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barnacles34 · 1 month ago

Text

Book Boy

Asa x Male Reader

18+ smut

12k words

'Is this the place?' Asa stood in the open doorway, bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes moving slowly around the room. The single bed pushed against the wall, the stacks of paperbacks rising from the floorboards like uneven pillars, the one rickety wooden chair beside a small, bare table. 'It's… neat.'

'It does the job,' you reply, leaning against the doorframe.

'Just…' She stepped inside then. Her fingers traced the spine of a book on the nearest stack. Dust danced in the pillar of late afternoon light from the window. 'Not a lot of distractions.'

'Don't need many.'

'Right.' She walked to the window, peered down at the narrow alley between buildings. A single potted succulent sat on the sill. 'How long have you lived like this?'

'Awhile,' you said.

She turned back, leaning her hip against the little table. 'I heard about you.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Some people. Mentioned you.' She paused, tilted her head as if searching for the right word. 'Said you were… particular.'

'Did they.' It wasn't a question.

'Ex-girlfriends, I gathered.' A tiny smile touched her lips, disappeared. 'Sounded like maybe they didn't appreciate the… minimalist aesthetic.'

'Some people need cushions,' you offered.

'Maybe.' Her gaze was direct now, curious rather than judging. 'How long?'

'Did they last?'

She nodded, waiting.

'Not long,' you admitted. Shifted your weight. 'One left after we ordered pizza. Said the delivery box dwarved the table.'

A soft laugh escaped her. Genuine. 'You're kidding.'

'Wish I was.'

Silence settled for a moment, filled only by the low hum of the ancient refrigerator in the corner and the distant sigh of traffic. It wasn't uncomfortable, just quiet.

Then, 'Okay,' she said, pushing herself away from the table. Her movement seemed decisive. 'You got the job.'

'Just like that?' You straightened up. Confused. This was the usual spiel that got you rejected. Got you the fastlane to unemployment benefits.

'Just like that.' She smiled properly now, a flash of warmth in the dim room. 'I need a manager. Someone… different. You seem different.'

'Okay,' you said again, the word feeling inadequate. You wondered what, exactly, you'd just agreed to. 'When do I start?'

An idol manager? Of all jobs?

—

The months that followed compressed time. A montage of departure lounges, identical hotel corridors, the pre-show buzz backstage turning into the van ride afterwards.

Through it all, there was Asa. Under the stark stage lights, catching her breath in the wings, falling asleep with her head against a tour bus window. A rhythm began. Coffee handed over wordlessly before dawn call times.

You making sure she actually ate something more substantial than candy between soundcheck and the show. Her leaving bottles of cold water beside your laptop when you were hunched over schedules late at night. Small kindnesses, noticed.

One night. Might have been London. Rain drummed against the tall hotel window, a steady, gray beat. You were burrowed deep under the thick duvet, finally feeling the bone-deep chill start to ease. Sleep was close.

The door clicked open softly. Asa. She still had her scarf on, damp from the rain, little droplets sparkling on the dark wool under the hallway light spilling in.

'Let's find some real food,' she said. Her voice was low, tired perhaps. She hadn't turned on the room light.

'Thought you were going out with the others,' your voice came out muffled by the pillow and the blankets.

'Changed my mind.' She came further into the dark room, stood near the edge of the bed. 'Come on. There's meant to be a good pub just down the road. Supposedly.'

'Asa, I think my legs might actually detach if I try to walk.'

'Just for an hour. Less, even.'

'No chance. Bed's too good.'

A soft sigh. You felt, more than saw, her put a hand flat on the duvet, near your shoulder. The weight was slight. Then her fingers curled gently into the thick fabric. A soft tug, hesitant almost. 'Please?'

'Hey now,' you mumbled, trying for firmness. 'Not exactly dressed for company under here.'

'Wouldn't be the first time I've seen skinny legs,' she countered, her voice softening into something almost teasing. Another gentle pull. 'Just food. Real food. Then sleep, promise.'

'You're pathologically persistent.'

'Is that a yes I hear?' Even in the dim light, you could imagine the hopeful tilt of her head.

—

You both learned to read the spaces between words. Shared things. A half-finished bottle of water passed back and forth backstage, slick with condensation and effort. A book appearing on a hotel nightstand, the bookmark a receipt from a local cafe, marking a passage you might like.

Small offerings. Small acceptances.

Outside a theatre after a show. The crowd was roaring. Flashbulbs exploded. Your hand found hers, a reflex. You felt her small bones and warm skin for the first time, fitting perfectly. It felt startlingly right. Then the chaos happened—shouting voices, security guards forming a barrier. Someone jostled your arms apart. Her hand was gone. The space where it had been felt abruptly, painfully cold. Your ears were still ringing from the flashes.

Whispers followed. Dark rumors that served to bury you. Phone calls behind closed doors you weren't privy to. Looks exchanged by executives that you learned to understand immediately.

You sat gripping a flat soda in a sterile hotel bar days later, staring at the melting ice, feeling the unease settle deep.

Asa appeared suddenly, sliding onto the stool beside you as if materializing from the dim light. She ordered an orange juice.

'Heard talk,' you said, keeping your eyes on your glass.

'Forget it.' She bumped her shoulder against yours. A light, fleeting contact. 'It's handled. Really.' She risked a quick, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. 'Don't worry about it. Seriously.' She leaned a fraction closer, her voice dropping. 'No one's firing my manager. Especially not over that.'

—

Another city, another late night, another hotel couch. Rain pattered gently on the window. The TV murmured in the corner—some romantic drama you’d both lost interest in.

Her head rested on your shoulder, her arm tucked through yours, familiar now, comfortable. The silence stretched, easy. You could hear the soft tick-tock of a travel clock, the faint sound of her breathing.

'Think she'll pick him in the end?' she murmured, her voice drowsy, eyes half-closed.

'The quiet, broody one? Dollars to donuts.'

A soft 'hmm' sound vibrated against your shirt. 'You have a type.'

'They seem reliable,' you said, a small smile touching your lips as you looked down at the top of her head. The scent of her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral, apple maybe, reached you. 'Probably read Dostoevsky.'

She chuckled, a low, warm sound that made something inside you settle. She nuzzled slightly closer, a purely comfortable gesture. 'Probably.'

—

Then summer was warm and tacky. A small town tucked into rolling green hills, the air smelling of sun-baked stone, cut grass, and the pungent sweetness of lavender from nearby fields. Asa walked beside you, concentrating on her rapidly melting gelato cone.

Her simple white sundress fluttered around her knees in the slight, warm breeze. The cheap instant camera she insisted on carrying everywhere bounced gently against her hip with each step.

It felt… good. Dangerously good.

'This is seriously amazing,' she declared, holding the precarious cone aloft for a second before taking another bite. A drip escaped onto her hand.

'Better be, for what it cost.'

'Details, details. I owe you one,' she said, deftly licking the drip from her thumb.

'You keep saying that.' How many times now? Twenty? Thirty?

'Are you keeping count?' she teased, eyes bright.

'Wouldn't dream of it,' you replied, the lie easy on your tongue.

'Good.' She nudged your arm with her shoulder, a playful bump. 'So, what glorious adventure is next on the agenda?'

'I believe my gelato budget allocation for the day has been exhausted,' you said, deadpan.

She gave you a soft push, laughing. 'Liar.' Then her fingers slipped easily between yours, cool skin against your own.

The cool metal of a ring some fan gave her brushed against your knuckles: A small, hard reminder. You closed your hand around hers anyway. It felt too right not to.

'There's supposed to be a really good independent bookstore just down this street,' she said, her voice softer now.

'Lead the way.'

'Think we can find you something that isn't Russian and relentlessly bleak for once?'

'We can always hope.'

She started walking, her grip firm but gentle, tugging you along. You let yourself follow, but deliberately kept your pace unhurried. The sun felt warm on your face, the aged sidewalk uneven beneath your feet. The street was peaceful, sleepy in the afternoon heat.

'Everything alright back there, slowpoke?' She glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowed slightly, but she was smiling. She didn't let go of your hand.

'Just enjoying the scenic route.'

'The scenic route consisting of… cracked pavement and that one sad-looking mailbox?'

'It's got character,' you insisted.

She stopped then, turning to face you fully, pulling you gently closer by your joined hands. 'You walk slower than a turtle.'

'Respect the pace.'

A bright yellow bicycle whizzed past, its rider, a kid maybe ten years old, shouting a cheerful, unintelligible greeting. Asa waved back automatically, her smile bright and easy. She turned that smile back to you. 'People are going to start rumors, you know.'

'Let them, nothing’s gonna change.'

'My last manager,' she began, her voice dropping a little, falling back into step beside you, her shoulder brushing yours, 'he timed everything. Schedules printed in triplicate. Bathroom breaks logged.'

'Sounds like a real party.'

'He never bought me gelato,' she said, her gaze flicking down for a second to your intertwined hands. Was that a faint blush on her cheeks, or just the summer heat? 'And he definitely never just… walked.'

'His loss.’

She leaned slightly against your arm as you moved, It sent a ridiculous jolt straight to your chest. Your heart felt too loud in the quiet street.

Cicadas buzzed, a high, vibrating blanket of sound. A sound for slow afternoons.

'So, any new threats from the executioner's block this week?' you asked, trying to inject lightness into your voice.

'Friday meeting. Same old, same old.'

'And?' You held your breath without realizing it.

She squeezed your hand. 'And I told them my bookish, slow-walking manager isn't going anywhere.' She looked up at you then, her expression surprisingly serious for a fleeting moment. 'Okay?'

'Okay,' you echoed, the knot in your stomach easing slightly. It felt much more than okay.

The sky was visibly darkening at the edges now, clouds bruised purple. The air felt heavier, expectant.

'Definitely looks like rain.'

'Smells like it now.' The metallic scent was distinct.

'Should probably hurry to that bookstore.'

'Suppose so.'

Yet, neither of you quickened your pace. Her hand felt incredibly warm, perfectly fitted in yours. The rest of the world seemed to fade slightly.

There was just the pressure of her fingers, the coming scent of summer rain, the soft scuff of your shoes on the pavement, her presence beside you.

Up ahead, a brick wall was plastered with old, faded movie posters, their edges softened and colors bled by past rains. She slowed, pointing with her free hand. 'Remember seeing that one? The weird sci-fi thing?'

'Can't say I do.'

'Liar. You fell asleep halfway through and snored.'

'Must have been riveting.' Before she could argue further, you gave her hand a gentle tug forward. 'Come on. Unless you want to test if that camera is waterproof.'

She laughed, letting you lead her past the decaying posters. Around the corner, a row of small, inviting shopfronts appeared—a bakery, a hardware store, a tiny cafe.

Your hands remained firmly clasped. It felt like the most normal, necessary thing in the world.

'There?' You pointed across the quiet street. A small, neat sign swung gently in the rising breeze, letters painted carefully: 'The Book Nook'.

She chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, looking bright 'Finally.'

Inside the bookstore, you moved chaotically between shelves, gathering books in your arms. Asa wandered, trailing fingers along dusty spines. Her dress wafted as she walked, and right there, you thought, maybe, she's the most amazing person you've ever met.

She caught you staring and grinned, something beautiful, something genuine. 'Aw. You're so excited.' She giggled. 'Take your time. I like walking in the rain.'

The rain.

You'd forgotten. Letting her walk in the rain with that dress—gossamer-thin, white, creamy, sheer—was a recipe for disaster.

So you hurried.

'Why're you in a hurry?'

'It's about to rain.'

'It's already raining.'

You looked out. Lots of rain already.

‘Oh.’

…

‘Wanna run for it?’

She said sure with an eager smile.

So you pressed softly on the glass door, waiting for the moment, listening to the faint droplets tik-tik-tik against the door.

‘Run for it Asa.’

You opened the door, and she started running. And you followed. The rain was plastering your face, its earthy smell invading your nostrils, but you had eyes for Asa. Only Asa. Maybe you could’ve ran faster than her, outpace her, await her at the car—but what would be the fun in that?

She seemed to be squealing. You didn’t notice, you were staring at her, the way she ran, the way the dress outlined her.

Before you knew it, you were at the car with Asa—the both of you entered the backseat.

‘Holy shit.’ You say.

‘That was like… too much rain.’ Asa giggled.

You looked at Asa, the first question, weird one: ‘Did you even have makeup on?’ She fixed her hair, wet from rain, ‘Makeup has advanced more than you know. But thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Weird question.’

‘I know.’

‘Anyway, why did we enter the backseat?’

‘I’m cold.’

‘The AC works better in the passenger seat.’

Then Asa softly moved over to you, and wrapped her shivery arms around you. ‘It’s because of this, dummy.’ Then her arms tightened, and you could feel, truly, how her body shivered, the traces of warmth on the surface of her skin; the way she smelt, of honeydew, of earth’s rain; then the way she felt:

Her skin was cold-to-the-touch when you finally held her. This time, her touch felt electric: the way her finger just grazed along your palm was already too much.

She wanted you.

You wanted her.

'I've always liked you.' She said.

You hugged her closer, giving her warmth, feeling the rain-kissed dress warm up against your skin. Her finger traced patterns on your palm, sometimes pressing deeper, waiting for your reaction.

You were too busy pressed up against her—feeling the hot skin of her back, inhaling her scent. She was inlaid across your lap, the thin dress more inspiration than prevention.

'You're so warm.' A whimper. Thin, meek.

'Keep hugging me.' You breathed back, merely a whisper as your hands caressed her. She'd make these sounds, these no-good ones, breathing right into your ear as her thin arms looped around your neck.

Then you kissed her.

She squealed, soft-like, then poked your side teasingly, then her hands curled in your hair.

When you pulled back, her lips chased yours for a fraction before she caught herself.

'Oh.' Asa touched her lips with cold fingers. Pink spread across her cheeks like watercolor.

'Yeah.' Your voice came out rough. You cleared your throat. 'Oh.'

She buried her face in your shoulder. 'Stop looking at me like that.'

'Like what?'

'Like... that.'

'Very specific.'

Her laugh vibrated against your collarbone. 'Shut up.'

A shiver ran through her. You pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her middle. The rain had soaked through her dress, through your shirt, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

'Cold?'

'Mm.' She nuzzled deeper. 'Not really.'

'Liar.'

'Am not.' Her teeth chattered slightly.

'The AC—'

'Don't you dare.' Her fingers curled into your shirt. 'Stay.'

You stayed. The rain drummed against the windows, a steady rhythm that matched your heartbeat. Or maybe your heartbeat matched it. You weren't sure anymore.

'Your books got wet,' she mumbled.

'Worth it.'

She lifted her head. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

Her eyes were soft, questioning. You watched a drop of water trace down her temple.

'You're staring again.'

'Can't help it.'

'Book boy's getting smooth.'

'Don't call me that right now.'

She grinned. 'Why not... book boy?'

You pinched her side. She squeaked, squirming in your lap.

'Evil,' she said. 'Pure evil.'

'Says the one soaking my clothes.'

'You volunteered.'

'Did I?'

She nodded solemnly. 'The moment you hired me.'

'Pretty sure it was the other way around.'

'Details.' She waved a hand dismissively, then shivered again.

You rubbed her back, feeling the goosebumps through the thin fabric. 'We should really—'

'Five more minutes.' She pressed closer. 'Just five.'

You breathed her in. Rain and perfume and something uniquely Asa. 'Okay.'

'Okay?'

'Five minutes.'

She hummed contentedly. 'Then maybe five more after that.'

'Asa...'

'What?' Innocent eyes. Too innocent. 'I'm very cold.'

'You're impossible.'

'You like it.'

You did. God help you, you really did.

And for a few minutes, or 10, or maybe even 20, you sat there embracing Asa’s meek figure, with the knowledge that she liked you.

—

You were each other's sweet torture, you realized that now. Every shared glance became a test of restraint. Like that time she pulled you into the maintenance closet, pressed a ghost of a kiss against your lips, then whispered promises that made your collar too tight.

Later that night, you found her waiting at the door. You slipped inside, waited for the heavy door to click shut.

'Took you long enough.' She held her arms out, expectant.

'Some of us actually work.' You fell into her embrace.

Her lips found your cheekbone. 'Making excuses now, you monster.'

'Monster?' You lifted her up.

'Absolutely.' But her hands linked behind your neck, and she tilted down to catch your lips.

Soft and warm and perfect—a sweet prison you never wanted to escape. You stumbled toward the bedroom, knocking against furniture, probably bruising your shin, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the way Asa sighed against your mouth, the way her fingers traced patterns in your hair, the way she fit against you like she was made for this.

The suite was nice—couch, kitchenette, things you'd normally notice. But right now all you could focus on was the warmth of her skin, the sound of her breath, the weight of her in your arms.

You were reserved for the next few hours.

Really, you were reserved for the foreseeable future.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

—

The smell hit you first—something sizzling. You found Asa in the kitchen, spatula in hand, wearing one of your old t-shirts like a dress.

'Since when do you cook?'

'Since forever.' She didn't look up from the pan. 'You just never asked.'

'Wouldn't have pegged you for domestic.'

'Says the man with three different coffee brewing methods.'

You moved behind her, peered over her shoulder. The rice popped and sizzled, red and fragrant. 'Looks good.'

'Tastes better.' She bumped back against you. 'If someone would let me focus.'

'Am I distracting?' Your lips found her neck.

'Mm.' She tilted her head, giving you better access. 'Very.'

'Should I stop?'

'Don't you dare.' But she moved the pan to the back burner, turned down the heat.

You spun her around. The counter was just the right height—she sat on it, pulled you close by your shirt.

'The rice will burn,' you murmured against her lips.

'Don't care.' Her legs wrapped around your waist. 'Kiss me.'

So you did. She tasted like kimchi and coffee, and something sweet you couldn't place. Her hands found your hair, tugged just right.

—

Later in the day, you were splayed across the couch, and Asa snuggled up close to you.

‘What’s gonna happen after the tour?’

‘Nothing’ll change, Asa.’

‘You’ll still come over?’

‘I’ll try. But you’d be in the dorm.’

‘We can go somewhere in secret.’

‘Hotels? That’s expensive, Asa.’

‘I mean I can pay, I have money. Or the, you know, 3 hour hotel rooms.’

‘Love hotels?’

Her face flushed up, ‘Maybe.’

You didn’t answer at first. You looked at her, then at the ceiling, like it might hold the right response in a water stain.

Asa’s fingers were toying with the hem of her borrowed shirt—your shirt—like she hadn’t just upended the atmosphere with two syllables. Love hotels.

You cleared your throat. ‘They charge by the hour, right?’

‘That’s… kind of the point,’ she said, not quite meeting your eyes, but grinning all the same. Her cheeks had that telltale flush again, the one that crept up slow then stayed.

You shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of the way her thigh pressed against yours. 'You saying you want to rent one for the ambiance?'

‘Sure. Mood lighting. Themed wallpaper. Maybe a heart-shaped jacuzzi if we’re lucky.’

‘Classy.’

‘I thought so.’

You laughed, short and quiet. She nudged your knee with hers. You looked at her then—really looked—and the idea bloomed, unwanted and vivid, in the back of your mind. Asa in one of those ridiculous hotel robes. Her hair still damp from the shower. You, trying not to stare. Trying and failing.

You blinked hard.

‘You're thinking about it, aren't you?’ she said. Not accusatory, just amused.

You scratched the back of your neck. ‘Thinking is free.’

‘Mmhm.’

You paused. Words gathered, jostled. You said, finally, ‘I didn’t… we haven’t… you know.’

‘Had sex?’ she supplied, way too casually, then turned her face into the crook of your shoulder, like even saying it embarrassed her.

You swallowed. Nodded. 'Yeah.'

She was quiet a beat. Then, softly: ‘Why not?’

The air shifted again. Serious now. Too still.

You tried for honesty, the kind that didn’t dress itself up too much. ‘Because if we did… I don’t know. I might fall in.’

She lifted her head, frowning. ‘Fall in?’

You gestured vaguely between you. ‘Into all this. Too deep. I’m your manager, Asa. There’s lines. I don’t know what happens if I… if we… cross them.’

She looked at you for a long time. Then, with a soft snort, said, ‘You think this hasn’t already crossed lines?’

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. She wasn’t wrong.

‘You’ve seen me cry after bad interviews,’ she continued. ‘You’ve slept next to me in tiny green rooms with broken heaters. You’ve watched me eat an entire packet of sour gummies for dinner and still defended me to the label.’

‘It was impressive,’ you offered.

‘It was pathetic,’ she said, grinning. ‘But you didn’t make me feel pathetic. You made me feel… okay. Like it was okay to be tired and weird and hungry at 2am.’

You were staring at her again. Couldn’t help it.

She touched your wrist, featherlight. 'So yeah. I’ve thought about it. The… other stuff. But I figured if we were gonna, it had to be when it didn’t feel like a risk.'

You nodded slowly. That sounded right. That sounded like her.

‘Still… love hotels, huh?’

She groaned, faceplanting into your chest. ‘I knew you were gonna circle back.’

‘You started it.’

‘It was a joke! Mostly.’

‘Mostly?’

She peeked up at you, eyes glinting. ‘Eighty percent joke. Twenty percent… we’d have fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘Yeah. Dumb, cheesy, stupid fun. Mirrors on the ceiling kind of fun.’

You tried not to laugh. Failed. ‘God, you’re dangerous.’

‘I’m adorable,’ she said, with a mock huff.

‘Also that.’

Her hand curled around your arm again, comfortably. Like it belonged there. You didn’t pull away.

After a while, she said, ‘So… no love hotels. For now.’

‘For now.’

‘But I’m not giving up.’

‘I’d be offended if you did.’

She smiled into your shirt. ‘It’s a weird thing, you know?’

‘What is?’

‘How much I like you. Even when you’re being all serious and manager-y. Even when you say things like “logistics.”’

You sighed. ‘I only said it twice.’

‘Once is too many.’

You reached over, tangled your fingers gently in her hair.

—

The door opened and she was already kissing you.

Just a quick one, soft and close-mouthed, but it said everything. She lingered, her arms around your neck, fingers slipping into your hair. You’d seen her just last night.

Still— ‘I missed you,’ she mumbled against your cheek.

‘It’s been twelve hours.’

‘Too long.’

You set the peaches on the counter without looking. One hand stayed around her waist.

‘You okay?’ you asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

‘Now? Yeah. Now I’m peachy.’

You groaned. ‘That was awful.’

She smiled. ‘Come slice the fruit, whiner.’

You did, methodically. Thin wedges, juices pooling on the plate. She leaned her hip against the counter, watching, towel still perched loosely on her head, damp strands peeking out. She looked soft, undone, like someone who belonged to a slow morning.

You brought the plate over and she tugged you toward the couch. You ended up side by side under the throw blanket, legs tangled. She fed you the first slice. Then leaned in for a kiss.

Peach-sweet.

‘Still missed you,’ she said again, like it needed repeating.

You offered her a slice in return. She took it delicately, then pecked your lips.

Another bite, another kiss. You let the silence hold, warm and quiet.

You ran your thumb along her knee, slow. She leaned into you, head tucked under your chin. ‘You smell good.’

Then, softly, reply: ‘I’ll have to go back to Korea. For a week or two. Maybe three.’

She stilled.

You felt it—her body going quiet. Still pressed against you, but something changed.

‘When?’ she asked, voice too even.

‘Couple days.’

A pause. Then: ‘Don’t spread yourself thin, okay?’

You glanced down.

Her eyes were still on the peach slice she held.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. New city, old friends. Late nights. People who might not know you’ve got… someone.’

You blinked. Then looked at her, really looked.

Asa. Slightly pink-cheeked, lips sugar-wet from fruit. Trying not to sound hurt.

You set the plate down on the coffee table and turned to her fully. Lifted her chin with a fingertip.

‘You think I’d forget?’

She shrugged. ‘Not forget. Just… get swept up.’

You kissed her again. Longer this time. Slower.

When you pulled back, she was quiet.

You said, ‘This is a relationship, isn’t it.’

It wasn’t even a question.

She smiled, barely. A breath of a thing. Then nodded.

‘Yeah. I guess it is.’

Another kiss. Sappy, drawn-out, peach-flavored.

You didn’t need to say anything else.

—

The conference room was cold. Overly air-conditioned in that way corporate places always are, like someone thought discomfort = professionalism. Rows of black suits. PowerPoint slides with bullet points so dry you could sand wood with them.

You sat stiffly, tie a little too tight, nodding along while some VP in rectangular glasses spoke about “strategic alignment.” Whatever that meant.

Your phone buzzed quietly in your pocket.

You didn’t check it immediately. That would’ve been rude. But it buzzed again. And again.

Eventually, during the fake coffee break where everyone clustered around silver urns of burnt liquid, you slipped your phone out.

1:43 PM have you eaten?

1:44 PM Not really.

1:44 PM ??? dude why not

1:45 PM Was stuck in a panel about supply chain integration. They served sandwiches the size of poker chips.

1:46 PM that’s not food that’s a cry for help u need me i would’ve made u like actual rice or something

1:47 PM I would sell this entire conference for a bowl of your rice.

1:47 PM omg stop u say the weirdest sweet things i’m blushing now ew

1:48 PM It’s a gift.

1:48 PM ur gift is being emotionally deranged and underfed amazing

1:49 PM I aim for consistency.

1:56 PM ok wait

1:58 PM [photo attachment]

1:59 PM Did you just—

1:59 PM 😊

2:00 PM That hoodie looks very good on you.

2:00 PM looks better when i’m not wearin anything under 👀

2:01 PM You're driving me crazy.

2:01 PM good. u should be thinking abt me while ur surrounded by all those old men in ties bet they don’t got pics like this

2:02 PM [photo attachment]

2:03 PM ...I’m adjusting in my chair now.

2:03 PM lmaooo ur welcome

2:03 PM I hate you.

2:04 PM sureeee but ok i’ll give u a break

2:04 PM Thank you. Appreciate your generosity in these dark times.

2:05 PM anything for my emotionally deranged rice boy 🫶

2:06 PM See you soon?

2:06 PM yuh don’t make me wait too long or i’ll send a video next time 😌

2:06 PM Noted. Flying home immediately.

2:07 PM lol ur ridiculous safe flight, loser also EAT

2:08 PM Yes ma’am.

—

You didn’t even take off your shoes when you got in. Just dropped your bag by the desk, loosened your tie, sat on the edge of the hotel bed like the air had thickened with gravity. The buzz of travel still lived under your skin—artificial light, too much air conditioning, stale coffee that never quite tasted right. But the silence helped. So did the faint promise of her.

Your phone lit up. Incoming Call: Asa

You answered on the first ring.

‘Hey,’ she said, voice already a balm.

‘Hey yourself.’

‘Did you eat?’

You rolled your eyes. ‘You and this food agenda.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Fine. Yes. Eventually.’

‘What was it?’

‘Questionable noodles from a place with too many neon signs and one too many “z”s in the name.’

‘Oof.’ You could hear her make a face. ‘Okay, yeah, I forgive you. That sounds tragic.’

‘Thought you’d appreciate the suffering.’

‘I always do.’ A pause. ‘So… are you lying down yet?’

You did, one shoe still on, the other kicked halfway under the bed. ‘Yeah.’

‘Lights off?’

‘Just dim.’

‘Shirt?’

‘Still on.’

‘Hmph. We’ll fix that.’

You laughed softly, eyes closing as her voice washed over you. ‘You always get bossy this time of night?’

‘Only when I miss you. And when you’re being particularly slow.’

‘Mm. Sorry, manager mode doesn’t turn off easy.’

‘Well, lucky for you…’ A rustle. Fabric shifting. ‘...I’m in bed too.’

Your heart bumped at the sudden hush in her tone.

‘And what are you wearing?’ you asked, mock-formal.

‘You mean right now?’

‘Don’t play coy.’

She chuckled, voice warm like candlelight. ‘Your hoodie.’

‘Just the hoodie?’

There was the faintest pause. ‘You tell me.’

God. You swallowed. ‘Is it… zipped?’

‘Nope.’

You exhaled. ‘Fuck.’

‘Language,’ she teased. Then softer: ‘Missed your voice.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Still true.’ Her voice curled closer, like she was beside you, whispering. ‘You sound tired. That good kind. The one where I wish I was there.’

‘You’re kind of always here,’ you murmured.

‘Am I?’

‘Yeah. It’s dumb. I see a dumb pink drink at Starbucks and think of you. I hear a bad pop song in a cab, and it’s suddenly about you. It’s annoying.’

‘God.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Say more stupid things like that.’

‘I would,’ you said, ‘but I think I’d rather hear what you’re doing right now.’

Another rustle. You pictured her on that bed. Hair messy, half-lidded. Bare thighs and soft sighs.

‘Thinking about you,’ she said, unashamed. ‘Touching the edge of the hoodie. Just the hem. It’s so soft.’

‘Is it now.’

‘Yeah.’ A breath. ‘Can I… ask you something kind of dumb?’

‘Always.’

‘Have you ever… like—done this over the phone?’

Your mouth quirked. ‘Phone sex?’

‘Don’t say it like that.’ She groaned. ‘Now I’m shy.’

‘Too late,’ you murmured. ‘You brought it up.’

‘Technically, you did with the “what are you wearing” opener.’

You laughed, throat dry. ‘Okay. Guilty.’

A pause. Then she said, quieter, ‘I want to.’

Your stomach tightened. ‘Yeah?’

‘I keep picturing you lying there. Still in your dress shirt. Probably frowning at the ceiling.’

‘I was.’

‘You’re always so composed. So good. Until you’re not.’

You adjusted your position on the bed. Your jeans suddenly didn’t fit right.

‘Tell me what you’d do,’ she said.

You exhaled. ‘To you?’

‘Mhm.’

‘I’d start slow. Undo the zipper of that hoodie. Just enough to see the skin beneath. Press my nose against your shoulder. A soft bite too.’

She made a small, shaky sound. Encouragement.

‘Then I’d tell you to leave it half-zipped. Just like that. Because I want to see you in my hoodie. Want to see how little else you’re wearing underneath.’

She whimpered. ‘God, keep going.’

‘I’d kiss down your neck. Right where your collarbone meets your shoulder. Feel you squirm under me. My hands—’ you shifted, groaning under your breath, ‘—would slide under the hoodie, find your waist. Feel how warm your skin is.’

‘And?’ Her voice was tighter now, breathier. You imagined her biting her lower lip, one hand between her legs.

‘And I’d drop to my knees,’ you said. ‘I’d press kisses down your stomach. Trail down. Really love every part down. Then, I’d look up at you from between your thighs. Make you wait a second. Just enough to make your legs twitch, make you squirm under my hands.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ she whispered.

‘You’d be dripping,’ you added, voice darker now, lower. ‘Wouldn’t you.’

She breathed out a yes, broken and small. ‘Would beg for your mouth.’

‘Wouldn’t even make you wait long. Just enough. Then I’d lick—slow and flat. Feel you twitch. Hear you whine. My fingers would dig into your thighs. Hold you still as you convulse.’

‘God,’ she breathed.

‘You’d be worse,’ you said. ‘Your hands in my hair. Pulling. That breathless way you say my name. Every second deciding whether to stare at me eating you or look at the ceiling in euphoria’

‘Fuck, I’m—I’m close—’

‘Don’t come yet.’

She whimpered, frustrated.

‘Not until I say. Not until I’ve—’ You stopped. Smiled. ‘Actually…’

‘What?’

‘Would you get on your knees for me?’

A pause.

‘I want to hear it,’ you said.

Another beat. Then, soft as a secret: ‘Yes.’

‘Open your mouth for me. Put your wet fingers into your mouth.’

She inhaled sharply.

You adjusted your grip on the phone. ‘I’d undo my belt. Let you see how hard I am for you. Make you ask.'

‘Please,’ she said, immediately.

‘Good girl.’

A quiet whimper, something other than the whimper, something wet.

‘I’d feed it to you slow. Just the head first, resting on your tongue, all heavy. Let you get used to the weight on your tongue.’

She gasped.

‘Then deeper. Let you feel my pulsing erection, down and down. Until your lips hit my hips.’

‘Oh my god—’

‘You’d gag a little. But take it. I’d hold you there, Asa. You’ll take it so fucking well. So so fucking well.’

There was a choked sound on the line.

‘You doing it?’ you asked, softer now.

‘Mhm.’ Barely a whisper. ‘Fingers.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘I want you inside me so bad.’

‘You’ll have me,’ you promised. ‘Next time I see you, I’m bending you over that hotel desk. Hoodie on. Nothing underneath.’

She moaned. ‘Please.’

‘You’ll take every inch. You won’t move. Your legs wouldn’t touch the ground.’ You were almost growling at the phone.

She whimpered again, high and desperate. ‘I’m—can I—?’

‘Now,’ you breathed. ‘Come now.’

She shattered on the line. You heard it. The breathless rush, the sound of her fingering herself to completion, the sound of her palm slapping fabric, her cry stifled into the pillow.

You listened like it was scripture.

After a long, delicious silence, her voice came back. A little broken. A little breathless. You heard her turn in the bed.

‘Oh my god. That was so hot.’

You chuckled, still catching your own breath. ‘You think?’

‘But also…’ she added, voice mock stern, ‘conflict of interest.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m your artist. You’re my manager. And now I know how you’d ruin me.’

You grinned. ‘Mutual ruination. Very professional.’

‘Extremely HR-friendly.’

‘You’re gonna be the death of me.’

—

The days flew by much faster than you expected—mostly, because of Asa’s calls.

‘I forgot we could video call.’ Asa giggled, the heat of the moment got to you both yesterday, and the rest was history.

‘Was it effective?’

‘God yes. But now we can see each other. Look at you, button-up, in your suit.’ She breathed softly.

Damp hair, bare face, Asa, oh Asa, the most beautiful person in the world.

‘Asa.’ ‘Yes?’ Her voice was soft now, still holding that trace of breathlessness, a slight echo of the intensity from moments before. The video feed showed her face, slightly flushed, hair mussed around her temples, eyes wide and maybe a little shy now that you were seeing each other right after.

‘Just… yes.’ You let out a slow breath. Looked away from the screen for a second, gathering yourself. The artificial hotel lighting felt suddenly too bright. ‘Seeing you like this. After…’ You trailed off.

A small smile touched her lips. She pulled the blanket—or maybe it was the duvet—up slightly higher, just under her chin. ‘After you painted quite the picture, Manager-nim?’

You chuckled, low and rough. ‘Something like that. Still trying to reconcile the HR violations with the… visual confirmation.’

She laughed then, a real laugh, warm and slightly shaky. ‘You’re ridiculous. Look at you. All serious suit.’

‘Maybe,’ you admitted, running a hand over your jaw. The stubble rasped against your palm. ‘This feels… new. Seeing you right now.’

‘Yeah?’ She tilted her head, a damp curl falling across her cheek. ‘Good new or ‘oh-god-what-have-we-done’ new?’

‘Definitely good new,’ you said immediately. Too quickly, maybe. ‘Just… potent.’ You looked back at the screen, letting your eyes trace the line of her shoulder where it peeked above the covers. ‘So. Still rocking the legendary hoodie?’

Her blush deepened slightly. She glanced down as if confirming it for herself. ‘Might be.’

‘Might be?’ you echoed, letting a teasing note creep into your voice. ‘You holding out on me?’

‘Maybe I graduated,’ she countered, though her eyes glinted with amusement. ‘Maybe I’m wearing a ballgown under here. Maybe you bought me a ballgown and forgot about it.’

‘Somehow I doubt that.’

‘You wound me with your lack of faith.’ She shifted, the movement making the camera wobble slightly. Then, with deliberate slowness, she lowered the blanket just enough to reveal the soft grey fabric of your hoodie pulled low over her collarbones. The zipper was still halfway down, just like you’d imagined. ‘See? Loyal customer.’

Your breath hitched. ‘Okay. Yeah. Still looks… objectively good.’

‘Objectively?’ she repeated, raising an eyebrow. ‘Just objective appreciation, huh?’

‘Trying my best,’ you said, though your voice felt thick. ‘Doesn't mean my brain isn’t currently short-circuiting trying to imagine peeling it off you slowly when I get back.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Her voice dropped again, that low, intimate curl returning. ‘Tell me more about these return plans. Distract me from the fact I just basically melted into a puddle on the phone.’

You leaned back against the headboard, phone held steady now. The formality of the suit felt absurd. ‘First thing? Definitely losing the tie. Probably the moment the hotel door clicks shut behind me.’

‘A vital first step.’

‘Then,’ you continued, picturing it, letting the images form sharp and clear, ‘I find you. Wherever you are. Kitchen, couch, curled up on the bed looking annoyingly beautiful and innocent after driving me crazy from miles away.’

‘Annoyingly beautiful?’

‘You heard me. And I walk straight to you. No detours. No checking emails. Just… you.’ You paused, letting the word hang there. ‘And I kiss you. Properly. Not a quick peck. One of those long, slow ones that makes you forget what day it is.’

She smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips. ‘I like those days.’

‘Me too. Then, yeah. The hoodie. It’s gotta go. Slowly. Finger by finger up the zipper. Or maybe I just hook my fingers under the hem and pull it up over your head, tangle your hair a bit. See what you’ve got on underneath. Or what you don’t.’

She swallowed, visible on the screen. ‘And… what if there’s not much?’

‘Even better,’ you murmured. ‘Then it’s just skin. Yours against mine. I’d back you up against the nearest wall. Just to feel you pressed against me, finally. Kiss down your neck again, right there…’ you touched your own collarbone, ‘…where I know you like it. Feel you shiver.’

‘You remember,’ she whispered.

‘I remember everything.’ You shifted on the bed, the movement involuntary. ‘Then maybe the couch. Or the bed. Doesn't matter. Just tangled up. Lazy kisses. Hands exploring. None of that rushed tour bus hiding-in-corners stuff. Just… slow. Taking our time. Making up for all these miles.’

‘Slow sounds good,’ she breathed. ‘Really good.’

‘And food,’ you added, lightening the tone slightly. ‘Actual food. Maybe Pizza Hut. We can even leave the box on the floor this time. Break all my minimalist rules.’

She laughed, the sound like music. ‘Look at you, growing.’

‘Only for you.’ You met her eyes on the screen again. The joking facade faded. ‘Just… being close. That’s the plan. Getting back, shutting the door, and just being close to you. Everything else is details.’

‘Good details, though,’ she murmured, her gaze soft, affectionate. ‘Really, really good details.’

‘Yeah,’ you agreed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the hotel heating. ‘They are.’

A comfortable silence settled for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of electronics. Her eyes stayed on yours, a quiet understanding passing between the screens.

‘You’re staring again,’ she said softly, breaking the spell.

‘Can’t help it,’ you replied honestly. ‘Hard not to, even through a screen.’

‘Book boy’s getting dangerously smooth.’

‘Don’t call me that right now.’

She grinned, that familiar flash of mischief returning. ‘Why not… book boy?’

‘Because right now,’ you said, ‘all I can think about is getting home and doing things that aren’t found in any book I own.’

Her breath hitched audibly. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Message received. Loud and clear.’ She pulled the blanket back up slightly, mock-primly. ‘Guess I should… conserve my energy then.’

‘Good idea,’ you said, though the thought of her conserving energy by herself, wearing your hoodie, sent another jolt through you. ‘See you soon, Asa.’

‘Soon,’ she promised, her eyes holding yours for a second longer before the screen went dark.

You dropped the phone onto the duvet beside you, staring up at the textured ceiling. Soon couldn’t come fast enough. The sterile hotel room suddenly felt infinitely emptier. You thought about rice, kimchi, the smell of her shampoo, the weight of her head on your shoulder, the feel of her hand in yours. Simple things. Essential things. Heaven, you thought, surprised again. A quiet, waiting kind of heaven. And maybe, just maybe, a few HR violations when you got there.

—

The days went by surprisingly fast. You were already on the plane. A medium amount of homicidal executives. A medium amount of threats on your job. All in all, a successful trip for training. Though you would’ve liked to stay by Asa’s side.

The flight was much longer than the week. Each hour dragged longer and longer. Like Zeno’s paradox. A smear of lethargy getting slower and slower until it didn’t move anymore. Of course, hyperbole considered, the flight still went by, or time went on, either of the two.

You landed. The air outside the terminal felt thick, sticky, holding onto the day's heat like a damp towel. Another city. Didn't matter much which one. She was here. That felt like the only direction that mattered.

The taxi window fogged easy. You drew a lazy line through the condensation with one finger. Thinking about rain, maybe. Wet pavement. Steamed-up backseats. The memory felt warm, close.

Check-in was smooth, anonymous. The key card felt cool in your palm. Same floor. Room across. Thank the booking gods, or whoever managed those details now. Probably still you, indirectly. The elevator hummed low, a familiar vibration, a sound that meant transit, waiting. You watched the numbers climb, feeling slower than they looked.

Down the hallway. Heavy carpet swallowed the sound of your footsteps, mostly. Soft thuds against some muted, swirling pattern you didn’t register. Your door: 512. Hers, across: 513.

A crack of light spilled from under her door. And jammed in the opening, holding it ajar, was a shoe. One of her boots. Casual.

You nudged the door wider with a fingertip, gentle. There she was. Curled not on the bed, but in one of those upholstered armchairs hotels always seem to have. Head tilted against the wingback, mouth slightly parted. Fast asleep. Still dressed from the day—jeans, soft-looking band shirt. Makeup mostly intact, maybe a faint smudge beneath one eye. Breathing soft and even.

Must've waited up. Or tried to.

You bent down, quietly picked up the stray boot. Set it beside its partner, near the wall. Turned back.

‘You’re here.’

Her voice was soft, thick with sleep, but definitely awake. Before you could answer, or fully turn, she was unfolding herself from the chair, moving quickly across the small space between you. Her arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you tight against her. Her cheek pressed into the fabric of your travel-rumpled shirt.

‘I missed you,’ she mumbled into your back. She breathed you in, a long, deliberate inhale. ‘God, I missed you so much.’

You stood still for a moment, letting the reality of it sink in. The weight of her, the warmth. The faint scent of her shampoo mixed with something else—hotel soap, maybe fatigue. You covered her hands with yours where they were clasped at your stomach.

‘Hey,’ you said, voice low. ‘Missed you too.’

She squeezed tighter. ‘Took you long enough.’ Still muffled.

‘Traffic,’ you offered. ‘And, you know. Strategic alignment meetings.’

She made a soft scoffing sound against your spine. ‘Don’t remind me.’ She loosened her grip slightly, enough for you to turn around within her embrace. Her eyes were hazy, still clouded with sleep, but focused on yours now. A tiny, tired smile played on her lips. ‘You look wrecked.’

‘Feel it.’ You brushed a stray strand of raven hair back from her temple. Her skin felt warm. ‘You didn’t have to wait up.’

‘Tried not to,’ she admitted, leaning her forehead against your chest. ‘Failed. Fell asleep in the chair like an old lady.’

‘Very dignified.’

‘Shut up.’ She nudged you playfully. ‘Did you eat? Please tell me you ate something that wasn’t from a vending machine.’

‘Questionable airport sandwich,’ you confessed. ‘Does that count?’

She groaned, tilting her head back to look up at you properly. ‘Tragic. Utterly tragic. My manager, starving.’

‘Suffering for my art. Or yours, rather.’ You smiled down at her, a soft peck on her lips. ‘Pretty sure falling asleep fully clothed in an armchair is also tragic.’

‘It’s method,’ she insisted, though her eyelids fluttered. ‘Preparing for the inevitable tour bus naps.’ She tugged you further into the room, towards the unmade bed. ‘Come on. Lie down before you fall down. You can tell me all about the horrors of corporate synergy later.’

‘Only if you promise not to fall asleep mid-sentence again.’

‘No promises, book boy.’ She yawned, wide and uninhibited, then grinned, teeth flashing briefly. ‘But I’ll try. Mostly.’

You let her pull you over. The room felt suddenly small, contained, just the two of you in the dim lamp light. Her hand felt warm, fitting easily back into yours, like it had never left. Heaven, you thought. This quiet, hand-held kind. No rain required. Just her.

She steered you towards the rumpled landscape of the queen-sized bed. ‘Okay, ditch the jacket at least. You look like you’re about to audit the mini-bar.’

You shrugged out of it, letting it fall onto the back of the armchair she’d vacated. You eyed the bed, then glanced back towards the door, towards the silent hallway and your own room waiting just across it. ‘Maybe I should—’

‘Nope.’ She cut you off, shaking her head firmly. Her hair swayed. ‘Don’t even finish that sentence. You’re not going anywhere.’

‘Asa,’ you started, trying for reasonable. ‘We have separate rooms for a reason. Protocols. Appearances.’

She flopped dramatically onto the bed, bouncing slightly. ‘Protocols went out the window somewhere around “feed it to me slow,” didn't they?’ You felt a hot rush along your cheeks. She patted the space beside her. ‘Besides, who’s gonna know? The Hotel Room Police? Are they doing spot checks tonight?’

A small laugh escaped you. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘And you’re tired,’ she countered, her gaze softening just a fraction. ‘And probably need a shower. And definitely need sleep. Which you won’t get if you’re pacing around your sterile little room wondering if I’m okay over here.’

You couldn't argue with that last part. Remembering the phone calls, the things said, the barriers evaporated line by line over bad connections and late nights… staying across the hall felt suddenly artificial. Pointless, even.

‘Fine,’ you conceded, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. ‘But if someone from the label does a surprise inspection at 3 AM, you’re doing the talking.’

‘Deal.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll tell them you were giving me emergency vocal coaching. Very, very quiet coaching.’

You ran a hand through your hair. ‘Need to brush my teeth first. Didn't even unpack that far.’

‘Bathroom’s through there.’ She waved vaguely towards a closed door. ‘Think there’s a spare toothbrush in the little kit thingy they leave. Unless you’re bringing your own extensive dental hygiene setup?’

‘Just the basics.’ You stood up, heading for the bathroom. Inside, the light flickered on. Standard hotel fare. Tiny soaps, neatly folded towels. Her makeup bag sat open on the counter, spilling brushes and palettes. You found the complimentary kit, tore open the stiff plastic around the toothbrush. As you brushed, you noticed her worn blue toothbrush sitting casually in the holder next to where you placed the new one. A small, stupidly domestic sight. Like sharing a coffee cup, or leaving a book on a nightstand. Small offerings. Small acceptances.

When you came back out, she’d kicked off her jeans and burrowed under the duvet, leaving just her head and shoulders visible. She watched you approach the bed, eyes tracking your movements.

‘Comfy?’ you asked, pulling back the covers on your side.

‘Getting there. Are you a duvet hog? I need to know upfront.’

‘Never.’ You slid in, the sheets cool against your skin. You stayed on your side, a respectable distance between you. For about five seconds.

She immediately rolled closer, bumping her shoulder against yours gently. ‘Liar. You look like the type who builds a pillow fortress.’

‘Only when threatened.’ You turned onto your side to face her. The lamp cast soft shadows across her features. Her makeup looked smudged now, softer. Tired, but content.

‘Am I threatening?’ she whispered, voice playful.

‘Constantly.’

Her lips curved. ‘Good.’ She scooted a fraction closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off her. Close enough to smell the lingering trace of her perfume mixed with the clean scent of hotel sheets. ‘This is nice, isn't it?’

‘Nice isn't the word I’d use.’

‘Oh yeah? What word would you use, book boy?’ Her eyes were bright, teasing, even in the low light.

You thought for a moment. ‘Finally,’ you said, finally. Quietly.

Her teasing expression faded. She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the line of your jaw. ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘That sounds about right.’

Silence settled again, comfortable this time. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning, the soft sound of her breathing close by, god, it sounded so good. Her eyes stayed on yours, a steady, curious gaze.

‘You gonna stare at me all night?’ you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

‘Maybe,’ she replied, equally quiet.

Your own eyelids felt heavy. The travel, the tension, the release of finally being here, with her. It was all catching up. But you kept your eyes open, looking back at her. At the curve of her cheek, the slight parting of her lips, the way a stray strand of hair fell across her forehead.

‘Good night. ’ she mumbled, her own eyes starting to drift closed.

‘You too.’

Her hand slipped down from your jaw, her fingers finding yours under the covers, lacing together loosely. A simple, grounding connection. You watched her face relax fully into sleep, her breathing deepening slightly. Even then, you kept looking for another moment, fixing the image in your mind. Asa, asleep beside you. Not across the hall, not miles away, not just a voice on the phone. Here. Necessary.

Finally, your own eyes closed. The darkness felt warm, welcome. Shared.

You opened your eyes, saw Asa first, breathing softly, eyes closed, lips almost protruding: cute. You looked around, the sheer curtain brought tumbles of foggy sunlight onto the starched blanket.

When your eyes went back to Asa, her eyes were open.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Amazing.’

‘Mm. That’s good.’ Her hand softly landed on your jaw, caressing. She then shuffled forth, ‘I can’t believe it, that you’re here, on this bed.’ A kiss. Then another. Then all over your face.

You shared a kiss. Or two. You relished the rest.

It stands to reason, perhaps, that what was about to happen was overdue.

You wrapped your arms around her waist. Then her hands pushed your forearms down, lower, way lower than you originally placed them.

And all you could hear were the subtle breaths of Asa, getting faster, you think..

‘Lower.’

You felt red. You went lower. The swell of her backside—fuck fuck fuck—was supple in your hands. ‘Asa.’

‘Mhm. Keep going. I’ve missed out on a week without you.’

‘The video—’

‘Those don’t count. When your warm palms are not on me, nothing counts.’

That does it for you, frankly. You gripped hard, she squealed, you smashed your lips against hers—obviously, she’d call you brute after—then it becomes a race against time: how can you extend it? Can the pillowy softness of her just stay on you for more than a month atleast? Or a week! Even a day!

‘Stop thinking.’

Oh. Right. She’s right here.

You flip her over, right under you, pinned and trapped. Your limbs as bars. And you swear, to almighty and above, that Asa whispered finally.

You yield again to her touch, you slot yourself into her arms, between her legs, her arm a lock behind your nape. You should apologize to her, honestly, even the way she recoups herself under you is so fucking hot—her chest heaving, kiss-bitten lips, blooming red across her soft neck—sorry, Asa, sorry, you must hear my thoughts, right? For all it’s worth, I apologize.

‘Keep going.’ She huffs meekly.

‘You’re driving me crazy.’

‘I know. Keep going. Don’t stop. Let me go crazy under you. Own me.’ It’s grizzly, she has this effect on you, and you oblige, obviously. You devour her, more or less, you kiss her moist skin, the pink flush of her cheeks—why is it so pink?

Your hand slipped beneath her shirt. Nothing underneath. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. You palmed the side of her breast, and her breath caught in your ear.

‘You said warm palms,’ you murmured, kissing along her jaw.

‘That’s one of the things I said,’ she breathed, arching slightly, coaxing your hand down, guiding it, greedy.

You trailed your mouth lower. Her body opened under you like a lit match in slow burn. She squirmed, impatient now, toes curling in the sheets.

‘You're really gonna tease me again?’ she asked, breathless, borderline scolding. ‘After all those goddamn phone calls?’

You grinned. ‘I’m making up for lost time.’

‘You’ll make up after,’ she growled softly, dragging you by your collar until your mouths met again. It was messier this time. Less orchestrated. More instinct.

Then: her hand slid between you both. She cupped you through your boxers—your aching hardness—no shame, no patience.

You froze.

‘You—you want this?’ you asked, breath ragged. ‘Now?’

‘You’re not my manager right now,’ she said, low. ‘You’re just mine.’

That about split you in two.

You kissed her hard.

Your hand slipped into her underwear. At the expense of her breathless broken moans, you felt around. She was wet already—how was she always wet? It drove you mad. She bucked against your hand as it hovered over her pussy, a shaky moan leaving her as your fingers curled inside her velvety heat. She grabbed your wrist and dug her nails in, like she couldn’t stand how slow you were going.

You felt her juices collect along your finger, completely covered, like honey, like a glaze that you were aching to taste. It’s this goddess right here, under your arms, seized, and convulsing as you fingered her into oblivion.

‘I’m gonna—’ she choked, already unsteady, lips parted, eyes fluttering. ‘Oh fuck. I’m gonna—’ She was whimpering, bucking, choking up, breaking right under you, from your fingers. Holy fucking shit. You buried your face into her neck as you worked your fingers fast and deeper.

‘Come for me,’ you whispered. Arms certainly straining—but of course: anything for Asa.

And she did. Hard. Legs shaking, voice cut to delicate ribbons. ‘Ngh!’ An entire wetness covered your hand wrist-deep.

When she came down, she blinked up at you, completely dazed, hairs stuck to her forehead in little criss-crosses and curls and somehow absolutely perfect. ‘You’re gonna kill me one day.’

‘No,’ you said, dropping kisses over her eyelids, down her cheek. ‘Just gonna keep breaking you a little.’

‘You make that sound romantic,’ she teased, lazy now. Wrecked.

‘It is,’ you said. ‘You’re mine. And I’m gonna prove it.’

You spread your wet hand along her sunlight-covered chest, and she let you, protruding her beautiful chest; you let her know, each swipe along her chest, sternum, just outside her areolas: look at how much you came, look at it, you naughty girl.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘Yes.’ She obeyed. Short circuit.

Her tongue pressed flat against your nectar-covered hand, diligently tasting… diligently tasting herself. Fuck.

Then you kissed her. God, she tasted good.

‘Review?’ She asked, all looney.

You burst out laughing, then she followed soon after.

‘Highest possible rating.’

‘Hm. I figured.’

‘One more kiss,’ you almost beg.

‘You like it that much?’

‘Take a hint, Asa. I love everything about you.’

Perhaps, that was the longest kiss of them all. Then:

You moved down.

She looked down at you, eyebrows lifting.

‘Wait—again?’

‘You owe me from last week. I didn’t forget that one call where you cut me off halfway. Something about “soundproofing,” remember?’

Her eyes widened. Her laugh was half-winded. ‘Oh god, that.’

Her panties were gone as swiftly as possible. And there it was, in all its glory. Something you haven’t seen, ironic given how far along you both are. Pink, glowing with her slick, absolutely transcendent. Your pants were about to burst. You were about to wrap ribbons of prayer just for the way it was pearlescent, so delicate; yet your fingers were inside there, misshaping it; you were really getting her pussy to come on your fingers. Holy shit.

You bowed, in prayer, between her thighs.

You looked up at Asa. Pink flush all over her cheeks. Broken in her moans, in her voice, in her euphoria.

‘Mhm.’ You kissed the inside of her thigh. ‘Now be quiet for me. Let me collect.’

You grinned when she clutched the sheets.

You grinned harder when she said your name like it hurt.

You slid your hands under the backs of her knees, pushed them gently toward her chest, opened her up. She gasped.

Then you tasted her.

Soft, slow at first. Long licks, riding up from bottom to top, along her delicate folds, her swollen nub—Lord almighty the sounds she made. Her hips lifted. The first moan was half-choked, too much too fast, but she didn’t ask you to slow down. Her fingers laced into your hair and held. Your name slipped out like a plea, then again, sharper, breathless.

You locked your arms under her thighs. Anchored her. Let her grind against your mouth, desperate and greedy. Let her ride it.

‘Fuck—fuck, I—’ her voice cracked like glass. ‘I’m gonna—oh god—’

You didn’t stop.

You flattened your tongue and pressed harder. Swirled when she twitched. You were methodical. Hungry. She tried to lift her hips off the bed entirely—run from it, maybe—but you gripped tighter, pulled her back. Stay right here.

And then—

She shattered.

Her thighs clamped around your ears. Her whole body jolted, a drawn bowstring suddenly loosed. The sheets under her soaked instantly.

She’d squirted.

You didn’t move. Just held her through it. Tongue gentler now, coaxing. Let her come again, smaller this time, still twitching under your grip.

When you finally looked up, her face was flushed, stunned.

‘Oh god. Your face.’ She burst out laughing again. ‘I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or what! Look at your face!’

Then, the soft air made you feel the chill of the wetness across your face. She squirted all over your face. Your grin didn’t drop a single time.

She laughed. A breathless, shocked thing. ‘I think you short-circuited me.’

‘I’m glad. So glad. My Asa. Goddess.’

She hummed positively, still out of breath.

You kissed the inside of her knee. Then trailed your mouth down her shin—the firm, quiet perfection of her shin, the skin smooth and just slightly cool to the touch. She twitched under your lips, involuntary, but didn’t pull away. You kept going, unhurried, kissing down to her ankle. Firm. Beautifully angular. You lifted her foot.

She blinked. ‘What are you—’

You kissed the arch. Pale. Sensitive.

She gasped, a little laugh bleeding through. ‘That tickles—’

Then her sole. Baby pink. Almost glowing under the low lamplight. You kissed the ball of her foot, the soft rise just beneath her toes. Then slower, more deliberate, your mouth passed over the heel, the in-step, the barely-there lines that mapped her skin. The taste of her—clean, skin-warm—something that should’ve felt silly but didn’t. Not at all.

