twjournals

[twjournals]

Namgyu/Player 124 NSFW Audio

MDNI 18+ ONLY

Warnings: CNC, dubcon but tagging noncon just to be safe so NONCON, somnophilia, drunk, passed out

Loser!friend!Namgyu has always wanted you but you’ve always rejected any advances or interest he’s shown you. After a party you pass out on his bed and Namgyu can’t help but take the opportunity that’s been presented to him.

LINK cr WickLuvsU

[twjournals]

CAT & MOUSE

namgyu x f!reader

Synopsis - It’s no secret to you of Namgyu’s obsession with you since the start of the games. Something about him rubbed you up in all the wrong ways, but why did being near him feel so right? You’re in denial, and when you draw the blue ball for Key’s and Knives, you feel sick seeing the red sweater clinging to his frame. Yet as you wait, to your surprise, Namgyu offers you one of his little coloured pills.

warnings: 18+, drug use, inappropriate dialogue, degrading, sexual themes, knife play (kinda?), mentions of blood, strong themes.

…

The blue ball dropped into your hand from the gum ball machine. You could only stare down at it, puzzled and questioning. Blue. Surely that had the to good. A swelling tightly laid in your throat and you could only swallow it down harshly, suppressing your raising anxiety which only heightened as your eyes caught Namgyu. He wore red. Fearless as he held himself high, no doubt high on whatever that cross necklace contained. Your stomach stirring at the idea that you were on opposing teams.

Namgyu hadn’t hid his feelings from you, whatever they were anyway. It wasn’t sweet either. More teasing, and humiliating for you. You mostly told him to fuck off, although you knew deep inside that you shared the same affection for him. Though you felt yours were more sincere. You couldn’t help but pity him 60% of the time. You clutched the ball tight to your chest as you tore your eyes away from him and moved to the blue side of the room. You couldn’t place your bets that you would be safe from him.

During the games reveal, you felt ill. You were a hider, which you recall you had been terrible at growing up. Your adrenaline had always got the better of you - being unable to stay in one place without the lingering sense that someone was about to find you. But this was life or death now - you realised, especially now as the red players revealed their weapons.

Your mouth falling open as heat pricked your skin with dread. Your first thought falling to the idea that you’d be dead soon, that you wouldn’t make it out of this. No way. And then you feel his eyes on you, burning into the side of your face and you can’t help but flicker your eyes toward him. A big shit eating grin spreads across his expression, waving the knife at you as if to say hello.

Your face burns, hot.

…

You sit alone.

Your eyes only burning into your hands as you fiddle with your fingers - interlacing them, then closing your fists tight only to outspread them again. All attempts to ease your nerves. You look to the timer, three minutes, before the game starts. So you drop your gaze again and breathe deep. Finding that calm state you know you have. You desperately needed to be straight minded for this. Your recklessness being your enemy here. And just as your shoulders relaxed,

“Look who picked the short straw.”

Your eyes snap open, staring down at bloody stained pumps.

Namgyu.

Your attempts at calming yourself simply crumbled apart in a second.

“Go away.” You whisper, refusing to look up at him.

You hear him tsk.

And within a second he squats down to catch your gaze. His eyes heavy lidded, yet dark and blown. Gaze like a viper, sharp and violent. Black greasy strands of hair cage his face gracefully. How could someone so cruel be so visually appealing? How could you even think that?

You return his stare, attempting to appear cold.

“Bad timing to act like a bitch, y/n.”

He says, mockingly, pointing the sharp end of the knife at you.

Your eyes fall to the knife’s edge and linger there. Wondering whether your demise is staring you right in the face. Namgyu follows your gaze to it and laughs once, breathy as though he had realised your thoughts.

“You think I’m gonna stick you with this, don’t you?”

You don’t reply, not wishing on giving him the idea. Your eyes simply snapped back to his, almost pleadingly.

His head tilts as you, smiling sideways, wolf like. Sucking in a breath, he brings the blunt end of the knife and rests his chin on it, childlike - wondering.

“I’ve thought about it.”

You feel sick as he says that. Stomach churning as any hopes you’d had for your immunity against him washed away.

“Namgyu-” You begin, but he only cuts you off.

“Thought about those pretty eyes fading away. Thought about whether you were a beggar or a fighter, too.”

His brings the knife to you again, simply resting the sharp end on your chest. You still, your breath caught as you worried a simple twitch would set him off.

“And I think,” He drawls out lowly, running the knife down your chest slowly and stopping at your lower stomach.

“You’re a beggar.”

You’d been too busy watching the knife to not notice he’d brought his face closer. So as you brought your head up, you were now just slightly nose to nose. His hot breath fanning your face.

You can’t help but scowl at him. Your worry turning into an anger you couldn’t suppress.

“You’ll never know.” You hiss, implying that you wouldn’t give him the slightest chance to find out. You’d hide and hide well. As long as that meant avoiding Namgyu during the game. You wouldn’t want to run into this drug crazed lunatic who you embarrassingly had a thing for.

A wide grin splits across his face, amused. His eyes softly trailing to your plush lips, as he hums softly.

“See that’s what I like about you. You’ve got — spunk. That’s why I’m gonna enjoy chasing you down.”

His eyes gleam with excitement as he looks back into your eyes.

“But to make sure you don’t kick the bucket before that - how ‘bout a little pick me up?”

He reaches into his collar and brings out the cross from his neck. Cradling it as though it were the most valuable thing he owned. He flicks it open, revealing at least 5 different coloured pills. He’s quick to take one for himself, popping it into his mouth like a candy.

“How about it?” He says, nodding toward it while chewing.

You’d dabbled in drugs in college, sure. But it wasn’t an every day thing for you, especially not in this scenario but you couldn’t help but consider your chances here. You knew whatever it was had raised his and Thanos’ survival rate in the past games.

And for once in your life, despite your strong facade, you felt helpless. Desperate. You can only stare silently at the pills in contemplation.

Namgyu grows bored of your silence quick, craning his head further down to catch your eyes.

“It’ll help.” He says.

“It’ll ease your nerves,” coaxing softly as his free hand smoothes it’s way onto your bouncing knee.

His mere touch sent your head spinning as your eyes closed, almost in comfort despite his threats. How sick. And you hate how he has this effect on you still in this terrible situation.

You weren’t sure whether Namgyu was actually set on harming you. The way he looks at you, the way he speaks. You can’t help but consider his threats are only a tease. And if that were the case, you still had the other red’s to worry about. You placed your bets and opened your eyes heavily.

You nod.

And he smiles.

“‘Atta girl.” He praises, flashing a toothy smile as he scoops out a pill with his index finger, offering it toward you.

You reach out to take it, but he’s quick to recoil his hand.

You can’t help but frown at him, confused as he squirms his way in between your legs to get closer. His elbows now resting on your knees. You eyes flicker to the timer.

One minute, twenty seconds.

Your jaw visibly clenches.

“I don’t have time for this.” You mutter.

Namgyu’s eyes are trained on your lips.

“Then open up. I wann’ feed it to ‘ya.”

Your heart batters against your chest now. You hadn’t ever succumb to him like this before. You truly hadn’t intended to. Yet it was only him who could manage to tear down your facade and see you for all your vulnerability. And most of all? It makes you sick to your stomach how much you don’t mind it.

Your lips twitch before you open your mouth slightly.

He copies you, but he slightly sticks out his tongue as though he is encouraging you to do the same and copy him.

You do.

Satisfied, he brings his index finger with the pill onto your tongue. His eyes stay trained on it, almost hypnotised by the sight with his mouth ajar. But he doesn’t move away, he simply uses his finger to push it up and down your tongue softly.

You can’t deny the rising heat between your legs then. So badly wanting to press your legs together, to ignore the feeling. But Namgyu was still wedged between them.

And you’re mortified as an unexpected hum of enjoyment comes from deep in your throat. As his eyes flicker up in surprise, a glistening boyish gaze beaming into yours.

“Yeah?” He peers up at you.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

You can’t even deny it because his fingers still sliding the drug up and down your tongue. But what you do notice is the softness creeping onto his expression. A vulnerability as his fascination with you takes over. And you decide to use it against him.

You close your mouth around his finger as you suck on it - straight down to the back of your throat and his expression only grows more desperate and turned on. He looks pathetic. And somehow you feel you’ve taken that power back.

You pull your head backward and his fingers comes out with a pop.

You gulp the pill.

Namgyu breathes out, shuddering. That sight burnt into his brain. He had truly been silenced. Only his tongue came out to wet his now dried lips. The knife slack in his grip.

You edged forward toward him, and he copied you - desperate, like a starved man. Clutching your knees as he brought himself upward to meet you halfway. Your noses now brushing.

You twist a hand into his vest tightly.

“You’re pathetic.” You whisper.

He frowns and before he can say anything, you shove him backward onto the floor. He falls onto his back with a thud and is quick to recover to ease a scene. He didn’t like appearing weak. Not at all.

You stand as he does. All he can do is glare.

Before he can get a word in, the guards call for the Red team to enter the arena.

You smile cockily at him and brush past.

His gaze follows you sharply, frowning.

“I’ll see you inside, y/n.” He shouts, pissed off.

You don’t dare to give him a second glance and as you enter the arena, the buzz from the drug slowly creeps in on you.

A giddy sensation almost - playful, as though you could take on the world. All your worry’s about the others players had gone, and all you could think about was the game of cat and mouse you were about to play with Namgyu.

…

Authors note: Hi guys, hope you enjoyed. This is actually my first time writing Namgyu but I loved it. Please please lmk if I should do a part two!

Update: part two below!

part two

…

[twjournals]

THOR RAGNAROK (2016) dr. Taika Waititi

[twjournals]

GUILTY CONSCIENCE

namgyu x f!reader

inspired by anonymous request!

Synopsis: You & Namgyu were together for just over a year. A rocky relationship however. His addictions being the main reasons for this - and you had reached your limit eventually. You threw his shit out of your apartment and him along with it. He would show at your door every night - begging. But after a while, he stopped. Only a few months later, you sign up for the games but you instantly regret it when you see the familiar face of your very recent ex boyfriend.

warnings: toxic behaviour, sexual tension, sexual content/ nsfw, mentions of violence, rough content - punishment, mentions of death & threats.

You didn’t believe in hell, the devil or the consequences of sin. You lived in blissful ignorance.

Though your beliefs were tested after a game of Red light Green light.

People shot dead like cattle. Without mercy or chance. It without a doubt terrified you. This was not worth the money you so desperately needed.

During that, you hadn’t noticed him. Namgyu. Your ex. It had been a few months now so it was still fresh. Only a month ago had he stopped showing up at your door in the middle of the night - pleading for you, for your forgiveness. One night he even begged you for your pussy — you remember watching him through the keyhole, how he clung to the door, muttering against it ‘fuck, i miss you - please, baby - fuck, even your pussy. that fuckin’ pussy — c’mon, open up - you know I can make it up to you.’

You knew better than to give in, although he begged so sweetly. And, oh, how you wanted to take him back - but your anger had outweighed your pity. You’d long had enough of how his loyalty lay with his addiction more than you. Acting like his carer, a babysitter - your self respect knew better than that.

Your senses had been so blinded during the first game that you hadn’t seen him - but he saw you. Shaking and crouching down behind the player in front of you as you all formed lines of protection. His gaze set on you most of the game despite his own stress. Perhaps you being there had gave him the push he needed to get through it.

As soon as you leaped across the finish line, you fell with a thud. The impact knocking a gust of wind out of you. You sat, legs bent as your hands laid palm flat on the floor - heavy pants ripping out of your chest as the after shock set in. Tears burnt the edge of your eyes - but you can’t blink, so they don’t fall. Only when the game ends do you look around at the rest of who had made it - there was still a lot of you, but there was a significant loss. Your eyes glaze through the crowd, until they land on him. He’s staring at you across the field, stood there, his expression almost blank - but a longing laid behind his eyes. A shock that you were there, and a relief that you had made it.

You both remain like that for a moment - acknowledging each other.

Till you come to your senses - remembering how it had been, and that anger slowly slips back - so you rip your eyes away, inhale a sharp breath and force yourself to stand.

You intended to stick by your word.

You and him were over. You only hoped that your current situations didn’t pull you back together.

You headed back to the main hall. It’s sickeningly quiet as everyone climbs the stairs - no doubt in fear and shock. You’d never seen someone die before - in that way, so brutally. A million questions ripping through your head as you keep your eyes pinned to the floor. Was there a way out? How many games are there? And how long would you last until your luck would run out. You could die here.

You feel a tug on your sleeve, the weight causing you to stumble down a step as you whip your head around.

Namgyu looks up at you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He says, clutching to your sweaters sleeve. You try to tug your arm away but his grip is too tight. Players start moving around you both to carry on up the stairs.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You hiss, challenging him.

He shifts his footing, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. You both knew the answers. You both needed the money. Although he hadn’t expected you to be in a place like this - playing for money. He remembers how you would scold him for gambling. Yet here you are.

His silence lets you realise that this place wasn’t actually out of character for him, so asking him now seemed a little silly. You are both aware of his greed — how he blows through his savings for a score. You exhale, yanking your arm hard enough so that your sleeve leaves his grip properly this time.

“I have bills. Outstanding ones.” You explain, turning away to continue up the stairs. He’s quick to catch up, walking at your side like a lost puppy.

“Listen — we’ve been played. These fuckers are killing people — like this is some SAW movie level shit, so we gotta stick together, yeah?” He says, eagerly, almost pleading with you as his hand comes up to grip your sweaters material. You could laugh in his face if you weren’t so sick to your stomach with what you had just witnessed. You simply shake your head, keeping your eyes ahead.

“You don’t know anyone here, right? So you’ve only got me. Let’s just —"

You cut him off before he gets the chance to continue, snapping your head to him.

“Are you fucking dumb?” You snap, glaring at him.

“We’re split, Namgyu — over. Okay? I have no intention of rekindling that, especially not here — not when my life’s at risk.” You come across mean, you can admit that. But for him to be so clingy and caring now? After everything? Yeah, it pisses you off.

He glares at you.

“So let’s just - not. Okay? Leave me the fuck alone.” You finish, staring into his eyes for a moment before turning away and heading up the stairs one by one. Your heart aches — as though seeing him now had brought all your old feelings back. You knew your feelings for him hadn’t gone, not really. But you have to stay strong - for yourself, for your own respect. You figured you had to keep a clear head to survive this and being around him wouldn’t help that.

“Fucking cunt.” He mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

You whip your head over your shoulder at him - he’s smiling. Not a nice smile, but one of those smiles he’d pull when you would once argue. A bitter smile. An evil one. You don’t even bother to reply, so you turn back and continue up. An argument deemed pointless.

When it came to voting, you felt relieved. The idea that there could be a way out was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You only hope everyone else shares the same mindset - surely they would? But that concept left your head whirling when people voted for O. Your stomach twisting — unbearably so, an anxiety you couldn’t just ignore as the pace of your heart batters against your chest. They were taking the lead. And as Namgyu approached the podium and hit O without any hesitation? Your jaw fell slack. Though you didn’t feel so surprised. Just sick. Sick of him. Your eyes follow him as he heads over to the O side of the arena, standing next to Thanos who you were vaguely familiar with. Namgyu had spoken about him to you before - rather passionately at that - you remember telling him not to get involved. Of course, he hadn’t listened.

When your turn came, you stood there for a moment, staring down at the buttons. You really needed the money. But was it enough to risk your own life? You shudder at the intensity of the choice. You hear a little whistle from behind you so you turn and Namgyu is staring at you, smiling darkly. He makes an O shape with his hands as though to sway your choice. That was enough for you to whip around and bring your fist down onto X.

You take the badge and strap it to your chest.

You wanted out.

You don’t even spare him a glance as you head to opposite side. He watches you all the way there, jaw visibly clenching in frustration.

O still won the vote.

The hall was quiet when it came to dinner. You kept to yourself, sat on your bottom bunk as you looked down at the serving. Sweet potato and water. That was it. Despite not having the appetite, you settle on keeping your strength up. You reluctantly take the potato and sink backward till your back hits the wall of your bunk. A soft sigh escaping you as you take a bite.

Your eyes flicker over to Namgyu’s group. They’re all taking, plotting probably. But Namgyu is staring at you. He felt bad about calling you a fucking cunt — kind of. More so like he is kicking himself, knowing that wouldn’t be the way to win you over and as soon as he sees you looking, he gets up. You’re quick to avert your gaze back down to your food, burying your head. You know he’s coming over, but you pray he doesn’t. You just take another bite - your face heating up, not wanting another confrontation.

You only hear his foot falls coming closer and stopping at the edge of your bed.

You don’t look up.

He knocks on the metal frame of your bed. As though knocking on a door. You squeeze your eyes shut before looking up at him, he’s leaning his forearms on the overhead of the bunk beds frame. Food box in hand.

Your annoyed glare is enough for him to bring his hands up into a surrender pose.

“Easy, baby — I come in peace.” He mocks, the slight grin on his face making you grimace.

“Go awa—“ He sits down on your bed with an exaggerated exhale before you can tell him to leave. You huff, pulling your legs upward and away from him, eyes rolling as he gets comfy, crossing his legs boyishly.

He places down his food box between you, his potato untouched. You stare at it before your eyes flicker up to him.

He’s smiling proudly, nodding down at the food before nudging the box toward you.

“Eat.”

You frown. “I already have.”

“Then eat more. I saved mine for you.” He picks up the potato and holds it in front of your face, nodding his chin toward it as though enticing you to have a bite. Was this really his idea of apologising? Some weak attempt at winning you over? You wouldn’t fall for it. Though inside? You’d love to lean over and take a sweet bite, all the while keeping your eyes on his. To tease, but you shrug the thought away. You’re over, you remind yourself.

“What is this? A peace offering?” You mock, harshly.

Namgyu’s arm slacks slightly, his elbow coming to rest on the bed though he keeps his hand upward with the potato in his grip. Almost giving in, but he’s not so easily defeated. He likes the chase, admittedly. Though his patience isn’t his strong suit.

“Call it what you want. I’m being kind, aren’t I?” He says, his tone sort of defeated, his smile faltering ever so slightly. You don’t say anything, dumbfounded by his stupidity. His full smile comes back then, convinced that your silence means you’re coming round to him. He extends his arm fully again.

“See? Now drop the bitch act and have some. I know you want to.”

You figure you’re still hungry. But you wouldn’t give into him so easily. You swat his wrist away from your face, the potato falling from his grip and rolling away onto the floor. You both watch it go. You didn’t exactly intend to discard the food like that - to dirty it on the floor, but you figure it would help get your point across. He looks back at you, smile gone - mouth agape. You look back.

“Fuck off.” Is all you say.

You look back down and unscrew the lid of your water cockily, bringing it to your lips but it splatters over you when he smacks it out your grip - then leaning forward to twist his grip into your sweater - pulling your toward him. You grip his wrist with both hands as you come face to face with him. Alas, you knew his patience was hanging thin. You took some pleasure in that.

“What do I gotta do, hm?” He hisses out, close enough that shouting wasn’t necessary. A pleading laced his tone - almost desperate and it reminds you of he would beg outside your door of a night time.

“Tell me — What? You wanna hear me say sorry? Hm?” He tugs on your sweater a few times. You just stare at him. He had been a shitty boyfriend. An apology would be nice — but you knew that wouldn’t cut it. Not at all. You’re not frightened or intimidated in the slightest - in fact, hearing him like this washes a sense of longing over you which you wished would go away. It would be so much easier to hate him. Spit in his face and call him a loser. Curse him. Push him away. But you don’t. You just watch him, your eyes flickering into both his eyes.

He stares back, his face a frustrated scowl.

A few moments pass like that and he visibly calms down. Eyes dropping downward. He unlaces his hand from your sweater and you thinks he’s done until he places his palm firmly on the side of your neck. Fingers groping the back of your head. The placement alone felt familiar to a threat. You swallow hard. A shaky exhale leaves him, the warmth of it fanning your face from the proximity.

“Here’s what’s ‘gonna happen.” He says, nodding to himself with his eyes shut. Though he’s talking to you, it also looks like he’s talking to himself - like he’s confirming the plan in his own head.

You only glare quietly, almost a little worried for what he’s about to say.

“In the next game, whatever it is — you’re with me.” He opens his eyes. They’re dark, menacing - but keen. Almost protective and extremely demanding.

“You’re also gonna press O for me tomorrow, aren’t you? Not like you did today — pressing X like a fucking traitor.”

You go to shake your head no but he stills your head with his grip and nods yes.

“Yes. You are.” He says firmly. A sly smile creeping onto his expression. You’re too tired to argue, so you let him have this. You know inside that come tomorrow? You won’t be anywhere near him. You feel strong inside knowing that. Knowing you can take that power from him. But for now? Play the game. So you stay silent.

“I’m gonna take care of you.” He continues. He speaks so confidently and proud. As though in his head he feels like he’s wooing you. His grip on your face loosens and he pats your cheek condescendingly. Before you know it he’s swinging his legs off the side of your bed and standing up - leaning forward to rest his forehead against the frame, looking down at you.

“You know where I am if you get cold in the night.” He drawls, as he runs his eyes down your figure before they snap back to your eyes. You can’t deny the flutter in your stomach when he says that, and a soft little exhale pushes through your lips as you glare upward to him.

He smiles, and steps backward a few times — looking proud before he spins around to walk back over to his group.

Once he’s a fair distance away, you let the breath you’d held escape.

By the next day you had managed to avoid him all morning. Stayed out of sight - even switched to a bed further away from your old one so he’d be confused.

And even better, come the next game - the six legged pentathlon? You’d already wormed your way into a nice group before he could even get near you. You could hear him pleading with Thanos to keep one space available in their group while he looked for you and it didn’t take him long to find you standing with a bunch of strangers. He paces over to you, frowning.

“Been lookin’ for you all morning, let’s go.” He grabs your sweater and goes to pull you but you yank your arm back.

“I have a group.” You say sternly.

Namgyu eyes the group and scoffs a laugh. “Please. These fuckin’ losers?”

You cross your arms, clearly standing your ground. His jaw flex’s sternly, and before he goes to say anymore, Thanos calls for him.

“Nam-Su! We got a full team - move your ass!” Namgyu doesn’t look over, his sight still harshly trained down into you - viper like. You can’t help but smile at Thanos getting his name wrong.

“Go on, Nam-su.” You tease.

He grinds his teeth - annoyed that you picked up on that. It’s one of his biggest pet peeves. Instead of arguing, he steps backward and turns on his heel, heading back. Shooting you a glare over his shoulder as he does. You knew that you’d hear what he has to say later. But for now, you needed focus.

As people played in the groups, the crowds of the players slowly began to celebrate them. Shouting and encouraging them - and it felt wonderful. During this, your team had befriended another. Gi-Hun’s team. Both your teams celebrating together as the playing teams won each individual game. And it was quick how friendly you and Dae-Ho became. Clutching onto one another in rejoice when other teams actually passed the game.

Namgyu, however, seethes in rage as he watches you cling to Dae-Ho’s arm when you yell in thrill. Thanos bumps his shoulder into Namgyu’s.

“Hey — bro, isn’t that your ex señorita?” He quips, eyeing you - frantic mid high.

Namgyu doesn’t reply, glaring ahead.

“Shit, it is. Bro — that’s crazy disrespectful, bro. Shit — look at the way she’s clinging onto that guy.” Thanos continues, not helping Namgyu’s obvious frustration. In fact it only fuels him. Dangerously. This was his limit.

You watched Namgyu’s team then. Finding yourself hoping they’d pass, annoyingly. Yes. Yours and his situation was very rocky - bordering toxic. Yet deep down, your feelings still remained. Rather strongly. You pushed him away only in the hopes that it’d be easier to get over him. And obviously, the last thing you wanted was him dead.

They passed, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

Your team then passed with flying colours too. The occasional stumble but you had made it and as you head back to the hall, you can’t help but think about Namgyu. You’re just glad he’s okay, nothing more, you tell yourself. You had to keep strong against him. Against your own mind.

You gnaw at your lip though — remembering you would have to deal with him once you’re back. Your disobedience earlier would be an issue for him.

You decide to avoid him and stick with your group until the next vote rolled around.

They call your number up and make sure not to spare him a glance. You decided the cold way was the best way.

You press X.

You suspect you’d get an ear full from him eventually.

But surprisingly, he didn’t try for the rest of the evening. Maybe because you were sat with your new friends, or maybe because he’d truly given up — that your coldness toward him had shooed him away. Either way, as hard as it is, you feel a relief. That you don’t have to worry about him hanging over your shoulder any more.

So you head to bed at peace.

You wake at some point however. It’s dark — only the sound of breathing and an occasional snore was all that could be heard. Everyone sleeping. You squeeze your eyes shut and roll over. Then roll over again. Trying to get back to sleep felt impossible. You roll onto your back with a huff - staring up at the ceiling, reaching up to rub your eye when you feel the texture of long dried blood on your face still. Probably from the first game.

The thought of it still being on you makes your stomach churn so you roll out of bed and pace toward the door — knocking twice — a moment passes. A pink guard answers.

“I need the bathroom.” Is all you whisper. They grant you the access.

You hadn’t noticed Namgyu trailing not far behind.

You’re very precious about your hygiene. In here, it isn’t a concept. Not respected. So as you look into the bathroom mirror, you grimace at the sight of old blood scattered across your face. Wasting no time on running the tap and scrubbing yourself clean of it. Once you’re done, you only sigh, gripping the sinks counter as you look into the mirror.

You need to go home.

Dropping your head as a tear brims your eyes — having a moment alone meant time to think — reflecting on the actual weight of this situation. Thinking about your family — friends.

You miss them.

How you had taken them for granted so.

You sniff and dry your tears and face with your palms, combing your fingers through your hair frantically until you look reasonably put together. The last thing you wished for was to look weak.

With a heavy sigh you looked upon yourself again and nodded - trying to encourage yourself. You push your weight off the sink and head back toward the door. You open it.

And there’s Namgyu, waiting.

Looking erratic and unkept. Your mind races for a moment — quickly deciding this was a bad situation and instinctively you slam the door in his face. He’s quick to react though, pushing against it — wedging his body through the remaining gap.

He’s a lot stronger than you.

And he overpowers you with ease, slamming the door open - causing you to stumble backward into the bathroom. Your eyes blow wide — scared. He fucking followed you here in the dead of night. Had he been awake the whole time — watching you? Waiting for the perfect opportunity?

“Hey, you fuck.” He seethes, taking a few steps in before slamming the door behind him. It was the only way out and now he’s blocking it. Leaving you with no options. You continue a few more steps backward before you buck it toward a bathroom stall with the hopes of locking yourself in. But he’s too fast. It’s merely a second before you feel him twist a fist into your hair and yank you backward - falling into him. You cry out, helpless — but not quite as you seize the opportunity to bring an elbow backward and into his gut — hard.

You hear an oof noise gust out of his mouth and he releases his grip momentarily. That hurt him, you note. You turn and he’s clutching his stomach, hurdled over so you step around him fast — making it toward the door as you yank it open desperately with a cry.

