had forgotten about the whole accidental confession that alcohol had caused. But you can't be completely sure. So when your phone buzzes on a lazy Thursday afternoon and it’s her name lighting up the screen with a casual, “Hey, dinner at my place tonight? 7ish?” you don’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I’m in,” you shoot back, already mentally mapping out your evening. You figure it’s a good excuse to check in on her, make sure she’s not still recovering from that hangover or, worse, avoiding you for some reason you can’t pin down. On your way over, you swing by the market down the street from her place. You grab a six-pack of Heineken because you know she likes it cold, and a bottle of that fancy grapefruit soda she’s obsessed with—non-alcoholic, just in case she’s still swearing off the hard stuff after last week. Walking out, you catch her face plastered on a billboard across the street, all glossy lips and sultry eyes, selling some new makeup line. It’s surreal, seeing your goofy childhood buddy up there like some untouchable goddess, but then you smirk because you know she’d probably laugh her ass off at the idea of anyone calling her that.

You get to her apartment a little early, buzzing up from the lobby, and when she opens the door, it’s like she’s flipped a switch from the drunk disaster you left last week. She’s all sweet smiles and soft edges, pulling you into a hug that lingers a beat too long, her hair smelling like lavender and something expensive. “Hey, you,” she says, voice warm, and you’re already shrugging off your jacket, holding up the drinks like a peace offering. “Brought supplies,” you say, and she laughs, grabbing the soda bottle with a little “Ooh, you remembered!” that makes you feel oddly proud. Her place looks better than it did post-party—clean, cozy, with a few candles flickering on the counter, the kind that smell like vanilla and money. Dinner’s already set up, a spread of takeout containers from that Korean BBQ joint you both love, the one with the spicy pork that makes your nose run. She’s got the table laid out casual but cute—mismatched plates, a couple of chipped mugs for water, and a playlist humming through her speaker, some chill lo-fi beats that don’t drown out the vibe. You settle in across from her, cracking open a beer while she digs into a pile of kimchi, and it’s easy at first—catching up, joking about how she’s pretty sure she scared off half her friends with her karaoke rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” last week. You’re laughing, she’s laughing, and it’s like old times, except she’s quieter than usual, her eyes lingering on you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You’re halfway through your second beer, picking at some bulgogi with your chopsticks, when you catch her staring again—chin propped on her hand, a little smile tugging at her lips, but her gaze is steady, almost heavy. It’s not the usual Eunbi chaos you’re used to, the teasing or the loud cackling; it’s something else, something that you’re not ready to name. She’s been weird all night, not bad weird, just… off, like she’s holding something back. You set your chopsticks down, wiping your hands on a napkin, and finally just go for it. “Okay, what’s up with you? You’re being all quiet and stare-y, it’s freaking me out.” She blinks, caught, then laughs—a soft, nervous sound that’s not her usual full-on snort. She leans back in her chair, twirling her mug between her fingers, and you can tell she’s gearing up to say something big. “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” she says, and it lands like a sucker punch, totally out of left field. You freeze, beer bottle halfway to your mouth, because what the hell do you even say to that? She’s not done, though—she sets the mug down, leans forward, and it’s like the floodgates open. “Not just you, like, in general. The pact. Us. Everything. I’ve been replaying it all in my head—how we’ve been through every dumb phase together, how you’re always there, how you stayed last week when I was a total mess. You’re… you’re special to me, you know that, right?”

It’s a lot, and you’re just sitting there, letting it wash over you. Her words hit hard because, fuck, you’ve been thinking about her too—more than you’d admit out loud. That night on her couch, her drunk rambling about marrying you, it stuck with you, wormed its way into your brain and wouldn’t leave. You’ve been seeing her everywhere, not just on billboards but in random shit—like the way the light hits your coffee in the morning and reminds you of her smile, or how you caught yourself humming one of her songs in the shower yesterday. You clear your throat, trying to play it cool even though your heart’s doing some dumb acrobatics in your chest. “Yeah, well, you’re kinda special to me too,” you mumble, and it’s not smooth, but it’s honest, and her face lights up like you just handed her the moon. She stands up, motioning to the couch with a little “C’mon, let’s chill,” and you follow, grabbing your beer and the soda bottle because you’re not ready to let go of something to fidget with.

The couch is comfier than the kitchen chairs, and you sink into it, kicking your shoes off while she curls up next to you, closer than she needs to be but not close enough to make it weird. The TV’s off, but the candles are still going, casting this warm glow that makes the whole room feel smaller, softer. She’s got her legs tucked under her, sipping that grapefruit soda, and she’s still watching you, but now it’s less intense, more curious. “So, the pact,” she starts, and you groan, half-laughing, because of course she’s circling back to that. “You seriously wanna talk about that now?” you ask, but she’s already nodding, all earnest. “Yeah, I do. I mean, we’re thirty, dude. No one’s swooped in to lock us down. And I keep thinking… maybe that’s not a bad thing? Like, maybe it’s been you this whole time and I was just too dumb to see it.” She’s laying it all out, and it’s messing with you, because you’ve been wondering the same damn thing. You take a long pull from your beer, stalling, then set it on the coffee table with a clink. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” you admit, and her eyes widen, like she wasn’t expecting you to meet her halfway. “Not just the pact, but… you. How you’re always the one I wanna call when shit’s good or bad. How you get me in a way no one else does.”

She shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, and it’s electric, that tiny contact sparking something you’ve both been dancing around. “So what are we doing about it?” she asks, voice low, and there’s this challenge in her eyes, like she’s daring you to make a move. You’re not sure who leans in first—maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you—but suddenly you’re kissing, slow and tentative at first, then deeper, her hands sliding up your chest while yours find her waist. It’s not fireworks or some movie bullshit; it’s better, realer, like coming home after being gone too long. When you pull back, she’s grinning, breathless, and you’re both laughing because it’s ridiculous and perfect all at once. “Guess we’re doing this, then,” she says, and you nod, still dazed. “Guess we are.”

It’s like someone flipped a switch—everything’s electric, buzzing, and you can’t get enough. The kissing started soft, almost careful, but now it’s deeper, hungrier, her hands gripping your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. You’re only just now clocking how goddamn gorgeous she is, and yeah, she’s always been a knockout, but this is different. She’s not the Eunbi you’re used to, the one who’d roll up to your place in sweats and a messy bun, no makeup, eating takeout straight from the box. Tonight, she’s all done up—hair falling in loose waves, a slinky black top that hugs her curves just right, and a skirt that’s short enough to make your brain short-circuit. She’s got this subtle shimmer on her skin, probably some fancy highlighter shit from one of those brands she’s always posing for, and her lips are glossy, tasting faintly of cherry when you kiss her again. You pull back for a second, breathless, and the words just tumble out: “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” It’s cheesy as hell, but you mean it, and her face lights up—big, goofy smile and all—before she swings a leg over you and climbs into your lap. Her petite frame settles against you, but there’s nothing delicate about the way she presses herself close, her chest—those full, perfect tits—squishing against you.

She tilts her head back as you lean in, kissing along her neck, all soft skin and that lavender scent mixed with something warmer, sexier, like her body’s radiating heat just for you. Your lips brush that spot under her jaw, and she lets out this little sigh—half moan, half giggle—that sends a jolt straight through you. Her hands slide up to your shoulders, fingers digging in, and you’re hyper-aware of every inch of her, the way her thighs grip your hips, the slight shift of her weight when she adjusts herself. You nip at her collarbone, and she squirms, laughing softly before her voice drops, low and needy: “Take me to the bedroom.” It’s not a question—it’s Eunbi, all commanding and sure, and fuck if that doesn’t make you want her even more. You don’t hesitate, sliding your hands under her ass—firm, perfect—and hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around your waist, locking her ankles behind you, and you can feel her grinning against your shoulder as you carry her down the hall. Her skirt rides up, and you’re palming bare skin, her body warm and solid against yours, and it’s a miracle you don’t trip over the random pair of sneakers she left by the door.

You nudge the bedroom door open with your elbow, the space dimly lit by a lamp on her nightstand, casting everything in this soft, golden glow. Her bed’s a mess—sheets tangled, a couple of pillows shoved to one side—but it’s hers, and that’s enough. You ease her down onto the mattress, and she lands with a little bounce, propping herself up on her elbows, skirt hiked up around her hips, black lace peeking out from underneath. She’s watching you, eyes dark and playful, and you’re just standing there for a second, taking her in—hair splayed out, lips parted, that top clinging to her like a second skin. “Drawer,” she says, nodding toward the dresser across the room, her voice cutting through the haze in your head. “Top one.” You quirk an eyebrow, stepping over to it, and when you slide it open, there’s a strip of condoms sitting right there next to a tube of lip balm and some tangled jewelry. You pick one up, turning it over in your hand, and glance back at her. “You planning this or what?” you ask, half-teasing, half-serious, because it’s Eunbi—she’s always got something up her sleeve. She chuckles, kicking off her heels so they clatter to the floor, and shrugs. “Just in case, you know. Figured if we’re doing this whole pact thing, might as well be ready.”

You smirk, tossing the foil packet onto the bed beside her, and she scoots back, making room as you climb over her. She’s pulling you down by the front of your shirt, kissing you again—harder this time, all tongue and teeth, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have. Then you start kissing her body, starting at that delicate stretch of her neck, soft and warm under your lips, and she sighs, this tiny, breathy sound that’s got your heart thudding loud enough you’re sure she can hear it. You trail lower, brushing your mouth over her collarbone, then down to her chest, where her black top’s still clinging to her like it’s got a personal grudge against you. Your hands roam, sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits, and she arches into you, a quiet “Mmm” vibrating against your lips. You tug at her top, and she lifts her arms, letting you peel it off—black bra underneath, lacy and sheer, doing a piss-poor job of hiding how hard her nipples are. Her skin’s flushed, a little sweaty from the heat building between you, and your hands slide up, cupping her tits through the fabric—full, heavy, driving you absolutely insane. You’ve always known she’s stacked, it’s not news, but feeling them like this, in this moment, is frying your brain. “Can I take this off?” you murmur, tugging at her bra strap. She giggles, this light, playful sound that cuts through the tension, and nods, arching her back a little to give you room. “Go for it, perv,” she teases, but her eyes are locked on yours, dark and wanting, and you’re fumbling with the clasp like it’s your first time because holy shit, this is Eunbi—your Eunbi—and it’s actually happening.

The bra comes off, and you toss it somewhere—floor, chair, who gives a fuck—and just stare for a second, because her breasts are unreal. Big, yeah, but it’s more than that—they’re perfect, soft curves sloping into these gorgeous, rosy areolas, nipples already perked up like they’re begging for you. You’ve seen her in bikinis, tight shirts, all that, but this? This is next-level, and you’re still wrapping your head around the fact that you’re here, with her, like this. “You can touch,” she says, voice softer now, a little shy, and your hands move before your brain catches up, fingers brushing over her skin, careful at first, like you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you go too fast. She’s warm, silky, and the way she sighs—quiet, needy—sends a shiver down your spine. You squeeze gently, testing the weight of her in your palms, and she tips her head back, lips parting. “You like this?” you ask, because you need to hear it, need to know you’re not screwing this up. “Yeah,” she breathes, “so much. I can’t believe we’re doing this.” You laugh, a little shaky, and say, “Me neither. You don’t think it’s weird?” She shakes her head fast, reaching for your wrist to keep your hand on her. “No way. It’s you. Feels right. And, uh, it’s making me really fucking horny.”

That hits you like a truck, her saying it so plain, so Eunbi, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and wrap your lips around one of her nipples, sucking slow and deliberate. She moans, loud and surprised, her back arching into you, and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard. “Oh—fuck,” she gasps, and you feel her hand slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make you groan against her skin. “Keep going,” she begs, voice cracking, and you don’t need to be told twice. You swirl your tongue, flicking over the hard peak, then switch to the other one because you’re greedy and she’s letting you, her fingers tightening in your hair like she’s anchoring herself. You’re lost in it—her taste, the little whimpers she’s making, the way her body shifts under you, restless and wanting. When you finally pull back, catching your breath, her face is pure lust—eyes half-lidded, cheeks pink, lips wet from biting them. She stares at you like you’ve just rocked her world, and then she says, “You need to fuck me. Like, right now,” all commanding and desperate, and it’s not even a question—you’re nodding, already on board, because there’s no way you’re saying no to her.

You’re both scrambling then, a frantic, clumsy rush to get naked. You yank your shirt over your head, nearly choking yourself in the process, and she’s laughing—god, that laugh—even as she wiggles out of her skirt, kicking it off her ankles. You’re down to your boxers, and she’s peeling off her panties, black lace that matches the bra you yeeted earlier, and you’re trying not to stare too hard because you’ll lose it before you even start. She’s sprawled out on the bed now, legs parted just enough to make your mouth dry, and you shove your jeans off, kicking them into the chaos of her room. Your boxers follow, and when you straighten up, condom packet in hand from where it’s been chilling on the bed, she’s looking at you—really looking—and her eyes widen. “Damn,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows, “you’ve been holding out on me. Should’ve jumped you years ago.” You laugh, but it’s strained because she’s naked and staring at your dick like it’s a revelation, and your ego’s taking a victory lap while your nerves are screaming.