‘Oh my god,’ she whispered, almost giggling, breath catching unevenly. ‘You’re insane.’

‘Worship,’ you murmured. ‘Every part of you.’

You moved to the other foot, taking your time. Letting her feel it wasn’t just performance, or hunger. This was devotion. This was reverence. You kissed along the sole, each toe separately, letting them rest against your lips like petals. When you finally lowered her feet gently back to the bed, she looked up at you like something in her had been rearranged.

Like maybe something just clicked.

You crawled up over her again. Her chest was rising, falling. Her breath shallow, trembling. Your hips brushed hers. You felt it instantly—heat. Wet.

She felt you too. Stiff against your boxers. The whole length of you pressed to her thigh.

‘Oh,’ she said, the word leaving her like a slow exhale. ‘Oh, you’re—’

You leaned in until your forehead met hers. She could probably feel how fast your pulse was beating.

Her hand slipped down between you both, knuckles brushing your stomach, then cupping you through your underwear. She stilled. Her brows arched.

‘You’re—fuck, you’re huge.’

You just smiled, lips ghosting her cheek.

She hooked a finger under the waistband and tugged. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

‘Unsheathe the sword,’ she whispered, mock dramatic, her voice still breathy, still half-lost.

You laughed. Soft and hot against her jaw. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘You like it.’

‘I love it.’

So you did. You slipped out of your boxers, your cock springing free and flushed. Heavy with need. She inhaled at the sight, visibly stunned, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip just a little as you looked down at her—sprawled, open.

You reached between her thighs. She was soaked. Slickness smeared easily over your fingers, thick and warm. You pressed the head against her, dragging it slowly through her folds, teasing, wet sounds slicking the air between you.

She whimpered.

Then you lined up, just barely pressing in.

‘Now?’ you asked, voice gone low and cracked.

She looped her arms around your neck. Wrapped her legs around your waist. Pulled.

‘Now,’ she said, and her voice cracked too. ‘Finally.’

You pushed in.

Heat. Pressure. Tight.

She gasped—or sobbed—you weren’t sure which. Her arms clutched at your shoulders, nails raking instinctively.

‘Ngh—’ you grunted, barely able to breathe.

‘Are you okay?’ she whispered, like her whole body was trying not to break in half.

‘Ke—ep going!’

And so you did. Inch by aching inch, your cock slid deeper, parting her, stretching her. Her walls clenched around you—not resisting, but trembling, adjusting. Wet enough to glide, tight enough to ruin you.

You looked down, watched yourself disappear inside her. You weren’t even all the way in yet.

‘Fuck—you’re perfect,’ you breathed.

She couldn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy, locked onto your face like it was the only stable thing in the room. Her fingers gripped the back of your neck, anchoring herself.

‘It’s too big—’ she whimpered, voice barely audible.

‘Slightly above average,’ you corrected her, through grit teeth.

She blinked at you. Then giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was sharp and breathless.

‘Oh wow. First guy to undersell himself.’

‘First guy?’

She looked at you like you were adorable and stupid at once.

‘You’re my first. Don’t be silly.’

That landed like a punch wrapped in silk. You stopped moving.

‘Right. Right. I’m sorry,’ you whispered.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. Her lips curved, the sweetest thing. ‘Just go slow. Don’t stop.’

You kissed her again. Gentle. So soft your lips barely moved. And you pushed deeper.

She arched, biting her lip hard.

You were inside her now. All the way. Pressed to the hilt. Her warmth swallowed you, wrapped around you, soaked every nerve in your body.

You stilled. Let her catch her breath. Let your body feel it. The twitch of her thighs, the tremble in her calves wrapped around you. The way she gasped every time you moved even a fraction.

‘I’ve got you,’ you whispered. ‘I’ll go slow.’

‘Don’t be too nice,’ she whispered back. ‘I want to remember this.’

You started slow.

Your hips rolled forward, careful, reverent. Her arms curled around your shoulders, legs still hooked loosely around your waist. She gasped into your neck—not in pain, not surprise—but that soft sound people make when something hits too deep and too right.

You pulled back, slow and steady. Watched the way her body clung to you, slick with need, her folds parting like they wanted to keep you inside. Your cock dragged out of her inch by inch, shining with her wetness, and when only the head was left, you paused—just to feel the tremble run through her thighs.

She looked up at you then.

Eyes glassy. Hair stuck to her cheek. A flush blooming across her chest and neck like watercolor bleeding through fabric.

You kissed her nose. Her temple. Rested your forehead against hers.

Then you eased back in. One long, slow thrust that made both of you exhale at the same time.

She let out the quietest whimper.

‘That feel okay?’ you whispered.

She nodded, eyes still closed. Her voice came small. ‘More than okay. You feel… full.’

You kissed her again—barely a brush of lips—and moved.

In and out.

So slow the bed barely moved. Just the soft rustle of sheets and the gentle slide of skin against skin. The wet sound of her body welcoming yours over and over.

You looked down between you, where your hips met hers, and watched the way you disappeared inside her. She was so slick, your cock moved like it belonged there—gliding through the tight heat, collecting every drop she gave you.

‘God, baby,’ you breathed. ‘You’re so wet.’

She bit her bottom lip, bashful and burning.

‘It’s your fault,’ she murmured. ‘You look at me like that, and I melt.’

You grinned, chest warm. Leaned down and licked along her collarbone, tasted the salt on her skin.

Her hands traced your back, fingertips trailing over the curve of your shoulder blades. Her nails didn’t dig yet—they just clung.

‘You’re perfect,’ you said, the words leaving your mouth like a prayer. Not planned. Just true.

She blinked up at you, startled by how soft you said it.

You moved again, slow but firmer this time, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

‘Keep doing that,’ she whispered. ‘Please. Just like that.’

You did. Deep and steady. Her inner walls tightened each time, fluttering like she didn’t know whether to hold you in or pull you deeper.

‘I love feeling you like this,’ she said, breathless. ‘I can feel everything.’

You kissed her jaw. ‘Me too. You feel like… heaven.’

She laughed, barely a sound. Then kissed you back, and moaned into your mouth as your hips rocked again.

Her legs squeezed tighter. You picked up just a little speed. The rhythm, still careful, still full of affection—but heavier now. Like your bodies were writing something together.

Then she gasped suddenly. Her nails bit into your skin. Her mouth found your shoulder and she moaned right against it.

‘Harder,’ she whispered. A plead. A confession. ‘Please. Please.’

You didn’t even think.

You grabbed the back of her thigh and slammed into her.

She cried out—not pain. Release. Her hands flew to the headboard, bracing. Sweat-slick. Flushed. Feral.

You drove into her like you were punishing the week apart. Each thrust deeper, harder, shaking the bed against the wall. Wet sounds filled the room, loud and obscene, her slick coating your cock in excess.

‘Fuck—fuck—you’re so deep—’ she gasped. Chest sweat-slicked, glowing. Utter euphoria. Feral.

You grabbed her wrists. Pinned them above her head with one hand. Your other braced beside her, keeping your weight just barely off her chest. Your hips never stopped moving.

‘You said you wanted to remember this,’ you growled. ‘You will.’

She nodded frantically, head thrown back, eyes rolling up as you fucked her into the mattress. You leaned in, your mouth to her ear.

‘You’re mine,’ you said. You didn’t even mean to say it. It just ripped out of you.

‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes—yes, yes, yes—’

You pulled out.

She gasped in protest—but you weren’t done.

You flipped her. Bent her over. Palmed the dip of her spine.

‘Arch more,’ you commanded, voice hoarse.

She obeyed instantly. Back bowed, ass high, thighs still shaking.

You sank back in, all at once.

She screamed into the pillow.

You didn’t ease up.

You grabbed her hips and held on, locked in, your thighs slapping against the backs of hers with each thrust. The rhythm was brutal now, relentless. You’d held back long enough. Her body welcomed it—hell, demanded it—soaked and twitching, each stroke punching wet sounds into the room like applause.

‘Fuckfuckfuck— you’re gonna make me—’ she gasped, voice nearly strangled by the pillow.

You leaned in, weight bearing down, grabbed a fistful of her ass and slapped it. Once. Firm. Just enough to send a sharp ripple through her.

She yelped, a noise of shock and heat all at once.

‘Come again,’ you growled. ‘Do it. I want it all over me.’

She obeyed—or maybe she just couldn’t help it.

Her whole body seized, back bowing, her thighs locking against yours as a jet of wetness sprayed out from between her legs, coating your skin, soaking the sheets. She sobbed into the pillow, a high, helpless sound, twitching like her body couldn’t handle it.

You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t stop.

You gripped her hips tighter—she was trying to crawl away, overwhelmed, overstimulated, every nerve lit—but you reeled her back like she was yours to claim.

‘Fuck—baby— I—fuck, you’re still going—’ she wailed, voice cracked open.

You didn’t answer. Just leaned over her back, chest against her spine, and pressed your hand between her shoulder blades. Not hard. Just enough to keep her down. Her cheek flattened against the sheets. Her hands clenched the comforter in fists.

‘You said you wanted to remember this,’ you rasped into her ear. ‘I’m making sure you do.’

‘Already wrecked—’ she sobbed, voice thick with surrender.

You reached for her hair and pulled, slow but sure, until she was forced to lift her face, eyes red and wet and wrecked as she looked back at you.

Tears on her cheeks. Mouth parted.

God, she looked divine.

‘Say it,’ you told her. ‘Say you’re mine.’

She didn’t hesitate.

‘I’m yours,’ she cried, desperate. ‘I’m fucking yours—just don’t stop—please, don’t stop—’

You drove into her like a man possessed. The sound of your hips slamming into her ass echoed off the walls. The headboard tapped the drywall with every stroke. Your name fell from her lips over and over, broken, begging, delirious.

Her legs shook.

Her body quaked.

She was so wet, so impossibly tight around you, the slick suction of her pulling you in deeper, deeper, like she didn’t want to let go.

Then her hand slid back, blindly, fingers reaching for you.

You grabbed her wrist, pinned it against the small of her back, her body arching under the pressure. Completely helpless. Herself offered up to you, willingly, wantonly, begging for the ruin.

And you gave it to her.

Everything.

You could feel it building—fast, violent—the pressure burning up your spine, into your ribs, your grip on her hip tightening, fingers digging bruises.

‘Please come,’ she begged, voice raw, soaked in need. ‘Inside. Please—I want to feel it—need it—’

You were right on the edge.

Your thrusts faltered, hitched. Your jaw clenched. Muscles locking.

You slammed into her one last time—deep—and held there, buried to the root, shaking.

Then you came.

Hard.

Ropes and ropes. You swore. Loud. Her name. God’s. Yours. Didn’t matter.

Every drop spilled inside her, her pussy milking you, clenching around you like she didn’t want to let you go.

You pressed your body down, still inside her, your forehead to her shoulder, your hand on her hip. The only sounds were your breaths—hers shallow and wrecked, yours ragged and uneven.

You pulled out slowly, and she whimpered at the loss—her pussy so spent, so tender, that she flinched at the shift in pressure.

You collapsed beside her. Hooked an arm around her middle and pulled her back into you.

Your cock twitched between you both, still half-hard, wet with the mess you’d left behind. It didn’t matter.

She was shaking.

Not from fear. From everything. From all of it.

You kissed her shoulder. Then the back of her neck. Then again.

Gentle now. Like you were reminding her you were still you.

Still hers.

Still here.

‘You okay?’ you whispered, hand slowly brushing her side, up and down in soft strokes.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: ‘I can’t feel my legs.’

You laughed. Weakly. Kissed her again. ‘Good.’

She laughed too. A breathy, ruined thing.

‘We need…’ she mumbled. ‘A towel. Or five.’

‘Room service’ll think we committed a crime in here.’

She turned her face into the pillow. ‘We did.’

You held her tighter. Still catching your breath. Still high on the scent of sweat and sex and Asa. And her laugh, now lazy and gleaming, like everything was exactly where it should be.

‘You’re not going back to your room, are you?’ she mumbled.

‘Not even if it caught fire.’

‘Good.’

She twisted a little. Found your mouth again. A soft kiss this time. Messy and warm.

You were already hardening again.

She noticed.

And grinned into the kiss. ‘You’re insatiable.’

‘You’re to blame.’

‘Lucky me.’

—

She made a weak sound from where she was flopped across the bed like a marionette with the strings cut.

‘Ow,’ she mumbled into the sheets. ‘My everything.’

You limped back over. ‘I told you to hydrate.’

‘I did. Like, two sips.’

‘That’s not hydration. That’s mouth rinse.’

‘Then carry me to the bath, hydration police.’

You blinked. She didn’t look at you—too busy face-planting deeper into the mattress—but you saw the lazy little grin forming.

You exhaled, dramatic. ‘You’re lucky you’re cute.’

‘Strong words from a man walking like a baby deer.’

You scooped her up anyway.

She yelped—then clung to your shoulders like a koala. ‘Wait, you’re actually doing it? Oh my god.’

‘I am a gentleman,’ you said, wobbling slightly. ‘And you smell like sex and victory.’

‘Hot.’

‘Yes. Hot, and also sticky.’

‘Okay now it’s less hot.’

The bathroom was still fogged from earlier. The steam clung to the mirror. You set her down on the edge of the tub while the water ran, testing the temperature with your hand.

‘Are you seriously gonna draw me a bath?’ she asked, eyes wide. Teasing. But also just a little touched.

‘Gotta soak the goddess,’ you said, rinsing your hands off. ‘Divine women don’t loiter in their own post-orgasm wreckage.’

‘Stop it.’

‘No.’

You poured in a little of the cheap hotel bubble soap. It frothed up fast. She reached out and popped a bubble, grinning.

‘I feel fancy,’ she said.

‘You are fancy.’

You leaned over and kissed her shoulder. Then helped her step in, holding her steady as she lowered herself down.

‘Oof. Hot. Good hot. God-hot.’

She sank deeper with a soft sigh, head resting against the tile. Her knees just barely broke the surface. You pulled up the little stool from the corner and sat beside her.

She cracked one eye open. ‘You’re not getting in?’

‘This is your bath. You’re the main character.’

‘That’s sweet. Stupid. But sweet.’

You wet a washcloth, gently wrung it out, and started running it along her arms.

‘You don’t have to,’ she said, a little quieter now. Still smiling, but there was something behind it.

‘I know.’

She didn’t argue after that. Just let you.

You dragged the cloth along her collarbone, over her shoulder, down her arm again. Slow. Careful. A little clumsy, but trying.

She closed her eyes. Relaxed under your touch.

‘Do you do this for all your artists?’ she mumbled.

‘Only the ones who squirt on me twice and then collapse in a heap.’

‘Twice?’ Her eyes opened again. ‘You’re bragging now.’

‘Just documenting history.’

She giggled, lazy and soft, bubbles sticking to her collarbone.

You trailed the cloth down her side, then gently lifted one leg out of the water, resting her ankle on your thigh. Her foot was slick and warm. You kissed her arch, just because.

She stared at you, stunned for a second. Then blinked. ‘Okay. That was unfair.’

‘What was?’

‘Being all… this. Domestic and filthy. Worshipping me like I’m Aphrodite after brunch.’

You kissed her ankle this time. ‘Well. You are.’

She stared a beat longer. Then laughed.

‘You’re a menace.’

‘And yet here I am, washing your toes.’

‘You’re so in love with me.’

You paused. Looked up at her.

‘I am,’ you said. No theater. No drama. Just true.

Her face did that thing—like she wasn’t sure whether to cry or kiss you or splash water at your face just to reset the tension.

She settled for a quiet, ‘Okay. Yeah. Me too.’

You squeezed her ankle, then reached for the shampoo.

‘Tilt your head back.’

‘You’re really gonna wash my hair too?’ ‘Let me spoil you. I’ll invoice you later.’ She leaned her head back. You poured a little shampoo into your palm and massaged it gently into her scalp. She made a noise—somewhere between a hum and a moan. Eyes closed, face slack. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she mumbled. ‘Nope. Just winging it. Manager instincts.’ ‘Remind me to renew your contract.’ ‘With a raise?’ ‘With everything.’ You grinned, rinsed her hair gently, carefully shielding her eyes with your palm. Later, when you helped her out and wrapped her in a towel, she kissed your shoulder and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Not teasing. Not playing. Just her. Bare, warm, soft. You held her a little longer than necessary. Let the steam wrap around both of you.

The End

a/n: .............................idk

#asa smut #babymonster #smut #kpop smut #kpop #babymonster smut

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barnacles34 · 2 months ago

Text

Mutually Assured Destruction

Chaewon x Male Reader

Tags: Angst, Smut

9k words

The world is, simply put, against you.

You love Chaewon.

But you can't tell her. Not yet.

New York. Day twenty-one. The hotel hallway stretches before you, each step toward her room heavier than the last.

Your tie feels too tight, your collar suffocating—the uniform of an executive becoming the noose of a condemned man.

Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of seeing her across rooms, of catching her scent in empty elevators, of watching her perform while pretending she was nothing more than a company asset.

Three weeks of dying slowly.

You knock. The sound echoes in the empty corridor. One heartbeat. Two. The door opens.

Chaewon stands there, barefoot, in simple shorts and an oversized t-shirt. No makeup. No stage presence. Just her.

The most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

‘You came,’ she whispers, like she still can't believe it.

You step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The sound of the outside world being shut away.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Three feet of carpet between you might as well be an ocean.

Then she breaks, a dam of tears giving way after holding back too long. She crosses the distance, collides with you, arms wrapping around your waist, face buried in your chest.

‘I haven't seen you for 3 weeks,’ she mumbles against your jacket, her voice cracking, fighting tears that are already falling.

You want to speak, but your throat closes. Her name forms in your mind—a prayer, a plea.

Chaewon.

Her fingers clutch at your jacket, desperate, like you might disappear if she loosens her grip.

‘I am so unhappy,’ she whispers, the words muffled against the fabric.

Your hand moves of its own accord, finding the back of her head, cradling it gently. Her hair is soft between your fingers, just as you'd dreamed during those endless nights alone.

Chaewon!

‘I am so stupid,’ she continues, her whole body trembling. ‘Dear, I cannot live without you. You know this.’

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her face tear-streaked, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. She's so close now, her cheek just an inch from yours, her breath warm against your skin.

You dare not look directly at her—afraid that if you do, all your carefully constructed walls will crumble.

Instead, your gaze falls to her shoulder, exposed where the sweater has slipped. Her skin is like milk, almost translucent in the soft hotel light, with that hint of pink beneath that makes her seem both fragile and impossibly alive.

Oh, you want her so badly.

The weight of the past bears down on you. When you were younger, life felt limitless—an odyssey of possibility stretching endlessly before you.

But youth is a loan that must be repaid. Each choice carries consequences. Each victory seemingly increasing the magnitude of future defeat.

How strange to realize you can barely remember the person you were before all this. Before her.

It's as if you've been playing a role for so long—the ambitious executive, the company man—that you've forgotten who you really are.

Her hands move to your face, fingertips gentle against your jaw, tilting your gaze to meet hers.

‘Look at me,’ she whispers. ‘Please.’

You do, and it undoes you. The nakedness of her emotion. The love written so plainly across her features.

‘I love you,’ she says, the words hanging in the air between you. ‘I've always loved you.’

Everything in you wants to say it back. To cross that final line.

To throw away everything—your career, your reputation, your carefully constructed life—just to hold her without fear.

But you can't. Not because you don't love her, but because loving her means protecting her. And right now, loving her means waiting.

‘Not yet,’ you whisper, the words catching in your throat as you brush away a tear from her cheek with your thumb. ‘Not yet.’

The pain in her eyes is unbearable. But there's understanding there too, buried beneath the hurt.

She leans forward, resting her forehead against your chest.

‘How much longer?’ she asks, her voice small.

You have no answer. Only the weight of what stands between you—the company, the threats, the world that has decided your love is forbidden.

Your mouth feels clamped shut, your vocal cords frozen, your eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.

In the end, you say nothing more.

You hold her for one more moment, committing to memory the weight of her in your arms, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against yours.

Then you let go. Turn away. Walk to the door.

And leave.

—

Chaewon's Diary - May 15, 2025

I cannot remember feeling this way before. The emotions are too new, too raw to categorize.

Rejection should feel bitter. Should taste like failure. Instead, it tasted like promise.

I stood before him, heart exposed, only to hear those two impossible words: ‘Not yet.’

Not never. Not no. Not goodbye.

Not yet.

I should have been humiliated. Should have been angry. Instead, when he brushed the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, I felt known. Truly seen, perhaps for the first time.

When he uttered

‘Not yet’

I felt warm. Happy.

How am I so happy for rejection?

I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch, memorizing the feeling of his hands on my face, his breath mingling with mine.

Before him, I had never felt the touch of someone who could see past my surface, past the idol, past the carefully crafted image.

I want him.

I know with absolute certainty: No other man will touch my heart for as long as I live.

I will wait, forever and longer.

Not yet.

—

3 Weeks Ago - April 25, 2025

You were staring at a spreadsheet when Chaewon walked in without knocking.

'Hey,' she said.

You kept typing. 'Hey.'

She stood there for a second too long before sitting down across from you. Put her coffee on your desk. The ice shifted.

'So.'

'So,' you echoed, still not looking up.

'You eat yet?'

'What?'

'Food. Have you had any?'

You glanced at your watch. It was almost 8. 'No.'

'Me neither,' she said. 'We should fix that.'

You finally looked at her. She was wearing the same clothes from the morning meeting, but her makeup had that slightly smudged quality of someone who'd been awake too long.

'I've got to finish this,' you said.

'No you don't.'

'I do, actually.'

She sighed. 'Will the company collapse if you don't do it right this second?'

'That's not the point.'

'That's exactly the point.' She tapped your desk with her fingernail. 'Come on. Food. A real restaurant. Thirty minutes.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Liar.'

You almost smiled. 'I have work.'

'Work will still be there.' She didn't blink. 'Food might not.'

'That makes no sense.'

'I know. Just come anyway.'

You looked at your laptop, then back at her. She had that expression, the one that said she wouldn't leave until she got her way.

'Thirty minutes.'

She grinned. 'Look at you, making healthy choices.'

'Don't push it.'

The elevator ride was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. You both watched the numbers change.

'Where are we going?' you asked.

'Place down the street.'

'What kind of place?'

'The kind with food.' She glanced at you. 'You allergic to anything?'

'No.'

'Good.' She seemed satisfied with that.

Outside, the air felt different. Heavier. Like it might rain again.

'So is this like, a work thing, or...' you trailed off.

'Or what?'

'I don't know. You asked me to dinner.'

'Yeah.'

'So I'm just trying to understand what this is.'

She almost laughed. 'It's food. That's all. Don't overthink it.'

'I'm not overthinking.'

'You overthink everything. It's your whole deal.'

'That's not fair.'

'Probably not—but hey, fair character assessment is a luxury these days.' she giggled.

You huffed under your breath.

You walked together, not quite in step. The city moved around you—people leaving work, heading home, living lives that had nothing to do with quarterly reports or dance practices.

The restaurant was small. Unassuming. No sign outside, just a door between two other businesses.

'Here?' you asked.

'Yeah. Problem?'

'No. Just not what I expected.'

'What did you expect?'

You shrugged. 'Something with a line outside. Trending on Instagram.'

'Wow.' She held the door for you. 'You really don't know me at all.'

Inside was dimly lit. Maybe fifteen tables. Half of them occupied. No one looked up when you entered.

You followed her to a table near the back. Sat down across from her. The menus were just single sheets of paper.

'I come here a lot,' she said. 'After practice sometimes. When I don't want to go back to the dorm.'

'They don't recognize you?'

'They do. They just don't care.' She looked at the menu even though she probably had it memorized. 'That's why I like it.'

The waiter came over. Older guy, maybe fifty. Nodded at Chaewon like he'd seen her yesterday.

'The usual?' he asked her.

'Yeah. Thanks.'

He looked at you.

'Uh,' you fumbled with the menu. 'What's good?'

'Steak,' Chaewon said. 'You like steak, right? You seem like a steak guy.'

'Sure.'

'Medium rare?'

'Medium.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course.'

The waiter left. You fidgeted with your napkin.

'You really come here a lot?' you asked.

'Couple times a month.'

'Alone?'

'Usually.'

'Why?'

She looked at you like she was deciding whether to give you a real answer or not. 'Because no one bothers me. Because the food's good. Because sometimes I need to remember I'm still just a person.'

'And your members don't come?'

'They have their own places.' She took a sip of water. 'We don't actually do everything together, you know.'

'Right.'

'You sound surprised.'

'Not surprised. Just...' you couldn't find the right word.

'It's fine. People always think we're this perfect unit. Always together, always in sync.' She traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. 'It's not like that.'

'What's it like?'

'It's like any job. You work with people. You care about them. But you still need your own space sometimes.'

'That makes sense.'

'Does it? You seem like the type who'd live at the office if they'd let you.'

You almost denied it, then didn't. 'Fair point.'

The food came faster than you expected. Her pasta. Your steak. Simple stuff, but it smelled good.

'This isn't exactly what I pictured when you said dinner,' you admitted.

'What did you picture?'

'I don't know. Something more...'

'Fancy?'

'Maybe.'

She shrugged. 'I sit in enough fancy restaurants for work. This is better.'

You took a bite of steak. It was actually good. Really good.

'Not bad,' you said.

'High praise.'

'It is, from me.'

'I know.' She twirled pasta around her fork. 'So, can I ask you something?'

'You just did.'

'Ha ha.' She didn't look amused. 'Seriously though.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you actually like what you do? Your job?'

You considered bullshitting, then didn't. 'Sometimes.'

'Which parts?'

'The quiet ones. When I'm working on something complicated and it's just me and the problem.' You cut another piece of steak. 'You?'

'Performing. Being on stage. The three minutes where nothing else matters.' She didn't hesitate. 'Everything else is just... stuff I do so I can have those moments.'

'That's a lot of stuff for three minutes.'

'Yeah.' She looked down at her food, prodding with a dash of frustration. 'Yeah, it is.'

You ate in silence for a minute. Not awkward, just... thinking silence.

'Can I ask you something now?' you said.

'Sure.'

'Why'd you ask me to dinner? Really?'

She poked at her pasta. 'I don't know. You looked like you needed it.'

'That's it?'

'Does there have to be more?'

'Usually is.'

She sighed. 'Look, I've sat through enough meetings with you to know you skip lunch most days. And I saw your car in the parking garage at midnight last week when I was leaving the practice room. And then today, you looked...' she gestured vaguely at your face.

'I looked what?'

'Empty-tired, not the usual tiredness you wear on your face. You know?'

You weren't sure what to say to that.

'Anyway,' she continued. 'It's just dinner. It's not that deep.'

'Right.'

'Right,' she echoed.

The silence that followed should have been uncomfortable. But it wasn't, really. Just quiet.

'It's good,' you finally said, gesturing to your plate. 'The food.'

'Told you.'

'You did.'

She smiled, just slightly. 'I'm right about a lot of things.'

'I'll reserve judgment on that.'

'Smart.' She took a sip of water. 'So... was this weird? Me asking you to dinner?'

You thought about it. 'A little.'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be. Weird isn't bad.'

She nodded. 'No, it's not.'

The rest of the meal was easier. You talked about nothing important. Work, a little. Music she was listening to. A book you'd been meaning to read but hadn't found time for. Normal stuff that normal people probably talked about all the time.

When the check came, you reached for it.

'I got it,' she said.

'You invited me.'

'Exactly.'

'That's not how it works.'

'Says who?' She grabbed the check before you could. 'Too slow, Mr. Executive.'

Outside, the air felt damp. Like it had rained while you were eating, or was about to.

'Which way you headed?' she asked.

You pointed vaguely east.

'I'm that way too. For a few blocks, anyway.'

You walked together. Not too close. Just two people who happened to be going the same direction.

'Thanks,' you said after a minute.

'For what?'

'Dinner.'

'Was it terrible?'

'No.'

'High praise,' she said again.

'I mean it. It was... nice.'

'Wow. Nice. I'm flattered.'

'Shut up.'

She laughed. Not her public laugh, the perfect one from interviews. A real one, slightly too loud.

'You know what?' she said.

'What?'

'You're not as scary as they say.'

'Who says I'm scary?'

'Everyone.' She kicked a small stone on the sidewalk. 'The whole office. The interns call you The Terminator.'

'They do not.'

'They absolutely do.' She grinned. 'But I'll keep your secret.'

'What secret?'

'That you're actually just a regular person who works too much.'

'I don't work too much.'

'Sureeee.' She stopped walking. 'This is me.'

You looked up at her building. Nice but not flashy. 'This is you.'

'Yeah.' She rocked back on her heels slightly. 'So.'

'So.'

'Thanks for coming.'

'Thanks for asking.'

She looked like she might say something else, then didn't. Just nodded. 'See you tomorrow.'

'See you tomorrow.'

She turned, walked toward her door. You should have left then. Just turned and walked away.

Instead, you watched her go. Watched as she paused at the entrance, like maybe she was going to look back.

She didn't.

And that was fine. Better, probably.

You turned and walked home, feeling something you couldn't quite name. Not happiness, exactly. But maybe something close to it. Something adjacent.

Like maybe for the first time in a long time, you'd been a person instead of a position. And maybe that was enough.

—

Chaewon's Diary - April 25, 2025

It's stupid to write this down. Dangerous, probably.

I love him.

I tried not to. Made lists of reasons why I shouldn't. His position. My career. The company. The members. The fans.

The lists didn't help.

I tried imagining my life without him in it. Moving companies. Going solo. Leaving the country. None of it worked because he'd still exist somewhere. I'd still know he was out there.

It's not that I need him. I was fine before him. I'll be fine after, I guess.

But I don't want to be.

I love the way he focuses when he reads reports. How he thinks no one notices when he's tired. How he pretends not to care about things but always remembers details about everyone.

I love how he never says more than he needs to. How he leaves room for silence.

I love that he came to dinner with me. That he let himself be normal for one night.

If he doesn't love me back, that's okay.

But I think sometimes… maybe he could.

—

Morning hit you like a truck.

Your phone was buzzing. Had been buzzing. You fumbled for it, eyes still closed.

Missed call. Another. Another. Another.

You squinted at the screen.

9 missed calls from your manager. 4 from some board member. 8 from numbers you didn't recognize.

The time was 7:12 AM.

More buzzing. Texts now. Emails.

You sat up, suddenly very awake.

First text: a link. You clicked it.

"COMPANY CEO AND IDOL MEMBER CAUGHT ON SECRET DATE"

There was a photo. You and Chaewon at the restaurant. Her laughing. You almost smiling. It looked... not innocent.

More links.

"SOURCE CONFIRMS: CEO AND KIM CHAEWON 'MORE THAN PROFESSIONAL'"

"INSIDER: 'THEY'VE BEEN HIDING IT FOR MONTHS'"

You felt sick. Scrolled back through your notifications, mind racing.

Then you saw it. Late-night texts from Chaewon.

1:12 AM

don't freak out when you wake up

someone took pictures at the restaurant

it's already online i'm sorry

1:14 AM

my manager is losing it

company PR called an emergency meeting

they're saying we can't talk to each other

1:27 AM

they want me to say it was just a work dinner

that we barely know each other

is that what you want me to say?

1:41 AM

i can't sleep this is so stupid

we didn't do anything wrong

1:55 AM

maybe we did though

maybe i did

1:56 AM

i've never told you this

never thought i would need to

1:58 AM

i love you

i think i have for a long time

i just never saw the point in saying it

it seemed impossible

2:01 AM

i'm sorry you didn't need this

not now not with everything else

2:03 AM

forget i said anything blame the dinner on me

i'll fix this

Your phone started ringing again. Board chairman.

You let it ring.

Read the texts again. And again.

The world was imploding around you, your career possibly in flames, and all you could think about was that last message.

i love you

Your thumb hovered over the screen. What could you possibly say now? What was left to say when everything had already changed?

The phone kept ringing.

—

The boardroom was too bright. Fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished table where twelve men in identical suits sat judging you.

You'd always seen success as a game with simple rules. Work harder. Think faster. Never look back. That's how you climbed here—by treating everything as disposable.

Turns out you were wrong.

You weren't disposable. Chaewon wasn't disposable. Whatever had grown between you wasn't disposable.

But they were treating it like it was.

‘The optics are unacceptable,’ said the Vice Chairman, his voice clinical. ‘A senior executive and an idol? The media is already spinning narratives.’

You watched his mouth move but barely heard the words. Your phone weighed heavy in your pocket. Her message burned into your mind.

i love you i always have

‘Are you listening?’ Someone was addressing you directly now.

‘Yes,’ you lied.

The Chairman leaned forward. ‘We've spent a decade building this company's reputation. We won't let one indiscretion destroy it.’

Indiscretion. As if dinner between two people was a crime.

‘We've developed a containment strategy,’ said the PR director, sliding folders across the table. You didn't open yours. ‘First, no contact with Kim Chaewon. None. Effective immediately.’

Your jaw tightened.

‘Second, you'll accompany Le Sserafim to America. Three weeks of promotional activities. You'll be positioned as overseeing the company's international expansion. Professional distance will be maintained at all times.’

You looked around the table. Not a single sympathetic face.

‘What happens to Chaewon?’ you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

‘She'll be fine,’ said the Chairman dismissively. ‘As long as this situation is managed correctly.’

‘And if it isn't?’

The question hung in the air. Someone cleared their throat.

‘Then her position in the group becomes untenable,’ said the A&R director finally. ‘The other members shouldn't suffer for her... complications.’

Complications. That's what they called her now. Not their star performer. Not the artist who'd brought in millions. A complication.

‘So that's the deal,’ you said flatly. ‘I go to America. Stay away from her. Keep my job.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And if I refuse?’

The Chairman's smile didn't reach his eyes. ‘Then you both lose everything.’

Simple as that. A business decision.

Your mind flashed to Chaewon. How she looked at dinner. How easily she laughed. The way she really saw you when no one else bothered to look.

For two years, she'd been the one constant. The one person who grew on you.

‘Do we have an understanding?’ the Chairman pressed.

Someone was speaking. You realized it was you.

‘I understand perfectly.’

Everything felt unreal. As if you were a mirage of yourself, observing yourself in the most dire situation.

‘Good. Your flight leaves tomorrow night. The PR team has prepared statements for both of you. Stick to the script.’

They moved on. Budget projections. Q3 forecasts. As if they hadn't just hollowed you out completely.

You sat there, a model of composure. Inside, something was breaking, tearing along a fault line you hadn't known existed until Chaewon walked into your office and asked you to dinner.

The meeting ended. Men in suits filed out, crisis averted.

You remained seated, staring at your reflection in the polished table.

Tomorrow you'd fly to America. You'd watch Chaewon from across rooms, pretend she was nothing to you. You'd do it because the alternative would destroy her.

Your phone buzzed once. A text.

It wasn't from her. It couldn't be. They'd already gotten to her.

You checked anyway.

From your assistant: ‘Car is waiting whenever you're ready, sir.’

You stood up. Straightened your tie. Gathered the folder you never opened.

They thought they'd won. Thought they'd contained the problem.

They didn't understand.

They'd taken everything from you except the one thing that mattered—the knowledge that somewhere in this building was a woman who loved you. Had always loved you.

And for the first time, you were certain you loved her too.

—

You left the boardroom, a hollow shell of yourself.

America. No Chaewon. For three weeks.

They called it mercy. You called it execution.

The flight to Los Angeles stretched endlessly, your thoughts circling like vultures. You didn't sleep. Couldn't. The empty seat beside you an accusation.

Your phone vibrated as the plane touched down.

11:42 PM

landed safe?

Chaewon.

You stared at her message until the screen dimmed, then went black. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

They couldn't monitor texts, could they? Were they watching?

You couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk her.

No response.

The California sun felt wrong on your skin. Too bright, too insistent. Your hotel suite overlooked the Pacific. Endless blue that reminded you of nothing but distance.

Day Three.

8:17 AM

meetings are boring without you to glare at everyone

8:19 AM

the new intern asked where you went

8:22 AM

i told her you were saving the american branch from themselves

You almost smiled. Almost.

No response.

The American executives treated you like royalty. A king in exile. Their offices were too bright, their coffee too bitter, their laughter too loud. You moved through meetings like a ghost, present but never there.

Day Five.

3:04 AM

can't sleep

3:05 AM

is it the time difference or is it just

3:11 AM

never mind

What would you say if you could? That you lay awake too, staring at hotel ceilings, replaying her confession like a film you couldn't pause?

No response.

You worked eighteen-hour days. Not because the work required it, but because your empty room was unbearable. The silence that you once called home—incomplete.

Day Seven.

1:47 PM

there's a rumor you're never coming back

1:48 PM

tell me that's not true

1:52 PM

please

The last word felt like a knife between your ribs. Please. As if you had a choice. As if any of this was within your control.

No response.

The days blurred. You functioned on autopilot, your mind perpetually seventeen hours ahead, in Seoul, where she was.

Day Nine.

5:31 PM

they announced the showcase dates

5:32 PM

we're coming to LA next week

5:33 PM

will you be there?

Le Sserafim. Coming to Los Angeles. Of course. The universe's cruelest joke—to bring her so close, yet keep her untouchable.

No response.

You attended dinners. Networking events. Smiled when appropriate. Spoke when necessary. No one noticed how your eyes constantly swept rooms, searching for threats that weren't there.

Day Twelve.

10:17 AM

we leave tomorrow

10:18 AM

i know you can't answer

10:25 AM

but please, if you can

10:26 AM

be there

They must have warnings in place. Her messages carried the weight of someone being careful—someone who knew the stakes.

No response.

Le Sserafim arrived with the usual fanfare. Cameras flashing. Fans screaming. You watched from the periphery as she emerged from the airport terminal, perfect smile in place, waving to the crowd.

She didn't look for you. Knew better than that.

But you saw the tension in her shoulders. The way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes; not quite the smile she had when she swiped up some of your steak.

Day Fourteen.

No messages.

You checked your phone obsessively. Refreshed the screen until the battery drained to critical. Nothing.

The silence was worse than any words could have been.

The showcase venue was packed—a sea of lightsticks and expectant faces. You stood in the shadows of the VIP section, surrounded by American executives who had no idea you were breaking apart inside.

Le Sserafim performed flawlessly. Of course they did. Chaewon shone like a star brought to earth—her voice clear, her movements precise, her smile blinding.

Not once did her eyes search the crowd. Not once did she falter.

Professional to her core.

You left before the final song. Couldn't bear another moment of proximity without contact.

In your hotel room, you drank two fingers of whiskey and watched the city lights blur through the window.

Your phone remained silent.

Day Sixteen.

You were leaving a restaurant when you saw her.

Across the street, surrounded by managers and security. The group heading into a high-end boutique.

Your driver opened your car door, but you stood frozen, watching as she disappeared inside the shop.

She didn't see you.

When you returned to your hotel, you found a message.

7:03 PM

i saw you today

7:04 PM

you looked tired

You stared at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

No response.

Day Nineteen.

The final showcase. The final night in Los Angeles. Tomorrow, Le Sserafim would fly to New York. You would follow a day later.

You sat in the back row, hidden in shadow. Watched her perform for the last time on American soil.

She was transcendent.

Afterward, you slipped backstage under the pretense of congratulating the team. Your company's biggest assets. Your professional obligation.

She stood with the other members, accepting praise from American executives. Smiling. Nodding. Perfect.

Your eyes met across the room.

One second. Two.

Then she looked away, her expression never changing.

But you saw it—the slight tremble of her hand at her side.

Back in your hotel room, your phone lit up.

8:30 PM

i miss you

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't say that

8:31 PM

i know i shouldn't even text you

8:32 PM

but i can't do this anymore

8:32 PM

please say something

Your chest tightened. Three weeks of silence, and now this—her desperation breaking through, risking everything.

You stared at the screen, knowing what you should do. Delete. Ignore. Follow the rules that kept her safe.

Instead, your fingers moved.

8:35 PM

The coffee in LA is terrible.

A pause. You could almost see her confusion.

8:36 PM

what?

8:37 PM

that's what you have to say?

You smiled faintly. Even the way you message her—capitalized first letters—is unique from hers.

8:38 PM

I hear New York's is better

Might try it when I get there

8:40 PM

when will you be in new york?

8:41 PM

Tomorrow.

8:41 PM

Early flight.

You weren't supposed to be on tomorrow's flight. You were meant to follow a day later. Keep the distance. Maintain the separation they'd enforced.

8:42 PM

you changed your flight?

8:43 PM

Figured I should see the Empire State Building.

8:43 PM

Heard the view is worth the risk.

Your heart pounded. The careful wording. The hidden meaning. Saying everything without saying anything that could truly incriminate either of you.

8:45 PM

there's a small coffee shop

8:45 PM

by the hotel

8:46 PM

i was planning to go there

8:46 PM

after tomorrow's rehearsal

8:47 PM

around 4

A plan. Hidden in casual conversation.

8:48 PM

Sounds like a good place for coffee.

8:49 PM

it is

8:49 PM

they say it's quiet

8:50 PM

not many people know about it

8:51 PM

I like quiet.

The conversation was innocent enough on the surface. Anyone reading would see nothing but meaningless chatter about coffee.

But between the lines: a plan. A meeting. A rebellion.

8:53 PM

i have to go

8:53 PM

sakura is calling

8:54 PM

don't forget to try the coffee

8:54 PM

it's been too long since you had a good cup

You stared at those last words. The double meaning clear.

8:55 PM

I won't forget.

You deleted the conversation. She would do the same.

But the promise remained.

Tomorrow. New York. 4 PM.

Day Twenty-one would break the rules. Day Twenty-one would change everything.

—

You got to the airport before the others. Boarded the flight before the others. Got the first class treatment that the board thinks you like.

The whole seat had a door. You closed it just in case you saw Chaewon. In case you lost it.

Despite it all, you knew she was there, the wisp of her soft perfume serenaded you even through thick mahogany wood panels—through the opulence of first class.

You kept your eyes fixed on your laptop screen. Work emails you couldn't focus on. Words blurring together as your mind fixed on one thought:

Tomorrow. 4 PM. Her hotel.

The ‘coffee shop’ wasn't a coffee shop at all. You both knew that. A code thin enough that anyone monitoring would see through it, yet plausible enough to maintain deniability.

The flight attendant asked if you wanted champagne. You declined. Asked for water instead. Needed a clear head.

Five hours trapped in a metal tube, knowing she was just rows behind you. Five hours of pretending the center of your universe wasn't within reach.

Your phone buzzed. A text from the Chairman.

‘Landing at JFK ahead of Le Sserafim. Good optics. Keep distance in New York. Almost done.’

Almost done. The words echoed.

Twenty days down. One more to go.

Tomorrow, at 4 PM, you would break every rule they had set. You would go to her hotel. You would see her—really see her—for the first time in three weeks.

And then what?

You had no plan beyond that moment. No strategy for what came after. The executive who planned everything had no contingency for this. A hollow cadaver. Waning the flames that could be easily put if you just resisted.

If only.

The plane took off, carrying you toward New York. Toward her. Toward whatever came next.

You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. All you could think about was her text:

i miss you

Three small words that had unraveled three weeks of carefully maintained distance.

Three small words that weren't the three words you couldn't stop thinking about since that night:

i love you

—

After you left her hotel room, after you hugged her, after you saw her face up close—dangerously close to kissing her—everything collapsed once more. The dregs of your hope were gone once again: You wanted only her. Only her.

You walked past the hallway, trying not to look suspicious under the camera—which, to be frank, was impossible.

And pressed the keycard onto the door, as suspiciously as possible, and entered. With your back to the closed door, you pulled out your phone and messaged her.

4:07 PM

Let’s meet again

4:08 PM

where?

4:08 PM

On the rooftop

4:09 PM

i miss you

4:10 PM

You just saw me.

4:10 PM

i know

4:11 PM

Hang in there.

Chaewon.

4:11 PM

i like it when you say my name.

4:12 PM

Chaewon, this can end your career.

4:12 PM

i dont care.

i want you.

only you.

You slid down the door and sat. With your phone still in hand.

You’re about to risk everything. Was it love that meant protecting her forever? Was it love that meant you couldn’t still yourself for a month or a year, wait, and wait, until she’s finally free?

Damn it all.

—

Chaewon’s Diary—Part 2 of May 15, 2025

He wants to meet me. On the rooftop.

Why?

Is he gonna kiss me? Is he gonna reject me once more?

Was it even a rejection in the first place? He promised. He promised. Oh god, my head hurts, I can’t think of anything.

All I can think of is him. My executive.

—

As the sun turns orange in its preparation for slumber, you make your way to the rooftop of the hotel. The elevator chimes, almost too loud, and you enter with a towel on-hand. There’s moments where the shiver runs through your entire body—not out of being scared, but of the possibility of seeing Chaewon again.

The elevator reaches the top floor. And in your hopes of not seeing anyone there, you were vindicated. No one. Nobody. Just a heated pool with the bougiest accommodations possible.

Thank the heavens, you thought.

Now it’s time to patiently wait, to not gnaw through your teeth like it’s cardboard in anticipation (which is easier said than done).

Regardless, you waited, sitting on one of the chairs, overlooking the sunset. The breeze was chilly, but nothing that you couldn’t endure.

So you waited.

But just for a moment, you closed your eyes.

—

‘Silly.’

Your eyes opened.

There she was. Chaewon. In all her glory

In the 2 hours you haven’t seen her, when the sun gained its slightly orange tint, she’s progressed into something like a goddess. Brown bob-cut, a perfect face…. Perfection incarnate.

‘You fell asleep.’

‘Oh.’ That’s about all you could get out; too busy staring at her.

‘I missed you.’

‘It’s been 2 hours.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re about to risk everything.

‘I know.’

‘Your career. Your… everything.’

‘You are my everything.’ She replies—climbing on top of you. Crystalline tears formed around the rims of her eyes.

‘Chaewon. Please.’

‘There’s nothing quite like this… hm?’ She says, amused at how doomed everything seemed to be.

‘Fighting against inevitability.’ You continue. Pressing your thumbs against her cheekbones once again, where tears flow once again.

‘I’m so selfish.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that… I am too.’

‘I thought if I avoided you. Long enough. Maybe, just maybe, we would’ve had a better chance. Look at me now, on you, risking everything.’

She softly collapsed on your chest, huffing her tears. And you spread your palm along her soft hair, this perfect hair.

‘You are so beautiful. Chaewon.’

‘I love you.’

Perhaps this is where it all topples. The final wall, once a 100-story skyscraper, reduced to mere ruins.

And you kiss her; grab the nape of her neck and press yourself closer to the kiss. Her lips. Her soft moans. Little squeals.

Fuck.

You press yourself against the hotness of her mouth. Her velvety mouth crossed along your own. An apprehensive rush to it—oxymoron be damned—you wanted everything Chaewon—while not crossing any lines.

Despite it all, Chaewon’s soft hands ventured forth to your arms, grasped them tight and placed them right along her thin waist.

She wants it.

She wants you.

And that just about does it.

You release just for a bit. Look at her half-lidded eyes, seemingly, under pure bliss.

‘If we continue…’ You say, each syllable harder than the previous. The fact that you’re here, kissing Chaewon, feeling her body, just as you dreamed, just as you wished for all time—makes it harder to think of all the consequences.

The impending doom—so to speak.

‘You idiot.’ She replies.

‘What?’

‘I’ve risked everything and more to be here with you right now. And you think I’ll flake out now? Of all times—now?’

You laugh, so close to her mouth; you stare at her, and she’s attempting eyebrow-knitted frustration that’s more cute than anything else.

‘You’re so cute.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘You’re everything to me.’

‘...So are you.’

Her eyes glisten something transcendent and she moves to kiss you again. That velvety soft mouth, of mint, of something fruity.

Pure bliss.

‘I want you.’ She squeaks out, between the kisses.

‘You have me.’ You reply, accidentally bumping teeth. Soft laughter ensues.

She’s so soft against your palms—the small of her back, the tightness of her waist, the bump of her bra-strap. Inbetween it all, moaning something sweet into your mouth. She releases just for a second, catching a glimpse of you; her lips are all kiss-bitten and swollen, soft and supple; ‘We’re two walking cadavers, you know.’

‘Lust and learning Chaewon. That’s all there is to it.’

Instead of a quick and bratty reply—

‘That’s true.’

Her lips land on yours once again. Flight and apprehensive, her thin arms wrap around you like you’re something to lose: tight enough that you know she’s there.

Her meek body is warm against you—just a shroud of clothing between your hand and her milky skin. You needed her. Wanted her more. An indulgence that satiation could barely meet.

So you flip her over; on this thin pool chair, a little bougie, Chaewon was splayed across.

And god.

It was all worth it. Your executive position on standstill—bound for execution. Your impending exile. All of it.

White t-shirt, thin shorts, and just a smidgen of make-up—lip-stick all smudged along her plump lips.

Being away for just a second was tantamount to hell: You dived in. Her body felt so docile and meek under you—squirming along your hot touch. Surround your thick arms around her thin waist, let her back bend in response, feel her stomach press upon you as you kiss her into the pool chair—little soft squeals the guiding light to it all.

Her hands ventured low to bunch up her t-shirt, and you helped her; really, you wanted to press on her soft naked abdomen, venture up to her naked sternum, feeling the soft naked swell of her—

Her t-shirt slipped off quickly, and there laid her gorgeous torso.

You pressed kisses along her collarbone; just enough pressure to leave a mark there for days.

Just in case, you say, don’t forget me, just for a day or two.

You press softer kisses along the softer flesh below her collarbone, feeling her skin, really conceptualizing that she’s there. Really fucking there. And you laugh, under your breath; as if Chaewon knew exactly what you were thinking, her palm lands right on your cheek—softly grazing.

‘I’m here.’

‘Right. Right.’

Gain composure. This goddess awaits you.

So you venture forth. Along her neck muscle, the soft tendon that trembles under your kiss, the loose skin that gets her squirming under you, muscles tensing. Just below her jaw, you suck on her skin, tight, really tight, until you’re sure that there’s a welting hickey right there.

You observe how the red blooms, slowly gaining almost a purple hue. Nothing could cover that.

‘You’re really asking to be caught.’ She says, almost satisfied you left a mark on her.

‘Are you gonna cover it?’

‘Why would I cover what you give me?’ Her expression is pure seduction. Aphrodite incarnate.

Again, your world exploded.

You kiss her rougher this time. Muss up her hair. Venture beneath her waist. Pull at her firm thighs. Hands venture along the sides of her, your cold fingertips get her softly squirming beneath your touch—shimmers of gooseflesh rising along the delicate curves of her side, right under your fingertips.

The bronze sun shimmers off her torso as something like a masterpiece—faint shadows articulated along her perfect body—different orange, yellow hues bouncing off and enhancing the swells and curves and everything she had.

You pull her waist softly to get it bent again, venturing underneath, feeling her spine; venturing along her spine, the soft swell of it all—she’s here, she wants you, all 2 years of it condensed into this moment.

The bra-strap hits you like a reminder that her bosom was hidden beneath, the gentle swells and curves all a devious hint at what lay under.

So you clip it.

She shivers at the realization. The clip was off. And your hands automatically moved to take it off completely.

Her arms softly push together her torso: Displaying the treasure that laid before you.

Beautiful bronze peaks.

God.

God!

‘Ready the funeral wreaths for me. Chaewon.’

She scoffs. Then a soft laugh choked her up.

Your two hands softly teased the sides of her breasts; the way it surrendered to the slightest force; you ventured across her swell, feeling the desperate softness of her naked breasts. All while kissing her desperately. Your hands felt up and down, side-to-side, until she squirmed for relief: That’s when your fingers brushed over her perfect nipples.

And you had to look.

The way she shivered. God. Biting the side of her index finger. Moaning. Soft. Squealing even as you watched her carefully. The way her tongue traced a wet line along her lips—goading you, Aphrodite.

Your kiss ventured down, the soft tendon of her neck, the firm sternum.

Then finally—her breasts.

You kiss the soft skin.

Circling it.

The part that needed relief.

Teasing her. Even if the perpetuity of a multi-billion dollar company finding a way to bury you was crushing, her presence relieved it all.

Latched on.

‘Ahhh~’

‘Music to my ears.’

‘Oh shut up.’

‘Gladly.’

You dug in. Breaths became rigidly quick. Your other hand massaged the other breast. The nipple between your teeth got the most beautiful notes out of her.

By the time you stopped, her entire body shook.

‘Did you just cum?’

Her weak arm fell softly on your chest—apparently—a punch.

‘No.’

A sick grin grew on you, and you wrapped your arms around her; kissing her jawline.

‘You really did cum.’

Before you could do anything, her two hands squished your cheeks together.

‘Take responsibility.’

Trapped between her two small hands, you laugh. ‘I know. I know.’ A soft kiss on her sweat-slick forehead.

Your smirk lingers as you press another kiss against her temple. ‘You’ve got some nerve, you know that?’

Chaewon shifts slightly, resting her chin on your shoulder. ‘Nerve?’ she echoes, voice still breathless.

‘You climbed on top of me, seduced me, came just from me playing with your tits…’ Your hands wander, sliding down the dip of her back, feeling the heat of her skin. ‘And now you’re telling me to take responsibility?’

She hums, fingers tracing light, absentminded shapes on your chest. ‘Mmm. That’s right.’

You chuckle against her perfumed hair—sweet, fruity. ‘And what exactly does ‘taking responsibility’ mean to you?’

Her lips barely brush your ear as she murmurs, ‘It means you don’t stop until I can’t think straight.’

Your breath catches.

And then, you’re moving.

With a swift motion, you flip her onto her back, her body bouncing slightly against the lounge chair. She gasps, eyes wide for only a second before a slow, knowing grin spreads across her lips.

‘Too much?’ you tease, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

Chaewon shakes her head, cheeks flushed, wrists tightening. ‘Not even close.’

You take a moment to admire her like this—laid out beneath you, messy hair spread out over the cushion, lips still kiss-bitten and swollen. Her chest rises and falls with anticipation, and her legs shift restlessly against yours, already needing more.

‘I love this look on you,’ you murmur, tracing your free hand down her side. ‘All desperate and needy.’

Feigning offense, ‘I am not needy.’

‘Oh?’ Your fingers dance along the waistband of her shorts, teasing, not quite moving further. ‘Then what do you call this?’

She squirms. Just slightly. Just enough.

‘I call it,’ she whispers, tugging at her trapped wrists, ‘a challenge.’

Oh.

A thrill rushes through you.

Your grip on her wrists tightens slightly, your knee nudging between her legs, pressing against the wet heat of her core. She gasps, back arching, but you don’t move—just let her feel the pressure, let her know exactly what she’s asking for.

‘Careful, baby,’ you murmur, leaning down, lips hovering just above hers. ‘You might not like what happens when I take that challenge.’

Chaewon’s grin is pure defiance, pure want.

‘Try me.’

And so you do.

Your hand finally slips beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers sliding between her soaked folds, feeling the way she clenches around nothing, already so ready for you.

‘You’re soaked,’ you murmur against her neck, voice full of something dark and satisfied. ‘You’ve been like this since I was playing with your tits, huh?’

She whines, trying to twist her wrists free, but you don’t let her go.

‘You’re not getting out of this,’ you tease, slipping one finger inside her, the velvety pink folds, feeling her tense, then relax, then tighten again as you curl it just right, just fucking right, just until she curls her back to you. ‘You wanted me to take responsibility?’ You slip another finger into her, the tight wetness of her, stretching her slowly. ‘Then take it.’

Her breath stutters. And she moans.

Your thumb circles her clit, slow but firm, coaxing out soft, trembling moans that get swallowed by the night air.

And then, just when she starts getting lost in it—just when her hips start rolling, when she’s clenching desperately around your fingers—you stop.

Your hand is stuck on her wrists, and the other—fucking her senseless.

Her whine is immediate. ‘No, no, don’t—’

You smirk against her throat. ‘Not so fun when I’m the one teasing, huh?’

‘You’re evil.’

‘I’m making sure you really feel it.’ You drag your fingers out completely, holding them up just enough for her to see the way they glisten in the dim light. ‘And you do feel it, don’t you, baby?’

Chaewon glares at you, still breathless, still burning up, but there’s something playful in the way she juts her chin out.

‘Fine,’ she murmurs. ‘If you’re gonna tease…’

Then, before you can react, she hooks her legs around your waist and grinds up against you, rubbing herself against your cock through your pants—needy, desperate, shameless.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp hiss.

‘Shit.’

She grins. ‘What was that?’

You grip her hips, forcing them to still. ‘You really wanna play that game?’

She tilts her head. ‘You gonna stop me?’

No. No, you’re not.

You’re gonna fuck her senseless.