His hand shoots out next to your head — palm flush against the door, slamming it shut. Caging you in.

“You fucking traitor —" He says into your ear, his tone different — more erratic and frantic, emphasising the word traitor. Sounding how he would when he’d come home late at night, high. But he couldn’t be high. Surely? Then you think about Thanos. His reputation makes you question whether he smuggled something in.

“Namgyu—“ You choke out, about to plead with him until he yanks your body around to face him — shoving your back against the door.

“Look at me when you use my fucking name.”

You look up at him, your expression showing worry — unsure of his intent. A silent plea glosses your eyes as your chest heaves heavily.

He peers down at you like a predator to prey. A line of sweat across his forehead, his hair messed and greasy — curtaining his face.

“Did you enjoy yourself today?” He asks sarcastically, a sickening grin forming on his face as he grips your jackets collar with both hands.

“Get the fuck off me.” You hiss - gripping at his wrists to give yourself some stability in his clutches. You raise your chin up at him to show whatever bravery still remained in you. He breathily laughs at that. He’s reached his limit now, remaining patience he had has finally spanned out of control - gone. He’s like an electric wire - snipped in half, whirling and sizzling.

He makes a sad awww noise lowly, as though to mock you - pouting his lips out as if to feel sorry for you. “I tried to play nice, y/n.” Namgyu whines out childishly, a hand coming around the back of your neck to hold there firmly. You try to resist his clutches but he’s too demandingly strong - his other hand coming to pet the side of your face.

“But you didn’t want to — What? Was me being sweet to you not good enough?” He continues with his tone, as though he were speaking you as if you’re lower than him — his childish and condescending tone being enough to irritate you beyond. Yet you can’t say anything, admittedly scared. Not scared of him — or maybe a little, but scared about your willpower. You’d grown less angry toward him — which only meant you were growing soft. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take before your act would crumble and you come crawling back to him.

You merely whine in his grip — he enjoys that, smiling.

“So wha’ do I gotta do to make you drop this bitch act?” He says, craning his head down to meet your eye level - brows raising.

“Do I have to fuck it out of you?”

Your eyes widen a little. Oh god. Your mind betraying you in an instant when you think back to all the times you were both up late — fucking. About how he’d sometimes take you bent over the kitchen counter, stuffing his cock in you from behind — your bodies riving together like dogs in heat. All sweat and name calling —— telling you how much he loves your sweet fucking cunt.

You instinctively press your legs together. Desperate to ignore the growing heat between them.

Of course, he notices that. His eyes flickering down briefly to your legs before snapping them back up to you. An ever so soft gasp — exaggerated, leaves his gaping mouth. You forget he knows you. Like, really knows you and not just that but your body.

He knows when you’re happy - sad, but especially knows when you’re turned on. He takes pride in that now, wearing that realising expression on his face with pride as he straightens up, mouth agape and still dragging out his degrading gasp. You can only glare - your resolve slowing pulling down that facade you’d held for so long.

He brings his lower lip into his mouth to gnaw on it, humming a uh uh - with a head shake saying ‘no.’ He jams a foot in between yours and kicks your legs apart. He knows exactly what you’re fucking feeling and he won’t let you get away with it.

“You haven’t got a door to hide behind now, have you?” He mutters, referring to the times he’d show up begging for you back - and how you’d hide behind your door to avoid him. Not this time.

He leans in close.

“I fucking see you.” He seethes, face dangerously close to yours. You can’t help the quiver of your lip and desperate plea across your face. You feel your kept responsibility fading - slowly crumbing beneath him - the ache in your pussy now turning into a throb.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the door - trying to muster your remaining strength to resist him.

“Yeah.” He drawls out slowly, nodding — “That’s right, you’re just a fucking tease, aren’t you?”

He’s playing his own game now. You had managed to push him over the edge, to break his patience. You’d took great pleasure in that. But now it was his turn. His turn to break you.

And you simply can’t take anymore.

“Stop this, Namgyu — please.” You whine out — breaking your silence. Your hands hesitantly come up to curl into his shirt - clutching tightly - pulling yourself forward to rest your forehead against his chest in defeat with a thump. Burying your face to hide the shame of your surrender. You just simply melt against him — finally. Inhaling softly, smelling his smell - the familiarity of it - even the warmth of his chest as it heaves against your head. You swear you hear his heart thrumming.

You don’t feel any distain toward yourself as you press against him like this. Maybe a sense of guilt — but your feelings for him come plummeting back in the second you touch him. Smell him. This is you giving in. Waving the white flag and you only hope he accepts it.

You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime. The anticipation of his next move eating you alive.

You feel his hand pet through the hair on-top your head. The corner of your lips upturn a little — relieved.

“So, who’s the cocksucker you got all cosy with today from that fuck-head group?”

You still, eyes opening with an impending sense of dread.

He isn’t done. You swallow the hard ache now forming in your throat.

“What?” You whisper, unable to let yourself look up at him - shocked that your psychical submission hadn’t worked a charm. You note how he’s still petting your hair, softly — too softly, given the context of his question.

“You heard me.” He replies — his voice eerily calm.

You already know he’s referring to Dae-Ho. But you also know that it wasn’t anything like that. You realise how hard it’s gonna be to convince him otherwise. You take a shaky breath in - mustering courage as you crane your head to look up at him slowly - still clutching to his chest as though he were keeping you afloat.

He looks down at you with a soft, expecting smile.

You can’t find your words — too worried to say the wrong thing.

He raises his brows once - nodding ever so slightly, like he’s encouraging you to reply. But there was nothing you could say that would explain the situation better than a:

“It’s nothing like that.”

Namgyu stays smiling. “Clutching and smiling with a man you’ve never met? — that’s nothing?”

You can’t move — speak. The idea of defending yourself felt suddenly useless. All you can do is nod your head - rather frantically - desperate to plead your innocence. He’s still petting his hand through your hair — and you’re starting to become overly aware that his actions, expression and tone aren’t aligning with the things he’s saying. It makes you anxious.

“You did it to fuck with me. Didn’t you?”

“ — No, Gyu.”

“Gyu? Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking idiot and get cute — it’s a little late for that.” He retorts quick, smiling fading - shutting down your attempts at calling him by the shortened version of his name that you had done when you were once together.

He looks away from you and ahead - as though in thought. You still remain holding onto him - looking upward, not liking the silence he know plays into. Suspence being your worst enemy.

“Please.” Is all you can muster - not liking the contemplation on his face.

He takes in a sharp inhale - his shoulders dropping dramatically on the exhale.

“Maybe in the next game I’ll make sure he doesn’t see it though — and his little shitfuck group.” He begins, returning his gaze downward to you.

“Just to set an example.” He finishes, bringing his head downward a little closer to you as he says that — to whisper, to twist the knife. Your blood runs cold — a shudder rippling through your body which breaks your stillness — shifting your footing. He’d kill them. He’d fucking kill them.

Just to prove a point.

“No.” You plea, moving your hands upward to clutch onto his shoulders now - desperate. You don’t want their deaths on your conscience — to be responsible for it.

Namgyu only nods sweetly, his smile vaguely returning as if to shut down your debate.

“Or maybe I’ll take you out there now — lay you down,” He pauses to clutch either sides of your face - thumbs pressing into your flushed cheeks. You whine at his grip.

“And fuck you. Nice and loud — make sure to wake ‘em up — make ‘em watch. Just so they know exactly who you belong to.”

He’s close enough to place the slightest ghost of a kiss against the corner of your mouth — barely touching — before putting his forehead against yours, eyes staring heavily into your own. He sways you softly in his hold and despite the seeming sweetness of it — you know it’s a threatening one.

“How’s that sound?” He asks.

As much as his words, shamefully, sent your head into a spin — you knew he’d actually do it. The killing or the fucking. But surely those weren’t your only options here, so you bravely decide on a third. Which means complete submission, which honestly? You didn’t now mind the idea of.

You’d lost the slither of self respect you had.

He won.

You needed him.

As shameful as it is.

Your eyes roll closed, pushing against his forehead with yours — cat like, needy. Flexing your hands on his shoulders to tighten your grip — clinging onto him, raising onto your tippy toes in order to feel closer. Though your height against his doesn’t give you much more of an advantage.

“There’s only you.” You whisper. The truth now spilling out your mouth - a confession. A sick one. Proving that he had won - and that you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t been with anyone else through the duration of your time apart. It wasn’t possible for you — even the concept of someone else’s hands on your body that weren’t his made you sick. You had been incapable of moving on — all you had left during that time was your self respect. That had been enough to close him off.

But now?

That fell apart.

You’re close enough hear his breath hitch.

“Say that again.”

You hear him say — his voice low. The sound of it enough to make your stomach twist — your pussy clench, and your head spin. You writhe in his hold sweetly - uncontrollably moving to graze your lips across his cheek, smearing.

“There was never anyone else.” You continue, your voice low and timid despite the confidence of your confession. You hear his lips puff out a breath — his jaw going slack as your continue your lips across to the other side of his face, only the slightest touch though — no kisses, just a soft graze.

You remember him enjoying that in the past.

Yet you can’t take anymore as your lips move above his — hovering there. As soon as you plant a kiss on him — you’re truly done for. You wouldn’t be able to be apart from him ever again — you wouldn’t want to be.

You softly come closer to plant the ghost of a kiss on his bottom lip - so soft he hardly feels it. You gulp hard - and as you move in to properly kiss him, he pulls his head back.

You let out a desperate gasp from the separation - eyes shooting open to look at him. His expression — blank. You can’t help the furrow knitting your brows together, confused. Desperately confused. You open your mouth to say something - but you can’t find the words.

“Say you’re sorry.” He says blankly.

You don’t say anything - your expression remaining.

“Say you’re sorry for playing the bitch — and fucking mean it.”

A little noise leaves you. Your eyes batting into his — you knew better than to think you could just get your way after that shit you pulled with him. You conclude that maybe his willpower is much stronger than yours. Proving so when after a moment or two in silence, you apologise.

“I’m sorry for playing the bitch, Namgyu.”

He doesn’t look convinced. You swallow hard.

“I acted like a bitch when you were trying to be nice. I should’ve been grateful — I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, Namgyu.”

He smiles then, almost condescendingly proud of you. He likes it when you play nice.

“Good.” He says.

“Now beg me for it.”

“Beg me for a kiss like a good girl.”

You practically shudder at that. He knows exactly what you want but he tells you exactly how you’ll get it. If it were you from yesterday, you’d give him a good slap to the face. But the mumbling mess you are now? Clinging to him? Like a desperate bitch? You don’t find much issue in it despite the shyness now parading your body.

“P-please.” You mumble out, eyes darting downward and back up to him — struggling to look him in the eyes, your new timidness achingly obvious.

“Kiss me — please, kiss me, Gyu.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” He cuts you off, almost laughing. His degrading makes you feel so fucking small beneath him — like every emotion you’re feeling is crashing down and suffocating you. You stutter to a silence when he cuts you off — unsure what you did wrong.

“That’s not how you beg.”

“Get on your fucking knees and beg me properly.” He bites, taking a step back away from you, his expression hard and demanding. Making it very obvious that he’s not fucking joking.

You could whine as he steps away from you — the lack of his warmth as the cold air of the bathroom hits your body. Standing alone like this - in such a mess - only adds to your shame.

And the shame only adds to your desperation.

You hesitate for a moment - before you slowly kneel, keeping your eyes pinned to the floor from embarrassment. Your limp trembling — so fucking upset at how easily you had lost your control. But more so upset at the realisation that you truly needed him — generally. Not just sexually.

Your palms flatten against the cold floor - sheepishly raising your eyes to look up at him.

He tightens his jaw - lips pressed into a straight thin line, just waiting.

You knew he had an insecurity issue. When you were together you could remember him rambling on about Thanos — how he tried to win him over, to get into his group. Attempts of free drinks - drugs, he’d even complain about Thanos getting his name wrong. All signs of an insecure man. You thought it was cute really - but it was obvious here that he wasn’t gonna let you get your way until he was certain in himself that you fucking meant it.

He needed to hear it from you.

To stabilise his insecurity — his jealousy.

But he also takes a great pride in seeing you this way. On your knees — below him, like a beggar to scraps. It makes him feel strong.

Your lips tremble as you struggle to find the words.

“Namgyu —” You try, already dropping your head to the floor from embarrassment and struggle. You breathe deep - bringing your head back up.

“ — I need you. Please, I — I’m sorry. I tried to stay away, I did.” You pause, your words achingly truthful and you come to clutch the ankle of his pants desperately.

You stay like that for a moment.

“I can’t help myself around you.” You confess - lips parting as you stare up at him. Yet his expression doesn’t change — he doesn’t move, nothing. Your chest burning as you try to think of something better to say — something to gage a reaction from him. You’re desperate.

“I’ll even stay away from everyone else in here — I mean it, I don’t need them — just you,” You continue to plead.

“Just you.” You finish with a genuine whisper.

But still, nothing.

And the next second, you crumble with an aching sob — not crying, just a noise of defeat as you lower your eyes away from him. You’d never felt shame so sore, eyes burning into the floor — unblinking — trembling. Feeling like the world around you is swallowing you whole.

Namgyu slowly kneels down to meet your height a moment later - your eyes shooting to him as he does.

His mouth slightly agape, almost looking fascinated by you. Almost surprised that you actually did what he asked. He settles into a squat position in front of you - his wrists on his knees as his hands dangle. You can only stare in anticipation, hoping and hoping that it was enough to let him set you free of this shame.

You both let a moment of silence pass between you.

“You’re a fucking mess.”

You stare in disbelief — his cruelness exceeding anything you’d ever witnessed from him.

He’d truly broke you down.

He stays staring at you and you see the contemplation on his face — you could only wonder what he’d have you do next. His eyes drop down, then back up.

Yet, he decides you’ve had enough. His expression softening, a hand reaching out to you.

“C’mere.” He says and you waste no time and take his hand — letting him pull you against him, your head slack on his shoulder as you move together to find a comfy position on the floor as you slot sideways into his lap - your legs slinging across his thighs.

“That’s it.” He encourages quietly, muttering against you as you melt into his arms as they wrap around you - one hand coming to guide your face to look at him.

“C’mere.” He whispers again, palming beneath your chin and planting a soft kiss on your lips, “There, all better — see?” He mummers, lips still against your mouth and you practically melt, your stomachs knot untwisting — a low whine that you held in for so long pouring out of you - nodding slowly in bliss.

He plants another one on you — less firm and more lazy, slow, like he’s also giving into it - you return it with the same amount of effort. Your lips both smearing against one another’s — slowly wetting with spit, the wet sound of that alone pools a growing wetness in between your legs.

His hand slips behind your head, fingers threading into your hair — petting, like he’s easing you down from the brink of humiliation you were in a second ago. Though his pride still remains - his ego now had been fed, a belly full.

“I knew you’d come around.” He mutters into your mouth in between kisses — like he has to carry on, to degrade despite giving in to what you want. To twist the knife — to keep you on your toes. You’re too carried away to even reply — like an addict getting their score, hungry and eager. Deprived for so long.

“Hmm?” He hums, hand slipping from your head, sloping down your neck and moving to palm one of your tits over your top with an abrupt - hard squeeze. A soft moan leaves you though it’s captured in your mouth mid kiss. You bring a hand to cover his - encouraging him to squeeze again - but he swats your hand away like a fly.

He pulls back from the kiss to look down to see better - you latch onto his neck with your mouth as he does which draws a soft hiss out of him - baring his teeth a little.

He pushes his hand under your top - soothing up your side till he pushes under your bra blindly — pinching your pebbled nipple with his index and thumb. This causing you to gasp, your body jolting in his lap.

Namgyu looks back to you, teeth still lightly bared in a gritty smile as he continues playing with your nipple below your top.

“Still like that, huh?” He hisses, swirling his index finger.

You nod, dazed, so he squeezes your nipple hard again to coax out a reply.

“Yes!” You pant out, “I like it — feels good.”

“That’s better, use your words like the little slut I know you are.”

He looks back down to your body riving and twitching in his lap - humming low in his throat as he pulls his hand out from under your top - palm flush against your skin as it travels down to your lower stomach, rubbing softly. The mere touch sending shivers through your body.

“Dunno how you resisted this like you did — I mean, shit — look at you, you’re practically shaking.”

He mocks, a single finger slipping under your waistband — stroking the skin there — toying with you.

Your hips instinctively twitch upward - unable to bare with the suspense of his lingering touch. “Namgyu.” you whine, pleading with him.

You grab his wrist, silently telling him to carry on - the feeling of your pussy wetting, going untouched - felt unbearable. Your head rests on his shoulder, your eyes peaking up at him.

“Please.”

He smiles to himself before looking at you.

There’s a pause in the air — the look on his face giving you slight concern.

“You’re gonna vote O tomorrow.”

Your mouth slightly falls open. He isn’t asking, he’s telling. But you don’t want to. You still wanted to leave — leave with him.

“I want to go home.” You whisper.

His smile stays, a low single laugh in his throat causing his shoulders to bounce in amusement - his hand now working it’s way under your waistband - all the way down to greedily palm your clothed pussy — firmly. He keeps his sights pinned on you as you gasp at the sudden connection - the firmness of his grip giving you a mix of unease and pleasure.

“Don’t be so fucking selfish.” He coos, smile dropping into a harsh expression - his face twitching meanly as he grinds down the ball of his palm firmly into your clit, still shielded by your panties - no doubt already feeling the dampness collecting there. Your breath hitches, a soft whimper slipping out.

“Please Gyu —” You groan out, tightening your grip on the wrist of his hand in your pants.

“Get your fucking hand off me.” He cuts you off - tone so harsh that you withdraw your hand instantly.

Your lip quivers - your mind unable to balance out the dread of the conversation and the pleasure whirling in your stomach.

“You could press X — we could leave together.” You mutter out between pants, foolishly really. You should’ve thought before you said that as his face stills. Within a second he’s pushing under your panties and running his fingers through your wet folds - a cracked moan ripping out of you.

“Is me playing with your pussy making you dumb?” He hisses, wasting no time in slipping his fingers down and pushing two into your tight hole with a harsh, wet plunge. The intensity of it causes your body jolt upward, a pleasured cry coming from your parted lips as you cling to him tightly to his chest - your eyes rolling closed in bliss. Your head rolls forward and down but he’s quick to grab a fistful of your hair with his free hand and yank your head back up.

“Eyes on me.” He says through gritted teeth, curling his fingers against your walls harshly — sweetly as you tremble, barely managing to keep your eyes open but you try your best as you look at him.

“What’s tomorrow’s vote?” He says, raising his brows slightly as he pulls his fingers out to only push them back in, softer this time though, the sound of your pussy squelching around his digits loud enough for you both to hear.

Your need to go home is excruciating—your need for safety and stability. Wishing for all the simple things like the sun on your skin and the comfort of your own bed. Your family. Friends. In here, you can’t handle the crushing possibility of never having see or feel those things again. Yet those needs crumble away under him. Your mind whirling out of control, unable to even comprehend the right thing to do. All you feel right now is how your tight hole clenches around his ruthless fingers as they sloppily plunge in and out of you.

You look at him through heavy lids that so desperately want to close over and enjoy. Your face showing your inner battle as it contorts - the tremble in your lip making it apparent to Namgyu that you’re about to give into his wishes.

“O.” you whisper faintly - sadly.

He presses his lips into yours — roughly.

You don’t even have a second to adjust - opening your mouth for a breath but he shoves his tongue in to swirl against yours greedily, his fist in your hair pressing your head closer - your jaw already aching from the feverish kiss. He slides his fingers back out briefly you feel before he adds a third, pushing them in slower as they struggle through the tightness of your seeping hole. You only return the kiss more aggressively then, feeling so full - so fucking full.

Your lips smear and slide wetly against his - open mouthed, breathing growing heavier as your mind plummets. You can’t get enough of it as you unleash all that pent up aggression back onto him - taking his bottom lip into your teeth as you bite — drawing a hiss from him. He places his thumb onto your clit then - grounding onto it in a circular grind and you yank your head from the kiss - throwing your head back, a loud moan leaving you.

“For someone so fucking scared, you shouldn’t be this wet.” He mutters, bringing his head near yours just to be able to see the look on your face as he fucks you with his fingers.

“I mean, listen to that.” He says, twisting his fingers in you - a loud sloshing noise apparent as you ooze around his fingers. Your breath catches when you feel your orgasm building - a ripped whine coming out of your gaping mouth. He grins small knowing you’re close.

“Yeahh, there you go.” He coos, picking up the pace of his fingers as they plunge deep against that sweet spot - lips placing a kiss on your chin. Your chest heaves suddenly, on the brink of cumming. He yanks your head back up, wanting to see your face.

It comes crashing down on you the next second - your muscles seizing and your pussy clenching around his fingers tightly, gushing onto them. You cry out a moan, burying your head into his neck as he fucks you through it - slowly slowing the pace of his fingers.

“That’s it.” He whispers, your hips rocking against his hand - any noise coming out of you being complete nonsense, all mumbles and dying moans which slowly change into gentle pants.

He pulls his fingers out of you, whispering a faint “fuck” when he sees your wetness and cum slathered all over his fingers. You open your heavy eyes - he’s already looking at you.

“Made such a mess.” He says, showing you his fingers before brining out his tongue to lap them once - tasting you. You can only whine at the sight of it and he hums softly in enjoyment.

He looks to you after a moment — noting the tired expression on your face. He simply leans to place a soft kiss on your lips, a hand holding the side of your face. You wished it could last forever. That you didn’t have to go back to face the reality again — the reality that by tomorrow you’d be dead. Or him.

So you decide to make the most of tonight.

So that night you slept in his bed.

Authors note: this took me way longer that it should’ve but i fucking loved writing this. ty for the request and hope you all enjoy. please please send more requests for fics so i can bring them to life. love you all. ❤️❤️❤️

[twjournals]

Bucky Barnes + Knives

[twjournals]

I neeeddd more age gap lowkey kind of taboo older hyun-ju and younger reader! I can just imagine the reader teasing hyun-ju any chance she can!

teasing older!hyun-ju

wc: 1,6k

cw: oral (reader receiving), scissoring (post op hyunju)

a/n: i was gonna make headcanons about this but kinda lost the plot sorry 😭 and sorry if it looks rushed, i dont have much time to write. anyway frustrated hyunju and cocky reader 🫶

Sharp black nails caress the soft skin of your legs at a painfully slow pace, eyes gazing at you through the dark overgrown bangs she'd been meaning to get cut for weeks now. She just couldn’t find time to do it, lately she was oversaturated with work and you knew it, you knew it and still you had pushed her buttons mercilessly up until this point.

You knew the slow drag of her fingers over your needy thighs was well deserved, as well as the intentional avoidance of her hands on your most needy parts. You haven’t been the most patient partner these weeks, teasing the already frustrated woman at any chance you had.

Hyun-ju thought she had already grown used to your cheeky attitude. Something that made her fall for you was the way you'd often tease her shy self, making her blush with little inappropriate comments in public or by eliciting reactions out of her that she didn’t know she was capable of. It was cute how you had her wrapped around your finger despite her being the most experienced out of the two.

You personally loved breaking through her responsible and composed façade just to get a bold reaction out of the woman. There was something so satisfying about seeing someone so delicate and reserved snapping and falling apart because of you. Seeing her usually tender eyes get darker or seeing her lose a smidge of control over her reactions.

In Hyun-ju's case, when you manage to make her run out of the endearing and never-ending patience she has for you, it could go two ways:

1. She matched your energy, playfully biting back as much as her reserved self would allow her. A timid smile on her face as she teased you, trying to mimic your mischievous energy. It was cute to see her try, she always looked so adorable trying to one you up.

2. She gets frustrated. When your teasing stopped being playful and it started being needy, bratty. It happened when you tried to get under her skin, when there was a purpose behind your blunt antics. And that purpose was making her lose control, to get a glimpse of that rare version of her where she acts on her lust selfishly, when she stops treating you so carefully and wants you to learn a lesson.

This time you aimed for the later, but what you didn’t see coming this time was her adamant disposition to let go and lash her frustrations out on you. You had tried everything by now, but she wouldn’t yield. When you wore revealing clothes, she'd either avoid looking at you or give you a disapproving look. If you tried to grind your body against hers when she slipped in bed after finishing her work for the day at late hours of the night, she'd stop your hips with a firm grab. Your bold comments while they seemed to make her clench her jaw, she'd act as if she hadn’t hear you.

It was getting frustrating getting yourself off in your shared bed when you knew she was working her ass off in the living room. Your fingers felt slow and short in comparison to hers, it never felt enough, and you were growing tired of it.

Your physical indisposition wasn’t the only problem, she also gave you nothing to work with. She had barely touched you lately and your make out sessions were reduced to merely chaste pecks.

It was 1AM when you began trying on a lacy underwear set you had begged her to buy you a month ago, before she got chained to her work. You had thought of spicing it up instead of the usual jerk off session on your pajamas, because working off memories was proving to not be enough anymore, you needed more vivid material.

You tried imagining her pretty lips placing kisses on the edge of the lacy red bra as she whispered praises against the wet marks she left behind, and it worked for a while, but opening your eyes to not seeing her over your body brought you back down, impossible to reach your climax without the real thing.

With a scoff you put on a shirt and walked off to the kitchen with the idea of getting some cereal to watch a show. You pay no mind to the black haired woman sitting under the light of her lamp typing on her laptop, as you were sure she'd do the same with you.

Making sure to keep it as quiet as possible you start preparing your snack, unaware of the eyes firmly fixed on the back of your figure.

As you turn around to head off to your room you catch the focused eyes of your girlfriend on the lower part of your body. She didn’t look away, too tired to realize your attention was on her.

"Baby?" Your soft voice got her out of her trance immediately, eyes back to the screen of her computer.

Hesitantly you began to walk towards her, unsure of what you're going to do, but desperate enough to try to do something.

"You look tired" you whispered as you caressed carefully her scalp, fingers brushing her soft short hair tenderly.

"Don't start, I've had enough of that this week" she covered the small groan that escaped her lips with a defeated sigh.

"You were the one staring, I was just getting my cereals" a satisfied grin made way into your face, to which she only scoffed to. "Hey, you're supposed to be the mature one"

Her eyes snapped to you, eyebrow arched in disbelief. Your smug grin grew on your face, finally getting a reaction out of her.

"You're being so cold with me," your grin was replaced with a fake pout, bending to be on the same level as her face.

"Aren't you supposed to take care of me?" you whispered, lips dangerously close to hers.

You slightly jumped when she abruptly got up from her seat, her tall frame backing you up against her desk.

"I don’t take care of you, brat?"

Her hands caged you between her desk and her body. Your heart rate picked up excitedly thinking about her finally fucking you after so long.

Your confidence shrank under her intimidating gaze, formerly teasing eyes looking up at her innocently.

"Cat got your tongue?"

You remain silent. Her eyes go back to the lacy panties you two didn’t even have the time to use yet and you watched her shallow, dominance slipping off her fingers for a brief second as she thought about how ridiculously beautiful they looked on you.

She slips a hand under your shirt to feel the matching bra and closed her eyes as she noticed how well it fit the shape of your breasts.