You rip the foil open with your teeth (smooth, you hope) and roll the condom on, hands shaking a little because she’s watching you, all impatient and gorgeous, and you’re still processing that this is your best friend, the girl who once cried on your shoulder after a shitty audition, now spread out and waiting for you to fuck her. “You good?” you ask, climbing back onto the bed, settling between her thighs, and she nods, reaching for you, pulling you closer. “So good,” she murmurs, her voice husky, and you feel her hand on your hip, guiding you like she’s done this with you a million times. You line up, heart pounding, and she’s warm, wet, ready—fuck, it’s Eunbi, and it’s perfect. You stop there, hovering, because once you start, there’s no going back, and you’re both teetering on the edge of something huge—best friends to lovers, a pact turning real, all of it crashing together in this sweaty, messy, incredible moment.

She shifts under you, impatient, and you catch her smirk, that little challenge in her eyes. “You gonna make me wait forever, or what?” she says, and it’s so her—bossy, bratty, the Eunbi you’ve known forever but with this new, wild edge. You grin, leaning down to kiss her quick and hard, and mutter, “Hold on, princess, I’ve got you.” Her laugh’s cut off by a gasp as you ease in, and yeah, this is happening, and it’s better than you ever dreamed. Her nails dig into your shoulders, and she’s whispering your name like it’s a secret she’s been keeping too long, and you’re gone—lost in her, in this, in the insane, beautiful reality of you and Eunbi finally crossing that line.

You sink into Eunbi, and it’s like the world tilts—everything narrows down to the heat of her, the way her pussy grips you, tight and wet and so fucking perfect it’s almost too much. You’re on top of her, your chest pressed against hers, her tits squashed between you, soft and warm, and you can feel her heartbeat hammering against your ribs, matching the wild thud of your own. The condom’s doing its job, but it barely dulls the sensation; she’s addictive, like some drug you didn’t know you needed until now. You start moving, slow at first, just to feel her out, but she’s already rocking her hips up to meet you, and that’s it—you’re gone. You thrust harder, pinning her to the mattress with your weight, the bed creaking under you, and she melts into it, legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you deeper. Her breath’s hot against your neck, little gasps and moans spilling out every time you drive into her, and it’s driving you insane.

You kiss her, messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth clashing, because you need more of her—need to taste her, feel her everywhere. She kisses back just as hard, her hands sliding up your back, nails scratching trails you’ll probably feel tomorrow but don’t give a shit about now. “Fuck, you’re so good,” she mutters against your lips, voice all shaky and wrecked, and it’s unreal hearing her like this. You pull back just enough to look at her—face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted—and it’s a punch to the gut how gorgeous she is, how much you’ve always wanted this without even knowing it. “You’re killing me,” you say, and she cracks a grin, all smug even while she’s getting railed. “Good,” she shoots back, “you deserve it for making me wait this long.”

Her legs tighten around you, heels digging into your ass, and you pick up the pace, slamming into her harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside her gasps and your grunts. The bed’s a mess—sheets twisted, pillows shoved aside—and her room smells like sex and that lavender shit she loves, mixing into something heady and overwhelming. You bury your face in her neck, kissing and sucking at the skin there, leaving marks because fuck it, she’s yours now, right? She tilts her head to give you more room, moaning your name—your actual name, not some dumb nickname—and it’s like a jolt straight to your dick, making you thrust even deeper. “Shit, say that again,” you rasp, and she does, over and over, each time a little louder, a little needier, until it’s a chant that’s got you drunk on her.

You shift, propping yourself up on your forearms so you can watch her—watch the way her tits bounce with every thrust, the way her stomach tenses, the way her hands claw at your shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself. “You’re so fucking hot,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t keep it in, and she laughs, breathless, her voice hitching when you hit just the right spot. “Took you long enough to notice, dumbass,” she manages, but then you angle your hips and she’s gasping instead, all “Oh—fuck, there, right there,” and you know you’ve got her. You keep at it, relentless, because she’s squeezing you so tight it’s like she’s trying to pull you in and never let go, and you’re happy to oblige—hell, you’d live here if she asked.

Her hair’s fanned out on the pillow, dark strands sticking to her sweaty forehead, and you brush it aside, kissing her again because you can’t not—she’s too much, too perfect, too everything. “Always knew you’d be trouble,” you murmur against her mouth, and she nips at your lip, grinning. “You love it, though,” she says, and yeah, you do—love the way she’s unraveling under you, love the way she’s still somehow calling the shots even when she’s pinned beneath you, love that this is Eunbi, your best friend, the one person who’s been there through every stupid fight and late-night rant, now moaning like she can’t get enough. You slide a hand down her side, gripping her hip to pull her closer, and she arches, meeting every thrust like she’s daring you to go harder. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, bossy and hot, and you groan, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

The rhythm’s steady now, hard and fast, and she’s matching you, rolling her hips up in time, her thighs trembling against your sides. You can feel the sweat slick between you, her skin sliding against yours, and it’s filthy and raw and so fucking good. “You feel so amazing,” you say, because you need her to know, and she nods, eyes fluttering open to lock on yours. “You too,” she breathes, and there’s this moment—brief, electric—where it’s not just sex, it’s you and her, years of friendship crashing into something bigger, something real. Then she’s grabbing your face, pulling you down for another kiss, and it’s sloppy, uncoordinated, but you don’t care because she’s grinding up against you, chasing whatever’s building between you, and you’re right there with her, lost in the heat and the want.

You shift again, hooking one of her legs over your shoulder, and she gasps, loud and sharp, her hands fisting the sheets. “Fuck, that’s—yeah, keep going,” she says, and you do, driving into her at this new angle that’s got her shaking, got you seeing stars. Her other leg’s still wrapped around you, pulling you in, and you’re pressed so close it’s like you’re trying to fuse into her. “You’re insane,” you mutter, half-laughing. She smirks, even now, and says, “You’re welcome,” like she’s doing you a favor, and maybe she is—maybe this is the best damn favor anyone’s ever done you. You kiss her again, swallowing her moans, and keep going, hard and steady, because she’s still melting under you, still begging for more with every thrust, and you’re not about to disappoint her—not now.

You’re deep in it with Eunbi, pounding into her like there’s no tomorrow, the bedframe rattling with every thrust, and it’s this wild, relentless rhythm that’s got sweat dripping down your back and her moaning into your mouth. Her pussy’s tight and slick around you, pulling you in with every move, and you’re pressed so close her tits are mashed against your chest, her nipples hard against your skin. She’s clawing at your shoulders, legs locked around your hips, and you’re both lost in it—grunting, gasping, chasing that high together. It’s been nonstop, a blur of heat and need, and you’re so wrapped up in how fucking incredible she feels that you barely register the way her breath hitches, sharper now, like she’s shifting gears. Then she’s pushing against your chest, not hard, just enough to get your attention, and her voice cuts through the haze, all raspy and commanding: “Wait—let me ride you.” You freeze for a split second, brain catching up, but she’s already moving, nudging you back with that bossy little smirk she’s always had, and fuck if it doesn’t make you want her even more. You let her take the lead—because it’s Eunbi, and she’s been running this show since you started—and flop back onto the bed, pillows bunching under your head as she straddles you, confidence and hunger in her eyes.

She doesn’t waste a second, swinging a leg over you and settling on your lap, her hands flat on your chest as she lines herself up. You’re still hard as hell, cock twitching when she grips you, giving you a quick stroke that has you biting your lip to keep from groaning too loud. Then she sinks down, slow at first, taking you in inch by inch, and—shit—it’s a whole new kind of torture, watching her take control like this. Her pussy’s so wet you can hear it, this filthy little sound mixing with her moans as she bottoms out, hips flush against yours. “Oh fuck, that’s good,” she breathes, head tipping back, and you can’t tear your eyes off her—her hair’s a sweaty mess, sticking to her neck, and her body’s glistening in the dim light of her room. She starts moving, rolling her hips in this smooth, deliberate way that’s got you gripping the sheets, and her tits—those big, perfect tits—swing with every bounce, heavy and hypnotic. It’s sexy as hell, seeing her dominate you like this, owning every second, every thrust, and knowing she’s getting off on your cock just as much as you’re losing it over her.

She’s not quiet about it either—Eunbi’s never been shy, but this is next-level. “Goddamn, your cock’s so fucking good,” she says, and she’s looking down at you now, eyes dark and wild. “I can’t believe how perfect you feel—shit, I’m gonna be addicted to this.” Her hands slide up her own body, cupping her breasts, squeezing them hard enough that her fingers sink into the soft flesh, and she groans, loud and unfiltered, like she’s putting on a show just for you. You grin, chest heaving, and shoot back, “That’s no problem, babe. Once we’re married, you’ll get this dick every damn day.” It’s half a joke, half a promise, but the way her eyes light up, you know it lands. She laughs, this bright, giddy sound that’s so her—your best friend, your partner-in-crime—and leans down, still riding you, her hips never missing a beat. Her lips crash into yours, and it’s messy, her moaning into your mouth while she grinds down harder, chasing whatever’s building in her.

You’ve got your hands on her hips now, fingers digging into the curve of her ass, helping her move because you can’t just lie there and take it—you need to feel her, need to meet her halfway. She’s bouncing faster, tits swaying right in your face, and you’re mesmerized by the way they jiggle, the way her nipples brush your chest every time she leans forward. “You like this, huh?” she pants, smirking down at you, and you nod, too caught up to play it cool. “Fuck yeah, you’re killing me,” you say, voice rough, and she giggles again, squeezing her own tits harder, thumbs flicking over her nipples. “Good. Been wanting to ride you forever—should’ve known you’d be this fun to fuck.” It’s classic Eunbi, that mix of teasing and raw honesty, and it hits you square in the chest—years of friendship flipping into this, into her on top of you, talking dirty like it’s nothing, like it’s always been leading here.

Her pace picks up, hips snapping down with this wet, rhythmic slap that’s got your head spinning, and she’s loud now—moans, curses, your name tumbling out like she can’t help it. “Fuck, you’re so deep,” she gasps, one hand braced on your chest, the other still kneading her breast, and you can feel her tightening around you, hot and slick and relentless. You slide a hand up her thigh, gripping hard, and she shudders, leaning into you more, her hair falling over her face like a curtain. You brush it back, wanting to see her—see the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut when you thrust up to meet her, matching her rhythm. “You’re so fucking sexy like this,” you tell her, because it’s true, and she grins, breathless, leaning down again to kiss you, her tongue sliding against yours in this sloppy, perfect mess. “Takes one to know one,” she murmurs against your lips, and you laugh, the sound catching in your throat when she clenches around you, riding you harder.

She’s in total control now, hips rolling and grinding, and you’re just along for the ride—literally—watching her take what she wants, loving every second of it. Her thighs flex against your sides, strong and soft all at once, and you can’t stop staring—at her face, her body, the way she’s so into it, so into you. “God, why didn’t we do this sooner?” she says, and you groan, hands roaming her back, her ass, anywhere you can reach. “Beats me,” you mutter, “but we’re here now, so fucking enjoy it.” She nods, kissing you again, and it’s all heat and want, her tongue tangling with yours as she keeps moving, keeps fucking you like she’s got something to prove. Her breasts bounce against you, and you’re tempted to grab them, but she’s already got that covered, squeezing them herself, moaning louder every time she shifts just right.

“You’re stuck with me now,” she says, grinning through a moan, and you fire back, “Like I’d ever wanna get rid of you.” It’s cheesy, yeah, but it’s real, and she leans into it, kissing you deep, her hips never slowing, her body pressed so tight against yours it’s like you’re one person. You’re drowning in her—in the feel of her, the sound of her, the fact that this is Eunbi, your best friend, riding you like she’s claiming you for good. And honestly? You’re totally fucking fine with that.

The rhythm’s relentless, her pussy squeezing you so tight it’s like she’s got you in a vice, all wet and hot and addictive. She’s panting hard, sweat beading on her forehead, her hair sticking to her neck in damp strands, and you can feel her starting to unravel, her movements getting sloppier, more desperate. Then she grabs your shoulders, nails digging in, and her voice comes out all shaky and raw: “Fuck, I’m close—I’m gonna cum on your dick.” It’s like a switch flips in you—her saying that, so filthy and sure, lights something wild up in your chest. You wrap your arms around her back, locking her against you, her skin slick against yours, and take over. You thrust up into her, hard and nonstop, slamming into that tight, pink heat with everything you’ve got, and she screams—this loud, wild sound that bounces off the walls, pure pleasure ripping out of her.