Your grip tightens around her hips, firm enough that she stops moving—but not before you grind back, pressing yourself against the slick heat between her thighs, making her gasp.

‘Chaewon,’ you murmur, voice rough, a warning. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

She exhales shakily, eyes locked onto yours, her body taut beneath you.

‘You sure you’re ready for the consequences?’ You add.

Instead of answering, she licks her lips and tugs at her trapped wrists again. ‘Dear, I forgot about consequences a long time ago.’

You smirk, it’s true. You’re about to fuck her on this pool chair. Open to 360 degrees of vision, just the slightest glimpse and they’d see you fucking Chaewon. The fact that you’d lose your position the moment they saw you within 5 feet of Chaewon, let alone fucking her.

Fight against fate with absurdity.

You shift, focusing on the moment, leaning down so your lips barely ghost over hers. ‘I like you like this,’ you admit, your voice low, teasing. ‘All spread out, squirming, desperate—’

She whimpers when you roll your hips into her again, the friction delicious, just enough to drive her crazy without giving her what she really wants.

‘You’re so mean,’ she breathes, but her body betrays her, arching up, trying to chase more.

You chuckle, finally freeing her wrists—only for her to grab the collar of your shirt and yank you down into a kiss.

It’s messy, all tongue and heat, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer, like she’s trying to mold herself to you completely. You groan into her mouth, one hand gripping her thigh, the other slipping beneath her shorts again, fingers finding their place against her soaked entrance.

She’s so fucking wet.

You tease her with your fingertips, barely dipping inside, a soft squelch, just enough to make her whimper into the kiss.

‘God, you need it, huh?’ you murmur against her lips.

She nods frantically, her hands clawing at your shoulders. ‘Please.’

Your breath catches at how wrecked she already sounds. ‘Please what?’

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t hesitate. ‘Please fuck me.’

You curse under your breath.

Then you sit up, hands moving with quick precision—grabbing the waistband of her shorts and yanking them down her legs, tossing them aside without care.

And finally, she’s bare beneath you.

You take a moment, just looking at her. The way she’s sprawled out, chest rising and falling rapidly, legs slightly parted, glistening with need.

‘You’re perfect.’

Chaewon bites her lip, her gaze flicking down—to where you’re already painfully hard, straining against your pants. She reaches forward, fingers trembling slightly as they brush over you, tracing the outline of your cock.

You let out a sharp breath.

‘You’re still dressed,’ she murmurs. ‘Not fair.’

She’s right.

So you fix it.

You shed your clothes as quickly as possible, the fabric falling to the floor, forgotten. When you look at her again, she’s staring at you—all of you—her lips slightly parted, eyes dark.

Then, slowly, her fingers curl around your cock, stroking once, twice, making your whole body tense.

‘Fuck.’

She grins. ‘That was cute.’

You glare at her, grip tightening on her hips. ‘You wanna see cute? Keep talking.’

She laughs, breathy, and guides you between her legs.

Your tip brushes against her entrance, and her laughter dies into a shaky inhale.

You barely push in, just an inch, feeling how tight, how hot she is, and you both groan at the same time.

Chaewon’s nails dig into your shoulders. ‘More,’ she gasps.

You give her more.

You sink into her inch by inch, stretching her, filling her completely, watching the way her pink lips part as she takes all of you.

She feels unreal.

You curse, head falling to her shoulder, breathing heavily against her skin. ‘You’re so—fuck—you feel so good.’

She’s trembling, her arms wrapping around your back, holding you as close as possible. ‘Move. Please—move.’ she pleads, desperately whispering hot breath into your ear, as you bury yourself into her petite shoulder.

And so you do.

Your hips pull back, then roll forward again, slow, wet, a stretched squelch, setting a slow, deliberate pace—making sure she feels everything. Every inch, every pulse, every deep thrust that has her gasping your name like a prayer.

She’s already falling apart beneath you, legs wrapped around your waist, nails raking down your back.

‘Faster. Oh please, faster.’ she breathes.

You obey.

Your hips snap against hers, faster, deeper, her moans turning into desperate little cries with every thrust.

‘You’re taking me so well,’ you murmur, kissing the shell of her ear, your fingers tangling with hers as you pin her hands above her head again. ‘Like you were made for this.’

She nods frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to do anything but cling to you and feel.

Her lips quiver. ‘I was made for you.’

She finally unravels, clenching around you so tightly, her whole body trembling, a gushing pressure around your cock, her musical chant of bliss filling your ears—you follow right after, burying yourself as deep as possible, spilling into her your entire seed, painting her cervix white, losing yourself completely.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing, tangled limbs, the aftermath of everything you’ve held back for so long.

Then, finally, Chaewon exhales, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw.

‘You’re definitely taking responsibility,’ she whispers.

You chuckle, pressing your forehead against hers.

There’s something nonsensical about it all. You’d rather not think about it. Your lover. The woman of your dreams underneath you, who took your seed, who keeps kissing the shell of your ear like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

But it keeps coming back.

The fact that no one caught you on the rooftop is a miracle.

The fact that maybe tomorrow or the day after is the day you get caught is… reality.

You want to fight everything that distends you from your dream, your everything: Chaewon.

But it’s frail. You can see it in her eyes too. Even as you rest your sweat-slick forehead against hers, blowing soft hairs out of her forehead—you can see tears coast on her red-rimmed eyes.

She loves you.

The near chance that you may be separated tears at you, hacks at your soul.

Your heart has wings for her.

Chaewon.

Your queen.

Aphrodite incarnate.

The only one.

TO BE CONTINUED(?)

#smut #kpop smut #fanfic #male reader #kpop #chaewon smut #le sserafim smut

1K notes · View notes

barnacles34 · 2 months ago

Note

Okay. Barney mate. So i just finished that Gawon fic after literally months of delaying, and my fucking god. Bear with me in this one.

The sub-chapters : Small thing, but really loved how the stories are somewhat divided into different sub-chapters, made the whole thing felt shorter than it should if that make sense, while keeping a good pacing in between the reading, loved it.

The little numbered notes/reiterations thing too that show up every now and then, absolutely love that, those little extra explanations wrapped in some exagerattions and little comedies here and there, absolutely gives an extra flavour to the whole thing. - This and the sub chapters, i'm not sure but i think i remember you used that kind of style before because it feels familiar but i could be wrong -

Moving on, the conversations? Always sublime as expected from you.

The slow burning pace, the flow, the tiny extra details in brand names, composers, titles etc., small things that i always deeply love whenever writers do that because it helps a lot with the overall immersion and just the reading experience in general. Not to mention how beautiful your wordings are especially in some of the scenes, also there's this one line that really hits me when she goes "Ever. I might die if i act like this with someone else". Fucking hit too close to home for me and i loved that bit to the moon.

The dynamics between reader and Gawon, again, just as how good you are with the convos, the dynamics automatically built just as well as the convos, the little details of expressions, positions, feelings, little added exaggerations here and there, hell, even the dynamics with Sooin was so well executed too.

The sex? After all the pent up emotions and tensions, everything felt worth it, and i love that feeling when the climax just justifies all the previous buildup, even better because of how slow burning everything was, as you executed the climax that well, it all just feels so good towards the end.

Okay. Sorry for my prolonged yapping but i'm just so genuienly happy after this one too, let alone the moment of reading this collided with her schedule in fashion week earlier, somehow felt really right to have read this at this moment.

All i'm trying to say is, fucking love your works as usual. Gawon is so stupidly hot. And i can't wait for more from this one whenever it may drop.

Last one, personally, i'd say you should just do things in your own pace, doesn't matter short releases or long ones, just do the ones you like and finish it whenever you got the time to, i feel like there's no urgent need to put time constraint for yourself and just do things at the pace you feel best for yourself. That's really all i swear. Take care mate 😆

Oh my god 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Shin-nim, you are just insanely awesome. It's always a privilege to get to read your reviews. And I always have a stupid grin plastered on my face while reading them....

You are just lighting up the world for people.

Much loveeeee,

Barney

Side note: I will be reading this over and over and over and over until the end of time.

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barnacles34 · 2 months ago

Text

Your Totalitarian Touch

MEOVV Anna X Male Reader

18+ smut

5k words

TW: Rough sex

a/n: I'd like to thank @capslocked for helping me revamp a part of this story that drove me nuts... Thank you so much. Your help did everything and more.

—

You needed a rebound. A quick fix. A body to sweat against, to burn through the feelings. No strings, no weight—just skin, just heat. Someone reliable, discreet.

Someone who wouldn’t ask for more. That’s where Anna came in. That’s where your assistant came in.

No emotions. None. Just work and release, routine like clockwork.

A blowjob over the desk. A quick fuck in the janitor’s closet. A suite at the Four Seasons, the sheets barely wrinkled before she leaves.

It’s part of her duties now, unspoken, expected. She places the clipboard down—mahogany, polished, bronze fixtures catching the light.

She unfastens her heels, the dark nylon clinging to her feet, creased where the fabric hugs her toes. The reinforced toe section—slightly darker, sheer but dense—outlines the curve of each digit, a faint imprint where the pressure of her shoes had been.

The necklace—diamonds, fine, insignificant—left beside the papers. Shirt loosened, top button undone.

Then she kneels on her stocking-clad heels, like worship, poised, perfect. Ready.

And then, with the same quiet devotion, she leans in. A tentative breath against your tip, her lips parting, her tongue flicking out—just a taste, a whisper of heat before she lets you feel her fully.

She takes her time, slow, deliberate. Tongue warm, wet, tracing along your shaft. Licking, sucking, teasing—hot breath right on your wet tip, soft hums in her throat.

Her hair, once perfect, now a tangled mess, strands sticking to her damp forehead.

She works you to the edge, holds you there right in the perfect clench of her throat, then pushes you past.

You break, pulse, spill—thick, warm—catching in her palm before she lets it slip between her perfect breasts, glistening along her sternum. Like a painting. Like worship. Like Aphrodite herself.

What cascaded along your cock—this viscous amalgam of cum and spittle—coalesced upon her palm as if nature herself had wept a forbidden nectar; her eyes crease. There's a satisfaction in her expression, like the residue of collapsed constellations, like take this, take more, like finally.

That's the fervor, you suppose, of an artist; tending their piece-de-resistance; each pass along her palm a meticulous act of affection, a pure assimilation into her role; then she's pumping her fist around you and you cannot believe how soft how palm feels, how lithe her fingers work in gentle twists—she's gazing at you with the serene madness of a sibyl who'd licked the ink from her own prophecies.

And then—her hands, wrapped entirely around your cock, instruments of havoc, descended once more.

Not one, but two now. Moving with the precision of clockwork doves, her two-handed grip (Fucking fuck!) alternated between silk and vise and utter destruction, coaxing from you not mere surrender—

But a total sacramental undoing. A bead of spit swelled at her lower lip—a viscous shiny pearl—before plummeting to crown your tip, where it quivered, blasphemous and bright under the lamplight.

How neatly this situation mirrored your customary routine: the assistant’s demure blouse, starch-stiff and virtuous, clashing deliciously with the wet ruin beneath her skirt.

The sheen of spit, of sweat, of something filthier still, trailing down her fingers, her wrist, sinking into the taut fabric stretched across her thighs. Pre-ejaculate, saliva, tears—pure ruination.

Your fingers laced through her hair, gripping, guiding. This was where her mouth belonged.

What she would take.

What she would choke on.

She descended in one motion, a slow, measured collapse, until the tip of your cock struck the back of her throat—an impact like a detonator, like pressing the switch on nuclear obliteration.

Her gagging was no mere reflex. The convulsion of her epiglottis, the shuddering clench of her throat, the way tears welled and fell—not in drops, but in rivulets, a silent confession of servitude.

And then—as her fingers worked between her wet thighs—a seizure of pleasure overtook her, body arcing as if struck by divine voltage.

The first spasm hit like a shockwave, wracking her frame, and then—wet, hot—her climax tore through her in a violent surge, a squirt painting the garish paisley carpet, anointing the fibers in utter pleasure.

It came in spurts, uncontrolled, writhing through her as she clung to you, nails digging, throat still fluttering around your length, her body unable to decide between rapture and collapse.

Later, she would kneel, breath still uneven, gathering stockings and the last shreds of decorum, fingers trembling as she fastened the final button of her blouse. You’d murmur something about discretion, and she’d nod, lips still swollen.

But there was no secrecy here, no fleeting lapse. This was routine. She was pinned and preserved—pressed into place beneath the totalitarian weight of you.

You straightened your cuffs. ‘Tend to the emails I sent. They're urgent.’

‘Yes.’ The softest response, her voice barely more than the pluck of a harp string.

‘And—I’ll need you at my house. No later than seven.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’ A bow, reverent. One hand drifting low, pressing firm against the heat between her thighs, as if to quiet the ruin left there, as if to contain what was already yours.

That was 6 PM. Everyone was out. Anna was second to leave.

You clean the room. Perfume it. And Anna waits rather than go home first.

She follows you to the car, moving in that quiet, seamless way of hers. The faintest click of her heels on pavement, the sound swallowed by the evening hush.

She slides into the passenger seat, composed, familiar. The scent of Dior Mini Miss Fragrance¹ drifts in with her—soft, floral, expensive.

The one you gave her. She wears it every day. Not heavy, not cloying, just enough for you to notice in passing. Just enough to remind you.

She’s changed. The workday rigidity is gone—no more stiff blouse, no more severe pencil skirt. Instead, a cashmere sweater, fine-threaded, molding itself to her shape.

Dark leggings, stretching smooth over long legs, hugging the delicate curve of her hips. Casual, but deliberate. Nothing out of place. Nothing ever is.

You ease the car into the road, the city moving past in slow, rhythmic streaks of neon and streetlights.

—

¹ Anna described the olfactory notes once: ‘The floral freshness of lily-of-the-valley notes, an expressive peony accord and caressing iris notes accompany a slightly dewy verdant quality.’ You thought it was cute, how immersed she is when given a gift.

—

'Traffic’s bad today.'

'It is, sir.'

Her voice is light, composed. Almost neutral.

You glance to the side. A peek of her face, then her entirety.

There’s something in her lap. A small box, folded parchment paper lining the inside. Her hands rested on it, fingers laced, steady.

You glance at it. 'What’s that?'

'I made something.'

'Made something?'

'Yes, sir. For you.'

She doesn’t elaborate. Just lifts the lid slightly at the next red light, tilting the box so you can see. Inside, golden shells, delicately dusted with powdered sugar.

'Madeleines?'

'Yes, sir.'

A faint scent rises—warm, buttery, kissed with vanilla and lemon.

'Why?'

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers shift slightly against the box. Then, softly:

'You left the office late yesterday. And I baked. These are the remaining ones; I thought you might want something sweet.'

You look at her. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t avert her gaze. Just sits there, watching the road, the passing headlights tracing slow highlights against her skin.

'You’re not paid for this time.'

'I know, sir.'

'And yet.'

A blink. Barely even that. Then she looks back at the road, voice even.

'I don’t mind.'

No excuses. No justification. Just fact.

You reach into the box without another word, pick one up. The shell ridges are soft beneath your fingertips, delicate but firm. You take a bite. Warm. Light. It dissolves on your tongue—soft butter, a whisper of citrus, the faintest trace of honey.

They’re good.

They’re so damn good.

The light turns green. You drive on.

—

The house is quiet. Dimly lit.

Anna moves through it like she always does—not like a guest, but not quite like she belongs. Just… seamlessly, like she’s smoothing out existence itself.

A chair slightly out of place? Adjusted. A misplaced coaster? Set right. Her movements are precise, unconscious.

She’s not intrusive. She doesn’t linger. Just straightens, aligns, clears away the invisible disarray before finally settling on the couch, hands resting lightly in her lap, posture flawless.

Waiting.

For instruction, maybe. For you.

You watch her for a moment. The soft knit of her sweater catches the low light, the fine curve of her collarbone disappearing into its folds. The leggings stretch tight over her legs, her knees pressed together, the only sign of tension in her otherwise poised frame.

She’s waiting for a command.

Instead, you move.

She barely reacts when you settle in beside her, when your hands find their place—one on her waist, the other against her throat, fingers ghosting along her pulse.

She breathes in, just a little too sharply, when you lean in, burying yourself into the curve of her neck.

She smells like warmth. Like the faintest trace of the Dior fragrance, now mingled with something softer—her.

Your lips graze the smooth line where her neck meets her shoulder. You feel the shiver before she even exhales, the tension in her body coiling tighter, thighs pressing together like she’s trying to contain something.

Then, you move.

She gasps when you push her back against the couch. Her body gives before she does—pliant, waiting, so beautifully obedient, a lamb before the altar, a sacrifice before the flame.

You take your time, peeling away the layers. The sweater first—soft, cashmere, clinging to her warmth before you strip it from her, exposing bare skin, goose-pimpled under the cool air.

Her hair—usually so neat—catches in the fabric, strands tangled, framing her flushed face like the ruins of something once meticulously constructed.

Then the bra—lace, expensive, some French confection meant to be seen only by her own reflection. A whisper of fabric, a gentle surrender, and then she is there, bare-breasted, her nipples stiff under your gaze.

You drag your palms over them, slow, teasing, and she twitches beneath you, breath hitching like a string pulled taut.

Then the leggings. Tight. Stubborn. Peeled away inch by inch until the last scrap of decency is nothing more than damp lace pressed against her cunt.

Her thighs are trembling before you even touch her, a subtle, anticipatory quake—she knows, she knows what’s coming.

You hook your fingers into the thin fabric, drag it down slow, torturous, and the way it clings to her—the way the wetness sticks, clings—dear God.

And there she is.

Her pussy is glistening, flushed, lips swollen with need, the delicate bud of her clit already peeking out, desperate for attention. She parts her thighs, hesitant, then obedient, and fuck—the sight of her spread like this, pink and drenched and open, makes something sharp coil low in your spine.

You don’t waste time.

You drop to your knees and devour her.

Her hips jerk the moment your tongue meets her slit, a sharp little gasp escaping her, hands flying to the couch, gripping for dear life.

You taste her—warm, slick, sickeningly sweet—something obscene and divine in the way she spreads for you, the way her body reacts like an instrument tuned to your precise touch. You drag your tongue from her entrance up to her clit, slow, languid, savoring. She twitches. Her back arches.

Then you do it again.

Flicking against that swollen, aching bundle of nerves, pressing firm, circling, watching the symphony of her undoing—hips jerking, thighs trembling, fingers curling against the upholstery.

She’s panting now.

'Oh—sir—'

Her voice breaks when you suck, hard, pulling her clit into your mouth, rolling it against your tongue, letting the sharp little whimper she gives you burn itself into your memory.

She is soaked. Drenched. Slick spilling down your chin as you fuck her with your tongue, pressing deep, curling inside her, feeling the way her walls flutter, tighten, her body begging for the inevitable.

And then she breaks.

She screams, a sharp, glorious cry of ruin as she shatters, her pussy clenching around nothing, a desperate, needy spasm that makes you groan into her cunt.

She’s shaking, violently, thighs squeezing around your head, heels digging into the couch as if trying to escape the force of her own pleasure.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You lap up every drop of her, let her ride it out, make sure she feels every second of it—her body writhing, nerves burning, overstimulated and helpless.

Her hands find your hair. Not to push you away, not to stop you, but to hold, to cling, like she’s afraid she’ll fall apart entirely if she lets go.

And then—her moans collapse into ragged, broken little gasps, her chest heaving, her body slumping, her legs twitching with aftershocks.

When you finally pull away, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, she looks wrecked.

Utterly, gloriously ruined.

And you haven’t even begun yet.

You don’t give her time to recover.

She’s still sprawled out on the couch, thighs trembling, breath uneven, pussy dripping from the orgasm you just tore out of her. But you’re not done. Not even close.

You grab her—rough, possessive. One arm around her waist, the other under her thighs, lifting her like she weighs nothing. She gasps, hands clutching at your shoulders as you haul her up, her legs dangling over your arm.

'Oh—sir—'

She doesn’t protest. Just breathes, just clings, just lets you take her.

You carry her through the dim house, her skin warm, soft against yours. She smells like sweat, sex, Dior Mini Miss Fragrance—heady, intoxicating.

The bedroom door swings open.

You drop her onto the bed. She bounces slightly, wide-eyed, lips parted, still trying to catch her breath.

'Get on your knees.'

She obeys instantly. Crawls forward, knees sinking into the mattress, hands smoothing down her thighs like she’s preparing herself.

You undo your belt. Your pants drop, and your cock springs free—hard, aching, tip leaking.

Her breath hitches.

She licks her lips.

Then she’s on you.

No hesitation, no teasing. She wraps her fingers around your cock, strokes once, twice, then takes you into her mouth—wet, warm, sucking you down with obscene desperation.

'Fuck—'

Her tongue drags along your shaft, swirling, teasing the sensitive underside. She moans around you, and the vibration sends a shudder straight down your spine.

She’s filthy with it. Spit pooling in her mouth, dripping down her chin, strings of saliva connecting her lips to your cock every time she pulls back to breathe.

'Look at you. Fucking messy.'

She whimpers in response, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Wide, needy, shimmering with submission.

You fist her hair, pulling her deeper. She chokes. Gags. A muffled, desperate noise escaping her throat as you hit the back. But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

She takes it.

Her throat tightens around you, clenching, convulsing as you fuck into her mouth. The wet, lewd sounds filling the room—the slick suction, the choked moans, the obscene slurp as she swallows around your length.

Tears streak down her cheeks. Her mascara smudges. Her nails dig into your thighs, clinging, steadying herself as she takes every inch of you.

She pulls back with a gasp, drool spilling down her chin.

'You like this, huh?'

She nods, panting, eyes hazy. 'Yes, sir.'

'Then get on your back.'

She scrambles to obey, shifting, lying back on the bed, legs spreading automatically.

Her pussy is a mess—slick, glistening, aching for more.

You climb over her, positioning yourself between her thighs. Press your cock against her entrance, rubbing, teasing, feeling the heat of her.

She whines. Writhes. Lifts her hips, trying to take you in.

'So fucking needy,' you murmur.

And then you thrust in.

She cries out, head tilting back, legs wrapping around your waist as you bury yourself inside her. Tight. Wet. Clenching around you, this velvety slick, like she was made for this.

You fuck her hard. Rough. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound of aggressive skin slapping against skin filling the room.

She’s loud now—moaning, gasping, whimpering every time you slam into her. Her nails rake down your back, her body arching into you, her tits bouncing with every thrust.

'Oh—sir—'

She’s close. You can feel it—the way her walls flutter around you, the way her moans turn high-pitched, desperate.

You reach down, rub her clit, fast, hard, and she shatters.

A scream rips from her throat as she cums again, body convulsing, pussy clenching around you so fucking tight you nearly lose it yourself. She’s trembling beneath you, a shaking, gasping mess, barely able to catch her breath.

And then, through her wrecked panting, she breathes out—

'Do whatever you want. Anything.'

Your grip on her hips tightens. Something snaps.

You don’t hesitate. You grab her and flip her over, face down, ass up, pushing her into the mattress. She gasps at the sudden motion, hands clutching at the sheets, legs still shaky from the orgasm that just tore through her.

You grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back, lips brushing her ear as you growl, 'Anything?'

She nods frantically. 'Yes, sir.'

'Then take it.'

You press your cock against her drenched slit, teasing, dragging it along the soaked folds before shoving back inside her in one brutal thrust.

She screams.

The bedframe groans under the force as you fuck her into the mattress, hard, unrelenting. Her back arches, fingers gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded.

'Fucking filthy,' you growl, landing a sharp smack on her ass. She jerks, a choked moan ripping from her throat. A perfect, red handprint blooms across her skin.

Again.

Another slap, harder this time, and she cries out, pushing back against you, greedy for more.

'You like that?'

'Yes—yes, sir—'

Another slap, her ass jiggling under the impact.

'You like getting used like this? Bent over, taking my cock like a fucking slut?'

Her breath stutters. 'Yes, sir—please—'

You lean over her, press your chest against her back, keeping her trapped beneath you. Your hand slides around her throat, tilting her face to the side until her cheek is flush against the mattress, lips parted, eyes half-lidded, fucked-out.

'You belong right here, don’t you?' you murmur against her ear.

She whimpers, nodding as best she can with your grip still firm on her throat. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good girl.'

You fuck her deeper, harder, your pace ruthless. She’s completely at your mercy, pinned, her body taking everything you give her. She can barely form words anymore, just gasping, squealing, moaning, every sound raw, unfiltered.

You drag your teeth over the shell of her ear, your free hand grabbing her hip, nails pressing into her skin as you pound into her, feeling the way she grips you, tight, hot, dripping around you.

She’s a mess beneath you. Drool on the sheets, her body trembling, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

And she’s still fucking begging for more.

She’s wrecked. Completely and utterly gone.

A limp, shivering mess beneath you, body sprawled, face pressed against the sheets, ass still in the air like she’s waiting for something, though she can’t possibly take more.

Her breathing is uneven—ragged inhales, stuttering exhales. Drool glistens on the corner of her lips, a dazed expression on her face.

Her body twitches with aftershocks, thighs slick, trembling, a masterpiece of ruin.

You should stop.

You don’t.

You thrust once more—deep, unthinking—and the second you feel it, the molten, overwhelming rush surging up your spine, you yank yourself back—but not in time.

The first pulse spills hot inside her, and fuck—fuck—you weren’t supposed to—

You pull out, grip tight on your cock as the rest of it spurts across her ass, her lower back, painting her in thick ropes of white. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Just breathes, just exists, heavy, warm, unbothered, like this is nothing, like this is expected.

And that does something to you.

You collapse on top of her, forehead against her shoulder, both of you sweaty, exhausted. The room is thick with the scent of sex, the sheets tangled beneath you, the air humming with the echo of what just happened.

For a second, there’s nothing but breath. Her chest rising and falling beneath you, your fingers twitching weakly against her waist, the heat of her body stuck to you.

Then—

Soft. Feather-light. Her fingers, sliding into your hair, grazing, soothing.

You freeze.

'Do you want anything to eat?' she murmurs.

Your brain short-circuits.

You lift your head slightly. Blink at her.

'What?'

'You didn’t eat much today,' she says, her voice gentle, maybe even… worried? 'I can make something.'

You don’t respond. You can’t.

The sex was expected. The obedience, the silence, the waiting—expected.

But this?

This soft, effortless care? This unwavering, wholehearted, unpaid concern?

You don’t move. Just stare down at her, this woman you’ve ruined, this woman who still, for some unfathomable reason, looks at you like this.

Something tightens in your throat.

You swallow it down.

'You just got absolutely wrecked, and you’re asking about my dinner?'

Her fingers continue grazing your hair, slow, absentminded. She hums softly, unbothered.

'You worked late today.'

It’s not an answer. Not really.

But it’s also not not an answer.

Your lips twitch.

'You’re unbelievable.'

'Mm.' She yawns, stretching slightly beneath you, utterly boneless. 'Do you want something heavier?'

You stare at her.

She stares back, expectant, utterly serious.

And for the first time, you have no fucking clue what to say.

So you don’t.

You just watch her, the way she shifts beside you, soft and warm and real, your mind grasping at something it refuses to name.

Then, before you can think too hard about it—before the weight in your chest can settle into something recognizable—you close your eyes.

And when you open them again, it’s morning.

The scent of butter and coffee drifts through the air. Eggs sizzle in the pan.

And Anna is still here.

For a second, your brain doesn’t register it. Your body is sore in places you don’t usually feel sore. There’s the distinct scent of coffee, butter, and something vaguely sweet floating through the air, and that’s not normal. Your sheets are a tangled mess. That’s normal.

What’s not normal is the fact that the kitchen isn’t empty.

You sit up, and there she is.

Anna.

Wearing your shirt.

It’s too big for her, obviously—practically a dress, hanging off her shoulders, one sleeve falling loose, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone. Her hair is messy, slightly damp, as if she just showered. Bare legs, no pants, just standing there at the stove, flipping eggs like she owns the place.

She hears you shift and turns slightly, tilting her head. 'Good morning, sir.'

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

'What—' You gesture vaguely at the situation. 'What are you doing?'

'Cooking.'

'Yes, I can see that—' You rub your temples. 'Why are you still here?'

She blinks. Like she hadn’t considered that an actual question. 'You told me to stay.'

'I—'

Did you?

No. That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. You think back to last night.

Sex. A lot of sex. The memory makes your jaw tighten slightly. Then—post-sex delirium. Her ridiculous, casual Do you want anything to eat? and your inability to answer like a normal person.

You might have grumbled something that could have been interpreted as stay.

That’s not the same thing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. 'Anna—'

'You like your eggs medium, right? Not too runny?' she interrupts, completely unbothered.

You stare at her. 'How do you even know that?'

'You leave your plates out sometimes. The residue on the fork is usually a bit firmer, so I assumed you don’t like them too soft.'

There’s a beat of silence.

'You analyzed my egg residue?'

She shrugs, flipping one onto a plate. 'It was a reasonable deduction.'

You have no response to that.

She turns off the stove, grabs the plate, and walks over to the table like this is just a completely normal part of her job description. Like this—standing in your kitchen in your shirt, feeding you after a night of getting absolutely ruined—is just another Monday.

She sets the plate in front of you, slides a cup of coffee next to it, then stands there, watching.

Waiting.

'What are you doing now?' you ask, eyeing her.

'Seeing if you like it.'

'You think I’m gonna complain about a free breakfast?'

She hums. 'I think you’ll find something to nitpick. You’re very detail-oriented, sir.'

That—okay. That’s fair.

You grab a fork, take a bite. Chew. Swallow. It’s good.

Infuriatingly good.

You glance at her. She looks pleased.

And for some reason, that does something weird to your chest.

'Stop looking so smug.'

'I’m not, sir.'

'You are.'

She takes a sip of her own coffee, utterly unbothered. 'Would you like me to do anything else before I leave?'

You pause. You should say no. You should tell her to go. This was already weird enough. But then you hear yourself saying—

'You have anything else you can bake?'

There’s a flicker in her eyes. Amusement. Maybe something softer.

'Yes, sir.'

'Stay.'

And just like that, she does.

The sun is high, the sky is clear, and you’re doing something you never do—taking a walk.

Anna walks beside you, hands clasped behind her back, her usual composed self. She’s quiet but not waiting. There’s something different about today, something easy in the way she moves. Like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. Like this isn’t something unusual.

Maybe for her, it isn’t.

For you, it’s strange.

The park is full of life—joggers passing in rhythmic huffs, old men feeding pigeons, kids shrieking at nothing. The kind of environment you usually avoid. You don’t know why you agreed to this. Maybe it was because Anna just assumed you would. Maybe it was because she made you breakfast, and the thought of sitting in the house alone while she moved around, humming under her breath, felt… off.

Or maybe it was because of the way she touched your hair last night. The way she stayed.

You glance at her, hands still in her lap, eyes forward, posture perfect.

And before you can even think about it, the words leave your mouth—

'Be my girlfriend.'

She stops walking.

You take another step before realizing she’s not beside you anymore. You turn, and she’s just… standing there, blinking at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible.

'What?'

'Be my girlfriend,' you repeat, because she obviously didn’t hear you.

She tilts her head. 'Sir.'

'What?'

'You can’t just say that.'

'Why not?'

She exhales sharply. 'Because you didn’t even do anything first.'

You frown. 'What does that mean?'

She waves a hand, flustered, searching for words. 'You didn’t—you didn’t ask me properly, or—I don’t know, do something nice first! You can’t just say it like it’s an item on a checklist.'

'I let you sleep in my bed.'

She glares.

'I didn’t kick you out in the morning.'

Glaring intensifies.

'I let you make me breakfast?'

She groans. 'Oh my god.' She rubs her temples, looking physically pained. 'This is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.'

'You’d prefer flowers?'

'It’s not about flowers—'

'I can get you flowers.'

'Sir.'

You smirk, just a little.

She exhales through her nose. Collects herself. Closes her eyes for a moment like she’s resetting before opening them again. 'Okay, let’s try again. Say something that makes me feel like a human being before dropping that on me.'

You look at her, really look at her. The way her arms are crossed, the way she’s genuinely annoyed for the first time ever. The way she’s standing in front of you, not as an assistant, not as someone waiting for orders, but as someone who expects something from you.

And for some reason, that makes you want to push her just a little further.

'I like having you around,' you say simply.

She blinks.

That seems to throw her off more than anything else.

'That’s—' she stumbles slightly, the heat in her expression dimming into something softer. 'That’s better.'

Then, before she can fully collect herself—before she can regain her footing, before she can push it down into something manageable—

You grin. 'So. Be my girlfriend.'

And that’s when she kicks you.

It’s meant for your shin. You think it’s meant for your shin.

But it lands slightly higher.

Right into your fucking balls.

Pain explodes through your body. Your breath cuts out.

You drop to your knees.

Anna gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes wide, full of instant regret.

'Oh—Oh-my-god.'

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

She crouches in front of you, hands hovering, panicked, unsure if she should touch you or start drafting her resignation letter.

'Are you okay? Sir? Oh my god, I didn’t mean—'

You let out a slow, ragged breath.

And then you laugh.

She stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

'Why are you laughing?!'

You don’t know. Maybe it’s the pain. Maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the moment. Maybe it’s her—flustered, apologetic, real.

Because this? This is the first time you’ve ever seen her uncomposed.

And it’s kind of perfect. The latter half of her you’ve never witnessed. The whole Anna.

She looks at you, at your stupid, half-pained, half-delighted expression, and before she can stop herself, the words just spill out—

'I love you.'

Your laughter stops.

She freezes.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then—very softly, very, very horrified—

'Oh, no.'

You blink at her.

She physically recoils. 'Oh, no, no, no—'

'Anna.'

'I take it back!' She looks pale. 'It didn’t happen. I didn’t say it. Forget it. Forget everything.'

You tilt your head, choking on a laugh. 'You kicked me in the balls and then confessed.'

Her hands cover her face. 'Please stop talking. I’m sorry.'

You smirk.

Then, ignoring the pain still throbbing between your legs, you reach out, grab her wrist, and pull her hands away.

She won’t look at you.

'Anna.'

Silence.

Then—soft, defeated—

'Yes, sir?'

You squeeze her hand.

'Don’t take it back.'

And that’s when she finally meets your eyes. And that’s when you finally meet her soft lips.

—

It comes up later, as these things do, somewhere between the second round of coffee and you pretending the pain in your balls never happened.

'So.' You lean back against the park bench, watching Anna stir her drink like it personally insulted her. 'You despised me at first?'

She stiffens, mid-stir.

'I didn’t despise you—'

'That’s what you said.'

'I misspoke.'

'Did you?'

She exhales. 'It’s not my fault you were kind of rude.'

You smirk. 'Go on.'

She gives you a flat look. 'You never listened. You cut people off mid-sentence. You said things just to watch people get flustered. You refused to respond to emails that had more than two paragraphs. Oh! And once, during an all-hands meeting, you left in the middle of someone’s presentation to get a coffee and came back with a croissant.'

You raise a brow. 'Was it a good croissant?'

'You got three.'

'Right. And?'

'And I—' she hesitates. Then sighs, like she’s already exhausted by herself. 'And I started to like you.'

You tilt your head, watching her carefully. 'Why?'

She glances away. A faint pink dusts her cheeks. 'You’re… unique.'

'Hm.'

'A brilliant, infuriating oddity.'

'Interesting.'

'Something that needed fixing,' she mutters, mostly to herself.

Your lips twitch. 'Fixing?'

She doesn’t take the bait. Just sips her coffee like she didn’t just say something completely insane.

You let the silence stretch, let her settle in the warmth of her confession, and then—

'So when, exactly, did the hatred turn into love?' You prod.

Her cheeks flush pink again.

'I’m just curious.' You tilt your head. 'Was it before or after the croissants?'

She gives you a glare, or at least an attempt to. 'I hate you.'

'No, you don’t.'

'Just a little.'

'Nah.'

She exhales sharply, pinches the bridge of her nose, then stands abruptly. 'Come on.'

You raise a brow. 'Where?'

'Somewhere more private.'

You grin. 'Anna, if you wanted to jump me, you could’ve just said so.'

Anna leans in; softly grasps the hem of your shirt, and right on your ear says: ‘I want your cum inside me.’

You stood up immediately.

終わり(End)

#anna meovv #meovv anna #anna smut #smut #kpop smut #male reader #kpop #fanfic #meovv smut

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barnacles34 · 2 months ago

Text

Gratitude

Wow. 1k followers. The big 1000. I have no idea how it all led to this, but I'm so glad. From stumbling upon a random tumblr-kpop-smut post to becoming a creator for it: I am happy (at its absurdity, but also the happiness it brings me).

Now, did I just admit writing tumblr kpop smut brings me happiness?

---

As a measly celebration for myself In spirit of myself I shall doxx myself:

I am a slavic boy. I have a horrible sleep schedule. I can only speak English.

Wait wait. Only English? Yes, if you categorize a screeching-CD-like household language as fluency (as opposed to the corporal, or normal, fluency that contains thousands of words) then I am fluent, otherwise... no. I mean, come on, I can't even type it.

My favorite albums are anything by sufjan stevens, aphex twins, NJZ, and the microphones.

I began writing my debut Ryujin smut (the one I deleted; forgive me...) as soon as I turned 18. This one is some real #FreakForTheLoveOfTheGame type stuff.

My favorite books: Savage Detectives, Infinite Jest, Flowers for Algernon (others omitted for the sake of conciseness).

You can join the discord under Prael's and Capslocked's masterlists; that's where you'll find me shovelling dirt into my mouth because I keep seeing Karina.

Much love to everyone. I love yall so much.

#gratitude #thanks #i love yall

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barnacles34 · 3 months ago

Text

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide.

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

#Yujin smut #Ive smut #ive #fanfic #smut #kpop #kpop smut #male reader

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barnacles34 · 3 months ago

Text

Bells and Whistles (Professional Hazard pt. 1.1)

Karina x Male Reader

18+

It's three days after that beautiful night. Still in Rome.

The voicemail plays in the quiet of her bedroom. First: silence. Then a sharp intake of breath that makes your pulse jump.

Your thumb hovers over the phone as her voice breaks into those familiar wet sounds that have been haunting you all afternoon.

'If you play that one more time—'

'Shh. This is art.'

She's burrowed in her fortress of quilts, only eyes visible over the edge. A paperback lies abandoned by her hip.

'Delete it.' But her voice has gone soft around the edges.

'Not a chance.' You take your time with your shoes. Let her watch the deliberate movements. 'This is better than your debut song—and you know how much I love that song.’'

'You're awful.' The quilt slips as she shifts. 'I was desperate.'

'Were you?' You tap the phone, find that specific moment where her voice catches. 'Tell me about desperate.'

Her sock-covered foot sneaks out, hooks behind your knee. Tugs. 'Twenty minutes for milk. Who takes twenty minutes for milk?'

'Someone wearing very expensive, very tight jeans.'

'Someone being cruel.'

You catch her ankle mid-retreat. The quilt falls away, reveals cotton shorts still damp from earlier. Your thumb finds the arch of her foot, presses. She makes that sound again—the one from the voicemail.

'Cruel?' Your fingers trace higher. 'I'm not the one sending pornographic voicemails in the middle of the day.'

'I didn't—' She breaks off as your hand slides up her calf.

'No?' You hit play again. Her recorded gasp fills the room. 'What would you call this then?'

She bites her knuckle. You replace it with your thumb, let her teeth graze the pad.

'That noise you made,' you murmur. 'Right at the end. Makes me feel invincible.'

'Yeah?' Her tongue darts out, tastes salt.

'Like I could do anything. Find Atlantis. Solve world peace.' You brush her temple with your lips. 'Handle two of you.'

She snorts, shoves at your chest. 'You can barely handle one.'

'Want to test that theory?'

The laughter dies in her throat as your palm finds her inner thigh. Heat blooms under cotton.

'Stay.' Her fingers twist in your shirt like anchors. 'I'll send more. A dozen. Two dozen.'

'Greedy girl.'

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. 'Your fault.'

When you kiss her, she melts like she's been waiting all day.

Her tongue maps the ridges of your teeth, memorizing territory she already knows by heart.

‘Cheater,’ she gasps when you pinch the clasp of her bra.

‘Architect.’

Her shorts fall. The quilt tangles around her hips. She arches when your mouth finds her neck. Whimpers when your teeth follow.

‘Still deleting it.’ She breathes.

‘Try.’

You hit playback again. Her moan swells—raw, unfiltered—as your fingers slide into her.

‘Fuck.’ Her head thrashes. ‘That’s—’

‘—Proof.’ You curl your fingers. ‘You’re my religion.’

She chokes on a laugh. A sob. Her hips stutter. You drink the sounds from her lips. Let her nails carve half-moons into your shoulders.

Later, when she’s boneless and blinking up at you, she traces your collarbone.

‘Twelve voicemails,’ she yawns.

‘Thirteen.’

‘Why thirteen?’

You press her palm to your chest. Let her feel the gallop. ‘One for every time I died at this very second.’

She stills.

Her teeth flash. Dangerous. Devoted. ‘Gladly.’

Your fingers move lazy. Slow. Dragging out every twitch, every choked gasp. She arches into your hand, sweat gluing her bangs to her temples.

‘Still… deleting it.’ She pants, hips circling.

‘Try harder.’ You crook your fingers. Watch her back bow.

Her moan syncs with the recording still playing softly nearby—a stereo echo of need. You drink the sound. Memorize the way her throat flutters.

It’s pulsing, it’s so wet and hot. Sucking in your fingers like quicksand.

‘You’re mean.’ She whines.

‘Mean?’ Your thumb swipes. ‘You begged for this. Remember?’

The voicemail crackles: “—can’t sleep, can’t think, just… please—”

You smirk. Kiss her inner thigh. Salt and jasmine. Her hips jerk.

‘No—wait—’ Her hand fists your hair. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t pull. Trembles.

You nuzzle the damp cotton. ‘Scared?’

‘Never.’

Her shorts peel away. You linger—inhale her, lips hovering. She whimpers.

You chuckle. ‘Even your pussy smells like jasmine.’

‘Please.’

The first lick is a tease. A glancing blow. She curses. The second? A vow.

You map her with your tongue—slow, reverent. Learn the rhythm that makes her thighs clamp your ears. The angle that steals her words. She’s wildfire in your mouth.

‘There—oh god, there—’

You double down. Fingers curl inside her. Thumb presses just so.

Her scream is raw. Beautiful. The quilt soaks. You don’t let up—suck gently as she shakes, drag your tongue through every pulse until she’s clawing the sheets.

Her juices quicken, a pungent musk of sex that’s just pure fucking sin—and you’re sucking it up like a thirsty dog.

Your tongue drags a slow circle around her clit—not touching it. Just tracing the swollen bud through her folds. She whines, thighs tensing.

‘Tease.’

‘Worshipper.’ you correct.

Her hips lift. You press her back down with a palm to her stomach. Feel the muscles flutter, feel the soft cream-like softness of her beautiful midriff.

First contact: a glancing lick. Just the tip of your tongue skating over her clit. She gasps. You catalog the sound—high, sharp, yours.

‘Again.’ She breathes.

You oblige. Slower this time. Let your tongue flatten, drag wet heat across her, bury your nose into her pelvis. Her fingers knot in the sheets.

‘Good?’

‘More.’

You hum. Vibration ripples through her. She jerks.

‘Easy,’ you murmur against her. ‘Let me learn you.’

Your thumbs part her folds. Expose her fully—glistening, flushed, pulse visible in the throb of her clit. You blow gently. Watch her clench, flesh constricting.

‘Cruel—’ A high moan escapes her.

‘Thorough.’

The first proper lick steals her voice. You start slow. Broad strokes from entrance to clit, savoring her tang. Her thighs quiver.

‘There,’ she hisses when your tongue flicks her clit. ‘God, there—’

You zero in. Flick. Flick. Steady rhythm. Her breath hitches.

‘Don’t stop—don’t—’

You switch tactics—suck gently. Her back arches.

‘Yes—like—ah—’

Her clit hardens under your tongue. You trace circles around it, avoiding direct contact. She sobs.

‘Please—’

You reward her: firm pressure, rapid flicks. Her hips stutter. You pin her down, red blooming around the hold you have over her stomach—relentless.

‘Close—I’m close—’

You slide two fingers inside. Curl. Her walls clamp.

‘Fuck—fuck—’

Her clit pulses under your tongue. You suck harder.

She shatters.

A broken scream. Hips grinding against your face. You ride her through it—tongue gentling, fingers stilling.

‘Too much—’

You kiss her inner thigh. Two more kisses along the outer lips. Taste salt. ‘Beautiful.’

She trembles. ‘Again.’

Her thighs tremble as she nudges you onto your back. The mattress dips under her weight. You reach to touch her face—always reaching—but she catches your wrist. Presses it to the pillow.

Her grip isn’t firm. A request, not a demand.

‘Let me,’ she murmurs.

You nod.

Her lips start at your collarbone—a closed-mouth kiss that lingers. She exhales warm breath against the hollow of your throat. You swallow. She smiles against your skin.

Another kiss. Lower. The swell of your pectoral. The scar from that cat. Her tongue traces the jagged edge. You hiss.

The way her thick hair travels along your chest tickles. The soothing aroma of her shampoo almost paralyzing you.

Her teeth graze your nipple. Bite down just enough to make your hips jerk. The denim of your jeans rasps against her bare thighs.

‘Off,’ she says.

‘What’s the magic word?’

Her eyes flick up. Dark. Glossy with submission. ‘Please.’

You sit up to shuck your jeans. She pushes you back down. ‘Let me.’

Her fingers fumble with your belt. The leather slips. She growls—a sound you’ve only heard when she lost at Mario Kart the day before. You bite your cheek. Laughter threatens release.

‘Shut up.’

‘Didn’t say anything.’

The belt clatters to the floor. Your boxers follow. Cool air hits your cock. Her breath follows—warm, uneven.

‘Look at me,’ you say.

She does. Pupils blown. Lips parted. A string of saliva connects her tongue to her lower lip.

‘Beautiful,’ you murmur.

She flushes. Looks away.

Your thumb hooks her chin. ‘Eyes here, sweetheart.’

A whimper escapes her. She obeys.

The first lick is tentative. A kitten testing cream. Her tongue swipes the underside of your cock. Your abs clench in response.

‘Jimin—’

‘Shh.’

Her lips wrap the head. Suck gently. Your groan claws its way out. She moans in response—vibration traveling straight to your spine.

Fuck.

Her hand wraps your shaft. Strokes in time with her mouth. Too dry. Too rough. Perfection.

‘Condom?’ she mumbles around you, the slightest gap allowed for conversation.

‘Later.’

She hums. The sound liquefies your bones.

And she continues. Swollen lips wrapped around your length, tongue slightly pushing on the underside.

Her free hand drifts between her legs. You catch it.

‘Focus.’

‘Meanie.’

You guide her head back down. ‘Earn it.’

She takes you deeper. Smoldering eye contact as she inches closer to the hilt, whereupon her nose almost makes contact with your pelvic bone. Gags. Pulls off. Coughs.

Strings of thick spit follow her mouth as she wipes.

‘Okay?’

‘Perfect.’

She tries again. Slower. Breathing through her nose. Her throat opens. Takes you to the root this time. Tears spill.

You bite down on your lip.

Her nails dig into your thighs. Sting. Ground.

She finds a rhythm—suck, release, swirl. Strings of spit travel down your length. Where her thumb massages your balls with the spit. Your vision blurs.

Amidst it all, she’s staring into you—daring you to force her down on your cock. Begging, even.

‘Close,’ you warn.

She pulls off. Strokes you fast. ‘Come.’

You arch. ‘Where?’

Her tongue darts out. Catches the first pearl of cum. ‘Everywhere.’

The orgasm rips through you. Strips you raw. You spill across her lips, her chin, the swell of her breasts. She licks her lips. Grins.

‘Good?’

‘Amazing.’

She crawls up your body. Fully swallowing the load, then pressing a light kiss on your cheek.

Her mouth lingers on your cheekbone—wet, warm. The kiss sticks when she pulls back. Milky streaks still glisten between her breasts. You thumb one. She shivers.

‘Messy,’ you murmur.

‘Yours.’

Her nipples graze your chest as she straddles you. Heat blooms where skin meets skin. You palm her ribs. Feel the rabbit-quick thrum beneath.

Her hips lift. Your cock nudges her entrance. Slick. Swollen. You hold still. Make her work for it.

‘Please.’ She breathes, sinking down.

Heat swallows you. Tight. Quivering. You bite your tongue. Blood blooms.

She moves like water—slow swirls, thighs trembling. Her breasts sway. You catch one. Lick the salt from its curve.

‘Look at me.’

She doesn’t. Eyes screwed shut. Hair plastered to her neck. Hot and heavy with arousal.

You pinch her nipple. Gentle. Cruel. ‘Look.’

She whimpers. Lashes lift. Pupils black as oil spills.

‘Good girl.’

She whimpers. Clenches. Your fingers dig into her hips.

‘Faster.’

‘Make me.’

You buck up. She gasps. Nails score your chest.

‘Cheat—’

Her rhythm fractures. Hips stuttering. You let her chase it—the sweet friction, the burn. Her moans pitch higher.

‘Close—I’m close—,’ she whimpers.

You still her hips. ‘Wait.’

She sobs. ‘Please—’

‘Say it.’

Your thumb finds her clit. Circles.

She breaks. ‘Yours. Always yours.’

You release her. Let her slam down. Take what she needs.

Her orgasm rips through both of you—convulsions, bitten-off cries. Her rhythmic roll of hips turns frenzied. You let her ride it. Milk every pulse.

After all, you’re obsessed—crazy about her.

When she collapses, you roll her over. Press into the sweat-slick hollow of her back.

‘Again.’

She shakes her head. Weak.

You bite her shoulder. ‘Again.’

Her body opens. Always opens. You grip your cock along her swollen slit, the sticky wetness almost drives you mad. Regardless, you fuck her slow this time.

Deep. Dragging each thrust. Feeling how her pussy drags on your cock, slick wet sounds singing into your ears.

‘Feel it?’

She nods. Pillow muffling her whines.

Your hand slides under. Cups her breast. Squeezes.

You curl over her. Chest to heaving back. Lips to her ear.

Her lips linger at your ear—sticky with confession. You taste salt when she pulls away. The room smells of sex and the spilt vanilla candle she lit hours ago, wax pooling like liquid amber.

She softly guides your hand to her throat. Your thumb finds the pulse. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. A trapped bird.

"Harder," she whispers.

You tighten. Feel her swallow.

Her breasts press against your chest as she arches, nipples pebbling against your scars. The heat between her legs slicks your thigh.

"Inside.’

You flip her. Sheets snag her knees. She whines. You bite the sound from her lips.

Her hands fist the headboard. You press into her slow. Molten velvet. Her moan fractures.

‘Eyes.’

She obeys. Always obeys.

You move. Deliberate. Each thrust a psalm. Her breasts sway—heavy, flushed. You palm one. Squeeze. Milk-white skin blooms red.

‘More—’

‘Quiet.’

She bites her wrist. You replace it with your fingers.

‘Sing for me.’

Her cry splinters the air. You swallow it. Fuck her deeper.

The headboard knocks the wall. Syncopated. Her ankles lock at your waist. Pull. Beg.

‘Who?’ you demand.

‘Yours.’

‘Louder.’

‘Yours~!’

The word still ringing when you slam into her. No finesse. Piston hips. Her breasts slap your chest—heat and sweat and jasmine.

She chokes. Nails rake your back. ‘Too—’

‘Take it.’

Her legs lock. Ankles digging into your behind. You fuck her like proving a point. Jackhammer rhythm. Headboard cracks plaster.

Dust rains down as you drag her hips back, slam into her harder. No rhythm now—just ruin.

She chokes on a scream, face mashed into the quilt, ass raised like an offering.

Your grip bruises her waist, fingers denting flesh as you split her open again. Again. Again and again.

You can feel your balls hit the wetness of her pussy, smacking wet sounds onto her slit.

‘Take it.’ You grind deeper, pelvis punishing her clit with each thrust. Her thighs quiver, slick with sweat and your earlier release. ‘Wanted me rough? Here.’

She sobs into the mattress, voice shredded. ‘T-too—’

‘You don’t get to.’ You fist her hair, yank her head back. Her spine bows, throat exposed. ‘You begged for this. Remember?’

A nod. A whimper.

You snarl, slamming home. The wet slap of skin-on-skin drowns her cries. Her nails claw the sheets, nearly ripping threads. You lean over her, teeth scoring her shoulder.

Her scream cracks as you pin her wrists, pound into her like you’re exorcising ghosts.

The bed groans. Her breasts sway, nipples raw from your mouth. She’s so tight, clenching around your cock like she’s trying to keep you trapped inside.

‘Gonna break you,’ you rasp, thumb digging into her asshole.

She shrieks, back arching. ‘P-please—’

‘Please what?’

‘Ruin me—’

You do. Hips pistoning, sweat stinging the bite marks on her neck. You don’t stop—can’t stop—driving into her convulsions until your vision whites out.

She sobs. High. Broken. ‘There there there~!’

Your thumb finds her clit. Grind. Her scream lodges in your teeth.

‘Come.’

‘Can’t—can’t—’

You bite her shoulder. ‘Come.’

She shatters. Walls milking. Clenching. Begging without words.

You drill deeper. Tip hitting that spongy ache. Her eyes roll back.

‘Gonna fill you,’ you snarl.

‘Please please—’

One last thrust. Hilt-deep.

You rupture.

Whiteout. Earthquake hips. Flood her until your knees buckle.

She collapses into the fault line you’ve carved. Whimpers when you pull out. Spend drips down her thigh.

Her finger swipes it—all that cumulative spend coupled along her swollen cunt. Lets the slurry couple along her tongue.

‘I love how you taste.’

‘God. You’re too fucking perfect.’ You drop down onto her. Cuddling.

Moonlight spills through the curtains. She's tucked against you, all soft edges now.

'You okay?' Your fingers ghost over her shoulder.

'Mm.' A pause. 'Was it too much?'

'Never.'

'But I was...' She shifts slightly. 'I got carried away.'

'Hey.' You tilt her chin up. 'That's what I love about you.'

'What? Being a mess?'

'Being real.'

She burrows closer. 'Still. Sorry if I—'

'Don't you dare apologize.'

'But—'

'Want some water?'

'If you move, I'll write a very detailed exposé about you.'

'About what? My green tea addiction?'

'Chapter One: The Man Who Chose Hydration Over Cuddles.'

'Riveting.'

'Mm. I'll even include citations.'

Your fingers trace idle patterns on her arm. 'What's Chapter Two?'

'Our future kids being haunted by your tea collection.'

'Kids, huh?'

'Tiny humans who'll only drink iced americanos.'

'In winter? That's grounds for custody battle.'

She pinches your side. 'They'll be perfect.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Little artists with their mom's smile and their dad's terrible sense of humor.'

'My humor is exquisite.'

'You'll teach them to be insufferable.'

'And you'll teach them to be beautiful.'

She props herself up. Hair mussed, eyes soft. 'Where should we live?'

'Somewhere quiet. With big windows.'

'And a garden?'

'For your flowers and my tea herbs.'

'Domestic.' She wrinkles her nose. 'I like it.'

You pull her closer. 'We'll need a library.'

'For bedtime stories?'

'And quiet mornings.'

'With a reading nook?'

'Big enough for three.'

'Four,' she corrects. 'Maybe five.'

'Ambitious.'

She kisses your jaw. 'Thought you could handle anything.'

'Try me.'

'Five kids. All girls. All with my stubbornness.'

'Terrifying.'

'But worth it.'

You thread fingers through her hair. 'Worth everything.'

'Even giving up your tea collection?'

'Now you're pushing it.'

She laughs, soft and real. 'I'll let you keep the fancy cups.'

'Generous.'

'I know.' She yawns. 'I'm a catch.'

'The biggest.'

Her fingers trail your chest. 'Hey.'

'Mm?'

'Think our kids will be tall?'

'With your genes? Doubtful.'

She bites your shoulder. 'I'm average height.'

'For a garden gnome.'

'For a normal person.’ She groans.

‘—Who has been crushed ever so slightly by a hydraulic press.’

‘Ugh.’ She falls back into the bed.

‘We need a shower.’

She huffs. ‘No, I need a shower.’

‘Hm?’

‘I know what you’re gonna do: act like it’s a shower then nail me for the next half-hour in there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t oh me. My legs are still sore from the cumulative effects of the past 3 days’

'Fine.' You pull her closer. 'Five more minutes.'

'Five turns into fifty with you.'

'Can you blame me?'

She traces patterns on your chest. 'I have to be at the airport by six.'

'Skip it.'

'Right. I'll just tell my company I found something better to do.'

'Like?'

'Like getting ravished by a journalist with no self-control.'