When she met your eyes again, she saw a playful grin plastered on your face, as if you had won this one.

_

That's how you'd end up on your shared bed with your legs thrown over her shoulders.

"What's wrong?"

You look at her, incredulous, as she worked around your clit for the eighteenth time tonight. She looked up at you through her lashes, her usually perfect eyeliner slightly smudged in the edges. A broken whine leaves your lips when you catch a fleeting glimpse of her lips covered in your arousal.

"I'm sorry" you didn’t mean to sound half as pathetic as you did, but the pent-up need got the best of you.

Tears formed on the corner of your eyes and Hyun-ju found herself enjoying it a little too much. She saw your hole clenching around nothing while she licked and kissed around the slick skin of your lips.

"I'm sorry, damn- Please, I mean it" you cried, unfocused eyes looking down at her pleadingly, "it hurts, please"

When her tongue finally connected with your throbbing bundle of nerves, you groaned in relief. Her wet tongue slowly drew circles on your clit the way she knew that drives you crazy.

You grind against her tongue, too impatient for her chosen pace, and surprisingly she lets you. She watches you desperately using her tongue to get yourself off, eyes squished shut and tears running beautifully down your cheeks.

When you bite your lips and your movements become sloppier and messy she knows you're close. She grins as she gets her tongue off you when you're about to reach your climax, hearing the much-expected whine that left your pouty lips.

"I don't want you to cum yet"

Gently bringing your body closer to her she positions both your heats against each other.

"Fuck" you hissed when your slick cunt touched hers.

She quickly started moving against you, pleasure taking over her frustrated body. Pent up frustration setting the pace with which she rubbed herself against your body.

Your previously built-up climax arrived quickly. Your body tensed against her, and you kissed her plump lips as you fell from your high, tasting your slick on her tongue.

She knew her neglected body wouldn't last much more than you, the friction of your soaked cunt was driving her insane. Her breathing became more strained, and her movements were becoming messier.

The warm feeling of your wetness against her aching clit didn’t take too long to throw her over the edge, lips whispering soft praises against your skin as she came.

Her exhausted body fell on top of yours, breath ragged and sweaty bangs sticking adorably to her forehead.

"Need a break?" you smirked, petting her hair as she rested her head in your neck.

She giggled against your sweaty skin. "Shut up, I still got a few more for tonight"

[twjournals]

SOUR || Choi Subong (Thanos)

summary: a summer trip to seoul was supposed to be a brief escape, not a love story. meeting subong wasn’t on your bucket list… neither was spending five nights tangled up in his world, wrapped in a kind of closeness that felt too good to ever be temporary. you wanted to believe in it. in him. in the version of love that could survive anything. but loving subong was never meant to be easy. and by the time you realize the damage, there’s no saving either of you from the inevitable crash. when did your love turn so sour?

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised) female reader, small age gap (reader is 24, subong is 28… story ends when reader’s around 27 and subong’s around 31), smut (fingering, implied unprotected sex, face sitting, praise, degradation, p in v, oral sex f+m, public sex, sexting, phone sex, breeding kink, sex while being high, switch!subong and switch!reader, leg humping. subong acts like a dog in heat quite literally and is very pathetic at times… he’s overly freaked out) subong calls himself daddy once as a joke but it felt morally correct to include it as a warning lmaoo. reader is a foreigner. excessive use of pet names and the words “fuck” and “fucking”. completely fabricated subong lore. angst (miscommunication, manipulation, gaslighting, lies, deception, name calling, heartbreak, drug abuse and addiction, emotional codependency, verbal fights, toxicity, trauma, emotional whiplash, mentions of suicide/mental health and suicidal ideation, near death experience, identity loss, financial instability, debt, gang involvement) subong’s an actual human being with feelings!! (crazy, right?) both subong and the reader do and say questionable stuff at various points. they’re not perfect. ah, yes, there’s also a bit of fluff too ig… this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

a/n: this is an au set before the games! this story took me forever to write, but it’s finally here and i really hope you enjoy it :) it’s extremely LONG, though (around 40k words), so get comfy. also, i have absolutely no idea how crypto works, but i did my best. as always, lower case is intended, reader’s dialogue is in bold, text messages are in purple for subong and orange for the reader. english isn’t my first language.

songs: ifhy — tyler the creator (pls, pls, listen to this because it’s literally them) || all i need — radiohead || duvet — bôa || less than a zero — the weeknd

the night has barely started and you’re lost in hongdae, sweating through your shirt, and praying your phone doesn’t die because it’s already on 27% “let’s just go in here,” one of your friends says, pointing at a building lit up in flashing purple and blue. it’s not your first choice. not even your third. the last two clubs you tried had lines stretching down the block and bouncers who barely glanced at you before shaking their heads, and the one before that was so packed you heard someone literally got pushed back down the stairs. you’ve spent more time wandering around than actually partying, and at this point, anything with functioning air conditioning sounds good. no one argues, you’re all too tired to keep searching. so you follow the group through the door.

the club isn’t what you expected, and the second you walk in, you all kind of pause like… huh. for one, the music’s live. which isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it’s just not what you were hoping for. not exactly what you had in mind when you pictured partying in seoul. but you stay. partly because it does feel more local and less… touristy. and also, one of your friends is already deep in conversation with a very tall, very handsome guy who appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy you all drinks—which, given the state of your wallet and your mood, feels like a small miracle. so you can’t really complain, can you?

the guy casually mentions he’s got a table upstairs and asks if you all want to join. next thing you know, you’re slipping past the crowd, walking toward a staircase in the back that leads to the vip section. an area you definitely wouldn’t have gotten into on your own, not dressed in sneakers and a tank top that’s slowly clinging to your back from the heat. so there you are, heading up, clinging to the sticky handrail. upstairs is somehow worse and better at the same time. the music is slightly muffled, the lighting is dim and moody, couches line the walls, there’s actual airflow, and from here, you can see the stage perfectly—a little overlook built for people who want to pretend they’re part of the party without actually being in it.

you hang back for a bit, sipping something cold and citrusy, listening to your friends laugh and flirt and fall into easy conversation with a new group of people that magically appeared the second you sat down. and then, just as you’re about to zone out entirely, the music shifts. a beat drops and you freeze for half a second because is that 50 Cent? it is. or at least, a sample of something that sounds very, very similar. then, you hear a voice sliding between english and korean with ease, and that makes you stand up. you mutter something about needing air (which is a lie), and wander over to the balcony that overlooks the stage, drawn in like a moth. that’s when you see him—mic in one hand, the other moving with that effortless kind of swagger people either spend years practicing or were just born with. he’s wearing yellow tinted sunglasses even though it’s pitch black in the club, oversized clothes, and purple hair styled into what looks like two small, deliberate horns which, if you’re honest, is the first thing that catches your attention. his voice is deep, a little rough, and he spits each line with the mic so close to his mouth you can hear every breath he takes between bars. there’s something strangely intimate about it, like he’s performing just for himself and anyone else who happens to be listening is just lucky to be there. the crowd doesn’t seem particularly impressed, but you are. the lyrics aren’t exactly genius, but the delivery is. some lines are so cocky they make you laugh under your breath without meaning to. because it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. he knows exactly how good he looks with a mic in his hand and doesn’t care if you agree. and unfortunately, you do.

“oh god, he’s awful,” your friend mutters beside you, and it startles you a little. you hadn’t even realized she was there, you’d been too focused, too pulled in by the purple-haired guy onstage. “he’s not that bad. i like him—the song, i mean,” you say, still watching him. there’s a pause, and then she gives you a look, trying to figure out if you’re being serious or if you’ve just had one too many drinks. “he’s said the word ‘bitch’ over twenty times,” she says flatly. “i counted.” you let out a small laugh, shrugging. “yeah, but like… with passion.” your friend snorts, shaking her head, but before she can get another jab in, someone calls her name from inside. she turns, leans in a little. “they’re doing shots,” she says. “come on.” you hesitate, glancing back at the stage—only to realize the music’s stopped. the lights have shifted, and the guy with the purple hair is no longer holding the mic, someone else is already taking his place, adjusting a guitar strap. he’s gone. you blink, surprised at how disappointed you are, and nod. “yeah, okay. coming.” you follow your friend back into the low light and noise, pretending not to care that you didn’t even get his name. not that it matters. it’s not like you’re going to see him again.

except you are. when subong steps into vip, still slightly buzzed from the stage lights, his eyes move instinctively across the room, and he sees you. he doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize your face, which is rare. because he’s seen most of the faces that cycle through this place, and someone that pretty? oh, trust, he would’ve remembered. you’re standing next to the couch with a drink in one hand, looking a little overwhelmed but not uncomfortable, surrounded by people but not really paying attention to any of them. you’re not trying to stand out. which is probably why you do. his gaze lingers longer than it should. because something about you is pulling at him, and subong’s never been the type to ignore that feeling. so he grabs a drink from someone’s tray and makes his way toward you, direct. like he’s already sure how this is going to go. he stops in front of you, eyes flicking down once before landing on yours. “señorita, excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. you recognize him immediately. up close, he’s different. prettier. no, actually… he’s so fucking fine. you pay special attention to his sharp jaw, and eyes that are clearer now without the yellow sunglasses hiding them. “you’re cute,” he continues, casual, like it’s just a fact he felt obligated to mention before anything else. then, after the smallest pause—“hi.” you blink, caught off guard by the compliment more than the greeting. “hi.” his lips twitch, holding back a grin. “i’m thanos.” the music chooses that exact moment to spike—a sudden burst of bass and reverb that drowns his voice out completely. “sorry—what?!” you ask, leaning in slightly. he steps closer, bringing his mouth near your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he repeats himself loud enough for you to hear over the music. “i’m—i’m thanos!” you catch a whiff of his cologne when he moves, something fresh layered with the faint, bitter scent of smoke. it hits you all at once, and for a second, you forget what you were even trying to ask. you pull back enough to look at him again, brows lifted. “thanos?!” “stage name!”

the music finally drops to a bearable level, something with a steady beat. “like the marvel villain?” you ask, laughing a bit. “the one who wiped out half the universe?” “yeah.” “why thanos?” he just lifts a hand, points lazily at his hair, and then turns his wrist to show you his nails, each one a different color—deep purple, bright blue, fiery red, vibrant green, and a sharp orange. “see?” he says. “you’re fully committed to the bit!” “branding,” he says, like it’s obvious. you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “well, nice to meet you,” you say, offering your name in return. he repeats it under his breath, trying it on. it sounds different with his accent—stretched out a little, in a way you instantly like. his korean accent is obvious, and you’re sure some people would call it heavy, but to you it just sounds… hot. he gestures toward the space between you, then tips his head slightly. “did you see the set?” you nod. “yeah. from the balcony.” “and?” “you were… loud.” you admit, taking a sip of your drink to buy time. “mmh,” he hums, clearly entertained. “not your style?” “not usually,” you say. “but i liked it! you had your moments.” “that’s good,” he nods, eyes still on you. “i only needed one.” “one what?” “moment. to get your attention.” oh, okay… smooth. he lets the silence hang for a second, sipping his drink. “you’re not from around here,” he says eventually—not a question, more like an observation he already knows the answer to. you shake your head. “nope.” “where you from, baby?” you raise your eyebrows at the pet name, almost embarrassed at how warm your cheeks have gotten hearing him say it. you tell him where you’re from, and he nods like that fits some kind of theory he’s already formed about you. “just visiting?” he asks. “yeah, we’re here for the week,” you say. “girls’ trip.” his gaze flicks past you briefly, toward your group of friends still talking and drinking behind you, then back to you. “that all?” “mhm.” you nod. “good timing.” “for what?” you ask, tilting your head. his eyes flick over your face. “me.”

so that’s where this is going. not that you weren’t already suspicious. you kinda figured by the way he looks at you like he’s halfway through undressing you with his eyes, but still, hearing him say ‘me’ with that much confidence really drives the point home... he wants to fuck you. this is very much a he has already made up his mind and you’re just the last one to catch up. well, good luck with that, boy. you tilt your head, pretending to think. “i don’t even know your real name.” he grins. this part is his favorite—the push and pull, the game. “i’ll tell you later, baby.” you narrow your eyes. “later when?” he doesn’t miss a beat. “when you let me buy you another drink.” you stare at him for half a second, considering your options, which—let’s be honest—are limited. you could walk away and rejoin your friends, go back to the safety of watered-down vodka cranberries and gossip. or you could stay here, entertain whatever this is, and see how far he plans to take the act. subong’s still looking at you, glass in hand. in his mind, he’s already planned five different ways to keep your attention if this line doesn’t land. you glance down at your drink—or what’s left of it, really. a few pathetic ice cubes floating around in reddish water, the sad remains of something that once had flavor. it’s warm now, or getting there, and you’ve already chewed on the straw more than any adult should admit. there’s no real reason to say yes, but there’s also no good reason to say no, so you nod. “okay.”

it’s quieter closer to the bar, though still not quiet. he orders something—you don’t know what—in korean, and you don’t ask. you just lean against the bar like you’re not mentally calculating how close he’s standing. the drinks arrive, stronger than the last one you had. you sip as he asks about the trip, nods when you give half-baked answers, says little things you don’t always catch but smile at anyway. somewhere along the way, he starts teaching you random korean words, pointing at objects. you try to follow along, repeating what he says with varying degrees of accuracy, sometimes getting it close enough to earn a nod, sometimes butchering the vowels so badly you can see him wince, like you’ve committed a mild crime against his language.

he’s close. so close you start noticing the details. the way his the fabric of his shirt moves, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, and the thin silver chain resting against his skin, catching the low light with every shift of his body. it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and reappears again near the dip of his throat. a tattoo peeks out from the side of his neck, a straight black line that seems to be connected to one of his fingers. your eyes flick to his hand before you even think about it. silver rings catch the light—some smooth, others engraved with intricate patterns. you don’t know why you’re so focused on them, but there’s something about the way they contrast against his tanned skin that keeps your attention. then he lowers his hand, and your gaze follows. there, on the back of it, another tattoo in black ink sprawls across his skin—some kind of demon with horns, twisted together with what looks like snakes. it’s faded in places, like it’s been there a long time and he hasn’t bothered to touch it up. without thinking, you track the movement of his fingers as they flex slightly before settling at his side. they’re long, perfectly proportioned to his massive hands. wait… that’s fucking hot. would they feel coarse on your skin? would they— “yo.” you blink, snapping back to reality, realizing he’s watching you, head tilted slightly, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “you good?” he asks, his smirk deepening and making your face warm. “yeah,” you say too quickly, clearing your throat. you’re pretty sure your mouth was watering for a second there.

you try to focus back on the conversation. focus on the way he tilts his head every time you speak, like he’s making room for the sound of your voice. it’s probably something he does with every girl he likes the look of, and yet you still feel the heat crawling up your spine like you’re special, which is probably exactly how he wants you to feel. and then, without ceremony, it just happens. one second you’re trying to act normal, pretending you don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your mouth between sentences, and the next he’s leaning in— hand on your jaw, breath warm and close, before he kisses you. and honestly? it’s not great. it’s hot, yeah, and his mouth is warm, and you can tell he knows what he wants to do… but it’s too much. all tongue and pressure and zero pacing… like biting and breathing through his nose and full-on consuming you is the only way to make sure you’re into it. your teeth knock once, your lips feel bruised, and for a second you’re just trying not to choke on the fact that he is really going for it. you pull back, a hand against his chest to create a little breathing room, your lips probably shiny in the worst possible way. your eyes meet his and you swear he looks kind of smug about it, like he thinks you’re about to fall into his arms or ask him to fuck you right here. “jesus,” you mutter, not even hiding it. “slow down.” his brows lift, breath shallow, lips parted like he’s halfway through his next move, and you can tell he didn’t expect to be stopped. he probably never is. “what?” you don’t move your hand, just stay there, catching your breath. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say, a little softer this time. “just… not like that. try—try going slower.” he blinks once, like he’s rewiring the pace in his head, and then the corner of his mouth twitches. “bossy. i like that.”

and to his credit, he does what you asked. he leans in again, slower. this time, it actually feels like a kiss. it’s still deep, a little wild and rough, but better than before. you make a soft noise into his mouth and his hands respond immediately—one sliding lower, the other gripping your hip. and then you feel it—his fingers moving further down, gripping your ass like he needs something to hold onto or else he’s going to lose his fucking mind. bold. heat is building fast, and he’s pulling your body right up against his, which you let him do. he’s finally moving like he’s tuned in to what you want instead of just steamrolling through it. it’s good. the kind of kiss that makes your brain go fuzzy and your knees a little weak. and then he pulls back. “you wanna get outta here?” and… he’s just ruined it! “what?” his hand squeezes your side a little, still very much pressed against you. “yeah, like… somewhere private. we don’t gotta stay long.” the subtext is not even trying to be subtle. you lean back to look him in the face. “seriously?” he shrugs, but his eyes flick away for half a second because he already knows he’s misread this. “i mean. you’re into it. i’m… really fucking into it. figured we could…” he trails off, then laughs like it’ll cover for the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a dick. “you don’t even know me,” you say, and it comes out flatter than you expected. “you kissed me, girl.” “and that means what, exactly? that i owe you something now?” you start to move, shifting away from him, scanning the room for your friends.

“wait, wait—! shit—no, don’t go,” he says, suddenly very aware that he’s said the wrong thing. “please don’t hate me, pretty girl.” his hand almost reaches for you but he thinks better of it. “i didn’t mean it like that. okay, no—i did, but not like—damn. shit, man.” you don’t say anything, and that seems to only fuel the panic. he keeps going. “you’re just—fuck, you’re so hot, bro. like… so fucking hot. you have the best ass i’ve ever touched in my entire fucking life, and your mouth? damn girl. i’m not built for that kind of shit, i got so hard i—sorry.” he laughs under his breath, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ll—i’ll chill. i can chill, baby. i’ll make out with you for five hours straight if that’s all you want. i swear to god. i just—i don’t want you walking away thinking i don’t respect you or some shit.” he knows how he looks. like the kind of guy who gets girls easy, like he does this all the time. and sometimes, yeah, sure, some do stick around for a night or two, but not like you. and if kissing is all he’s getting tonight, then fine—he’ll take it happily. you laugh, soft and breathy, and he can’t tell if it’s at him or with him, but it doesn’t really matter. there’s something amused in your eyes, like you’re watching a very eager dog try to sit still. you’re trying to decide if he’s serious or just really, really horny. maybe both. either way, you find extremely funny the way he went from cocky to borderline begging in under a minute. “i’m not like that,” you say finally, and your voice is gentler now. “i don’t do the one night stand thing. it just feels… cold.” he nods. he hears you, even if he’s still a little dazed from the way your mouth tasted two minutes ago. “and you’re sweet,” you add. “but i’m gonna head back to my friends.” “wait,” he says. “can i—can i get your number, baby?” you pause, considering whether or not you want to give it to him. “yeah, okay. sure” you end up saying. “give me your phone.” oh, don’t tell him twice… he fumbles for it, unlocks it fast, and hands it over. and when you type your number in, he watches, not quite sure it’s really happening. you hand his phone back, and he stares at the contact for a second longer than necessary before locking the screen. you’re already stepping back when he finds his voice again. “and—fuck, wait,” he says. “if i asked you out… like, on a date. would you say yes?” you snort. “maybe.”

by the time you get back to the hotel, your feet are killing you and your face hurts from laughing, your makeup slightly smudged. you’re all stretched out on one bed, voices low and tired and still a bit drunk, retelling the night in pieces, everyone interrupting each other with “wait—wait—and then she said—” and “i swear he looked straight at me,” and “i think that guy wanted to kick us out, dude.” and then, eventually, they ask. about thanos. you tell them about the kissing, about the moment he ruined it, the apology and all the ridiculous things he said. they laugh, obviously. one of them calls him down bad, and yeah, fair. another says he sounds like a walking red flag, and you nod, because again, fair. but then you mention the part where he asked for your number. how he asked if he could take you out. “and you gave it to him?” one of them asks. you just shrug, staring up at the ceiling. “i mean… he asked nicely.” they tease you, of course. and you pretend not to care, but you’re smiling into the pillow like a fucking idiot anyway, because something about the way he said please don’t hate me, pretty girl has been playing on loop in your head all night, and it’s way too late to pretend it didn’t get to you. you’re about to drift off, the room quiet now, someone already snoring in the corner—when your phone buzzes. a text. from a number you don’t have saved yet, but you know exactly who it is.

yo babygirl

pls tell me this is u and not like some random old man

you stare at the screen for a second, already shaking your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing. you don’t respond right away.

dont leave me on read baby

you finally answer:

who’s this?

you know exactly who it is but you still want to make him suffer a little.

girl dont play me rn

it’s thanos🔥

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already giving you away.

mm idk name doesn’t ring a bell

crazy, u were tryna suck my soul 2 hrs ago, girl

you tried to suck my soul, get it right boy

okay thats fair, my bad

i got excited

u fine asf what was i supposed to do

you glance over at your friend, still asleep, then sink deeper into your pillow, thumbs moving slow on your screen.

romantic

i can be for you bby

:))

cute

you never told me your real name btw

it’s subong

choi subong if we r being formal n shit

subong?? no way that’s real, it sounds made up as hell

why would i lie tho

this me fr, ask my mom

oooh say less, send me her number, i’ll fact check

u tryna meet her already?? damn girl slow down

you read it once, then again—and the laugh that comes out of you is loud enough that your friend stirs beside you and mutters something unintelligible into her pillow. he texts again.

so what u doin tmrw night, bby?

depends

on?

what you’re asking

dinner, me n u

dinner?

yeah u said u not on that one night shit so i adjusted

growth, baby

okay mr. mature

so what time u lettin me pick u up tmrw

when did i agree to the date?

dont play w me ma, cmon lemme feed u

ooookayy pick me up at 8

bet

dont flake on me pretty girl

i already told my friends i got a date w the baddest tourist in seoul

dw i’ll send you the hotel address tomorrow🙂‍↕️

goodnight subong

goodnight❤️

you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains as someone’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. your mouth’s dry, your back aches a little from the shitty mattress, and one of your friends is already rummaging through their suitcase way too loudly for 9 a.m. the day starts in hongdae, where you grab iced lattes from a café, and eat soft pastries that flake apart in your hands while you lean against the glass and watch the crowds pass by. you wander from there, no real plan in place. it’s hot, not unbearable but definitely the kind that makes the shade feel like a gift from god. you end up in ikseon-dong after someone sees a post about it on tiktok—the winding alleys and hanok rooftops and little stores selling handmade accessories. you try on rings, pose in front of storefronts you can’t pronounce, and eat cold tteok skewers that stick to your teeth while your friends debate if it’s worth renting hanboks just for the photos. and it’s somewhere in between all that—while you’re wiping your hands on a napkin—that someone turns to you and says, “so what happened with purple hair?” you shrug. “he texted.” “and?” you don’t say anything. instead, you reach into your bag, pull out your phone, and start scrolling. you wordlessly hold your phone out, and one of them takes it, squinting at the screen as the others gather around her shoulder. it takes about three seconds for the noise to start. “yo babygirl?” “oh, god… not the fire emoji.” “nahhh, he’s a bit icky—” “no, no, i think he’s lowkey funny.” they keep scrolling—laughing, gasping, reacting… and then someone sees it. the message. “wait… you’re going on a date?” you nod. “what? girl, you met him like twelve hours ago—do we trust him?” she lowers her voice even though no one around would understand anyway. “we’re in a different country, you literally met him at a club, and now he’s taking you somewhere alone?” “i know,” you say, already anticipating this. “i’ll be careful.” “how careful?” “i’m gonna send you my location before i leave. i’ll keep it on the whole time. if anything’s weird, i’ll text.” the worry’s still there, visible in the slight crease between their brows, in the way they exchange looks. “i’ll be fine, don’t worry.” “okay. but try to be in public spaces.” “i will.”

you make it back to the hotel just as the sky starts turning that soft, bruised purple, and you peel off your clothes like they’re too heavy, staring at the limited wardrobe you packed as if suddenly it matters way too much. you change your outfit twice, almost three times, before settling on something simple, something that doesn’t look like you’re trying too hard. you’re fixing your hair for the hundredth time when your phone buzzes.

outside

your stomach flips so hard it’s stupid. you grab your bag, do a quick mirror check you immediately regret because now you’re second-guessing everything, and head for the elevator before you can talk yourself out of it. and when you step out into the sticky air outside, you spot him almost immediately—standing by the curb, head tipped back slightly as he exhales a slow stream of vapor into the humid air. he’s dressed way more casual than you expected too… an oversized white t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, baggy jorts and sneakers. he looks… cool. subong spots you, flicking the vape down to his side with a lazy grin as you start walking toward him. you barely get the word out— “hey—” when he steps right into your space and presses a kiss to your mouth. your body freezes, every muscle stiffening in surprise. you instinctively pull back, blinking up at him. “what—” you start, hand coming up between you half in reflex, half in shock. “what are you doing?” he shrugs, one shoulder up, all casual confidence. “what you mean, girl?” he says, tucking his vape into the pocket of his jorts. “we kissed last night.” you just stare at him, heart still hammering, lips tingling from the stupidly quick kiss. he’s looking at you like you’re the crazy one, like this is normal. but there’s the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth, the smallest glint in his eyes that says he knew exactly what he was doing. “that was different,” you mutter. “was it?” you open your mouth, ready to say something—not sure what—but nothing comes out. you try to catch up to the pace he’s apparently set without telling you as he glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, head tilted slightly like what? what did i do? you shake your head, blinking to reboot your system or at least form a coherent sentence, “you can’t just kiss people like that.” he grins. “wasn’t just people. it was you.” you snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t slap you.”

he laughs under his breath, genuinely amused by how hard you’re trying to act unbothered when you’re still standing close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “okay, don’t trip,” he says, like he’s letting you win just because he feels like it. “i won’t kiss you again, i’ll be good. you set the pace. whenever you’re ready to stop acting like you ain’t feelin’ me, you let me know.” you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, but you’re also pretty sure your face is still warm from the kiss, and the worst part is, he knows it. his eyes trail down your body, and he lets out this soft, almost inaudible damn under his breath that somehow feels a thousand times louder than it is. “you look so fucking good, baby,” he comments, voice dipping lower. “shit’s actually disrespectful.” he licks his bottom lip. “got me thinkin’ wild stuff.” before you can even finish processing the fact that he just said that out loud with no fucking shame, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist, and spins you—checking out the full view. there’s something in the way his eyes trail over you as you turn that makes your skin prickle. and subong knows he’s pushing it but can’t quite help himself. you stumble a little when you land back in front of him, cheeks hot, hand fluttering uselessly at your side.“so pretty.” “thank you,” you respond, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

desperate to shift the focus, to get it off you, you ask, “so this is what you wear on a first date?” your voice back to playful now. he grins, completely unfazed, hands slipping casually into his pockets. “yeah,” he replies. “like what you see?” you can’t deny he pulls it off. “could be better,” you tease, throwing it out just to see if you can knock him down a peg. it makes him laugh, head tipping back slightly like you just said the funniest thing in the world. “alright,” he shakes his head. “i’ll let you get away with this one. first one’s free.” you grin, feeling lighter now, falling into step beside him as you both start moving. you walk for a bit, the conversation drifting into whatever, until something tugs at the back of your mind. you glance around the street, at the line of cars parked along the curb, at the people climbing into taxis and scooters buzzing past, and a tiny frown pulls at your mouth before you even know why. you slow your steps just a little, enough that subong notices, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “wait,” you say, looking around again, feeling the pieces start to click together. “where’s your car?” he doesn’t answer immediately—just lets out this quiet heh under his breath, the kind of sound that’s both i knew this was coming and damn bro, she caught me. “uh,” he starts, dragging the word out way too long. “‘bout that.” you try to keep a straight face because you’re very close to laughing and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to. “i don’t have one.” “you made it sound like you were picking me up.” “i did pick you up,” he argues, grinning like this is all very charming and not mildly ridiculous. “i’m here, aren’t i?” you shake your head, letting out a laugh you can’t hold back this time. “relax, señorita,” he says, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow, walking backwards a few steps so he can keep looking at you. “the place we’re going is close. we good. thanos’s here with you.” you raise your eyebrows, biting back another laugh. “yeah, okay.”