“Shit, babe, cum for me,” you say, the pet name slipping out natural as hell, and her eyes widen, like it’s flipped some switch in her too. She’s a mess now—moaning your name, clawing at your back, her tits pressed so tight against you they’re practically suffocating, and you love it. “Oh my god—yes, fuck, keep going,” she gasps, her head tipping back, exposing her throat, and you lean in, kissing the sweat-salted skin there, tasting her as you pound into her. Her pussy’s making these wet, sloppy noises, loud and obscene, and it’s driving you insane, every thrust sinking you deeper into her, her walls fluttering like she’s about to lose it. “I’m gonna cum—fuck, I’m cumming,” she cries, and then it hits—her whole body locks up, trembling hard against you, her thighs shaking around your hips as she comes apart. It’s intense, like she’s shattering, her moans turning into these broken little gasps, and you hold her tight, arms wrapped around her like you’re keeping her from flying off the bed. You slow down, just enough to let her ride it out, and kiss her—deep, slow, her lips trembling against yours as she tries to catch her breath.

When you pull back, her eyes are wide, glassy, staring at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. She’s still shaking, her chest heaving, and then she says it, voice soft but so fucking clear: “I love you.” It’s not a whisper, not a throwaway—it’s real, raw, like the orgasm cracked something open inside her. “Oh my god, I love you,” she repeats, almost laughing, like she can’t believe she’s saying it but can’t stop either. Your heart does this stupid flip, because—fuck—you’ve always felt it too, buried somewhere under years of dumb jokes and late-night hangouts. “I love you too,” you say, grinning, and it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever said. “Always have.” Her face lights up, this mix of shock and joy, and she grabs you, kissing you hard, all teeth and tongue and desperation, like she’s trying to pour everything she’s feeling into it. You kiss her back just as fierce, hands sliding up her back, fingers digging into her skin, and she’s still clenching around you, still riding the aftershocks, but now she’s got this fire in her eyes. “I’m gonna make you cum, babe,” she says, and the way she calls you babe—affectionate and possessive—makes your dick twitch inside her.

She pulls off you then, slow and deliberate, and you almost groan at the loss of her heat, but she’s already moving, sliding off your lap with this sexy little smirk. “Sit on the edge,” she says, nodding toward the bed, and you don’t argue—why would you? You scoot over, planting your feet on the floor, legs spread, and she’s on her knees in front of you in a flash, smooth skin and wild hair, looking up at you like she’s about to ruin you in the best way. Your cock’s still hard, slick with her, and she reaches for the condom, peeling it off with this slow, teasing tug that has you gritting your teeth. “Don’t need this anymore,” she mutters, tossing it aside, and before you can process that, she’s stroking you—light, loose, her fingers barely grazing you but enough to make you hiss. Then she leans in, purses her lips, and spits on your dick—straight-up, no hesitation, this wet little glob sliding down the shaft, and it’s filthy and hot and so fucking Eunbi. You groan, head tipping back, and she grins, all smug, before scooting closer, her hands cupping her tits and pushing them together.

She wraps those big, perfect breasts around your cock, and—holy shit—it’s unreal. Soft, warm, squeezing you tight as she slides them up and down, the spit and her sweat making it slick and smooth. “You like that, babe?” she asks, voice low and playful, and you nod, too choked up to talk properly. “Fuck yes,” you manage, and she laughs, this bright, happy sound that’s so at odds with how dirty this is—but that’s her, always been her, mixing sweet and wild like it’s nothing. Her nipples are hard, brushing your thighs as she moves, and you can’t stop staring—her tits swallowing your dick, the way her hands press them tighter, the little moans she lets out like she’s getting off on this as much as you are. “Always wanted to do this,” she says, looking up at you through her lashes, and you believe her—there’s this hunger in her eyes, like she’s been holding back for years, same as you. “Should’ve known you’d be perfect for it,” you say, and she winks, sliding her tits down slow, then back up, dragging it out just to fuck with you.

Her pace picks up, hands working her breasts around you, and she’s talking now, all breathy and hot: “God, your cock feels so good like this—gonna need this all the time now.” You groan, hands fisting the sheets because she’s relentless, the wet slide of her skin against you driving you up the wall. “You’ve got me whenever you want,” you tell her, and it’s a promise—pact or not, she’s got you hooked. She leans forward, kissing the tip of your dick where it peeks out between her tits, and it’s so soft, so unexpected, you nearly lose it right there. “Good,” she murmurs, lips brushing you as she speaks, “because I’m not letting you go, babe.” That word again—babe—and it’s doing shit to you, making this feel bigger than just sex, like it’s always been more with her. She keeps going, tits bouncing around you, her eyes locked on yours, and it’s intense—passionate, dirty, and so fucking personal, like she’s rewriting every rule you ever had about what you are to each other. You’re hers, she’s yours, and this—her on her knees, fucking you with her tits—is just the start.

You’re so fucking close you can feel it building, this tight, hot pressure in your gut. She knows it too—can tell by the way your breath’s hitching, the way your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re your lifeline. Her eyes lock on yours, dark and wicked, and she smirks, slowing down just enough to drag it out, to make you squirm. Then she gets naughtier, leaning in close, her voice dropping to this sweet, needy little whine that hits you hard. “Cum for me, babe,” she begs, lips pouting like she’s pleading for her life. “Please—give it to me, I need it.” It’s so hot, so filthy coming from her—Eunbi, your best friend turned lover, begging like she’s starving for you—and it’s shredding what’s left of your self-control.

She doesn’t stop there, oh no—she’s on a mission now, pushing you right to the edge. “Mark me,” she says, voice trembling with want, “make me yours forever—cover me in you.” Her tits slide up and down faster, squeezing tighter, and she’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in her world. “That’s what you want, right? To make me yours?” There’s this challenge in her tone, daring you to deny it, but fuck, you can’t—because it is what you want, more than anything. “Yeah,” you rasp, “that’s exactly what I want—been wanting it forever.” Her smile turns feral, triumphant, and she leans in closer, her breath hot against your cock as it peeks out between her breasts. “Then do it,” she whispers, “cum on my tits—make me yours, babe.” It’s the babe that does it, that little pet name she’s claimed for you, dripping with affection and ownership, and you’re done for. She picks up the pace, relentless now, her hands pressing her breasts together so tight it’s almost painful, and you can feel it—the heat, the pressure, the way she’s moaning like she’s getting off on this as much as you are.

“I’m gonna cum,” you groan, head tipping back, and she lights up, this eager, hungry glint in her eyes. “Yes—fuck, do it,” she moans, and it’s like she’s egging you on, her voice wrapping around you, pulling you over the line. You explode—thick, hot jets shooting out, painting her tits in messy streaks, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You moan loud, this guttural sound ripping out of you, and she’s right there with you, gasping, “More, babe—give me more!” like she’s addicted already. And you do—cum keeps coming, splashing across her chest, dripping down between her breasts, and she’s loving it, tilting her head back so it catches the light, all glossy and hypnotic. Her skin’s glistening, covered in you, and you’re shaking, legs weak, watching it spread, marking her like she asked. She’s grinning, this wild, delighted smile, and her hands slide over her tits, smearing it around, rubbing it in like it’s some kind of trophy. “Look at you,” she says, voice husky and proud, “fucking wrecked me—made me yours.”

You’re panting, chest heaving, and when you finally look at her—really look—she’s a vision: hair a sweaty mess, cheeks flushed, cum streaked across her chest like some dirty masterpiece. There’s this beat of silence, just the two of you breathing hard, staring at each other, and then you say it again, because it’s bursting out of you: “I love you.” It’s raw, unguarded, and her face softens, that smug edge melting into something adorable, something real. Her lips curve into this shy, perfect smile, and she crawls up the bed, straddling your lap again, her messy, cum-slick tits pressing against your chest as she leans in close. “I love you too,” she whispers, and it’s not just words—it’s everything, years of friendship crashing into this moment, turning it into something permanent. You grab her face, pulling her into a kiss, tasting of sweat and sex and promises neither of you can take back.

She pulls away, just enough to look at you, her forehead resting against yours, and you’re still reeling from it all—the titjob, the way she begged, the way you lost it all over her. “You need to be mine,” you say, “what just happened—it’s different, Eunbi. I’ve never felt anything like this.” Your hands slide down her back, gripping her ass, holding her there like you’re afraid she’ll slip away. She nods, eyes shining, and says, “I want that—I wanna be yours, only yours.” It’s quiet, serious, and you feel it settle in your bones—this isn’t just a hookup, not some pact gone wild. It’s you and her, rewriting the rules, crossing every line you ever drew, and there’s no going back. She kisses you again, hard and possessive, her tongue claiming you like she’s sealing the deal, and you’re all in—heart pounding, hands roaming, totally fucking smitten by the girl who’s been your everything since day one.

She breaks the kiss, sliding off you, and you’re still dazed, watching her move. She grabs a towel from the floor—some random thing she must’ve tossed earlier—and wipes herself down, casual as hell, like she didn’t just change your entire world. “Guess we’re official now, huh?” she says, smirking, and you laugh, this shaky, relieved sound, because yeah, you are—official, exclusive, whatever the fuck you wanna call it. “Damn right,” you say, pulling her back to you, her body warm and sticky against yours. “You’re stuck with me, babe.” She grins, all teeth and mischief, and says, “Good, ‘cause I’m not letting you off easy.” And that’s it—friendship torched, replaced with this messy, beautiful thing that’s all yours, all hers, forever marked by the night she begged for you and you gave her everything.

—

A few months fly by since that wild night with Eunbi, and it’s been this whirlwind of figuring shit out together—dates squeezed between her insane idol schedule, late-night takeout sessions at her place, and sneaky hookups whenever you can steal a moment. You’re not just best friends anymore; you’re together, like, for real, and it’s messy and amazing all at once. She’s still the same Eunbi—teasing you over dumb stuff like how you always burn the toast, or laughing her ass off when you trip over her heels she leaves lying around—but now there’s this extra layer, this warmth when she looks at you, and you catch yourself staring at her like a total sap sometimes. Then, out of nowhere, it happens: the wedding. You’d talked about the pact turning real, half-joking at first, but one day she just looks at you over coffee and says, “Let’s do it—let’s get married,” and you’re like, “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.” So you plan it quick—nothing huge, just enough to make it official—and the news drops like a bomb on her fans. Twitter’s a mess, all “EUNBI’S MARRIED???” and “WHO’S THE GUY?”, but she’s not fazed. She’s not quitting the idol life—hell no, she’s too good at it—but she’s all in with you, and that’s what matters. Her inner circle, though? They’re not shocked at all. Her manager just smirks and says, “About damn time,” and your mutual friends—ones who’ve watched you two dance around each other since high school—act like they’ve been holding their breath for this forever. “Finally,” one of them texts you, with a string of eye-roll emojis, and you can’t help but laugh because maybe they’re right—maybe everyone’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

The wedding day hits, and it’s this perfect mix of chaos and chill, set in this sleek little venue just outside the city—modern vibes with big windows, fairy lights strung up everywhere, and a view of the skyline that’s straight out of a movie. You’re in a sharp black suit, nothing too flashy, but Eunbi picked it out and said you looked “hot as hell,” so you’re feeling yourself. She walks in, and—fuck—she’s unreal. Her dress is this slinky, off-white number that hugs her curves perfectly, simple but sexy, with a slit up the leg that’s got you sweating already. Her hair’s down, loose waves framing her face, and she’s got this glow, like she’s lit up from the inside. The ceremony’s small—her parents, yours, a tight crew of friends, and her group members who’ve basically adopted you as their brother-in-law already. You stand at the front, palms sweaty, heart doing flips, and when she walks toward you, grinning like an idiot, you’re nervous as shit but so damn excited you can barely stand it. The officiant’s some cool, laid-back guy you found online, keeping it short and sweet—no cheesy vows, just the basics, because you and Eunbi agreed you’d rather wing it than read some scripted crap. You slip the ring on her finger—a thin gold band with a tiny diamond she insisted on because “I’m not flashy, babe”—and she slides yours on, her hands steady even though her eyes are glistening.

You say “I do,” she says it back, and then you’re kissing her—harder than you probably should in front of everyone, but the cheers and whistles from your friends drown out any awkwardness. She’s laughing against your lips, and you pull her close, her body pressed against yours, and it’s like the world clicks into place. The reception’s a blur of good vibes—there’s a playlist blasting all her favorite songs, a mix of Iz*One, her solo hits and some random 2000s throwbacks you both love, and you’re dancing like idiots, her spinning you around until you’re dizzy. She’s giggling, tipsy on champagne, and you’re right there with her, sneaking kisses between bites of cake—chocolate with raspberry filling, her pick because she’s obsessed with anything sweet and tart. Her mom hugs you tight, whispering, “Take care of her, okay?” and your dad claps you on the back, grinning like he’s proud as hell. Eunbi’s dad just nods, all stoic, but you catch him smiling later when he thinks no one’s looking. Your mom’s crying, of course, and Eunbi teases her about it, which makes everyone laugh.