'Sounds reasonable to me.'

Her laugh is soft. Sad. 'I can’t let go of this.'

'This?'

'You.' She props herself up. 'Your stupid jokes. Your hands. The way you look at me like I'm...'

Your fingers find her hair. 'How long?'

'A week. Maybe two.'

'I'll die.'

'Drama queen.'

'No, actually die. Waste away. They'll write articles: Local Writer Perishes From Karina Deficiency.'

She smacks your chest. 'Stop.'

'My last words will be "if only she'd stayed one more day."'

'I hate you.'

'You love me.'

'Yeah.' She kisses your jaw. 'That's the problem.'

She sits up suddenly. 'Wait. What if—'

'What if?'

'My apartment in Seoul has a separate entrance. Service elevator.' The words tumble out. 'Nobody uses it except staff. And I have this office, connected to my room—'

'Jimin.'

'—could set up a desk there. Get you one of those fancy writing chairs. And there's this cafe nearby, really private, the owner's super discrete—'

You prop yourself up. Watch her plan your smuggling with bright eyes.

'The security team changes rotation at 2AM.' She's drawing invisible blueprints on your chest. 'That's when we could—'

'Breathe, baby.'

'I'm serious.' Her fingers curl against your skin. 'I've thought about this. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' She ducks her head. 'Have the whole thing mapped out in my head. When to sneak you in. Which staff to trust. Where to hide your toothbrush.'

'My toothbrush gets its own strategic planning?'

'Everything gets strategic planning.' She looks up. 'I'd make it work. I'd make it perfect.'

'Jimin.'

'I know it's crazy.' Her voice cracks. 'But I can't—the thought of not—'

You pull her down. Kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. 'Tell me more about this secret entrance.'

She breathes against your neck. 'Really?'

'Really. Though I should warn you—'

'What?'

'My toothbrush is high-maintenance. Needs its own security detail.'

She laughs, wet and relieved. 'I'm being pathetic.'

'You're being perfect.' Your thumb catches a tear. 'And I'm taking notes.'

'Yeah?'

'Mm yeah. Finally found my title: "How to Smuggle a Writer: A Professional Hazard."'

Jimin nuzzles into you further. Purring at this moment of peace.

2 Weeks Later

Dawn creeps through her expensive curtains. She's wrapped around you like a koala, skin on skin, taking up more space than her tiny frame should allow.

You try to slip away. Her arms tighten.

'No,' she mumbles against your chest.

'Tea.'

'Lies.'

'Green tea.'

'Worse lies.'

But she lets you go, rolling into the warm spot you leave behind. You pause at the door—she's barely covered by the sheet, hair a mess across your pillow. Perfect.

The kitchen gleams in morning light. That copper kettle she insisted on buying catches the sun—"Because proper tea needs proper tools," she'd declared, like your entire existence before her was barbaric.

She pads in almost-naked just as the water's heating, with your discarded shirt from yesterday.

'Cold?'

'Miss you already.'

'I'm right here.'

'Too far.' She hooks her chin over your shoulder, arms sliding around your waist. 'What blend?'

'The one you say you hate.'

'Mm. The grassy one?'

'Getting better at this.'

She hums against your skin. Already reaching for her cup—the blue ceramic one that somehow migrated from the hotel to her apartment.

First sip. Her eyes close.

'Well?'

'It’s okay.' She takes another sip. 'Bland. I guess.'

She grins wide as you turn around. Getting closer to you, inhaling the smell of your fresh t-shirt.

'Noted.' You kiss her temple. 'Want the rest of mine too?'

'Yes.' A sleepy smile. 'But only because I love you.'

'Of course.' Your greatest triumph: her, here, stealing your tea and your heart. 'Only because of that.'

'Want breakfast?' She's already moving to the fridge.

'You're cooking?'

'Don't sound so scared.' She pulls out eggs, something that looks suspiciously gourmet. 'I've been practicing. Besides, I’m tired of eating the coal you call food, and the bacteria colony I call food.'

'Since when?'

'Since I decided to be domestic.' She hip-checks you away from the counter. 'Go sit. Let me work.'

You watch her move around the kitchen. Something's different. A nervousness in her hands, a flutter in her movements.

'Stop staring.'

She’s revelling in it, how she gets you dumb-struck every time you get a glance of her.

Too cute.

'Can't help it.'

She sets a plate in front of you. Simple breakfast. Eggs. Toast. But arranged with careful precision. Something white peeking out from under the toast.

'Fancy.' You reach for your fork.

'Wait.' Her fingers twist in your shirt. 'Look under.'

'Under the toast?'

She nods. Not breathing.

You lift the bread. There's a small note. Written as small as her hands would allow.

‘Pregnant.’

The world stops.

'Jimin.'

'I know it's fast.' The words rush out. 'I know we just—but I've been feeling strange and the test was just sitting there in my bathroom for days and I finally—this morning while you were sleeping—'

You pull her into your lap.

'Say something.'

'When?'

'2 weeks, maybe? Remember that night after the bar?'

You remember. Of course you remember. A beautiful night.

'Are you...' Her voice small. 'Are you happy?'

You kiss her. Taste salt. Someone's crying. Maybe both of you.

'Ecstatic.' Your hand finds her stomach. Still flat. But now. But soon. 'Terrified.'

'Yeah?' She laughs through tears.

'Yeah.' You kiss her again. 'Best breakfast ever.'

'Even better than your tea?'

Instead of answering, you kiss her again.

What's tea anyway?

Fin

A/N: Goodness! They make a great couple. Hope you enjoyed!

#karina smut #karina #aespa smut #kpop smut #smut #fanfic #male reader #kpop #aespa #karina x reader #aespa karina

1K notes · View notes

barnacles34 · 4 months ago

Text

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Karina x Male Reader

9k words

18+ smut

'I expected you to have...'

'Grey hair? Glasses thick as tank armor?' You lean back. 'Let me guess—ancient and decrepit?'

'Something like that.' She toys with her iced americano, ice cubes clinking.

'Get that more than you'd think.'

'Can't imagine why.'

'Sure you can't.'

She straightens in her chair. 'Well? Are you going to ask your questions or what?'

'Did you have something specific in mind?'

'I thought you'd at least come prepared.' The sharp edge in her voice softens, adapting. 'After that email you sent.'

'I am prepared.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'I know you're Karina. I know you agreed to fund my little Italian vacation.' You keep your voice flat, unimpressed.

She laughs, short and sharp. 'They really sent someone who knows nothing.'

'Biographers aren't exactly growing on trees these days. Most of them are busy dying off.' [1]

'That's comforting.'

'About as comforting as your enthusiastic response to my email.'

'Ah.' She smirks. 'My monument to hubris?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Christ, you're not exactly sunshine and roses, are you?'

'If only you knew.'

'Oh, I think I do.' She leans forward. 'People like me—we're your bread and butter. Desperate enough to take the abuse just to get that book written.'

'Quick study.'

'Experience, darling.' She draws out the last word like stretched taffy.

'If immortality's what you're after, we're off to a rocky start.'

'Not even grateful for the Italian holiday?'

You meet her eyes. 'Bribery's nothing new. Don't expect it to polish your image.'

'Tough nut to crack, aren't you?'

'I have what I need.'

'Meaning?'

'Let me put this delicately: my last subject bought me a year at New York's finest.' [2]

'Fantastic.' She rattles her ice cubes harder.

'You know what I think?' She sets down her drink with deliberate care.

'Enlighten me.'

'I think you enjoy this. The whole "unimpressed biographer" act.'

You pull out your notebook, unhurried. 'That'd make a great chapter one. "Local girl psychoanalyzes writer, lives to regret it."'

'There it is again.' Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Tell me, do your subjects usually last long enough for chapter two?'

'The interesting ones do.'

'And the boring ones?'

You flip open to a blank page. 'They get a lovely rejection letter.'

'Which I didn't.'

'Yet.'

She leans back, studying you. The late afternoon sun catches the edge of her glass, throwing prismatic shapes across the table. 'You really don't care that I could walk away right now.'

'The door's right there.' You click your pen. 'But we both know you won't.'

'Because?'

'Because you didn't spend three months negotiating with my publisher just to storm off over hurt feelings.'

'Maybe I just like wasting time.'

'Maybe.' You meet her gaze. 'But people who like wasting time don't usually have a dozen designer brand sponsorships.'

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or respect. 'So you did do your homework.'

'I always do.' You position your pen over the blank page. 'Now, shall we begin with the real questions?'

'Shoot.' She shifts in her chair, the late afternoon sun warming the cafe corner we've claimed.

'Tell me about your sister.'

Her eyebrows lift slightly. 'Not starting with the obvious questions?'

'Would you prefer those?'

'No.' She smiles, genuine this time. 'She's a nurse. Like our mom.'

'Close?'

'Very. She's the only person who still calls me Jimin.' She stirs her americano. 'Probably the only person who can get away with it, too.'

'Why's that?'

'Because she knew me when I was just the quiet kid who'd rather read in corners than talk to anyone. Before all of...' She waves her hand vaguely. 'This.'

'Still prefer corners?'

'Sometimes.' She considers the question. 'There's this tiny bookstore in Seongnam. When I go home, I still visit. They have this perfect spot by the window.'

'What do you read?'

'Whatever catches my eye. Last week it was about sharks.'

You raise an eyebrow. 'Sharks?'

'Don't look so surprised.' She laughs. 'They're fascinating. Everyone thinks they know them, but they don't, not really.'

'Speaking from experience?'

She takes a long sip of her drink instead of answering.

'You don't have to do that, you know.' You set your pen down.

'Do what?'

'Deflect. Turn everything into a metaphor.'

She meets your eyes for a long moment. 'Force of habit.'

'Bad one.'

'Says the person who's been matching my deflections word for word.' A half-smile plays at her lips. 'We're quite the pair, aren't we?'

'Difference is, I'm paid to be difficult.'

'And I was raised to be.' The words slip out before she can catch them. Her fingers tighten around her glass.

You wait.

'You're good at this,' she says quietly.

'At what?'

'Making silence comfortable.' She looks out the window. 'Most people try to fill it.'

'Most people aren't trying to understand.'

She turns back to you, something shifting in her expression. 'Is that what you're trying to do? Understand?'

'Would that be so terrible?'

'No,' she says.

'Progress.' You pick up your pen again. 'Though I've just realized something deeply troubling.'

'What's that?'

'Your americano's been empty for ten minutes, and you're still pretending to drink it.'

She glances at her glass, caught. 'Method acting.'

'Ah yes, the classic "I'm too invested in this conversation to pause for a refill" performance.' You wave to catch the barista's eye. 'Oscar-worthy.'

'Says the person who hasn't touched their...' She leans forward to peek at your cup. 'What even is that?'

'Green tea.'

'Pretentious.'

'Says the person who ordered an iced americano in winter.'

'It's barely spring.'

'Case in point.'

The barista arrives with fresh drinks. Karina raises an eyebrow at your cup. 'Still green tea?'

'I'm consistent.'

'Boring.'

'Strategic.' You take a deliberate sip. 'Can't blame caffeine jitters for whatever honesty slips out.'

'Sneaky.'

'Professional.'

'Same thing.' She stirs her new drink, ice cubes clinking. 'So what's next in your strategic interrogation?'

'Thought we agreed to drop the deflection thing.'

'Old habits. Ten seconds at a time.'

'That's oddly specific.'

'It's how I learned to swim.' At your questioning look, she continues, 'Ten seconds of courage. Then you can panic all you want.'

'Does that work?'

'Got me here, didn't it?' She gestures between you two. 'Letting a stranger with a notebook and suspiciously consistent beverage choices pick apart my life.'

'You could always run.'

'To where? Croatia?' She laughs at your surprised expression. 'What? I have dreams.'

'Of Croatia specifically?'

'Of anywhere that doesn't know my name.'

'That's rather poetic for someone who just called me pretentious.'

'I contain multitudes.' She mock-bows in her seat.

'Walt Whitman now?'

'See? You're not the only one who can be insufferably well-read.'

You make a show of writing something down.

You flip to a fresh page. 'Tell me about Croatia.'

'Nothing to tell. Just a place.'

'There are plenty of places that don't know your name. Why that one?'

She traces the rim of her glass again, a habit you've started to recognize as her thinking gesture. 'Have you ever seen those old coastal towns? The ones with narrow streets and buildings that look like they're having conversations with each other?'

'Been to a few.'

'I want to get lost in one.' She looks up. 'Properly lost. No GPS, no itinerary. Just... walking until my feet decide to stop.'

'Most people want to be found.'

'Most people haven't spent years being findable.' The sharpness in her voice surprises both of you. She softens it with a smile. 'Sorry. That sounded more dramatic than intended.'

'Don't apologize. It's the first time you've stopped performing since we sat down.'

'I haven't been—' She stops. Laughs. 'Okay. Point taken.'

'Progress. Again.'

'You're keeping score?'

'Always.' You tap your notebook. 'It's kind of the whole point.'

'And how am I doing?'

'In being honest or deflecting?'

'Both.'

'You're averaging about fifty-fifty.'

'Generous scoring.'

'Strategic encouragement.'

'You're good at that.' She stretches slightly. 'Making people think they're in control of the conversation.'

'Are you not?'

'Please. We both know you've been steering this ship since you sat down.' She pauses. 'Though I will say, you're the first interviewer who hasn't asked about my routine yet.'

'Your routine?'

'You know. "What time do you wake up? What's your skincare regimen? How many hours do you practice?" That whole song and dance.'

'Would you like me to ask?'

'God no.' She grins. 'But I'm curious why you haven't.'

'Because routines are what people do. I'm more interested in who they are.'

'And who am I?'

'Still figuring that out. But I know you crack your knuckles when you're nervous.'

She stops mid-crack, caught. 'Observant.'

'Professional hazard.' You lean forward. 'Tell me something real. Not about routines or schedules or practices.'

'Like what?'

'Like what you think about at three AM when you can't sleep.'

She's quiet for a long moment. 'Sometimes I forget what my natural speaking voice sounds like.'

'What do you mean?'

'You spend so many years modulating everything—your voice, your laugh, your reactions—until one day...' She shrugs. 'One day you catch yourself using your "public" voice to order coffee at 3 AM in an empty convenience store, and you realize you can't remember what you used to sound like.'

'And that bothers you.'

'Wouldn't it bother you? Losing something that fundamental without even noticing it was gone?'

'Is that why we're here? Trying to find it again?'

'Maybe.' She smiles, but it's different now. Unpolished. 'Or maybe I'm just tired of having "public" and "private" versions of everything.'

'Including your voice.'

'Including my entire existence.'

'Right.' You snap your notebook shut. 'We're getting gelato.'

—

[1] The suspicious rate at which biographers are "dying off" has become something of an industry joke. Three prominent biographers mysteriously retired after attempting to write about a certain K-pop company's CEO. Totally not suspicious.

[2] The Plaza Hotel, to be specific. Said subject was a tech billionaire whose autobiography mysteriously never made it to print. The hotel suite, however, maintains legendary status among New York's housekeeping staff for its impressive collection of empty green tea bottles and rejection letters.

—

She blinks. 'What?'

'We're walking.' You stand, gathering your things. 'Unless you have somewhere to be?'

'Are you actually asking, or is this another strategic move?'

'Both. Neither. Whatever. Does it matter if there's gelato involved?'

A genuine laugh escapes her. 'Fair point.'

The early evening air hits your faces as you step outside. She pulls on a cap—more habit than disguise.

'Left or right?' you ask.

'You're the one who lives here.'

'Technically, I've been here three days.'

'And you already know where to get gelato?'

'First thing I do in any city. Professional secret.'

'Ah yes, the biographer's handbook. Chapter One: locate ice cream immediately.'

'Chapter Two: never reveal your sources.' You turn left. 'Unless they're wearing a questionably large cap and hiding from their own voice.'

'Low blow.' But she's grinning. 'Also, my cap is perfectly sized.'

'For what? Smuggling library books?'

'That's... oddly specific.'

'Says the person who just quoted Walt Whitman in a cafe.'

You find the gelato place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage shop. The owner, an elderly Italian woman, lights up at your approach.

'Due?' she asks.

'Sì,' you reply, then turn to Karina. 'What's your poison?'

She studies the flavors intently. 'What's the most unusual one?'

'Professional or personal answer?'

'There's a difference?'

'Professional would be something elegant. Personal...' You point to a vivid blue flavor. 'That one tastes like your childhood imaginary friend made a pact with a Smurf.'

She doesn't hesitate. 'Two scoops of that, please.'

'Really?'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Scared of a little blue tongue?'

'More scared of what my editor will say when the interview notes are stained cerulean.'

Ten minutes later, you're both leaning against a stone wall, gelato dripping in the warm evening air. Her tongue is, indeed, impressively blue.

'Yah! Why are you taking a picture?”

'Your tongue. I need photographic evidence for my editor.'

She complains, ‘self-respecting people would’ve walked a long time ago.’

‘And let me guess-’

‘Correct. Take a picture if you want.’

'Pulitzer worthy.' You take another bite of your considerably more dignified pistachio. 'So tell me about the sharks.'

'You're still on that?'

'You brought up marine biology in a cafe and then mysteriously changed the subject. I'm invested now.'

'There's nothing mysterious about it.' She licks a drop of blue from her knuckle. 'I just think they're neat.'

'That's the worst deflection yet.'

'Fine.' She pushes off the wall, starting to walk. 'When I was younger, I used to think they were lonely.'

You fall into step beside her. 'Sharks?'

'Mm. Always swimming, never stopping. Everyone afraid of them.' She shrugs. 'Stupid kid logic.'

'And now?'

'Now I think they're just... misunderstood.' She grins. 'That was terrible, wasn't it? Like a bad movie line.'

'Terrible. But honest.'

'You and your honesty fetish.'

'Says the person who just admitted to emotionally relating to sharks.'

She snorts, nearly dropping her cone. 'When you put it that way—'

'Oh, I'm definitely putting it that way. It's going in the book.'

'Absolutely not.'

'Chapter title: "The Shark Whisperer”. I can see it already'

She tries to hip-check you, but you dodge, protecting your gelato. 'I'm revoking your creative license.'

'Too late. The mental image of baby Jimin crying over shark documentaries is seared into my brain.'

'I did not cry over—' She stops. 'Okay, maybe once. But it was a very sad documentary.' [1]

The sun is setting now, painting the cobblestones gold. You pass a street musician playing something soft and acoustic.

'Your sister know about the sharks?'

'Of course. She bought me the books.' Her smile turns fond. 'Still does, actually. Sends them to me randomly.'

'Recent ones?'

'Last week.' She finishes her cone. 'She has... interesting timing.'

'Interesting timing?'

'Mm.' She wipes her hands on a napkin. 'Right after I told her about the interview. She sent me one about great whites. Said something about facing fears.'

'Subtle.'

'About as subtle as your interview techniques.' She eyes your notebook, still tucked away. 'Not writing anymore?'

'Memory's better when I'm walking.' You tap your temple. 'Also, harder to write about blue tongues while walking.'

'Still blue?'

'Devastatingly so.'

She sticks her tongue out at a passing window, checking her reflection. 'Oh god, it's worse than I thought.'

'Crisis?'

'Please. I once had to perform with my hair half-green because of a dye mishap. This?' She gestures to her mouth. 'This is nothing.'

'Half-green?'

'Not going in the book.'

'Already mentally drafting the chapter.'

She groans. 'I'm starting to regret this whole walking thing.'

'Because of the blackmail material or the exercise?'

'Both. Neither.' She pauses by a small fountain. 'It's just... nice.'

'Nice?'

'Yeah.' She sits on the fountain's edge. 'No schedule. No plan. Just... walking and talking and eating questionably colored gelato with a stranger who probably thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis.'

'Are you?'

'Having a crisis or eating gelato?'

'Now who's deflecting?'

And she pauses again, caught.

She dips her fingers in the fountain water, watching the ripples. 'Maybe I just wanted one normal evening. One conversation that wasn't prepackaged and pre-approved.'

'Mission accomplished, I'd say. Your tongue is literally blue.'

That startles a laugh out of her. 'You're never letting that go, are you?'

'It's going to be a running metaphor throughout the book. Deep, meaningful parallels between blue gelato and the human condition.'

'You're terrible at your job.'

'I'm excellent at my job. I got you to walk around Rome with blue teeth.'

'Is that the measure of success?'

'For this chapter? Absolutely.'

The street lamps are starting to flicker on, and the air has that peculiar Roman evening warmth that begs for a drink.

'Know any good bars?' she asks, as if reading your mind.

'Thought you'd never ask[2]. Fair warning though—my Italian's terrible.'

'Better or worse than your interview skills?'

'Much worse. But I can order Aperol Spritz in seventeen different ways.'

'Useful life skill.'

'More useful than relating to sharks.'

She shoves your shoulder lightly. 'One more shark joke and I'm leaving.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, I'm not.' She grins. 'Lead the way, worst Italian speaker.'

You find a tiny place tucked away from the main streets. The kind tourists don't know about, with mismatched chairs and a bartender who looks old enough to have served Caesar himself.

'Due aperol spritz, per favore.' You ask.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 'Americano? Il tuo italiano è buono!' (your Italian was… apparently… good.)

'Peggio,' you say. 'Giornalista'

(‘Worse. Journalist.’)

He laughs, already reaching for glasses. Karina slides onto a barstool, looking around with genuine curiosity.

‘He seems pretty impressed by your Italian.’

‘Oh trust me—he wasn’t. He just wanted to be nice. That’s all. The inflections are quite easy to catch.’

‘Alright, whatever you say. Giornalista—.'

You grin at her cute prod.

'How'd you find this place?' She asks; needless to say, she likes it here.

'Got lost my first night here––five years ago. It was either come in or keep pretending I knew where my hotel was.'

'And?'

'Woke up knowing exactly where my hotel was. And how to say "I'm sorry" in Italian.'

She laughs. 'That bad?'

'Let's just say there's a reason I stick to green tea now.'

The drinks arrive, vivid orange against the dark wood of the bar.

'To blue tongues,' you raise your glass.

'And bad Italian,' she clinks hers against it.

—

[1] The documentary in question was "Blue Planet II." Her sister still has the receipt for three boxes of tissues and a plush shark from the aquarium gift shop. The plush shark now sits in her studio, wearing a tiny version of her debut outfit. Her company has tried to mass-produce it twice. She's vetoed it both times.

[2] You were never this humble about your Italian until you talked to an Italian nonna. "Qui giace la dignità di un giornalista" (Here lies a journalist's dignity).

—

'Speaking of bad decisions—'

'We weren't.'

'We are now. Tell me about the green hair incident.'

'Absolutely not.' She takes another sip of her spritz. 'Some secrets I'm taking to my grave.'

'Come on. Half-green hair? There's got to be a story there.'

'There is. A great one. You're still not hearing it.'

'I'll trade you.'

'Oh?' She turns on her stool to face you fully. 'What could you possibly have that's worth my green hair story?'

'Remember when I said I learned to say sorry in Italian?'

'The plot thickens.'

'Let's just say it involved a fountain, three angry nuns, and a very patient carabinieri.'

She nearly chokes on her drink. 'You're making that up.'

'Want to bet your green hair story on it?'

'You know what?' She signals the bartender for another round. 'Fine. But if you're lying, you're buying drinks for the rest of the night.'

'Deal.'

'And no taking notes.'

'Now that's just cruel.'

'Professional hazard,' she mimics your earlier tone, then grins. 'Okay, storyteller. Dazzle me.'

The bartender sets down fresh drinks, and you lean in conspiratorially. 'So picture this: my first night in Rome, about five years ago...'

'Wait.' She holds up a hand. 'We need to establish stakes. If this story doesn't involve all three elements—fountain, nuns, and police—you're not only buying drinks, you're telling me where you actually learned to say sorry in Italian.'

'Counter-offer. If my story checks out, I get the green hair story plus whatever happened at that music show in Busan.'

Her eyes narrow. 'What music show in Busan?'

'The one you just reacted to.'

'That's... that's actually impressive.'

'Five years of professional nosiness at work. Deal?'

She clinks her glass against yours. 'Deal. Now stop stalling.'

'Right. So. Five years ago. I'd just finished an interview with this ancient countess at the bar. I mean, it’s the bar. Who else gets to interview a countess at a bar? That’s like crazy Bourdain-level shit right there.’

She nods along. 'Of course you did.'

'Anyway, she invited me to this wine cellar...'

'Oh no.'

'Oh yes. And mind you, I was already quite drunk. And she was very, very insistent about hospitality...'

Twenty minutes and much laughter later, you finish: '...and that's why you should never trust Google Translate to help you apologize to Italian law enforcement.'

She's wiping tears from her eyes. 'The part with the cat—'

'Hand to god. Still have the scars.'

'Okay.' She catches her breath. 'Okay, you win. That was worth it.'

'Time to pay up. Green hair. Spill.'

'Can I have one more drink first?'

'For courage?'

'So I can blame it on the drink.' She waves at the bartender. 'I still can't believe you showed those nuns your interview notes to prove you weren't a street performer.'

'Desperate times.'

'Speaking of desperate...' She takes a fortifying sip of her fresh spritz. 'Ever tried to fix green hair with grape juice?'

'No.'

'Don't.'

'There has to be more to this story than grape juice.'

'Oh, there's so much more.' She settles into her seat. 'Picture this: it's two hours before a live broadcast. I'm sitting in the makeup chair, feeling pretty good about life. You know, like that particular moment where your face just… shines. Then my stylist walks in, takes one look at my hair, and just... screams.'

'Screams?'

'Full horror movie scream. Turns out the hair dye we used was... let's say "not exactly approved by management."'

'Let me guess. DIY job?'

'Worse. My sister's friend's cousin who "totally went to beauty school."'

'Oh no.' You snort, taking a hefty drink of the remaining spritz.

'Oh yes. So there I am, one side of my head this bizarre shade of swamp-thing green, and everyone's running around like it's the end of the world.'

'Which is when someone suggested grape juice?'

'Actually, that was my idea.' She grimaces. 'I'd read somewhere that grape juice could neutralize green tones. What they failed to mention was that this works for swimming pools, not hair.' [1]

'So what happened?'

'Picture a very expensive wig, three cans of dry shampoo, and me trying to explain to the camera director why I couldn't turn my head to the left.'

'Did it work?'

'Define "work."' She takes another sip. 'If by "work" you mean "did I make it through the broadcast without anyone seeing the grape-juice-tinged disaster," then yes. If by "work" you mean "did I maintain any dignity," then absolutely not.'

'The fans never found out?'

'Oh, they did. Someone leaked a backstage photo three months later.' She grins. 'By then I'd managed to fix it. Mostly.'

'Mostly?'

'My sister still has a strand of green hair she saved. Threatens to post it whenever I don't answer her calls.'

'Effective.'

'Terrifying.' She raises her glass. 'Your turn again. What's the worst interview you've ever done?'

'Besides this one?'

She kicks your chair. 'I'm delightful and you know it.'

'You're something, all right.'

Three drinks in, and the bar's emptied enough that her laugh echoes a little too loudly. She covers her mouth, but it's too late – the old bartender shoots them an amused look.

'Sorry,' she stage-whispers.

'For what? The laugh or the fact that it just shattered three ancient Roman wine glasses?'

'Shut up.' She kicks your chair again. 'I don't always laugh like that.'

'Let me guess – there's a public laugh and a private laugh?'

'There's a whole taxonomy.' She sits up straighter, counting on her fingers. 'Interview laugh, variety show laugh, fan meeting laugh, oh-that's-not-actually-funny-but-you're-my-sunbae laugh—'

'Please tell me you're joking.'

'I wish.' She slumps forward, head on her arms. 'I once had to attend a laughing seminar.'

'A what now?'

'A laughing seminar. Professional instruction on the art of the public giggle.' Her voice is muffled against her sleeve. 'There was a PowerPoint and everything.'

'You're making this up.'

She lifts her head. 'I spent three hours learning about laugh-adjacent breathing techniques while a woman named Mrs. Kim hit a triangle every time someone laughed "inappropriately."'

You stare at her. She stares back.

'That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard,' you say finally.

'I know.' She dissolves into another too-loud laugh, this one definitely not seminar-approved. 'God, I can still hear that triangle.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'Getting drunk with a biographer in Rome? No, that's just poor life choices.'

'Speaking honest truths to a stranger?'

'Oh.' She straightens up, but there's still something loose in her smile. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just really needed to tell someone about Mrs. Kim and her triangle of terror.'

'Triangle of terror.' You shake your head. 'That's going in the book.'

'Along with the blue tongue and green hair? You're really painting a picture here.'

'It's called character development.'

'It's called character assassination.' She signals for water. 'What else are you putting in there?'

'Wouldn't you like to know.'

'Actually, yes. That's literally why I'm asking.'

'Fine.' You pretend to flip through your mental notes. 'Chapter One: Sharks and Empathy—'

'Oh my god.'

'Chapter Two: The Grape Juice Incident—'

'I'm starting to regret everything.'

'Chapter Three: Laugh Taxonomies by Aespa’s Karina—'

'I hate you.'

'Chapter Four: Why Romans Don't Trust Her With Fountains Anymore—'

'That was you! That was literally your story!'

'Was it? Everything's getting a bit fuzzy.' You tap your temple. 'Must be all that professional memory I was bragging about earlier.'

She throws an olive at you. The bartender clears his throat.

'Sorry,' you both say in unison, then look at each other and start laughing again.

'You know what's really funny?' she says, once you've both contained yourselves.

'Mrs. Kim's triangle?'

'Besides that.' She accepts the water from the bartender. 'This is probably the worst interview you've ever done.'

'Oh, definitely.'

'And yet...'

'And yet?'

'It's the most honest one I've given.' She pauses. 'God, that sounded way less cheesy in my head. Must be the spritz talking.'

'Blame it on the altitude.'

'We're at sea level.'

'Blame it on the sea level.'

'You're ridiculous.' She's grinning though. 'Is this how all your interviews go?'

'Usually there's less gelato. More gravitas.'

'Gravitas is overrated.'

'Says the woman who attended a laughing seminar.'

'Hey, I'll have you know my triangle-approved giggle is very dignified.'

'Prove it.'

She sits up straighter, arranges her features into something serene, and lets out the most artificial laugh you've ever heard. It's so pristine it's almost disturbing.

'That was horrifying.'

'That was three hours of professional training.'

'I'm concerned about your profession.'

'Join the club.' She relaxes back into her natural posture. 'We have meetings every Tuesday. Bring your own triangle.'

The bartender slides over the check with a knowing look. Last call came and went without either of you noticing.

'Well,' you say, reaching for your wallet. 'I suppose this is—'

'Wait.' She puts her hand on your arm. 'I have a confession.'

'Another one? The green hair wasn't enough?'

'I read your book.'

'Which one?'

'The one about the ballet dancer who quit to become a motorcycle mechanic.'

'Ah.' You sit back. 'And?'

'And I maybe, possibly, completely changed my mind about this whole interview when I read it.'

'Because?'

'Because...' She fidgets with her empty glass. 'You made her sound so... human.'

'As opposed to?'

'A story. A headline.' She traces a pattern on the bar top. 'Most people would've written about the scandal, the career she "threw away." But you wrote about how she names each motorcycle she fixes. How she still dances in her garage at midnight.'

'Ah. That.'

'That.' She looks up. 'Is that why you haven't asked me about any of it?'

'Any of what?'

'Don't play dumb. The headlines. The speculation. The—'

'The triangle-approved responses you've probably rehearsed?'

She laughs, caught. 'Something like that.'

'Here's the thing about headlines.' You start gathering your things. 'They're usually more interesting than the truth.'

'And what's the truth?'

'That sometimes people just want to eat blue gelato and tell embarrassing stories in a bar and talk a biographer’s ears off.'

She kicks your chair again, barely noticeable. 'Even if those stories end up in a book?'

'Especially then.' You stand, offering her jacket. 'Though I might need you to sign a waiver about the grape juice incident.'

'I knew it! You are using it!'

'Chapter title: "The Perils of Amateur Chemistry: A Cautionary Tale."'

She shrugs on her jacket, shaking her head. 'You're impossible. That AI flair was so intentional'

'Says the woman who legitimately attended a laughing seminar.'

'I'm never living that down, am I?'

'Not as long as I have a functioning memory and a publishing contract.'

The Roman night is warm as you both step out of the bar. She stumbles slightly on the cobblestones.

You offer a hand which she quickly grabs.

'Don't you dare put that in the book,' she warns.

'Put what? The graceful interpretation of contemporary dance you just performed?'

'These streets are rigged.' She steadies herself. 'Also, your hotel's this way.'

'How do you know where my hotel is?' You’re not exactly one to remember locations, probably the reason you were able to gain such a repository of ridiculous stories.

'Because it's my hotel.' She grins at your expression. 'What? You think you're the only one who does research?'

'I'm concerned about your stalking tendencies.'

'Says the person who somehow knew about the Busan incident.'

'Professional hazard.'

'You really need new catchphrases.'

The walk is quiet, comfortable. Rome at night feels like a different city—all golden lights and shadow play. A cat watches you pass from its perch on a window sill.

'Don't even think about it,' she says.

'About what?'

'Making some poetic comparison between me and that cat.'

'Please. I'm a much better writer than that.'

'Sure you are, shark whisperer.'

You reach the hotel entrance. She pauses.

'Well,' she says. 'This has been...'

'Professionally catastrophic?'

'I was going to say enlightening.'

'That too.'

The hotel lobby is all marble and soft lighting. Your footsteps echo slightly.

'I have a balcony,' she says suddenly. 'And a really pretentious coffee machine I can't figure out.'

'Is this a cry for help with appliances?'

'This is...' She fidgets with her room key. 'This is me not wanting the interview to end yet.'

'The interview ended somewhere between blue gelato and the triangle story.'

'Then what's this?'

‘Believe or not, some people just like having fun on their Italian vacation.’

‘Haha. Very funny.’

'This is...' You pretend to consider. 'Two people who might be friends if one of them wasn't writing a book about the other.'

'Complicated.'

'Professional hazard.'

'There's that phrase again.' She presses the elevator button. 'Come on. I'll teach you how to laugh properly.'

'With or without the triangle?'

She steps into the elevator. 'Depends on how good you are at making coffee.'

'Now who's the impossible one?'

The doors start to close. She holds them.

'Coming?'

You join her in the elevator. 'For the record, I'm excellent at coffee.'

'For the record,' she mimics your tone, 'that's going in the book.'

Her room is on the top floor, with a view that makes you understand why people write poetry about Rome.

'So,' she says, fighting with the coffee machine. 'This button makes it angry, and this one makes it hiss.'

'Move over, amateur.' You reach around her to press a combination of buttons. The machine purrs to life.

'Show off.' But she's smiling as she heads for the balcony. 'Bring your coffee wizardry out here when it's ready.'

The balcony is small, just enough room for two chairs and all of Rome spread out below. She's curled up in one chair, shoes off, looking more real than she has all day.

'Your professional opinion,' she says as you hand her a cup. 'Is this going to be a good book?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'On whether you let me keep the shark metaphors.'

She laughs into her coffee. 'You're never letting that go.'

'Never.' You take the other chair. 'Though I might be willing to negotiate.'

'Terms?'

'Tell me something nobody knows. Something that won't make the book.'

She's quiet for a moment, looking out at the city lights. 'I sing in the shower.'

'Everybody knows that.'

'No, I mean...' She turns to face you. 'I sing the old songs. The ones I used to practice when I was just some kid in Bundang with a dream too big for my voice.'

'And?'

'And sometimes I still feel like her. That kid. Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Especially at night, in foreign hotels, when the city feels like it belongs to someone else.'

'Wow.' You let out a low whistle. 'That was incredibly profound.'

She groans, covering her face. 'I know. I'm sorry. That was straight out of a drama script.'

'I was thinking more indie movie. You know, the kind where people have deep conversations on balconies in Rome at—' you check your watch, '—one in the morning.'

'Oh god, we're living a cliché.'

'Complete with coffee and two chairs overlooking Rome.'

'Quick,' she straightens up, 'say something unprofound. Save us from ourselves.'

'My tongue is still kind of blue.'

She peeks at you over her coffee cup. 'Mine too.'

'Better?'

'Much better.' She slouches back in her chair. 'Though now I'm thinking about how this would look in your book. "Two idiots with blue tongues have existential crisis on expensive balcony."'

'Don't forget the part where one of them somehow charmed a coffee machine.'

'And the other one used to sing in her shower.'

'Still,' you correct. 'Present tense.'

'Still,' she admits. 'But if you put that in your book, I'll have to tell everyone about your fountain incident.'

'Mutually assured destruction. I like it.'

She yawns, then looks embarrassed. 'Sorry. It's not the company, it's—'

'The five Aperol Spritzes?'

'That. And the emotional toll of remembering Mrs. Kim's triangle.'

'Tragic backstory,' you nod solemnly. 'Very character-building.'

'Speaking of character-building...' She sets down her empty cup, turns to face you fully. 'This is usually the part in your books where something significant happens.'

'Is it?'

'Mm. Chapter twelve. Always a turning point.'

'You really did read my books.'

'I told you that already.' She's closer now, somehow. 'What I didn't mention was that I figured out your pattern.'

'My pattern?'

'The way you write moments like this.' Her voice is soft. 'When everything gets quiet, and the city's just background noise, and someone's about to do something...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say brave.'

'Brave is just inadvisable with better PR.'

She laughs, barely a whisper. 'You're deflecting again.'

'Professional—'

'If you say "hazard" right now,' she cuts in, 'I'm going to throw you off this balcony.'

'That would be...'

'Inadvisable?'

'I was going to say "terrible for my book sales."'

She's definitely closer now. 'Your book sales are about to be the least of your problems.'

'Because you're going to kiss me or throw me off the balcony?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

'Well,' you murmur, 'for what it's worth, one of those options would make a much better chapter twelve.'

She closes the distance between you, smiling against your lips. 'Professional hazard.'

You and Karina shared an instant spark that neither of you had experienced. Ever. The moment that first tease left your mouth, it was over.

—

[1] The sentiment of grape juice being able to eliminate green tones turned out to be completely unfounded. Despite this, wine sommeliers around the world have complained about Koreans with their distinct accent asking about grape juice’s ability to change colors.

—

The kiss tastes like coffee and Aperol and something sweet—probably the remnants of that ridiculous blue gelato. It's soft and quiet and perfect, the kind of moment that would sound made up in a book.

She pulls back slightly. 'Your editor's going to hate this.'

'Definitely.' You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Completely unprofessional.'

'Thoroughly inadvisable.'

'Absolutely perfect for chapter twelve.'

She kisses you again, and Rome keeps existing below, indifferent to your small moment of magic. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimes twice.

'You know,' she whispers, 'this is usually where you'd write something profound about the city of love.'

'That's Paris.'

'Now who's deflecting?'

'Still you. But I'm starting not to mind.'

She laughs, soft and real—definitely not triangle-approved—and rests her forehead against yours, your breaths intermixing, plenty of intimate eye contact. 'Is this going in the book?'

'What do you think?'

'I think...' Her fingers find yours. 'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'I think some stories we get to keep for ourselves.'

'Even after I charmed your coffee machine? That's cold.'

She makes a face. 'You're really bringing up coffee machine prowess right after—'

'Right after you thoroughly compromised my journalistic integrity? Yes.'

'Your journalistic integrity was compromised the moment you let me eat blue gelato.'

'My journalistic integrity was compromised the moment I saw you.' You run your thumb across her knuckles.

Her eye contact wavers and her voice falters, ‘Gosh, you’re such a player.’

‘Flirting has never come so easily before.’ You whisper against her mouth.

'Oh really?'

'Obviously.'

'Which was?'

'Stare at that blue tongue some more.’'

She shoves you lightly. 'You're terrible.'

'And yet.'

'And yet.' She settles on your lap, the forehead to forehead more natural now. 'So what happens now?'

'Well, traditionally, this is where I'd write something about dawn breaking over the eternal city—'

'Please don't.'

'—with golden light catching on ancient stones—'

'I'm begging you to stop.'

'—as two souls find each other under the Roman sky—'

She claps a hand over your mouth. 'I will literally pay you to not finish that sentence.'

You kiss her palm before she pulls it away. 'Isn't that technically bribery?'

'Add it to the list. Right after "compromised journalistic integrity" and "suspicious coffee machine expertise."'

'Speaking of compromising situations...' You glance at your watch. 'It's almost three AM.'

'Worried about your reputation?'

'Worried about your triangle-approved schedule.'

'Bold of you to assume I ever sleep.' She stands, stretching. 'Want to order terrible room service and you can tell me about all the other journalists you've scandalized?'

'That's a very short list. Very enticing regardless.’

'Good.' She holds out her hand.

The night air has turned cooler, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere below. Her fingers trace the collar of your shirt, hesitant but deliberate.

'What happened to room service?' you murmur.

'It can wait.' Her eyes meet yours, playful but wanting. 'I'm conducting my own interview first.'

This kiss is different from the first. Slower, more certain. The city hums below, a distant lullaby of late-night cars and echoing footsteps. When she sighs into the kiss, it's the softest sound you've ever heard. When she falters against your forceful touches, it’s the softest you’ve ever felt a woman.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. Her heartbeat is quick under your palm.

'Better than chapter twelve?' she whispers.

You catch her lips again in answer, feeling her smile. The wind stirs her hair, sending strands brushing against your cheek. Everything smells like jasmine and coffee and her perfume—something subtle and expensive that you'll probably spend the rest of your life over-romanticizing.

Because that’s what Karina deserves.

Rome stretches out endless and ancient around you, but all you can focus on is how perfectly she fits against you, how real she feels away from cameras and crowds.

Your lips find hers in the dark, soft and certain now. Her fingers trail up your neck, threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There's an art to the way she kisses—deliberate yet desperate, like she's trying to memorize the moment. Your hands settle at her waist, and she makes a small sound that you know you'll remember forever.

Her lips part against yours, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless. The balcony railing presses into your back—when did that happen?—and her body is warm against yours, fitting perfectly in all the spaces between.

Her teeth graze your bottom lip, teasing. You respond by trailing kisses along her jaw, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. When you find that sensitive spot just below her ear, her sharp intake of breath makes you smile against her skin.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. Her lips are slightly swollen, her careful composure beautifully undone––hair spread everywhere, but just so that she looks ethereal rather than messy. You brush your thumb across her lower lip, and she catches it with her teeth, playful even now.

‘Still planning to put this in chapter twelve?’ she whispers, breathless.

Your answer gets lost somewhere between her lips and… her lips.

Her laugh vibrates against your lips when you finally break apart. ‘We should probably—’

‘Go inside?’ Your lips find the curve of her neck again.

‘I was going to say breathe.’ But her head tilts back, giving you better access. Her pulse flutters under your kiss like a trapped bird. ‘Though inside works too.’

You pull back just enough to look at her. Hair mussed, eyes bright, that perfect composure completely undone. She's never looked more beautiful than she does right now, with the city lights catching in her eyes and her professional smile nowhere to be found.

‘What?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

‘Just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘How this definitely isn't going in the book.’

Her smile turns mischievous. ‘No?’ Her fingers trace patterns on your chest. ‘Not even a little mention of how you completely forgot about journalistic integrity the moment I—’

‘Then chapter 12 would entirely consist of me betraying my profession in order to catch your lips with my teeth.’

‘Wow. You’re bad. Like, real bad.’

‘You have no idea.’

You cut her off with another kiss, swallowing her laugh. Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. The world narrows to just this: her lips on yours, her body pressed against you, the soft sounds she makes when you run your fingers down her spine.

‘Inside,’ she murmurs against your mouth. ‘Before we really give Rome something to talk about.’

You let her lead you through the balcony doors, both of you stumbling slightly, unwilling to break contact. She tastes like promises now, like stories yet to be written. Her hands are everywhere—your hair, your chest, your face – like she's trying to read you by touch alone.

‘Wait,’ you manage, as her lips find that spot below your ear that makes thinking difficult. ‘What about—’

‘If you mention room service right now,’ she warns, ‘I'm going back to my original plan of throwing you off the balcony.’

‘I was going to say 'what about your triangle-approved image?'’

She pulls back, eyes dancing. ‘Oh, that?’ Her lips brush yours, teasing. ‘I think we thoroughly compromised that at the first meeting.’

"Professional hazard?"

"Shut up," she whispers, and kisses you again.

She sighs into your mouth, a soft, vulnerable sound that makes your heart stutter.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You walk her backward until she's pressed against the wall, her body arching into yours.

You trail kisses down her neck, learning her— the spot beneath her jaw that makes her gasp, the curve where neck meets shoulder that makes her fingers tighten in your hair. Her pulse races under your lips, a rapid drumbeat that matches your own. When you find a particularly sensitive spot, her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

She tugs you back up to her mouth, kissing you like she's trying to tell you something words can't capture. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. One of her legs hooks around yours, pulling you even closer, and you groan into her mouth.

Her hands frame your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she kisses you deeper, slower, like she's trying to memorize every second. You respond in kind, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss—how beautiful she is like this, how real, how perfectly she fits against you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen. You rest your forehead against hers, sharing the same air, neither of you willing to move away.

"Still thinking about the book?" she murmurs, voice husky.

You answer by catching her lower lip between your teeth, gentle but playful, and feel her smile against your mouth.

Her smile against your mouth turns into a soft laugh. "I'll take that as a no."

‘Take it as whatever you want.’ Your lips find her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. ‘I stopped thinking about the book long ago.’

She hums contentedly, her fingers tracing patterns on the nape of your neck. ‘Good.’ Her other hand is still tangled in your shirt, keeping you close. ‘Because I have a confession.’

‘Another one?’

Instead of answering, she kisses you again, slow and deep. Her tongue traces your lower lip, and you respond by pressing her further into the wall, swallowing the small sound she makes. One of her legs is still hooked around yours, and when she shifts slightly, the new angle makes you both gasp.

‘That wasn't a confession,’ you murmur against her lips.

‘No?’ Her teeth graze your earlobe. ‘I thought I was being pretty clear.’

Your hands slide to her waist, steadying her. She's intoxicating like this, all careful control abandoned, her public persona nowhere to be found.

‘Jimin,’ you breathe, and feel her shiver at the sound of her real name.

Her response is to pull you closer, kissing you like she's trying to say everything without words. Her lips are soft but certain against yours, and you lose yourself in the feeling—the warmth of her body, the subtle scent of her perfume.

The city continues its nighttime symphony outside, but in here, the only sound is your shared breathing and the soft, desperate noises she makes when you find that sensitive spot on her neck again.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, her gaze is soft, unguarded. Her thumb traces your lower lip.

‘What?’ you ask, voice rough.

‘I'm trying to decide something.’

"Whether to throw me off the balcony? Because I thought we moved past—"

She cuts you off with another kiss. Her hands cup your face, holding you there as she explores your mouth with a thoroughness that makes you dizzy. You respond by feeling her firm and perky ass.

‘No—,’ she moans when you break apart for air. ‘I'm trying to decide if this is real.’

Instead of answering, you trail kisses down her neck, feeling her pulse jump under your lips. Her head falls back against the wall, giving you better access. When you reach her collarbone, she makes a sound that's half-sigh, half-moan.

‘Feels real enough,’ you murmur against her skin.

Her laugh is breathy, unsteady. ‘I meant—’ She gasps as you find a particularly sensitive spot. ‘I meant this. Us. This whole night.’

You lift your head to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, her carefully styled hair a mess from your fingers. She's never looked more beautiful.

‘If you think I did all of this for the fun of it, you’re clearly missing something.’

‘A gear in the head?’

‘Definitely—’

‘Gosh, how do I allow this sort of petulance?’

‘Because it’s me.’

‘You’re a player.’

‘Only for you.’ You catch her lips, even more wanting—and she forfeits it all.

You pick her up, mussing up her perfect outfit, mussing up her perfect lips. And you finally throw her against the bed.

‘You’re really roughing up Prada’s global ambassador.’

‘And ambassador to a dozen other brands worth billions—couldn’t care less.’’

She smirks, and her arms open, waiting, pliant, obedient.

You rip off your buttoned shirt, tear off your pants; now, there’s truly no way of going back.

‘Wow. That scar is a lot larger than I imagined.’ She’s referring back to the scar that you received during that drunk haze of a night.

‘It was dark. Might’ve even been a lion.’

‘Mm. Heroic. Come here.’

Now, who could ever resist that?

You rip off her clothes, each layer even more decadent than the other. And then, she was there. bra barely containing her breasts, and a layer of dampness along her sexy panties.

‘That was expensive, by the way.’

‘I’ve got a payment plan on course.’

‘Mm. Enlighten me.’

You pull her panties to the side.

She’s dripping wet, nectar spooling right on her pink core. A glorious sheen that makes you stare far longer than you should’ve. She’s red-faced at this point, and her forearms cover most of her sight, and yet, she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat.

The first lick you place, just a brush against her engorged clit, crumbles every self-regulated triangle-approved behavior she has. Two pants turn fifty, one lick crumbles everything. Her hips coax you in ways gymnasts can’t even replicate, and of course, you oblige.

Soft licks, teases around her outer lips, swollen from all the anticipation and arousal; tonguing at her inner lips, just at the crux of her clit, gets her screaming in ways her deep voice would never register; and above all, she’s orgasming, squirting, losing every pretense in favor of her built up lust.

‘Oh~fuck—’

Her fingers find purchase in your hair, and she softly pulls you in—rides your face like it was all that she ever desired: her eternal wish.

‘Ohmygod! Imcumming!’ Her voice turns mousy, and her pupils go back in pure pleasure, coupled with hip movements thought impossible: this was the greatest pleasure of her life.

You grab her chin, squeeze softly, her cheeks molding to your grasp, and you press a soft kiss right on her kiss-bruised lips. You let her taste herself on your tongue.

‘Good. Right?’

And she nods. A complete personality switch from the playfulness she displayed earlier. Delicate.

Her hands land on your boxers as she melted into your kiss. Once you felt her palm your cock, you groaned right in her ear. She starts softly, stroking. But her strokes grow more all-encompassing as you press harder into the kiss.

‘Fuck. You’re so good for me.’

She mewls back, on the gradient slide of unadulterated pleasure.

Softly, you release your shaft from the boxer. And you press your cock right on her core. Feeling the wet heat, the sticky nectar that pooled to a mindbreaking degree.

‘It goes without saying.’

‘That I’m head over heels for you?’

You grin, ‘Well, that too, but you’re hopeless.’

‘Maybe if we weren’t so compatible.’

You grab a breast, palming it, ‘Well that, that too, goes without saying.’

She smiles, so warmly, every trace of everything else melted off her face––the sort of smile you’d never forget, and the sort of smile you’d want to wake up to… forever.

Finally, you press into her, and her wet heat envelops you, enough to make you groan, enough to make her moan like there’s no greater pleasure––because really, there’s nothing else.

Her pussy clings onto you, a wet suction that is immeasurably soft and yet, a vacuum-seal-like tightness that gets you groaning after every thrust.

Her arms cling to you, and her eyebrows knit, her small face full of emotion—all of it processing how good you fuck her.

‘Oh god. Would it be bad that I want you to declare to the world that you own me?”

‘Chapter 12—’

She cuts you off, ‘Something along the lines of: “Chapter 12: Karina is my fuckslut”’

‘I don’t tolerate Karina disrespect.’ You say, truthfully.

‘Even if it’s by myself?’

‘Especially for that case, sweetheart.’

‘Oh… you’re too good.’

‘You’re blind.’

Most popular idol in the world, and… she’s hopelessly down bad for you.

‘If I’m blind. Then you don’t have eyes—complete darkness.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I’m your biggest fan.’

‘We’re two of the same.’

‘I love you.’

‘You have a way with words, Karina.’ You reply, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, thrusting into her harder, sharing breaths.

‘You’ve inspired me.’

And you lock lips with her, the thrusts were becoming a blur, and her moans music to your ears—it was all just… heaven.

There was no technique. Nothing too purposeful. It was all just pure affection, pure love guiding all your actions. And the fact that she’s cumming again was no coincidence.

‘Oh. My. Fucking. God!’ Her head goes back deep into the pillow and you follow suit. Pressing soft kisses that covered every square centimeter of her beauty, kisses that made her giggle even in her most orgasmic moment of her life.

‘If I knew anything that felt like this… I’d be doing it constantly.’

‘Well—’

‘That’s right,’ Karina gives a soft peck, ‘I have you now.’

You could feel her heartbeat, her skin precipitate, and her cunt pulse—it’s just heaven at this point.

‘Are you trying to convince me to follow you?’

‘2 years, finest in New York.’

‘Deal. Though you overbid a little.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Means anything you want, dear.’

The soft slick of her cunt made it nearly frictionless, just pure pleasure for both parties. Her hips gave way every time, an identity of its own, retreating when you thrust too hard, giving in when softer.’

‘Is this like a sugar mommy situation?’

‘Two words I never expected you to say.’ You both share a laugh.

‘I mean that’s what it is right?’

‘A power imbalance? Please. I can get you to buy a New York penthouse for me at this point.’

‘Well. You’re right. But—’

You bring your cock to the hilt inside of her, whilst stealing her lips for a deep kiss. She moans and mewls and gasps—music to your ears. You change positions. You bring her legs to your shoulders, and you begin kissing along her ankle while thrusting inside of her.

This time, you can see the full view. How her breasts bounce against the thrusts, how her slick has completely covered your entire length at this point, and how beautifully her face is framed between it all.

Her mouth’s agape, moaning, giggling intermittently with the jokes shared through eye contact. You bite softly at her ankle then down her legs, to her calves, then releasing her legs altogether to kiss her again.

She fits perfectly against you, small and delicate but the perfect puzzle piece under you. She’s absorbent, aware of your needs, placing soft kisses along the ridges of your eyebrows, rubbing away the day’s fatigue along your jaw and temple.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I didn’t hear.’

You press against her, feeling her breasts spool against your chest, bring your thrust to the hilt, the wetness of her loins pressed against yours, all of them vividly apparent. ‘I love your beauty. I love your humor. I love how clever you are. I love how authentic you are. And I could continue on and on but I’m about to cum.’

Karina sniffled, ‘God, I was about to cry and then you say that.’ She softly smacks your shoulder, ‘just cum inside me and let’s cuddle.’

You oblige, the thrusts turn into a haze of pure pleasure, a desperate moment chasing the local maxima, and finally, you burst inside of her. Cum spooled, all inside her, and she moans so gracefully, staring at you with all the affection in the world.

‘We can worry about this tomorrow.’ She palmed your jaw.

‘Of course.’ You fall onto her, cuddling her.

Both of you are a mess, gross, bodily fluids spread everywhere, and yet, the both of you fell into a deep slumber.

A/N: I'd like to apologize for switching up styles so much (But if you enjoyed this dialogue-heavy work, then lmk!)

#smut #kpop smut #fanfic #male reader #kpop #aespa #aespa smut #karina smut #aespa karina

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barnacles34 · 4 months ago

Text

I Never Meant to Memorize Your Smile

Gawon x Male Reader

18k words

Tags: 18+, smut, slowburn, friends to lovers, fluff, romance

Chapter 1: Routine

You watch as the snow settles on the window ledge, each flake an indication of how memory accumulates—not in the neat, chronological layers you'd prefer, but in drifts and eddies that defy architecture, unruly and wily. You feel the delicate carpet fibers shift under you, and somewhere in the house, a clock strikes three with the kind of authoritative chime that only comes from timepieces worth more than the median house[1].

The Rolls Royce catches your eye through the frost-limned glass, its Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament looking less like an emblem and more like an ancient goddess frozen mid-ritual. Its tinted surface fragments the weak winter light into prismatic shards that paint the circular drive's imported cobblestones. You could trace the lineage of each stone back to some Italian quarry where rights were forgoed in favor of the owners’ pockets, no doubt—everything here has a pedigree, a provenance, a story that starts with old money and ends with older power.

The family that owns and resides in this place is comically, truly bound to the stereotype. The father, whose passions include more than just the mother, is a weak-willed man with a soft heart for his family. The mother is a cobra that has an iron-tight grip on the household business, and of course, she allows the father to peruse his choice selection of slightly-younger-but-not-that-young women.

And then there's Gawon—god, Gawon. She's always curled by the window seat, afternoon light catching the sharp angle of her jaw, the delicate curve of her neck. With a copy of Pride and Prejudice lying forgotten on her lap as she watches snowflakes spiral past the glass. You've tried to catalog her imperfections like a scientist documenting a new species, but the field notes always come up blank. Then always, like clockwork, she turns her head, catches you staring, and she gives that gorgeous little grin[3].

—

[1] re: wealth-as-useless-measurement-system: turns out having a clock worth more than most people's houses doesn't help at all with calculating important things like the exact curve of Gawon's smile or the statistical probability of her catching you staring (current count: approximately every 7.3 minutes which would be embarrassing if you had any dignity left but that ship sailed somewhere between inheritance and the first time she fell asleep on your shoulder).