you follow him down a few blocks, weaving through narrow side streets that don't look like they lead to anything good, the sidewalks cracked and uneven, neon signs lit overhead. you're not really sure where you're going, but somehow you don't care. finally he stops in front of a tiny restaurant. there's no sign in english, just a battered old menu taped to the window, the plastic chairs outside scratched and sun-bleached to hell. you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just smiles, flashing you that lazy, boyish look like trust me, i got you. subong holds the door open for you, and you step inside. the place smells like frying oil, grilled meat and cheap beer, and the tables are crammed so close together you have to squeeze sideways to get through. there’s a little bar shoved in the back, stacked with soju bottles and bags of chips, and a woman behind it who looks like she’d throw you out if you looked at her wrong.

you sit at a table near the window, the seat creaking under you, and he grabs two menus—ones that are almost falling apart from too many hands flipping through them—and leans across the table like he’s about to tell you a secret. “they got the best shit here,” he says, all serious. you laugh under your breath and skim the menu… it’s all in korean. and when you look up at him, he’s already watching you. “what you want, baby?” he asks, tapping the menu with his ringed fingers. “i have no idea what any of this is.” he chuckles, low in his throat. “don’t worry. i got you.” he orders for both of you, tossing words toward the server with an easy familiarity, laughing at something she says in return, flashing her that same smile that’s been getting him out of trouble his whole life, probably. you watch him, chin propped on your hand, hiding your grin. it’s hard to pretend you’re not a little charmed. the food comes fast: bubbling stews, plates of fried chicken glistening with sauce, little bowls of pickled side dishes you can’t name but don’t hesitate to try. it smells incredible. you barely finish thanking the server before you’re digging in, laughing when you nearly burn your mouth on the first bite because you were too impatient to let it cool. “careful, girl,” subong says, laughing at you while he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth. he watches you take your first proper bite, waiting for a reaction, looking way too pleased with himself when you close your eyes and groan around a mouthful of food. "told you.”

the conversation flows easy after that—mostly him talking, telling you stupid stories about growing up in the city, about getting in trouble for sneaking into clubs before he was legal, about how he got kicked off stage once for getting too drunk during a performance. every once in a while he has to stop mid-sentence, brows knitting together as he fumbles for a word in english, pulling out his phone to type it into a translator app, muttering curses under his breath when it doesn't come out right. but most of the time he powers through, thick accent clinging stubbornly to every word. you notice it—the effort, the way he doesn’t act embarrassed about it, just keeps talking, keeps looking at you like what matters is that you’re listening, not whether he gets every syllable perfect. but his english is way better than you expected. by the time the plates are empty and you’re leaning back in your seat, full and happy and a little buzzed from the cheap beer he insisted you had to try, you realize you haven’t stopped smiling for at least an hour. when the server drops the check, he snatches it off the table before you can even reach for it, tossing a few crumpled bills into the plastic tray. “i said i got you, baby. you’re my guest in seoul. gotta treat you right.”

you step out of the restaurant still laughing at something stupid he said. subong throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little into his side as you start walking again. jesus, this man loves physical contact. but you let him because fuck it—you’re in seoul, he’s fine as fuck and you just had the best dinner ever. you assume this is it. that he’ll say something smooth about how he had a good time and then you’ll part ways like normal people… but of course that’s not how this night is going to end. “yo,” he says suddenly, glancing at you sideways. “you ever been to karaoke?” you blink at him, thrown off. “like, here? in korea?” he nods, looking way too excited about it. you laugh. “i mean, no? not yet.” “say less,” he says immediately. “we’re going.” you don’t even protest. maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the way he says it, giving you no room to say no but somehow you don’t want to anyway. once you arrive to the closest karaoke place you could find, he pays for an hour and drags you into one of the rooms, tossing the remote onto the fake leather couch before flopping down like he owns the place. and you swear you’re ready—thinking he’s going to pick something remotely cool that would actually show off the fact that he’s a real rapper with actual skills—but instead, he picks the corniest, cringiest song you’ve ever heard, something so bad it feels like it should be illegal to perform it in public. and he commits to it, bouncing a little on the couch and pointing at you dramatically, hand over his heart, singing the dumbest lines with so much fake sincerity that you’re doubled over laughing, wiping tears from your eyes while he struts across the tiny room like he’s on tour. “this one’s for you, babygirl,” he says between lines, winking exaggeratedly, nearly dropping the mic because he’s laughing too hard at himself. you can’t remember the last time you laughed like this. to the point where your stomach hurts, and the laugh bubbles up uncontrollably until you can’t breathe and you’re clutching the arm of the couch just to stay upright.

somewhere in the middle of it you realize you’re completely fucked because he’s so annoying and so stupid and so fucking handsome at the same time. his hair’s sticking to his forehead, sweat glinting at his temples, his oversized t-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that makes it real fucking hard not to stare, and every time he sings louder, that vein in his neck strains against his skin like it’s begging for your mouth. lord, have some fucking mercy. you hate him for it—hate the way he’s making you want him without even trying, without even looking at you sometimes… just existing like this, all loud and cocky and hot enough to make your thighs press together. you cheer for him because you can’t not, hollering louder than you should when he throws in a stupid dance move that nearly knocks over the mic stand. and when he finally hands you the mic, yelling “let’s gooo, pretty girl!” like you’re stepping onto a stage instead of a busted karaoke floor, you realize you’re smiling so hard it actually hurts. you sing, and he’s clapping, hyping you up like you’re winning a fucking grammy—shouting your name. you take turns picking songs after that, drinking whatever cheap shit they sell at the front counter, voices cracking, bodies slumping closer together the longer the night drags on. and somewhere between your third song and his fourth, somewhere between him rapping aggressively at you from three feet away and you pretending to dodge his dramatic finger guns, it happens.

you catch him grinning at you, and your heart kicks hard against your chest, like your body already knows what you’re about to do before you even decide it. you remember in that moment what he said outside the hotel, about letting you set the pace. and god help you, you’re ready to set it now. you don’t think. you just move, leaning over the little gap between you, grabbing the front of his t-shirt, and pulling him in. when you kiss him, it’s nothing like the night before. it’s so much better. his mouth slants over yours perfectly, with enough pressure to make your stomach flip and enough softness to make you forget about everything outside. one of his hands slips around your jaw to hold you steady and the other one finds your thigh. you hum against his mouth without meaning to, and subong breathes out a low sound in response. you pull away to catch your breath, and when you kiss again, it’s a bit more desperate, which makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your mouth. it’s honestly embarrassing how fast you feel your panties soak. you don’t know how long you stay like that—lost in the beat of some awful pop song bleeding through the thin walls as you heavily make out—but you know that when you pull back again, breathing hard, you’re smiling like an idiot. and so is he.

it’s past three in the morning by the time you finally stumble out of the karaoke bar, that area of the city almost empty now. the only sound between you is the soft scuff of your sneakers on the pavement and the occasional lazy laugh when one of you says something too stupid to hold in. you make it back to the hotel slower than you probably should’ve, feet dragging a little like both of you are trying to stretch the night out just a little longer, neither one really willing to say it’s over yet. you stop just outside the hotel doors, under the weak yellow glow of the streetlights, and turn to him. subong smiles at you. “had fun with you, baby,” he says. you smile back, feeling it settle deep under your skin. “i had fun too. a lot.” he nods like he’s filing that away somewhere important, then shifts his weight. “we should hang out again,” there’s a thread under it you can hear, something almost urgent. you bite your lip, hesitating just a second longer than you mean to, and his eyes catch it immediately, narrowing slightly, picking up the shift in you. “i mean…” you start, fumbling a little, “i’m here with my friends. i told you, it’s like… a girls’ trip. we already have stuff planned and—” he cuts you off, scoffing, half laughing under his breath, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “man, fuck them plans,” he says, grinning but shaking his head like he’s serious underneath it. “they get to see you all year. i got only four days now, girl. four.” you open your mouth to argue, to say something logical and responsible, but he continues, “they ain’t gonna miss you for a few hours,” he says, coaxing, all lazy sweetness. “i will.” you blink up at him, caught off guard by the way he says it. maybe you should say no, tell him you’re here for your friends, not to get caught up in some boy you barely know. maybe you should turn around and go inside and pretend this night was enough. but the truth is, you already know what you’re going to do. so you just breathe out a soft, helpless little laugh, and shrug one shoulder like you’re trying to play it off even though you know he sees right through you. “okay.” you nod. “i’ll see you again.” the grin that breaks across his face is so quick, so bright, it almost knocks the air out of you. he doesn’t even try to hide it. “damn right you will,” he says. “same time tomorrow, yeah?” you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth, can’t stop yourself from playing along. “same time?” “yeah, baby. same time.”

the next morning you wake up feeling like you barely slept at all. you lie there for a few minutes, blinking up at the ceiling, replaying pieces of last night in your head, until someone throws a pillow at you and tells you to get up because you’re all late for whatever tourist plan you made before the trip. you tell them about the date during breakfast, skipping over the part where you made out on the sticky leather couch, but you’re pretty sure they can read it on your face anyway. they tease you again. ask when the wedding is and if they should start learning korean for the reception. those bitches. you laugh along with them, pretending you’re not checking the time more often than you should as the day wears on, counting down the hours until the sun goes down and it’s time. when you make it back to the hotel to shower and change, the sun’s just dipping low behind the buildings, painting the whole city gold. your friends are sprawled out on their beds, chatting about dinner plans for the night, but you’re in another world, getting ready for your date with subong. you slip outside just a few minutes before the time you agreed on, standing on the same spot as the night before, the concrete still holding the heat of the day. you spot him as he walks toward you, vape tucked between his fingers, a slow stream of smoke curling up. he’s hard to miss—not just because of the purple hair, but because somehow he looks even better tonight, a little more put together. he’s wearing those same jorts, a white tank top that clings to him in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thin fabric stretched across the lines of his shoulders and the curve of his chest. over it, he’s thrown on an open short-sleeved button-up, some tropical print you can’t even process because you’re too busy processing him—the way the shirt flutters open as he walks, flashing glimpses of tan skin and silver chains. you restrain yourself from barking because oh my fucking god. you’re so feral, it’s insane. he gets closer, mouth curling into a smirk. “damn, mama,” he says. “you tryna kill me looking like that?” you smile. “maybe.” he snorts before reaching out to hook a lazy arm around your shoulders like he did last night, pulling you into his side. “come on, baby,” he says, giving you a little squeeze. “night’s young.” you glance up at him, amused. “so, what’s the plan?” he hums, thinking, like the idea of having a plan never once crossed his mind. “have fun, get you fed and keep you laughing. that good enough?” you chuckle, letting yourself be dragged wherever he feels like going.

he pulls you down a side street you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. there are carts lined up one after another, steam rising from boiling pots, old men barking orders, kids laughing, girls dressed way too nicely for the grime around their shoes. subong stops at the first tteokbokki stand he sees, hands you a toothpick without asking like it’s a rite of passage, and grins at you when you eye the bubbling, angry red sauce with suspicion. “don’t be soft,” he says, plucking a rice cake out and blowing on it dramatically before popping it into his mouth. “fire, but it’s good for you.” “fire? what do you mean ‘fire’?” you poke at a piece, hesitating, and he bumps your hip with his. “c’mon, girl. don’t think about it.” you stab the piece, blow on it half-heartedly, and take a bite—immediately coughing as the heat punches you square in the mouth. he laughs so loud people actually turn to stare. you glare at him through watering eyes, cheeks puffed out, waving your free hand frantically. “shit, baby, you good?” he says between wheezing laughs, grabbing a water bottle off the cart and handing it to you. you chug half the bottle in one go, scowling over the top of it while he keeps laughing, trying and failing to school his face into something resembling sympathy. “it’s not funny,” you choke out, but it’s hopeless—you’re laughing too, half in misery, half because his smile is so stupidly infectious.

you move from cart to cart after that, him insisting you try everything—fish cakes dipped in broth, skewered meats glazed with something sweet, a fried pancake stuffed with brown sugar and nuts that you basically inhale because it’s the first non-lethal thing you’ve eaten all night. you end up perched on the curb a few minutes later, paper trays balanced between you. it’s not exactly glamorous, but somehow, sitting here next to him, none of it really matters. he’s good company… snatching bites off your plate like he didn’t just buy two full meals for himself. you watch him for a second, amused, as he chews dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting for you to fight him for it, but you don’t. “by the way,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “i forgot to ask. how old are you?” he freezes mid bite, eyes wide like you just hit him with a question he wasn’t ready for. then he swallows and smirks, licking sauce off his thumb before answering. “twenty-eight,” he replies, tapping his chest like it’s a badge of honor. “grown-ass man, baby.” you laugh, shaking your head. “you act like you’re eighteen.” he grins wider. “young at heart, old in the dick.” you almost choke on your food, smacking his arm while he doubles over laughing, clearly way too proud of himself. “jesus christ,” you mutter, hiding your face in your hands for a second while subong keeps laughing, wiping fake tears from the corner of his eyes. “what about you?” he asks once he catches his breath, nudging you back with his shoulder. “twenty-four,” you say, still side-eyeing him like you’re waiting for another stupid comment. he whistles low under his breath, shooting you a look. “damn. little baby. you’re so cute.” you flip him off automatically, but you’re smiling too much for it to mean anything.

after a while, he pushes himself up, brushing crumbs off his jorts, and reaches a hand down to you. you let him pull you up, your fingers slipping easily into his for a second longer than necessary before you let go, pretending not to notice the way he smirks. you start walking again, no real direction, just weaving through the crowds as the streets pulse around you. he keeps glancing down at his phone, scrolling, texting, doing something you can’t quite catch, and you’re about to tease him for being glued to it when a low rumble cuts through the street noise—a motorbike pulling up just a few feet ahead of you. you pause automatically, stepping closer to him, and he looks up like he’s been expecting it. the guy on the bike kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, grinning wide. subong grins back, stepping forward to dap him up—a quick handshake and a bro-hug, that thing guys pretend isn’t just them being affectionate. they talk fast, laughing and jostling each other like they’re still teenagers. you’re not really listening, since you understand absolutely nothing. your eyes flick between the beat-up bike and subong’s lazy posture, the way he gestures casually in your direction mid sentence and jerks his chin toward you. then he says something that you do understand. “that my girl.” and you can feel your cheeks get warm. the guy nods, still grinning, and tosses subong two helmets before hopping off the bike completely and handing over the keys without a second thought. he gives you a quick polite bow, claps subong on the back, and then disappears into the crowd without a backward glance.

you blink at subong, stunned, as he turns back to you, tossing you one of the helmets with a cocky grin. “what just happened?” you ask, catching it awkwardly. he shrugs, sliding his own helmet on. “my boy owed me a favor,” he says casually, tugging the strap of his helmet tight under his chin. “told him i needed a whip for tonight. came through.” you open your mouth to question that (because what the actual fuck) but before you can, he steps closer, plucks the helmet out of your hands, says, “c’mere, baby,” and starts fitting it onto your head like you’re a little kid he’s dressing for school. he’s surprisingly gentle about it too—adjusting the strap under your jaw, fingers brushing the sides of your neck, tilting your head a little so he can buckle it properly. you hold still, heart thudding a little too fast, trying to focus on anything other than the way he smells up close. he tugs the strap once to test it, his thumb brushing the underside of your chin lightly. “perfect,” he says, grinning down at you like he just built the whole damn helmet himself. you look up at him, a little too aware of how close he is, and mutter, “you do know how to drive this thing, right?” his grin only widens. he swings one leg over the bike, settling onto the seat like he’s done it a million times, flashing you a look so smug you already know the answer before he even opens his mouth. “nah. not really.” he pats the seat behind him with the flat of his palm, all easy confidence like he’s not actively trying to kill you both tonight. “come on, baby.” “what do you mean, ‘not really’?” “i mean, like... how hard can it be?” you just stare at him, actually opening your mouth this time because no, absolutely not, what the fuck. “subong—” but before you can launch into the speech he probably deserves, he twists a little in the seat, facing you more fully, one hand reaching out to tap his knuckles lightly against the side of your helmet. “chill, girl. i’m not gonna kill us.” you narrow your eyes at him through the visor, unconvinced. “trust me, yeah?” the sheer audacity of this man… but he looks so fucking good it physically hurts. like hell yeah, if he were to fuck you right now, the helmet would stay on because holy shit…

you blow out a slow breath, feeling the last of your protests crumbling away, and swing your leg over the bike, sliding onto the seat behind him. your hands find his waist automatically, gripping tighter than necessary, and you’re pretty sure he feels it…because he lets out this low, smug little laugh. “if we crash,” you mutter, “i’m haunting you.” “shit,” subong laughs, glancing back at you. “you can haunt me anytime, baby.” you snort, and then he’s pulling out into the street, smooth and confident in a way that should not belong to someone who openly admitted he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. the bike jolts forward a little rough at first, and instinctively, you squeeze him tighter, your fingers fisting the hem of his shirt like you’re clinging for your life. which you are. he laughs again. you can feel it more than hear it, this rumbling sound that vibrates through his back and straight into your chest. the first few blocks are hell. you’re tense, stiff, squeezing the life out of him every time he takes a turn too sharp or guns it a little too hard between cars. subong’s reckless, weaving through traffic, laughing under his breath when you curse him loud enough to make two drunk guys on the sidewalk turn around. “relax, pretty girl!” he calls over his shoulder. “i got you!” hell no. you don’t relax. but somewhere along the way— maybe after the third near-death experience—you loosen your grip a little. your body starts to move with his instead of against him, leaning into the curves, even when your stomach drops into your shoes. he flies through the city, streets blurring into streaks of gold and red and neon blue, the whole of seoul stretching wide and endless around you. you laugh and he hears it. you can tell because he glances back briefly, enough for you to catch the way he’s smiling with his eyes under the helmet.

eventually, he slows, pulling into a quieter part of the city where your hotel is. he rolls the bike up to the curb, tapping the kickstand down with the side of his foot. the engine cuts off with a low grumble. subong looks back at you, hands still resting lightly on the handlebars. “see? you survived,” he says. you snort, pulling off your helmet, your hair sticking to your forehead and your cheeks hot from the ride and the adrenaline. maybe a little from him too. “barely,” you mutter, swinging your leg off the bike and standing, feeling the ground steady itself under you again. he watches you, leaning back a little, hands loose in his lap, looking so stupidly proud of himself you almost want to smack him. but mostly, you just want to kiss him. and you hate how badly you want it. how badly you’re really starting to want him. you shove the helmet into his chest instead, and he chuckles, grabbing it easily like he was expecting the hit. “damn,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely offended. “no kiss goodbye?” “maybe if you took off the helmet first.” without missing a beat, he yanks the helmet off, rakes a hand through his messy, sweat-damp purple hair, and looks at you. you don’t even hesitate. you lean in, pressing your lips against his, and he’s ready for it—smiling against them like he knew you’d cave, hands finding your waist and pulling you in. you pull back after a second, but subong stays close, forehead almost bumping yours. “better,” he murmurs. you huff out a laugh. “don’t get used to it.” “too late, pretty girl.” you shake your head, trying not to smile too wide, stepping back to give yourself breathing room you’re not sure you actually want. “i wanna know more about you,” you say all of sudden. his eyebrows lift. “oh yeah?” “yeah,” you say, feeling your face heat up. “we’re hanging out again tomorrow, right? i wanna know more.” he blinks, like you caught him off guard for a second, then he smiles. “oh, we are?” subong tilts his head, teasing. you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug like you’re giving him a choice when you both know you’re not. “unless you’re busy.” you know damn well he isn’t. “i’m always free for you, girl.” “good. same time tomorrow then,” you afirm, stepping back, starting to turn toward the hotel entrance. behind you, you hear the faint click of his helmet getting strapped back on, the low rumble of the engine coming back to life. “hey,” subong calls after you, voice a little louder now over the growl of the bike. you glance back over your shoulder. “better get some rest, baby. you’re gonna need energy to handle all this tomorrow.” you raise an eyebrow. “all what?” he laughs, shaking his head. you’re so cute for even asking. “me,” he answers, flashing a wink. “got plenty to show you.”

and he’s right. he’s got plenty to show you—all the places that built him. the convenience store he used to get kicked out of for loitering. the fried chicken shop where he spent whole summers broke and eating scraps off his friend’s plates. the basketball court where he learned how to throw a punch and how to lose without crying. he shows you the narrow alley behind a laundromat where he tried his first cigarette—coughed so hard he almost passed out, ended up swearing off smoking for a year before picking it back up like a dumbass. and the little restaurant his mom used to take him to when she had extra money, telling you all proud, like he was taking her out instead of the other way around—points at a booth through the window, saying, “we always sat there. always. didn’t matter if the place was full, we’d wait.” you pass the corner where he says he got his first kiss—“shit was so bad… she had gum in her mouth, bro. almost choked me out.” he laughs so hard at his own misery you can’t help but crack up too. half the time you’re laughing so much you have to grab onto his arm to stay upright, the other half you’re just smiling, letting yourself imagine him at fifteen, wild and cocky and probably just as much of a little shit as he is now. he tells you about the time he broke his front tooth on a skateboard he stole from his neighbor—“wasn’t even a good skateboard, man, shit was so trash it couldn’t even roll properly”—and the time he got detention for a month straight for sneaking out during lunch breaks to freestyle rap behind the gym. he’s proud of it all in a weird way, even the stupid stuff, even the shit you can tell he probably should’ve been more ashamed of. and you get it. you get why he’s showing you this—the scraps, the corners, the places no one else would think mattered. because to him, they do. and for whatever reason, he wants them to matter to you too.

the night keeps pulling you along, the city thinning out into quieter streets, until you turn a corner and there it is—his old high school. the building itself looks tired, the chain-link fence rusted and sagging in places. he slows down as you approach, hands tucked loose into his pockets, eyeing the fence. you already know the look on his face before he says anything. and sure enough, a second later: “wanna go in?” you hesitate, glancing around. it’s late, the streets mostly empty, but still… breaking into a high school wasn’t exactly on your vacation checklist. “subong,” you hiss under your breath. “what if we get caught?” he just laughs, not even pretending to be worried. “ain’t nobody patrolling this old-ass place at night, baby. plus, you said you wanted to know more about me, right?” “shit—okay, fine. but i don’t wanna stay for too long,” you sigh, knowing you’ve lost, already stepping closer to him like an idiot because honestly, how could you not. he finds a spot where the fence leans out, grabs it with both hands, and yanks it back with a sharp creak, wide enough for you to slip through. he holds it open, hand reaching for yours. “ladies first.” you mutter something under your breath about how stupid this is, but your fingers still find his, and you duck through the gap, heart hammering way too loud in your chest. inside, the courtyard feels huge. you stick to the shadows instinctively, ducking your head as you walk, trying not to step directly under the working lampposts buzzing dimly overhead. subong moves beside you, easy and relaxed, hands shoved back into his pockets, looking around like he’s remembering every stupid thing he ever did here. he points out the corner where he used to ditch class to smoke, the back wall where he and his friends would race to see who could climb over it the fastest without getting caught. “got caught only once. made me mop the cafeteria floors for a week.” you stifle a laugh behind your hand, glancing at him sideways.

you weave through the empty playground, passing a soccer goal and a few wooden picnic tables, until you find yourselves near the old bleachers, which are leaning like they’re about to give up completely. before you can say anything, subong grabs your hand—big and warm around yours—and tugs you toward the space underneath. it’s dark under there, the only light filtering through the cracks in thin, broken lines from the nearest lamppost, but it’s enough to make out the shape of him standing in front of you. you’re still smiling when your hands find the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands find your waist, sliding low, rough palms against your sides as he backs you up until your spine hits the thick metal bar behind you with a soft clang. you let out a breath, feeling the cold bite of the steel through your shirt, and feeling the way he cages you in with nothing but his body. he doesn’t say anything for a second—just stands there, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. you tilt your head back a little to look at him, and he just grins, lazy and lopsided. “what’s your opinion, then?” he murmurs. “on what?” he leans in. you can feel the brush of his breath against your mouth, his hands tightening a little on your waist. “me. thanos.” you pretend to think about it, humming, dragging it out just to see the way his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “trouble… but fun,” you whisper finally. he huffs out a quiet laugh. “good,” he says. “wouldn’t want you gettin’ bored on me.”

and then he kisses you, his mouth moving over yours with purpose. your fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck, making him groan, the sound slipping out between your mouths. the kiss grows hotter fast, needier. his hands are everywhere—pulling you closer until your body is pressed tight against his, the cold metal bar digging into your back the only thing keeping you grounded. you don’t even think about it, you just move. you grab his wrist, sliding his hand up, up, until it’s over your chest, pressing his palm flat against your left breast through your shirt. he stiffens for a moment before he squeezes, making you gasp softly. subong pulls back to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breathing heavily. “want me to make you feel good, baby? hm?” he mutters. you nod, fast and desperate, the word ‘yes’ stuck somewhere in your throat. his hand slides lower for a second, dragging slow over your ribs, down your waist, before he comes back up—fingers hooking into the dip of your neckline, where your shirt already hangs low. he tugs it down, dragging your bra with it until your left breast spills free. you barely get a breath out before subong’s mouth is on you, wrapping around your nipple and sucking hard enough to make you whimper. his tongue’s lapping at you like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for way too fucking long—because he has. his hand comes up to cup the underside of your breast, squeezing, pushing you harder against his mouth. your fingers dig further into his hair, pulling, desperate for something to hold onto because your legs are barely holding you up anymore. he sucks harder, sloppier, teeth grazing your nipple just to hear the broken sound it pulls out of you, his other hand already sliding toward the waistband of your shorts. you’re so fucking wet already it’s humiliating, a low ache building between your thighs.