At one point, you snag a quiet moment—just you and her on the venue’s balcony, city lights sprawling out below, the air cool against your flushed skin. She’s leaning against the railing, dress fluttering in the breeze, and you wrap your arms around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. “This is real, huh?” you ask, because it still feels surreal—married to your best friend, the girl who once dared you to jump into a freezing lake just to see if you’d do it. She turns in your arms, looking up at you with those big, dark eyes, and nods. “Yeah, babe, it’s real—and I’m freaking out a little, but in a good way.” You laugh, kissing her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, soft and slow this time. “Me too. Nervous as shit, but excited. We’re in this together, right?” She smiles, that wide, goofy one that’s always gotten you, and says, “Always. We’ll figure it out—new life, new rules, whatever. Just don’t burn the house down trying to cook, okay?” You snort, because yeah, fair point, and pull her closer, her head tucking under your chin like it’s made to fit there.

The party winds down, friends stumbling out with hugs and sloppy goodbyes, and you’re left standing there with Eunbi, her hand in yours, rings glinting under the lights. You’re both a little buzzed, a little teary from the emotional rollercoaster, but so fucking happy it’s ridiculous. She drags you back inside to grab one last dance—some slow, sappy song she loves—and you sway together, her cheek against your chest, your arms tight around her. “You’re my husband now,” she murmurs, testing the word, and you grin, this dumb, lovesick thing that won’t leave your face. “And you’re my wife. Still can’t believe it.” She tilts her head up, kissing you deep, and it’s not just a kiss—it’s a promise, a kickstart to whatever this new chapter’s gonna be. The night ends with you driving back to her place—your place now, technically—her hand on your thigh, the city blurring past, and you’re both quiet, soaking it in. It’s the start of something huge, scary, thrilling, and you’re diving in headfirst, together, like you always have.

—

The first few weeks of married life with Eunbi are this weird, hilarious mix of disbelief and dumbassery, like neither of you can wrap your heads around the whole “husband and wife” thing. You’re stumbling over the words, especially when you’re drunk—slouched on the couch with a beer in hand, her giggling over a glass of wine, and you’ll slur out, “Hey, wife, pass me the remote,” and she’ll cackle, tossing a cushion at your face instead, yelling, “Shut up, husband, get it yourself!” It’s all a joke, this exaggerated play-acting that cracks you both up, but then there’s the sex—holy shit, the sex—and it’s like a whole other level of unreal. You’re fucking like newlyweds, which, duh, you are, but it’s not just hot—it’s mind-blowing, the kind of sex that leaves you both sweaty and panting, tangled in sheets, staring at the ceiling like what the fuck just happened? Afterward, though, it’s not just hormones—it’s this quiet, gooey moment where you’re lying there, her head on your chest, your fingers in her hair, and you’re hit with it: you’re in love, stupidly, totally in love. She’ll mumble something sleepy like, “You’re stuck with me now, babe,” and you’ll kiss her forehead, muttering back, “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” and it’s cheesy as hell but true.

Work’s a trip too—word got around fast that you’re hitched to Kwon Eunbi, the idol, and it’s this running gag now. Your coworkers rib you constantly, like, “How’s it feel being Mr. Superstar?” or “Dude, you’re living a K-drama,” you just laugh, grinning, because yeah, it’s wild, but you’re lowkey proud of it. Meanwhile, Eunbi’s in beast mode—working on her new solo album, late-night studio sessions and vocal takes, while filming some reality show where she’s probably charming the pants off everyone. She’s busy as fuck, always on the go, but when she comes home—your home now, her sleek apartment with the killer view—she’s all smiles, kicking off her sneakers and collapsing onto the couch with a dramatic groan. “Missed you, loser,” she’ll say, and you’re already there, tossing her a water bottle, rubbing her shoulders because she’s wrecked from dance practice. She takes care of you too—cooking ramen at 2 a.m. when you’re both starving, or dragging you to bed when you’ve been up too late scrolling Tiktok. You’re texting nonstop when she’s away—dumb memes, her sending selfies with captions like “Your wife’s hot, deal with it,” and you firing back, “Yeah, my husband’s a snack too, what’s new?” It’s this constant thread, keeping you tethered even when her schedule’s a nightmare.

Weeks bleed into months, and you settle into this rhythm that’s equal parts new and familiar. Waking up next to Eunbi is the best damn part of your day—her sleepy face is adorable, all puffy cheeks and half-open eyes, hair a tangled mess across the pillow. She’ll grumble something incoherent, swatting at you if you try to wake her too early, but then she’ll roll over, snuggling into your chest like she’s claiming you, and you’re just lying there, grinning like an idiot because this is your life now. Mornings are a vibe—she’ll shuffle around the apartment in a tank top and panties, legs bare, that perfect ass on display, and you can’t help yourself. You’ll catch her mid-pancake flip or while she’s brewing coffee, sliding up behind her, hands on her hips, kissing her neck until she squeals and shoves you off—except half the time she doesn’t, and it turns into more. “Babe, I’m gonna burn the eggs!” she’ll laugh, but then you’re spinning her around, pinning her against the counter, and breakfast’s forgotten. One thing leads to another—her legs wrapped around you, tank top shoved up, panties on the floor—and you’re fucking right there in the kitchen, her moaning into your mouth, messy and desperate like it’s still the honeymoon phase. The friendship’s still there, rock-solid, just layered with this new heat—she’ll still roast you for leaving socks everywhere, but now it’s followed by a kiss that lingers too long to be platonic.

The apartment’s your little bubble—her minimalist decor mixed with your random junk, like the beat-up guitar you insist you’ll learn to play someday, or the stack of takeout menus you’ve hoarded “just in case.” She’s got her awards lined up on a shelf, shiny reminders of her idol life, but she’s just as happy sprawled on the couch with you, bingeing some trashy Netflix show, her feet in your lap while you argue over who’d survive a zombie apocalypse. When she’s wiped from a long day—voice hoarse from recording, body aching from choreography—you’re there, running her a bath, making her laugh with dumb impressions until she’s relaxed again. She does the same for you—when work’s kicking your ass, she’ll show up with coffee and a playlist, pulling you out of your funk with that smile that’s always worked on you. Months in, it’s routine but never boring—waking up to her, trading texts, coming home to each other. The sex is still fire, the love’s deep, and the friendship? Stronger than ever, like marriage didn’t just add a ring but superglued what you already had.

—

After months of Eunbi being swallowed whole by her insane schedule—tour dates stacked back-to-back, promo shoots, and those late-night studio sessions that left her voice raspy and her texts to you half-asleep—you finally catch a break. Her new solo album’s a hit, the tour’s wrapped, and she’s got some rare free time stretching out ahead of her like a gift. You’re quick to cash in on it, begging your boss for that long-delayed vacation you’ve been sitting on forever, and when it’s approved, you don’t even hesitate—Paris. It’s been on Eunbi’s bucket list since you were just best friends, back when she’d sprawl across your couch with a bowl of popcorn, scrolling through Instagram, sighing over pics of the Eiffel Tower and croissants, saying, “One day, dude, I’m dragging you there with me.” Now, here you are, married to her, making it happen. You book the flights, snag a cute little Airbnb near Montmartre with a balcony that’s begging for lazy mornings, and when you land in the city of love, it’s like the universe hands you both a gold star—perfect weather, crisp and cool, with that golden Paris light making everything look like a postcard.

The first big stop is the Eiffel Tower, because, well, you can’t not. It’s this crisp afternoon, the kind where the wind’s just chilly enough to justify the scarf Eunbi insisted you pack, and she’s bouncing around like a kid, her puffy jacket zipped up tight, a beanie squashing her hair flat. She’s got her phone out, snapping pics like a tourist—selfies with the tower looming behind you, her dragging you into frame even though you’re grumbling about how you hate photos. “Babe, come on, we need this for the memories!” she says, grinning, and you can’t say no to that smile, so you let her pose you—arm around her waist, her leaning into you, the iron lattice of the tower stretching up into the sky as if it were the Eighth Wonder of the World. You take some too, catching her off-guard when she’s laughing at some dumb joke you made about the French berets, her eyes crinkling, cheeks pink from the cold. There’s this one shot—her dazzled by the view, smiling, hair flying in the wind, the tower sharp in the background—that you know’s going straight to your lockscreen when you’re back home. You climb up to the second level, her dragging you by the hand, and when you’re looking out over the city—Seine glittering below, all those rooftops sprawling out—she squeezes your fingers, whispering, “This is fucking unreal,” and you’re nodding, too choked up to say much because yeah, it is, and it’s her you’re here with.

Nights are for romantic dinners, and Paris delivers hard. You find this little bistro near the Seine, tucked away with ivy crawling up the walls, candles flickering on every table, and a menu that’s all in French but smells like heaven. Eunbi’s in this slinky black dress she packed “just in case,” and you’re in the one nice jacket you own, feeling like a king when she keeps stealing glances at you over her wine glass. The waiter’s rattling off specials in this thick accent, and you’re both pretending to understand, nodding like idiots until you just point at something with “canard” in it—duck, you figure—and hope for the best. It’s delicious, rich and tender, paired with this red wine she picked that’s got her giggling after two sips. “You’re my husband,” she says out of nowhere, twirling her fork, “and we’re in Paris—how did we get here?” You laugh, reaching across the table to grab her hand, thumb brushing her ring. “Beats me, but I’m not complaining.” The food keeps coming—crusty bread, some creamy soup she moans over, and a dessert that’s all chocolate and raspberries, which she feeds you a bite of, smirking when you get some on your chin. It’s intimate, easy, and you’re falling harder for her under the soft glow of the restaurant, the hum of French chatter around you making it feel like you’re in some dreamy movie.

You wander the city too—not just the big stuff, but the little streets, the ones with cobblestones and pastel storefronts selling macarons and flowers. She’s obsessed with the patisseries, dragging you into every one she spots, and you’re stuffed on croissants and éclairs by day three, but you don’t care because she’s licking powdered sugar off her fingers and laughing at you when you try to speak French to the cashier and butcher it. “Stick to English, babe,” she teases, but she’s proud anyway, you can tell. One evening, you’re strolling along the Champs-Élysées, lights twinkling, her arm looped through yours, and she stops to watch some street musician playing accordion. She’s swaying a little, humming along, and you pull her into this goofy slow dance right there on the sidewalk, people dodging around you, some smiling, some rolling their eyes. “You’re such a dork,” she mutters, but she’s grinning, her cheek pressed to your chest, and you feel like the luckiest guy alive.

Back at the Airbnb, it’s all cozy vibes—big windows letting in the night, a bottle of cheap wine you grabbed from a corner store, and her curled up against you on the tiny couch. You’re both buzzed, talking about everything—how she wants to come back for your anniversary, how you’re gonna frame that Eiffel Tower pic for the apartment. She’s in one of your hoodies, legs thrown over your lap, and you’re playing with her hair, twirling it around your fingers, when she looks up at you, all soft and serious. “I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did,” she says, voice quiet, “but this—us, here—it’s like… more.” You swallow hard, because fuck, you feel it too, this deep, steady thing that’s bigger than Paris, bigger than the wedding. “Same,” you say, leaning in to kiss her, slow and lazy, tasting wine and her, and it’s like every cheesy love song rolled into one perfect moment.

The days blur together—museums where she drags you to see Monet paintings and you pretend to get it, boat rides on the Seine where she’s snapping pics of you instead of the scenery, late mornings tangled in bed because neither of you wants to get up. You’re falling harder in the city of love, not just because it’s Paris, but because it’s her—Eunbi, your wife, the girl who’s always been it for you. By the time you’re packing to leave, suitcases stuffed with souvenirs and her whining about how she didn’t get enough macarons, you’re already planning the next trip. “We’re coming back,” she declares, zipping her bag, and you grin, pulling her into a hug. “Hell yeah, we are.”

—

You and Eunbi stumble through the door of your apartment, jet-lagged as hell from the Paris trip, dragging suitcases that feel like they’ve gained ten pounds from all the souvenirs and random shit you couldn’t resist buying. The flight back was a nightmare—turbulence, a crying baby two rows up, and Eunbi accidentally spilling her in-flight coffee on your lap—but you’re home now, and that’s all that matters. You’re both wrecked, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy, but there’s this quiet, happy buzz between you, like you’ve just pulled off something epic. Paris was a dream—croissants flaky enough to make you cry, the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night, Eunbi dragging you into every cute café she could find—and you’re still riding that high. After kicking off your shoes and leaving a trail of bags by the door, you both agree a bath’s non-negotiable. The tub’s big enough for two, thank God, and you sink into the hot water together, her back against your chest, steam curling up around you. She’s got her hair piled into a messy bun, and you’re just soaking there, letting the ache melt out of your bones, laughing about how she almost got pickpocketed by some slick dude near Notre-Dame but scared him off with her death glare. “I’m a badass, babe,” she says, smirking, and you kiss the top of her head, muttering, “Yeah, my badass wife.”