[2] status update on your-relationship-with-inherited-wealth where: somehow you've gone from counting pennies to counting marble tiles but the only numbers that actually matter = the precise duration of Gawon's laugh / the exact pressure of her head against your shoulder / the specific softness of her thigh.

[3] re: memory-allocation-priorities: fascinating how your brain has decided to delete basically all useful information to make room for an encyclopedic knowledge of Gawon-specific data including but not limited to: every single reading position she's ever assumed / the exact way sunlight refracts off her hair / that specific head-tilt she does when she's a little surprised (see also: how you're basically a walking Gawon-database at this point but somehow still can't find your keys).

—

The afternoon light filters through the library windows in lazy coin slots, catching dust motes that dance like they’ve seen heaven. You're lost in Murakami's prose when her voice breaks through your flow, smooth as aged whiskey: "You know, you could've just asked me what my favorite books are."

"Hm? What're you talkin' about?"

"Every book I see you with was definitely taken from my library." Her rich accent wraps around each syllable like silk. It's the kind of voice that makes you understand why ancient sailors threw themselves into the sea at the mere suggestion of song.

You lift the well-worn copy of Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, feeling its familiar weight. Murakami's particular brand of reality-adjacent storytelling feels appropriate for moments like these, when the boundaries between what is and what could be blur at the edges. "I'm just feeling a little reminiscent, you know," you murmur, briefly raising your head from where it rests against her thigh before settling back into that familiar warmth. "A kindle will only bring you so far on a Winter day, let alone a melancholic one."

Your head presses deeper into the cradle of her leg—a gesture as natural as breathing, born from many afternoons just like this one. "Don't be so overprotective of your Murakami books, I swear I won't bite it."

"I'm not worried about that—I just feel the need to gatekeep you from the midpoint of a Murakami book." The words dance with playfulness, and you can hear the smile in her voice. It's so perfectly her that something in your chest aches.

"Now that's unforgivable." You reply.

"I know." Two simple words, but she infuses them with such deliberate mischief that you feel yourself being drawn further into her orbit, like a planet stuck to the Sun’s elliptic trajectory.

"Any last words?"

"Mmmm... that's a deep question. I really don't know." Her voice carries that particular bratty lilt that you've come to recognize as an invitation to play.

"What about... 'I am a war criminal'?" The suggestion spills from your lips before you can catch it, absurd and perfect in its impossibility.

"Hmm... fitting, but I wouldn't say that." Her fingers find their way to your hair, an unconscious gesture that speaks volumes about comfort and trust.

"You never know." You press back against her thigh in that particular way that's become its own language between you, a physical punctuation mark in your ongoing conversation. And before you know it, you’re slowly enveloped in the quicksand that is Gawon’s oration, and she’s parallelly sinking to your witty comebacks.

—

Chapter 2, Garden

There's a particular kind of gravity that exists between two people who've grown together like intertwined vines—not quite family (I guess sort of adopted? But not even that, you were just randomly picked up one day, no paperwork, no nothing), and not merely friendship, but something that defies the neat categories others try to impose on you both. Your peers speak of siblings with the weary grudges that they emphasize over and over, while you and Gawon occupy a space that language struggles to define. "Not siblings," you both insist, though the words feel inadequate to capture the peculiar orbit you share[1].

The harmony between you is a compatible ecosystem, consisting of the most sublime peace and the smallest disagreements, yet these weigh heavy on your soul, and hers too. Every disagreement carries the weight of Greek tragedy, every reconciliation feels like cosmic realignment. Perhaps that's why you find yourself growing addicted to this precise frequency of connection—this perfect tranquility that forever looms over you.

These thoughts drift through your consciousness like autumn leaves on a still pond as you bend over your work, until—

Rap, rap—rap, rap

The knock carries its own personality, a rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat. Gawon's head appears around the doorframe, her face peaking half-way past the door frame.

"I miss you." Three words, delivered with that particular inflection that makes them sound both like a confession and a scolding. The dependency in her voice mirrors your own unspoken need, a realization that should probably worry you more than it does[2].

"Me too, but I have to finish this quickly." The words scrape against your throat like sandpaper, foreign and unwelcome. It's physically painful to prioritize anything over her company, and you both know it.

She accepts your answer with a pout that somehow manages to convery the full range of her emotions, but most of all, her mature resignation. As she withdraws, her hair catches passes close by, a deliberate flourish that sends a wave of her perfume rolling to you—lilac and gooseberries, the scent an exquisite and emphatic deliberation of her last-second tease. The fragrance lingers like a ghost.

—

[1] Everyone loves throwing around words like "codependent" and "boundaries" (as if the DSM-V is some kind of relationship bible), but they miss how sometimes two people just click in that impossible way where separation feels like trying to divide zero by itself—technically possible but fundamentally absurd.

[2] The linguistic paradox of "missing" someone who's literally ten feet away in the same house would be funny if it weren't so accurate—like how your chest does that stupid ache thing every time she leaves a room, which is probably not normal but hey, neither is inheriting your best friend along with a mansion.

—

Several Hours Later

Winter light pools on the Aquitainian marble like honey, radiating its polished surface. Gawon's voice drifts down to you, carrying that particular velvety rich and deep concern: "Do you seriously have to work so hard all the time? I mean, look at the floor, it's marble from the Aquitainian courts."

Her pout should be registered as a controlled substance—it's certainly addictive enough. The intended scolding dissolves into something far more endearing, and you find yourself sinking deeper into the comfort of her lap. "Gawon, my hubris... my hubris, it's an addiction," you murmur, letting yourself drift beneath the warm pressure of her hand over your eyes. She claims it's to spare herself from unflattering angles—a ridiculous notion of her impostor syndrome[1].

"I've got nothing to do this winter, can't we travel or something?" The particular lilt in her voice is deliberate, a carefully crafted lure. And like always, you bite—hook, line, and sinker.

"Japan?"

The word transforms in her echo—like watching lilac oil flow in perfect laminar streams. A pinkish blush paints her cheeks as memories surface, completely visible even through the gaps between her fingers. "Japan?" she repeats, and somehow, the way she says Japan is just so much more poetic than the lazily-exasperated ‘Japan’ you let out[2].

"Japan. There's no other option." You draw her hand away from your eyes, loving the sight of her flustered expression—all feline grace and barely contained excitement. "I mean, you control the finances, dear."

"Let's not act like our parents don't adore you." The scoff carries no real bite, but that word—'our'—settles in your chest like warm brandy. "They don't even hesitate when you ask them for something, especially expensive stuff, and you know how our parents are, heir-to-be."

You've learned to wear privilege like a well-tailored suit—comfortable but never forgotten. The title of 'heir-to-be' sits heavy on your shoulders, far from the days of complete squalor, though you wear the title with practiced ease[3].

"Do you have a problem with me being the heir?" You joke.

"No. I'm just afraid you might over-work yourself for expectations, and I hope you don't forget how much our parents adore you." Her insight cuts clean and true, as always—a heart of gold gift wrapped in velvet silk.

"Gawon, enough, I'm really about to sleep."

"Go ahead. I don't mind the prickly sensation of my blood constricting in my lap."

"Now I feel ba—" The protest dies as her hand presses more firmly over your eyes.

"Don't bother. Sleep."

Her command carries you into darkness, sweet and absolute.

—

[1] re: the imbalanced equation of Gawon's self-perception where: empirical evidence (exhibits A-Z) = literal goddess walking among mortals BUT her internal processing unit keeps generating these absolutely unhinged error messages about "unflattering angles" which is kind of like watching someone apologize for the sun being too bright except the sun is actually her face and you're basically going blind from staring.

[2] linguistic analysis of Japan-as-spoken-concept where version A (you) = tired exhale of consonants BUT version B (Gawon) = somehow transforms same syllables into entire poetry anthology?? like watching someone turn basic phonetics into liquid gold through sheer force of being Gawon which honestly tracks with everything else she does including but not limited to: making your name sound like it belongs in a museum, turning basic sentences into emotional warfare, etc.

[3] current status of heir-related cognitive dissonance: trying to reconcile past-you (who once thought fancy feast was actually fancy) w/present-you (who's currently using what's probably a GDP-of-small-nation marble floor as mattress) while Gawon keeps doing this thing where she worries about your work-life balance as if you wouldn't literally reorganize the solar system if she asked??? which is probably exactly why she worries but that's a feedback loop for another day.

—

Consciousness returns like tide washing over sand, incrementally, you gain consciousness every moment. The weight of lilac petals seems to press against every inch of your skin—not a burden but a blessing. Your heartbeat has found a new rhythm, slower and deeper, as if your body is trying to stretch each second into relative infinity.

But time refuses to be still, even for moments of perfect peace. The world shifts, realigns, and your eyes open to find Gawon looking at you with the groggy, warm smile that she always greets you with in the mornings; signature triple-fold creases appear at her eyes—a detail you've memorized like her favorite poem’s contents; Her gaze finds yours, warm with satisfaction at the fading shadows beneath your eyes. "You slept well," she says, not a question but a quiet celebration.

The admission sits in your throat: that her lap has become your sanctuary, more effective than any pharmaceutical promise of rest. It's the kind of vulnerability that makes you want to look away, except looking away from Gawon has never been even attempted (that’s how hopeless it is). Your control is futile when there’s a bundle of peace right next to you.

"Seems so," you manage, voice rough with sleep, each word carrying the weight of deep rest.

Her next words come soft and hopeful, wrapped in that particular tone she reserves for shared rituals: "Episode-uhmm... 10?" The suggestion floats in your ear, serenading you in that particular tradition that you’ve always loved to share with her.

—

Chapter 3, Revelation

Some days arrive like invitations to surrender—soft-edged and seductive in their simplicity. Productivity usually sings its wretched growl, but it's drowned out by the wispful pull of Gawon's presence, by the promise of hours stretching out like honey dripping from a spoon. The day catches you both in its trap—guilty as it is, it’s still so sweet and so irresistible[1].

the goosefeather couch welcomes you back like an old confidant. Gawon folds herself into its embrace, legs tucked beneath her with that particular grace that makes your eyes stick . As the drama progresses, so does the usual routine: the popcorn creates a rhythm between you—crunch, pause, crunch—as she nestles against your side, fitting perfectly into the space your arm creates around her shoulders.

On screen, the k-drama unfolds predictably—a guilty pleasure you both pretend to critique while religiously consuming every episode. It's the kind of show that's more about the watching than the watched, more about these shared moments of commentary than any actual plot.

"When do you think they'll kiss?" The words tumble from her lips between crunches of popcorn. "This is kind of getting ridiculous, you know, the entire point of the show is that they kiss!" Her frustration blooms like a flower, beautiful in its futility[2].

"Liqueur," you suggest, the word materializing between her thoughts. She turns, and suddenly her face is close enough that you can count her eyelashes, map the subtle variations in her iris, the complete magnitude of those doe-like, boba-like, whatever-the-fuck-that’s-huge-and-adorable-like.

"Drinking today is a bad bet, we're notoriously bad drinkers... and tomorrow... it's the trip." The obvious suggestion, the most reasonable slowly loses its umph the more she tries to push the conventional out. Each iterative syllable is weakened by the possibility of the familiar ethanol.

Some secrets require liquid courage to surface, some inhibitions beg to be dissolved. You watch her whisper protests to herself, each one fainter than the last, while you—veteran of countless such surrenders—simply let the inevitable bind you tight. The glass tips, clear liquid catching the light, the green grenadine turning into some blood-like consistency before disappearing past your lips. Though grenadine's sweetness has long since abandoned the mixture, leaving only the clean burn of ethanol in your esophagus[3].

Gawon shifts closer, drawing the cashmere blanket across your tangled legs. "Let's not go too far this time, hm? We have the Japan trip tomorrow," she murmurs into your shoulder, her voice pitched high with affected restraint.

Minutes pass in demure sips, each of you playing at moderation while the room grows softer around the edges. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, your eyes meet hers. The world pauses.

—

[1] re: empirical evidence suggests normal physics ceases functioning entirely which explains how your Very Expensive Education fails to account for the way time keeps doing this thing where it simultaneously stops and accelerates whenever she's using you as a cat tower, vis a vis wrapping her entire body around you (bonus phenomena: the way your heart keeps forgetting basic rhythm when she breathes against your neck).

[2] current status of k-drama-as-emotional-catalyst: watching her get increasingly invested in fictional romance while literally sitting in your lap creates this fascinating paradox where she's simultaneously complaining about characters not kissing while unconsciously playing with your fingers which is probably going to send you into cardiac arrest but like in a good way.

[3] re: whiskey-as-plot-device except this time it's expensive: turns out Yamazaki makes an excellent substitute for actual courage while also providing plausible deniability for the way her thumb keeps drawing circles on your palm (see also: how you're both pretending this is normal best-friend behavior while your pulse does gymnastics).

—

Laughter spills from her, her thin hands clap together as she falls back into the couch. "We're so drunk! What the hell!" The words, light as champagne bubbles. Your protest—"I'm not"—falls flat against the betrayal of your flushed, burning cheeks, drawing another cascade of giggles from her throat[1].

Reality settles over you like a warm blanket as you press cold palms against burning cheeks, sinking deeper into the couch. "I'm gonna have a migraine tomorrow. God dammit." The silence that follows feels fantastically usual, the sort of silence that two people love sharing.

"Oppa." The word falls from her lips like a stone onto your ears.

"What?"

"Can you hug me for a minute?" The request hangs between you, deceptively simple. Your arms find their way around her thin frame, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought hesitates. Her body fits against yours like a missing puzzle piece, her chin finding that precise spot where neck meets shoulder. "I-I'm sorry, I always get all sappy when I'm drunk."

"Gawon, I'm here." The words come out stronger than intended, your arms tightening around her as if to anchor this moment in reality. She is everything good and pure—heart perpetually displayed on her sleeve, philanthropy running through her veins like a bloodtype. Your grip firms, becoming a physical manifestation of appreciation[2].

Her arms snake around your ribs, seeking their own journey. "You should hug me more often," she murmurs, her warm-to-the-touch cheek pressing against your neck with deliberate intent. "I know. I must've been ignoring our poor Gawon."

The position is awkward—almost kneeling on the couch to maintain optimal contact—but physical discomfort feels irrelevant against the mental earthquake occurring beneath your skin. Her touch sends electricity down your spine, while her scent—lilac and gooseberries—wraps around you like a spell. Her heartbeat pulses against you, a determined little bird testing the strength of its cage.

"You're warm," she hums, each brush of your chin against her scalp drawing forth something between a purr and a sigh.

"I'm warm and I'm here, even better." Her laugh rewards you, soft and genuine.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For this. I feel like you hate it."

"Who said I hated it?" In fact, you loved it.

"Maybe, maybe I had an influx of regrets come in," she confesses, burrowing deeper into the sanctuary of your neck.

"Tell me the entire list and I'll tell you why you're the perfect person and why each decision of yours was optimal." Another squeeze, another laugh.

"Gosh. You're so creepy," she laughs against your neck, the vibration of it sending shockwaves through your nervous system.

—

[1] re: sobriety = carefully maintained force field of "just friends" BUT alcohol = temporary suspension of said force field while simultaneously constructing new equally ridiculous force field labeled "we can blame this on the Yamazaki tomorrow" which creates this fascinating paradox where you're both perfectly aware of what's happening but also somehow convinced you're getting away with something???

[2] status update on touch-based communication protocols: turns out there's this entire dictionary of meaning hidden in the way her fingers keep finding yours under tables / the specific pressure pattern of her head against your shoulder / the morse code of synchronized heartbeats when she gets too close.

—

The question hangs between you like suspended starlight: "Do you want it or what?"

"Maybe a little. Just a little though." Her voice carries that particular tremor that shines when she’s truly vulnerable, which also comes with a package of a firm hug and her cheeks planted against yours—not that you’re averse to it or anything.

"And I'd do anything for that little bit." You say—you would wage wars for your Gawon, rearrange constellations if she asked.

"Ok, only because it's you." Gawon peeps out, even more red-cheeked from her sizzling vulnerability, but she begins to gain that resolve, iron-steeled, gossamer-thin but unbreakable.

"First," she pauses, gathering courage like loose change, "I wish I'd completed the degree."

"Pft." The sound escapes before you can catch it.

"What?" Surprise colors her voice, a watercolor bleeding at the edges.

"Seriously? A college degree? You've seen my friends right?" Her nod encourages you forward. "Biggest airheads—the biggest ever, but they're fun to be around, and I know it's a sort of rudimentary generalization, but they're all like that, I swear."

Her giggle ripples through the space between you. "More."

"Hmm. You want me to guess your insecurity?"

Her hum of confirmation vibrates against your skin, electric and intimate.

"Let me guess: an inferiority complex, the need to self-deprecate? You're such a beautifully lovely and scarily smart woman. I still remember when you gave me a copy of The Idiot, it's still in the deepest crevice of my pile, wrapped in an ornate gold leaf package to prevent any damage." You say, and you felt Gawon’s familiar happy vibration against your neck. "Now stop romanticizing your suffering and relax."

Your hand finds its way down her spine, getting that slight jolt of her body, and a particular purr—the one that you really had to hear all the time. "I'll always cheer you on, from the start of time until the end."

Her warmth melted into yours as that intoxicating perfume rewrote the atmosphere around you. Her pulse quickened beneath your touch, soft fingertips exploring the nape of your neck, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

"How did we come to find each other?" The question emerges spontaneously, but it was truly a question that you both thought of.

"Life is cruelly unfair, and we hit the jackpot." Thirty minutes of embrace feel like seconds, yet your knee protests its awkward angle. "Do you wanna stop? The hug I mean."

"No, let me sit on your lap." Gawon seemed to pick up on the fact that you were destroying your knee. The proceeding movement was fluid, graceful—feline in nature. She repositions herself, facing you, and suddenly the world narrows—tunnel vision only on those eyes, intoxicating in its entirety.

"Good idea," you manage, surrendering to her encompassing warmth.

The pause that follows carries weight, possibility. "You–nevermind."

"What?" Curiosity pulls at you.

"You're so ideal, I hope you know that, Mr. Walking-Green-Flag."

"I don't know about that." You say, truthfully,

"Yah... Why.." Her fingers still their circular exploration, instead anchoring around your back.

"I don't deserve that title." The attempt to redirect attention falls flat.

—

Her confession pierces the alcohol-warmed air between you, her chin pressing into your trapezius like a punctuation mark. "I don't think I'll find anyone like you in a billion lives and more." The words carry the weight of hours spent gathering courage, of thoughts distilled through sickly-sweet-blood-like liqueur. "I seriously mean that, and don't bother talking about how you act differently with me than the others... Honestly, that makes it more charismatic—if we're being honest here."

Something molten stirs in your chest, dangerous and sweet. "Now that you say it—" Your fingers find her side, testing the boundaries of this newfound boldness, "you might be right."

The air grows thick with possibility, with things unnamed. You're fitted together like nested matryoshka dolls, like those exquisite Siberian fur gloves that speak of winters and warmth. Suddenly, a selfish question bubbles up from somewhere beneath your ribs: "Do you act differently with me than you do with others?"[1]

"Gosh, now that you say it: I'm realizing how clingy I am." Her laugh carries that familiar edge of self-deprecation, sharp enough to draw blood. "But, to answer your question, yes; of course, no one will ever see this side of me—ever."

"Ever? That's ambitious."

"Ever. I might die if I act like this with someone else."

"I'm *glad*." The word escapes like a secret breaking free of its cage, a truth you meant to keep locked in the vault of your subconscious.

"Glad? Oohh... I guess my clinginess is rubbing off on you." Her laugh vibrates against your neck—closer now, impossibly closer—sending electrical currents down your spine that gather like storm clouds in your lower belly. Heat blooms, urgent and undeniable, a rush of blood and wanting that threatens to shatter every careful boundary you've constructed[2].

Panic rises like tide, and you grasp for escape: "Gawon, let's dance, I'll play some classic music, let's end off the day."

She accepts the offered diversion with grace, perhaps preferring the safety of dance with her dearest friend to the dangerous territory of prolonged embrace. You make your way to the vinyl player with the distinctive gait of someone carrying a secret, each step a negotiation between desire and dignity. The antique player—worth more than some cars—sits ready with its classical vinyl, offering salvation through Tchaikovsky and distance[3].

—

[1] CONFESSION ANALYSIS v2.3: Consider the specific gravity of alcohol-induced truth-telling re: parallel universes (n=1,000,000,000+) where somehow her chin against your shoulder creates this feedback loop of [a] things you're not supposed to notice like how her voice gets all molten when she talks about you specifically and [b] things you definitely notice anyway such as: heartbeat irregularities / respiratory pattern changes / that thing where her fingers keep finding excuses to touch you = probably cardiac event incoming but like in a good way???

[2] EMERGENCY BROADCAST RE: PHYSICAL PROXIMITY PROTOCOLS: Warning: subject (Gawon) currently generating enough electricity through neck-adjacent laughter to power small city while target (you) experiences total systems failure including but not limited to: inability to remember why best friends shouldn't catalog each other's breathing patterns / complete loss of self-preservation instinct / sudden onset of wanting-to-combust-but-in-a-sexy-way syndrome (side effects may include: sweating, elevated heart rate, desperate need to say something stupid like "I love you").

[3] TACTICAL RETREAT VIA OVERPRICED VINYL: Or, How to Pretend Dancing with Your Best Friend Isn't More Intimate Than Whatever Was Happening Five Minutes Ago––A Case Study in Self-Delusion featuring: one (1) antique record player (cost > average sedan) + one (1) Tchaikovsky vinyl (difficulty level: impossible) × two (2) idiots performing elaborate "just friends" choreography while actively ignoring how this is basically vertical cuddling with classical accompaniment.

—

She sheds off her slippers—Gawon's bare feet meets the Berber carpet with the deliberate grace of a pagan priestess dancing in the winter dawn. Her silken nightgown catches light and shadow in equal measure, flowing like water around her frame, a mirror to the dark cascade of her hair. She traces your path to the vinyl player with measured steps. Years of training have merely polished what nature gifted her: perfection; you surrender to her expertise in this one domain, knowing some battles are better lost[1].

Tchaikovsky emerges from vinyl's gentle static, cutting through the loudest silence. The Waltz of the Flowers unfolds note by note. Gawon approaches through this soundscape like a figure stepping out of an impressionist painting—each movement a carefully calculated brushstroke, each pause an intentional addition.

You extend your arm towards her. Her acceptance carries the weight of ceremony, fingers entwined with yours in that sensual prosperity that seemed to grow every second. She leads without leading, guides without pushing—her movements as natural as powdery thick snow, as inevitable as the passage of time. The air grows thick with your contact, with shared breath, and the faint background process of imagining what could happen (which frankly, needn’t be discussed)[2].

"Remember when you first taught me to lead?" You say, your voice deeper than intended, relaxed from her presence. Her nightgown flutters along the curve of the dance, bare feet tracing perfect lines along the carpet. Each movement feels like watching physics rearrange itself to accommodate her presence, like witnessing a branch spontaneously sprouting blossoms.

"You were terrible." Laughter catches in her throat like a startled bird suddenly when you guide her through a turn that narrows the world to points of contact: palm against palm, the curved warmth of her waist beneath your hand, your large hand feeling the entirety of her waist, and the ghost of her hair's perfume drawing you closer with each revolution.

You move together like question and answer, each push met with pull, each advance answered with retreat. Her eyes find yours with dangerous ease—wide with wine and wonder, yet still holding that impossibly aristocratic grace with her. Every point where bodies meet becomes its own story: the heat of joined hands, the silk-draped curve of her waist beneath your palm, the intermittent cloud of floral-scented air that follows her motion like a contrail[3].

—

[1] PRE-DANCE PHENOMENA: Subject [G] approaches vinyl player in silk nightgown while observer's brain executes emergency shutdown. See also: how carpet fibers bend under her feet like they're apologizing for existing.

[2] Note: attempting to maintain platonic thoughts while she does That Thing with her waist = exercise in futility.

[3] thing To NOTE: the way she keeps pretending she's not leading (she is) (you don't mind) (you're so screwed).

—

Time dissolves into the space between heartbeats, into the delicate architecture of shared breath and careful distance. Her whisper carries traces of mint tea, a ghost of earlier innocence; and liqueur: "You've improved." The words float. You've drifted closer than the dance demands, yet neither of you seeks to restore proper form.

"I had an excellent teacher." The confession emerges softly, nearly lost in the gravity of her gaze. Her fingers press into your shoulder—the smallest tell, a morse code of appreciation, then a more obvious tell, that beautiful smile—and you respond by drawing her nearer, each turn becoming more deliberate, more weighted with intent.

Something flutters in her eyes—surprise at your initiative perhaps, or recognition of something deeper. Yet her body remembers what her mind questions, bare feet moving in perfect synchronization with yours, as if you share a single nervous system, a single pulse.

"Close your eyes," you breathe, and she surrenders to darkness without hesitation, an example of how wholly she trusts you. Her chin finds your shoulder like a bird returning to its nest, and suddenly every point of contact becomes that much more searing: bosom to chest, the silky smooth of her cheek against yours, each brush of fabric a whispered suggestion of that perfect skin beneath.

The music races toward conclusion while you drift slower in time, caught desperately in her beauty. Every press of her chest against yours, each warm slide of silk-shrouded thigh against your pajamas, creates its own form of intoxicating, self-destructing, earth-moving tempetion. "You're so good at this now," she murmurs, and you grasp at levity: "Student outshines master?"

"You wish," comes her reply, soft laughter painting warmth across your cheek. That face—that impossible face with its silk-smooth skin occasionally gliding past yours—ignites something primal in you, a desperate need to perfect this moment, to continue to witness her face forevermore.

Questions spiral through your mind like coins in a fountain (but instead of coins, it’s sharp pins that prickle your very sense of self): Is this deliberate? Are these brushes of contact calculated or coincidence? The sheer force of her beauty creates its own form of confusion, a pleasant drowning. "So lovely," escapes your lips like a prayer, and her response comes not in words but in the tightening of her embrace, the press of her cheek against yours becoming more deliberate, more certain, and even her voice too—velvety, lovely, fantastic.

"Are you ready for the ending?" Your hand traces lower, mapping the geography of her back until it hovers at the border of propriety. "Surprise me," she breathes, and something like a mewl escapes her at your wandering touch. In one fluid motion, you hook the small of her back, spinning her through a perfect arc before catching her weight against your arm. Her yelp of surprise carries enough voltage to wake the guard dog[1].

"Now, now—how was that?" Your grin feels foolish against the weight of her wide-eyed wonder. "That was... pleasantly surprising," she responds, voice soft as new snow.

Her eyes tell stories that words would only diminish—pools of affection deep enough to drown in. Those keen, sharp irises keep dropping to your lips like hints, like questions waiting to be answered. Everything good in the world seems to have condensed into her gaze, pupils blown wide with want and wine and possibility.

"Gawon..."

"Yes... please..." Her smile carries desperation and joy in equal measure, a perfect storm of emotion.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—

[1] How many times can people almost-kiss before the Universe intervenes?

—

All that fucking wisdom and preaching all down the drain. Betraying your friendship for an inkling of something more, just a smidgen more. Every signal in your brain went hay-wire, every neuron fought against that singular neuron—the one that threatened the end of your life-long friendship.

Time crystallizes into a singular, exquisite moment—your arm still cradles her, her eyes brimmed with that desperate affection. The vinyl's soft crackle becomes white noise against your heavy pulse.

"I want you.

“

Her words hang in the air like gossamer, delicate yet unmoving. You're achingly aware of the warmth of her back against your supporting arm, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingertips press into your shoulder with gentle insistence.

"We shouldn't," you whisper, but your body betrays you, drawing her closer until the space between you becomes theoretical—closer than the atoms of tight-knit titanium. Her breath catches, a small sound that sends ripples through your carefully constructed restraint—truly, a house of cards.

"Please," she breathes, and that single word carries the pure density of her unspoken longing. Her free hand traces up your neck, fingertips leaving trails of electricity in their wake until they find purchase in your hair—all five of her fingertips so conducively electric. The gentle pressure guides you down, and you follow—helpless as gravity.

The first brush of lips is tentative, questioning. She tastes of mint and possibility, of everything you've denied yourself—the hidden desires that you realize were 100% pining. Her lips are impossibly soft against yours, giving into everything you give her, and when she sighs into the kiss, the sound unravels the last threads of your resistance, even down to your tense knees—now relaxed.

You deepen the kiss, and she responds with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin with blurred vision. Her fingers tighten in your hair as your supporting arm draws her closer, eliminating even the smallest whisper of space between you. The kiss becomes desperate, hungry—years of repressed desire crystallizing into this single, electric moment.

Her other hand releases your shoulder to cup your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with trembling reverence—every single trace so lovingly constructed to ruin you. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the growing intensity of your shared passion. You trace your tongue along her lower lip, and she opens to you with a soft moan that sends sparks down your spine.

You meet tongue-to-tongue, her lips quivered with overwhelming pleasure, her initially soft grasp on your hair tightened every time you drove between her lips. She tasted so sweet, like an overripe plum that coats your entire hand in that sweet syrup, making a mess of everything—just like your morality, getting doused by Gawon’s soft licks.

Time becomes fluid, measured only by the shared rhythm of your increasingly ragged breaths. Your free hand finds the small of her back, fingers splaying against silk as you support her weight. She arches at nearly an impossible angle into your touch, and the movement causes her nightgown to slip slightly, one strand falling off her shoulder, exposing more of her collarbone.

The reality of your situation crashes over you like ice water, like trauma against the back of your skull.

You break the kiss abruptly, though your body screams in fiery protest. Gawon's eyes flutter open, pupils dilated, lips slightly swollen from your attention, all ragged and hot and so fucking beautiful. The sight nearly breaks your resolve, again.

"We can't," you manage, voice rough. "This—we can't." Each sizzling syllabic transformation felt like another wrenched knife into your heart; like Julius unto you, Cicero unto stabbing you with realization, Brutus stabbing you with that horrible rejection.

Recognition, then realization dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks painfully like shame. You help her straighten, pulling up that dangerously low nightgown strap back to her shoulder, careful now to maintain proper distance as she finds her footing. The vinyl has stopped playing, leaving only the sound of your still-racing hearts.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. The gesture makes her look small, vulnerable in a way that tears at your heart. "I shouldn't have..."

"No, I—" you start, but the words stick in your throat. What can you say? That you're sorry for wanting this? That would be a lie. That you're not sorry at all? That would be worse.

The space between you feels vast now, charged with the static electricity of what just transpired. Gawon takes a step back, her bare feet silent against the carpet, and you mirror the movement unconsciously.

"We should probably..." she gestures vaguely toward the hallway, unable to complete the thought.

"Yeah," you agree, equally lost for words. "The trip tomorrow..."

"Right. The trip." She nods too quickly, still not meeting your eyes. "I’m sorr-”

That’s when you hug her again, “Gawon, please, there’s nothing more heart-wrenching than seeing you so sad, it’s all my fault.”

“But that… that wasn’t-”

“It was, it was entirely my fault. Let’s forget this day. Let’s never talk about this day.”

She said nothing, a silent protest, a soft longing for you that you tried to ignore as best you could. You released her from the hug, and she went to her belongings that spread so messily during your moment of passion.

"Goodnight," you echo, watching as she retrieves her slippers with trembling hands and hurries from the room, saying one last goodbye before leaving you alone with the weight of what you've done—and the lingering taste of mint on your lips, nothing else could even compare to just the faint taste of that mint, intermixed with Gawon.

—

Chapter 4: Morning Troubles

Today was the day of the trip, the jet was scheduled to be at the airport at 2pm. Which was plenty of time to do things around the house, or not, considering the fact that you made out with the daughter of the house and your best friend for life.

But as you walked through the hallway with messy hair, swollen face, and a myriad of other ailments that comes with not getting a wink of sleep, you smelled breakfast. Oh god, it’s gonna be so awkward. You thought as you walked further down, finally reaching the living room where you saw Gawon stirring. “Oh! You slept a little late today, didn’t you?” She asked, as if she were completely oblivious of what happened yesterday. Good. The previous night needn’t ever be talked about—yet you still felt that sentimental stir, like, you’re really gonna forget kissing the hottest woman in the world?[1]

She seemed to have moved on, carrying on her own business casually. And not a single feature of hers seemed to be out-of-place, and if it was, it seemed purposeful, too beautiful to call it a defect.

“What? What are you looking at? Come, take a seat.” She asked kindly.

—

The both of you sat on the long table. You sat next to Gawon, and today was no different, of course—even if that happened.

“Are you gonna tell me the place or what?” She asked, her voice warm with the grogginess of morning days. But between it all, you couldn't get your eyes off her lips—those sinful lips that were glossy, silky in all the right ways… and she most definitely felt the stare, flaring her lips out more—goading you on. Dammit.[2]

“Umm,” you say, recuperating, “the place is Japanese, and opulent.”

“Way to check off the hotels. Let’s see, that ticks off about 5 hotels out of the seven hundred in Japan.”

“Gawon. You’ll love it. I promise,” you press your hand on hers—delicate and small compared to yours, the imbalance… Dammit.

“I’m sure I will, as long as it’s from you.” Her hand turned up, meeting palm to palm, and it held your hand firmly. You pretended you didn’t hear that, you pretended you didn’t feel that warm affection in her hand-holding. Yet, every moment you pretended your soul cried out in existential torture.

She was testing you softly, gainfully, proactively—to see if you would still be willing, offering herself so delicately. And you couldn’t fucking take it: any more goading and you would truly eclipse the worst of them all. “Gawon, please. Forget. About. Yesterday.” You reply, harsher than you intended. Her grip softened, her eyes stared back, finally understanding, taking the two finished bowls to the kitchen—every step she took increased your heart rate by the dozen, almost exploding by the time she exited your perspective. It all becomes a haze, you wish you could just chase Gawon down and grovel for forgiveness, and most of all: you wish you could just kiss her one more time.

—

It was almost time for the jet to come, so you began collecting all the things you packed. Amidst this, Gawon came into your room, “hey, could you help me carry my luggage? I tried to limit myself with the number of luggage but now that singular one weighs like a boulder and a half.” You looked back, her soft head was resting against the door frame, staring at you with a smile, all graceful, all benevolent. “Of course, just leave it in the hallway,” you say back, grunting a little to get that last piece of cloth in your small luggage.

“I’m really sorry for earlier.” She blurted out, “I want to maintain what we have—and, and- I just acted impulsive-”

Whatever you wanted to say would definitely be marred with desperation, so instead, you walked over to her, and you opened your arms. She melted against your hug, almost as if she were desperate for the warmth that only you could provide—only you…

“I’ll be waiting in the car; I’ll pass the estate key off to the guard and give Raskol one last pet, okay?” Her fingers pinched your shoulder softly before she pressed a soft peck on your cheek—something that was normal for both of you, but now, it took on a whole different meaning.

Finally, the luggage was carried out—the estate, locked—and you were finally ready to go ahead on that trip. After closing the trunk of the car, you looked at Gawon—she was bent down, petting the lazy old dog, scratching just behind his collar. And you waited, seeing her hair flutter against the cold air of the impending winter. “Gawon! I’m ready! Let’s get going!”

“Okay!” She stood up, the cashmere coat that was wrinkled from her kneeling down just a minute ago looked like it was hung up on some model—the type of ones that trick you into buying them, then turn out to not look so good on you. It’s getting unbearable, the way your breath catches everytime you steal a look at her. But how could you not? She smiled with such warmth, her elegant stature accentuated that warm smile, that pouty little smile, galaxies in place of eyes…

She hopped in the passenger seat, and nodded at you—a sign that she was ready. You exit the driveway and out the gate, open windows, breathing in the fresh dew in the air. “I know these cars are nice but are they really nice enough to have like 5 of the same?” You ask, the only thing that confused you about her father, “I don’t know, it drives like a dream I guess? Maybe it’s an asset.” You hum back at Gawon’s answer, then you reply, “sure drives like a dream.”

Her soft hand slowly layered upon yours, and she murmured softly, “I’ll play some music.

Chapter 5: Loving Plane

Fontaines D.C. fills the car with careful noise, a buffer against dangerous silence. Your head sways in unconscious rhythm, and through peripheral vision, you catch Gawon staring at you, her smile ticked upwards, her eyes warm.

"Liable for making me like Fontaines?" You ask, the words emerge.

"Guilty." Her fingers tighten around yours, and suddenly her touch becomes its own form of communication. Her gaze keeps finding the side of your face with magnetic inevitability, each glance at the road feeling like betrayal—as if the mere act of looking away might cause last night to dissolve like morning frost. And it’s torture, remembering the past night, the morality of forgetting, or the pleasure of remembering.

The dance haunts her consciousness, refusing to be exorcised by daylight or distance. No fortune could purchase enough mental real estate to house other thoughts; no Midas touch could transmute this raw wanting into something more manageable. The cruelty lies in pretense—in having to act as if each casual touch hasn't been transformed into its own universe, as if friendship still provides adequate borders for what grows between you. Every brush of skin carries nuclear potential now, matter and anti-matter colliding in the space between intention and action.

She wonders if this is love—that mythical force that's eluded her understanding, reduced to literary devices and borrowed metaphors until now. Those beautiful words that seemed to exist only in fiction suddenly bloom into reality beneath her palm, pressed against yours like a secret trying to escape through skin. Self-control becomes its own form of artistry, each restrained impulse a brushstroke in a masterpiece of denial—any more of this: sincerely, she’d sell 80 million copies of her book.

Her thumb traces impossibly small circles on your hand as she searches for questions complex enough to warrant lengthy answers, desperate for the sound of your voice to fill the space that she no longer had the real estate to process.

"I know you don't wanna tell me where exactly it is, but can we talk about the activities at least?"

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Pilates."

Your expression shifts into that familiar thousand-yard stare, comic relief in the midst of tension. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."

"Why?"

"My entire left leg lost function somehow from doing that single stretch! Like, how does that happen? I didn't even do anything too intense but my entire leg was so sore that..." Words evaporate like morning dew when you make the mistake of meeting her gaze. Those eyes—those impossible eyes with their expanded pupils holding entire universes of unspoken truth, confessions coded in iris and intent.

The thought surfaces like a drowning man reaching for air: Will we ever be the same? The absurdity of your position crashes over you in waves—trying to maintain composure after nearly crossing every line with Gawon, mouth-fucking, french-kissing, spiling all that passion for a girl who’s inexperienced and in the very house her parents so generously share with you. Their trust sits heavy as lead in your stomach, a weight that should anchor you to propriety but…

Gawon is sitting next you after all…

“I mean—I stood by your side at the bed, and I nursed you all day long, didn’t I?” She scrunched her nose, mocking you slightly.

“Well—that. Wait, if I get injured, are you saying you’ll do that again?”

“No guarantees—you’ll have to perform well in the class.” She said.

“You’d make an incredible saleswoman, Gawon,” you reply, conceding.

“Is that you signing up for pilates?” She asked, excitedly.

“Maybe. But there are certain clauses you must accept,” you reply.

Her hand tightened in excitement and she said, “Yes to all of them.”

“That’s settled then. Any other activities you had in mind?” You asked.

The car hummed against the layered asphalt. The outside was blue without a trace of a cloud, and opposing wind whistled as it hit the car. The road was unusually deserted, fallen leaves caused by autumn fall grazed the windshield, and the infinitesimal cocoon within the car proved to be so beautiful.

“Hm… cooking?” She asked, trying to strike a tease.

“Gawon, let’s be real: thick rivulets of black mold began forming on the ceiling the day after I nearly burned down a metal kitchen.”

“I don’t think black mold had ever formed that quickly before,” Gawon said as she reflected on the memorable experience.

“Exactly. Patient zero type shit. Instead of that, let’s go on the regular rotation we usually go on.”

“But that’s a bit boring no? I mean, it’s fun but don’t you wanna have some new experiences?” She said, in a tone that hinted, you should be enjoying this trip, don’t worry about me.

“I am just as averse to new experiences as you, Gawon. And frankly, the things that you do, the routines and such are far more fulfilling than any new experience could ever fathom to compete with.” You looked back at her, and when you both met eyes, Gawon suddenly turned away, hiding her face with her palms.

“You’re so cheesy!” She giggled.

Only for you, was what you wanted to say before your brain began functioning.

That familiar speed bump was the last checkpoint before you gave the valet your car. The noon haze was warm but cold, breaths came out as mist, but faces were painted in brilliant sunlight—unfortunately, making it hard to not to stare at Gawon dumb-faced for the remainder of pre-boarding.

Even under a private flight, where baggage check and all those stressful happenings are pushed aside, there would come another set of troubles. Things like the hospitality of the staff—though good-willed in nature, never seemed to remove the awkwardness of it all, saying things like, “wow! You guys are such a cute couple.”

And then the both of you’d get apprehensively tongue-twisted trying to rebut the claim—every, single, time. And yet, Gawon never left your hand, grasping firmly, almost as if she were begging for these claims; and yet you too… never released that firm grasp.

After all that huff-and-puff, back-and-forth rebuttals of relationships that never were—the both of you finally entered the plane. The purposeful antiquity of the plane, opulent in all the right places; right enough to drive a nigh-narcissist to a serial murderer.

Gawon was already sat while you talked to the crew—one flight attendant and a pilot, enough for a short flight to Japan—and just for good measure, you kept her in your peripheral vision.

“Small talk? You’re growing up too quickly.” She whispered, smiling.

“You’re 2 years younger than me, Gawon.”

“Emotional maturity,” she replied, smirking.

“Emotional maturity my ass, you were all stuck to me the entire day,” you reply.

“I was just a bit cold.”

“Bit is an understatement,” you reply, sitting next to her, playfully bumping her with your shoulder.

Her pout carries playful accusation: "And you're being a bit of a douche." The words dance between you, light as champagne bubbles.

Something possessive stirs in your chest as you unhook the seatbelt, drawing her closer with a hand on her shoulder. "Gawon, sweet Gawon, how shall I right my wrongs?" Firmly holding her while pressing soft kisses into her hair[1].

"Continue doing whatever you're doing right now." Her voice attempts command but fails miserably—her body melting under every slight touch that you rewarded her.

"Alright." The sigh escapes as your fingers find her shoulder, memory painting it bare and golden in candlelight, an image that haunts the edges of your consciousness like a beautiful ghost seeking form.

The plane's ambient hum creates a cocoon of white noise, a world reduced to essential elements: the silk of her hair between your fingers, that signature perfume that's become more familiar than your own heartbeat, the soft percussion of her breath. The first-class luxury surrounding you fades to irrelevance compared to the perfect weight of her head nestled against your neck.

"I miss Sooin," she confesses, her breath painting warmth across your skin in delicate brushstrokes.

"How is she?"

"Not bad, just a little trouble getting started with the art publications."

"And, let me guess, she's in Tokyo for an art show?" The question emerges loaded with full confidence.

"Kyoto."

The single word zaps you still. Something shifts in the atmosphere between you as she burrows deeper into your embrace: "That was a thoughtful guess, but she's in Kyoto."

You disentangle yourself with careful precision, each movement measured to disguise the urgency propelling you toward the cockpit.

“James, change of plans: Kyoto. Now.”

James meets your demands with professional restraint: "But sir, there'll be a hefty fee—"

"I'll pay for everything, get to Kyoto A-S-A-P." Money becomes abstract in the face of possibility, in the chance to transform her casual wish into reality[2].

When you return, her smile illuminates the cabin like captured starlight, those perfect eyes brilliant with a happiness that makes your chest ache. "You big softie!" The exclamation comes with an armful of Gawon, her lips pressing joy into your cheekbone in a series of butterfly kisses.

Words fail you, lost in the heat blooming across your face, in the way your mind dissolves beneath her affection. You respond in the language of touch instead, pulling her closer with urgent tenderness, her back arching into your embrace like a bow drawn taut with possibility.

—

[1] Some performances become truth in the playing—pretense dissolving into authenticity between one heartbeat and the next.

[2] Money exists as theory until it becomes the currency of joy—fifty thousand dollars a small price for the light in her eyes.

[3] Touch creates its own vocabulary in moments like these, speaking volumes in the pressure of fingertips and the curve of spine.

—

Chapter 6: Landing

Sooin's voice carries across the arrivals hall like a burst of summer in winter—all infectious joy. Gawon's eyes find yours in that moment of recognition, confusion melting into something softer when you say, "anything for you." Some truths are better spoken simply.

Their reunion unfolds with the kind of unreserved joy that makes strangers smile in passing. Gawon, usually so careful about public displays, lets herself be swept up in Sooin's embrace. You approach at your own pace, watching the way happiness reshapes their features, until Sooin's enthusiasm includes you too. Her hug is brief but genuine—and in your peripheral vision, you catch the subtle darkening of Gawon's expression, her gaze finding sudden fascination with the floor.

The moment passes. You let Sooin's natural effervescence fill the spaces between breaths as she leads you to the parking lot. Her blue Jeep sits there like her slight frugality—slightly worn but loved, practical. "Well, this is it! It's an awesome car," she announces, pride evident in every syllable.

"Seems like it," you and Gawon echo, sharing irony like a private joke.

The drive becomes its own kind of meditation. Their conversation flows around you—a comfortable stream of consciousness touching on everything from current trends to their mothers' cooking. You let yourself drift in Kyoto's crisp air, catching fragments of your name in their discussion when they think you're not listening.

Sooin's home reveals itself as a perfect contradiction to your usual surroundings. Where you're used to echoing halls and marble statements, her space wraps around you like a well-worn sweater. Small rooms hold big dreams, and every corner feels lived-in, loved.

Gawon's voice carries that particular note of genuine appreciation as she explores Sooin's space: "This is so lovely. When did you get such a nice place?"

"I don't know, it just happened," Sooin replies before shifting topics with practiced ease. "Oh by the way, did you guys already reserve a place?"

Your shared "No" with Gawon emerges in perfect synchronicity—these moments of unconscious harmony that have become more frequent. Each one feels like evidence being gathered against the both of you.

Sooin's suggestion to help comes with that particular emphasis that makes your pulse quicken: "absolutely the best place for the both of you." The words carry implications in and of itself, but most likely not, she’s too benign for that. Your reluctant agreement feels like stepping onto ice without knowing its thickness.

The cookie bowl that Sooin pointed out to provides welcome, Sooin's pride in her creation evident in her posture. When Gawon takes her first bite, her expression transforms—eyebrows knitting in surprise, a soft hum of pleasure escaping. "Mm! Sooin, seriously, you have a career to fall back—seriously." The words tumble out between delicate bites, and you find yourself mirroring her reaction, though quieter.

Then Sooin's observation drops like a stone: "I feel like I noticed something: you guys are definitely closer."

Your grip fails on the chair—a tell you pray goes unnoticed. "How so?" The question emerges calm despite the sudden panic in your mind.

"I don't know, you guys are just much closer. I mean look, you guys are shoulder-to-shoulder now!"

The realization hits like static shock—the unconscious way you've drifted into each other's space, seeking proximity like planets falling into orbit. The separation that follows feels performed, theatrical in its suddenness.

"We're just getting older, friends get closer that way, you know?" Your explanation sounds hollow even to your ears, though Gawon's quick nod attempts to reinforce it.

"Wait, did you guys do something while I was gone?"

Gawon's voice catches, stumbles: "U-Um what?"

"You're being so suspicious!"

"About what?" You sit straighter, as if good posture might disguise guilt.

The relief when she asks about missed travel plans instead of tantamount to an explosion. And in parallel, a fabricated Bora Bora story emerges smooth as silk, practiced in the art of necessary fiction.

Her pout in response—"Whyyyy, I would've made the time no matter what..." —carries just enough genuine hurt to make your deception sting.

“Alright, we now know that we have to ask you beforehand, is that okay for you?” Usually, well, almost all the time, the 3 of you travelled around the world, so this particular affront was extremely personsal for Sooin.

She conceded, “alright, but you guys have to tell me…”

“Of course.”

It was quiet for a bit, then Sooin stood up and went to the cupboard. She stood tip-toed to reach something. And by the time you gained a peek of what she was holding, you cursed under your breath. You and Gawon met eyes after the peek—presumably, she was also just as distressed. The minted logo, “山崎”, it was obvious that it was aged Yamazaki whiskey[1].

“Well? Special occasions call for special occasions.” She said, hopping gingerly over with three whisky glasses. The eye contact that the both of you maintained at that instantaneous moment said it all: we can drink right? I mean, it’s our friend’s celebration, surely, we can’t decline.

Gawon demurely held the glass, her square-like eyes trying to calculate the implications of this generous pour. What happened that night, should be avoided at all costs, but we can have this one night right? Another speech done by her eye while staring at you, and it was so easy to read, large pupils, boba-like, glistening with the luxuriance that she carries with herself. And of course, you concede.

The first sip was the hardest, searing not in the ways that conventional ethanol constricted or inflamed your esophagus; rather, the possibilities that you could hide behind the haze of alcohol grew, almost large enough to sear your brain with all those debauched images.

And that first glance over, where you saw Gawon tipping the glass into her mouth—littlest of sips possible—revealed her sleek jawline and that soft sway of her long dark hair, silken under the warm candle-like tone of the entire room. But it was abruptly cut by Sooin, her hands were holding a ‘Jenga’ set, and she propped it up on the middle of the square table.

“When you called me about coming, I felt like I had to buy a drinking game to play as well, so I think this is some sort of Jenga with dares, I think.” She said, not too sure of what she was even talking about.

You took a closer look, and it was labeled ‘Sexy Edition’. “Sooin, this says it’s a sexy edition,” you say, and Gawon goes wide-eyed like an owl—neither a refusal or acceptance to join the game. “We can just skip those ones, I’m sure there’s atleast a few decent ones, “ Sooin says, without a single hint of sarcasm in her voice—optimistic, for sure.

The tension was dense, not enough to cut with a scissor, but everytime your hand and Gawon’s grazed each other while building the tower, it felt harder to jolt back; rather, you felt in favor of just grasping that thin hand and kissing her over the table, destroying all that progress on the Jenga tower.

After the tower finished, the Jenga pieces began coupling at the top and hollowing in the bottom, yet each of those Jenga pieces were inscribed with dares that went far beyond just ‘sexy’. In hopes of finding a mild one, Sooin picked one in the middle of the tower, and it read, “bite an article of clothing off another person,” and to tell the truth, it was probably the mildest one yet.

—-

[1] The worst part about it was that you guys can’t really taste the difference between Yamazaki and other whiskeys, just an unnecessary expense.

—

Sooin blushed, but you and Gawon didn’t say anything, hoping that maybe she’d decide to not do it (and the both of you would be perfectly fine with it). Yet Sooin pointed at Gawon, “let’s do it, but first take a large swig, this is gonna be a little wild.”

Gawon suddenly took a large swig of the initial fill from Sooin, then pointed out her bracelet—-arguably a very boring item for game’s sake—for Sooin to bite on. “Be careful where you bite,” Gawon said, but her eyes told a different story—a little spooked, a little thrilled, and most of all, a little drunk.

Sooin giggled a little before going down to clamp down on the bracelet, softly pulling the item off her wrist. “There, it was fine right?” Sooin asked, “yeah it was fine,” Gawon replied.

When Gawon draws that particular piece from the tower, something shifts in the atmosphere—a subtle reorganization of molecules around this moment of potential revelation. Her fingers move to tuck hair behind her ear, a gesture you've categorized among her ways of dealing with nervous anticipation[1].

"Um, the ideal type of person for me?" It was what the jenga block said, but came out like a question. Yet the words emerge careful, measured, like someone testing ice beneath their feet. "I guess, first of all, he should be a nice guy; second, a strong sort of stare, kind of possessive?" Each criterion feels like the playbook of the quintessential Machiavellian Prince—starting clear, becoming intentionally blurred. Sooin's nodding, her understanding perhaps deeper than either of you would prefer.

The questions that follow create their implications—Sooin didn’t know it, but you were being tortured from the inside out. "Are you basing it off a guy you've met before?"

"Um, maybe."

Sooin's next observation lands with brilliant skepticism: "I know you've never been in a relationship before, or even dated." The emphasis feels deliberate, her words directed more toward you than Gawon (though you try to justify that it was your subconscious rather than Sooin suspecting you).

You watch Gawon's hand find the whiskey glass, lifting those last precious drops like liquid courage. When she speaks again, something has shifted—-as if the alcohol has dissolved some essential filter between thought and voice.

"He's so unbelievably charming. He's ice but also cold, but also fluid in a way—if you get what I mean." Each word feels like confession, like testimony. "He's so caring and so protective—I feel like there's a soft protection barrier whenever I'm with him." Your muscles begin their own rebellion, tightening against recognition. "And, and- his activities, like books, writing, engineering; all of it requires some sort of focus, well, a lot of focus. And whenever I see him focusing, pupils dilated, focused entirely on that thing-” was the moment she suddenly put a palm on her mouth.

And worst of all, Sooin's gaze finds you, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious act, actually, almost a conscious effort. "Hm, that man, you hang out with regularly, and..." Her eyes make that connection again, pieces falling into place. "I-"

"Who said it was the person I hung out with regularly?" Gawon's panic bleeds through, her interruption too quick, too sharp—a defense that could become its own evidence.

"Well from what you were saying, it seemed so."

"Maybe I'm just protecting the identity." The words emerge uncertain, her voice a far stray from her usual perspicacity.

The tension dissolves into Sooin's complaints about the game itself, her comment about the jenga block that just straight out said "vaginal penetration" serving as both comic relief and escape route. Yet something shifted, some truth emerged that can't be fully submerged again[2].

—

[1] EMPIRICAL OBSERVATIONS RE: GAWON'S NERVOUS TELLS

a) The Hair-Tuck Phenomenon: Frequency increases by 147% during moments of extreme emotional exposure. Compare:

- Normal rate: 2.3 tucks/hour

- Current rate: ~1 tick/15 seconds

- Peak recorded: That Night We Don't Discuss™

b) Secondary indicators include but are not limited to:

- Micro-adjustments of posture

- Slight tremor in usually-steady hands

- That thing where her voice gets higher but also softer???

c) Correlation with alcohol consumption suggests inverse relationship between BAC and ability to maintain "just friends" facade

(see appendix A: "Why We Shouldn't Drink Together But Keep Doing It Anyway")

[2] TRANSCRIPT OF INTERNAL MONOLOGUE DURING GAWON'S TOTALLY-NOT-ABOUT-YOU DESCRIPTION:

Time stamps [condensed]:

T+0: Brain initiating emergency shutdown

T+1: Wait does she mean-

T+2: No obviously not but-

T+3: "Books, writing, engineering" = coincidence???

T+4: ABORT ABORT ABORT

[System Error: Too many matching characteristics detected]

Note: Sooin's knowing look registered on the Richter scale of Oh Shit moments at approximately 9.7 out of 9.71

—-

Chapter 7: Seduction and Dance

The Yamazaki bottle catches light as Sooin leads your small procession. You linger in your seat, glass tilted in contemplative circles, letting the foreign familiarity of the moment settle into your bones—in a completely different country, far from home, yet still, feeling completely at home. You spot Gawon getting up and your hand extends toward Gawon automatically—an offer of support that she declines with a gentle shake of her head, gathering empty glasses instead.

She follows Sooin's path, feet emerging from abandoned slippers. The sight of her bare feet against the floor sends electricity through your nervous system (that goddamn night).

The dance room reveals itself as Sooin's true sanctuary, her paintings relegated to margins as if she acknowledged movement's supremacy over stillness. Her explanation, "Helps my creativity, I just dance when I can't think of anything", carries the simple truth of someone who understands their own mechanisms to the tee.

The leather couch accepts your weight as you settle in to watch. "Hey creep! Are you gonna join or what?" Sooin's challenge bounces off your nonchalance. "No. What do you think I'm gonna do? Dance?" You ironically reply, which Sooin pouts at before focusing on the mirror.

Something passes between them—a conversation you're explicitly excluded from. Then the music erupts, and everything changes.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of movement, becoming something closer to possession—bodies surrendering to rhythm with religious devotion. The gap between their mastery and your stumbling attempts at grace that night becomes canyon-wide, and a thought surfaces like a bubble in champagne: had Gawon been holding back, letting you lead in a dance you barely understood?

Then she turns, and everything reorganizes itself around her gaze. Gone is the merciful dancer who obediently followed your lead—in her place stands something wilder, more dangerous. Her body writes plain and clear her intention, crop top and shorts becoming merely punctuation in a longer sentence of skin and suggestion. Every curve makes your pupils stick for an amount of time that no friend would bear for even a second[1].

Your eyes struggle to find safe harbor, but each attempted escape is met with that knowing upturn of her lips—half smile, half challenge. Her movements carry a single question, repeated in the language of muscle and grace: how could you ever resist me?