his hand doesn’t stop—fingers dipping just beneath the waistband, grazing over your panties. you whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing the heat of his touch. his fingers slide under the thin fabric, and when he finds you—hot and soaked and so fucking ready for him—he hisses through his teeth, his whole body tensing against yours. “fuck,” he mutters, mouth still trailing over the swell of your breast. “you’re so fuckin’ wet for me—shit, baby.” he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath. his middle finger slips between your folds, gliding slow through the mess he’s already made of you, teasing your clit with the lightest fucking touch—making you writhe and grab at his shoulders, nails digging in. he pulls back from your chest finally, lifting his head to look at you with dark eyes and a shiny and swollen mouth from sucking on you. “you want it, pretty girl?” he rasps, fingers barely circling your clit, teasing you. “want me to fuck you with these fingers right here?” “yes,” you manage to say. “yes—please.” he grins like he was just waiting for you to beg. and then he finally gives you what you’re aching for. he slides one thick finger into you, slowly, letting you feel every inch of it, the stretch enough to make your mouth fall open around a broken gasp. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, he can’t believe how tight you are around just one finger. “been thinking about this shit since the second i saw you.” he thrusts his finger deeper, curling it inside you, making your hips jerk helplessly against his hand. “couldn’t stop picturing it,” he keeps going, filthy and sweet all at once. “you, all needy and fucking dripping for me… just like this.” you whimper when he adds another finger, and your body moves on instinct—desperate for him, desperate for something more—your thigh brushing up against the bulge straining against his pants.

he shudders when you do it. a sharp, involuntary twitch running through his body. so you do it again, slower this time, dragging your leg against him on purpose just to feel the way he grits his teeth and mutters something under his breath in korean. “you got me so fucking hard, girl. shit—” he rasps, but he doesn’t pull away. he just flexes his fingers inside you instead, fucking you deeper, rougher, desperate to keep you right there against him. and when you do it once again, subong finally gives in, hips grinding into your leg in these short, helpless thrusts, chasing friction. you keep rocking your hips into his hand, feeling the heel of it grind up against your clit every time his fingers sink deep inside you. it’s filthy, the wet sounds of him working you open, and the soft, broken little whimpers spilling out of your mouth no matter how hard you try to bite them back. he pumps his fingers faster, his palm catching your clit on every thrust, making your whole body jerk and tremble, gasping so loud you’re sure someone’s gonna hear. he kisses you before you can make another sound, crushing his mouth against yours, swallowing every moan. his tongue slides against yours, demanding as you cling onto him, legs shaking. “you’re so fuckin’ loud, baby,” he pants, pulling away for a second. “what, you tryna get us caught?” you shake your head frantically, mouth falling open around another moan.“then be good for me,” he growls, thrusting his fingers harder, lips brushing yours. “c’mon. be fucking good and cum for me. let me have it, baby.”

you don’t even have time to warn him. your whole body tightens, back arching into the cold metal behind you. you bury your face in his neck, biting down on his skin to stay quiet as the orgasm rips through you. he feels it—feels the way you clamp down around his fingers, trying so hard to stay quiet and still end up letting out this broken little cry against his throat. “yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s it, baby.” you’re still cumming, trembling against him, and he barely holds it together. he knows he should slow down, let you catch your breath and be a decent fucking human being for once—but he can’t. he’s so fucking hard it’s unbearable, grinding helplessly against your thigh because he needs you so bad he feels feral. and it’s fucking pathetic but he can’t stop. he’s humping your leg like a goddamn dog and he doesn’t even care. you’re warm and wet and still pulsing around his fingers, and all subong can think about is how much he wants it to be his cock instead, how fucking good you’d feel if he was buried inside you instead of just fucking you with his hand. “a-ahh, fuck—shit—” he mutters against your skin, hips rutting against you without rhythm, without shame. “should be my dick i-inside you… fuck, fuck, fuck, baby—” he feels it hit him hard—feels the heat coil up in his gut—and then he’s cumming in his fucking pants like an loser, grinding against your thigh one last desperate time, his whole body locking up, breath catching in his throat. and it’s messy, leaking hot and wet into his boxers, making him feel like he’s sixteen years old again with no self-control. he slumps against you, both of you panting. for a second, neither of you says anything, and then you shift a little, enough to glance down between you and realize what the fuck just happened.

you freeze. your head snaps back up to look at him, eyes wide, mouth parting like you’re about to say something—and he knows. he knows the exact second you realize it. “oh my god,” you whisper, choking on a laugh. he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, too fucking embarrassed to meet your eyes. “don’t fucking say it,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “shit’s not funny.” you start laughing anyway. even harder when he curses under his breath like he’s actually contemplating death as a real option right now. “bro,” he pulls back, cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen them, voice miserable, “the fuck am i supposed to do now?” he gestures vaguely down at himself—at the wet stain darkening the front of his pants. “walk you back to the hotel like this?” he scoffs, dead serious, like this is a real crisis. “people gonna think i fucking pissed myself, man.” you’re laughing so hard now you have to cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to completely lose it right there. he just shakes his head, dramatic as hell, pulling his shirt down lower to cover himself like that’s gonna fix anything. “nah, fuck it,” he mutters, resigned. “relax, subong,” you say, finally managing to get your breath back. “it’s dark. no one’s gonna notice.”

you walk back to the hotel—subong sticking close to your side, occasionally tugging at his shirt like it’ll somehow hide the obvious mess he’s made of himself, and you’re barely holding back your laughter every time you catch him glancing down at himself in misery. when you finally reach your hotel, he slows, almost reluctant. you turn to him, smiling. “thanks for tonight,” you say, which sounds stupid when you think about it, like… you’re thanking him for blowing his load in his own pants and making you cum on two of his fingers. “anytime, baby,” he says with a grin. “anywhere, too.” you roll your eyes before stepping closer, and kissing him—quick and soft. when you pull back, he smiles. “we’re hanging out tomorrow, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck, looking down the street instead of at you. you raise an eyebrow like really? “yeah, of course.” which translates to: duh, obviously. he shifts his weight, dragging his sneaker against the sidewalk. “could… could we meet earlier, maybe?” you blink at him, a little surprised at the sudden softness in his voice. “just,” he adds quickly, “you know… we only got, what? tomorrow and one more day? tryna… see you more—make the most of it.” and it’s the kind of thing that should make you pull back, remind yourself this is supposed to be a fling, a summer story you get to laugh about later. but instead, your heart does this stupid little skip in your chest. “i’ll talk to my friends,” you say. “i’ll let you know.” “hit me up, girl,” he answers, backing away toward the street. “i’m always down.” you nod. “good night, subong.” “good night, pretty girl. sleep well.”

the second you get a hint of free time the next morning, you’re grabbing your phone, texting him.

hey, i can meet earlier today if you still want

my friends don’t mind

hell yeah

been waiting on u all day

subong it’s only 11am

tf that gotta do w anything

missed u since u left last night

you’re so silly

5pm work for you?

perfect

i’ll be lookin fine as hell just for u

that better be a promise

u r gonna see girl

what’s the plan?

cant say bby

just trust daddy🔥

EWWWWW

oh hell no

absolutely not

i’m literally blocking you rn

bro im playinggg😂😂

i let you call yourself thanos

but daddy??? you lost me there

u r funny girl

i like u

see u at 5 sexy😍

subong has the whole evening planned—or at least, he pretends he does, which is close enough. you don’t even get a real explanation when you meet up, just him saying, “trust me, baby. this ‘bout to be the best date of your life.” and somehow, you let him drag you onto a rental bike, even though you haven’t ridden one in years and definitely almost crash into a post within the first two minutes. he laughs so hard he almost falls off his own bike, cutting figure eights around you in the street, showing off, and yelling “you good, girl?” like you didn’t just almost die in front of a group of passing tourists. you flip him off, wobbling forward with as much dignity as you can muster, which is none. he just laughs harder, racing ahead, calling back over his shoulder for you to catch up, then something about “damn, girl, didn’t know i was ridin’ with a fucking beginner!” “shut up, you idiot!” he laughs, throwing his head back for a second like he’s never had more fun in his life. you spend the next hour like that—racing through the paths by the han river, dodging kids and couples, weaving too close to each other on purpose, getting more than a few dirty looks from serious bikers in full gear who clearly think you’re assholes. you don’t care. you don’t think you’ve ever cared less in your life, honestly—not when the sun’s bright and high, and the air’s hot but not enough to ruin the way the breeze feels when you pick up speed. but most importantly, not when subong’s laughing like that beside you. somewhere along the way, you stop for ice cream—him skidding to a halt so fast you almost plow straight into his back, then pointing at an ice cream truck like he’s discovered buried treasure.

subong’s already halfway to the window before you even hop off your bike properly, tossing a grin over his shoulder like you’re too slow to keep up. you go simple—vanilla cone. he goes straight for the most ridiculous neon blue popsicle he can find, the kind that stains your mouth for hours. the second he sees your cone, he groans loud enough that the guy in the truck gives him a side-eye. “who picks vanilla, bro?” he says, pulling a face like you just personally offended him. “all these options and you pick vanilla?” you snort, eyeing the monstrosity in his hand. “says the guy eating radioactive smurf ass.” he almost chokes laughing, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, bright blue already smeared along the corner of his lips. “this shit’s elite,” he counters, holding it up proudly. “you just got no taste.” you bump his arm with your elbow, smirking. “not true. i’m hanging out with you, aren’t i?” “yeah, baby,” he agrees. “lucky me.”

you keep riding after that, weaving through the crowds along the river, laughing whenever subong swerves way too close to you on purpose just to hear you curse at him under your breath. but eventually, you go back to the rental spot, where a couple of kids are stacking bikes back into neat little rows. subong pulls up first, hopping off with way more swagger than necessary like he just finished a triathlon. you drop your bike into the stand next to his, brushing the hair out of your face, still a little out of breath. “i’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just enough to flash the waistband of his boxers. it feels like he’s doing it on purpose… yeah, he definitely is. “you’re always starving,” you laugh. then, you follow him across the street toward a small convenience store. you end up picking out a random assortment of junk—kimbap, banana milk, two different types of chips you can’t read the names of—and subong loads up with way too many drinks and candy. when you’re back outside, the bags crinkling in your hands, the sun’s starting to dip low behind the buildings, turning the whole sky this beautiful mix of orange and pink. he leads you down a small side path off the main trail, one you probably wouldn’t have found if you were by yourself, until you reach a quiet patch by the river where the rocks slope down into the water. no one else is around, just the distant noise of traffic, the occasional splash of a fish somewhere you can’t see. you climb down carefully, finding a spot on the bigger rocks that’s flat enough to sit without busting your ass. subong drops down beside you, tossing the convenience store bag between you, his legs stretching out long in front of him, sneakers almost brushing the water. the river laps gently against the stones, the breeze cool and soft now that the sun’s finally starting to ease up. he hands you a can of some random drink, cracking his own open with a sharp hiss, and you both sit there for a minute, just sipping quietly, the world slowing down around you like someone turned the volume down on the whole city.

“what’s shit like where you from?” he asks, voice low, trying not to break the moment too hard. you glance over at him, surprised he’s asking. you shrug. “my town’s small. and boring as fuck most of the time—you’d hate it, i think. no nightlife.” he grins sideways at you. “yeah? i think it sounds peaceful.” you hum in agreement, sipping your drink. he’s quiet for a second, tapping his fingers against the rock beside him, before he says, “always wanted to get outta here. when i was a kid, i used to think, like… soon as i turn eighteen, i’m gone.” this time he’s not smiling, but his expression’s tender in a way you haven’t really seen yet. “but shit’s expensive, y’know?” he continues. “and you get stuck. gotta hustle just to stay afloat. then next thing you know, ten years passed and you’re still sitting in the same fucking place.” you don’t say anything. you want to tell him it’s not nothing, that getting stuck doesn’t mean he didn’t make it somewhere, that he’s still here, alive, and that’s what matters. but you don’t know how to say that without sounding like you’re pitting him. so you nudge his knee lightly with yours instead, and he glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up enough to let you know he got it. “anyway.” he clears his throat. “didn’t mean to turn this into a therapy session.” “i don’t mind.” he looks at you, eyes flickering over your face as if checking if you mean it. whatever he finds there must be enough, because he smiles. “what about you? what’s next for you, after this trip?” you exhale slowly, staring at the ripples moving across the water. you could lie. you could say i don’t know, and leave it at that. but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to tell him the truth. “back to real life, i guess. work, responsibilities… pretending like this summer didn’t make me wanna change everything.”

“i’m gonna miss you, you know.” you roll your eyes, smiling, unsure if you should believe him. “please,” you say. “you’re gonna have another girl by next week.” he scoffs, scandalized. “woah. disrespectful as fuck, baby.” “am i wrong though?” he shakes his head, grinning. “honestly? i’m not even tryna entertain nobody else right now.” you raise your eyebrows, not expecting that—and he catches the look. “ain’t no one as cute as you, señorita,” he says, voice dropping a bit. you snort, trying to play it off, but your face is already getting hot, and he knows it. “whatever,” you tsk, taking another sip of your drink. “you’ll forget about me in, like, two days.” “i won’t. i don’t really fuck with people like i fuck with you.” “you’re gonna make me cry,” you mutter, half-joking, and he smiles like he’s proud of himself for it. “good,” he says. “i’m tryna leave a mark, girl.” you shake your head again, giggling. and then, because you feel like maybe you owe him the truth too, you say, “i’m gonna miss you too, subong.” “you will?” “mhm.” no one’s ever said that to him. or at least not like that, so sincerely. “it’s crazy. feels like i’ve known you my whole fucking life,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck, messing up his already messy hair. you smile into your drink, because yeah, even if it sounds stupid, it does feel like that. “same.” “you can’t, like… i don’t know, man. stay a little longer?” you almost choke on your drink. “subong,” you say, laughing because it’s either laugh or cry, “you’re so desperate.” he groans, dramatic as hell. “yo, fuck off. i’m tryna be romantic here,” he mutters, cracking a grin a second later because he can’t even fake being mad at you. “i can’t,” you say finally. “even if i wanted to.” “yeah… i know.”

you stay picking at the snacks, trading sips from each other’s drinks, the conversation drifting from one topic to another. you talk about home—about your job, your friends, the little boring details you wouldn’t think anyone would care about, but somehow subong listens like it’s all fascinating, nodding along, asking silly questions just to keep you talking. and somewhere between one story and the next, he starts talking about his family, which you didn’t expect. he tells you about his mom, tough as hell, the kind of woman who could work two jobs back to back, still come home and cook dinner, make sure homework was done, and find the energy to yell at him for being an idiot when he needed it. he talks about how she used to fall asleep at the kitchen table sometimes, her head on her folded arms, and how he and his sister would tiptoe around the house like they were trying not to break her more than the world already had. he tells you about his grandma too, the real boss of the family, sharp-tongued and brutal in the way only old women can get away with—the kind of woman who’d curse you out for forgetting to take your shoes off but slip an extra twenty into your pocket when you weren’t looking. he laughs when he says it, but there’s a softness in the edges of his voice, like he knows he owes her more than he can probably ever repay. and he talks about his little sister—“smarter than all of us combined,” he says, pride clear. the kind of girl who kept her head down, did her work, kept her dreams close to her chest like she was scared someone would snatch them away. the kind of girl who’s gonna leave one day, and not just leave, but stay gone.

then, tossing it in as a side note, he says, “my dad’s a piece of shit, though. wasn’t around much. and when he was… kinda wish he wasn’t.” “mine’s not really around either. he wasn’t then and… he isn’t now. he’s got better shit to do, i guess.” he hums, knowing the shape of that feeling a little too well. “mine used to come back sometimes,” he says after a minute. “acting like nothing, showing up drunk and high, fucking shit up, then disappearing again.” you don’t say anything, just pick at the edge of the bag between you, tearing little pieces off. “used to get so fucking mad at him,” he continues, laughing under his breath, but it’s not a funny sound. “then one day i just… stopped waiting for him to be different.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way he’s hunched now, elbows on his knees, can dangling between his fingers. “got older, learned how to throw a punch.” he huffs a breath out. “one night he came back real fucked up… started yelling, breakin’ shit… and i just lost it. dropped him cold on the floor—felt good for, like, five minutes,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “then it just felt fucking sad.” he pauses, staring out at the river. “he disappeared after that… gone for years. then he just… came back one day. and my mom… she let him back in, man. and i get it. she’s tired of fighting. but—shit, i don’t know. i can’t pretend like i’m cool with it. i love her but… fuck, sometimes i look at her and i just get fucking pissed, you know?”

you nod, pressing your shoulder against his. “i’m sorry about that.” he shrugs. “it’s okay, pretty girl.” “your mom’s lucky to have you. she probably knows you’ll always be there if something happens.” “yeah, i guess” he pauses briefly before clapping once. “alright, enough of thanos already. tell me about you, baby.” “well… my dad… he was never really mean or anything. just… not there. physically, sometimes. mentally, never. i used to think if i was better somehow—better at school, better at sports—he’d notice more,” you say, laughing a bit under your breath because it sounds so fucking dumb now. “but he didn’t.” “wasn’t you, baby. it’s never you.” you smile at him before leaning in and kissing his cheek, sweetly. “we turned out alright anyway.” he snorts, tilting his head to look at you better. “yeah, alright’s pushin’ it, girl. speak for yourself. you’re solid. more than most people who had it easy, probably.” “maybe,” you mutter. “sometimes it feels like i’m just faking it better than most.” “that’s all any of us do.”

eventually, when the rocks get too uncomfortable and your ass starts going numb, subong stands up with a grunt, reaching a hand down to pull you up after him. “c’mon,” he says, dragging you toward a patch of grass a little farther up where it’s dark. he drops down without any ceremony, arms behind his head, legs sprawled out like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. he grins at you. “what, you scared of a little dirt, princess?” he teases, patting the spot next to him. you glare at him, toeing the ground suspiciously because there’s definitely bugs around, but he’s already making himself comfortable like he’s about to nap right there, and you know you’re not gonna win this one. “there’s probably ants.” “so what?” he scoffs, genuinely confused as to why that would even be a problem. you roll your eyes, but you finally lower yourself down next to him, sitting stiff and awkward at first m, your body about to reject the whole idea of nature. he snickers, then suddenly turns his head toward you, holding out his hand—palm up. “gimme your hand.” you squint at him, suspicious. “why?” he lets out this long, suffering sigh. “the fuck you mean why? i’m tryna hold your damn hand, girl, that’s why.” you snort, still not moving, because you’re stubborn like that. he waggles his fingers at you dramatically, eyebrows raised, daring you to keep being difficult. “c’mon,” he insists. “don’t leave me hanging, baby. i got feelings too, you know.” you huff a breath—slapping your hand into his palm like it’s a burden, even though you love it. his fingers lace through yours immediately, squeezing once.

you lay back fully then, grass a little damp under your back, the sky stretching wide above you, and subong’s thumb starts brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand. “what do you wanna do tomorrow?” he asks. “i don’t know. you’re the local here.” he hums like he’s thinking, but there’s something smug about it. “was thinking,” he starts, dragging it out, trying to sound casual, “maybe you could come see me perform.” “perform? again?” “mhm. got a little set tomorrow night. nothing big—just some bar gig. but it’s nicer than what i’m used to anyway. this time’s an actual rap night, i get to show off. not like the other day.” you smile at the way he says it, like he’s trying not to let himself get too excited. “i want you to come,” he adds after a second. “bring your friends too—drinks are cheap.” you raise an eyebrow. “you just want a fan club.” he grins, shameless. “fuck yeah, i want a fan club.” you chuckle, shaking your head. “but i’m serious. i want you there.”“what time is it?” “late… like midnight. place stays open till three. and after,” he says, voice picking up, cockier now, “we celebrate—you and me.” “celebrate what?” “celebrate me being a fucking star, baby.” you laugh under your breath. “you’re planning a lot of celebrating for someone who hasn’t even performed yet.” “confidence. gotta manifest that shit.” “i’ll be there.” his hand squeezes yours again. “good. wanna show you off a little too.”

he props himself up on one elbow, grinning down at you before he leans in and kisses you, a little too eager, making you laugh right into his mouth. you push your fingers into his hair, kissing him back, and subong hums against you, pleased. his mouth starts dragging lower, pressing hot, sloppy kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his hand already sneaking under the hem of your shirt with no damn shame. you shove at his shoulder. “subong,” you hiss, still giggling. “we can’t.” he pulls back enough to look at you. “why not?” “because,” you say, shoving him again for good measure, “someone could literally walk by. and i’m not getting arrested because you can’t keep it in your pants.” he lets out the loudest, most pathetic sigh you’ve ever heard, dragging his hand down his face like the world is just too cruel to him specifically. “shit,” he groans. “i didn’t even get started yet—i was being good, too.” “that was you being good?” you tease. “fuck yeah. you don’t even know, girl. if i wasn’t being good, i’d have you sitting on my face right now—wouldn’t even care if somebody walked by.” you choke on your own spit, smacking his chest while he just laughs, proud of himself for getting you this flustered. “maybe tomorrow,” you mutter, face heating up so bad you’re surprised the grass under you doesn’t catch fire. “wait, wait,” he says, sitting up, needing to double-check you didn’t just say what he thinks you said. “you serious right now?” you shrug, biting back a smile, feeling stupidly powerful all of a sudden. “depends,” you answer, stretching your arms over your head. “you better put on a good show.” “you can’t say shit like that to me, baby,” he whines. “i’m gonna be so fucking hard on that stage—gonna forget my own fucking lyrics.” you snort. “perform well. maybe you’ll get a reward.” “watch.” he taps his chest as if swearing a vow. “i’m finna be the best fucking rapper korea’s ever seen tomorrow night.”

and he does perform well. better than well, actually. he’s the last one up, closing out the night. and he owns that little bar like it’s the biggest stage in seoul. you watch from the corner with your friends, pressed near the back wall, and you’re not even trying to play it cool—you’re hyped, yelling, cheering louder than anyone else in the place. you don’t know half the lyrics (most of it’s in korean and fast as hell) but you can feel it in your chest, in the way the crowd reacts, in the sharp flow of his voice and the smirk that never leaves his face. your friends… have mixed opinions. one of them leans in halfway through and whispers, “okay, now i get it—he’s hot,” and another just grimaces, mouthing, what is he even saying? when the beat switches and he starts spitting faster. he finishes strong, breathless and sweaty, and the crowd actually cheers. you can tell by the way he soaks it in that it means something to him. he steps off the stage a minute later, still catching his breath, and heads straight for you. “so?” he asks when he reaches you, wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt. “did i kill it or what?” “you killed it,” you afirm, letting him have it. “i couldn’t understand half of it, but you looked hot doing it, so.” he laughs, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “that’s all i needed to hear, baby.” your palm brushes his back and it’s borderline damp. “jesus,” you mutter, nose wrinkling. “you’re soaked.” “and you tryna act like you’re all innocent, girl, but you’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna lick it off.” you shove him, laughing. “shut up!” he leans in and kisses you, and you kiss him back, smiling against his mouth. your friends do not let it slide. “okayyyy,” one of them says, loud and dramatic. “that’s enough, please. we are still here.” subong pulls back to look over at them, grinning, not even a little sorry. “my bad,” he says. “i just—shit, have you seen her? i can’t help it. she’s so fucking bad, like damn.” oh my god, this man... “anyway, we celebratin’ or what? first round’s on me. i’m feeling generous.” he pats his chest.

the night keeps going long after the music stops. your friends are perched at the bar because the drinks keep coming, and subong doesn’t leave your side for more than a second. it’s late when he leans in and asks if you want to get out of there, and you nod before he even finishes the sentence. your friends wave you off, and you leave the bar behind with that hazy kind of warmth in your chest that only comes from knowing exactly where the night is headed. his apartment is… not what you expect. but hey… we don’t judge over here. when he lets you in, it’s clear he didn’t plan on bringing anyone home. the place is old. the hallway light flickers, the door sticks so bad he has to put his whole body into it just to shove it open, and when you step inside, you’re greeted by the smell of weed and whatever boy-stank has been marinating in this apartment all summer. “yo—okay—before you say anything,” subong starts, kicking a crumpled sock out of the way. “this isn’t what it usually looks like. swear to god, baby.” he shares it with two other guys, he tells you, but they’re out tonight. and as you walk in, he’s already moving shit around—swiping a hoodie off the floor, then trying to hide the bong by the windowsill, muttering shit under his breath like, “that’s not even mine—my roommates are fucking disgusting, man.” “sure,” you say, trying not to laugh. you find it kind of funny, actually—the way he’s scrambling, all flustered, trying to pretend like this place isn’t the bachelor cave of three adult men who have never once cleaned a baseboard in their lives. he won’t shut up. he never really does. he’s talking about his roommates, about how half the stuff laying around isn’t his, and how if you give him five minutes he’ll make it nice. you’re nodding, pretending to care, pretending you’re even listening, but the truth is you stopped hearing the words about three minutes ago. all you can focus on is the way his lips move when he talks and the way his voice drops whenever he says the word ‘baby’. so you’re standing there, thinking, if this man doesn’t touch me in the next ten seconds i’m gonna lose my fucking mind. and you do lose it at some point, kissing him mid sentence, because you’ve never wanted someone this badly, this fast and this fucking stupidly.

the first night subong kissed you was awful, but two nights ago under the bleachers, his fingers were very much not. so you figured sex with him would probably land somewhere in the middle: eager and cocky but clumsy, maybe a little too into it to be smooth. and honestly, you weren’t wrong. because the second he’s inside you, he doesn’t ease into it. he’s just there, deep, all at once—couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. he’s behind you, both hands gripping your hips so tight you’re gonna have fingerprints there tomorrow. and you’re gasping already, because the stretch is so much... but what really gets you—what makes your stomach clench and your mouth fall open around his name—is the sound he makes. needy. “fuck, baby—shit—fuck me—” he mutters, breath hot against the back of your neck. you arch your spine, pressing back into him because you need more, need him to fuck you. but his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back flush against him, his voice rough and frantic in your ear. “no, no, no. wait—wait, baby,” he hisses. “shit—give me—give me a moment.” and it’s not a joke. he sounds genuinely panicked, like he’s hanging on by a thread. one more push from you and he’s gonna cum and never recover from the humiliation. honestly, girl, that makes you feel so damn powerful… and since you love to make him suffer, you clench around him on purpose. subong groans, curses in his mother tongue, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt, just to make you behave. “don’t fucking do that, baby. you tryna make me nut in two minutes, huh? that what you want?” you laugh, breathless, forehead pressed into his mattress. he leans over you, chest to your back, one hand slipping under you to toy lazily with your clit, trying to buy time. maybe if he can make you finish first he’ll be able to catch his breath, pull it together and not embarrass himself completely. “subong,” you breathe. “please, i need you.” you try to rock back into him again. “please—” “fuck—gimme a second,” he whimpers, hand braced on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut. and then pulls out, fully, trying not to fucking explode.