Clean and lazy, you flop onto the bed in nothing but towels, still damp, too tired to bother with clothes. The mattress feels like heaven after long hours of flying, and you grab your phone, scrolling through the Paris pics—Eunbi cheesing in front of the Louvre, you pretending to hold up the Arc de Triomphe, a blurry selfie of you two kissing on a Seine river cruise. She scoots closer, resting her chin on your shoulder, and you can feel her smiling against your skin. “Paris was my dream, you know,” she says, voice soft, “and doing it with you? Fucking perfect.” You turn your head, catching her eyes, and there’s this warm, mushy thing in your chest because yeah, it was perfect—wandering Montmartre, getting lost in those winding streets, her laughing so hard at your shitty French accent that wine came out her nose. But then she goes quiet, scrolling through more pics, and her vibe shifts—nostalgic, almost wistful. “Remember when we were just friends?” she starts, and you know she’s about to dive deep. “Like, all those late nights at my old place, me bitching about auditions, you bringing me ramen because I was too broke to eat out. I told you stuff I never told anyone—how scared I was I’d flop, how I thought I’d never make it. You just got me, always did, and I was so fucking blind to how obvious it was.”

You laugh, setting the phone down, rolling onto your side to face her. “Obvious, huh? Guess I was clueless too—thought you were just my annoying best friend who stole my fries and cried during horror movies.” She smacks your arm, grinning, but there’s this tenderness in her eyes. “We were idiots,” she says, “all those years, and it was right there. Like that time you stayed over after my first big show, sleeping on that shitty couch because you didn’t wanna leave me alone—I should’ve known then.” You nod, remembering—her buzzing with adrenaline, you half-dead from cheering so loud, crashing out with her head on your shoulder. “Yeah, or that time you dragged me to the beach at 3 a.m. just to scream at the ocean after that dickhead dumped you,” you add, and she snorts, burying her face in the pillow. “God, I was a mess. But you were there—always were.” It’s heavy, this trip down memory lane, but it’s sweet too, stitching together all those moments that led to now—married, in love, still the same dumbasses but better.

The next day, you’re up and at it, hitting the grocery store like some normal-ass couple, which still feels wild to you. Eunbi’s in a hoodie and sweats, hair tucked under a cap to dodge any fans, and you’re pushing the cart, bickering over whether to get the spicy ramen or the mild one. “You’re such a wimp,” she teases, tossing the spicy pack in, and you fire back, “Says the girl who cried eating hot wings last week.” She hip-checks you, laughing, and it’s easy, domestic, but then you’re in the cereal aisle, and she gets quiet again, picking up a box of Frosted Flakes like it’s a time machine. “Did you ever, like, feel something back then?” she asks, not looking at you, and you lean against the cart, thinking. “Yeah, sometimes,” you admit, “like when you’d hug me a little too long after a bad day, or that time you fell asleep on me during movie night—I’d catch myself staring, wondering, but I’d shove it down ‘cause I didn’t wanna fuck us up.” She nods, chewing her lip, then says, “Me too. That summer at the lake house, you in those stupid board shorts—I’d catch myself staring, thinking, ‘Shit, he’s hot,’ but I’d panic and pretend it was nothing.”

You laugh, loud enough that some old lady glares at you from the next aisle, and Eunbi shushes you, giggling. “We’re so dumb,” she says, but it’s fond, and you grab her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. “Guess we figured it out eventually,” you say, and she squeezes back, smiling. Then it shifts—future talk sneaking in over canned goods. “You think we’ll have kids someday?” she asks, casual but not, and you shrug, grabbing some soup. “Yeah, maybe—little terrors running around, half you, half me. They’d be cute as hell, though.” She grins, tossing in some pasta. “They’d get your dumb laugh and my killer vocals—unstoppable.” You’re both laughing now, plotting this hypothetical life—where you’ll live, how you’ll juggle her career, maybe a dog first because “practice parenting,” she says. It’s light but real, this shared dream unfolding between shelves of snacks and detergent.

—

You and Eunbi are knee-deep in moving boxes, the new apartment a chaotic sprawl of cardboard, bubble wrap, and random shit you didn’t even know you owned. It's an improved version of her old place, providing more space to build a future. The hardwood floors gleam under the afternoon sun, but right now, they’re a minefield of half-unpacked crap—your old gaming console tangled in cords, her collection of stage outfits spilling out of a suitcase, a lamp you’re pretty sure you broke two moves ago but keep hauling around anyway. She’s in cutoff shorts and one of your old tees, hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail, and you’re in sweats. Music’s blasting from her portable speaker, some upbeat pop track she’s humming along to, and you’re both trying to make this fun, even if you’re sweaty and half-dead from the effort.

“Pass me the scissors, babe,” she says, wrestling with a box labeled Kitchen Stuff in her stylized handwriting. You rummage through the mess on the counter, find them under a pile of takeout menus, and toss them her way—except your aim’s trash, and they clatter onto the floor, sliding under the fridge. She shoots you a look, one eyebrow cocked, and you grin, shrugging. “Oops, my bad—guess you’re diving for those.” She groans, dramatic as hell, and drops to her knees, fishing them out with a string of fake curses—“You’re useless, I swear”—but she’s laughing, and you’re laughing, and it’s this dumb, perfect chaos that’s so you two. You grab a box of books next, slicing it open with a pocketknife, and start stacking them on the shelf—your beat-up sci-fi novels next to her glossy idol photobooks, a weirdly cute mashup of your worlds. Then she yelps behind you, and you spin around to see her tangled in a string of fairy lights she was trying to hang. “Help me, you asshole!” she cries, flailing, and you rush over, untangling her while she’s giggling so hard she’s useless.

It’s a mess—boxes tipping over, you tripping on a stray sneaker and nearly face-planting into the couch, her dropping a mug that—thank fuck—doesn’t break but rolls under the coffee table instead. “We’re a disaster,” you say, crawling to grab it, and she’s sprawled on the floor, catching her breath, nodding. “Yeah, but we’re our disaster.” You finally get the mug, plop down next to her, and you’re both just sitting there, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, the apartment looking like a tornado hit it. But it’s starting to feel like home—her vinyl records leaning against the wall, your dumb bobblehead collection on the windowsill, a framed pic of you two from Paris already up on the mantle. She hops up eventually, brushing off her shorts, and declares, “Break time—I’m not touching another box ‘til I’ve got something cold in my hand.” You follow her to the kitchen, where she digs out a bottle of lemonade she bought on the way here—tart and sweet, just how she likes it—and pours two glasses.

You crash on the couch, the one piece of furniture you’ve managed to set up right, and she flops next to you, legs slung over your lap. The lemonade’s perfect, cutting through the sticky heat of the day, and you both just sit there, sipping, staring out at the new place. “Not bad, huh?” you say, nodding at the view—tall buildings glinting in the sun, a sliver of green from some park nearby. She leans her head on your shoulder, glass sweaty in her hand, and hums. “Yeah, we did good, babe. This feels… right.” There’s this quiet pride in her voice, and you get it—new apartment, new chapter, all that sappy shit you’d never say out loud but totally feel. The boxes are still a nightmare, but the bones of the place are solid—open living room, a bedroom big enough for her to hog the bed like she always does, a little nook she’s already eyeing for her music gear. You’re pleased as hell, and she is too, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm like she’s content just being here with you.

Then she shifts, sitting up a little, and you can tell she’s got that look—the one where she’s about to drop some random thought that’s been bouncing around her head. “You know what’d make this place even better?” she says, smirking, and you raise an eyebrow, waiting. “A dog. Or maybe a cat. Something fuzzy to trip over all this crap we’re unpacking.” You laugh, because of course she’d go there—she’s been dropping pet hints since you got married, pointing at every dog on the street like a kid at a candy store. “A dog, huh? You gonna walk it when you’re filming at 3 a.m.?” you tease, and she shoves you, spilling a little lemonade on your shirt—oops, clumsy strikes again. “Okay, fine, a cat then—low maintenance, just sits there looking cute, like me,” she says, batting her lashes, and you snort, wiping at the wet spot. “You’re not low maintenance, babe, but I see your point. A cat could work—curl up on all these boxes we’re too lazy to finish.”

She grins, sipping her drink, and you’re both picturing it now—some fluffy little gremlin padding around, knocking over her awards or shedding on your couch. “We could name it something dumb,” you say, “like… Croissant, after Paris.” She cackles, nearly choking on her lemonade. “Croissant? Oh my god, yes—or Baguette, keep it French.” You’re cracking up, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt, and it’s so easy, so you two. The apartment’s still a wreck, boxes everywhere, but it’s yours—hers and yours—and that’s enough. You lean over, kissing her quick, tasting lemonade on her lips, and she smiles against you, murmuring, “Love you, you dork.” “Love you too, klutz,” you shoot back, and you’re both just sitting there, happy as hell, plotting a future with a pet called Croissant (or Baguette).

—

Time slips by in this sneaky, quiet way, and before you even clock it, the new apartment’s not just a place with your stuff—it’s home. The boxes are long gone, replaced with little touches that scream you and Eunbi: her vinyls stacked by the record player, your dumb gaming chair shoved in the corner, a shelf of Polaroids from Paris and random nights out. The fairy lights she got tangled in that first day are strung up over the couch now, glowing soft at night when you’re bingeing shows or screwing around—sometimes literally. Croissant, the fluffy tabby cat you adopted a few months back, rules the place like a tiny dictator, knocking over coasters and napping on Eunbi’s laundry. You’ve settled into this rhythm—her coming home from shoots or studio sessions, you cooking something half-decent or ordering takeout when you’re both too wiped, the two of you texting dumb shit all day like “don’t forget cat food” or “miss u, loser.” It’s normal, cozy, and yours. Then, bam, it’s your first wedding anniversary, and you’re both looking at each other like, “Holy shit, we made it a year—how’d that happen?”

You’re at this swanky little restaurant for the occasion, tucked into a corner booth with dim lighting and candles flickering on the table, the kind of spot that’s romantic without being try-hard. Eunbi’s across from you, and—fuck—she’s stunning. She’s in this sleek black dress, sleeveless with a deep neckline that shows off her collarbones and just enough cleavage to make your brain stutter, the fabric hugging her curves like it’s custom-made. Her hair’s down, waves falling over her shoulders, and she’s got this subtle red lip thing going that’s driving you quietly insane. You’re in a dark button-up, sleeves rolled to your elbows because she said it makes you look “stupidly hot,” and you’re trying not to stare too hard, but it’s a losing battle. The waiter drops off a bottle of wine—some fancy-ass Pinot she picked—and you pour, clinking glasses with this goofy grin because you still can’t believe you’re married to her. “To us, babe,” you say, and she smirks, tapping her glass against yours. “To us—and to not killing each other over who gets the remote.” You laugh, sipping, and the wine’s smooth, warming you up as the night kicks off.

She’s glowing tonight, not just from the dress or the candlelight, but from this quiet happiness that’s been building since you tied the knot. You’d caught her interview earlier this week—some glossy magazine sit-down where she talked about married life, and she’d gone off about you in the best way. “He’s my rock,” she’d said, “keeps me sane when everything’s crazy—plus, he’s not bad to look at.” The host had laughed, and she’d added, “No, seriously, I lucked out—he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You’d read it on your lunch break, grinning like an idiot at your desk, and when you texted her, “Saw the interview, you’re too nice,” she’d shot back, “Just facts, babe—deal with it.” Now, sitting here, you bring it up, leaning in a little. “That interview you did? You made me sound like some perfect dude—my ego’s never recovering.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, twirling her wine glass. “Oh, please, you love it. And it’s true—you’re my favorite person, even when you’re hogging the blankets or leaving the wet towel on the bed.” You chuckle, reaching for her hand across the table, and she laces her fingers with yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles like it’s second nature.

The food comes—some fancy pasta for her, steak for you—and you’re digging in, trading bites like you always do, her stealing half your fries because “they taste better off your plate.” It’s easy, flirty, the kind of night where every look feels loaded. “You look fucking incredible tonight,” you say, and she smirks, leaning forward so the dress dips just enough to tease. “Thanks, husband—you clean up pretty nice yourself. Been thinking about jumping you since we left the house.” You nearly choke on your wine, laughing, and she’s got this wicked grin, loving how she still catches you off guard. “Keep talking like that, and we’re not making it to dessert,” you warn, and she shrugs, all innocent. “Who needs dessert when I’ve got you?” It’s cheesy, but it lands—your chest does that warm, tight thing it always does when she’s being cute and hot at the same time.