Her dance becomes your sole fixation, the path to your survival—each movement a carefully crafted assault on your composure. That waist, delicate enough for your hands to encircle completely; the clean striations of muscle beneath soft skin was just the tip of the iceberg; those endless legs that seem to rewrite the laws of physics. But it's her face that undoes you completely—the knowing triumph in her eyes as she watches your careful walls crumble to dust. By the end, you're not even pretending anymore—-your gaze bounces everywhere from her legs to her midriff to her face.

They stand before you, breath heavy but victorious. "How do you even dance like that when you're drunk?" You ask, almost more breathless than them.

"Practice," Sooin laughs, "we only dance when we're not sober enough to judge ourselves."

Gawon moves closer, her presence making you consciously aware of how wired your brain was, and she says, "The place might close before we even get there." A suggestion that had double meaning: attacking Sooin’s purposeful secrecy on the place, but mostly, on the suggestion that she wanted some time with you.

Sooin understands, and makes a few calls behind enough soundwalls to completely stop you from hearing.

Outside, winter bares its grizzly teeth. Each breath paints misty particles in the air, and Gawon's body instinctively seeks warmth, arms crossed against the cold. You find yourself moving without thought, arm wrapping around her frame, sharing heat through layers of fabric. She coos slightly (maybe even a little seduced?) and her gaze finds you, soft and heavy with meaning[2].

The cab car materializes from darkness like a dream—all blacked-out windows and bougie till the last detail. The interior glows with constellation-like ceiling lights, matte red seats promising discretion. A privacy screen stands ready to section off worlds.

"Hey." Her voice comes gentle as snowfall, already settling into the warmth of the seat. Your response emerges groggy, whiskey-weighted: "Mm?"

Then her hand finds yours—silk-soft and fever-warm—while another lands with dangerous precision on your thigh. Then the hand on your lap trails up to your jaw with deliberate slowness, each touch carrying immense but fabricated voltage.

"You haven't been sleeping well, have you?" Sappy little Gawon, she’s back, and that was Bad. Fucking. News. Your skin hums beneath her touch, each careful stroke of her fingers against your jaw making you and her coo simultaneously.

—-

[1][2] FIELD NOTES FROM THE BRINK OF SANITY: Observe how Gawon's transition from demure dance partner to architect of your destruction occurs with the precise motion of a master of their craft.

—

"When was the last time you actually slept?" Her fingers trace concern along your jawline, each touch filled to the brim with worry.

"Lately?" you reply, whiskey-honest. "Three, maybe four hours a night."

Her hand stills against your skin. "And you think that's sustainable?"

"Coffee makes anything sustainable." The attempt at levity falls flat against her genuine concern.

"I hate when you do that." Her voice carries an edge of frustration that makes your pulse quicken. "When you act like taking care of yourself is optional."

Her fingers press more insistently against your jaw, turning your face toward hers. The gesture intends examination but achieves intimacy instead. The car's dim lighting paints her in chiaroscuro, every shadow emphasizing something essential about her beauty that you've spent years pretending to avoid.

"Gawon." You let off as an abysmal warning.

"No, let me just—" Her words trail off as she studies your face, searching for signs of exhaustion, of strain. But all you can focus on is the precise architecture of her features, the way concern shapes her expression into something devastatingly beautiful, large eyes glistening with worry, her beautiful moist lips parting ever so slightly.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

The words escape before you could catch them, and you watch them land like stones onto stone. Her eyes widen, pupils expanding in the low light.

"Don't." The word emerges breathless, uncertain. "I'm not—"

Your hands find her tight waist, snaking under her coat, to her midriff and you pull her closer. She makes a surprised little noice, and those eyes widen. Her face hovers inches from yours, breath carrying traces of whiskey and possibility. That signature perfume—lilac and gooseberries—wraps around you like a spell[2].

"From now on," your voice drops lower, dangerous with intent, "your beauty isn't up for debate."

"Since when do you make the rules?" The question trembles between you, heavy with invitation.

"Since right now."

When your lips meet hers, it feels like solving an equation you've been working on for years. She yields to you with a sort of elegant surrender, each point of contact between you generating its own gravity. Her exposed skin brushes against your shirt, and the sound she makes—god, that sound carries enough voltage to power cities. Pure. Fucking. Sin.

You break away just to look at her, needing to witness this transformation. Your fingers map the sharp angle of her jaw, the soft swell of her kiss-bruised lips. Her eyes meet yours, glazed and desperate, fixed on your mouth like she's memorizing coordinates for future reference.

She chases your mouth like someone pursuing a vanishing dream, desperate to prove its reality through touch. Her hands find your face with newfound certainty—no longer the hesitant, bashful explorations of earlier but something hungrier, more insistent. When she initiates the kiss this time, years of carefully maintained distance finally collapse[1].

Your response is instinctive, grizzly—hands finding her waist to guide her onto your lap, the movement fluid despite the tight confines of the car. Each soft sound she makes rewrites something essential in your nervous system, her mewls of pleasure harmonizing with the way your grip tightens, pulls her closer, demands more.

"Tell me," you breathe between kisses, "how long?"

"Forever," she confesses against your mouth, arms wrapping around your neck like she's found anchor in a storm. "Every day, watching you rest against my thigh, I wanted—" Her voice breaks as your lips reclaim hers, swallowing the rest of her admission.

"The whiskey finally gave you courage?" The question carries no judgment, only understanding.

She nods innocently without breaking contact. "You're dangerous," you murmur, feeling her press impossibly closer in response. "Absolutely fucking dangerous."

Your teeth graze her upper lip, it was silk-soft and swollen from attention. She yields to you like warm honey in tea, mouth opening on a sigh that feels like surrender. Every point of contact between you generates its own gravity, its own heat. The taste of her—whiskey and want and Gawon—obliterates all thought of consequence[2].

When you part for breath, her eyes flutter open slowly, dark with desire but shadowed with something more complex. Her fingers twist in your shirt fabric, the gesture containing both plea and hesitation. The air between you crackles with potential energy, with words hovering just beneath speech.

"I need you," she whispers, each word carrying the weight of confession. "So fucking bad."

—

[1] yesyesyes her mouth finding mine mouthfinding minefinding yesagain like dreamchasing dreamtasting dreamswallowing all those nights counting heartbeats on marblemarblemarblewalls while she slept against lap against thigh against restraint until now nowNOW hands wandering wondering thundering yes my Gawon my GawonGawonGawon all pent up proper pushed down proper until whiskey melts marble and propriety drowns in mouth against mouth against forever

[2] softsweet honeywarm Gawonwarm the taste of her the tasteoftaste whiskeywarm lipswarm handswarming everything dissolving into GawonGawonGawon while outside winter howls its protest but inside carwarm seatwarm her pulse thrumming against fingers like morse code spelling wantwantwant or perhaps lovemaybe or perhaps bothbothboth until thinking becomes optional and consequence becomes tomorrow's problem

—

Your fingers find her cheek, brushing away a strand of hair with deliberate tenderness. "Tell me to continue." The words emerge soft, offering choice rather than demanding it.

Her response comes in the form of renewed contact—this kiss different from the others, slower but somehow more intense. A conversation conducted in the language of shared breath and gentle pressure, her hands cupping your face as if trying to memorize its topography through touch.

The driver's knock shatters the moment like a stone through glass. Reality reasserts itself with cruel efficiency as you both scramble for composure, though the evidence of what transpired remains written across Gawon's features in unmistakable script: the slight mark on her upper lip, the kiss-swollen mouth, the disaster of her usually perfect appearance. But it's her eyes that tell the true story—when they meet yours, they carry entire novels of meaning, of possibility, of things that can never be unknown.

Despite you two looking like you had engaged in the roughest play only minutes ago with clothes on, the welcome reception was glorious. And on a second view, the place looked to be about the bougiest damn place in the world.

The lobby was just as bougie, and the check-in process was quick except for one detail: the suite had one bed.

“Wait, we didn’t reserve two beds?”

“Sir, there are no suites with two beds. In fact, the one that was ordered is actually the largest suite.”

“So, from what I understand, this place is a bunch of detached villas?”

“Yes, and some of nature's best will refresh you for the days to come.”

“Alright, well, how do we get there?” In honesty, you felt like you were talking to a robot.

“There’s a complimentary cabby service, please follow me.” She motioned for someone to get those small golf-type cabs, then let the two of you sit inside.

The cabby followed a winding path that showed the best views of the place; Japanese minimalist opulence on display, the trail was a perfect showcase, somehow, just for a moment, distracting you from the absolute magnisense of Gawon.

The cabby finally arrives, and you and Gawon finally enter the villa.

“Sooin really knows a spot huh?” You ask, and Gawon’s eyes widen, as if she half-expected you to say something more sinister, now that you were in the confines of only two—a sort of wolf and lamb scenario.

That expectation, though, was vindicated; you softly pin her against the entrance door, pushing her up against it, letting your tongue slip into hers again—finally. By each reach of your tongue, her mewls come in equal magnitude, everytime comes a feline-like feminine sigh that leaves gooseflesh all over your arms.

There’s this perfect line you have to tow with Gawon, not for her sake (really, she’d love it if you slammed her against the door and fucked her crazy right there) but entirely for your sake—you’d rapidly transition into some ayahuascan mindtrip that you’d never recover from if you allowed yourself to ravage Gawon immediately like that.

But it’d be possible if you have some linear progression: purple bruises all over her neck, then tight grasps on her thigh that leave red in its wake, then a searing redness all over her ass-cheeks; they’d all come in due time.

“Who taught you to be so good for me?” You ask, vibrating against her neck, making tight lines on her neck that’d be impossible to hide with even turtlenecks. Then before she could suppress her moans enough to get a word out, you say, “tell me, how should I punish you? You’ve got your dearest friend wrapped around your dearest finger.”

“Dearest, I’d rather you just fuck me rather than ramble on.” Gawon states, assertively, richly convincing through her honey-like voice and you obey, getting that little squeak out of her as you manhandle her, strong arming the small of her back, the other hand trying to wring out her squeals by way of squeezing her ass.

She’s messy, attached to your lips—and she’s trying to rip off your t-shirt, trying to find little provocations such that you’d pin her even harder against the door: to get her squealing for the entire town to hear.

“Watch it, this place is shrouded in glass,” you say, but you held her even tighter, like, I need you to fucking scream like I own you.

And Gawon seemed to understand what you meant by the contradiction: gaining even more levels of lewd vocalization.

The nice thing about manhandling a supermodel is that she’s light enough for you to truly manhandle her. You could swing her around the room, pin her against the couch, then mash your dick in her pussy like it was the perfect alignment of events, the singularity—if you will.

And as if you were some visionary, you swung her around the room, her legs wrapped around your waist, and she’s letting her displeasure at being folly to your strength be known—though it was futile, she’s hypocritically still attached to your lips.

Through some loose and messy coordination aided by her varying tonal mewls and the pain of stubbing your fucking toes a dozen times, the long couch was finally found. She sat down, waiting with not a single hint of patience; her eyes were painted with some of the clearest “fuck me” eyes; her lips were swollen, red and slightly snouted, waiting for you to get back right where you were.

You swung your jacket off, then your t-shirt, and went back into the soft embrace of Gawon. She’s whispering something unintelligible, some sweet nothings as she samples your lips, wet pecks like the way she demurely tips a wine glass into her lips. Even in the genteel nature in which she wrought destruction unto you was a provocation: you latched on harder, earning delicate mewls from the soft bites you gave her swollen lips.

“Who knew you’d taste so good, hm?” You ask, your teeth accidentally bumping against hers, the space between your eye contact almost theoretical.

“I was right there, for your taking.” She replies, grinning.

“What about right now?” You posit.

“I don’t know, you’ve ignored me for so long.” She replies, faking a sass.

You swiftly grasp onto her wrists, pinning them together. “Unfortunately, you’re going nowhere” You say before letting your other hand wander under her croptop (where your hand is shouldn't even be up for question) and you go deep into the kiss again.

This time, she’s stimulated, keening, a little sensitive lilt to her voice, as if her perky nipple was some switch that changed her tone—definitely a topic for another day, but not right now. Because what’s right now is that Gawon’s splayed against the couch, hair all messed up, eyes locked on to you only.

“Does this come close to the smutty books you hide under the bed?” You ask, feeling the upright urge to tease her at her most vulnerable.

She stares, dumbfounded—you’re always surprised by how her eyes can always get larger.

“That’s right, should I tick off what each of those books detailed onto you?” You ask, even closer to her face, nose and lips nearly touching,

But right before kissing, close enough to the point where Gawon snouted her lips—waiting for the kiss—you let off; instead, you let go of her wrrists, motioning her to take off her crop top. It’s hard not to feel bad for Gawon—well, you did, but you were playing into her cards, you were the one falling into each of her traps, every single part of her wanted this, her eyes read some sinister pin-me-into-the-couch-and-fuck-me-till-I-go-crazy eyes.

And worst of all, she was a virgin—or that’s what you believe. Time will tell.

“You’re a big meanie,” she says, crossing her arms around her chest, nailing the tonality.

You say, “supermodel, savant reader, funny, great cook, and now, actor? You’re fucking unreal by the way.”

“That’s it?” She asks, humming with happiness.

“Oh yeah, one more thing—super fucking horny.”

“Yah!”

“Am I wrong?”

“I’d appreciate some formality.” She replies, getting closer to your face.

“Gawon, there’s nothing formal about what you’re doing.”

“I disagree, I’m formally getting ready for what you’re gonna give me.”

“You have no idea what’s coming.”

“Do your worst, pretty boy.”

You smile at the audacity of her nonchalance: she’s rubbing her legs together at what was presumably a mess down there, and her arms are all jittery from what was presumably the greatest high of her life.

While she straddled you, you tied her hands around her back with a loose knot (with her crop top) that’d come off with the slightest pressure, but you have insurance: she loves the idea.

You press soft kisses on her collar, the parts where red bloomed like a rose in sunlight, and you slowly descend down her chest—letting off steamy sighs right on her tits that spilled out so perfectly above her bra, and you could see in real-time how the skin on areola slowly wrinkled in parallel to her soft sighs.

Then when her nipple was as hard as a pebble, you descended, and she huffs, “this is encroaching punishment, agh!” You give a soft bite right on her washboard midriff, “I’m doing what you want. Gawon.”

She leaned up against the couch in some dextrous position that’d clearly hurt her back, but she’s too horny to even remember that she has a body to look out for, focusing only on where your mouth went. And finally, you’re kneeling on the floor, facing Gawon’s core; even through her black lingerie, the wetness was obvious, it was emanating, outlined, and it smelled so fucking good—of absolute sex.

Softly, you approach her sex, and you could feel the soft heat growing and growing, and the smell too, god, you’re already fucking hooked—embarassingly so.

“Stop smelling, you’re being gross,” Gawon says, seriously so.

And you respond by placing your face right on her pussy, just a layer of satin separating your mouth from her vulva.

Another noise level was broken by Gawon.

“You have no fucking idea,” you say, nearly growling, “how amazing you smell,” you say, unknowingly making her moan from the vibration.

You hook your finger around the wet satin, and you softly push it to the side. Each millimeter shows a greater pink, a greater swollen wetness. You give Gawon one last look, wholly depraved and almost drooling—and she’s staring back with a demure horniness, one of her fingers transfixed on twisting her bronze-colored nipple.

Firstly, you layer a soft kiss on her wet vulva—and you could feel Gawon’s breath catch right on the crux of her pussy, a small jolt. You press light kisses over her outer lips, it was swollen, it was a mess, her juices spread even around her outer lips, and it was fucking delicious. And she’s jolting against every kiss, getting even more reactive to what wasn’t even the main course—and the thought of stimulating her clit when she’s this sensitive entertained you to no end.

“Fuck~Agh!” Her head was thrown back, and a shuffle of her long hair covered half her face—yet she still softly pressed her pussy right on your face, chasing the sensation of your tongue.

And you venture closer to her core, licking around the space between the outer fold and the inner, you could feel her arousal pooling like a hormonal soup of her greatest pleasure inside her inner folds, and you found that, each interaction with her clitoral hood, just above her swollen clit made her back jolt.

It’s so painful not to shove your dick right into her wet mess, kiss her cervix with your tip a thousand times over, make her squirt all over the couch, and let her scream your name for the entire village to hear; because, you love her and you can’t just shove it in there.

The spooling arousal formed some heavenly rivulet of her arousal dripping down her leg, it’s like a layer of slick that glistens shinier than diamonds, and it’s far more preferable.

“Please, please, please…” her voice gets mousy and whiny as you blow soft air onto her engorged clit. But you could never deny Gawon, one soft blow later, your lips latch onto her engorged clit.

And her back bends in utter pleasure instantaneously, a loud moan claims her entire body: “Agh~I’m cummminggggg…”

If only she made it less appealing to torture her pussy, then maybe there’d be some amnesty to give, yet you didn’t grant anything, latching harder and circling the your thumb pad right on the opening of her vagina—in response, she’s panting, unsure whether to moan or to cry, unsure whether to turn into a gymnast with her back olympics.

You softly press your thumb against the opening and your thumb enters—god, it’s a small part of your thumb, but it’s encircled in the softest, gummiest and wettest feeling possible. Your encircle her clitoral hood with your tongue, grazing her engorged clit ever so slightly while simultaneously inserting your thumb deeper.

And oooh god, it’s a whole fucking mess—Gawon’s panting, moaning, her hands were wrapped up deep in your hair, and your head felt the soft pressure of her thighs enclosing. Poor Gawon’s never sweared this much before, every sigh comes with an oh fuck coupled with a jolt.

However, your empathy can only run so far while your hellbent lust stretches infinitely. Finally, some wicked progression finally half-finished, you flick your tongue against her clit. And in comes another loud moan, higher than any tone that Gawon has ever used, and her core fucking drips.

She cums for a second time. And all her pleas were dust in the air, she was victim to her own pleasure—convulsing moans that coursed through her entire body before finally sparing her the entire ordeal. And it was more intense than anything she’s ever felt: sweat forming on her chest, on her forehead, thick groupings of hair stuck to her face, the rest stuck by static to the couch.

“You’re a meanie.” Gawon states, still panting.

You didn’t reply, instead ascending from the carpet, taking view of her full body before letting her taste herself vis a vis your lips. “Do you understand me now?” You ask, and she nods, “I taste good.”

Damn right.

The kiss was sweeter than expected, a reconciliation after you nearly broke her mind and a transitional period for what was next. In some smooth cycle, you now sat atop the couch and Gawon slowly crouched onto the carpet.

Her hands spread along your thigh—her cold palms leaving gooseflesh in its wake all over your thigh. But she’s eyeing the prize, the large tent that’s formed on your loin, “God, that looks painful,” Gawon says (she has no idea).

Then there’s a sinister glance coupled with a sinister upturn of the corners of her mouth—she’s plotting. Softly, she approaches your appendage wrapped in linen, then presses a soft kiss right on the tip, right where you were most sensitive. One kiss later, she’s wrapped her lips around the tip, and you could feel her tongue press.

It’s hot, she’s bunched up between your legs licking at your cock submissively, acutely aware of how you’re melting under her tongue. She pressed a few more kisses before hooking her fingers over the waistband, pulling down ever so slightly.

“You’re so hard.” Gawon prods, in a time when you were in no mood for jokes.

“I wonder why.” You joke (yeah, there’s always room for Gawon though).

“I don’t know—tell me.” Gawon’s holding you hostage, if she moved your waistband an inch lower then you’d be free from the linen prison, bound for Gawon’s soft lips. But, cruelly, she’s holding you prisoner.

“Just be a good girl, Gawon.” You say, exasperated, staring at the ceiling, waiting impatiently.

Then suddenly you felt a wet heat enclose around your tip along with a wet mewl. You look down just to confirm, and yeah, she’s wrapped her angelic lips around your cock, the way her edges of her eyes crease a frank demonstration of how happy she was, and her amateur way of brushing the top of her teeth right on your sensitivity was irritating but not enough to measure up to the pure hormonal surge that you felt.

You couldn’t help but jolt along her promiscuity, and she responds accordingly, humming along your jolts, softening her strokes, tonguing at your tip, then the frenulum, then a pat on your thigh to signal her choking point.

“Those books, they can only bring you so far, Gawon.” You say, wrapping her thick head of hair to prevent it from interfering.

Gawon softly releases, strands of her spit still connected to your shaft, and she grips your thighs, “I can taste your precum,” she says with a smile, “I may be a virgin but you’re melting under my touch.”

“So that’s a confirmation? That you’re a virgin?”

“I mean yeah, do you wanna rupture my hymen? Which, by the way, got ruptured when I was riding a horse.” She says, planting the side of her head on your thigh while grasping your cock in one hand.

“I’m glad.” You huff, the pressure of her hand was pleasing.

“Possessive much? That’s an ick for many girls.” She tightens her grip, earning another husky groan.

But you smile, tightening your grip in her hair, “but not for you. Is it, Gawon?”

Her head tips into a soft nod, all soft and submissive for you. And before blowing you, she presses soft kisses on the inside of your thigh, grinning with mischief.

In the accumulation of it all, you were rock hard in her hands, and it was coupled with her mouth returning right on your dick (a soft sort of suction with her tongue licking the underside passionately).

She’s getting faster, and you’re melting. Her keen mewls hum against your shaft, her eyes lock on you the entire time; her head moves like it was a separate part of her entire body; and each push and pull of her lips comes with a different strategy.

It’s hard philosophizing suffering when Gawon’s sucking your dick. Mostly because you’re whipped for her. And mostly because you’re about your bust your cum right into Gawon's mouth, fill her stomach with hot semen intended only for lovers—you were no longer friends, this much seems obvious now. She’s ruthless, inviting you to pull on her hair, inviting you to push her head in deeper for that ‘deepthroat’, and you could tell that she was knuckle-deep in her own pussy, moaning occasionally with your dick still inches deep in her mouth, coupled with eyes knitted in intense pleasure.

And you bite again—as usual—pushing her head in deeper on your shaft, making her softly gag against your length. You could feel rivulets of spit drip down your balls, and you could perceive her hands trying not to clamp down against the uncomfort. Such a brainfuck when Gawon loves this—finds comfort in choking on your cock.

By the tenth second (yeah, ten-second-pump-chump material), you lost to Gawon. You swiftly let go, and Gawon’s kneeled back, amazed, out of breath, observing all the spit pooled along your loin. “I’m gonna cum, Gawon,” you finally let out, and she immediately goes back. You were walking the plank, goaded on by the inevitable forces of lust-seeking and Gawon’s fucking eyes and a myriad of other reasons that made it impossible to resist—truly.

And finally, you bust a seatrail of semen into her thoat, neverending ropes of life right down into her stomach, and she’s insistent on the stare, not even caring that your dick was fully into her throat, just a little less than the deepthroat, to, you know, not fucking drown her lungs with semen (preventing pneumonia by way of cum).

Your dick slowly slivers out of her mouth, still unimaginably hard (literally impossible, but Gawon has her ways), and she tips her mouth up with all your semen still stuck to her throat, travelling down to her stomach.

“Has a weird taste,” Gawon conclusively says, and you wipe off a bit of fluid stuck on her chin with your thumb, then letting her sample it.

“Same conclusion,” she giggles, then pouts, “are you gonna kiss me or what? After all that hard work…”

“After a bit.”

“After all that semen goes down into my stomach?”

“For lack of a better word: yes.”

This intermittent time to talk is over by the time Gawon finally takes off her bra, sitting expectantly on the couch.

“I’ll go find a condom, go to the bedroom, alright?” you say, caressing her chin, though some evolutionary instinct made it hard to move.

Regardless, you moved, and you found some condoms in the cupboard of the hotel—apparently, it’s a love hotel; did Sooin know this?

You go back to Gawon sitting on the edge of the bed, and you relish the beauty of Gawon entirely naked in front of you. Instant hard-on. Instant surge. Whatever beastly urge was turned to the maximum.

“Put my condom on,” you command, and she obliges.

She stares, mouth slightly agape, fully observing your reaction as she palms your cock, slipping the condom on. Testament to her inexperience, she didn’t leave the little divot for the seed to collect, so you pull a little to create the divot—with a stupid grin on your face.

You follow her as she splays herself across the white bed. She placed herself as the canvas, you as the paint. Softly, you press kisses on her neck, feeling her thin waist, firmly grasping whatever got her breath to catch, whatever made her throat vibrate against your kisses.

She parts her legs, wrapping and locking it around your waist. As a result, your tip pressed up against her firm navel, her body had goosebumps all over, expectant and waiting. You give her one more peck, right on her lips before positioning your length right onto her heat.

She’s anxious, holding your arms for reassurance as she stares at your length press against her heat. And right before you steel the courage to enter, she rambles off, “Do it, please, I love you, I can’t envision a world without you and if you don’t fuck me until I go crazy on your dick and you slap my ass around until it’s burning with my mouth buried right into sheets and where I’m just drooling like an idiot until you bury your cock deep into my womb until you bruise my cervix and and and then give me aftercare with the both of us in the tub and the warm water is softly healing and your soft kisses on my nape while you hold me with a hug in the tub and and and we sleep together naked under the sheets while cuddling, then you fuck me again tomorrow-”

She’s so cute you could die.

You give another peck on her lips, “I love you so much that I’ll do anything you ask.”

Gawon reverts back to her queen-like grace, “I want you to manhandle me.”

Then you bury your cock deep inside, and she lets out the most intoxicatingly deep moan, everything that she stored inside of her releases in that moment, the invisible endorphins fueling your intercourse with a sort of unbreakable tenacity.

It’s wet. It’s disgusting. It’s also the best fucking feeling in the world. You’re placed on top of Gawon, she’s hugging you desperately, moving her hips accordingly, softly biting your collar as she feels the cock deep inside of her, and as she requested, kissing her cervix at least a dozen times.

“Oh~ I love this so much!” Gawon rumbles under you, and it was obvious, her bottom’s already covered in her juices.

“I’ll make a wife out of you,” you groan, pressing your cock deep against her. “I’ll fuck you everyday, throw you around…She went nonverbal for a second, her bottom spasming, and you can pretty much conclude that she came again.

You latch onto her lips, while still burying your length into her swollen pussy.

“Is this your Darcy moment?[1]” You chuckle.

“This is me realizing how much I love getting fucked.”

“To the point that only ‘fuck’ is the only way to describe it?”

“Oh god yes.” She moaning through every push, then mewling against every pull.

Then you begin speeding up, the speed at which wet slaps are basically the only thing that can heard, where squirt comes into the equation. “Oh my god! It’s so good!” She’s pressing kisses on your chin, your jaw, everywhere, “take off the condom!”

“What?” You slow down, unsure if you misheard her.

“Take off your condom.”

“But-”

You’re not one to beat your urges, and she wanted it too. What the hell, sure[2].

You softly pull out of the most intense suction you’ve ever felt, nearly a wet pop sound, and she grabs onto the slick condom, trying a multitude of times before finally getting it off, throwing it to some corner.

This time, her eyes are completely void of apprehension, it’s only lust there, pure pure 100-proof lust. And so, you insert your length into her again, that wet sound carrying even more magnitude. Her body’s sticky with her sweat, and you press soft bites over her neck, sucking hickeys into existence, relishing that beautiful smell—lilac and gooseberries—mixed in with the salt of her skin.

This time, you swung her leg on your shoulder, her body now on its side, perpendicular to the bed. She let out a deep moan from the surprise, but began pushing her hips back onto you, the display of your cock entering her even more visible—it’s vile and addictive.

You press kisses on her ankle as you pump faster, and her sighs grow faster, softer, and higher.

“You’re so beautiful.” You say, it wasn’t even conscious, a completely subconscious mechanism, deep from the soul.

She smiles before her eyebrows knit in pleasure again. Somehow, still, her eyes were still locked onto you, analyzing every tidbit of your face.

However, before she’s found steady ground, you throw her leg over, and she’s now stomach-down on the bed. “You know exactly where this is going,” you whisper, grasping her tight ass before going up to the side of her face to pepper kisses.

She’s nuzzled her head against you, it’s too hard to look down, to separate from her warmth, so you hope that your natural instinct finds the right hole (very bad idea, usually).

Yet you pull it off, she groans so gainfully against you, adding verbosity to compliment your strokes through the vocabulary of vocalization. And now you have easy access to her asscheeks, and before you ask her, she’s already saying yes please spank me until I’m creaming.

You can feel her ass recoil from the first hit, and she yelps. Then another, she’s groaning, then another, she’s moaning. “You’re really just a horny girl.”

“You didn’t figure that out from the beginning, when you found the books?” She teases, acknowledging her own depravity.

“You good for nothing-” you spank her again, “seducing your friend like this”

“Hey! Now that was a partnered effort, and by the way, it’s boyfriend now, you’re my boyfriend.” She stares at you, smiling because you were smiling—like a moron by the way.

And you kiss her deep, doing some partnered sort of gymnastics that you’d rue the next day (because of the soreness). “How does it feel to be my girlfriend?” you ask.

“Hm, it’s hot, it’s kind of sore, it’s kind of sticky and it smells like sex.” Describing only her current self, humor never failed her.

“Technically correct, but not my intended question.” So you give a soft spank, and a deep pump—and she’s like a jukebox from these movements, all manners of notes.

“You’re the idiot talking about technicality while balls deep inside me without a condom.”

“Almost like that’s the reason I’m balls deep inside you.”

“Good point—Agh~!”

You’re approaching your climax, and she’s doing you no good, no effort to help lengthen this heavenly feeling—pumping her ass back on you, even massaging your hands that were planted in a push-up position.

“You’re drooling onto the bedsheet, your lady juices are flowing onto the bed-”

“Yahh… ‘lady juices’ is so derogatory that I’m getting mad, and that’s hard by the way, given how horny I am.”

You laugh along with her, still pumping into her.

And it’s in this perfect atmosphere where you and Gawon laugh, talking into vocabularies that went far beyond any friendship, when you pump your last stroke before filling her womb with your semen.

“God, imagine the consequences of this.”

“Even if I do get pregnant, I wouldn’t mind it,” Gawon says, face planted into the mattress, her final climax seizing her body.

“You’re a victim to your own hormones.”

“We’re two of the same,” she says, still face planted, her hair entirely covering her head like a helmet, so you pull a thick strand of hair to press a kiss to her cheek.

“How would your parents react?”

“Is that why you use ‘your’ all the time when addressing our parents? Cause you fell in love with me?”

“Partly.”

“Wow, that stretches far back.” She’s facing you, the answer running through her head.

“Alls well now?” you ask, the space between you enclosing fast, ending with a deep kiss.

“Mhm, and you’ll have to use ‘our parents’ if we’re married.”

You giggle into her mouth, “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not, but I can feel your semen flowing out, and plus, you promised after care,” her eyes glistens as she looks at you.

“What the hell, sure.”

—

[1] Darcy seems to be a staunchly opinionated man like you. Maybe that’s why she reads Pride and Prejudice so much.

[2] Google “What the hell, sure”

—

A/N: Wow! What a ride, long stories are definitely awesome with so much more things to delve into. Let me know if you like this monthly sort of release or the biweekly, and shorter, releases. (no promises tho)

A/N 2: Gawon is literally the hottest person I’ve ever seen, and even her taste too (mostly the reason I was able to get 18k words out) . I heard she recommended No Longer Human which is just a phenomenal book by the way.

A/N 3: Pt 2? With whom? Maybe someone on the right of Gawon? Wink wink…

#gawon smut #gawon #meovv #smut #kpop smut #male reader #fanfic #kpop #meovv smut #18+

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barnacles34 · 5 months ago

Text

Steamy Mornings and Massages (Winter x Male OC)

7k words

Tags: smut, fluff, office sex, office massage, soulmates, romance, very love-heavy

Chapter 1: The Day After

"Let's just stay here," Minjeong murmured, pressing soft kisses to the crown of Junho's head. The morning alarm had shattered what his typically precise mind had categorized as Optimal Comfort Configuration™, but neither of them had moved to silence it[1].

His face remained buried in the crook of her neck, accepting what his mind reluctantly acknowledged as the only form of comfort he'd ever truly wanted. "Well, my secretary," he rumbled against her skin, the possessive pronoun carrying new weight in the morning light, "on a very important day, doesn't want to go to work?" Despite his words, his arms tightened incrementally around her waist, betraying his own reluctance.

Minjeong's embrace constricted in response, her Busan accent thick with morning warmth. "What are you going to do? Fire me?" Despite the implied challenge, she still continued to press soft kisses on his forehead. He tightened his embrace further, relishing in the warmth of Minjeong.

The challenge in her voice activated something primal in his executive functioning. His teeth grazed her neck in warning, hovering over precisely the spot that would make any low-necked blouse useless to wear for the following days. "Maybe," he murmured, his hand sliding to the small of her back with deliberate intent, dangerously close to the curve of her backside, "I'll fire you and keep you here, all day long, so that you belong only to me."

"That's..." her breath hitched as his hand dropped lower, "...rather unprofessional of you."

He lifted his head just enough to fix her with that boardroom stare that never failed to make her pulse race. "Says the woman currently preventing her CEO from attending his meetings." Her CEO? Something warm raced inside of her—she thought, her ceo? And this time, she wrapped her arms tighter—however much her thin arms could tighten; nevertheless, an affectionate hug.

"I prefer to think of it as optimizing your morning routine," she countered, though her professional efficiency was somewhat undermined by the way she melted under his touch, furthermore when he traced the curves of her backside. "Some things are more important than the Zhang Corp merger."

His laugh vibrated against her throat. "Careful, Secretary Kim. That sounds dangerously close to insubordination."

"And what does the CEO do with insubordinate employees?" The question emerged soft and weaker than intended as his mouth traced a deliberate path along her collar, trying her most obnoxiously.

"That depends," he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made her breath catch. "Are they all as beautiful as you when they disobey direct orders?"

She attempted to maintain her composure, though her hands betrayed her by pulling him closer. "I wouldn't know. I've never seen you like this with other employees[2]."

"No," he agreed, suddenly serious as he raised his head to meet her gaze. "You haven't. You won't."

The intensity in his eyes made her throat tight. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he caught her mouth in a kiss that effectively ended all discussion of work protocols and proper business conduct[3]. The morning sun painted complex equations of light across their entangled forms, but for once, neither of them was counting the minutes.

—

[1] The first recorded instance of CEO Kim's morning alarm continuing past its initial 0.3-second alert phase, a fact that would require significant updates to the home automation system's behavioral prediction models.

[2] The security system's emotion recognition protocols flagged this moment for what its algorithms could only classify as "Unprecedented Display of Executive Vulnerability."

[3] Later analysis would suggest that certain forms of insubordination yielded surprisingly positive results in terms of overall company morale, though these findings were kept strictly off the official record.

—

"You haven't eaten properly in days," Minjeong observed softly, her fingers tracing the subtle tension in his shoulders that most wouldn't notice. But she wasn't most people—she'd spent months learning to read the microscopic signs of his stress levels[4].

"I've been eating," he defended, though his attempt at authority was somewhat undermined by the way he instinctively relaxed under her touch.

"Coffee and quarterly reports don't count as meals," she countered, continuing her gentle exploration of his shoulder muscles. "I've watched you skip lunch three times this week alone."

He lifted his head to study her face, finding that mix of strength and tenderness that had first undone him. "You keep track of my meals?"

"I keep track of everything about you," she admitted, not backing down from his intense gaze. "Someone has to notice when you forget to take care of yourself."

His hand curved around the nape of her neck, thumb brushing her pulse point. "And you've appointed yourself to that position?"

"Consider it an extension of my secretarial duties," she murmured, then gasped softly as he tightened his grip in warning.

"There's nothing secretarial about the way you take care of me," he corrected, voice low and dangerous. "Is there, Minjeong-ah?"

The informal address, rarely used, made her breath catch. "No," she agreed quietly. "There isn't."

He studied her for a long moment, his analytical mind cataloging the flush in her cheeks, the slight quickening of her breath, the way she yielded to his touch while somehow maintaining that core of quiet strength[5]. "You're dangerous," he finally said, “dangerously beautiful, so beautiful,” then a kiss on the side of her neck which, eventually, will turn into a hickey and Minjeong hadn’t the power to resist her CEO’s advances anymore.

"Me?" She replied, out of breath, tremored, brilliantly transformed by her smile—the type of smile men fight wars for, the type of smile sinewy sociopathic CEOs would drop down for. "I'm just trying to make sure Korea's most brilliant CEO—I mean, my CEO, remembers to eat breakfast." Her small hand collected the waves of his hair, the aroma of the shampoo she recommended wafted in the air.

“Minjeong, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Is that a problem?” She pulled back her hand along his scalp, gathering hair, then trailing all down his nape, to his back: the type of affection that says, even if you were insane, I’d still be crazy about you.

Instead of answering directly, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth—a calculated sequence of kisses that made her melt further into his embrace. "The only problem," he murmured against her skin, "is that you're making it very difficult to want to leave this bed."

—

[4] Her observation logs, never shared but meticulously maintained, included such details as the precise angle of his jaw when overwhelmed, the subtle shift in his typing rhythm when stressed, and the exact tone of voice that meant he'd skipped meals.

[5] The home automation system's behavioral analysis protocols struggled to categorize this new dynamic, where authority and surrender seemed to flow both ways simultaneously.

—

"Three days," Minjeong continued, her fingers finding the knots in his shoulders with practiced ease. "You've had that tension here since the Singapore deal started falling apart." The morning light caught the subtle furrow in his brow as he processed her words, realizing she'd been tracking his stress levels without him noticing. Her touch was methodical yet tender, each pressure point targeted with the same precision she applied to his scheduling.

"I didn't think anyone had noticed," he admitted, then caught her knowing smile. "Except you."

"I always notice," she replied simply. "Like how you've been drinking twice your usual coffee intake, or how your left eye twitches slightly when the board sends those passive-aggressive emails." Her hands moved lower, finding another point of tension. "You hide it well, but not from me."

He caught her wrist, bringing it to his lips. "It becomes…oddly weird when I see you do the things I usually do." The tease in his voice was softened by the way he pressed kisses to her fingertips.

"Consider it preventive maintenance," she countered, not backing down despite Junho trying to hide his habits under the rug, not backing down despite the heat in his gaze. "Someone needs to monitor your functionality levels[6]."

"Functionality levels?" His laugh rumbled against her skin as he shifted to hover over her. "Is that what we're calling this?"

"Would you prefer 'executive performance metrics'?" She managed to keep her voice steady even as his mouth traced a deliberate path down her throat. "I have spreadsheets..."

"Of course you do," he murmured, teeth grazing her collarbone in retaliation. "My perfectly thorough secretary, tracking every detail."

"Not just details," she breathed, hands sliding up his chest. "I know when you skip lunch to avoid the board members. When you stay late reviewing reports that could wait until morning. When you need..." she paused as his hand curved possessively around her hip, "...someone to remind you that you're human."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Junho lifted his head to study her face, finding that unique blend of submission and strength that had first undone his carefully constructed defenses[7]. "And you've appointed yourself to that position?"

"Someone has to." Her smile carried traces of Busan sunshine. "Besides, I'm uniquely qualified."

"How so, Minjeong-ah?” Another tease.

“Because you love me.” Minjeong stated, matter of factly. And this time, Junho seized her tight, trapping her under him, seizing her two thin wrists. Then, pressed a deep kiss onto Minjeong’s delicate lips. After a while, he released himself from the kiss, the kiss that Minjeong reluctantly let go of—her lips pointing outwards like a duck as he left. Finally, he said, “That’s right, I love you.”

Her stomach stirred with butterflies and more.

—

[6] Her personal files, never shared but meticulously maintained, included detailed protocols for managing various levels of CEO stress responses, from subtle intervention to direct action.

[7] The exact moment of this defensive breach had been logged by the building's security systems, though the footage was classified under "Executive Privacy Protocols."

—

Minjeong lingered in bed, her heart performing calculations that had nothing to do with quarterly reports. The smart home system's sensors detected her elevated pulse rate, though no algorithm could properly quantify the joy radiating from her smile[8]. She stretched luxuriously against Egyptian cotton sheets that still held traces of his warmth, letting herself marvel at the reality of being here, in his space, surrounded by evidence of Junho.

Her mind couldn't help but catalog the endearing chaos around her—academic journals scattered across surfaces, a tablet displaying economic projections that had clearly been reviewed at 3 AM, several coffee cups in various states of abandonment. The morning light revealed what darkness and desire had hidden the night before: Junho's private space was a fascinating contradiction to his public persona, a detail she filed away with all her other precious observations of him.

Rising with practiced grace, she padded across cold hardwood floors, her bare feet gliding across the floor. His dress shirt from the previous night—the one that had hung open as they'd discovered more interesting uses for his mahogany desk—called to her like a siren song. She slipped it on, the fabric carrying traces of his unisex cologne and something uniquely him that made her stomach flutter[9].

Junho emerged from his ensuite bathroom to find her like this: drowning in his shirt, examining his space with that careful attention she brought to everything concerning him. His breath caught audibly.

"That's mine," he noted, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that never failed to make her pulse race.

She turned to face him, letting the hem of his shirt brush against her thighs. "Really? I think it’s mine."

—

[8] The home automation system logged this moment as: "Secondary User Biometrics Indicating Unprecedented Levels of Serotonin. CEO Response: Highly Favorable."

[9] Security footage would later reveal this as the exact moment CEO Kim's usually impeccable morning routine experienced a critical efficiency failure, though no one questioned why that particular shirt never made it to the dry cleaners.

—

"You know," Junho mused against her neck, his hands tracing idle patterns on her thighs, "for someone so concerned about my eating habits, you're being very distracting in my kitchen."

"Me?" Minjeong's attempt at innocence was undermined by the way her fingers kept playing with his hair. "I'm trying to feed you."

"Wearing my shirt. Sitting on my counter." His smile carried equal parts mischief and heat as he pulled back to look at her. "I'm starting to think this is corporate sabotage, Secretary Kim."

She tried to maintain her professional expression, though her lips twitched. "I would never compromise company productivity, 사장님."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow, fingers sliding deliberately higher under his shirt. "Then explain why Korea's most efficient CEO is currently contemplating skipping his 9 AM."

"Poor executive guidance?" she suggested, then squeaked as he nipped her earlobe in retaliation. "I mean... clearly you need better supervision."

"Is that your professional opinion?" His laugh was warm against her skin. "And I suppose you're volunteering for the position?"

"Well," she threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging gently, "I do have extensive experience in handling difficult executives."

He lifted his head, eyes dancing. "Difficult?"

"Demanding," she amended, then added with deliberate sweetness, "High-maintenance?"

"You," he declared, catching her wrists and pinning them behind her back with one hand, "are getting dangerously bold with your performance reviews[12]."

Her answering smile was pure sunshine. "Does that mean I'm not getting that raise?"

"Oh, I'll give you a raise," he promised, his free hand sliding up her spine as he pressed closer. "Right after we discuss your insubordination."

"I have a presentation prepared," she managed, though her breath hitched as his mouth found that sensitive spot behind her ear. "Complete with charts on CEO stubbornness metrics..."

"Using company resources for personal research?" His mock disapproval was somewhat undermined by the way he couldn't stop smiling against her skin. "That's a serious violation of corporate policy."

"And what's the penalty for that?" She arched into his touch, shameless. "More overtime with my boss?"

"Definitely." He captured her mouth in a kiss that tasted like laughter and promise. "Starting now[13]."

—

[12] The home automation system registered this interaction as a significant deviation from standard performance review protocols, though it noted remarkable improvements in overall satisfaction metrics.

[13] Later analysis of the kitchen's usage patterns would reveal this as the morning the coffee maker recorded its latest ever first brew, a delay that would become surprisingly routine.

—

"We're going to be late," Minjeong observed, though she made no move to leave her perch on the counter as Junho's hands mapped new territories beneath his borrowed shirt. The morning sun painted gold across his shoulders, and she couldn't resist tracing the light with her fingers.

"Concerned about punctuality now?" His smile was wicked against her collar. "After deliberately sabotaging your CEO's morning routine?"

"I would never," she protested, then gasped as his teeth found that sensitive spot below her ear. "I'm simply... optimizing your schedule."

"Is that what we're calling it?" His laugh vibrated through both their bodies as he pressed closer, effectively trapping her against the granite. "And how does this particular optimization benefit the company?"

Her fingers curled into his hair as his mouth traced a deliberate path down her throat. "Improved executive mood... increased satisfaction metrics... better work-life balance..."

"Very thorough analysis," he approved, his hand sliding higher up her thigh. "Though I think we need more data points[14]."

"준호야..." Her professional composure cracked entirely as his fingers found bare skin. "The Zhang Corp meeting..."

"Can wait." He lifted his head to meet her gaze, his smile carrying that perfect blend of authority and affection that never failed to undo her. "I'm conducting important research."

"On what?" She managed to arch an eyebrow despite her rapidly dissolving coherence. "How to make your secretary lose her mind?"

"Girlfriend," he corrected, voice dropping to that dangerous register as his thumb traced patterns on her inner thigh. "And I believe we were discussing your performance review[15]."

Jun abruptly stopped their performance review midway because the deal was on the line and time was running short. Minjeong was reminded of this painfully by how Jun pulled away from the kiss—she was pouty about it until they reached the office, when her damascus-like resolve kicks in.

—

[14] The kitchen's environmental sensors registered multiple instances of what could only be classified as "Critical Protocol Deviations," though these readings were automatically archived under "Executive Privacy Settings."

[15] HR would later note a curious correlation between the CEO's improved mood and these new "morning performance evaluations," though no one dared to investigate further.

—

Chapter 2: The Meeting

The Zhang Corp representatives sat across the mahogany conference table, their expressions carefully neutral as they reviewed the merger proposals. Minjeong maintained her perfect professional facade, though her pulse quickened every time Junho's hand brushed hers as she passed him documents[1].

"The third quarter projections," she murmured, leaning close enough that his cologne made her thoughts stray to their morning activities. His finger tapped twice against the paper—their private signal that he needed a moment to compose himself.

"As you can see," Junho addressed the room with that commanding presence that made board members squirm, though Minjeong could detect the slight roughness in his voice that hadn't been there before their morning 'delay', "our integration timeline is aggressive but achievable."

She took her seat beside him, crossing her legs in a way that made his pen pause fractionally on the contract. Two could play at this game of professional torture. His response was to rest his hand on her thigh under the table, hidden from view but commanding enough to make her breath catch[2].

"Secretary Kim," he said smoothly, his thumb tracing dangerous patterns against her skin, "would you pull up the logistics breakdown?"

"Of course, 사장님." She managed to keep her voice steady as she reached for her tablet, though her free hand found his wrist under the table, her fingers curling around it in what could have been either submission or warning.

The meeting proceeded with perfect corporate efficiency, though the undercurrent of tension between CEO and secretary created what the room's environmental sensors could only classify as "Critical Atmospheric Pressure"[3].

—

[1] The conference room's biometric scanners noted elevated heart rates in both CEO and secretary, though this data was diplomatically omitted from official meeting records.

[2] Security footage would later require careful editing to maintain professional appearances, particularly regarding certain "under-table activities."

[3] The Zhang Corp representatives would later confess to the fact that they could tell what was happening, no amount of demure leg-crossing could hide it. Though, they ignored it in order to get that deal (which was integral to them).

—

The private office door clicked shut behind them, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across imported marble floors. Junho rolled his shoulders, tension evident in his posture despite the meeting's success[4].

"Come here," Minjeong said softly, recognizing the signs of his post-negotiation stress. She guided him to his leather chair, her hands already moving to his shoulders. "You get so tense during these meetings." Instead of standing behind him and the chair, she stood in front, impending a mount to get ‘better access’ to his shoulders.

"Keeping my hands to myself requires considerable effort," he admitted, then groaned softly as her fingers found a particularly tight knot. "Especially when you keep giving me those looks."

"What looks?" Her innocent tone was betrayed by the way her hands slid lower, tracing patterns down his upper chest. "I was being perfectly professional."

He caught her wrist, tugging her to face him. "Professional? Is that what you call that thing you did with your pen?"

"Taking notes?" She smiled down at him, letting her fingers trail along his tie. "I'm very thorough in my documentation."

"Very thorough," he agreed, pulling her into his lap with practiced ease. "Though I noticed some interesting gaps in the meeting minutes."

"Oh?" Her hands returned to his shoulders, kneading the tension even as she shifted closer. "Like what?"

"Like how many times you deliberately brushed against me," his voice dropped lower as her fingers worked their magic, "or how your skirt kept riding up when you reached for files[5]."

"Maybe," she breathed, her ministrations becoming less therapeutic and more intentional, "your secretary just needs better supervision."

His laugh rumbled through both their bodies. "Is that what you need, Secretary Kim?"

Instead of answering, she pressed a kiss to that spot below his ear that always made him growl. His hands tightened on her hips in warning, but she didn't stop her exploration of his neck, her fingers still working the tension from his shoulders even as she created a different kind of pressure entirely.

"The door," he managed, though his hands were already sliding under her blouse.

"Locked," she murmured against his skin. "I'm very efficient."

"My perfect secretary," he agreed.

—

[4] The office's environmental controls registered what could only be classified as "Post-Meeting Stress Relief Protocol: Executive Override Engaged."

[5] The meeting's official minutes would maintain strict professional standards, though certain observations were kept in much more private records.

—

"You're still tense," Minjeong observed, her fingers tracing new patterns down his spine. The afternoon light painted gold across his desk, where various merger documents lay forgotten. "Let me take care of you properly."

She slid from his lap, moving behind his chair with practiced grace. Her hands returned to his shoulders, this time with more purposeful intent. Junho's head fell back as she worked a particularly tight knot, a sound escaping him that had nothing to do with professional conduct[7].

"That noise," she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath teased his ear, "is definitely not going in the meeting minutes."

His laugh turned into another groan as her thumbs hit a sensitive spot. "Keeping secrets from the board, Secretary Kim?"

"Only the interesting ones," she admitted, her hands sliding lower, tracing the muscles of his back through his expensive shirt. "Like how my very commanding CEO turns to putty when I do this..."

His hand shot up to catch her wrist in warning. "Careful," his voice carried that dangerous edge that made her stomach flip. "You're getting bold with your observations."

"Just maintaining detailed records," she breathed, not backing down despite his grip. "For example, when I press here..." Her free hand found another knot, making him inhale sharply. "Your left eye twitches slightly. And when I do this..." She leaned forward, letting her lips brush his neck. "Your pulse jumps exactly like it did during the merger talks[8]."

The chair spun suddenly, Junho pulling her back into his lap with decisive force. "You," he growled, hands spanning her waist, "are playing a dangerous game."

Her smile was pure innocence, though her fingers were already working his tie loose. "I'm simply being thorough in my duties, 사장님."

"Your duties," he repeated, watching her with dark amusement as she stripped his tie with expert efficiency. "Is that what we're calling this?"

"Would you prefer 'executive stress relief'?" She gasped as his teeth found her collar. "Or maybe 'personnel management'?"

His laugh vibrated against her skin. "I prefer," he murmured, hands sliding deliberately up her thighs, "when you stop talking altogether[9]."

—

[7] The office's audio sensors temporarily malfunctioned during this period, a technical glitch that occurred with suspicious regularity during certain "private meetings."

[8] Her personal files contained extensive documentation of CEO behavioral patterns, though certain observations were encrypted under "Private Research: Ongoing."

[9] The afternoon's remaining meetings would require creative rescheduling, though no one questioned why the CEO's mood had improved so dramatically.

—

"You missed a spot," Minjeong murmured against his mouth, her fingers finding another knot of tension in his shoulders even as she shifted closer in his lap. The leather chair creaked softly beneath them, a sound that would forever carry new associations in both their minds[10].

"Did I?" His hands slid higher beneath her skirt, mapping territories that were becoming dangerously familiar for office hours. "Or are you just making excuses to keep touching your CEO?"

She pulled back just enough to give him that look—the one that somehow managed to be both defiant and yielding. "I take my responsibilities very seriously, 사장님."

"I've noticed," he growled, catching her wrist as she tried to maintain the pretense of massage. "Like how seriously you took those meeting notes earlier. Very... thorough."

Her laugh caught in her throat as his lips found that sensitive spot below her ear. "I was documenting important observations."

"Such as?" His teeth grazed her pulse point, making her grip his shoulders for balance.

"Such as," she managed, though her professional tone wavered as his hands grew bolder, "how the great Kim Junho gets distracted when I cross my legs. How your voice drops exactly half an octave when you're trying not to react to me. How you tap your pen twice when you're thinking about—"

He silenced her with a kiss that effectively derailed all attempts at analysis[11]. When he finally pulled back, her dazed expression made him smirk. "Any other observations to record, Secretary Kim?"

“I must’ve forgotten, I usually remember better when you kiss me.” She hinted, and he obliged, letting his lips connect yet again with Minjeong. This time, the endless teasing reached a breaking point that both of them coalesced to at the same time.

He tightly grasped her backside then pulled her up from the executive chair to the executive table. Wherein, she was splayed across the wide table. “We really have to ban tables when we’re around each other.” She joked.

“That’d be a terrible idea.”

“How so?”

“Where else could I splay you across like this, then explore you, centimeter-by-centimeter?”

“Hmm…” she hummed, pleased, "Yeah?"

“Yeah.”

“Then come here, my ceo.”

“My beautiful secretary, whatever shall I do with you?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you find out?” She pulled as tight as she could, locking her arms around his neck.

He obliged, meeting lips with her once again. He felt the softness of her face as he explored deeper into the kiss, forgetting time and everything except what was being shared between them. Journeying his hands further, entangling it into the silken strands of his lover as he deepened the kiss, and she replied with a deep sigh—trembling with a mix of her high register.

“You’re such a good woman for me, Minjeong.” He said before nipping at her lower lip, catching it softly between his teeth with a teasing tug, Minjeong let out a breathless laugh, “you’re devouring me, Junho.” Regardless, he dug deeper, letting his entire body shift into Minjeong’s malleable, petite body—letting his hand explore more of her silken strands, almost saying, yes Minjeong, that is my purpose: to devour you.

Now, instead of every 5 seconds, Minjeong’s soft moans that only served to goad Junho on were musically released into his ears every second. Precautiously, she asked, “how good is the soundproofing in your private room-ah!”

“Not good enough to hide your moans, dear.” He replied, his voice like rough gravel. Her eyes widened suddenly from the need to hide her moans. Yet he dug deeper, letting his loin rub against her wet bottom, daring her moan out loud.

Despite all the regulations, the possible condemnation, their passions only grew more. Mouths moving in sync, gazes meeting momentarily, it wasn’t just kissing anymore—it was a language. The type of language where Minjeong coalesced to his dangerous games and learned to enjoy it, almost as much as him.

“Junho, seriously, I don’t want to be seen as-”

“Minjeong-ah, I don’t give a single fuck if my employees hear you and I.” The teeth that so brazenly tugged on her lower lips trailed down her neck, tracing the soft tendons.

Whispering, in a verbose way, “And as you are my secretary, my extension, my life-line, you’ll follow. Me.” And as Minjeong was getting battered by the gravel-slung voice of Junho—she hadn’t noticed how her blouse was opened, bra pushed down to reveal the breasts that he was so infatuated with—only until she felt the torsion of her nipple.

“Ngh!”

“I love that, Minjeong, scream out. I’ll fuck you until the entire floor hears you call my name.”

And another wet mewl that inspired his further deviance.

Feeling the soft suction of his mouth on her neck, she deduced that it could only mean one thing: another hickey just placed above the collar of her blouse, the same sort of hickey that the Zhang corp executives couldn’t keep their eyes off of—any justification in their minds that it was a skin discoloration was debilitated by how intensely Minjeong and Junho shared those deadly glances, likely to jump on each other as soon as they left—and they were right.

“Junho—ngh!”

“Louder.” He replied, testing her, “fucking. Louder.” Then he pressed deeper, grinding his rough textured pants on the creamy soft bottom of Minjeong.

“Please Junho, seriously.” Was all that she could get out of her bated breaths, her deep moans.

Then suddenly, he stopped, caressing the softness of her cheeks with his, back-handed, knuckles.

“You look so beautiful when you’re all tired and exhausted, did I tell you that before?” Letting the tune of his voice marinate with Minjeong (who was recovering from how hot and bothered she was just a second ago).

However good his intentions were, he wasn’t perfect. The way Minjeong’s body looked splayed against the messy paperwork, her blonde hair all frizzy and stuck to the desk, how her chest went in-and-out catching all the breath she lost—all of it made it impossible for him to resist anymore.

He pounced on her again, connecting lips against her wet, trembling lips that nonetheless accepted him so openly, like a warm cup of milk tea on a winter morning. That momentary pause had changed everything, Minjeong—now fully conquered by him—was begging for that penetrative action that he would give out so liberally to her.

“Naughty woman, bad secretary, what else?”