the thing about subong is that he learns fast. he picks up on what you want, what you need, and how to give it to you. and he knows exactly how you want it now—how hungry you are for him, how you’re waiting to be filled again, deep and rough. he drags his hand down the curve of your ass after a beat, slow, and you can feel the head of his cock nudging between your thighs again—sliding his condom-wrapped tip up and down your folds. “fucking soaked for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus, baby. i could drown in this shit.” you whine, push back against him, but he grips your ass tighter, holding you there. “nah,” he says, voice. “you can wait a second. wanted to act all cocky—squeezing me on purpose—now look at you. fucking pathetic for it.” you turn your head, glare over your shoulder. “subong.” he raises an eyebrow, smug as hell. “what? you want it that bad?” “yes,” you snap. “shut up and fuck me. don’t make me wait, please.” he lets out a soft laugh. “damn,” he drawls, guiding the tip against you, teasing your entrance. “my girl talks real tough when she’s beggin’ to get filled.” and then he’s pounding into you, hips snapping hard and fast, chasing whatever fragile ego you cracked in half the second you laughed at him a few minutes ago. and it’s exactly what you needed. you moan, loud, grabbing the sheets, your whole body tensing from the stretch. subong keeps muttering under his breath like he’s trying to self-soothe, praying to every god he’s never believed in. “so tight, f-fuck—so wet, too—shit! what the fuck did i-i do to deserve this pussy, huh?” his thrusts are mean now, every snap of his hips sending your body forward on the mattress. “subong! shit—y-yes, yes, yes! fuck!” you choke out, knuckles white in the sheets. “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—” “that’s it, baby—take it. you look so f-fucking pretty like this—gonna—haa, fuck!—gonna give you what you fucking asked for.” he wants to make sure that five days from now, five weeks, five months, you still remember the way it felt to have him inside you, fucking you stupid. “yes! yes, please—” you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, all that comes out are high, broken sounds that make him groan, hips slamming into yours with a filthy slap that echoes around the room. “so fucking greedy for it,” he goes on. “been acting shy all week just to end up bent over begging for my cock like this.”

you whimper, too gone to argue, too full to think. you try to fuck back again, try to meet him halfway, but his hand is right there, locking you in place, controlling everything—the angle, the pace, the way your body moves. subong knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s hitting that spot with every thrust, grinding in deep. “s-subong,” you moan. “your dick’s so—mmmh—so f-fucking good—fuck!” “damn right it is, baby.” you feel his palm slide under your body, fingers slipping down, teasing over your clit in circles, and the whimper you let out makes him dizzy. he’s close again—you can feel it, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hips jerk forward too hard, too rough. but this time, you are too. “you close, baby?” he breathes, leaning down, pressing his lips to the side of your face. “feels like you are. so f-fucking tight, girl. fuck! you gonna—you gonna come all over my dick? yeah?” you nod, frantic, eyes wet with it, mouth open but no sound coming out—and he groans like he’s in pain. “c’mon,” he mutters. “give it to me, baby. wanna feel you c-cum on it.” you’re burning from the inside out—and when he pulls you back harder, dragging his cock deep, your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets. you cum around him, a full-body convulsion, your moan ripping straight out of your throat, loud and desperate. it hits you hard, your cunt clenching so tight around subong that he stutters, hips jerking like he wasn’t expecting it to feel that fucking good. “fuck, fuck, fuck—yes, yes, b-baby, just like that—fuck! such a good fucking girl!” he pants, thrusts faltering, losing rhythm completely. “shit, i’m—a-ahh, ha—fuck, i-i’m gonna—” he doesn’t even finish the sentence. he slams in one last time and then he’s cumming, letting out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard against your neck like he’s trying to bury the sound. he can’t believe how fast you pulled it out of him. he stays like that for a second, shaking, breathing hard, still buried deep inside you while both of you try to catch your breath.

the flight home feels longer than the one that brought you here. not because it actually is, but because your body’s tired and your brain’s fried and your heart’s doing that annoying thing where it gets too attached too fast and then expects everything not to hurt when it’s over. your friends are spread out around the plane, and you’ve got your forehead against the window, watching the clouds smear across the sky. wondering how five nights with subong managed to leave a mark that felt this deep. you keep thinking about last night—about the way his sheets felt under your back, the way his hands never stopped touching you even after he came, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. you stayed there longer than you should have, tangled up and almost asleep, skin sticking to skin in the most comfortable kind of silence. and when it was finally time to go, neither of you moved for a long time. he just kept holding you. you talked a little. he said the week flew by like someone hit fast-forward. you said it felt like longer, like you’d known him way before five days ago. he made a joke about how it felt like you’d been there for a month, said, “you’re gonna miss me like crazy, girl,” in that smug, playful tone you’d grown to like way too much. and you laughed, pushed his shoulder, told him, “you wish,” but the way your voice cracked at the end gave you away. “i will miss you, though,” he said eventually, honestly. “i will miss you too,” you said back, and it felt real in a way that scared you. because it was. all of it had been. way more real than you expected from a week-long trip. he walked you to the elevator in nothing but his boxers, hair a mess, hickeys already darkening his collarbones. you kissed him one last time, tenderly and way too long for a goodbye that was supposed to be casual. and now you’re here, 30,000 feet in the air, trying not to overthink every second you spent with him, every kiss, every joke, every stupid pet name, every look that felt like it meant more than it should’ve.

you tell yourself it’s over. it was just a summer thing. a story you’ll get to tell your friends again and again—the time you fell for a purple-haired rapper in seoul who called himself thanos, didn’t own a car, and lived like a frat boy but made you feel like the only girl in the world for five nights straight. and that’s fine. it’s enough. you don’t expect to hear from him again. your phone stays quiet after you land in your country… and you’re okay with that. you throw yourself back into your routine, catch up on sleep, unpack your suitcase... your friends keep talking about the trip, replaying the best nights out and the weird food and the worst hangovers, and you laugh along with them, nod at all the right parts, but mostly you’re just quiet. and then—a few days later—you post a selfie. you in soft natural light, the corner of your mouth tilted up. and exactly eight minutes after it goes up, your phone buzzes.

damn baby

u forgot all about thanos already

smiling n shit

you stare at it for a second, grinning and rolling your eyes.

it’s just a selfie, drama king

and that smile not for me??

thats crazy

who said it wasn’t?

i was thinking about you when i took it😚

careful girl

my ego bout to start floating

good

maybe it’ll float you all the way here so i don’t have to miss you anymore

say the word and im packing my shit rn baby💯

i’ll clear out a drawer and everything for you

gimme a pillow and a corner of the bed

dont need much

just u

ugh

why’d you have to say it like that

now i’m sad again :(

i miss u bad

this distance got me feeling weird as hell

i miss you too, idiot

cant believe i got used to seein u every day just to go back to fucking nothing

you’ll be fine

you probably got three other girls texting you rn anyway

yo what??

don’t piss me off rn baby

i’m literally sitting here thinking bout u n ur dumb lil laugh

dumb lil laugh is crazy😭

ur tits too🔥

oh!😀

n ur ass😍

okay pack it up💀

nah hold on

was saving the best for last

that fucking pussy

oh my god

how am i supposed to recover from that

so my pussy is the best part??

cool cool

not like i have a whole ass personality or anything

don’t worry tho

you won’t be seeing it again anyway

i hope you and your hand have a great life together❤️

no no wait

baby no

don’t say shit like that

i was joking girl

ok maybe not joking but like

obviously it’s not just that

i swear

subong😭 ik, i was joking too lmao

fuck off then

plssss

i was already planning how to win u back

win me back how

a rap song?

hell yeah

bars been writing themselves ever since u left

ooooh i became your muse ;)

been my muse since the moment i saw u in that club looking fine asf

shit aint left my head since

oh

yeah

don’t ‘oh’ me like that bro

i meant that shit

i know

u free now?

i ammm, why

let me call u señoritaaaa

wanna hear that sexy voice🔥

you spend the next three months talking daily to subong. you tell him everything—what you had for lunch, what your boss said in that tone you despise, the color of the sky every afternoon. you send photos of your walk to work, your room, your coffee order. he starts to learn the difference between your moods just by the way your texts sound—when you’re tired, when you’re bored, when you’re secretly pissed but don’t wanna say it. sometimes he replies instantly, flooding you with texts and voice notes that make you roll your eyes and laugh into your pillow. sometimes it takes hours, because it’s three in the morning where he is and he’s passed out with his phone on his chest, halfway through texting you back before sleep hit him like a truck. but he always replies. and from his side of the world, it’s not all that different. he walks around seoul with his earbuds in, your voice filling his head as you talk about things, and he listens like they’re the most important things he’s ever heard. he sends you pictures, too—him holding up a bag of chips, mirror selfies, pics of his food or the graffiti outside his house that changes every two weeks. then a blurry shot of the back of his hand holding a bottle of soju, captioned wish u were here señorita, a nighttime shot of the city skyline, a candid one of him lying in bed with his arm thrown over his eyes… there’s something intimate about all of it, even the dumbest ones. like he’s letting you see what no one else does.

calls happen in the in-between. early morning for one of you, late night for the other. you’re usually still in bed when he rings—eyes puffy, voice groggy as you mumble a raspy “hi” while fumbling around for your charger. on his side, it’s dark and quiet, and he’s usually propped against something—his bed, sometimes the floor of his apartment with his hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out in front of him, trying not to sound as excited as he is to hear you again. the calls are always fun. you laugh until your stomach hurts and tease each other until your cheeks ache. and for a while, in those moments, it doesn’t even feel like you’re in different countries, it just feels like you’re next to each other. but in between the jokes and the mock-serious rants about whatever stupid thing happened that day… there are other moments. it starts one night with a simple question. “can i ask you something, baby?” it’s past midnight for you, and you’re lying on your stomach, about to fall asleep, but you hum back anyway. “how many people you been with?” your eyes blink open, brain stalling for a second. “what? like… dated?” “yeah,” he says, then adds after a beat, “and, you know... hooked up with.” you turn your head, staring at your pillow. “why?” “just curious,” he responds, but there’s a shift in his tone—like he’s trying to play it cool. “you don’t have to tell me if it’s weird.” “it’s not weird.” and you tell him. not in detail, not the whole history of every person you’ve ever fucked, but enough. he hums low under his breath after you’re done, letting the silence stretch out a little before he fills it with, “damn… alright.” and you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “what, you jealous?” “nah,” he says, too quickly. then, softer: “maybe a little. not gonna lie.” you chuckle and he follows. “bet none of them made you laugh like i do, though.” “no,” you admit. “they didn’t.” you hear his exhale, the shift of fabric on the other end of the line, like he’s moving, maybe lying down too. “i haven’t… i haven’t really done this before,” he says eventually. “not like—like this. like… texting and calling and thinking about someone this much. i usually just…” subong trails off. “hook up and leave?” you finish for him, but it’s not mean. he laughs softly. “yeah. pretty much—but this shit’s different. like, you’re all up in my head, girl.” “i feel the same about you, subong.” “i swear—i’ve been going fucking insane not being able to touch you. i miss you so bad it’s making me crazy.” you hear him exhale through his nose. “i think about you all the time, like—fuck, man. i can’t even… you know…” “what?” there’s a bit of hesitation before he answers, “i can’t even jerk off without thinking of you.” “is that so?” “yeah…” “and what exactly do you think about?” he huffs a laugh. “what do you think?” “i don’t know, you tell me.”

you want to hear him say it. “i mean,” he says slowly, “i think of your voice. the way you sounded that night when i had my fingers in you—so fuckin’ needy—all those little whimpers, the way you kept grinding against my hand like you couldn’t wait… that shit’s been on repeat in my head, baby. shit… and the way—” he cuts himself off, laughs under his breath. “never mind.” “nope,” you shoot back immediately, “you can’t start and then stop like that. go on.” he groans. “you really gon’ make me say it?” “obviously.” he exhales sharp through his nose, then: “fuck, alright… the way you looked when we fucked, baby—jesus. turning your head to look at me while i fucking pounded into you, beggin’ for more even when your thighs were already shaking… best fucking pussy i’ve ever had, bro. i think about that shit every night. swear to god. got me jerking off like a fucking teenager again, just thinking about how wet you were for me.” you don’t say anything at first, mostly because you can’t. your whole body’s burning hot under the covers, phone pressed to your ear. “oh.” “right?” he murmurs. “now you’re thinkin’ about it too.” you try to play it off—“you’re so full of yourself”—but your voice is quieter now, and subong knows he’s got you. “not full of myself,” he drawls, all smug. “just got good memory, baby. and an even better imagination.” you let the silence stretch for a moment, because it’s not awkward—not between you two. if anything, it only makes the tension worse, tighter. “i bet you do.” you smile at the ceiling, heart racing. it’s a lot, this whole thing, but neither of you backs out. “you can say it,” you whisper, and it comes out needier than you meant. “say what you’d do if i was there.” you hear a shuffle, a low curse under his breath. “what?” “i mean… only if you want to.” “shit—yeah. yeah, i want to. okay… first? just rip that shirt off you to suck on those tits—they’re so fucking perfect.” your breath catches. he doesn’t stop. “then i’d make you ride my face. been thinking about that too much, you know? wanna feel you grind down on me, tellin’ me how close you are—fuck, i’d eat you out until you begged me to stop, baby.” you let out a quiet, shaky laugh, too turned on to hide it. “jesus christ, subong.” “yeah, yeah, something like that, but more breathless and between moans—” “subong! oh my god, shut up!” you cover your face with your free hand as you laugh harder, even though he can’t see you. subong laughs too. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “i’m not playing,” he says. “you think i’m just talking shit, but i’ve had my hand down my pants this whole time. just… thinking about you.” there’s a pause, before his voice drops even lower. “fuck, you have no fucking idea what you do to me.” you don’t even try to pretend you’re unaffected. you shift under the covers, biting your lip, pressing your thighs together. “what? you’re—“ you clear your throat. “you’re touching yourself?” “fuck yeah. can’t help it, baby. you got me so fuckin’ worked up.” oh, okay. you lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

the picture he painted with his words is vivid—his hand wrapped around his cock—and it's doing things to you. your body aches, your nipples hard and your clit throbbing. “ew, subong,” you whisper. what a fucking liar. “don’t act brand new, girl. i can damn near hear you dripping, don’t fucking play.” you snort at his words. but he’s right, you can feel the heat pooling between your thighs. “well… maybe i am dripping.” “huh?” he plays dumb, as if he didn’t really hear you. “i said… maybe i am dripping,” you repeat. “i can check for you, if you want,” you continue, voice all sweet and innocent. “you know… slide a hand… tell you how wet—” “yes,” he blurts immediately, not even letting you finish the sentence. you have to bite back a laugh. “yes, baby. tell thanos.” his voice sounds so fucking hot… you catch the way his breathing has turned ragged, each quiet sigh that escapes his lips betraying the fact that he’s quickened the pace of his strokes. you can't help but mirror his actions, your hand sliding down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding the slick heat between your legs. you're wet, so fucking wet… your fingers slip easily through your folds, finding that sweet spot that makes your hips buck. you let out a soft moan, not bothering to suppress it. let him hear. let him know what he's doing to you. subong’s dick throbs in his hand at the sound. “shit—baby?” “mmmh?” "tell me… tell me what you’re doing." "lying here." "that it?" "listening to you." subong clicks his tongue. “c'mon, baby, please. you're gonna make me do all the work?" you roll your eyes, a smile on your face. “i don’t need to tell you what i’m doing, you already know.” “i wanna hear you say it, señorita.” “hm… well, i—i'm... i'm touching myself," you whisper, your voice barely audible. you can practically feel his smirk through the phone, so you decide to tease him. "i'm so wet, subong... i can't stop thinking about you too." you’re pretty sure that wiped the smirk clean off his face, replaced it with something closer to pain—eyebrows furrowed and lips parted. his groan echoes through the phone, and you can't help but smile, biting your lip to keep from crying out as your fingers circle your clit, your body already craving release.

and just like that, you’re gone. your fingers keep moving without thought, without mercy, slipping through your slick folds and circling your clit in fast, desperate motions, and it’s obscene, really, how wet you are—how easy it is to get yourself off when his voice is in your head, in your ear, telling each other what you would do if you were in the same room right now. you arch against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as your whole body starts to curl in on itself, all tight coils and trembling muscles, everything aching. “you sound so fuckin’ hot, baby—” he groans. “wish i could see you right now.” and that’s when you hear it—him, breathing hard, panting, and even whining under his breath as his fist pumps faster around his cock, the sound of it slick and filthy through the phone. you can picture it way too clearly—his brows drawn tight, back probably tense as hell as he strokes himself. holy mother of fucking god. you press harder. rub faster. your hips start rocking up against your hand, chasing that sharp pressure building low in your stomach. your body’s on fire, nipples hard and tingling, heart slamming against your chest like it’s trying to break free—completely swollen with need. you let out a soft, broken whimper. “fuck! subong—shit! fuck, i’m gonna—gonna cum—” on the other end, there’s a strangled noise, a gasp. “y-yeah, baby? fuck—do it. fucking cum for me.” your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and overwhelming enough to make you cry out as your body locks up, fingers still working through it even though everything feels too sensitive. your walls clench around nothing, and for a second it doesn’t even feel like you’re on the bed anymore—you’re fucking floating. you hear subong finish half a second later with that a wounded sound, breath catching and voice breaking around your name as he spills all over himself.

it doesn’t stop after that night. if anything, it starts happening more… neither of you knows how to fucking behave anymore, oh my fucking god. he texts you a photo one night, shirtless, sheets pushed down low to show the waistband of his boxers.

thinking bout u mama

you send back a photo of your bare shoulder and a flash of your bra strap.

thinking about you too ;)  

ten minutes later, your panties are on the floor and you’re trying to keep quiet while subong whispers, “show me, baby. show me that pretty fucking pussy,” over facetime, eyes heavy-lidded and greedy, lips parted like he can taste you through the screen. you set the phone against your pillow, camera angled enough for him to see your fingers sliding between your legs, like it’s not the sixth time this week that you’ve gotten off to the sound of his voice while you whimpered through the high, every inch of your skin sensitive and strung out from how badly you want him and how fucking unfair it is that he’s not there to touch you himself. he groans so loud you have to muffle your laugh in your palm. “such a fucking tease,” he mutters, jerking off just off-frame, only giving you the barest glimpse of his tattooed hand and the flex of his stomach. and you spread your legs wider for him, pressing two fingers inside—trying to give him a show he’ll never forget. you want to etch the memory into his chest until he can’t fuck anyone else without seeing you spread out and moaning his name between gasps.

those calls happen way to often, to the point where it can’t be healthy—fucking yourselves in sync almost everyday. and subong’s always running his mouth like it’s the only muscle he knows how to use. “you touching that pretty pussy for me, baby? hm? bet you can’t wait ‘til it’s my fucking dick instead of your fingers.” sometimes it’s just texts, which is somehow worse, because you’re in public, and your phone lights up with:

i could have u on ur knees rn

followed by:

u’d be so fucking obedient

mouth open

waitin for me

i’d cum down ur throat and make u thank me for it baby

fuck

this how much i want u

then a photo of his hand curled around his cock, tip red and glistening and so hard it makes your stomach twist, the unbearable proof that he does want you, indeed. a little too bad, perhaps. and you feel your pulse drop straight between your legs as you fumble to turn your screen brightness all the way down.

you feel so fucking pathetic for thinking this but… it’s kind of the best thing you’ve ever had. because, despite the distance, the different timezones, and the fact that your lives are still so wildly separate… this thing with subong starts to feel more real than anything else. which is both sweet and deeply fucked, considering the fact that you met him at a club on a night out in hongdae (a place with the worst reputation ever when it comes to korean men), and that your entire relationship exists inside your phone now, and that you haven’t breathed the same air since august. but you’ve carved out a little space in each other’s day just to be. to flirt, to talk, to tease, to miss… and yeah, to get off, too. but then again, it’s not just that. it’s the way he talks to you like you’re his, or the way he gets all sulky when you’re too busy to call to tell him about your day, because he misses you. honestly… what the fuck is going on between you two? you don’t know when it happened—maybe the night he fell asleep with his camera still on, mouth open and snoring so softly you didn’t even mute him because you thought it was sweet. or maybe when you started calling him ‘baby’ back—but at some point, this stopped being whatever-the-fuck and turned into a routine you can’t imagine dropping. something you’ve started organizing your entire day around like it’s just as necessary as food or sleep or breathing.

so, at around the four-month mark—when your fingers know the rhythm of his voice better than they know your pink vibrator’s settings, and you’ve started to memorize the chipped paint on his bedroom wall from how often you see it in the background of his calls—you start thinking: what if i go back? and when you make a comment about it to him and he says, dead serious, “i’d fucking love that, baby.” it’s not even a question after that. you look up flights that same night. you don’t tell him, but you know—you’re going. because he’s never once hinted at coming to see you. not because he doesn’t want to (you know he does, he’s said it in every possible way) but because over the past few months, you’ve learned that subong’s money situation is… well… bad. like, “my mom still sends me money every month so i don’t starve” bad. like, “i haven’t been to the dentist in two years and i think something’s wrong with my molar but i’ll just chew on the other side” bad. and it’s jarring, because when you first met him, he didn’t come across that way. but you see it now. how much of that was bravado, how much he fakes just to look like he’s got it under control, how much he hates needing help… but it doesn’t matter, you don’t care. you don’t need him to buy you things, you just need him to be there with you.

okay don’t freak out

i got the flights

i’m coming to korea next month :))

already talked to my boss, i get two weeks!

for a second he doesn't respond, and your stomach flips because you know he saw it. and then finally, your screen lights up:

what

u serious???

u r actually coming?

dont lie to me

stfu

u think u funny girl?

nah bro

pissing me off

subong😭

calm down

i’m not lying

look

you send him a picture of the confirmation email the airline sent you.

holyyyyy shiiit u r gonna be in my city again

in my bed😈

on my face🔥 👅

should i cancel?💀

acting like u dont wanna cum on my tongue girl

help

no help is coming bby

u gotta sit on ma face, take responsibility

LMAO

you’re not okay😭

please seek professional help

i will💯

right after i professionally help u cum every day for 2 weeks straight mama

subong.

damn okay

gonna show up at the airport w a sign n flowers n shit

plss you’re not doing any of that

no im not

but im actually gonna get a job baby

so i can take u on dates n buy u food

i wanna spoil u

cant have u flying all the way here just to sit in my depressing ass room eatin instant rice

tryna make u feel like a princess

i don’t care if we eat instant rice every night subong

i just wanna be with you :)

he does get a job. actually follows through, like he said he would, which surprises both of you if we’re being honest. he starts working as a delivery guy for some local food app, riding around on this beat-up scooter that barely runs unless he kicks it three times and curses it like it’s a demon—but still. it’s real work. and subong bitches about it constantly. tells you how cold his hands get at night, how the helmet messes up his hair, how his back is already fucked from carrying someone’s 12-piece chicken combo up five floors… but he does it. every day. even the ones where it’s raining and he’s soaked and grumbling through voice notes like, “i swear to fucking god, bro, if one more person orders jjajangmyeon and lives on a fucking mountain i’m fucking quitting, man.” and even with all that, even with the whining and the dramatics and the rants about tips and customers who “looked at me like i was fucking poor! that bald motherfucker! not even a ‘thank you’!”—you can tell he’s kind of proud. maybe not of the job itself, but of having one. of trying. of doing something that feels grown-up and grounded and like he’s earning something real for once. he tells you his mom’s proud, too. says it casually, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal, but his voice gets a little softer when he says it. “she smiled when i told her. haven’t seen her do that in a while.” and the thing is, up until then, subong hadn’t really realized how fucked things had gotten. he’d been so tunnel-visioned on making it as a rapper—so deep into the fantasy of maybe—that he never really stopped to look around. he knew he was broke, but he wore it like a joke, like something that made him cooler somehow. never really took stock of the fact that he was living in a room with mold blooming above his head and socks stuffed into the gap under the window because the cold kept leaking in at night. and it wasn’t until he started working that it hit him, just how far he’d let things slide. how much of his life was being held together by denial and a really fragile sense of ‘i’ll figure it out eventually.’ he hadn’t figured it out. like… c’mon now… he’s twenty-eight and still getting money from his mom like he’s seventeen. and if he hadn’t gotten this job, he might’ve kept floating like that forever. but now he has you, too. which, in itself, feels like a fucking miracle most days. even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, he knows he doesn’t want to lose whatever this is. doesn’t want to fuck it up. doesn’t want to look back and realize he had something good and let it rot in his hands.

you land in korea right after christmas and new year, just like you’d planned. and the second subong sees you, he yells your name and starts walking toward you with this bounce in his step like he’s physically holding himself back from sprinting. when you’re close enough, he grabs your bag and says, “c’mere. c’mere, señorita,” before leaning in to kiss you. you’d booked an airbnb because… duh. there was no way in hell you were spending two weeks at his place with two other guys you haven’t even met. and he didn’t even try to argue. the plan was for him to stay with you most nights, except when he had work. and day one? yeah, you don’t do anything but fuck. subong finally gets what he wanted. after months of running his mouth about it—whining like it was some kind of tragedy that it hadn’t happened yet—after all the dramatics, he finally, finally gets to have you ride his face.

at first, it feels ridiculous and a little too vulnerable. he’s flat on his back and you crawl over him, your knees bracketing his head, cunt dripping and right there. subong’s losing it already and you haven’t even fucking sat down yet. his hands are on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you in. he’ll die if he has to wait another second. “get the fuck down here,” he demands, breath already hot against your folds. “don’t fucking tease, baby. sit the fuck down. sit on my fucking face. come on.” so you do. you lower yourself slowly… just to hear that helpless fuck me noise and that sharp inhale through his teeth the second your pussy brushes his mouth. when you really settle in, grinding down, soaking his lips and tongue and chin with your mess, he groans, desperate. you start to move with steady pressure, hips rolling gently. subong whimpers. like actually. you glance down and his whole body’s tense, trying not to cum in his underwear again just from this. oh man, he’s so gone. tongue working over your clit, mouth wide, licking and sucking and moaning into you. and fuck—he’s good at it. you grab the headboard with one hand, and you ride. subong tries to say something, but it comes out as a moan, all muffled and needy, and you rock your hips a little harder in response. “shit—f-fuck, subong—you eat so good,” you breathe. “that’s it, baby—mmmmh—that’s my good boy.” his grip on your ass tightens, and then he groans so deep it rips through you. “you like that, huh?” you pant, voice rough. “you like being m-my good boy?” he nods, mouth still full of you, eyes begging. and it flips something in you. you start to ride him harder, chasing your own high, letting it take over. he’s taking it, all of it, trying to earn every word you’ve ever said to him. “o-ooh my—,” you gasp, head tipping back. “subong—shit—i’m s-so close—” he doubles down—licking faster. you cry out, hips jerking, your thighs starting to shake around his head. “oh my god, subong!—y-yes—yes, baby, don’t stop, you’re making me—fuck!—fuck, i’m—” you cum hard. your whole body goes taut, then collapses all at once. your thighs tremble, hands clutching at the headboard as you grind through it, riding the high out on his tongue, your breath catching in your throat as wave after wave crashes over you.

turns out, subong wasn’t lying. he does make you cum every single day for the two weeks you’re in korea. it’s insane how much you two fuck. but honestly… can anyone blame you? you don’t know when the next time will be. when the next flight, the next visit, the next anything will happen. and that thought—that quiet little shadow that slips in sometime around day five—just sits with you. because everything feels perfect and bright, but underneath all of it, something starts to ache when you look at the calendar and realize you’ve started counting backwards.