Between bites, you start tossing around plans for your next trip—anniversary’s got you both in this dreamy, let’s-do-something-big mood. “So, where we headed next, babe?” you ask, popping a fry into your mouth, and she lights up like you just handed her the keys to the world, setting her fork down with a little clink. “Okay, hear me out—I’ve been obsessed with the idea of Italy lately. Like, picture it: Rome, all that ancient ruin shit, pizza straight from Naples, maybe a boat ride in Venice.” You nod, already picturing it, your grin spreading wide. “Hell yeah—pasta every day, you in one of those flowy sundresses? I’m sold.” She laughs, sipping her wine, the sound bright and teasing. “You just wanna see my ass in something skimpy, don’t you, perv?” “Caught me,” you shoot back, winking, and she kicks you under the table—light, playful, but her foot lingers against your shin. “Guilty as charged,” you add, and she rolls her eyes, smirking.

“But real talk,” she says, leaning in a little, her voice dropping softer, “I love that we do this—jet off somewhere, make memories. Paris was unreal, but I’m itching to keep it going with you.” You squeeze her hand across the table, her fingers warm against yours, and you’re feeling all mushy inside. “Same, babe—anywhere, as long as I’ve got you with me.” She smiles, that soft, heart-melting one, but then she tilts her head, tapping her glass with a nail. “Okay, but what about Greece? Santorini’s been all over my feed—those white houses, blue roofs, insane sunsets. We could just chill on a beach, drink ouzo ‘til we’re stupid.” You lean back, chewing it over. “Fuck, that sounds dope—lounging on some cliff, staring at the ocean, you in a bikini? Yeah, I could get behind that.” She snorts, shaking her head. “You’re so predictable—always about the outfits.” “Can you blame me? You’d kill it,” you say, grinning, and she flicks a breadcrumb at you, laughing when it bounces off your chest.

“True, true—I’d rock a bikini or a toga, whatever vibe we’re going for,” she says, then takes another sip, her eyes glinting with ideas. “But what about Iceland? Kinda random, but hear me out—hot springs, northern lights, all that rugged, wild shit. We could rent one of those cozy cabins, fuck around in a geothermal pool.” You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay, damn, that’s a curveball—I’m picturing you naked in a hot spring, steam everywhere, me freezing my balls off ‘til I jump in with you. I’d be down.” She cackles, nearly choking on her wine. “You’d look so dumb shivering—‘save me, babe, I’m too pretty to die!’” she mimics, and you kick her back under the table, both of you cracking up. “Hey, I’d make it sexy—you’d be all over me,” you say, and she shrugs, smirking. “Maybe. But Italy’s still my top pick—gelato on the Spanish Steps, you trying to pronounce ‘carbonara’ and butchering it. I need that in my life.”

You laugh, picturing it—her in sunglasses, licking a cone, you stumbling over Italian like an idiot. “Alright, Italy’s got my vote too—Rome’s got that Colosseum vibe, and I’d kill for some real-deal pizza. But Greece is tempting—could do both, you know, hop from pasta to tzatziki.” She tilts her head, considering it, then nods. “Ooh, a double whammy—greedy, but I like it. We could start in Rome, eat our weight in carbs, then bounce to Santorini for the beach-and-booze combo. You’d look hot with a tan, babe.” “And you’d look hotter soaking it up—deal,” you say, squeezing her hand again, and she leans forward, her foot sliding up your calf now, teasing. “You’re just imagining me half-naked everywhere, huh?” “Pretty much,” you admit, grinning, and she kicks you again, harder this time, but her laugh says she’s right there with you.

“Seriously, though,” she says, her voice softening, eyes locking on yours over the candlelight, “I love this—us planning shit, going places. Paris was fucking magic, but wherever we end up next, I just want it to be you and me, making it ours.” You feel that sappy warmth bloom in your chest again, her words hitting deep, and you rub your thumb over her knuckles. “Same, babe—doesn’t matter if it’s Italy, Greece, Iceland, wherever. You’re my vibe, my home—gonna keep chasing that with you.” She smiles, big and real.

And that's how the night goes on, slow and sweet—more wine, her laughing at your dumb jokes, you sneaking glances at how the candlelight catches her eyes. She’s talking about her solo album, how the reality show’s a pain but worth it, and you’re just listening, smitten, because she’s so her—driven, funny, gorgeous. “You’re proud of me, right?” she asks out of nowhere, and it’s so sudden you almost fumble your glass. “Are you kidding? Fuck yeah, I’m proud—watching you kill it out there, then come home to me? You’re unreal.” Her smile goes soft, a little shy, and she leans over the table, kissing you quick but deep, the taste of wine on her lips. “Love you,” she whispers, and you murmur it back, “Love you too,” feeling like the luckiest bastard alive.

—

You stumble into the apartment with Eunbi, the door barely clicking shut before the vibe shifts—there’s this thick, electric tension crackling between you, built up from the whole ride home. It started at the restaurant, those flirty little jabs over dinner, her foot brushing your leg under the table, but the car ride? That’s where it kicked into overdrive. She’d leaned over at a red light, smirking, whispering, “You keep looking at me like that, babe, and we’re not making it to the bed,” and you’d fired back, “Try me—I’ve got plans for that dress.” Now, the air’s buzzing as you kick off your shoes by the door, her tossing her purse onto the counter with a clatter, Croissant darting out of the way like he knows shit’s about to go down. You’re both giggling, a little tipsy from the wine, but it’s more than that—it’s the heat, the want, the way she’s glancing over her shoulder at you like she’s daring you to make the first move. You head for the bedroom, already peeling off your blazer, letting it flop onto the chair in the corner, and she’s right behind you, kicking off her heels one by one, the soft thud of them hitting the hardwood echoing in the quiet.

You’re loosening your tie, watching her in the mirror as she fumbles with her second shoe, and you can’t help yourself—you step closer, hands sliding around her waist, lips brushing her neck. “You’re taking too long,” you murmur, voice low, and she laughs, swatting at you half-heartedly. “Chill, babe, I’m—oh, fuck it,” she says, turning in your arms, and before you know it, she’s shrugging out of that black dress like it’s nothing. It pools at her feet, and—holy shit—she’s standing there in lingerie, this lacy red set that’s all straps and sheer fabric, hugging her curves in a way you weren't prepared for. You’re frozen for a hot second, and then she’s on you, hands grabbing your face, kissing you hard. Her lips crash into yours, red lipstick smearing across your mouth, and she’s climbing you like a tree—legs wrapping around your waist, pushing you back toward the bed. “I’ve been horny all fucking night,” she breathes against your lips. You stumble, hitting the mattress with her on top, and she’s straddling you, hair falling wild around her face, lipstick marks blooming on your cheek, your jaw, everywhere.

“Jesus, Eunbi,” you manage, laughing a little, hands gripping her hips as she grinds down just enough to make you groan. “You’re a menace—you know that dress was killing me, right?” She smirks, and starts unbuttoning your shirt with quick, eager fingers. “Good, that was the point—now get this off, I need you naked, like, yesterday.” You help her out, shrugging the shirt off your shoulders, tossing it somewhere—fuck if you care where—and then you’re pulling her down, kissing her back, hungry and messy. Your lips find her jaw, her throat, that soft spot under her ear that makes her shiver, and you’re murmuring against her skin, “You’re so fucking beautiful—hot as hell, babe.” She moans softly, and you keep going, kissing down her neck, her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint floral of her perfume. Your hands roam—over her back, her ass, squeezing through the lace, loving every inch of her like she’s a goddamn miracle, which, yeah, she is.

She pushes you back, flattening you against the bed with this look in her eyes—half-lidded, wild, all in charge. “Stay,” she says, like you’re her personal plaything, and you’re not arguing—why would you? Her hands are on your belt now, fumbling with the buckle, and you lift your hips to help her out, grinning as she curses under her breath. “Why are these so complicated—there, got it,” she mutters, yanking the belt free, and then she’s tugging your pants down, taking your boxers with them in one impatient pull. They hit the floor, and you’re bare under her, cock hard and twitching as she sits back, straddling your thighs. She wraps her hand around your cock, stroking slow and deliberate, her thumb brushing the tip just to fuck with you, and she’s staring—straight into your eyes, unblinking, like she’s memorizing every hitch in your breath. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” she says, and then she leans down, lips hovering over you. You hold your breath, and she gives the tip this gentle, teasing kiss—barely there, but enough to make your hips jerk, a low groan spilling out before you can stop it.

She pulls back, smirking at the mess she’s already making of you, red lipstick smudged from all the kissing, her lingerie a stark contrast against the pale sheets. “Been thinking about this all night,” she admits, stroking you again, her grip tightening just enough to drive you nuts, and you’re gripping the bedspread, trying to keep it together. “Yeah?” you rasp, voice rough, “Same—couldn’t stop watching you, thinking about getting you home.” She laughs, this low, sultry sound, and shifts closer, her thighs brushing yours, the lace of her bra scratching faintly against your chest when she leans in. “Well, we’re here now, babe—so what’re we gonna do about it?” she asks, then she leans in, breath hot against the tip, and you feel the first brush of her lips—soft, barely there, a tease that’s got your hips shifting impatiently. “Relax, babe,” she murmurs, “I’ve got you all night.”

She starts slow, like she’s testing the waters, her tongue flicking out to swirl around the head, wet and warm. You groan, low and rough, hands fisting the sheets. She takes her time, lips wrapping around the tip, sucking gently, just enough to make your head spin but nowhere near enough to satisfy. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and playful under those long lashes, and she smirks around you, knowing exactly what she’s doing—drawing it out, making you squirm. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re desperate,” she says, pulling off for a second, her hand pumping you in this lazy rhythm while spit glistens on her lips. You open your mouth to fire back, but then she dives in again, and whatever smartass reply you had dies in your throat.

She slides her mouth down further now, taking you in deeper, her tongue flat against the underside, pressing hard enough to make your toes curl. It’s wet, messy, the sound of it—soft little sucks, the slick slide of her lips—mixing with your ragged breathing, filling the room. Her hair’s falling forward, brushing your thighs, and you reach down, threading your fingers through it, not pushing, just holding on because you need something to ground you. She hums, this pleased little noise that vibrates through you, and shifts her weight, one hand bracing on your hip while the other grips the base of your cock, guiding it exactly where she wants it. She’s teasing still, not going all in, bobbing her head slow and shallow, lips stretching around you, leaving red streaks from that lipstick she knows drives you wild. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” you rasp, voice scraping out, and she pulls off just enough to flash you a grin, spit-slick and smug. “Yeah? You’re welcome, babe—been dying to taste you all night.”

Then she dives back in, and this time she’s not playing around—she takes you deeper, throat relaxing as she swallows you down, inch by inch, until her nose is brushing your skin and you’re seeing stars. It’s tight, hot, her tongue working in these lazy, filthy swirls that make your hips buck involuntarily. She gags a little, just once, but doesn’t stop—pulls back slightly, then goes again, deeper still, like she’s determined to take all of you. You’re a wreck, groaning her name, “Eunbi—shit,” and she’s loving it, you can tell—her eyes water a bit, but she’s locked on you, watching every twitch, every gasp, feeding off how gone you are. Her hand’s moving too, stroking what her mouth can’t reach, twisting just right.

You tug her hair a little, not hard, just enough to get her to look up again, and when she does—fuck, that sight. Her lips stretched around you, cheeks hollowed, eyes glassy with lust and effort—it’s pornographic, but it’s more than that, it’s her, giving you everything like it’s her goddamn mission. She pulls off for a breath, panting, her hand still working you, slick and fast, and she’s grinning, all proud and messy. “You taste so fucking good,” she says, voice wrecked, and then she’s licking you, long, slow stripes from base to tip, like she’s worshipping every inch. You’re shaking, thighs flexing under her, and she just keeps going—sucks the head again, harder this time, then slides down, swallowing deep, her throat fluttering around you. It’s overwhelming, and she’s relentless, switching between teasing little licks and full-on deep-throating like she’s trying to unravel you piece by piece.

Now she shifts lower, her lips brushing down past your shaft like she’s exploring every damn inch of you. She gets to your balls, and—fuck—she doesn’t hesitate, taking one into her mouth with this slow, deliberate pull that’s got your back arching off the sheets. Her tongue’s swirling, wet and warm, and she’s sucking just hard enough to make your head spin, a low groan ripping out of you before you can stop it. She pops off, grinning up at you, spit shining on her lips. “God, babe, I fucking love your cock—like, I’m obsessed with it, with you.” She dives back in, licking them sloppy and slow, her hands stroking your thighs, and you can feel the drool dripping down, leaving everything slick and messy in the best way. “You’re so perfect,” she mumbles against you, sucking the other one now, her tongue flicking in this filthy little dance that’s got you shaking. “I could do this all night—fuck, I’d live down here if you let me.”