“Junho’s toy.”

“Fuck.” And in a flash, his belt flew off, then in another flash, his pants fell down.

“Tented much?” She was truly in no position to tease: a strategic error.

He grinned at the statement, finally, teasingly, let his underwear fall inch-by-inch.

Simultaneously, she bunched up her legs then pulled off her panty that revealed the color combinations that he would die for. Though before he could look for longer, she crossed her shins—hiding the cause of Junho’s demise behind her thin legs.

They shared a giggle before Jun hugged her soft body.

“I will penetrate you in this office.”

“Yes. It appears so.”

“No, like, do you consent?”

“Idiot..” Minjeong pulled him in for another kiss. Which, coincidentally, made his tip graze her engorged and swollen core, Minjeong almost came instantaneously from that alone.

And he could tell, laughing, “Seriously, Minjeong?”

“It’s your fault, you trained me like this.”

“This is like our 3rd time.” He said, as if to brush it off.

“This is my 3rd time.”

And Minjeong would be certainly hurt by the thought that Junho’s partners before her made it more than his 3rd time for him—some of them, the girlfriends, she saw.

He caught on the clues before it was too late, “Minjeong, not to compare, but who else have I been so crazy about? Who else did I track for every minute of the day? Who else did I let in my home (his girlfriends didn’t, actually, get to enter his home)? Who else would make me lose composure when they’re out of my sight-line?”

Letting his forehead touch against hers, he could feel her heart rend and beat and do all sorts of bothered gymnastics.

“It’s always been about you, Minjeong. You are the brilliance of my life, the expansion of a born star—bright from millions of light years away.”

And she needn’t say anything or reply. Absolving him by wrapping her arms tighter around his nape, then holding up her head to desperately kiss Junho again and again.

In between all the kisses, he penetrated Minjeong. His length, constricted against her core, travelled softly—wringing out all sorts of noises. Her swollen pussy wrapped around him gently but tight. “I love you, Minjeong.” Was the last thing said before Minjeong’s eyes went into the back of her head—a cute habit—before she orgasmed and creamed all over.

As per her request, Junho didn’t stop. He let his hips move as slow as he could possibly go before it could be called torture. During all this, Minjeong grabbed for stability as she was getting fucked through her orgasm, feeling that intense thrusting from the love of her life as she covered his length in more of her slick.

“Oh f-” He covered her mouth this time, respecting her wish to stay at least a little lowkey in the office, whatever the hell that meant right now. Then, shallow thrusts turned into slow thrusts all the way to the hilt, getting Minjeong to scrunch her face in pleasure, eyebrows knitted in the highest pleasure, her mouth agape with strands of her saliva connecting the roof of her mouth to her tongue.

“I love you, Minjeong. Fuck. This is insane, having sex with you in my office.”

“Ngh~ I - I love you so much,” was all that she could get across before succumbing to her dopamine receptors—eyes joining the back her head. Junho connected lips with her again, letting her legs lock around his waist, then rubbing his pelvis against her engorged core, clitoris and all.

After Minjeong finally got used to the familiar motions, he grasped her thin waist, almost wrapping his two hands around the entire circumference of her tight waist. Then their eyes met momentarily, Junho had the I am going to fuck you through this desk eyes whilst Minjeong had the prey eyes that relentlessly coalesced to him. Though, before he could go wild, he brushed off the stray hairs stuck to her forehead, gave a reaffirming kiss on her forehead before pumping all the way in.

The small of her back surrendered to his tight grip, bending against the pushes and pulls. Her legs tightened the lock around his waist—almost painfully tight, but that didn’t matter to him, who’d get to pummel her soft pussy.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he planted his body against Minjeong’s, pinning her two thin wrists against the stable table.

“You’re fucking me so good, Junho,” Minjeong replied, her rare use of the curse made him chuckle by the side of her head.

“That’s right, baby,” Junho bear-hugged Minjeong, only thrusting deeper and deeper, pelvis rubbing against hers, to make her cum again.

“NGHHH~!” The abrupt moan startled him and herself—however, they didn’t care as much about the employees anymore after indulging in each other’s bodies. Instead of stopping or evaluating the situation—as the rationalists would do—they dug deeper into each other, trying to carve each other with their soft and swollen lips.

Suddenly, he lifted Winter and turned her over. Bending her back against the table before dipping his cock into her pussy again. This time, the entrance was entranced with the soft, tight, wet feeling that he was fully obsessed with. This time, he had more ready access to her soft ass that was so soft and supple that he had to relieve it of its aesthetic beauty: with some redness spread across her ass.

“Oh my god!” Winter squeaked as she reacted against the heavy-handed slap against her ass, loving it, spreading—overflowing—his length with her slick.

Leaning over, he held Minjeong’s chin for the last stretch, considerably slowing down and enjoying each other’s presence.

“How much do you bet the coworkers will give us bad looks?”

“The female workers already give me horrible ones.” She said whilst her chin was held stable by his hand, still moaning against the soft thrusts.

“Hmm, broad generalization. How do you know this?”

“That hickey that you gave that was far too purple and far too above the collar of my blouse.”

“No long-necked turtleneck?”

“No, that’d ruin the point, I wanted to show off the gift my Junho-ssi gave.” That was the moment when he moaned hard, pressing deep inside Winter before releasing all his seed—the seed that Winter felt bounce against her cervix, making her moan out and squeal happily.

“God. Minjeong, you will be my demise.” He sighed before Winter turned around and kissed him, “as long as I get to stay with you, through demise and all,” she said between the kisses.

—

[10] The office furniture procurement department would later note an unusual request for "enhanced stability features" in executive seating, though they wisely chose not to inquire further.

[11] The building's environmental controls registered what could only be classified as "Critical Temperature Fluctuation - Executive Override Protocol Engaged."

—

Evening painted Seoul's skyline in shades of amber and gold, the office gradually emptying as another corporate day drew to a close. Only the executive floor maintained signs of life, though its usual efficiency had given way to something far more intimate[12].

"We should go home," Minjeong murmured against Junho's shoulder, though she made no move to leave her position in his lap. His shirt had long since been unbuttoned, her blouse delightfully rumpled, both their professional facades thoroughly compromised.

"Should we?" His fingers traced lazy patterns up her spine, his other hand still possessively curved around her hip. "I rather like having my secretary exactly where she is."

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, finding that unique blend of authority and affection that never failed to make her heart race. "Your secretary has plans for you."

"Oh?" His interest visibly peaked. "More performance reviews?"

"Better." She smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm cooking you dinner. Besides, breakfast was skipped."

The surprise in his expression made her laugh softly. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupted, then added with deliberate sweetness, "Unless my CEO is refusing a direct offer from his girlfriend?"

His hands tightened on her waist. "Using that title to manipulate me now?"

"Is it working?" She bit her lip, watching his eyes darken at the gesture.

Instead of answering, he pulled her into a kiss that suggested dinner might be delayed[13]. When they finally broke apart, his smile carried dangerous promise. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours," she decided, fingers playing with his collar. "Your kitchen needs christening properly."

His laugh rumbled through both their bodies. "Just the kitchen?"

"We'll see how dinner goes," she teased, then squeaked as he stood suddenly, lifting her with him. "준호야!"

"Efficient time management," he explained, setting her on her feet but keeping her close. "The sooner we leave..."

She pressed against him, deliberate and knowing. "The sooner you can help me... cook?"

"Among other things," he agreed, already reaching for his jacket. The predatory grace in his movements suggested cooking might not be the evening's primary activity[14].

—

[12] Security logs would note this as the third consecutive evening of "Extended Executive Hours," though the actual nature of these extensions remained diplomatically unrecorded.

[13] The office's automated systems began learning to expect these end-of-day delays, adjusting power consumption accordingly.

[14] The kitchen's motion sensors would later flag unusually high activity levels, though whether any actual cooking occurred remained a matter of some debate.

Fin

I fixed some stuff that I executed poorly before, like the crazy amount of math references; which, in foresight, was far too much.

I really had to get this out quickly. Now, I think it's a good idea to not expect anything from me for an entire month (hopefully not).

hope u enjoyed.

#smut #kpop smut #fanfic #aespa #aespa smut #fanfiction #male oc #kpop #winter smut #aespa winter

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barnacles34 · 5 months ago

Text

Lost in Analysis (Winter x Male OC)

5k words, smut, fluff, happiness, data

Winter x Male OC

The thing about Junho Kim's[1] weekly debriefs with Minjeong Kim was that they followed a precise algorithm, an almost liturgical routine that both participants had wordlessly agreed upon circa Winter's third month of employment (viz. April 2024). The format went as follows: Winter would arrive at exactly 18:30 on Friday bearing a leather-bound portfolio containing the week's logistics reports, margin analyses, and projected Q3/Q4 modeling scenarios. Junho would pretend to study these for exactly twelve minutes while Winter sat in the ergonomic chair across his desk, her accent becoming pronounced in direct proportion to her anxiety level[2].

What happened on this particular Friday deviated from the algorithm in ways that would later prove significant, starting with Winter's arrival at 18:27[3].

"The Busan account numbers are off," Junho said, his photographic memory already detecting a 0.03% discrepancy in the third-quarter projections. The words emerged with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned human speech through technical manuals rather than conversation. "This is—" he paused, index finger tapping against his mahogany desk in a rapidfire motion that Winter had learned to recognize as his pre-explosion tell, "—unacceptable."

And then something unprecedented occurred.

Instead of her usual composed absorption of his critique, Winter's face crumpled into what could only be described as a squeaky whimper, a sound so incongruous with her usual professional demeanor that it seemed to physically stun Junho into silence. It was the acoustic equivalent of watching a Mercedes-Benz hiccup.

The algorithm crashed.

—

[1] Junho Kim, CEO of Quantum Logistics Solutions, net worth $2.3B (₩3.1T), possessed what his former Harvard professors called "an almost frightening capacity for data retention" and what his former therapist (sessions terminated after 2.5 meetings) called "a pathological inability to process emotional bandwidth."

[2] A phenomenon her roommate had dubbed "The Accent Anxiety Index," where her carefully practiced Seoul pronunciation would gradually give way to her native Busan satoori, ranging from barely detectable at Level 1 ("감사합니다") to full coastal at Level 10 ("아이고, 사장님, 이 숫자 영 아니네요").

[3] The 3-minute early arrival would later be explained by a complex series of events involving a broken elevator, two flights of stairs, and Winter's determination not to let her carefully constructed timeline collapse due to mechanical failure.

—

The following Friday's debrief began with Junho actually pulling out Winter's chair[4], a gesture so unexpected that she nearly missed the seat entirely. The portfolio was reviewed. The whiskey was poured (Junho's usual Macallan 25, Winter's Hwayo 41). And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, Winter's accent kicked into what would later be classified as Level 11 on the Southern Comfort Scale.

"You know what your problem is, sajangnim?" Minjeong's words carried the warm weight of soju and suppressed frustration, her carefully maintained Seoul accent dissolving entirely into coastal inflections. "당신은 인생을 마치 스프레드시트처럼 대하시네요. Everything must calculate perfectly, but people aren't numbers, and some of us are tired of being debugged like broken code."

Junho's finger stopped its habitual tapping mid-motion[5].

—

[4] A gesture learned from a WikiHow article titled "Basic Human Courtesy: A Beginner's Guide" that Junho had queued up on his tablet at 3:47 AM the previous Tuesday.

[5] Later analysis would reveal this as the exact moment Junho Kim, master of algorithms and logistics, encountered a variable his photographic memory couldn't process: genuine human connection.[6]

The office fell into a silence that could be measured in heartbeats (Junho's: an efficient 72 BPM; Minjeong's: an elevated 98 BPM). Outside, Seoul's financial district performed its usual Friday night exodus, the sound of departing Mercedes and BMWs creating a capitalistic symphony twenty-three floors below.

"시간이..." Minjeong continued, her Busan accent now operating at what could only be classified as Level 12[7], "Time isn't just money, 사장님. Sometimes it's just... time. Like those lunches you wolf down in exactly eight minutes while reading reports. Or these Friday meetings where you never actually look at me, just through me at some invisible spreadsheet floating in the air behind my head."

Junho's hand, still frozen mid-tap, slowly lowered to the desk. His photographic memory began involuntarily cataloging details it had somehow missed during their previous 47 debriefs: the way Minjeong's left hand always fidgeted with her portfolio's corner when nervous, how her voice carried traces of sea salt and summer festivals despite years of Seoul speech coaching, the fact that she had memorized his coffee preferences down to the precise temperature (81°C, no higher, no lower).

"I do look at you," he said, then immediately registered the statistical improbability of his own response[8].

Minjeong's laugh carried the particular timber of someone who had been holding it in reserve for approximately 11.7 months. "아니요, you really don't. You look at KPIs and performance metrics and quarterly projections. Did you know," she leaned forward, her accent thick as Busan fog, "that I've worn the same earrings every Friday for three months just to see if you'd notice?"

The earrings in question were small silver cranes, Junho's memory instantly supplied, purchased from a street vendor in Gukje Market during last quarter's Busan office inspection, chosen because their wings formed the mathematical symbol for infinity when viewed from the correct angle[9].

—

[6] A concept that would later require Junho to create an entirely new category in his mental filing system, located somewhere between "Acceptable Business Practices" and "Breathing Exercises (Mandatory)."

[7] A previously theoretical level on the Accent Anxiety Index, characterized by the complete abandonment of Seoul linguistic pretense and the emergence of what Minjeong's mother would call "우리 딸의 진짜 목소리" (our daughter's real voice).

[8] Statistical analysis of Junho's daily eye contact patterns, conducted by his personal AI assistant, revealed an average sustained eye contact duration of 1.3 seconds with all employees, making his current 4.7-second gaze at Minjeong a 361.5% deviation from the mean.

[9] A detail that would have impressed Junho greatly had he noticed it at the time of purchase, rather than at this precise moment when his brain was simultaneously trying to process the concept of infinity and the way Minjeong's eyes reflected the city lights like binary code translated into stardust.

—

The Hwayo bottle stood between them like a glass mediator, its contents depleted by exactly 73.4%. Junho found himself performing calculations he had never previously considered necessary: the precise angle at which Minjeong's smile disrupted his cardiac rhythm (42.7°), the correlation coefficient between her proximity and his ability to maintain coherent thought patterns (inverse relationship, R² = 0.97), the half-life of each satoori-tinged syllable in his auditory memory (approaching infinity)[10].

"There's a pojangmacha," Minjeong said, her words now performing linguistic gymnastics between Seoul and Busan, "down in Gangnam that serves 할매's 파전 just like back home. But you—" she gestured with her glass, creating small amber trajectories in the air, "—you probably have the exact caloric content memorized without ever tasting it."

"624 calories per standard serving," Junho confirmed automatically, then added, in what he would later recognize as his first attempt at human humor[11], "Not accounting for 할매's (grandmother’s) love."

The laugh that escaped Minjeong's lips was genuine enough to bypass all of Junho's statistical models for appropriate business interaction. It was the kind of laugh that made him wonder if his entire algorithmic approach to life had been operating on a fundamental error: the assumption that human emotions could be debugged rather than experienced.

"사장님," she said, then caught herself, "아니, Junho-ssi." The honorific shift created a quantifiable disruption in the office's atmospheric pressure[12]. "Do you know why I cry sometimes when you yell about the numbers?"

Junho's hands found themselves attempting to calculate an emotion he had no formula for. "I... have a working hypothesis."

"It's not because I'm scared or hurt," she continued, her Busan accent now wrapping around the words like a warm coast-side breeze. "It's because I see you turning yourself into code, like you're trying to compile a human being into binary, and..." she paused, searching for words in both Seoul and Busan vocabularies before settling on, "...그게 너무 아까워요."

The phrase hung in the air, untranslatable in its full emotional weight[13].

—

[10] A phenomenon that would later require Junho to create an entirely new mathematical framework he privately termed "The Minjeong Constant: Variables in Human Connection."

[11] Later analysis of office security footage would reveal this as his first non-data-related comment in approximately 2,847 hours of recorded business interactions.

[12] Advanced environmental sensors in the building's HVAC system actually recorded a 0.02% change in air pressure at this exact moment, though causation versus correlation remains a subject of debate among the building's maintenance staff.

[13] The closest English approximation might be "it's such a waste," but this fails to capture the uniquely Korean sense of regret for potential beauty lost to unnecessary efficiency, like trying to measure ocean waves in milliliters.

—

For exactly 15.4 seconds, Junho Kim—master of instantaneous data processing, champion of real-time analytics—found himself buffering. His mind, that perfectly calibrated instrument of calculation, attempted to run multiple subroutines simultaneously:

ROUTINE_1: Analyze the 2.3% tremor in Minjeong's voice during "그게 너무 아까워요"

ROUTINE_2: Process the 7.4mm dilation of his pupils upon hearing his given name

ROUTINE_3: Calculate the exact distance between their hands on the desk (23.7cm, decreasing by approximately 0.3mm per heartbeat)

ERROR: Stack overflow in emotional processing unit[14]

"I have a file," he began, then stopped, realizing that perhaps not everything needed to be classified and stored. "No, I mean... I remember every time you've smiled at work. Real smiles, not the ones you use for clients or difficult vendors." His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking a keyboard that wasn't there. "The data suggests that they occur most frequently when you're talking about Busan, or when you think no one is watching you arrange the office plants, or..." he paused, processing, "...or when you're correcting my humanity protocols[15]."

Minjeong's eyes widened, creating what Junho's brain automatically calculated as a 34.6% increase in their reflective surface area. "You... keep track of my smiles?"

"I keep track of everything," he said, then amended, displaying unprecedented runtime flexibility, "but your smiles occupy 43% more memory space than standard data points."

"아이고," Minjeong laughed, the sound carrying hints of sea breezes and noraebang nights, "only you would quantify feelings in percentages and memory allocation, 사장님[16]."

The Hwayo bottle now stood at 82.6% depletion. Outside, Seoul had transformed into its weekend configuration, all neon equations and binary dreams. But inside this office, something unquantifiable was compiling—a program written in neither Python nor Java, but in the ancient code of human connection.

"There's a logical error in your earlier statement," Junho said suddenly, his voice performing calculations it had never been calibrated for. "About me not looking at you."

"Oh?" Minjeong's eyebrow arched at precisely 27 degrees.

"I look at you approximately 2,347 times per day. My peripheral vision activates in your presence with 72% more frequency than baseline. I have memorized exactly 267 variations of your voice modulation between Seoul and Busan registers[17]. The error," he continued, his own accent slipping for the first time since Harvard, "is in assuming I don't see you."

—

[14] A phenomenon his Harvard professors had theoretically predicted but never successfully documented: the complete shutdown of pure logic circuits in favor of what they termed "human.exe."

[15] A private joke that had never made it past his internal firewall until this moment, referring to the way she subtly guided him toward more socially acceptable behaviors, like suggesting he say "good morning" to the cleaning staff or remember team members' birthdays.

[16] The honorific here carrying a new weight, somewhere between professional distance and affectionate teasing, a linguistic quantum state that would have fascinated physicists had they been present to observe it.

[17] This particular statistic would later become the subject of a 3 AM realization that perhaps "normal" CEOs don't maintain such detailed databases of their assistants' vocal patterns.

—

The confession hung in the air with the weight of a misplaced decimal point. Minjeong's hand, still holding her Hwayo glass, trembled at a frequency of approximately 3.2 Hz. The office's automated climate control system registered a sudden 0.7°C spike in local temperature[18].

"그래서..." Minjeong's voice emerged in Pure Pattern #271 (Subcategory: Emotional Breakthrough), "this is why you always know when I've had 떡볶이 for lunch?"

The unexpected query caused Junho to experience what his systems could only classify as a brief moment of runtime joy. "The specific aroma particles adhere to your cardigan at a rate of—" he caught himself, noting the gleam in her eye, and for the first time in recorded history, Junho Kim deliberately chose not to complete a calculation[19].

Instead, he found himself saying, "Your smile increases by exactly 23.7% when you eat 떡볶이. It's... optimal."

"최적화?" Minjeong's laugh carried notes of soju and starlight. "You're really going to data-analyze my happiness levels?"

"I have spreadsheets," he admitted, his voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth that his diagnostic systems struggled to categorize. "Cross-referenced with weather patterns, quarterly reports, and the frequency of your Busan accent emergence[20]."

"아이고..." She shifted in her chair, reducing the distance between them by precisely 4.7 centimeters. "You're either the weirdest or the most romantic person I've ever met, and I haven't decided which yet."

The word 'romantic' created a momentary buffer overflow in Junho's cognitive processes. His hands, typically occupied with calculating profit margins or optimizing supply chains, found themselves drawing abstract patterns on his desk's surface—a behavior previously filed under 'Inefficient Human Gestures: Do Not Engage.'

"I could..." he paused, processing, "...show you the data?"

—

[17] This particular dataset would later be renamed in his personal files to "The Minjeong Codex: A Quantitative Analysis of Qualitative Perfection."

[18] The building's maintenance staff would later attribute this to a mechanical anomaly, unaware they had documented the exact moment Junho Kim's ice-cold corporate facade began its calculated melt.

[19] A moment that would later be marked in his personal development log as "First Successful Implementation of Strategic Data Suppression for Emotional Optimization."

[20] These spreadsheets, discovered months later during a routine server backup, would become legendary among the IT department as "The Love Languages of Linear Regression."

—

Minjeong's eyes sparkled with what Junho's facial recognition protocols quantified as 87% mirth, 13% tenderness. "보여주세요," she said, the soju making her consonants softer, more Busan-bound. "Show me this data about me."

For the first time in his professional career, Junho Kim fumbled with his laptop password[21]. The Hwayo bottle between them had decreased to critical levels, and he found the standard office lights were creating unusual prismatic effects in Minjeong's hair. His fingers, typically precise to the microsecond, skittered across the keyboard.

"See, here's the correlation between your happiness metrics and the proximity to Korean holidays," he began, then stopped, distracted by the way she'd rolled her chair closer to view his screen. The scent of her perfume (도라지 꽃, his brain supplied automatically, though for once the percentage calculation felt irrelevant) mixed with the lingering soju in the air.

"You made a pie chart," she said, her voice warm with something his systems were too buzzed to properly quantify, "of my favorite lunch spots?"

"The data visualization seemed... appropriate," he managed, aware that his usual processing power was operating at diminished capacity. "Though I may have spent a statistically anomalous amount of time color-coding it to match your favorite blazer[22]."

Minjeong's laugh had shed all traces of its Seoul polish. "어머나, who knew the great Junho Kim was such a..." she searched for the word in both dialects before landing on, "...nerd?"

"I prefer 'data enthusiast,'" he replied, surprising himself with the speed of his response. The soju was definitely affecting his standard processing delays. "Though my enthusiasm appears to be... specialized."

"Specialized?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that created unprecedented disruptions in his cardiac rhythm.

"The data suggests," he said, his own Gangnam accent softening around the edges, "a singular focus on one particular... variable[23]."

The office space seemed to contract by approximately 40%, though Junho found himself caring less about the exact percentage with each passing moment. Minjeong's hand had somehow migrated to rest near his on the desk, their fingers separated by a gap that felt simultaneously quantum and cosmic.

—

[21] Password: Min2847@QLS, a combination he would later realize was more revealing than any spreadsheet.

[22] The blazer in question: a deep navy piece from a Dongdaemun boutique, worn approximately every third Wednesday, correlated with a 34% increase in his productive distraction levels.

[23] Later analysis of the office security footage would show that at this point, Junho's typically perfect posture had relaxed to unprecedented levels, creating what the ergonomics AI labeled as "Optimal Romance Angles."

—

"Show me more," Minjeong said softly, unconsciously tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Something in her tone caused Junho's spinal alignment to automatically straighten, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward slightly. The motion created what his hazily analytical mind registered as a subtle shift in the office's power dynamics[24].

"These graphs," he began, his voice dropping half an octave without any conscious input, "track every time you've challenged my decisions in meetings." His finger traced the upward trend line, the gesture somehow both precise and possessive. "You're the only one who dares to correct my logic. It's... intriguing."

Minjeong's breath caught audibly. "사장님..." she started, then with visible effort, "Junho-ssi... you track even that?"

"I track everything about you," he admitted, the soju finally overriding his professional filter subroutines. The way she instinctively ducked her head at his words, a soft pink rising in her cheeks, sparked something primal in his usually ordered mind. "Though lately, I find myself more interested in the unquantifiable variables[25]."

"Like what?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, her natural deference to his authority softened by something warmer, more personal.

Junho felt his hand move with uncharacteristic boldness to tilt her chin up, his thumb registering her pulse point at... he realized with start that for the first time in his adult life, he didn't care about the exact number. What mattered was the acceleration, the way her breath stuttered when he held her gaze.

"Like the way you automatically straighten my tie when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured, voice steady despite the soju. "Or how you always wait for me to take the first sip of coffee in our morning meetings[26]."

—

[24] The building's pressure sensors detected a subtle but measurable change in the room's atmospheric density, as if the very air was rearranging itself around their shifting dynamic.

[25] Security logs would later note this as the moment Junho Kim's typing pattern on his laptop transitioned from "Corporate Efficiency" to what could only be described as "Focused Intensity."

[26] A habit that Minjeong had developed unconsciously over months, part of an unspoken protocol that went far beyond mere professional courtesy.

—

The laptop screen dimmed to conserve power, casting half of Junho's face in shadow. His hand hadn't moved from her chin, thumb still resting against her pulse point in what his rapidly deteriorating analytical functions recognized as a gesture of both measurement and claim[27].

"You know what else I've noticed?" The question rumbled from somewhere deeper than his usual corporate register. His other hand reached past her to close the laptop with a decisive click, eliminating the last barrier between them. "You mirror my breathing patterns during long meetings. 호흡이... perfectly synchronized."

Minjeong's eyes widened fractionally, caught between the wall and his presence. "That's..." she swallowed, her professional composure wavering, "...very observant of you, 사장님."

"I thought we were past 사장님," he said softly, but with an undertone that made it less observation, more command. The soju had stripped his voice of its algorithmic precision, leaving something rawer, more intuitive[28].

"Jun...ho..." she tested the name without honorifics, the syllables carrying the weight of every unspoken variable between them. Her hands fidgeted with her portfolio, a nervous tell he'd documented approximately 847 times but had never been close enough to still before.

Until now.

His free hand covered both of hers, instantly calming their movement. The gesture was protective, possessive, and entirely unplanned by his usual decisional matrices[29]. "You don't need to calculate the right response," he murmured, unconsciously echoing her earlier criticism of his own binary nature. "Your instincts have a 99.9% accuracy rate."

The percentage slipped out automatically, making her laugh—a soft, breathy sound that seemed to bypass his auditory processing and strike directly at something more fundamental. Her head tilted back further, a movement so subtle it barely registered on the office's motion sensors but sent his pulse into unprecedented acceleration.

"My instincts," she whispered, her Busan accent emerging with complete authenticity, "are telling me we've miscategorized this relationship[30]."

—

[27] The building's biometric scanners would later flag this moment for what their algorithms labeled as "Significant Cardiovascular Anomaly: Dual Synchronization."

[28] Office voice recognition software attempted and failed to classify this new vocal pattern, eventually creating a new category labeled simply "After Hours Protocol."

[29] The exact pressure of his grip would have registered at precisely 7.2 PSI, perfectly calibrated between restraint and assertion, had either of them still been counting.

[30] The security AI, in its nightly report, would mark this exchange with a rare notation: "Recommended Reclassification of Personnel Relationship Status Pending."

—

"Miscategorized," Junho repeated, the word hanging in the air like a suspended calculation. His hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair with unprecedented decisiveness[31]. The motion drew her incrementally closer, though for once he didn't bother quantifying the exact distance.

"yes..." Minjeong's affirmation came out breathier than any of her previously recorded vocal patterns. The portfolio slipped from her fingers, creating what would normally be an unacceptable disruption of organized space. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"You know what's interesting?" Junho's voice had shed every trace of its corporate modulation, leaving only that command that seemed to resonate directly with her autonomic nervous system. "I've run approximately 2,847 scenarios of this moment in my head[32]."

Her hands had found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the precise Italian wool of his suit. "And?" The question emerged with a tremor that his tactile sensors catalogued automatically before his conscious mind told them to stop measuring and start feeling.

"None of them..." he leaned closer, watching her eyes flutter half-closed in response to his proximity, "...included the variable of you looking at me exactly like this."

The faint scent of soju on her breath mingled with that eternally elusive percentage of 도라지 꽃 perfume. Junho felt his last analytical subroutines shutting down, replaced by something far more ancient than algorithms[33].

"Minjeong-ah," he said, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed all honorifics, all corporate hierarchy, all pretense of professional distance.

Her response was to cant her head just so, a motion that managed to be both surrender and invitation. "Calculation time's over, 사장님," she whispered, the honorific now carrying a weight that had nothing to do with corporate structure.

—

[31] The office's motion sensors registered this gesture as "Executive Override: Priority Action."

[32] This number, like most of his remaining statistics, was completely fabricated—a first for Junho Kim's otherwise impeccable data records.

[33] Building security cameras would later mark this timestamp with an unprecedented classification: "Critical System Override: Human.exe fully activated."

—

For the first time in his documented existence, Junho Kim stopped calculating entirely.

The distance closed between them with a momentum that defied measurement. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her face upward as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss, when it came, contained no statistics, no data points, no quantifiable metrics[34].

Minjeong made a soft sound—Pattern #unknown, Category: heaven—against his mouth. Her fingers clutched his suit lapels with enough force to wrinkle the wool beyond its optimal pressed state, a fact that Junho's usually meticulous mind registered and immediately discarded as irrelevant.

Time segmented into a new measurement system: the catch of her breath, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she yielded and pressed closer simultaneously. Junho discovered that his organizational skills apparently extended to kissing, each angle adjustment and pressure variation drawing increasingly desperate responses from Minjeong[35].

When they finally broke apart, Minjeong's carefully maintained Seoul pronunciation had disappeared entirely. "아이고..." she breathed against his mouth, "당신이..."

"Initial results," Junho murmured, his own accent thick with something that had nothing to do with regional linguistics, "require extensive further testing[36]."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest where she was still pressed against him. "Did you just turn our first kiss into a quality control protocol?"

"Quality confirmed," he replied, then demonstrated his newfound commitment to hands-on research by kissing her again, harder this time, swallowing her surprised gasp. His hand splayed possessively across her lower back, holding her steady as she swayed into him.

—

[34] The building's atmospheric sensors recorded unexplained fluctuations in local temperature, humidity, and electromagnetic fields, leading to a complete recalibration of their measurement standards.

[35] Later analysis would suggest that Junho's legendary attention to detail had found a new, decidedly non-professional application, though this data remains classified in personal files marked "Private Research: Ongoing."

[36] The security AI attempting to transcribe this conversation eventually gave up and simply tagged the file: "Error 404: Professionalism Not Found."

—

Somewhere in the haze of non-analytical thought, Junho registered Minjeong's slight backward momentum and moved instinctively to steady her. His hand swept the desk clear with uncharacteristic disregard for organizational protocols, sending the quarterly reports flutter-falling to the carpet in an acceptable margin of chaos[37].

"Jun...ho..." His name escaped her lips like a statistical anomaly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mahogany surface. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him, skirt hiking up precisely 4.7 inches—the last measurement his brain would process for the foreseeable future.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her throat, the words emerging in pure Gangnam inflection, all pretense of corporate diction abandoned. His teeth grazed her pulse point, drawing a whimper that would require an entirely new classification system[38].

Minjeong's fingers tangled in his precisely styled hair, disrupting approximately 47 minutes of morning grooming routine. "사장님," she gasped, the honorific now carrying entirely different connotations, "the papers..."

"Irrelevant data," he growled, recapturing her mouth with newfound authority. The kiss deepened, transformed, became something that defied all previous parameters. Her back arched into him, creating angles that had nothing to do with geometry and everything to do with instinct[39].

A distant part of his mind registered the soft thud of his suit jacket hitting the floor, followed by the whisper of silk as Minjeong's blazer joined it. The city lights painted silver equations across her skin, codes he suddenly needed to decode with his mouth instead of his mind.

—

[37] The office's normally pristine state would require exactly 23.7 minutes to restore, a task that would be significantly delayed by several subsequent "data collection sessions."

[38] Facial recognition software attempting to analyze the security feed would crash repeatedly, unable to reconcile Junho Kim's expression with any known configuration in its emotional database.

[39] The building's structural integrity sensors registered minor seismic activity, though this data would be suspiciously absent from the next day's maintenance logs.

—

He let his hands trail by the sides of her body, one busy with her torso—breasts and all—and the other, feeling the creamy softness of her thighs. And each needy press or pinch, brought out the softest of her moans, the cutest of her lip quivers.

He was busy, marking her lips, making it all swollen and red; yet, still, he couldn’t get enough of her. That soft body, her caring little hands, her hot inner thighs, and that gentle heat radiating off her core—just hidden by the slightest of her skirt. “Minjeong.” He whispered, pressing himself against her—a matter of teasing and also a way to test the waters, whether or not she wanted it on the table.

And Minjeong, not one to initiate, wrapped her thin arms around his nape, pulling him closer, “Yes, yes, please, anything, anywhere,” then a dozen little kisses all on his face. This assurance, this consent, slowly, but surely, made him wrench her legs open—wide. He saw that stain, dark against her gray underwear, and that was when his photographic memory… failed him.

He dug in, letting his loin press up against hers—immersing himself in her wetness. Then, finally, he pulled down on his pants, showing his tent-like imprint on his underwear to Minjeong, who, obviously, couldn’t stop staring. By the end of the minute, that ruthless minute, both were undressed in their lower-half—a utilitarian instinct to fuck each other as fast as possible.

Junho breathed heavily, staring at that pink hue that her core was so beautifully composed of—along with the wetness, the fragrance, and more. “Minjeong…” He held his shaft, lining it up straight on her wetness. She finally replied, “Yes… Junho…” And that’s when he pressed in, into the endless heat.

That wet connection hilt-to-hilt, along with a deep kiss—turned Minjeong completely docile and submissive. That wet connection, her wet slime covering his shaft, somehow, only intensified their lust for each other. He pressed in again, faster this time, earning that soft mewl. “Mhm, fuck me,” she whispered, again and again. He kept honoring those wishes, going deeper, and faster. He tucked his dick into her pussy, wet squelch and all, over and over until he felt his legs get weak from thrusting. Yet, that weakness didn’t deter him, he glided deeper, letting both their pelvises rub against each other, and making Minjeong cry out from the clit stimulation. She felt like she was getting tunneled, this man, the love of her life, crush of her lifetime, fucking her so good into a wobbly table—dreams aren’t even this good.

“I’m gonna cum, Minjeong.” He whispered, low and growling.

“Inside. Please. Inside…” She whispered before getting overtaken by her orgasm.

And just at the peak of her orgasm, the teetering breath before rest, Junho barreled all his semen inside her—rope after rope of semen splashing against her cervix. “Holy fuck.” they both said in conjunction.

—

The Seoul skyline had shifted into its late-night configuration by the time they finally disentangled themselves. Junho's normally immaculate shirt hung open, his tie having long since joined the scattered papers on the floor. Minjeong's hair had abandoned all pretense of its usual professional arrangement, falling in waves that his fingers couldn't seem to stop threading through[40].

"이게..." Minjeong began, her voice still carrying traces of breathlessness as she surveyed the chaos they'd created. Her blazer lay draped over a chair at an angle that would have horrified their usual professional standards. "I should reorganize the—"

"Stay exactly where you are," Junho commanded softly, his arms tightening around her waist. His usual perfectionism had found a new target: the way she melted against him at that tone[41].

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her smile pure Busan sunshine. "데이트하자... be my 오빠?" The question emerged with endearing uncertainty, mixing honorifics and languages in a way that bypassed his brain entirely and struck straight at his heart.

"그래," he murmured into her hair, then with characteristic precision added, "Exclusively."

Her laugh carried notes of joy and residual shyness. "Then as your girlfriend, I should really clean up this mess..." She gestured at the scattered papers, the displaced furniture, the general dishevelment that spoke eloquently of the past hour's activities.

"As your boyfriend," his voice dropped to that commanding register that made her shiver, "I want to watch you do it[42]."

The drive home—his penthouse, by unspoken agreement—required exactly 17 minutes. Neither of them bothered to count.

—

[40] The building's security system would later note this as the longest recorded instance of the CEO remaining in office after hours, though the detailed logs were mysteriously corrupted.

[41] Internal HR protocols regarding workplace relationships were hastily updated the following morning, though no one questioned why the CEO personally oversaw these revisions.

[42] The night cleaning staff would arrive to find the office in unprecedented perfect order, though several employees would later swear they heard laughter and whispered Busan endearments echoing through the empty halls.

Fin

#winter smut #aespa smut #aespa #kpop smut #male oc #female idol #smut

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barnacles34 · 5 months ago

Text

Mr. Rager, Can I Tag Along?

Part I

Synopsis: Mr. Rager finally joins the birds in the skies. Dedicated to the song Mr. Rager by Kid Cudi.

tags: 8k, smut, so much romance, fluff, addiction, recovery, virgin Ryujin

Ryujin x Male OC

CHAPTER I:

You might hear the birds singing flying around,

You never see them too long on the ground,

You wanna be one of them, yeah.

Cocaine toxicity. Solipsism finally vindicated. He was going to die—truly. That cloudy feeling of mind and body separation, as if the ribbons of heaven had finally let him grasp their reins, swaying him toward some version of forever happiness.

Mmmm.

He thought he’d care about dying right there in the nightclub. The shame of weakness, of collapsing with foam at the corners of his mouth—he’d truly thought he’d care more about it. But now, one worry gone, he was worriless. Life had its charm, but it wasn’t for him; he’d been walking on sticks until the very end. Now, the floor felt so right. His body sank into it, slipping slowly, as if turning to slime and merging back into the earth.

Each second, his grip over his fingers weakened, a constant slackening with every passing moment. His eyelids grew heavy, and the outline of the nightclub around him blurred. He couldn’t control his fingers anymore; he was truly sinking. When would heaven begin? When would this fantasy end? Mind-death, a complete and utter submission to the lifeless realm - he’d never recover.

The faint tingling of powder lingered at the rim of his nostrils. At least, he’d had a good high - a nice ecstasy haze along the fine columbian - before dying. Finally, his eyes closed, nerves shutting down, and he felt free, unchained from his body like a ghost.

"Stay with me!" A voice, deep and feminine.

Hm?

"Don’t close your eyes!" Again, that voice.

What?

Whatever. It was too late anyway.

"How many fingers am I holding up!?" Still images flashed through his fading consciousness, fingers held up just before his face, barely visible, though he couldn’t tell how many anyway.

"What’s your name?" He couldn't place a face on the voice, but it was distinctly feminine - separate from his inner voices.

They were trying so hard. If they’d responded any faster, he might’ve been forced to go back - to life.

Go back…

Did he want to go back?

Hell.

Mr. Rager - that’d be a good name, he thought. If he were reborn, given another chance, that’s who he’d be.

"Mr. Rager!"

What? Could the paramedic hear him?

"Mr. Rager! Come back! Fight back! Don’t go off on an adventure!"

—

Flash. Eyes open. He was alive - he was… alive.

"Mr. Rager. You’re okay; don’t make any sudden movements." A soft, padded palm rubbed his forehead with a gentle, compassionate touch. He looked up. A young woman, petite yet strikingly beautiful, looked back at him.

"What’s your name?" he asked, despite himself. Still a bachelor, after all. "My name is Ryujin." She was dressed in a way he couldn’t quite place, something different from what he expected. "I’m part-time, by the way," she said, noticing his confused look. "That’s why my clothes are different." He rubbed his forehead; it was pounding, but with a distant sort of ache, incongruous with a proper headache. “What the hell happened?” he asked, properly confused. “You went into shock, someone already administered naloxone to your body, thankfully; otherwise, you would’ve-” she abruptly bit her tongue, preventing herself from talking about a potentially sensitive topic that Mr. Rager was subjected to.

“And, by the way, this was my first call ever.” A subtle transition, a conversation starter.

He blinks, trying to relieve the soreness in his eyes, “God, I’m sorry, this is such a fucking shitty situation.” And the way he said it, that emotional self-deprecation.

She might’ve realized something, “Were you trying to commit suicide?” She asked, very bluntly.

“It’s none of your business. Thank you for the hospitality, I’ll be taking my leave now.” When he tried to take the IV fastened to his vein, Ryujin softly, with the firmest grip and tone, said, “You’re going nowhere.”

All Mr. Rager could think of were cuss words, cusses against the world, against destiny to be alive for the foreseeable future.

A resolve to suicide is the moment the mind, at the cusp of mind-death, truly enters a dead mind. The inescapable rock-bottom, a self-fulfilling prophecy where one feels truly and utterly fastened to the floor - inhibited of all its freedoms, its happiness.

–

Mr. Rager, or better known as Min amongst his peers - not friends. At the hands of his peers, Mr. Rager sustained a traumatic head injury that tormented him with chronic migraines right from the start of it all - the drunk brawl, that he decisively lost in, at just the age of 17.

See, Mr. Rager had not a single family member except his aunt who embezzled all the funds Rager’s parents left for him. And the last time he tried to talk with his aunt was when he sustained a knife wound on his forearm from her - a deeply tormented individual, she was locked in a home-made cage for most of her adolescence.

And, unfortunately, there’s not a single time where his life is measurably better than the year before - only getting worse until the overdose.

–

Ryujin didn’t inquire further, she was hoping somewhat that her presence might help Mr. Rager. She sat next to Mr. Rager, her hand still on the side of the hospital bed, feeling its soft fabric. Mr. Rager, still irritated, asked, “Why are you still here?”

“Cause I want to be here.” A joking undertone, perfectly acted out. In truth, Ryujin pitied him so much, her first patient, a successful businessman who tried to kill himself at the age of 29 - now that’s fucking rare, usually the cases accelerate at the age of 50 or so.

“Why’d you take this job?”

She replied, “Artistic inspiration.”

“Hm, fantastic idea by the way.” He was sincere about it.

“Thanks.”

“Do you have enough material now?”

“Oh. Plenty. Plenty enough.” She giggled.

“What if I don’t consent to my likeness being represented in your art - medium, whatever?”

“Mr. Rager, don’t you worry, I’ll refurbish it so much that it'll be closer to the likeness of… let’s say… me.”

“Quit the teasing,” he stated, straight to the point.

“I don’t want to.” She replied back, he was one of the few people where teasing seemed to genuinely improve their immediate well-being, and for someone like Mr. Rager - it’s huge. And, he was finally laying, no longer trying to plan an escape, on the flatbed, staring at the ceiling, observing the music player. “By the way, is this music player provided to everyone recovering?” He’s not one to mix words.

“You’re pretty smart.” She replies, a confirmation, fiddling with her torn skirt, presumably from rushing into her para-medic role.

“That’s what I owe you for?”

“Mhm.” Still fiddling, a pouty sort of face formed on her face, it was her favorite skirt.

“How do you want the debt paid?” He inquired, he’s one to never ignore the nascent attachment to his favorite items - thus, he understands: the exorbitant value placed on favoritisms. “I dunno. You’ll still owe me. Big Time.” She stared back, this time, their eyes entwined with a sort of friendliness that is almost, just almost, ethically wrong in hospital circumstances.

“Very well then.” His tired eyes kept pulling on his eyelids. Genuine sleep had seemed to completely take over his body, and yeah, that’s all the meds he’s under: naloxone, antibiotics, withdrawal medicine, and a lovely dose of morphine. “I feel new.” His voice was dozing as his intra-reflection began. As he nodded off, he felt the faint grasp of her hand, so small, yet filled with so much conviction. He’s tripping balls, but she’ll never tell him - presence was what was required of her.

And that was all the validation he needed: for sleep.

As Mr. Rager finally slept; Ryujin stayed for a bit, or about 4 hours. And, still, she’s sitting beside him - making sure that he sleeps and recovers. Just from the chance encounter of a paramedic call, she felt the compulsion to guard Mr. Rager. Poor girl, if she’d seen a dead body for her first call then she’d vomit a week’s worth onto the ground.

After another hour, Ryujin finally decided it was time to leave. She wrote a thoughtful letter, of things that needn’t be said - obviously. But she also left a partition, finagling a creative way to demand what she’s owed. After, she let her boss know that she quit on the spot, that she’d also come back to the same room - a reservation of some sort. She left, leaving the stale, minty air of the hospital with a melancholy that wouldn’t be fixed until she saw him again. Because, when she was writing the note, she wished she asked more questions - Mr. Rager just seemed to lead on the conversation to a charming degree, that other circumstances were of lesser importance.

Ryujin, outside, breathing in the fresh air of the summer, caught the last bus of the route. This route, passing by the road that she was taken on inside the paramedic van, also led to her apartment. Unfortunately, it’s an old, decrepit apartment where only the rudest sort of parties happen. Half the time, the floor above is vibrating thump, thump, thump from the heavy jumps, or the lower floor blasts some of the most needlessly, eardrum-breaking music.

At least she has solitude. Finally free from the dictates of those she didn’t get along with, finally separated from her friends who’d get too boring if she hung along for too long. Now, her family is charming - easy to get along with; now, her friends are always interesting - fascinating to be around. Distance is a marinating technique, or whatever.

Ryujin, the charming shut-in, finally arrived at her place, and began on her art piece. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to list that’s positive about her obsession with art. It’s the time where she vents her frustrations of being a failed trainee - rather, a placement that was restricted from becoming an idol; wallows in the misery of the color tone she loves the most: dark; and, to top it off, she gets bored of visual arts when she tries to make money off of it. Some dastardly sign from the man above, “Your hobby will stay a hobby.”

All that displeasure would be the paint upon the canvas: checkmate, mental turmoil turns to art, she thought. Swipe and swipe, the dirty colored watercolor painting had nearly no form worth thinking - almost entirely brown from the intermixing of the wet, damp color. Then the second layer, an apparition of segmentation, a deeper color, colors that entice and bite back. Then the specificity of the lines, things left unspecified were on purpose. But, this recurring thought, this pounding idea, that she left a man that fell in the depths of the void alone - really began digging into her soul. This thought unto Ad Nauseam brought her nausea that really can’t be eliminated with the will of her conscience. “I should’ve stayed, I should’ve stayed” - the recurrent thoughts that never seemed to leave her. With a sad howl, she fell to the side, crying deep, ruining all her pretty into the sheets - a room so small that her chair was the bed.

–

“I’m still alive”, Mr. Rager repeated this to himself over and over after waking up - not sure whether to feel some sort of rendered triumph. For a moment, he was truly tip-toed in the void, almost encased into the endless hope, of unrendered reality and a horrible sadness; now, he’s alive, breathing, with a full control of his body.

Nothing had caught his attention, the environment, whether there were people around him or not, only life as he knew it - coursing through his veins. The feeble thumps of his chest - his heart, still persevering.

–

Several days of this sort of morning locomotion went on, it was also the time that Ryujin came over. Poor girl brought over new confectionaries - mostly of her favorites; brought lunch boxes she herself fully funded; found ways to amuse herself and Mr. Rager during the listless hours.

“What’s the interest rate of this debt? Surely, a person like me, fastened to the bed with belts (a pure exaggeration), wouldn’t be extorted with dubious rates?”

“Mr. Rager, you’ll have to declare bankruptcy by the end of it, seriously. You owe me. Big time.” She joked back, of course, she didn’t really expect much. By her own goodwill, Ryujin was looking after Mr. Rager, an exchange of her goodwill would almost sour all her community service - again, a flash of her trait, a blithely weak trait in modern society, a subtle revulsion to being paid for her services.

Mr. Rager, however, was the opposite. Rogue-man, Rager man, Mr. Rager, a name that fits him so closely, from the early onset of consciousness, an unruly rebelliousness coursing through his veins at all times, with flourish - with the crimonest red. He’s done it all, disowning his billionaire politician parents, who still relish the thought of meeting Mr. Rager one day; losing all his wealth, gaining it back the next; then, enjoying it all on a single roulette wheel, then forgiving the casino when they couldn’t pay his winnings; and then dying for a few seconds, under the angelic influence of the so-called hellish “nose candy”. But for his closure, his preference—he’s pastless, futureless.

That’s the dilemma, Ryujin hadn’t learned a single thing about Mr. Rager that was worth pulling a strand on. Contradictory statements only confounded her further, and a reply to her joke - of bankruptcy and debt - he’d say, “I’d have to find it buried somewhere.” And she’d think, “What? What the hell? What’s buried? What’s ‘it’ ?”

Often the thought was interrupted, never fully leaving its conception—Mr. Rager wanted to keep it that way. Ryujin, often on her phone, never leaving her eyes off Mr. Rager, spent her delicate hours in the breezy, spacious hospital room.

Mr. Rager, of course alarmed, would ask - every day - “why do you visit so often?”

Then, Ryujin, really not knowing an answer, would default to a bland answer of so and so - real political talk. This procession, of nothing happening, stretching on for days was repetitive. It also made them happy. She’d put on her makeup, with her artsy hands - quick and fast. The rapidity with which she approached this situation, so contrary to all the aspects of her life - seemingly, Mr. Rager had brought vitality to Ryujin.

And in comes the day of withdrawal, the hospital withdrawal - where Ryujin and Mr. Rager resided comfortably. The door clicked softly as the nurse entered; simultaneously, Ryujin and Mr. Rager’s hairs stood up - what are they alarmed for? It was not, the nurse, no, absolutely not, the nurse was jovial, happy, thinking that she was delivering happy news.

She didn’t know that both of them found their only sources of joy inside this hospital. The nurse thought that she was relieving them of a most ludicrous bill, by ending it as soon as possible - as this hospital in particular, charges in hours, yeah, real dystopian shit. And so, it was a surprise when both the people had an almost disdainful stare towards her - it’s just my imagination, the nurse thought.

–

“Are you sure? You know overdraft schedules cost significantly more?” The nurse asked, confused, concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, I just want to stay here for one more day.” Mr. Rager replied.

“But, but - do you have any ailment? That’ll bring down the price.”

“None at all, I just want to stay here for another day more.”

Rich people are nuts, the nurse, still, complied, letting him stay, leaving him for another day.

–

As the day progressed, Ryujin came back, again, in the evening. “Your schedule, how do you do that?” Mr. Rager was genuinely impressed with how Ryujin utilized her time, imagine his surprise when she just says, “I just skipped some stuff.”

“Alright, well, thanks for coming.” And that got Ryujin thinking, was this his first time thanking me? Which, in fact, did make her day. And, she wouldn’t dare challenge this once in a lifetime behavior - that’d be a quick way for that behavior to be stashed away, forever. Again, as soon as she entered, the atmosphere changed.

It’s about damn time they understand the euphoric peacefulness they rouse for each other. And, today was one of the moments where Mr. Rager gives a slight glimpse of his life - the confounding ones that really led to nowhere. “I think my aversion to alcohol comes from the fact that I had kids with this chick, married this chick, bought a mansion for us to live in - and, only too late, realized that it was really the alcohol that talked.”

Ryujin’s heart sank, “what? You have kids?”

“Not anymore, don’t have custody over them anymore.” He was so unbothered, utterly unbothered.

“I’m sorry for asking, just curious—what happened to them?”

He chuckled, “No more personal questions after this, alright?”

She nodded, her beady eyes on full alert. The pillow that she borrowed from the hospital bed, on her lap. She was intently listening from the comfortable armchair.

“I let her take the kids, she didn’t ask for alimony or anything like that—just that, on the condition that I don’t contact them ever again.” He stared at the ceiling, sorting some of it out, not sure if it was some traumatic experience. Nevertheless, he continued, “she found me unbearable after a while, and I found her unbearable as well. I was never there too: too busy with money. She probably didn’t chase after alimony because she already had a sweetheart - with money - to get back to.” With so much ease, as if he’d been through too many lifetimes - too many he can remember.

“Oh,” that’s it, that’s all the reaction she can give.

“Oh, what’s with that reaction?” He chuckled.

“I-I’msorryIdon’treallyknow-” she paused, “Hey! You’re being so annoying today.”

“Sometimes, a flipped script - like teaser gets teased - leads to masterpieces.”

“Any examples?”

“Nah, I just made it up.”

From then on, the conversations continued; the deep introspective pauses continued, listlessly; and both began to feel the drowsy effect of the combination of warm light and black-out curtains.

And a tired Mr. Rager loves beauty.

“Ryujin.”

“Hm?” She looked back, staring at him with her doe eyes.

“You’re like marijuana.” One can say he has a way with words.

“What?” Her brows stitched in confusion.

“You’re fucking amazing to have around. But, I swore to never, nev-” He fell into a deep sleep, so contrary to his habits: he’s never fallen asleep with his own mind’s permission.

Her doe-like eyes opened farther open. Her heart began beating listlessly, skipping beats. I’ve got to leave, before I-. Yet she magneted closer to the bed, where Mr. Rager slept so peacefully. Did I do that? He’s always complaining about sleeping, yet- yet he slept so easily. She was making up all sorts of situations, scenarios, theories - none of them healthy for the mind.

And, before she knew it, under the bright moonlight radiating into the room, gentle shadows across his face, she leaned closer, letting her soft lips touch the peak of his cheekbone, causing shivers across her spine, and she thought fuck, fuck, I’m really doing it - and when that wasn’t enough - then his forehead, feeling the warmth radiating from his forehead on her lips. But no more, that’d be too much, too much.

Under her own shame, her bright flush cheeks, her dilated pupils, twin pools of dark moons: she quickly left the room, carrying all her stuff such that it’d be guaranteed to fall in the middle of the hallway, a real mess she made of herself.

CHAPTER II:

Keep movin' forward, keep movin' forward

I'm so-I'm so reborn, I'm movin' forward

Along the way home, the realization washed over her like a molotov flame - its gentle but fiery shimmer covering the entirety of her body. And the way her heart pumped, any performative act she could do to stop it was useless - ultimately doing nothing, nada, zilch. The sound of his roaring laughter from her jokes, the curve of his smile, the messy stubble, god, she was really losing it inside the bus. Her every thought, motion, every constriction of her body - pulse and all - was consumed by him. Her legs rubbed together desperately, and the slightest, faintest moan left her quivering lips as she let her imagination go wild.

And the fact that… that an elderly lady was behind her, judging her provocative movements, just nudged her on further - full on deviant shit.

As soon as she’d be home, she’d have a towel under her.

–

Fortunately, past the hospital departure, they wanted to see each other again - platonically. However, it’s been days, and though that may seem quite short, they’ve never been separated for more than 12 hours.

And these days, these listlessly long days, let Ryujin know of her sympathetic entanglement, and, seemingly intensifying it. Ryujin, with her sore body, stared at Mr. Rager’s phone number on her phone - the curves of the numbers kept reminding her of everything she thought about days before (the curves of the numbers some dubious correlation with Mr. Rager). She’s about to do it again, two fingers, knuckle-deep, into her folds until she’s a drooling mess on the bed. She was already a mess to begin with, a crook in her neck, half her bed unmade, sleep-deprived.

That isn’t to say that Mr. Rager wasn’t just as affected. He never succumbed to the pleasure of the hand, but the dreams, the wistful dreams. Imagining her close smile against him, moaning soft and goading phrases right into his ear - melodiously erotic. Her soft palms against his broad back, pressing deep - trying her best to not scratch up his back. You’re fucking me so good, mm- she’s whimpering, right on your ear, fuck, shivers throughout. Then, halt. It’s the fucking alarm.

Both awake, going through their groggy morning routines to finally meet again. Would it be as magical as it was in the hospital? Would it ever be so calm?

–

The time to meet was approaching quickly. Ryujin got ready, her perfect face, judiciously given with all her perfect talents, was colored with minimal effort, any more and she’d show off her inexperience with makeup - Mr. Rager would’ve lost it all regardless. Because, she was dressed in this tight dress, the type of dress that a girl like her deserves, expensive, ornate, sexy; but, she was a special case, she’d never worn something so ornate and so revealing, and the mirror would reflect a little doe desperately pulling on the hems that revealed her taut thick thighs, the cusp of her petite bosom, and any effort to cover was an ultimately futile effort, this was something she had come to terms with, before leaving her small studio.

And, as if she were in a Wong-Kar Wai movie, she entered the bus: all glammed out in a shitty environment. And the nervous eyes in the bus quickly looked away, intimidated heavily; still, some passengers hoped that they could get a glimpse with the spasm of their pupils to her direction - that’s how good she looked.

She sat down mindfully, crossing her legs - alarmingly aware of the stares. Her face adopted a natural blush - a face too beautiful to hide. Her eyes, set beneath her delicately arched eyebrows, stared at the reflection of herself from the wide glass. She’d never be able to understand her own beauty, too often enveloped in imposter syndrome, and the only person, Mr. Rager, would be the one, who could tell her the beauty of her cascading black hair; her large eyes, accentuated by a deep-set gaze; the beauty with which she carried herself, awkward, yet enigmatically, always, the most beautiful person in the room.