you try to focus on the good. subong introduces you to his friends, who are rowdy and weird and definitely give him shit the second he leaves to go pee. but they make space for you, switching to english every now and then without being asked. they ask about your trip, about what you’ve seen, what you want to do before you go. they’re nice. you meet his roommates too, eventually. one of them is clearly terrified of you. the type of guy who looks and acts like he’s never interacted with a woman in his entire life. the other asks if you’re staying long and winks. subong throws a slipper at him, cursing in korean and telling him off. you laugh, even though your face is warm, because you can tell by the way subong moves closer to you after, the way he wraps an arm around your waist, that he’s not interested in sharing you. not even a little.

then there’s the night you try weed with him. you don’t plan to, honestly—you don’t even know he smokes that until halfway through the week, when he says something about needing to ‘go clear his brain’ and comes back smelling… funny. you tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and go, “really?” and he just grins. “what, baby?” you find out later he smokes pretty often. not out in the open, obviously—he’s not stupid, it’s illegal here—but at home, after work, when his head gets too loud. he offers to let you try, once, just to see if you like it. you say no at first. then maybe. and then you see the way he looks when he rolls one… and it’s over for you. he’s got his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms on full display, veins popping, rings glinting… rolling the joint with this pretty little pout on his mouth. he lifts it to his lips while he looks at you. his eyes flick up, and you feel it hit you in the throat before you even understand why.

then his tongue comes out, wetting the edge of the paper while he holds eye contact, and your clit actually pulses. his lips drag across the paper, sealing it smooth, and a little smile starts to tug at his mouth. smug little fuck. and you know—you know—he’s doing it on purpose. you cough your lungs out the first time you inhale and subong laughs so hard he almost drops the joint. you call him a dick. and between the fourth and fifth hit, everything starts getting funny. you’re high, your lips feel numb and your chest feels floaty, and every single thing he says makes you laugh harder than before. at one point, you find yourself in the kitchen, perched on the counter, and subong is fucking you. his jeans aren’t even off all the way, just halfway down his thighs, enough to get inside you. you’re gripping the counter with one hand and his arm with the other, legs twitching, thighs already aching from the way he’s holding you open. you’re so high you can’t tell where his body ends and yours begins. everything feels hot. your moans keep stuttering into giggles, breathless little gasps that make him groan. “the fuck you laughing at,” he pants against your mouth, thrusting harder now, sweat sticking his forehead to yours. you try to say “you,” to piss him off, but it comes out like a whimper when you feel his cock dragging deeper inside you.

you do all the tourist shit, too. some of the places you visit, you’d actually planned to see the first time you came to korea months ago, with your friends. but you didn’t end up seeing half of them. either there wasn’t time, or the plans changed, or—if you’re being honest—you were too busy meeting up with subong. so now, this time around, you go. and he takes you, grumbling about tourists and how overpriced everything is, and “this place used to be so fucking cool before influencers ruined it, man,” but still. he’s kind of a great tour guide, you can tell he likes showing you around. there’s this quiet sort of pride in it. like yeah, this is his city, yeah, these are his streets, and yeah, you’re the baddie bitch he pulled. you visit namsan tower, take the cable car up while he complains about the crowd, the incline, and then grips the bar slightly too tight the second it moves, clutching his chest. you almost die laughing. you put a lock on the fence and subong writes his name next to yours in the absolute ugliest handwriting you’ve ever seen. you go to myeongdong and eat every fried thing in sight until you feel sick. he buys you a stuffed animal from a claw machine after three failed attempts and says, “easy win,” as if his entire soul wasn’t riding on the last try, making him swear under his breath in two languages. like he didn’t mutter “fucking rigged bullshit” while shoving more coins into the machine with a look in his eyes like he was going to physically fight the glass. but now it’s in your hands—a little bear with a small heart stitched to its chest—and he’s refusing to let you carry it. “you’re already holding the drinks. give it here.” “but i want to—” “he’s mine too, girl. i’m his father.” and then he tucks it under his arm like a baby and walks ahead.

you go to a photo booth at a mall. the seat’s tiny, obviously, but subong just sprawls into it, legs wide, taking up more space than physically possible. you hesitate, looking at the sliver of plastic next to him. “there’s literally no space,” you say. he smirks. pats his lap. “bring that ass over here, baby. c’mon. it’s thanos’ lucky day.” you snort before you sit, straddling one of his thighs. subong’s kinda excited. he messes with the little filter screen, starts choosing the backgrounds, says “pick somethin’ stupid, baby—no like stupider. wait no, do the sparkle one! yesss, that’s ugly as hell.” how is this man twenty-eight? you try to look normal in the first one. you fail so hard you almost choke. second shot—he pokes your cheek at the last second. third shot—you flip him off and he throws up some sort of hand sign (he thinks he’s sooo cool) and for the last one—he kisses you.

you drag him through the coex aquarium and take a hundred videos of the jellyfish. you stop at every tank like it’s the first one, filming the same slow, drifting movement over and over again, whispering things like “subong, look at this one!” he pretends to be bored. calls them ‘wet bugs.’ and while you’re busy pointing at the seahorses and gasping at the weird, squishy ones that look like aliens, he pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of you. of your silhouette in front of the glowing tanks. you don’t even realize he’s doing it until he shows you one. just holds the phone out and says, “you look so sick in this, baby.” you take it, expecting something stupid, but it’s beautiful. you try to play it cool. say, “okay, photographer,” and hand it back. he smiles.

one day you go to lotte world too, and he hates it. he complains the whole time—about the screaming kids, about the rides—but he still stands in line with you for an hour to get on one. he’s especially moody that day. more than usual. and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: you’re leaving soon. it’s one of your last full days in seoul, and the countdown is real now. you’re both ignoring it, but it’s there. as the sun starts bleeding orange into the clouds, he checks his phone and mutters ���fuck, i gotta go soon.” because his shift starts in less than two hours. you take the train back together, like always. you sit next to each other, too tired to talk, your thigh pressed against his, his hand holding yours, and your head resting against his shoulder. and it’s in that moment that it hits you—holy fucking shit, you’re in love with subong. and you don’t know if he feels the same. you don’t know anything, actually. not even what this is—this thing between you.

you don’t bring it up until the next day. you wake up to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, and it takes you a second to register that he’s here—pressed so close you can feel the shape of his knees behind yours and the faint scrape of his knuckles against your stomach every time he exhales. you don’t remember him coming in. you must’ve knocked out before he even made it back from work. he shifts a little when you move, then that familiar groan—half-asleep, annoyed at the light, at the time—slips out of his mouth and suddenly you’re both awake, blinking into the soft blur of morning light. you get up first. subong follows like he always does, dragging his feet. he never wants to miss a morning with you. you make breakfast together. you sit on the counter while subong stand between your knees, his back facing you. your fingers trace along the ink of his tattoo while he sips his coffee and steals the last bite of your toast even though he hasn’t even finished his own. you shower after, and he won’t stop squeezing your ass even though you’re trying to rinse your conditioner out in peace. you tell him to knock it off, laughing, and he says “baby, i’m tryna start my day right,” and then you’re pinned to the tile with his fingers buried inside you, tongue between your legs, moaning into your cunt while you gasp and twitch against his mouth. you’re on your knees for him right after, choking on his cock while water spills down your back and his hands are in your hair, guiding you. and when it’s over subong wraps you in a towel so gently you forget how hard you just came.

afterwards, he throws on sweats and flops onto the couch. you crawl in after him, blanket over both of you, your legs across his lap and your head leaned back while he flips through shit on the tv. his hand starts moving over your shin, then your calf, dragging the edge of his knuckles along your skin. he stops on a variety show with bright graphics, double-checks that the subtitles are on for you, and tosses the remote somewhere across the cushions. you barely register what’s happening on the screen—something about a cooking competition, maybe—but he’s focused, or at least pretending to be. his hands keep working. he presses into your calf with his thumb, then shifts lower, wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rubbing slow circles into the arch of your foot, then back up again—his touch firm. you watch him for a second before saying, “baby.” he hums, not looking away from the screen. your toes press against his stomach. “subong.” his eyes flick down to you. “yeah, baby?” you shift a little under the blanket, pull your legs off his lap so you can sit up straighter—knees bent. and the second your body moves like that, he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s clocked the vibe shift. “can we—” you pause, clear your throat. “can we talk for a sec?” subong freezes. the words can we talk have never once led to anything good in his life. “talk,” he repeats, cautiously. “like…talk, talk?” “yeah. i just… i’ve been thinking.” “what you mean? thinking about what?” you can tell he’s panicking inside. you don’t know how to start. you don’t even know what part of it you’re trying to get to first. “i mean… i’m not seeing anyone else,” you say. “i haven’t been… since we started talking. and not like it’s some big deal or anything, i just—i don’t even want to. like, i don’t even think about it.” the minute the words leave your mouth, he looks a lot more relieved. “and i know we never really… talked about what this is,” you keep going, “but i’ve been out here for almost two weeks, and we’ve been calling and texting and facetiming for months, and i guess i just—” you pause again. breathe. “—i want to know what this is for you—” “nah. nah, see—what the fuck you talkin’ about right now,” he cuts in, all offended. “what is this for me? baby. you’re my fucking girl. like—since day one. what are we even—” “i just didn’t want to assume.” “you don’t gotta assume shit, baby. you’ve been mine.” “so… what? like… i’m your—i’m your girlfriend?” “fucking right you are. come here.”

he pulls you into his lap without hesitation, so fast you barely get the chance to react before his arms lock around your waist and starts kissing you—pressing obnoxiously loud kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone, your neck. “my girlfriend out here making dumb questions thinkin’ she’s just some random girl i talk to—that’s crazy,” he says between kisses, voice muffled, mouth brushing your skin. you squeal, try to push him off, laughing too hard to breathe. “stop! subong—” “the fucking disrespect, bro” he grins, tightening his hold, kisses the side of your face again, “‘i want to know what this is for you,’” he mocks in a high pitched voice. “what you think, girl?” his hands tickle your side, until you’re twisting in his lap, giggling so hard your stomach hurts. “stop! i can’t—” “‘i didn’t want to assume’—assume what, baby? you think i let just anyone sit on my face and call me a good boy?” “subong!” he laughs, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel it now—how happy he is. how light. how fucking in it he’s always been.

the next few months are—against all odds and having the entire goddamn ocean between you—kind of perfect. you go home, and it sucks. obviously. you cry at the airport, your chest starts to cave in because your body doesn’t quite understand how to unstick itself from his yet. and subong pretends not to, but you catch him rubbing his eyes weirdly. life goes on. you tell your family about subong eventually, and they’re not completely on board at first. not because they don’t like him (they’ve never even met him) but because the whole thing sounds impossible. different countries, different lives… it makes them nervous, and they don’t hide that. but underneath the doubt, they’re happy for you. your friends, though… they’re all in. even the ones who were hesitant in the beginning have started to come around, because they see it now. they see how real it is, how happy you are. and it’s so sweet it makes you want to cry—to know that even though the relationship exists across an ocean, the people around you are still rooting for it to work.

life smiling at you, and you’re smiling back. you’re so, so happy. it feels like everything around you is finally starting to click and you aren’t constantly clawing your way through the week, you can actually breathe without apologizing for it. your head’s clearer, your chest feels lighter, you’re eating better, waking up well-rested… you feel better in your skin, too, more sure of yourself. maybe you’re not as impossible to love as you thought. even your boss gave you a raise last month, called you more ‘on it’ than ever before, and you almost laughed, because it’s not like you changed anything dramatic—you’ve just stopped wasting all your energy trying to feel okay. you are okay. better than okay. and it shows.

subong, on the other hand—he’s not happy. not because of you. you’re his peace and his favorite fucking person. but the rest? everything else? it’s a mess. he hates his job. he knows he’s lucky to have it, knows he was proud when he got it, knows it helped—he can pay rent now, buy groceries without asking his mom for help, take you on real dates when you visit—but that pride wore off fast. the hours drag, the streets are cold, his legs hurt all the time, and every time he clocks in, he feels like something inside him is cracking a little more. because this isn’t what he wants. this isn’t who he is. he was supposed to be doing music... supposed to be chasing something that made his blood move. but he pushed that part of himself so far back it barely makes noise anymore. it’s still there, though… buried under the tired, under the weight of pretending he’s okay when he’s not.

he says it one night, kind of out of nowhere. you’re on facetime, both of you horizontal in different beds. your voice’s tainted by exhaustion as you talk about your day. in the middle of your ramble, he lets out this little huff and says how he’d quit his job to be a broke rapper again, then proceeds to joke about how you’d break up with him if he did. smiles like it’s funny, with a little laugh at the end. you don’t laugh, though. instead, you sit up a little and say, “do it.” his smile falters. he stays quiet for a moment, then goes, “what?” “i mean—yeah. do it. quit your job, if that’s what you want. don’t give it up, subong. you’re good. and i know you don’t always see it, but i do. i do. and i want you to be happy, you know? if that means chasing music again… then fucking do it. and if you need anything—i mean it, baby—ask me. i’m not leaving you, i’m here for you. we’re together now, right? that’s what this is.” he doesn’t say much. he’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that you genuinely, without conditions, want him to be okay. that somehow, you’ve made the choice to see him as worth it, even on the days he can’t stand himself. he doesn’t know where to put that kind of grace, so he just nods. rubs a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to steady it, keep it from quivering and giving him away. and when you ask if he’s okay, he says, “yeah,” barely audible, eyes gone glassy in a way that betrays him instantly.

he quits his job two weeks later—pulls off the uniform and drops it in the trash like he’s shedding dead skin. texts you immediately after:

just quit

really?? omggg!!

how do you feel? :)

good💯

are you sure baby?

fuck yeah

better than ever

and for the first time in a long time, he means it. after that, he doesn’t fuck around. he works, pouring himself fully into the music. subong practices until his voice gets hoarse, rewrites verses at four in the morning, pulls strings with friends of friends who owe him favors from way back when, spends money he shouldn’t be spending on studio time and mixing. you see it happening in real time—the obsession, the tunnel vision, the way he lights up every time he thinks he’s nailed a line. he sends you the demo and then the mastered version. and one night, he uploads it to streaming. not even a month later, the song blows the fuck up. someone posts a clip of it on tiktok—this random girl lip-syncing to one of the more questionable lines, giggling—and people start clowning it immediately. the lyrics get memed. but eventually, something flips, like some invisible switch being hit in the collective brain of the internet, and suddenly the comments shift from ‘wtf is this bro’ to ‘wait ts lowkey eatsss’ and the lyrics that sounded dumb at first suddenly feel kinda… clever? he’s everywhere. you open your phone and there he is—on your feed, on your fyp. the memes don’t stop, but they’ve changed. no one’s laughing at him anymore, they’re laughing with him. they’re obsessed. subong’s so fucking happy. and you’re so fucking proud.

months go by and it just keeps getting bigger. the song opened the door and subong fucking sprinted through it. he releases a follow-up track a few weeks later, then another, and people eat them up like candy. the internet picks him up and carries him faster than either of you expected, which is amazing. the following months he’s busier, but he still texts you before he goes onstage, facetimes you the moment he’s free, and sends you voice notes and pictures of everything he does... but then the invitations start. first, it’s a launch party for someone else’s album, then an afterparty for a gig he didn’t even play at, then a private party for an influencer brand you’ve never heard of. and he goes, of course. he texts you, too, the whole time, telling you everything.

they got wagyu sliders n shit

these mfs be rich fr

miss u baby

someone asked who i’m texting

i said my girl

he said lucky

damn fucking right i am😍

this place got a whole ass chandelier in the bathroom

hi baby :) just woke up, i see you’re having fun

i think im a bit drunk

please be careful

im good baby, everyone’s nice

okayy :)

i have to leave for work in a few minutes

damn

that job rly snatching u away from thanos

gonna buy u an island someday baby

u wont have to worry bout work no more

n i’ll eat you out everyday

that’s so romantic, thank you

but for now i gotta get ready🙃

drink some water, please

and text me when you’re home safe

i’ll probably still be working when you get back

i’ll try to stay up

wanna hear how ur day goes

you won’t

but that’s okay! sleep if you need to❤️❤️

i wish u were here baby

i’d be showin u off so bad

my pretty girl

smilin all cute n stealing everyone’s attention

but you’re not there. you’re never there. you’re across the world, living a completely different life. and no matter how many texts he sends or calls he makes, that gap doesn’t shrink. if anything, it starts to grow. stretches like a crack down the center of something you thought was solid. because now, it’s not just distance—it’s dissonance. and it’s not that you don’t trust him. you do. it’s just that… fame changes things. and you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll stay interesting to someone whose world keeps getting bigger by the hour. how long you can keep up from so far away. how long until all the things that make you you—the mundanity, the simplicity, the slowness of your life—start to feel like dead weight to someone like him.

he calls one night, like always, right as you’re settling into bed and thinking about how weird it is that he still remembers to call, even when everything in his life feels like it’s speeding up fast. it’s morning for him, maybe early afternoon. sunlight spills across his bed, his voice’s all scratchy and bright in that way that tells you immediately: he had a good night. you’re in bed, barely awake, blinking into the dark with your phone pressed to your cheek as he launches straight into it, laughing, out of breath even though he’s just lying there. “yo, baby—you would’ve hated it. so many fake-ass people. but the place was mad bougie, i swear to god there was a real ass koi pond inside the fucking bar.” and then he’s off—telling you everything about last night. he sounds happy. like really, really happy. he tells you about the music, about the people, how everyone knew who he was. says it was probably the best night of his life so far. that hurts for some reason. and you want to be happy for him—you are—but there’s something in your chest tightening with every word, something quiet and mean and a little scared, because it’s never been clearer that you’re not there, and he’s starting to live a life that doesn’t involve you. and then he says it. “oh—shit, forgot the wildest part, baby. met this one dude—looked like he owns fucking a yacht. came up to me like, said he wants to manage me. and i was like bet. so now he’s my manager… well, i gotta sign up the contract and all that shit, but we arranged a meeting. and he gave me a pill too—no idea what the fuck it was, but fuck, baby, i was like… i don’t know, that shit hit.” what the fuck? he laughs as he says it, like it’s a joke. like it’s not a big deal... like you won’t care.

and for a moment, all the noise in your brain stops. you’re just lying there in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling, phone warm against your ear, suddenly freezing cold on the inside, listening to your boyfriend talk about taking some random-ass drug from a stranger like it’s a footnote in a funny story. and it’s not even that you didn’t expect something like this eventually… it’s just that hearing him say it, so casually, so proud, makes your stomach turn. and when you finally speak, your voice is quieter than you thought it’d be. “subong… that’s like… really bad.” and for the first time since the call started, he actually goes quiet—enough to let the silence stretch between you, like he’s trying to figure out how serious you are. he exhales sharply, not quite a laugh, but close enough to piss you off before he even opens his mouth. “baby, c’mon. it wasn’t like that. it’s not like i’m out here poppin’ mystery pills every damn night. it was just one time. it’s not that deep.” and maybe he really thinks that. but you can hear the part of him that’s panicking a little underneath, the part that knows exactly why you’re worried. you sit up in bed, your heart sinking as you try to stay calm and not sound like his mom or whatever else might make him shut down, but god it’s hard when he’s brushing off something that could’ve gone so wrong. “it’s not that deep?” you repeat, flatly. and already, you hate the way your voice sounds. “you didn’t even know what it was, subong.” he groans. “but i’m fine. nothing happened. i’m literally sitting here talking to you, girl, aren’t i?” “that’s not the fucking point.” “jesus christ—you’re making it sound like i fucking od’d.”

you don’t mean to snap. you’re trying to keep your cool—you were keeping it, even when your whole body went cold after he said it. but something about the way he’s laughing it off, like you’re overreacting, like he didn’t just tell you he took some random drug from a stranger… makes you angry. “you’re not some invincible asshole, subong.” your voice is shaking now, heat rising to your cheeks. “you didn’t even know what it was. and you still took it—you took something from someone you don’t know, at a party full of people who don’t give a fuck about you—even if you think they do—and now you’re bragging about it like it’s funny. it’s not. it’s not funny, okay? it’s fucking scary.” “here we fucking go.” he mutters. and just like that, you’re off the edge. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “you acting like i fucking snorted coke off a stripper’s tit or some shit, man. it was one fucking pill. one. not even mine. i just wanted to feel good for one fucking night.” “you didn’t even know what it was, subong!” “so?” he snaps. “damn, what, now i need your permission to have a good time? what are you—my fucking mom?” “no, but apparently someone has to give a fuck about your life since you clearly don’t.” “talking like i ain’t fucking grown, like i ain’t out here doing this shit on my own! i’m older than you!” “don’t fucking scream at me, i can hear you just fine. and i’m trying to be there for you, but you make it so fucking hard when you act like this, subong.” “act like what, huh?” “like i’m the problem for caring.” he laughs again, but this time it’s cruel. you frown. “nah, you don’t care. you just hate not being here. that’s what this is really about, right?” “what?” “you heard me, girl.” the nerve he has…“fuck you,” you whisper. “no, no. say it with your chest, baby. c’mon. you wanna be mad so bad, don’t you? like that’s gonna make it easier—like that’s gonna make you less scared that i’m slipping away from you.” you blink. you didn’t just hear what you heard... right? “what the fuck did you just say?” he exhales hard through his nose. “you hate not being here, with me. so now you tryna control me.” “control you?” you scoff. “you always gotta have something to say when i’m out,” he continues, fast, like he’s trying to get it all out before he lets himself feel any of it. “every time i tell you about a party or who i saw or what i’m doing, you act weird.” “are you fucking serious?” “yeah.” “you really think i like this? you think i enjoy sitting here every night, wondering who you’re with, what you’re doing, if you’re safe? because that’s what i’ve been doing these past few months, by the way—worry. about your damn state and safety. so don’t even start. i just—listen… i don’t want to fight with you, subong. i really don’t. i just want you to be wise about the decisions you make. i want—i want you to be okay.”

he makes this low sound, like he doesn’t believe you. and you know then, none of what you’re saying is landing. “but you know what?” you continue, voice rising. “maybe it’s easier for you to pretend i’m some nagging bitch than admit that you’re scared, too. that maybe this is all too much too fast and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” “don’t put your shit on me, girl,” he bites. “maybe it’s too much for you! you were good with broke-ass me, but not now, when i’m getting attention. when people actually want me.” “i want you too, you dumb fuck!” you shout. “hey! don’t fucking call me that!” “let me speak—” “you think you can talk to me like that?! the fuck is this shit—” “let me speak!” “nah, fuck that! fuck that! you think i’m gonna let you disrespect me?!” “can you just listen to me—” “i don’t give a fuck what you tryna say when you start it off by calling me a dumbass—“ “jesus—subong, let me finish!” you hear him mutter a few words but he quiets down. “what i was trying to say is that i’ve only ever wanted you—” “yeah? then stop acting like you hate every single thing that comes with me blowing up! ‘cause that’s what it sound like.” “well maybe that’s what you wanna hear,” you spit, “so you can feel like the victim—like poor little subong with the girlfriend who doesn’t get it—” “fucking right you don’t!” “—even though she’s the one who told me to follow my dream! even though she’s been here since before the clout, before the…the fame, or whatever this is now—” “and you think that makes you fucking special?” that one. that one makes you go silent for a moment.

your voice drops, hoarse now. “say that again.” he doesn’t. “go on. say it again, subong.” he doesn’t say anything. just breathes hard into the phone. “fuck,” he mutters eventually. “you know i didn’t mean it like that.” you don’t answer. “c’mon, girl—don’t do that. don’t go all quiet on me now, like we didn’t just—like i don’t—” he stops himself, letting out a loud sigh. “you know you’re different. you know that.” and maybe he thinks that’ll fix it. but it doesn’t. your throat is tight, and your hand’s starting to shake, and you feel that stupid sting behind your eyes, and you hate that he’s still on the other end of the line because now he’s going to hear it. “i’m gonna hang up,” you say. he reacts fast, urgent. “what? baby, don’t—don’t do that. we’re just talking. we always talk like this, it’s not—” “i don’t wanna talk to you right now. i’m going to sleep, i’m tired… you have a good day.” and before he can respond, you hang up.

he calls. once, twice, then again—back to back. when you don’t answer, the texts start flooding in too. he’s apologizing (kind of) rambling through hurt pride, guilt and panic, but you don’t read them. you don’t pick up when he calls again either. you just turn your phone on silent, curl deeper under the blanket, and let the night swallow the noise. when you wake up hours later, the screen is full of missed calls and unread messages, his name everywhere.

u really hung up on me??

dont do that shit

answer

u know i didnt mean it like that baby

i was talkin out my ass

fuck

ik i fucked up alr

i say dumb shit when im mad u know that

but calling me that, bro??

really??

u gotta own what u said too

im not gonna sit here and eat shit like u didnt throw it too

dont fucking ignore me

pls baby text me back

im sorry

say somethin please

i didnt mean to hurt u baby

u were right

about the pill

the way i acted

i wont touch that shit again

i promise

im not losin u over that

bc i love you

n i mean it

you work it out, the same way you always do. you talk for hours when you wake up. and after the apologies, the guilt, the careful questions and the reassurances, after the part where he swears up and down he’s never doing that shit again, never taking anything from anyone without knowing what it is, never scaring you like that again—you tell him the thing you haven’t wanted to say out loud. that he was right. not about the fight, but about the way you’ve been acting lately. how you’ve been more irritated, more quick to get upset, more sensitive to things that used to roll off your back. how you’ve felt it happening—this thing under your skin, this heaviness that comes from constantly wondering if what you two have is going to survive everything that’s changing. the attention. the pressure. the people. because this new version of his life—this shiny, fast, spinning thing full of parties and people who want pieces of him—is starting to feel so far from the version that belonged to you. and it’s not his fault, you know that. but no matter how often he calls or sends you pictures or tries to remind you that you’re still his, it’s hard not to feel like the rest of the world is trying to pull him away anyway.

by the end of the year, just a few days short of what would’ve been your one-year mark, you move to seoul. no countdown this time, no return flight circling in the back of your head like a vulture. subong doesn’t even ask you to move in with him, he insists. tells you: “you’re stayin with me. where else would you go, baby? i already cleared out my closet, you better fill it up.” says it like it’s already settled, like this wasn’t something you were supposed to talk about first, as if there was never gonna be another option. and part of you hesitates because the idea of suddenly living together, full-time, is kinda scary. you’ve been long-distance for months, and planning this move for even longer. but planning something and doing it are two very different things. he’s gonna be your everyday. and that kind of closeness—while beautiful—is also terrifying. part of you thinks maybe you should wait, get your own place first, test the waters, do this the ‘smart’ way. but still, you say yes.