She’s relentless, leaving your balls soaked and heavy, and you’re barely coherent, hands tangled in her hair, tugging just to feel her moan against you. Then she pulls back, sitting up on her knees, and you’re still catching your breath when she hooks her fingers into the sides of her red lace panties. She tugs them aside, not even bothering to take them off, the fabric stretching tight against her hip as she exposes herself—glistening, wet, ready. She climbs up your body, straddling you again, her thighs flexing as she positions herself right over your cock, and you can feel the heat radiating off her before she even touches you. “Wait—babe, no condom,” you say, voice rough, half-lost in the haze but still aware enough to clock it. She freezes for a second, looking down at you with those dark, hungry eyes, and shakes her head. “Don’t need it,” she says, firm, desperate, “I want you raw—need it, babe, I’m so fucking horny I can’t think straight.” You blink, brain scrambling to catch up, and choke out, “You sure? Like, really sure?” because this is big—first time without that barrier, and you’re not about to fuck this up.

She leans down, hands braced on your chest, her face so close her breath’s hot against your lips. “Yes, I’m sure—you’re the man of my life, my husband, nothing’s more important than this, than you.” Her voice is all heat, full of conviction, and it hits you square in the chest—lust, yeah, but something deeper too, that trust you’ve built over years crashing into this moment. She’s practically vibrating with want, her nails digging into your skin, and you nod, hands sliding to her hips. “Okay, fuck—let’s do it,” you say, and her grin’s pure fire, wild and needy. She doesn’t waste a second—lines you up, the tip of your cock brushing her entrance, and then she sinks down, slow at first, taking you in inch by inch. Holy shit—it’s different, raw, the heat of her pussy bare around you, no latex in the way, and it’s like your whole nervous system lights up. She’s tight, wetter than ever, and the feeling’s so intense you gasp, fingers gripping her ass.

“Oh my god,” she moans, loud and unfiltered, head tipping back as she bottoms out, her thighs trembling against your sides. “Fuck, babe, you feel—so—fucking—good,” she stutters, rocking her hips a little, adjusting, and you can feel every pulse, every flutter of her around you—it’s unreal, addictive. “You’re huge—shit, I can’t get enough,” she pants, and she’s already moving, lifting up just to slam back down, her hands splayed on your chest for balance. You groan, deep and guttural, because this—this is next-level, the slick, hot slide of her taking you raw, her walls gripping you like she’s claiming you all over again. “Eunbi—fuck, you’re killing me,” you manage, and she laughs, this breathy, horny sound that’s a synthesis of lust and power. “Good,” she says, “I want you wrecked—been thinking about this all night, feeling you bare inside me.”

You’re mesmerized, watching her—lipstick-smeared mouth parted, eyes half-shut, her body moving like sin itself. “You’re so fucking hot,” you say, hands roaming up her back. She leans down, kissing you sloppy and deep, tongue tangling with yours as she grinds down. “Love you—love this,” she murmurs against your lips, and then she’s off again, sitting up, riding you harder, like she’s trying to break you, her hips slamming down with this relentless, hungry rhythm, and the raw heat of her pussy—bare, tight, and so fucking wet—has you teetering on the edge of sanity. You’re lost in it, hands gripping her ass, feeling her clench around you with every thrust, when you slide your fingers up her back, fumbling with the clasp of that red lace bra. It’s been taunting you all night, barely holding her in, and now you’re done waiting. The hooks pop free, and she shrugs it off quick, letting it fall on the bed like it’s nothing. Her big tits spill out, heavy and perfect, bouncing with every move she makes, and—fuck—you can’t take your eyes off them. They’re gorgeous, full and round, nipples already hard and begging for attention, and you can’t help yourself. “Goddamn, babe, I fucking love your tits,” you say, voice rough with want, staring up at her like she’s a goddess—which, let’s be real, she is. She smirks down at you, smug and horny, and leans closer, her voice dripping with heat. “They’re all yours, babe—always have been.”

You reach up, hands greedy, cupping them as she keeps riding you, her skin soft and warm under your palms. They fill your hands perfectly, heavy and plush, and you squeeze, thumbs brushing over her nipples because you know how sensitive they are, how they drive her wild. She gasps, this sharp little sound that shoots straight to your dick, and her pace falters for a second, hips stuttering as you tease her. “Fuck—yes, play with them,” she moans, arching her back to push them closer, and you’re in heaven, kneading them, rolling her nipples between your fingers until they’re tight little peaks. She’s panting now, her nails digging into your chest, leaving half-moon marks, and you can feel her getting wetter, slicker, her thighs trembling against you. “You love that, huh?” you say, grinning, voice all gravel and lust. “Love how I can’t get enough of these perfect fucking tits.” She nods, breathless, and bites her lip, that red lipstick smudged and sexy as hell. “Yeah—fuck, I love it—keep going, babe, don’t stop.”

Then she shifts, slowing her hips just enough to lean forward, dangling those heavy breasts right in your face like an offering. “Suck them,” she says, more like a command than a request, and you don’t need to be told twice. You lift your head, wrapping your lips around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip, and she moans—loud, shameless, this sound that’s pure sex. Her tits are so full, so soft against your mouth, and you’re obsessed—sucking one, then the other, tasting her skin, feeling her shiver as you tease with your teeth, just a graze because you know it makes her crazy. “Fuck, yes—harder,” she gasps, her hands in your hair, pulling you closer, and you oblige, sucking deeper, your tongue swirling, lips tugging until she’s squirming, her breath hitching like she’s about to lose it. “You’re so fucking good at that,” she pants, her hips grinding down on you again, slower now but deeper, like she’s savoring every inch of you inside her.

You switch, taking the other nipple into your mouth, one hand squeezing the free one, rolling the wet peak between your fingers, and she’s a mess—head tipped back, hair spilling wild, moaning your name like a prayer. “God, babe, your mouth—fuck, I could ride you all night just for this,” she says, and you groan against her, the vibration making her gasp again. You pull back for a second, just to look—her tits glistening with your spit, flushed from the attention, nipples swollen and red—and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. “You’re so fucking sexy,” you tell her, kissing the valley between them, then licking a slow stripe up to her collarbone. “These tits—they’re mine, yeah? All fucking mine.” She nods, desperate, leaning down to kiss you, sloppy and deep, her tongue tangling with yours as she grinds harder. “All yours—always,” she whispers against your lips, then pulls back, offering them again, pressing them into your face. “Suck them more—please, babe, need it.”

You dive back in, hungry, sucking one nipple while pinching the other, and she’s riding you again, her pussy so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. She’s loud—moaning, cursing, this stream of dirty talk spilling out like she can’t help it. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me—love your cock, love your mouth—gonna fuck you ‘til I can’t walk,” she says, and you’re matching her energy, thrusting up to meet her, hands full of her tits, squeezing as you suck, tongue flicking fast. Her breathing’s ragged, her body trembling, and you can tell she’s losing herself in it—libido dialed up to a hundred, chasing that high with you. You bite down, just a little, and she cries out, this raw, needy sound that’s got you feral, sucking harder, loving her with every flick, every thrust, every filthy word bouncing between you. She’s all yours, and she’s making damn sure you know it—riding you raw, tits in your face, owning this night like it’s hers to take.

“Fuck, babe, your cock’s so good,” she groans, her hands braced on your chest for leverage as she grinds down harder. Then she looks down at you, eyes dark and glassy, and smirks, panting, “I’m already close—wanna make your wife cum, huh?” It’s half a taunt, half a plea, and it lights you up like a match to gasoline. “Fuck yes,” you say, voice rough, hands sliding up her thighs, “wanna feel you lose it all over me.”

She grins, this wicked, horny flash of teeth, but before she can ride herself over the edge, you take charge—grabbing her hips, flipping her onto her side in one smooth move. It’s a position you know she loves—spooning her from behind, one arm hooked under her leg to lift it just enough, giving you all the access you need. She twists her head back to look at you, all flushed and needy, and you dive in, kissing her neck, lips dragging slow and wet over that sensitive spot that always makes her shiver. “Goddamn, you’re perfect,” you murmur against her skin, hands roaming up to her tits, squeezing them hard as you thrust into her, deep and steady. They fill your palms, soft and heavy, nipples still swollen from earlier, and you can’t get over how much you love them—love her. “I fucking love you, Eunbi—so much,” you say, and she moans, this soft, broken sound that hits you right in the chest. “Love you too—fuck, don’t stop,” she breathes, turning her head more, catching your lips in a kiss.

You’re pounding into her now, her pussy so wet it’s obscene—slick sounds mixing with her gasps, her walls fluttering around you like she’s right on the edge. Your hand’s still on her tit, kneading it, thumb flicking the nipple just to hear her whimper, while your other arm’s wrapped around her, holding her tight against you. She’s kissing you back, messy and fierce, her tongue sliding against yours, her teeth grazing your lip as she moans into your mouth. “So good—fuck, you’re so deep,” she pants between kisses, her voice shaking, and you can tell she’s close—her breathing’s all ragged, her body tensing, thighs trembling against you. You slide a hand down her stomach, fingers finding her clit, and she jolts, a sharp “Oh—shit!” spilling out as you start rubbing, slow circles at first, teasing her. “Yeah, babe, right there—fuck, you know me so well,” she groans, her head tipping back against your shoulder, giving you more of her neck to kiss, to bite, as you pick up the pace.

Your fingers are relentless now, rubbing her clit faster, slick and swollen under your touch, and she’s losing it—moaning loud, no filter, just pure, horny need. “Gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—” she stutters, words cutting off as you thrust harder, angling just right to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Your lips are on her neck, sucking a mark into her skin, and you growl against her, “Come on, babe—cum for me, let me feel my wife fall apart.” She’s kissing you again, frantic, her hand grabbing yours on her clit to press it harder, guiding you. “Yes—yes—fuck, right there!” she cries, and then she’s done for—her whole body locks up, shuddering hard against you, her pussy clenching tight around your cock as she cums, wave after wave ripping through her.

She’s trembling, gasping, her walls pulsing around you so hard it’s like she’s trying to pull you in deeper, and you don’t let up—fucking her through it, slower now but still deep, your fingers still teasing her clit until she’s squirming, oversensitive and wrecked. “Oh my god—babe, fuck,” she pants, turning her head to kiss you again, softer this time, but still sloppy, her tongue weak from how hard she just came. You pull your hand off her clit, wrapping it around her waist instead, holding her close as you kiss her back, tasting the sweat on her lips, the raw need still lingering there. “You’re so fucking hot when you cum,” you murmur, nipping at her jaw, and she laughs, this shaky, blissed-out sound, her chest heaving against you. “Only for you, babe—shit, you’re too good at this,” she says, voice hoarse and satisfiedll.

You slide your cock out of her, slow and deliberate, and she lets out this soft, needy whimper, her body twitching like she’s already missing you inside her. You climb up, hovering over her, and kiss her deep—lips crashing together. Her hands grab at your shoulders, pulling you closer, and she’s kissing you back like she’s starved for it, her breath hot against your mouth. “Fuck, babe,” she pants when you pull back, “I’m never using a condom with you again—shit, that was too good. Why the hell didn’t we do this sooner?” Her words hit hard, your cock throbbing hard, already aching to get back inside her, and you groan, nodding. “Yeah, fuck condoms—your pussy’s too hot, too tight bare. Can’t believe we waited this long.”

She smirks up at you, all lazy and satisfied but still burning with that wild edge, her eyes flicking down to where your cock’s hovering just above her. You shift, brushing the tip against her entrance—slow, teasing, dragging it through her slick folds—and she whimpers again, hips twitching up like she’s desperate for it. “Still horny,” she murmurs, voice soft but loaded with want, her fingers digging into your arms. You grin, leaning down to nip at her ear, your breath hot against her skin. “Then beg for it, babe—beg for my cock like a good girl.” She shudders under you, and—fuck—when she starts talking, it’s like gasoline on the fire in your gut. “Please, babe—please fuck me,” she says, eyes locked on yours, wide and pleading. “Need your cock so bad—want you raw, want you deep, please.” It’s filthy and hot, and your dick pulses in your hand, rock-hard and ready, just from hearing her like that—your wife, begging for you like she’s losing her mind.

But she doesn’t stop there—she’s too far gone, too horny, too slutty. “Fuck me hard,” she demands, her tone shifting, sharper now, commanding, her legs spreading wider like she’s daring you to hold back. “Want your cum inside me—need it, babe, fill my fucking womb with your thick cum.” That’s it—that breed kink she’s throwing at you, raw and unfiltered, and it’s got your cock throbbing so hard you can feel your pulse in it, your whole body lit up with horny, primal need. “Keep going,” you growl, teasing her entrance more, sliding the tip in just an inch then pulling back, making her squirm. “Tell me how bad you want it.” She moans, frustrated and desperate, her hands clawing at your back, leaving red streaks. “Goddamn it, I want it so bad—fuck me ‘til I can’t walk, babe, pump me full—please, I need your cock, need you to fuck me raw and hard, want your cum dripping out of me.” You can’t resist her anymore—she’s got you hooked, and you’re ready to give her everything.