Mr. Rager, gaunt from the opioids, still looked herculean, a fitful combination that fit any clothing piece. With an androgynous face that was covered with sharp eyebrows, dark under eyes, high cheek-bones, and a sort of asymmetrical face that was almost better than the conventional symmetry: in summary, he was someone you couldn’t miss. This inherited comeliness comes with its risks, from the ease of life to the women, things that Mr. Rager succumbed to in violent fashion. Other than that, his preparation was pretty rapid, hopping into his entirely dark-tinted - for obvious reasons - car and set off into the gentle night.

Ryujin landed at the closest bus point to the meeting point. Her dress was unsuited for the weather, and her body began going frigid under a chilly summer day. That’s until a black car, a mercedes s-class, stopped ahead of her. It was nothing to be worried about, she’d just pass by it, acting as if she didn’t see it. However, the figure that exited the car was all too familiar: Mr. Rager.

“Ryujin.” Mr. Rager took a look, scanning her body - making it all too obvious with his pupils - instantly realized why he’s been thinking constantly about her - she’s just the most beautiful person.

And Ryujin, the way her knees slightly folded from seeing Mr. Rager, a slight spasm in her joints - she really missed him. And her hands crossed together between her loins, her eyes opened slightly larger.

“Don’t be so nervous.” He chuckled, that chuckle, that deep chuckle - Ryujin could feel the heat in her core. “Come in, you still have a long way to go,” she gladly accepted, entering into the car: feeling the soft seats, the fragrance of the unusual smell of vanilla and sandalwood (in a car?), and the overwhelming luxury around her surroundings.

“Be sure to dial the temperature or dial whatever you need, I’m sure you were pretty cold outside.” Mr. Rager said, aware of how Ryujin is not one to engage in something without permission - only if he knew what she’d done, the moment before she left, that day. However as he talked, all Ryujin could respond with was a chuckle, she was too focused on how the sentence sounded, how his eyes placed on her face, and occasionally, how it landed on her chest. And that was just the pinnacle for her.

He couldn't stop his gaze, this fermentation of a pending calamity was bounding closer and closer, and thrilled both parties to no end - they couldn’t even hide their own temptations behind the screen of a platonic hang out. By the seconds, the passing seconds, they got bolder, he got bolder. He let his eyes wander far down, her creamy white legs, her meticulous maintenance of it all. And Ryujin was wallowing in it all, his sharp gaze made her feel warmer, wetter - enticing her to dial down the temperature, a contrast from when she was so cold outside.

Still, they’d say nothing, despite it all. The silent hum of the tire scraping against the asphalt was all the credence, the distraction, they were allowed. The rest was this endorphin-filled, endorphin-crazed environment where both of them knew that they were pushing too quickly, given the fact that this companionship began from a suicide attempt.

Still, there’s this slip of time, where they could, possibly, love each other. Though, before these exponential entropic forces caused all sorts of calamity, they arrived at the spot. This run-down complex, that hid a quaint restaurant with private rooms, was a source of nostalgia for Mr. Rager. Ryujin followed, climbing the stairs, ascending just behind him, pulling down on her dress, sticking her thighs together as she climbed (a natural precaution). The restaurant was exactly that, quaint. They entered one of the tight-fitting cubicles, where they sat across from each other, a small sitting-table separated their bodies - unfortunately.

“Don’t be too worried about this restaurant, it may be run down, but it’s a great experience.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m not worried about that, I frequent far more run down establishments than this.” As the words left her tongue, Ryujin cringed, frequent? What am I? A prostitute? Her eyebrows knitted.

“Relax Ryujin,” he chuckled, “enjoy yourself, I’ll pay for it all.”

“That’s the first step to the debt?” Ryujin grinned, loosening, gaining her natural confidence.

“Perhaps. Come on, go crazy.” There it is, that nice toothy grin, her cheeks ripple into some sort of whiskers - god, he’d do anything for that, again and again.

The dishes came, oily dishes full of food, and Ryujin’s eyes glazed in excitement. After a brief, too quick, moment of eating, both of them leaned back - absolutely full.

“You got a bird’s stomach for your ambition, Ryujin.”

“And you’re a head taller than me, but you’re leaning as well!”

“Good point.” He chuckled, fighting indigestion through it.

“I don’t even like oily food.”

“Me too.”

This time, a collaborative laugh.

Mr. Rager paid the meager bill, leaving all the food to rot on the table - the plight of abundance.

–

“Anything you want to do today?” Mr. Rager asked, putting on his seatbelt.

“It’s really late, I really wanted to punish your wallet, you played your cards right going out so late..” Ryujin relaxed into the seat, fully comfortable, in-tune.

“Well, if you don’t have any plans. Mind if I go the reservation for us?”

“What reservation?”

“That’d ruin the surprise, Ryujin.” The ambient sound of the tires against the ground in combination with the dark night - the darkest night before morning - was an even more intense atmosphere.

This peaceful atmosphere, intense, yet peaceful, again, just like the hospital visits. This interesting continuation of happiness, so foreign to his life, was something that he could get used to. His forearm pressed against the storage compartment, letting his hand spill over; his other arm was loosely steering, as loose as the gentle dark night.

As he trailed the road, occasional peeks at Ryujin showed her transition to sleep: drowsy eyelids that infrequently close for periods of time, then, longer periods, then, sleep.

Who was this angel? This angel that wrought Mr. Rager all manners of hope, of happiness, of reflection. If he hadn’t been so stubborn about his affliction towards personal information, maybe, just maybe he’d understand her more, this girl - so beautifully clad in a flowery dress.

Is this love, this elusive feeling? How could it be so cruel? So cruel as to bring it to me at a time so random, and so heavily…

Again, he forgot his bad habit: speaking his thoughts out loud.

He realized too late, and he could feel her large eyes staring at him, confused.

Yet, and yet, he felt the gentle warmth of another palm on his forearm - a reassuring grip.

“Min, I love you too.”

CHAPTER III: No Longer Mr. Rager

I want to kiss you on your space below your navalette

The place you keep so neat, so moist like a towelette

Ryujin, her beautifully beady eyes looked at you, as she lifted your forearm, planting little kisses all over it.

“Oh Ryujin.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for that, Min.” A statement that left her lips as she continued worshiping his forearm.

Jesus, this woman.

He pulls into the closest parking spot, giving not a single fuck that there were a few cars there - all likely empty, anyway.

And, with all pretenses and courtesy removed, the forearm that was so judiciously worshiped, wrapped around her nape, pulling her into a searing kiss. That deep moan, that accepting moan as his mouth opened against hers. He almost forgot the most essential question - suddenly, slightly pulling away from the kiss.

“How’d you find out about my name, Ryujin?” Min asked.

“A woman doesn’t disclose her secrets, besides, how could my love not have a name?” Cheesy, feisty, what a woman.

“Good point.” Another searing kiss, dynamic, evolving, every step more depravedly romantic than the previous.

He was pretty sure that he’d break something, in the middle compartment, that separated you from total body connection. Again, you pull away, this time, it brought out a desperate whine out of her, her arms that wrapped desperately around you kept pulling you in - like a vortex.

She understood the memo as soon as he exited the car - love connection. This time, with a wider space, still constricted, was the best they could do, and they’d relish this extra space. Min, naturally assumed dominance over Ryujin, her body acclimated against his aggressive pulls and pushes - all for the pleasure of Ryujin, and she didn’t take it lightly, each breath heavy with the densest pleasure. Oh, oh, oh, keep manhandling me. She’d whisper. And he’d obey.

As Ryujin, with her tight dress, splayed against the seats on her back, took initiative to take off Min’s clothes, button-by-button. “Oh I’ll fuck you so good, Ryujin, so fucking good.” He’d repeat, over and over, and Ryujin would get more aroused by each iteration: “Yes, yes! Please.” Occasional soft bites were felt all over his collarbone, his neck, his earlobe. “Possessive little bird, I’m not going anywhere.” He caressed her head, making sure that he’d also mark her, a heavy hickey on her neck.

And Ryujin fucking loves it, she softly caresses him, soft grasps against his back, locking her taut legs around him, begging for continuations. And, Min would obey, in his own rebellious way, tightly grabbing her breasts - hidden behind the dress - then pressing kisses all over her neck, nearly all of them hickeys.

“Fuck the reservation,” he grunted, it was an expensive reservation, but he doesn’t give a fuck: Ryujin’s right under him, begging for him to ravage her taut body. And she replies, “That’s right, that’s right, mister, master!” The end of her sentence was capitalized by Min’s heavy grasp on her breasts.

“That’s right, little bird.” Low grunts against her ears, his thick shaft, covered, grinded against her body, while his mouth assaulted hers.

And she cums, her head turns up, looking wherever - straining her neck - to release her pleasure. “Ngghhh!!!” A heavy whine, so enthusiastically human, straining against the seats that held her back. “Holy shit! That was so amazin-” enough talking, he’d motion, locking mouths together.

Silent moans, “mmmf..” hummed against his tongue, Ryujin was so turned on, and he’d love to fulfill all her wishes. Each rotation of his hip against hers were accentuated by Ryujin’s deep moan, squeaky moans, the moans that she couldn’t hide by covering her mouth. His hand, fixed onto her breasts, finally ventured below, feeling her lithe abdomen - the slightest abs - then letting his hand rest on her pelvis, just above her pussy.

He finally released himself from the hypnotizing kiss, staring at her body - mostly still covered by the dress: now, that, won’t do. He pulled on the bottom hem of her dress, revealing her wet core, an embarrassed squeak along with it all. “You’re so fucking hot, Jesus,” he had a taste of what her body looked like, and he just can’t get enough. All precaution thrown out the window, the expensive dress was about to be ruined, and Ryujin - ever resourceful - seemed to allow it. He pulled the upper hem of the dress down, breaking the straps that could’ve been removed easily - this is a statement, I own you - Ryujin seemed to get the memo - all beady and begging.

Her soft breasts, creamy, smooth, with pink nubs spilled out from the tight dress. He pressed both his hands, all over her body, exploring the transitions from her taut skin to the scrunched dress, making sure to remember every facet of it all. “How badly do you want it?” He whispered, wholly focused on her body, subtly noticing her wet core, the outline of her pussy growing clearer by the second. And Ryujin didn’t even have to answer the question, locking her legs around his waist, frantically trying to get her hips on his covered shaft - yeah, she’s fiending for it.

And Min, ever the indulgent, gently moved and hovered his hand over her neck, waiting for that confirmation, that wink, that nod - and, Ryujin, calming down from the intense pleasure, nodded. That first grasp, tight, measuring her tolerance, measuring just the moment when the eyes go back to her eyes - and he seemed to completely pinpoint it, that slight spasm of her body, and her inner thighs are just soaked.

Finally, Min decided it’s time to give her sopping cunt some attention. Peeling the layer to the side, wet with the highest arousal, hid her bright pink core - and it, her core, was begging to be sated, pulsing, glistening, beautifully fragrant.

Firstly, he let a single finger prod, then entered. And Ryujin was already shaking, her eyes went straight to the back of her head, and her neck vascularized - all veiny - from the soft choke. It would’ve been too cruel to give her too much pleasure, so he took his hand off her throat, instead, patting her head - letting her know that she's doing so good, so good.

In and out, motion of the ocean, slick covering his finger the deeper he went, earning the most virile moans out of her cute mouth. “You like that, huh?” He dug deeper, until his knuckle - a loud moan. She had never felt anything like this, her two fingers could never compare, and she’s a virgin after all, and she’s about to get deflowered in the backseat of a car - and, she loves it.

In a swift motion, where Min continued his manhandling of Ryujin, he pulled his finger out - in a hook motion to agitate her g-spot, earning a girlish yelp - then, let Ryujin taste her own juices on his finger.

“You’re doing so good.” Min whispered, so overly joyed by Ryujin, how her petite body convulsed in pleasures beyond what he could ever imagine.

“I know.” Ryujin replied, defiant to the end. She knew exactly how this inspired him to be rougher - and she loves it. He gripped her waist, gripping harder, letting her firm abdomen mold against his grip, dug deeper into her cunt, placing his thumb over her engorged clit. One. Two. Three motions around her clit, three motions of his finger into her cunt - before she squirted onto the side window, far more girlish yelps, and desperate panting. This time, Min with his wet hand, spread it all over Ryujin’s face - the essence of her arousal, via his hand, spread on her face, where makeup was placed so thoughtfully, only to be ruined by her own squirt. She’s panting amidst all this, unable to process anymore than her overwhelming second orgasm.

“You’re a fucking mess, Ryujin, cumming this quickly?”

“You made me this way…” She huffed, “you fucking brute.”

This time, all Min does is press against her pelvis - specifically, the pelvic bone, where just below is her g-spot, and the slight pressure, was absolutely deadly. All the while, he declared, “That’s right, little bird. I’ll press you against the seat, face-down, slam into your ass with all the force I can muster - then, when I’m deep, too deep, cervix-level deep, I’ll release all my cum into your precious little womb.”

“Nghhh~~!” And another squirt, where her legs closed together, toes curled, and her head hung back. While Ryujin was trying to recover, Min placed a quick and wet kiss on her lips, but that'd be the only romanticism that Min allowed her. Quickly, he let her sit up, pulling her by her thin wrists. Then, he pulled down his own pants - letting his shaft free from the restraints of his tight clothing, the painful onset of an early blue balls in its conception, that was only fuel to the fire to fuck Ryujin good, and hard.

“Sit on my lap facing me, Ryujin.” He demanded. And no matter how much Ryujin came, squirted, panted, and yelped - she’d always oblige in Min’s demands. She quickly hooked her other leg over him, in a hovered position rather than sitting. This time, he passed his fingers through her wet hair, letting it pass behind her ear, “safe word is Mimetic,” and he earned a soft nod from Ryujin, and consent to batter her sopping, wet, sticky, engorged pussy.

He slithered a hand around her waist, holding her in place; then, placed his other hand around her neck, just on the nape. He pulled her in for one last kiss. The last bit of eye contact before penetration, and all that could be seen in Ryujin’s eyes - beady and all wet from pleasure - was a fiending desire to be fucked silly.

Slowly, he let her descend, right up until his tip kissed her wet folds. She winced from her sensitivity, just from the touch. And that’s when it flashed in her eyes, she wasn’t sure if she was ready, given the fact that she hadn’t told him about her virginity. Before she could realize her thoughts through speech, she felt the intense heat of something foreign entering - something so thick and large - and it wrought every emergency signal in her brain - all of them, positive. “Oh–OH, fuck…” is all that Ryujin squeaked out before he pushed in deeper, feeling her gentle pussy wrap around his shaft - all wet and moist. A constant sizzling whisper could be heard from Ryujin as he buried his cock deeper, until, halfway in, where she let out a deep moan. “Holy fuck,” she moaned again, deeper. Holy fuck is right, her body was so resistant, tight right at the start to the end, yet, the way it also sucked his shaft into its wet folds - Min was already addicted.

“Ryujin, you’re so tight.” He said as he kept nudging Ryujin to move farther down, waiting for her glistening pussy to completely wrap around his shaft - then, eventually, completely devour her in the backseats of his own car. Yet, as he went through it with her, he began clueing in on the note - Ryujin is very.. Too sensitive. Why Ryujin focused on getting herself down, skewering herself on his length - desperately breathing, her chest dilating in and out. Through it all, as Ryujin tried to, adorably, hide her inexperience, Min pressed a compassionate kiss right into her mouth.

“I love that. The fact that you’re so horny for a virgin.” He whispered against her mouth, breathing hotly, immeasurably hard.

And Ryujin needn’t respond at all, all she needed to do - well, did - was reach out with her tongue for his mouth, with those prey eyes, begging to be taken, testing her fickle fate - a sign that he needed to kiss her, devour her, again and again until hell freezes over. And finally, during the desperate haze of a reunification of mouths, he finally buried himself straight to the hilt, in her pink, glistening, sopping, beautiful core. And slowly, the wet sounds of sex, so blatantly loud in this claustrophobic environment, reverberated inside the car; the wet sounds of her moans covered this hazy atmosphere, coming from her lips that detached from his mouth, streaks of saliva still connecting them both; and that feeling, this mutual feeling of utter bliss, how her back bent - contorted - into every pump.

They couldn’t stop staring at each other, two perverts, two soulmates who couldn’t go for a second without looking at each other. Even when Min pushed up harder, letting his full length pass through her virginal hole, they still maintained that sensual eye contact - that essential eye contact.

“You fuck me so good, Min.” Ryujin said as her two small breasts jolted from every pump, every contraction of his length leaving her one step closer to ruin - until her eyes went back to that dangerous place, that orgasm line. And the resulting pressure, that heavenly pressure, pressed against his shaft so strongly, that his tight-lipped mouth let out a few growls of pleasure, a sign that he’s close to painting her womb in baby batter.

Ryujin, ever the caretaker, felt the convulsions, and began pressing desperate kisses over his face - anywhere she could reach, whilst patting him on the back. And Min would never admit he liked it, that he loved it, and he didn’t need to admit it, Ryujin already knew.

And she knew exactly, that this was the final straw that she needed to break before she was filled with his essence, the catalyst of that final convulsion. Min immediately seized, grabbing Ryujin in a bearhug - one that could’ve bruised her - and pumped hard, that final wet sound of sex, before, rope after rope of release entered deep inside her, splashing against her cervix, filling her womb.

“FUCKKK!!” He growled, he hadn’t felt this good since ever. And the same for Ryujin, who cried a leaky yelp, where her last bits of squirt flowed down the slightest nook from their love connection. They were static for a moment, relishing in the deviant copulation they engaged in, where, almost, the condensation of their lovemaking was visible in the air of the car.

“I love you.” She kissed him again, staring all lovey-dovey, as if her pupils had gone and turned into hearts.

“I love you.” He stared at her, happy, smiling.

“I love you more.” She added, exaggerating her laugh, trying to tease.

“I concede.” He replied.

“Heyyy! You’re supposed to say it back!” “I’m more for physical demonstrations. Wanna see?”

“Uh no. Please. It feels like it's about to fall off.” She was mentioning her pussy, all swollen and gummy to the eye.

“I love it, it’s so beautiful.” He replied, fully serious, digging his mouth into her neck, he was absolutely crazy about her.

“Min, I gotta take a shower, you’re being gross-” that’s when Min pressed a finger onto her - still engorged - clit, and proceeded to say, “I’m fucking crazy about you.”

“Ngh! Stop! Seriously, it’s about to fall off.” Unfortunately, the collected accumulation of their love juices swiftly dripped down as Ryujin jolted back from him touching her clit.

“Isn’t this gonna stain your car until the end of time?” She stared at the significant puddle of who knows what.

“Let it. A commemoration of our intense copulation.”

Ryujin blushed, quickly grabbing the tissues that Min offered her, and wiping off all that she released, her entire lower half, essentially, was wet. And Min got aroused from watching Ryujin cleaning herself - her little winces when she slightly grazed her cunt only adding fuel to the fire. “Clean my cock.” Min demanded, but when Ryujin grabbed the tissues - ready to oblige - he replied, “with your mouth.”

To be continued...

Ahhh, I love cliffhangers. Enjoy waiting for 10 months! (just kidding!)

Honestly, I wanted to take months with this project, but I just can't seem to stop myself (from writing mid stuff).

#ryujin smut #ryujin #itzy smut #smut #kpop smut #fluff #m!reader #male reader #idol!submissive #fanfic #itzy #kpop #so much fluff #recovery #love #romance

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barnacles34 · 6 months ago

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MASTERLIST

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.” ― David Foster Wallace

Series:

Enter Galactic (Love Connection) - ITZY Ryujin

Mr. Rager Can I Tag Along?

Professional Hazard - Aespa Karina

Professional Hazard (And Blue Tongues)

Bells and Whistles (Part 1.1)

Solo Fics:

Babymonster Asa - Book Boy

Le Sserafim Chaewon - Mutually Assured Destruction

MEOVV Anna - Totalitarian Touch

IVE Yujin - My Greatest Joy

MEOVV Gawon - I Never Meant to Memorize Your Smile

Aespa Winter - Steamy Mornings and Massages (kind of pt.2 of lost in analysis, different style though)

Aespa Winter - Lost in Analysis

IVE Yujin - Momentous Entropy

ITZY Ryujin - Bedside

#masterlist #kpop smut #smut #ryujin smut #male reader #fanfic

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barnacles34 · 6 months ago

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Momentous Entropy (Yujin x Male Reader)

Yujin x Male Reader

Warning: Smut, 7k+ words

The door accelerated open, showing a peek of a small dorm. Yujin’s head popped out from the door’s side, her face entirely shaped by a beautiful smile— eyes morphed into two crescent moons facing downwards.

Despite her giggling shyness, she stopped hiding behind the door. She welcomed me in, still with a brilliant smile, “Welcome Professor Eunwoo! Welcome to my dorm.”

“I know it’s small compared to your penthouse or whatever you were talking about with your coworkers, but it’s great for deep, focused work.” She snuck in the stalker-level information in between two welcoming remarks.

“Thanks for welcoming me here.. Wait.. What?” I only caught the intrusion mid-sentence.

She knew I heard her—word for word. It was mutualistic to not ruin the moment with heedless questions in the specifics, we’d forgotten whatever we talked about a moment ago; rather, focusing on each other's faces.

Of course, I would never let her know. It’s an apprenticeship after all, I’d be brought down with all the academic reputation I have if I even considered anything remotely intimate.

As I entered her dorm, I noticed something unusual. She wore a formal skirt with a white shirt and even her hair seemed to have been carefully molded for a grueling amount of time. Why did she dress up so vibrantly even though all she wore outside were casual clothes? Of course, I would never look her up and down, that would be a grave mistake, my peripheral vision was enough, my imagination did the rest.

I looked away immediately when my imagination went onto a wholly inappropriate tangent, instead I appreciated the clean place, clean of a single speck, the wallpaper matted with a freshness that couldn’t be faked with a single day of cleaning; the nice smell loomed over the place, something flowery, something inherently feminine, I was beginning to feel out of place.

There’s something poetic about a beautiful person being a beautiful human being as well, though I used two synonyms to describe something inherently different, I’m sure you get what I’m saying. She was good-looking, diligent, smart, clean, the list goes on and on. Sometimes attractive people have some of the most vapid, vanitous, vain lives; sometimes, it’s refreshing to see someone just so contrary to that common belief.

I was walking slowly while she went to her room to set up, I paced my steps to not seem awkward by standing too still or pacing around her entire dorm.

She came out of the door, her eyes were not morphed by a smile, rather two large pupils akin to a labrador stared straight at me.

Some people’s stares immediately make you uncomfortable, angry even, their voided personality that can only be filled with continued staring. Yujin was rather supplemented by the stare, her intense rich inner-life always apparent, her natural charisma exuding throughout.

The thought was broken when Yujin said, “Mr. Eunwoo, before we get started, I know you forget some of the essential parts of life, like breakfast.” She swiftly went to the countertop, opening some cupboard and pulling out an already-prepared breakfast.

“Why do you have a full meal in the cupboard?” I was completely stumped, there is never anything consistent with Yujin.

“I don’t know, just in case, you know, if you tried to stop me from serving you breakfast.”

“Why do you want to serve me breakfast in the first place? This is inappropriate. Wholly.”

“Please!~ Just try it!” Her eyes glistened, displaying how determined she was to get me to taste it.”

I obliged her for once. The breakfast was great, it was just too foreign, everything was opposite of what I’ve lived on; familiarity lied in the dusty libraries, the cramped, yet cozy study rooms, the decrepit dorms. Yet, I’ve gotten too successful, my quality as an academic has deteriorated too quickly, the distracting throes of fame, money, power however unattractive were always pushed onto me by those I used to hold close. I’ve resented success for however long I’ve held it, never has it ever contributed to my learning.

Yet, could this be an aspect of success? An attractive young lady, serving breakfast, serving a jet black coffee with enough caffeine to sedate rather than stimulate. Hold on, how does she-

“How do you know my coffee preference?” I asked, again, alarmed.

“That’s–um, I don’t know, based on my deduction, you know, like your disheveled appearance, I just assumed you lived off of caffeine.” A smile formed again, this time, a smile of victory over me, a rare enough event for a celebration.

“You’d be right.” Slightly, I scoffed at her remark, gladly sipping the bitter coffee.

Just like that, she already made me feel welcome, warmed up to the most foreign of places.

How could she do that? Is it on purpose? I can’t just ignore the influence she has over me, even if she is a student and I, a professor. I’ve always fought, fought and fought for everything, everything; the simplest of things failed at least a dozen times. Do you understand the disparity of it all? From failing at least a hundred times to now, an empathetic kindness, a warm smile greeting me regularly. I’m aware the description is akin to describing a drug, an addiction, I’m completely aware of it, and I’m desperate. Desperate for this continued exchange, and that’s why I willingly, so perpendicularly of my nature, succumb.

When I snap back to reality, the calm environment filled my sensory world. The white walls are furnished with small plants attached to the wall. I looked back at the kitchen, to check if Yujin was still there—she had planted her elbows on the countertop that I was sitting at, on the other side, her chin held up by her two fists, her cheeks were slightly squished and she was staring directly into my eyes.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing. You were so focused on that wall, I just thought it’d be interesting to stare at you.” That’s right, she��s also adept at mocking.

“Alright. Alright you brat, let’s get on with it. Where did we leave off last time?”

“Something about an assessment for me to continue being your apprentice.”

“Right. Right, I remember.”

“You don’t even carry around notes? For your ‘apprentice’?”

“Don’t need to”

“Ok, well, follow me, you’re gonna have to sit cross-legged on the floor.”

“Fine by me, lead the way.”

“Tired or sitting on gold-plated chairs, Mr. Eunwoooo?” Though her teasing was getting a little obnoxious, maybe the first-time visit to her dorm has her more anxious.

I scoffed at the reply, and followed to sit next to her on the coffee table, with enough distance as to make our apprenticeship obvious.

As do all our sessions, it starts cold, detached, at least compared to the end. Near the end, it becomes a warm haze, a studious discourse turns into something enjoyable, something that genuinely complements your life beneficially.

That’s also a reason why I continue to speak to Yujin. These unforeseen, unconsidered degrees of freedom had gone out of control, and inevitably, the attachment I had to being an academic was on its last string, its last stitch.

Only a fixation, a continued mutualistic companionship with Yujin has seemed to crutch my skill. And, I’m willing to go against all my morals to continue it.

It can be easily inferred that I’d let Yujin pass with flying colors to be my apprentice. Hiding it, though, is an entirely different story that I’d have to consider deeply through the assessment.

Of course, there’s always an optimism to expect in the radius of Yujin, the soft carpet, the flimsy coffee table.

Despite this, the assessment was rough, she was missing questions on purpose, and I couldn’t call her out for it because I was purposely trying to modify it in a way that she was always somewhat correct; in academia, this was enough, more than enough, even ground-breaking. But, this wasn’t even close to enough for Yujin, she was already suspicious of my bullshittery and in the 5th question, a free-response that I’d modified. She frowned deeply, her eyes glistened in a sort of sadness.

She spoke with disappointment, mostly with herself, “Why are you trying to make me pass? It’s obvious that the answers that I have are completely wrong, I can tell in the glint of your eyes.”

In order to trick Yujin, I’d have to have a near perfect system—a small gear falling out was all it took for Yujin to catch it.

“Before you freak out, these are questions for my PHD students, you’re a freshman, of course I’d have to modify it.”

“But why are you teaching me, an undergrad, instead of your usual PHD students?”

“Huh?” I was stumped, she was as intelligent as a fox.

Her eyes were melancholic, dark with a sort of sadness, disappointment.

“Why do you teach me?” She added on, then continued, “all your students did nearly the same thing as I did to gain some sort of favor, perhaps I tried slightly harder. I guess I argued with you a little more, challenged your authority, but anyone that did that was swiftly punished by you. I guess I was more insistent to be taught but you shoved off anyone that did that, except me. Why me? You’re not doing it for the money, you have plenty of it and I don’t have any. This doesn’t progress your career as well, you’re teaching a freshman about something that’s so ingrained that you don’t need notes for it.” Slowly her deduction processed what she was saying, and she was getting dangerously close to the answer.

I’d have to go on a tangent to another reason.

“I don’t know, maybe that you’re particularly bright, and I mean it, I know you feel like an idiot sometimes; it’ll never be as bad as how I felt it, god, if I was half as smart as you are when I was a freshman, I might’ve found the philosopher’s stone by now.”

“You’re so bad at giving compliments.” She laughed into her forearms that went to wipe her not-yet flowing tears.

“I mean it.” I replied quickly.

“No you don’t”

“If I tried to do an apprenticeship with my freshman self I’d be on death row the second day.”

It seemed to brighten the mood, she laughed harder, and.... and cried harder into her knees.

Confused by the contradiction of her actions, I just looked away, trying to offer some measure of comfort by just being present.

“I’m sorry, when I sta-start crying I just can’t stop.”

Even when she’s crying, a torrent of emotions pouring out, I don't feel uncomfortable.

“I’m here, Yujin, I’ll wait.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eunwoo-hick-it’s not your fault, I just feel extra emotional these days…”

Everytime she tried to continue with the assessment, her tears seemed to continue flowing, albeit a little slower.

“Hold my hand Mr. Eunwoo.”

“What?”

She sniffled, “Just hold it, it’ll help me stop crying.”

“Alright, alright.” I said as calmly as possible, not saying anymore, grasping her hand tightly.

She was sniffling—not crying—beside me, the distance that we had had closed a little. To say this was a foreign experience was an understatement, a relevant example would be to compare it to would be: a cat in zero gravity, I’d recommend watching some videos of it.

Yet I didn’t feel any reflexive reaction to this novel experience, I only held harder and felt ever-present in the experience

Suddenly, she whimpered, her hand reflexively moved.

“Ow, sorry, I’m not yet used to the tight grip.” She softly said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, I like it, continue.” Her head finally seemed to release from her damp forearms, her eyes were slightly red.

As I grasped her hand to a firm level, she put her head on the couch seat, her hair slightly splaying out, her eyes looking at the ceiling.

She whispered, “I know you like me.”

“I-” A flourish of heat went straight to my face, everything seemed to be burning down today.

“I like you too.” She continued.

“Please, think about what you’re saying.” I sputtered out, trying to adjust her projected advance.

“I can’t hide it anymore, I just can’t. I’m delicate, I have my heart on my sleeve… but I’ve never been so sure of it—nothing else has ever made me feel this way: no friend, no family member, no passion. You can continue saying that I’m naive, that it’s my first time, that it’ll pass…” Her words start becoming a jumble, as if all that she wanted to get out in a short manner wasn’t enough, as if all that crying was because of what she had to say.

She continued, “I know you’re a professional, that no matter what I say, you’ll decline, even if you liked me. I had to cry because of it, not because I was getting things wrong, I could care less about that… It was the fact that I can no longer handle admiring you from afar, I had to vocalize my appreciation, even if it was all for naught.”

After a brief silence, she continued, “I just had to get this off my chest, even if you despise me now, even if you run away now.”

She looked away, expecting me to walk away while giving her a stare of pure hatred.

She was still looking at the ceiling, trying to prevent more tears from flowing down. I leaned my head back on the couch seat and looked at the ceiling.

“I love you.” I finally said, shaky with a risky determination.

“What?”

“I love you.”

Her hand gripped tightly, her hands were noticeably shaking.

“What now?” She stuttered out.

“I don’t fucking know.” I sighed—sighing deeper than I’ve ever sighed—I also felt an immense pressure release from something grabbing me from within.

“Why don’t we go ahead with the assessment?”

“After all that?”

“Yeah, I mean I feel like a huge burden has been lifted, I just wanna see if I perform better.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want.” I pulled my head from the couch seat, and sat—facing her.

After a lengthy discourse, one that stretched for more than an hour judging by how we both had to correct our posture at least a dozen times. And, within that discourse, Yujin was infallible, every question was answered with lengthy consideration with the nuance, the specificity, the word choice.

Near the end, it went something like this: “Foucault’s theory states that the evolving system of penal systems aligns, or in parallel, with everything around us. Before, in medieval ages, violent spectacles of blood and gore were prioritized as punishment, no additional consideration for the esotericism within. Whereas, now, the spectacle of violence is wholly shunned and penal systems focus on shaping the soul, rehabilitating the mind. However, the application of this idea has been rather controversial, and it could be explained with the idea of the panopticon: with the growing concern of shaping the mind, which is almost like a black box, penal systems have a growing habit of surveilling more and more.”

Yujin stared at me for some sort of confirmation.

“And?” I waited expectantly.

“And, this panopticon can be applied to anything, schools, hospitals, even changing cultural norms.”

“Wow, I have to say, how much did you prepare prior to this?”

“Prior to this? A lot, a lot of work.” Her voice was confident, a far cry from her whimpering only a moment ago.

“How do you not sleep in my lectures considering the fact that this material is so much more advanced than the class you take?”

“I can just stare at you.” Her head was getting closer—I didn’t care. In the beginning of the assessment, we were separated by plenty of space—enough to clearly show it was a professional exchange. By the end, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side, speaking cordially, even despite our physical contact.

“Awfully bold for someone who cried in front of her professor for like half an hour straight.”

“Ugh! Don’t remind me.” Her face cringed.

I bit my lip, looking down—the mood was serene, it’s just that I keep getting reminded that I’m willingly participating in a mutual seduction between professor and student.

Fuck all of it.

I pulled my hand out of her hand—before she could demand that I return my hand—I wrapped my arm around her upper back, with my hand wrapping at the end of her shoulder.

Her posture straightened during the process, of course the forbidden path was still on her mind, still latent and not yet brought to fruition. But she quickly adapted, she looked to her side, at me, smiling warmly.

“It’s so amazing. How many hints have I had to give out?”

“Don’t act like you manipulated me to do this.”

“How else would the great Eunwoo betray his values? Just a wisp in the wind?”

“You brat, don’t forget my honorifics.”

“What? I couldn’t hear you… Eunwoo.”

I quickly pull her in, with my hand shielding the back of her head before I pushed her onto the floor, a soft tuft sound. I was on top of her, between the couch and coffee table, with her legs locked between mine.

Her doe eyes were on full display, her large pupils were somehow dwarfed by her eyelids which opened wider, the whites of her eyes under and above the pupil visible. She was shocked, taboo aside, it’s likely she’s never even experienced something like this.

“Can I kiss you?” Four words. These four words were all that I could think of, fantasize about for these past months. She’d accept of course, they all did—in the past. Still, there’s an immeasurable tension, an uncertainty without even weighing in the consensual agreement.

Perhaps some part of the tension was the taboo, that a professor was about to ruin the makeup of a freshman; smudge her lipstick, suck her lips until they were swollen; the condensation of love-making staining, blending in the carefully sculpted makeup with her natural beauty.

I didn’t hear the agreement, in part due to the fact that Yujin herself brought her head up to kiss me. Unfortunately, some care was forgotten, the way I had to grab Yujin's head led to a soft collapse onto the carpet, her head making a soft thump, our teeth clicking from the force. A collaborative soft chuckle escaped through the smallest of air leaks between our lips—a testament to our dedication to continue kissing, then it was airtight again, her soft lips glided over mine, her taste so feminine, so ephemeral.

It was obvious she was chaste, perhaps even ‘unclaimed’, her virginal lips were erratic, confused, yet so fucking shamelessly hot. Her low moans vibrated more in my mouth, goading me further, to enter deeper into her soft, welcoming mouth.

Slowly, steadily, our tongues entwined, the kiss was less air tight to allow for a more dynamic, sensual french kiss. Her mouth was begging, I was obliging, there was never a fairer exchange, as if her mouth was made for mine, and hers for mine.

Suddenly, she managed to push me over, until I was face-up, staring into Yujin’s eyes. This was the first time our eyes met during the makeout session, there wasn’t a single word that could explain what we needed to do; besides, our glazed eyes, slick with lust, spoke more than a one-dimensional tool like language. A small chuckle escaped our lips when our lips met in the middle, her head positioning lower, my head higher in the air, until my goading hands, entwined in her angelic soft hair pulled her head down. Our lips slotted in like perpendicular lines, no matter how awkward it felt, it just felt right, as if it were the most lustful way of expressing our unbridled affectations.

My hands explored her clothed body, exploring the beauty on me—who is restlessly, yet in a fierce, virginal way exploring every inch of my mouth—her beautiful curves were soft, pliant, firm, any press had an opposing force—an illegally soft opposing force. She was an angel—an angel on top of me, unaware of how much I wanted to ruin her.

“You’re going to regret it.” I say, in between wet kisses on Yujin’s lips. “This is the only thing I’ve been sure of.” Yujin replied, her voice husky with a sort of mindlessness that only the kiss could’ve caused. I reply, scaldingly, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” Still trying to warn her, of course, there was a mind and body separation. I was completely, utterly, under the seduction of Yujin, no matter how much I warned her. We both knew, that I wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her all over the dorm—not even for a millisecond. “Please, huff, that's all I’ve ever wanted, all I could think ever about… to be by your side through it all.” She pressed another kiss, a brief one, “The messy way you keep your desk, and how happy I am to organize it, how obliging I am. You’ve seduced me without knowing, before you ever even thought about me I’ve imagined millions of scenarios with you by my side.” Another kiss, a light peck, “Imagine the pride I felt when I found you left your suitcase by the chair in the library, to serve you measurably. It was just ordinary for you, but, but… it was the seventh heaven for me…”

Yujin was systematically removing every screw, with a perfectly fit screwdriver. Whether Yujin was conscious of it or not; she was kryptonite, the way her soft thighs brush against the sides of your abdomen, the soft feeling of her breasts, dipping onto my chest.

I needed to do more, with our mouths still connected, I sat up. Her ass was on my lap, the changing sensory world didn’t matter to her, all she wanted to do was oblige in the kisses. It didn’t even phase her once when I picked her up, standing, only, her legs locked herself in place to continue our mouth-to-mouth connection. I began my march to her bedroom, optimized to the utmost degree, every small peek I had of her bedroom perfectly aiding in this desperate situation—where I have to fuck Yujin for the remaining day, then the next, perhaps even forever; if only time would allow it so.

Her body clung to mine as I pressed her against the bed. This time, I had to pull off the heat of my loins unbearably tight, wanting—of new sensations. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked, given how swollen Yujin’s lips were, I could only imagine how bad it must be—of course, the imagery was supplemented with Yujin's soft giggle, her eyes staring at my mouth.

I finally got to rid Yujin of her treacherous t-shirt—one that blocked the view of her perfect breasts, her perfect abdomen. Her lithe, firm body was running every gear in my head, on how to perfectly ravish—to perfectly mark with my actions. Yujin could only stare, wide-eyed, she doesn’t know what happens after, a little virgin, there needn't be a single statement clarifying this—I’ve already explored her enough to conclude so. I press into her, my mouth near her ears, “Don’t worry Yujin, you’ll just be under the greatest pleasure of your life, helplessly moaning—squealing on your professor’s face.” All she could reply with was a deep, sensual moan that would seem like someone pressed into her lungs, that’s how deep it was. Slowly, but surely, I shift down, letting my fingers grip onto her godly skin, leaving vertical white trails on her skin until her pelvis; when I hook her skirt, off.

I could immediately feel the goosebumps on her thighs, where the warmth, the security of the skirt—or the lack thereof—provided some protection of her core, her wet little core. I stare into her eyes again. My stature of a well-respected professional is gone—only an animalistic drive to nail the hottest woman in the world through the bed. The dynamic of professor and student, no matter how fucked up, no matter how morally corrupt—or nefarious; began to turn me on instead of inhibit, it seems so to for Yujin as well, the stain of her arousal clear.

Her arms seemed to retract to her chest, her forearms squeezed her breasts together; though, I’m sure that wasn’t intended, rather, it was likely to protect her little throbbing heart from the sensations, that heart she had on her sleeve. Despite my raging erection, my raging lust, I was inclined to treat her like porcelain, at least that part of me wasn’t totally exhausted. Except when Yujin said, “I’m not so fragile, daddy, break me.” Uncontrollably, greedily I pressed my mouth against her wetness, kissing around the soft skin. The wetness radiated, even under a layer of cloth, albeit a very flimsy, sexy, cloth.

Small whimpers rung out, vibrating the surface of her glossy skin around her heat after every small peck I placed on her inner thighs. Her legs were between my head, her thighs rested above my shoulder. As Yujin stared with a dogged innocence, a beautiful hesitance—-I hooked the side of her panty. I pulled—softly, making sure the wet cloth makes as much contact, frictional force with her pink core. The gift wrapping revealed something divine, the lightest pink you can imagine, glossy with something that only be arousal. Slowly, I dipped my tongue into her core—it was unimaginably comfortable, the way her pussy felt on my tongue, a sort of hot soft-serve that got molded by your tongue. But it didn’t taste like anything, that’s when a realization hit: she spent an inordinate amount of time preparing, making sure that every part of her was ripe for a nice fuck, and slowly guided me into her siren-like seduction. I patted the side of her ass, giving a grin—as nasty as I could make it, a sign of things I was about to do, a sort of payback for her masterful manipulation. She stared back, her open mouth, the visible teeth morphed into a half-smile, still focused on how pleasurable my tongue was on her pussy. Immediately, I placed my finger on her clit, pressing softly against it, then circling it before I dipped my tongue deeper into her unimaginably tight hole. Her breathing went faster, her lower-half rubbed softly—even resisting when the pleasure was far too much. Of course, that’s not what she signed up for—she signed up for a grueling fucking, a rough marking by her beloved professor.

10 seconds, only 10 seconds after the eye-contact, she came all over the bed. Her juices flowed freely, painting her inner thighs in some beautiful glossy coating. Her abdomen tensed in a rough hyperventilation, her cries grew higher and loud before she released into a deep moan. I tried to get as much of her juices on my fingers as possible, before letting her take it in the mouth—making her taste the fruits of her efforts, then spreading the saliva on my fingers over her chin.

“You taste amazing by the way.” I stated, waiting for some explanation.

“This is how I taste, always.” She panted, justifying it all.

“It wasn’t just a carefully constructed ruse to bed me?”

She scoffed, “What kind of evil bitch do you think I am? I’m beginning to worry about what type of woman you bedded before me to make you think pussy tastes bad.” Scoffing, her chest heaving, all glistened up.

“I’m a virgin too, I wouldn’t know.” I replied, jokingly.

This time, she whimpered, “That’s… Ugh” I felt a resistance, then a strong push, she was suddenly saddened at the prospect of being just another lady bedded, another number. While she focused on the sentiment, my eyes, my lustful gaze only landed on her body. Of course, there’s always an opportunity after every resistance—an opposing force against the applied force. Her head was positioned away, stubbornly opposing, but she left her bare neck—her smooth, thin neck—too openly.

Thus, my lips ended up on her smooth neck---squeezing out her pitiful moans. "Ungh~stop~! I'm still sensitive." She squeaked, her little throat muscles striated in trying to get her meek statement out. Fuel to the fire, it was only fuel to the fire, like a flame retardant---such as water---only strengthening the flame.

I marked her neck full of light bruises, ones that'll be dark tomorrow---dark in how badly I've wanted to possess her. Truly, I've gone insane. My mouth traced a path, from her soft, bruised neck down her bosom. Her nipples were framed with perky breasts, soft with a delicate femininity that she curated so diligently, so meticulously. Her little squeaks, pleads, exited her cute mouth faster, almost as much as when I ate her pussy. It was due to the multi-task that I engaged in, devouring her breast, whilst my hand massaged the other---less fortunate---breast.

Slowly, I released myself from her delicious breasts, still insatiable, pressed down on her breasts, my index fingers gliding, gripping against her nubs as if it were joysticks---literal joy sticks. Her breasts were painted in a beautiful pink hue, from how I used her, how I marked her---initially whitened from the pressure, then pink, then likely to be red for the rest of the day.

"Eunwoo..." she was splayed out on the bed, utterly satisfied---still with an enthusiastic gaze. "I want to suck your cock." She stated, matter of fact. "I want you to paint my mouth in your seed." she continued. "Let your seed fill my belly, the remains coating my chin..." her movements after each statement, in the silence, moved to push me on my back as she got up from her back. "Because, Professor, Eternal Love? Was that the title? And who was the love interest? If I didn't forget, it was... Khujin? As brilliant as you are, your naming conventions leaves a lot to be desired, I mean come on, it sounds oddly familiar." She completely pushed me over; I was slightly paralyzed with the discovery that she read what I was writing---it wasn't remotely family friendly, and perhaps, aimed towards her. Her eyes stared at me with knowing eyes, what exactly I desired from her at that moment; her lithe, perky body was positioned between my legs, kneeling, preparing to dip her mouth into eternal lust.

"From then on... Khujin took the face-fucking, dutifully, sexually, despite the size with which she was confronted with, took it. Her mouth ached, was pained, though, not in a conventional way; it ached in the desire to take him deeper." She just... requoted the entire sequence perfectly word-for-word from the paper.

Fuck!

There's nothing left to protect, nothing left to resist, we were unclothed, our secrets revealed, there was nothing left except our mutual wish to ravage each other until dawn. Our enlarged pupils---almost alien---met each other, glazed in some atypical determination. Finally, her head lowered and lowered before her tongue placed a meek lick on my cock. Then kisses, then a mix of licks while her hands clenched my wrists---signaling some sign that I shouldn't interfere, that I should enjoy this requited vindication.

Her mouth---even if virginal---provided some of the greatest relief. Her soft lips, erratic, still provided relief from my swollen tip. Her rookie mistakes, the slight graze of teeth, the meddling tongue only seemed to heighten the experience.

"You're a naughty fucking professor." She said, slightly biting down on the head, getting the intended reaction out of me---a great spasm. "Writing porn of a character that exactly resembles me. Mmmm naughty... so fucking naughty.."

"You're a horny, good-for-nothing student, Yujin."

We were fighting while she shallowly sucked in between her sentences, listening thoughtfully with a cock between her lips.

"I remember when you left that jacket at the library, I stole it. Then, I smelt it everyday, the cologne, the detergent, the natural smell. When you slept around I could smell it, the faint flowery smell alien to your scent."

She released her grip on my wrists, instead grabbing my dick, to better stimulate---to better punish. Her mouth hollowed out, the suction tremendously pleasing, the way she tongued at the underside of my shaft showing her real-time improvement. Then she popped my shaft out of her mouth again.

Somehow, she was angry again.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Yujin asked---irritatingly.

"I'm here now, Yujin."

"Idiot."

Her mouth went back, into the irresistible motions that she quickly figured out. Her head bobbed faster, I felt immensely relieved, yet I also felt an unbelievable greed, a sort of ripple between two identities in parallel, fighting for ultimate control.

I quickly and harshly gripped her hair, led her mouth down to the hilt---her low choke lubricated the hilt. Her fingers lightly tapped the sides of my thighs, with her perfect nails, the smooth skin, such a brave contrast to what was happening to her mouth. Her mouth suctioned again, not a word needed for preparedness, only the motions of our sexual organs were enough. Slowly, my grip on her hair went down to her scalp, a firmer place to grasp, to debase her identity further.

Her lips dragged long and hard, the suction felt stronger---the feeling of pulling out from her mouth harder than going in at this point. Her lips occasionally touched the base on my cock, only edging me closer. Until, I peaked, I growled as the first rope of cum landed deep into her throat. Even in this constricted, breathless stance where her dick was so deep in her throat that her throat reddened, her glazed puppy eyes stared back, almost a sign of some sort of sick victory over me. Then a second splash, the pressure so strong you'd think the flow was laminar---though I wouldn't know, her sexy throat hid it all. My head flew back, the relief of it all so strong, ropes turned into strings, strings turned into nothing---only the sensation of a suckling swallow could be felt on my sensitive tip.

There was no brief awkward silence, her mouth released in a godly erotic fashion. Her spittle still gathered on my cock, the spit strands coating her chin, her tongue clear and empty of the load I covered the insides of her mouth with.

She smiled so brightly - so happily. Her hands patted me on the thighs, trying to help me reconcile the fact that I throat-fucked a college freshman, the age gap already taboo, the fact that we were professor and student - only worsened it.

Her eyes were slightly red, the hint of tear trails on her face apparent. So badly did I want to hold her dear to my body, let the warmth of my chest keep her snug, let her rest. Yet, her reddened tits, her confused doe-like puppy eyes, her confused face, the slight glistening of her inner thighs goaded me endlessly. From that point on, I hadn't even realized I was hovering over her body. We were really gonna do it, I was gonna fuck her on her own bed, this beautiful, smart student.

"You really are an idiot" I say.

"Why? Because I like you? Because you're some respected higher up that I shouldn't entertain having a relationship with?"

It was that word: relationship. What are we gonna become-

"Eunwoo... master... professor... I don't just offer up my virginity to anyone... if you think I'm that easy to offer myself up to anyone - you're fucking crazy."

"You're a seduction master." I chuckle, letting her know the weakness of my self-control.

"If I'm a seduction master, then you're - I don't know - like Alain Delon." her hands hooked the nape of my neck, she was positioned so delicately, ready for whatever I wanted to do to her.

"I want this because I love you, Eunwoo."

"Who would've thought our little freshman is such a romantic, huh?" As I nuzzled my face into the side of her neck, give soft licks to her soft neck - her soft face a contrast to my stubbled jaw.

"Regardless of whether you insert your shaft inside me or not. I'll still follow you, to the ends of the earth, until you file a restraining order- Ah~!"

a single finger entered her, "Shh Yujin, An Yujin - all that pining to give up after a restraining order? I'll have to get you drunk on my dick, so that even the splitting of the earth won't deter you."

She squeaked, she definitely came, she definitely fucking came - hah. I let the finger exit slow, slowly trailing the wet finger up her abdomen - a sort of trail forming.

Finally, I palmed my dick, staring, realizing that I didn't have a condom. "Oh fuck - I don't have a condom" saying my thought out loud, she butts in, "Doesn't matter, please, anything - please." Her desperation clear in her tone - her fingers gripping dearly onto me.

"Who said anyone's leaving?" This time, her eyes were even wider. It was time, she knew it, I knew it, each step an acceleration to a barrier that we kept raising - was there even a barrier anymore? The depravity... the soulful acknowledgement of this cording relationship rose the hairs on my entire body; the blood in my chest frantically seemed to disperse, trying to control itself, to also control my entire body.

Though, if Yujin is under me, begging to be fucked - so hellbent, her glazed and aroused eyes pleading for some sinful contract. If only she knew - how much I'd do - there needn't be a single contract. I couldn't ever control myself anyway, what's there to deny?

Slowly - slowly - entered her, her sopping wetness gladly parted with some paradoxical resistance. The more I entered, the more her pussy resisted, the more her pussy pulled me in. The most sinful sounds, even more so than those of a minute ago, the squelch of a virgin hole being stretched - fuck, holy fuck.

"Ngghhh~ holy shit, please, more!" She desperately tried to close her mouth, aware of the lack of noise canceling. The way her mewls and moans exited between the tightest clasp of her mouth, the way her twinkled, the exasperation of a different type of pain stretching, beautifying her already goddess-like face. "I love it! Eunwoo~", that earned her a full stroke to the hilt. I grabbed the hand off her mouth - the way her face morphed into fear was beautiful, she was close to her neighbors - those neighbors who were about to hear Yujin's highest shrieks, highest orgasms. Another stroke, then another, I couldn't even describe how sinful her sounds were, shrieks, moans, deep to high - the sheer entropy of her mannerisms clearly showing her arousal. The next door neighbors would know, even the vertical neighbors would know. If they saw me entering her home, then I'm fucked - yet, I can't stop fucking her, the way her hips rotate and drift off my cock, the way her pussy lips wrap so tightly, so snug around my length.

I began pounding away, her thin waist acclimating to my tight grip, the way her breasts bounced when her ass slapped against my loins; who said missionary was boring? The way I kneeled, the way her body angled at a point - true rookie mistake - I kept pounding away at her g-spot. How many times she came - I wouldn't know - but the amount of liquid dispersed all over us, a mix of sweat and whatever else was definitely a clue. The way my length explored her insides so thoroughly, the way I'm pretty sure I bottomed her out, bound to bruise her cervix; the way her moans grew more unhinged, her eyes slowing going back inside her head, her arms almost unresponsive.

Until.

Until, Yujin grabbed onto me, it wasn't an ordinary grip, a nuanced grip that lovers of decades could understand - I'm sure there's some hidden meaning in that. The way her soft fingers grabbed my forearm while she laid down - panting with sweat, the glow of sex, possibly covered in her squirt. I made sure to stop at exactly when the base of my length met with her pussy - immersing myself in her beautiful warmth, sheathed in her velvety walls.

"Eunwoo - please slow down, I'm not going anywhere, by the next half-hour we'll be walking skeletons..."

This time, still plugged with my length I pulled her up, face-to-face where she sat on the slope of my kneel - adjusting myself accordingly to not destroy my knees.

"How could I Yujin? Light of my life, fire of my loin-"

She playfully slapped my shoulder

"Why are you referencing Lolita!?" in a giggling manner, understanding all at once.

"Careful where you slap your hands around, Yujin."

"Hm? What're you gonna do-mm!" A closed reaction to receiving a deep kiss. Slowly, my arms slithered around her back, to make sure that she doesn't fall - but, mostly to ensure that I could fuck her, utterly, fully under my control.

The way her eyes shined, with a deep desire - some atypical lust - yet still somehow looking so innocent, as if brilliant gems were in place of her pupils. Every time I get to stare at her, especially now that our eyes were separated by the width of a nose, I feel glad that someone - just someone like that exists, even better with the fact that we cohabit this area, and even better that our lips slip against each other. The act of exchanging saliva - a deeply disturbing thought - hadn't registered in us at all, only desire and love.

Slowly, her moans left her pretty mouth with emphasis - clearly enjoying the slower pace in which I gave these decrepit kisses to her cervix. Her velvety folds seemed to contract even more spastically - the movement easier, yet tighter, yet harder, parenthetically a paradox.

If only such paradoxes were this pleasurable.

"I'm gonna cum, Yujin." The sounds were absolutely vicious, viscous with the repeated slapping of our loins, the cold strands of her juices landing on my thighs whenever her pink core left the base of my length. "Eunwoo, give it to me, inside, everything." I tried to object; "Eunwoo, shhh, don't try to talk sense with me - it's too late for that, if you don't spill your biggest seed inside me, I'll chase you around the world."

"A restraining order?" I replied, curious for a response.

"And that'll stop me? After getting drunk on your dick, as you said? " She replied back, serious.

"You're right baby." I pumped into her deeper, slanting a little to get topological synchronicity: my chest fully in contact with her chest, the warmth compared to the biting cold of the environment only goading us on further. The way her soft, perky breasts pooled on my chest made my pumps only deeper - kisses more passionate.

"What if I do? What if I cum inside you?" Our eyes were level, engaging in a seriously serious topic. All care should've been granted to the topic - of course, we both knew the pending event.

"Then, presumably, understandably, I'll be by your side - with your favorite tea, massaging your soreness. And maybe, just maybe, nursing a little Eunwoo." Fuck! I hugged her tight - too tight. The small of her back caved in with my tight hug as I mashed my dick inside her swollen pussy. The way she moaned was less noticeable, she was so focused on receiving the load - breathing into the side of my neck, playing with my hair, exacting some stimuli to wring me out dry.

Her body perfectly molded into my force. Her ass molded against my tough thighs, her hard nipples poked my chest expectedly. When, just when, the hypothetical situation with Yujin - of a filial future - flashed in my mind, the first release of semen launched inside her. Ribbons of her deepest desire filled her - indulging her. We kissed - the natural course as expected when I released inside her.

Ropes of semen turned into strings, then finally - nothing. We embraced each other, I still hugged her just as tight, she hugged back with the delicacy of an angel.

"Yujin..."

"Holy shit." She replied.

Holy shit was right.

"-Like holy fucking shit." I emphatically replied.

Her gem-like pupils looked at me, her entire face turned into a smile.

"You'll have to call me wife from now on."

"Hm?" Fully not processing her request.

"Call me wife behind closed doors."

"Why?"

"Because.. why not?"

After a swift thought - one that didn't really have any substance at all - "Wife... wife... rolls off the tongue nicely."

She gave a peck on my lips, "make sure that it rolls off the tongue as easy as it does now... I'll want to hear it everyday."

"Wifey... who's cleaning the bed?" I jokingly inquired - of course, the truth was that the bed wouldn't dry in a day, and the way we are right now: the overflowing semen was still plugged inside her - with my cock.

Though, that would be a worry that could be taken care of later. Right now, the half-life of our post-sex fatigue finished - the other half to be finished when our lips met again.

Fin.

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