You line up, gripping her hips, and slam into her—no warning, no easing in, just a hard, deep thrust that makes her scream, this raw, guttural sound that bounces off the walls. Her pussy’s tight, hot, and so fucking wet, swallowing you whole, and you don’t hold back—pounding into her with a rhythm that’s fast and brutal, the bed shaking under you. “Fuck, yes—like that!” she yells, her voice breaking, hands flying to the headboard to brace herself as you rail her, her tits bouncing wildly with every slap of your hips against hers. You lean down, kissing her neck, biting just hard enough to leave marks, and she’s moaning, arching into you, her walls clenching tight like she’s already chasing that next high. “You’re so fucking perfect,” you growl against her skin, one hand sliding up to squeeze her tit again, thumb flicking her nipple as you fuck her senseless. “Gonna give you what you want—gonna fuck you raw ‘til you’re full of me.”

She’s kissing you back now, sloppy and frantic, her tongue tangling with yours as she moans into your mouth, her legs hooking around your waist to pull you deeper. “Harder—fuck, harder,” she gasps, breaking the kiss, her nails raking down your back, and you oblige—slamming into her so hard the headboard bangs against the wall, a steady thud-thud-thud that matches her cries. Her pussy’s loud—wet, squelching sounds every time you bury yourself in her, and she’s dripping, soaking your thighs, the sheets, everything. “Love this—love you—fuck, don’t stop,” she pants, her voice all over the place, needy and fierce, and you can feel her getting close again, her body tensing, her breath hitching. You slide a hand down, rubbing her clit fast and rough, and she bucks against you, whimpering, “Yes—fuck, right there—gonna lose it again.” You’re relentless, pounding her into the mattress, loving the way she’s unraveling—your wife, your horny, insatiable wife, begging for your cock, your cum, like it’s all she’s ever wanted.

Sweat’s dripping down your back, her legs locked around your hips, pulling you in deeper with every brutal thrust, and you can feel it building, that tight coil in your gut winding up fast. “Fuck, babe, I’m close,” you groan, voice ragged, and her eyes light up, wild and hungry, like that’s the magic word she’s been waiting for. She’s already a mess—hair plastered to her forehead, red lipstick smeared across her lips and your neck, tits bouncing hard from how rough you’re going—but hearing you’re close flips a switch in her. She moans, loud and desperate, and suddenly she’s moving, pushing against your chest with this frantic energy. “Get on your back—now,” she demands, and before you can process it, she’s shifting her weight, shoving you down flat on the bed. You hit the mattress with a grunt, and she’s on top of you in a flash, straddling you, her thighs clamping tight around your hips like she’s claiming you all over again.

She doesn’t waste a second—grabs your cock, slick with her juices, and lines it up, sinking down hard, taking you to the hilt in one smooth, greedy drop. “Fuck—yes,” she gasps, head thrown back, and then she’s riding you, bouncing with this fierce, relentless rhythm that’s got the whole room shaking. Her tits swing wild above you, heavy and perfect, and you grab her hips, digging your fingers into her flesh, thrusting up to meet her every time she slams down. “Cum for me, babe—cum with me,” she pants, her voice breaking, eyes locked on yours, dark and pleading. “I want it—want you to fill me up.” Your cock throbs hard at that, and you groan, gripping her tighter. “Gonna give you so much cum, babe—promise you’ll get it all,” you say, and she nods, frantic, her nails raking your chest. “That’s all I want—fuck, just you, all of you,” she moans, and then she’s leaning forward, one hand planting on your neck, fingers curling just enough to squeeze, this light pressure that makes your head spin and your dick pulse even harder inside her.

She’s riding you like a woman possessed now, hips slamming down with wet, filthy slaps, her pussy so soaked you can feel it dripping down your thighs, pooling on the sheets. “Breed me,” she says, voice low and dirty, and that hits you in a way you weren't expecting, your whole body lighting up with raw, primal want. “Fuck, I need it—want you to breed me, babe, pump me full,” she begs, bouncing harder, her hand tightening on your neck, and you’re gone. “Yeah? Want me to knock you up?” you growl, thrusting up harder, your hands sliding to her ass, spanking her once just to hear her yelp. “Gonna fill this tight little pussy—breed my slutty wife like she deserves.” She moans louder, this wild, unhinged sound, and squeezes your neck a little more, her eyes rolling back. “Yes—fuck, yes—do it, breed me, make me yours forever,” she chants, her voice shaking with how bad she wants it, and it’s pushing you right to the edge.

“Keep talking,” you rasp, voice thick with lust, and she does—oh, she fucking does. “Cum in me—fucking breed me, babe, want your cum so deep I can feel it for days,” she demands, her hips grinding down, circling just to tease you, her pussy clenching tight like she’s trying to squeeze the life out of you. “Make me drip with it—fuck, I need it, need you to fill me up, give me everything.” Her hand’s steady on your neck, not choking, just holding you there, pinning you under her as she rides you harder, her tits bouncing in your face, her thighs trembling from the effort. You’re thrusting up to match her, slamming into her so hard the headboard’s banging again, and you’re growling, “Gonna breed you so good—fill that pussy ‘til it’s overflowing, babe, you’re mine.” She’s losing it, whimpering and gasping, her walls fluttering like she’s about to break again, and you can feel yourself tipping over, the heat pooling fast, your cock throbbing inside her with every filthy word.

“I’m gonna cum—fuck, do it, breed me now!” she moans, loud and desperate, her hand slipping from your neck to brace on your chest as she bounces even harder, her pussy so wet it’s obscene, squelching loud with every thrust. You grab her hips, yanking her down one last time, burying yourself as deep as you can go, and—fuck—it happens. You explode inside her, hot and thick, pulsing hard, flooding her pussy with everything you’ve got. It’s intense, raw, this primal rush of unloading bare into your wife for the first time, and she feels it—gasps sharp, her eyes going wide, then squeezing shut as she screams, “Yes—fuck, yes!” Her body shakes, convulsing as she cums too, her pussy clamping down tight, milking you for every last drop like she’s determined to drain you dry. You’re still pumping into her, thick spurts spilling out, and it’s a lot—more than you expected—coating her insides, seeping out around your cock where you’re still buried deep.

She’s trembling hard, collapsing forward onto your chest, her breath hot and ragged against your skin, and you wrap your arms around her, holding her tight as she shudders through the aftershocks. “Fuck—babe, I feel it—feel you,” she pants, voice breaking with this mix of awe and satisfaction, her hips twitching like she’s still chasing it, still squeezing you inside her. Your cock’s softening but still nestled in her, and you can feel the mess—your cum dripping out, slick and warm, pooling where you’re joined. “Love you—fuck, I love you so much,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your collarbone, and you pull her closer, kissing the top of her head, your voice rough but soft. “Love you too, babe—always.” She shifts, just enough to look up at you, her eyes hazy but glowing, a tired, blissed-out smile tugging at her lips, and you’re both just lying there, tangled up, sweaty and spent, your cum still leaking out of her pussy onto the sheets.

“That was—fuck, insane,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from all the moaning, and you nod, running your fingers through her hair, still damp with sweat. “Yeah—best anniversary ever,” you say. She nuzzles into you, murmuring, “Gonna want that again—raw, full of you."

Your cock’s still inside her, softening now, and you can feel the sticky mess of your cum and her wetness seeping out, pooling on the sheets beneath you. It’s quiet, just the sound of your breathing syncing up, the faint hum of the city outside the window, and Croissant probably prowling around somewhere in the apartment. You’re both spent, limbs heavy, but there’s this glow between you—raw, real, like you’ve just peeled back another layer of each other. You run your fingers through her tangled hair, brushing it back from her face, and she hums, nuzzling closer, her lips brushing your collarbone in this lazy, affectionate way. “Fuck, babe, I could stay like this forever,” she mumbles, voice all hoarse and sleepy, and you chuckle, kissing the top of her head. “Yeah, me too—but we’re a mess, and these sheets are screaming for mercy.”

She groans, dramatic as hell, shifting just enough to look up at you with those hazy, post-sex eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Ugh, don’t make me move—I’m dead, you killed me with that dick.” You laugh, and nudge her side. “Come on, you’ll thank me later. Hot bath, you and me, clean slate—sounds good, right?” She squints at you, pretending to think it over, then flops back down with a huff. “Too lazy—carry me or I’m not going.” You sigh but you’re grinning, because this is Eunbi—stubborn, bratty, and all yours. “Fine, princess,” you say, and with a grunt, you scoop her up, her legs dangling over your arm as you haul her off the bed. She yelps, clinging to your neck, and you can feel the wet mess of her pussy against your skin as you carry her, your cum still dripping out of her, leaving a trail you’ll deal with later.

You make it to the bathroom, kicking the door open with your foot, and set her down on the edge of the tub. She’s still pouting, arms crossed like she’s mad you made her move, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. You turn on the faucet, hot water rushing out, steam curling up into the air, and grab that fancy lavender bath bomb she loves—the one she says makes her feel “expensive.” “You’re spoiling me now,” she teases, watching you drop it in, the water fizzing purple and bubbling up fast. “Only the best for my wife,” you shoot back, winking, and she finally cracks, that big, goofy grin breaking through. You help her out of the last scraps of her lingerie—those stretched-out panties still clinging to one side of her hips—and she slides into the tub with a sigh, sinking in up to her shoulders, the water lapping at her skin. “Get in here, babe,” she says, patting the space behind her, and you don’t need convincing, you climb in, settling behind her, pulling her back against your chest.

The water’s hot, soothing the ache in your muscles, and her body fits against yours like it was made to—her head resting on your shoulder, your arms wrapping around her waist under the surface. Bubbles pop softly around you, the lavender scent filling the room, and it’s quiet, peaceful, a stark shift from the feral fucking you were lost in not twenty minutes ago. You trail your fingers over her stomach, lazy circles, and she hums, this content little sound that makes your heart squeeze. “This is nice,” she murmurs, tilting her head to look up at you, her eyes soft, no trace of that wild hunger now—just love, pure and simple. “Yeah, it is,” you say, kissing her temple, and she nestles closer, her wet hair sticking to your skin. “Better than the bed?” you ask, smirking, and she laughs, soft and tired. “Okay, maybe not better—but close. You’re too good at this husband thing.”

You chuckle, grabbing a sponge from the side and dipping it into the water, running it over her shoulders, down her arms, washing away the sweat and stickiness of the night. “Gotta keep my wife happy—can’t have you complaining about me on your next interview,” you tease, and she twists around, splashing you lightly, water dripping down your face. “Oh, please—I’d just brag about how you fuck me stupid and then run me a bath after,” she says, grinning, and you laugh, wiping the water off your eyes. “Fair—guess I’m stuck being perfect then.” She leans back again, letting you wash her, and it’s intimate—not the loud, messy intimacy of sex, but this quiet, tender thing where you’re just together, taking care of each other. “You know,” she says after a beat, voice quieter now, “I didn’t think it’d feel like this—marriage, us. Thought it’d be the same old shit with a ring, but… it’s more. You’re more.”

Her words hit you, soft but heavy, and you pause, sponge hovering over her collarbone, water trickling down her skin. “Yeah,” you say, throat tight, “you’re more too—like, I didn’t know I could love someone this much ‘til you.” She turns her head, catching your lips in a kiss—not hungry this time, but slow, deep, the kind that says everything you’re both too tired to put into words. Her hand finds yours under the water, squeezing, and you kiss her back, tasting lavender and her, your heart thudding steady against her back. “We’re gross, huh?” she whispers when she pulls away, smiling, and you laugh, resting your forehead against hers. “The grossest—stupid in love, the whole deal.”

The water’s cooling now, but you don’t care—you stay there, wrapped up in each other, her body slotted against yours like a puzzle piece. You wash her hair, fingers massaging her scalp, and she sighs, eyes closed, totally relaxed. “You’re too good to me,” she mumbles, and you shake your head, even though she can’t see it. “Nah, just right—you deserve it, babe.” She doesn’t argue, just lets you rinse her off, the suds swirling away in the purple water. When you’re done, you don’t rush to get out—there’s no hurry, no next thing. It’s just you and her, the steam fading, the night settling soft around you. “Love you,” she says, and you pull her closer, her wet skin sticking to yours, your voice low and sure. “Love you too—forever, yeah?” She nods, sleepy and safe in your arms, and you hold her tight, the bathtub your little world, the end of a wild night melting into something warm, steady, romantic as hell—the kind of love you’ll carry into every night after this one.

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