the apartment he’s in now is better. way better. he can finally afford to live alone (and there’s actual furniture this time and the heat works) and subong’s always talking about ‘our home’ like he’s lived there with you forever. he even has a car now, can you believe that? it’s insane how good things are. it almost makes you suspicious, like you’re waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell you none of it’s real. maybe you weren’t prepared for how fast it would all feel normal, how quickly your things would start mixing with his, how easily you’d get used to waking up in the same bed with his leg thrown over yours and his arm tucked under your head.

he’s busier than you thought he’d be, though. that’s the first thing you notice. there are meetings, rehearsals, video shoots, endless phone calls… you’re busy, too, but in a different way. your job transferred you when you moved, thankfully, but your schedule didn’t change, which means your days start when everyone else’s are winding down. one of the perks of remote work is that the mornings belong to you. but around six or seven in the evening, you work—hunched over your laptop with your headphones in and the city lights bleeding in through the curtains. sometimes subong’s home and sometimes he’s not, but either way, you work. it’s fucking hard sometimes. and lonely, albeit a loneliness you won’t admit, because you made this choice… you knew it wouldn’t be easy and you told yourself you could handle it, that you were brave, that you were doing something people only dream about—but sometimes the small things get to you anyway. the stares. the little barriers in language and culture that make you feel like a clown, like you’re always just slightly out of place and you’ll never quite blend in no matter how long you stay or how hard you try. some days you handle it fine and you’re proud of yourself for even trying. but some other days, it sinks in too deep. subong’s always there making you laugh, holding you when you cry and get frustrated over the smallest things. when you’re in your head and missing home and wondering if maybe you made a mistake… he’s there. and you remember why you came in the first place. for him.

but nothing stays good forever. it’s just the nature of things, the way joy always carries a quiet expiration date no one can see until the air starts to change. you’re tired and alone most days, and the silence of the apartment is starting to feel different than it did before, heavier somehow, less peaceful and more pointed, like a reminder of everything you gave up to be here. you thought things would change eventually, but after living there for six months, you realize they aren’t… and you’re not sure they will. subong’s still busy. it really starts to show—the way his presence starts to stretch thinner and thinner across your days. it makes sense that he’s pouring everything into his music, that he’s working harder than ever, saying yes to everything, because what if the offers stop coming? what if it all disappears? and you get that. but that doesn’t make it easier to sit in an apartment alone in a country that still doesn’t feel like home. and it’s not that you didn’t expect him to be busy. of course you did. you moved here knowing what his life was turning into. but now you spend more nights than you’d like to admit sitting at the little table by the window eating alone and avoiding glancing at the clock again, trying not to get mad before he even texts that he’s staying at the studio late again. trying not to feel pathetic for the way you still wait up sometimes, fully dressed, hoping he’ll walk through the door before you fall asleep.

the fights start small. you misread a text. he forgets to say hello when he comes back from the studio. he leaves his dishes in the sink again even though you asked him not to, even though he said he’d try. you ask if he’s coming home for dinner and he says “i’ll see,” and something about the vagueness gets under your skin more than it should. you both pretend things are fine even though you’re starting to keep score in your head. and it starts to show in the way you text each other, too. which is honestly where most of the fighting happens now.

miss u

how’s my girl’s day goin

hi baby :) good

i miss you too

are you coming home for dinner?

yeah

should be back around 8

yayyyyyy!

i’ve been craving pasta all day so i’ll make that

save me a big ass plate señorita

obviously ;)

thank u bby ❤️

what thank you? that’s worth at least 5 kisses😙

5 kisses? i’ll give u something better girl🔥

dummy

i’m holding you to that ;)

don’t be late!

but then 8 p.m rolls around:

just finished cooking🙂‍↕️

i’ll wait for you to get here

it smells insane btw

hurry up

are you close??

baby

i’m hungry

suboooongggg

helloooo

and 9 p.m:

fuck

baby im still at the studio

we r behind schedule

i cant leave yet

wdym you can’t leave yet

you said you’d be home around 8

i thought we’d be done by then

you could’ve told me

i’ve been waiting yk

sorry baby

i didnt wanna disappoint u

kept thinking we’d wrap in time

well

guess what

dont be like that girl

excuse me

i took my break early to cook

and i’ve been sitting here waiting for you for an hour

i didnt fuckin plan for shit to run late bro tf u on me about

whatever subong

i’m tired

eat when you get home or don’t

idgaf

then another day:

hi baby❤️

i’m so sorry to bother you rn

i went to the 7-eleven and then decided to walk a bit after and i kinda got turned around lol

don’t laugh💀

i thought i knew the way back but i think i took a wrong turn and i don’t know where i am now

i’m using maps but it’s taking me up this street and none of the lampposts are working, so i don’t really wanna walk through there

can you come get me maybe?🥲

pleaseee

what?

where u at bby??

i don’t know

somewhere near that cafe you took me to last week i think??

everything looks different at night

wait let me check

yeah, the cafe with the green logo

i didn’t realize how far i’d walked

there’s no one around

kinda creepy

tf u doing walking around by urself this late bby

needed some air

i finished work and the apartment was starting to feel like a box

sorry

are you gonna be long?

baby?

im still at the studio

been here all day

we just started recording again

oh

i thought you’d be home by now, it’s late

nah bby

we got ppl over too

shit’s stacked rn

okay then

nevermind

i’ll figure it out

i’ll walk a bit more and see if something looks familiar

u got the taxi app

take one

ik the apps i have on my phone!

i’m not stupid ty😊

yo wtf

???

tf u giving me an attitude for

i’m not giving you an attitude

i’m literally lost and it’s dark and i asked you for help

and you’re telling me to just take a fucking taxi

i’ll pay for it

there are no taxis at this hour, yk how hard it is to take one after 1am in seoul

i told u i was busy tonight

tf u want me to do, girl? teleport out the studio?

ha ha you’re soooo fucking funny subong

dont fucking piss me off

don’t fucking piss ME off

u r the one who chose to go out at fucking 1am for no reason??

how is that on me girl

yeah i chose to go out because i’ve been alone all day

and yesterday

and the day before that

and the one time i actually need you, you can’t even leave for ten fucking minutes

my bad for having work🙏🏼

fuck off dude

like genuinely

you’re not even listening to what i’m trying to say

i am

u r acting like idgaf when im here tryna finish work that pays our rent

as if i don’t pay my part of rent too💀💀 tf

wtf r u even saying rn

no one said u dont

why tf u twisting my words??

i’m not twisting anything

i’m trying to tell you how i feel

not that you care :)

u know i fucking do

tf is this even about now man

act like it then! :)))))

what u think i’ve been doing?

im at the studio every night building a future that includes u

n u crying cuz i cant drop everything to play chauffeur??

what u want from me bro

don’t call me bro

i’m your girlfriend

ye

n u always on my dick about shit

you’re a fucking asshole subong

and u r a fuckin brat

fuck you

nah fuck you bitch

it’s the first time he’s ever called you that. it’s not like you’ve never argued before, not like you’ve never said cruel shit in the heat of the moment, but that? that one word? bitch? from him? it feels like something splits open in your chest, and you hate how fast your hands start shaking and your face burns. and maybe that’s what pisses you off the most—how much it affects you, how much it stays. because it’s him, not a stranger, not someone on the street. it’s the same mouth that kisses you at night, the same person who calls you baby, the same fingers that loop into yours under the blanket when you’re snuggled up against him. you don’t answer after that. and when he starts texting again, you just stare at the lock screen and let it buzz against your leg until it stops. because you know it’s coming. the half-assed apology. the “i didn’t mean it like that” and “you know how i get when i’m mad, baby” and “you’re the only one who gets under my skin like this”—as if that’s supposed to be romantic. as if being hurt by him is some kind of proof that you matter.

you forgive him, you always do. because you love him. because it’s easier to fold into the version of him that comes after: the sorry one, the one who kisses your hands and says “i fucked up, baby. i know i fucked up. that’s not who i am, girl, you know me. please, baby… forgive me, i’ll do anything.” you try, you really fucking try… but the thing about words is that once they hit, they echo. they stretch out inside you, and suddenly everything sounds a little different. and it shows. not in the way you pull away, not in the silence or the tears into the pillow while his back is turned. no, you still kiss him. you still touch him. you still let him press up behind you at night and mumble filth against your neck with his hands under your shirt. you let him fuck you. but not the way he’s used to. now it’s you on top—dragging him down by the jaw, yanking his clothes off rough enough to make him grunt, pinning him back against the pillows. subong’s stronger, he could flip you over in a second if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. he loves that shit. he loves watching you take control with your thighs straddling his hips and your nails digging crescent moons into his chest, looking at him like you’re the one who gets to decide when he gets to breathe. you kiss him hard, bite his lip, make him open his mouth just to pull away and laugh when he chases yours.

one day you wrap your hand around his throat, and say “you think you deserve to be fucked by me? hm?” and he shakes his head immediately, lips parted, already twitching under you like you’ve got a hand wrapped around his soul instead. his cock’s hard and leaking and he hasn’t even been touched properly, hasn’t earned a single fucking thing. his voice barely comes out when he tries—just a raspy “no, baby.” “right. then why should i?” you ask as you grind down once, pressing your heat right against him, reminding him what he’s not getting yet. subong chokes on his own spit, holding himself back from doing something pathetic. and you just tilt your head, all sweet and cruel. “’cause—f-fuck, baby, ‘cause i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i know i was a piece of shit—i’ll be good. i swear i’ll be so fuckin’ good.” “you will?” you drag your nails down his chest, watching his abs jump under your touch. he nods frantically. “i-i’ll be your good boy. i promise, baby, just—fuck, please—” you cut him off with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your soaked cunt down the length of his cock, letting him feel how wet you are, how fucking turned on you are from seeing him like this. from hearing the desperation in his voice and watching him twitch and shake and beg for a pussy he hasn’t earned. “aww, and you think saying sorry makes you good, subongie?” you murmur, leaning down, lips brushing over his cheek, your hand slipping up to grab his jaw. you squeeze it hard, making him gasp. “you think one little apology’s enough to make me forget how you talked to me? you’re lucky i even let you get this close.”

subong’s eyes flutter, throat bobbing hard under your touch. he’s finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, not with the feeling of your pussy hovering just above the tip of his dick, dripping all over him like the cruelest fucking tease alive. he shakes his head quick. “no,” he whispers. “no, baby, it’s not. i fucked up, i know, i know, i’ll do anything to make it up to you, i swear—” “anything? you want this pussy that bad?” “yes,” he whines. “then beg.” he does. fuck, he does immediately. like his life depends on it, giving up every ounce of pride just to get inside you. “please, baby, please. just—just let me feel you, i can’t—i can’t fucking take it. i need you, i need that fucking pussy. please—” you hum, slow and thoughtful, then shift—lifting your hips and sliding off him, dragging the wet heat of your body away. he lets out a little sound at the loss before your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him once, still deciding how generous you want to be. his hips buck off the bed, his body unable to take the smallest kindness without trying to fuck into it. “pathetic,” you whisper, leaning down to bite his neck, dragging your teeth across his skin. “all that attitude and now look at you… begging like a fucking loser.” he moans, embarrassed, but it turns him on anyway. he’d let you spit in his mouth if you wanted to. “i’m not,” he breathes, but it’s a lie. you stroke him again, slower this time, almost languid, just to watch the way he twitches under your touch, to feel the heat of him, slick and straining in your hand, every inch of him aching with want. “you are,” you say. “whining over some pussy you haven’t earned. what happened to that mouth, huh? where’s all that talk now?” “i don’t—i didn’t mean it, girl—fuck—” his voice cracks halfway through and it’s almost funny, how you’re working him up with barely a flick of your wrist. you lean in close. “that’s my name when you’re begging?” you murmur. “‘girl’? try again.” “‘m s-sorry. baby. ‘m sorry,” he stammers. “i swear, i didn’t mean it, you know i didn’t—please, baby. just let me cum—ahh-ha fuck—please let me cum—” “already?” you laugh, low. “you haven’t even been inside me and you’re already there? just from my hand? that’s how easy you are now, subong?” he groans, hips jerking up again, losing the ability to stay still. “yes—fuck! yes, girl—i mean, baby. shit, you’re s-so fucking hot… i’m gonna cum if you don’t stop. please, let me—” “no,” you cut him off, tightening your grip. “you don’t cum ‘til i say so.”

you let go of him entirely for a second, watching him. your core aches from how wet you are, too, because seeing him like this—all that mouth reduced to desperate noise—it feeds something inside you. you crawl over him again, straddling his waist, the tip of his cock sliding through the mess between your thighs, and subong groans. “please. please, baby, let me in. i need you.” you shift your hips, letting the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, but you don’t give him anything else. “hm… i don’t know…” you murmur, tilting your head. “what were you sorry for again?” “f-for… for calling you that,” he says. “for what i said. i didn’t mean it, baby.” “for calling me what?” you press, and the slick glide of your folds drags against him. “say it.” his throat bobs. “for calling you a bitch. but you know i didn’t mean it… i was just pissed, baby.“ “mhm.” your hand goes to his purple hair, clutching a strand, yanking his head back until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “and? what else are you sorry for?” subong moans. “a-and for leaving you alone,” he answers fast, desperate. “for always being gone, for not coming home when i said i would.” you hum like you’re thinking it over. “now that’s a good boy.” you finally sink down on him. a broken moan rips out of his throat as your walls clamp tight around him, wrenching a curse straight from his lips. subong’s hands shoot up to grab your hips instinctively, but you slap one away. “no touching,” you snap.

you start to move. every drag of your pussy around him has his jaw clenched and his abs twitching, his whole body fighting not to fuck up into you, not to ruin it by cumming too fast. you know he’s close. you can feel him throbbing inside of you, pulsing between your gummy walls. your pace picks up with every whimper that leaves his throat. “y-you want to cum, baby?” he nods frantically, unable to even form words. “yeah? then make me.” you pant as you grind down harder, chasing that spot that makes you see stars, riding him with purpose, hungry for that high tightening in your belly. every deep, deliberate drag of him inside you making it harder to think, the way his cock stretches and fills you perfectly. subong doesn’t dare use his hands—not after you slapped one of them away—but his hips start moving on their own, small upward rolls that meet the motion of yours, fucking up into the rhythm you’re setting. you almost stop just to remind him who’s in charge… but it feels too fucking good. your thighs are trembling, your moans are slipping too easily from your lips and your head’s falling forward as you brace a hand on his chest. “fuck! subong—fuck—” he’s babbling under you. “you feel so fucking good, baby… this pussy’s so good—shit—mine, baby, you’re fucking mine.”

you keep going, riding him harder, the burn in your thighs completely ignored. and then your head drops, your rhythm stutters, and a broken moan rips from your throat as your orgasm tears through you, your cunt clenching around subong so tight you feel him sob under you. only then, when you’ve taken what you wanted, you tell him: “cum for me, baby.” and he does. his hips jerk up once, twice, sloppy and frantic, and he cums, spilling into you as he curses through it, breath catching on every filthy, desperate sound that slips out of his mouth. you ride it out slow, milking every drop of his until he’s boneless, flushed and soaked in sweat. you smile, watching the way his chest rises and falls and that dazed, fucked-out look on his face as he tries to blink himself back into the world.

subong’s a liar. always been and always will be. it’s not even that he’s proud of it, it’s just who he is: a boy who learned too early that bending the truth made things easier. it started when he was little, when he was six years old standing in front of a cracked window with wide eyes, saying “it wasn’t me, grandma, i think the neighbor kid did it.” and she’d believed him. kissed the top of his head and muttered about how other children were raised like animals these days while he nodded solemnly and wiped his muddy palms on the back of his shirt. it got worse when he figured out how easy it was. how it opened doors, got him out of shit and kept people on his side. he lied to his mom constantly. things like: “yeah, i studied.” … “yeah, i went straight to school.” … “no, mom, my friend’s the one who smokes, that’s why my hoodie smells.” but the lies got bigger when he realized that a well-timed excuse could soften her exhaustion, could keep her from yelling, from crying into the sink at night when she thought he was asleep. he told her he wasn’t hungry even when he was, told her school was fine when it wasn’t, told her he didn’t need anything even when his shoes had holes in them… because what was the point in making it harder? what good would the truth even do?

he lied to teachers, too. said he didn’t hear the assignment, that he forgot his books at home, that he had a cousin in the hospital and that’s why he didn’t show up to the exam. he never felt bad for it, not once. if they were dumb enough to believe it, he figured that was on them. he would even lie to the police—with his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed like he had nothing to hide, even when his backpack reeked of weed and his knuckles were skinned raw from something he definitely didn’t want to explain. and he lied to his friends all the time as well. about stupid shit, mostly. said he had hookups he didn’t, that he fucked people he hadn’t even met… told one friend their crush liked them back just to see what would happen, and another that someone had said shit behind their back when they hadn’t, just to stir things up. for fun. he lied about school, money, his past, his feelings (especially his feelings)… and nobody ever really pressed him about it, because he was good at it. he lied to everyone.

and you were no exception. subong had been lying to you too, for months now. it started before you moved to korea. one of the first times his manager offered him a little something, to keep the energy up, to keep the night going. subong said no at first. actually said it out loud, too, laughing a bit to dodge confrontation. told him you wouldn’t like it, and he was trying to be better. but the manager just laughed louder, clapped him on the back like he was some kind of child who didn’t know better, and said, “damn, she really got you by the balls, huh?” that stuck. didn’t matter how joking the tone was, or how quick the subject shifted after that. it dug into subong, like a splinter under the skin. “you gotta loosen the fuck up, man. you got all this shit coming your way—money, fans, freedom—and you tryna say no ‘cause of her? fuck that!” “she just doesn’t like when i do this kinda shit,” subong replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “i promised her i wouldn’t do it again.” “bro,” the guy lowered his voice like they were talking secrets. “then don’t tell her. what she don’t know won’t kill her. it’s not like you’re fucking cheating or something… c’mon, man. you’re grown. you gonna let some girl tell you how to live? you gon’ let her control you like that?” and subong didn’t want to be controlled. he hated that word, actually. the guy knew that. probably smelled it on him from the beginning. “just one,” the guy pushed, holding out the little orange pill between two fingers. “you had fun last time, didn’t you?”

subong took the pill. just like that. he doesn’t even remember when it hit. just that he was laughing harder, saying dumber shit, dancing with sweat dripping down his temples while the bass made his bones vibrate and his jaw feel loose. and after that, it just kept happening. once, twice, then again the next week, and then it wasn’t just when his manager offered. it became when someone had something. didn’t even matter who. after a while, even that didn’t feel like enough. sometimes the high didn’t hit quite right, or maybe he was building tolerance, or maybe he just liked the chase of something stronger, better, heavier. so he started trying new shit, too. but it wasn’t until that one tuesday when he found himself pacing his room with a glass of water in his hand, sweating like crazy, digging through drawers and bags and old jackets trying to find something because it had been over four days and his body felt like it was shutting down… that he realized this wasn’t just for fun anymore. he was looking for it. needing it. and he couldn’t even tell you, because he knew he’d lose you if he did.

he never wanted to call you when he was high. tried not to text either, unless he was sure he could pass for normal, and the time zone difference gave him enough of a buffer to make it easy. he’d tell you he was busy, tired, at the studio... and you always believed him, and he hated that. and even more than that, he hated how guilty it made him feel, because you trusted him like no one ever had before, and he couldn’t even fucking look you in the eye over facetime some days. he’d never felt that way after telling a lie. never felt his chest tighten like that nor had to shut his eyes after hanging up just to sit with the sour twist in his gut. with you it was like every small dishonesty stacked on top of the last, pressing heavier and heavier, until some nights, after the high wore off, he’d sit alone in his bathroom staring at his reflection and he hated what he saw. hated how easy it was to lie to you, and how hard it was to stop. he kept telling himself he’d quit soon, that he just needed a few more weeks... but that never happened.

if anything, it got worse. so much fucking worse. because once you moved in, he didn’t just have to lie, he had to live the lie. he thought, stupidly, that by the time you got there, he’d have gotten his shit together. that he’d be better and clean. but he was so fucking wrong. the withdrawals hit harder than he expected. the pressure did too. and suddenly he was in it deeper than before, but now with the added weight of hiding it from you. hiding it in front of you. so the only thing he could do to survive the guilt was to avoid it altogether. that’s why he started avoiding you. it’s what he’s been doing for months now. because what else can he do? admit it? tell you he’s been high half the time he’s kissed you lately? tell you that some nights he lies awake next to you, cock throbbing, too fucked in the head to even roll you over and fuck you like he wants to? please. he can’t do that. he won’t.

so he tries to make up for it the only way he knows how: by being the kind of boyfriend he thinks you deserve. or at least sounding like it. saying “i love you” over and over, whispering it against your bare shoulder before you even open your eyes in the morning. touching you when you pass by, pulling you into his lap when you’re both sitting on the couch, brushing his thumb along your cheek when you’re ranting about your day just to see you soften into his hand. he means it, too. it’s the one thing he doesn’t have to fake, because he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his life, and maybe that’s why everything else feels so fucking unbearable—because every time he kisses you or comes home and wraps his arms around your waist and breathes you in like he’s been drowning without you, he knows he’s lying about everything else. and it fucking kills him, honestly. because you’re right there, every single day, showing up for a version of him that doesn’t even exist anymore. he tries to drown it out with love and sex. with worship. fucking you like you’re made of gold—telling you you’re beautiful every time you’re on top of him, tits bouncing, head thrown back. “gonna marry you,” he breathes. “gonna make you my wife, baby. wanna wake up to this pussy every day.” and you laugh, soft, before kissing him again.

subong knows what you like. knows exactly how to say the right things at the right time, how to pull you back in when you’re pulling away. when he feels you go quiet, when your touches grow shorter or your gaze lingers a second too long without a smile, he cranks it up like clockwork—presses closer, kisses your neck more, murmurs “i wasn’t fucking joking when i said i’m gonna marry you,” mouth hot against your skin. “gonna put a ring on your finger so fat you’ll have to work your thumb around it when you wash your hands, girl.” and it works, most of the time. sometimes, to his surprise, he even means it. sometimes he wants that future so bad it makes him sick because what the actual fuck... he’s never thought of marriage, not even once, in his whole life. but now he does—when you’re naked in front of him, biting your lip, making fun of him for being sappy while he’s already got your panties shoved to the side and you’re saying “then prove it, big boy.” and he does—up against the bathroom counter, your leg hiked up and his hand gripping the edge so hard it goes white. “gon’ get you pregnant one day,” he grits out into your shoulder, “fuck a ring, wanna see you f-fucking swollen and full of me, mama.” and you clench around him every time. maybe because it’s hot, or maybe because there’s something inside you that wants it too, even if you’d never say it out loud. and he sees that in your eyes and loses his fucking mind. “you want that? yeah? want thanos to fuck a baby into you?” and you’re moaning, back arching for him. he means it in those moments, every word, every filthy, unhinged promise he makes when he’s buried in you. because if you were pregnant, maybe you’d stay. maybe you wouldn’t leave if you found out the truth, you’d be tied to him forever. oh god… how sick is that? how fucked up is it, that the idea makes him feel better? makes the guilt hurt less? subong knows how wrong that is. how selfish and immature and backwards it all sounds, but it doesn’t stop the thought from coming anyway. he’s a fucking coward, that’s all he is.

but the truth always comes to the surface. part of him knew that. because it was obvious, wasn’t it? bound to happen eventually, especially once he started surrounding himself with people he shouldn’t have even looked twice at in club pentagon. it was easy to disappear there, easy to pretend he was someone else for a few hours, someone untouchable. and that’s exactly what he did. he met his plug there. older guy, always with a different girl on his lap. they called him kyungho, or just ‘hyung’ if they wanted to be polite, and he had a reputation for being reliable and completely fucking terrifying if you crossed him. there were always two or three men flanking him, shoulders squared like bodyguards. subong knew better than to get too close. even when kyungho was friendly—and he was, in that offhand, slippery kind of way that made it hard to tell whether he actually liked you or if you were just the night’s amusement—there was something about him that made subong’s skin crawl. but kyungho liked him. or at least that’s how it seemed, the way he always made space for him at the booth, arm flung over the backrest like they were boys who went way back, like subong belonged there among them. subong wasn’t sure if that meant he was in or just being tolerated, but either way, he sat. “you always show up right when the night gets interesting,” kyungho said one night, not even looking at him. then he cracked a grin. “you’re either lucky or real fucking bored.” kyungho didn’t wait for an answer. just reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little baggie, dropped it into subong’s hand. “this one’s smoother,” he said. “go easy, unless you’re trying to see god tonight.” subong didn’t ask questions. he didn’t want to know where the stuff came from, didn’t care what it was either. he just muttered “thanks, man.” and nodded.

everything was fine, as long as he paid. except now, he owed them. subong hadn’t planned for this part. he’d been doing so fucking good, hadn’t he? lying well enough to keep you close, which was already a fucking miracle. but everything falls apart eventually, and for subong, it started with that fucking ring. after dating you for two years, he’d finally bought it—kept it in a drawer under his socks, some proof to himself that he was serious, that he was going to get better to be with you. it wasn’t a matter of money then, he was doing alright. the bookings were steady, the endorsements had started coming in, and he’d made it to the semifinals in rap battlegrounds, which meant the prize money was close enough to taste. everything was building toward something. and he’d bought the ring without thinking too hard about it, still high on the rush of maybe being good enough for once. he didn’t know when he’d give it to you. maybe months from now, maybe years. but he would, eventually.

the rap battlegrounds final came. he should’ve been ready—he was ready. he’d been rehearsing for weeks, killing it in every freestyle cypher he stepped into. but the closer it got, the more it started to eat at him. not the performance itself, but the stakes. he told himself he wouldn’t do it, that he’d go in clean, that he didn’t need anything. but nerves are a bitch. and the second he stepped backstage and felt his throat go dry and his hands shake no matter how many times he clenched them into fists, he knew he was fucked. so he took a pill to quiet everything down and be able to concentrate. except it didn’t quiet shit. it fogged it. made him slow, made his tongue feel heavy and made him forget the third verse of his own fucking song like a rookie. and just like that, it was over: he lost. and the prize money he was counting on? gone. just like that. poof.

for weeks, he’s a fucking ghost of himself. not publicly, though. but when the doors close, when it’s just you and him in that quiet apartment, he’s… hollow. you sit beside him and hold his face, run your fingers through his hair and kiss the corner of his temple while he cries with his teeth clenched and his chest shaking, and you tell him it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re proud of him no matter what, that he gave everything he had and you’re not going anywhere. and he cries harder. not just because he lost the tournament—though yeah, that was fucking humiliating. but no, that’s not why he cries into your lap while your hands stroke the back of his neck. he cries because he’s fucked. because he was counting on that money to pay kyungho. and subong’s been dodging his calls for days, each one a sharp pulse of dread in his head. he thought about selling the ring, but he didn’t. couldn’t. he opened the box once and stared at the way the light caught the stone and all he could think about was how it would look on your finger. how you’d reach for him with both hands and kiss him before whispering yes against his mouth. and how you’d smile, all happy and cute, when you told your friends and family—he’d figure something else out.

the days kept going, and you never noticed. to you, everything was fine. the sex had been good lately. too good, actually. he’d been insatiable for weeks now, rougher than usual—fucking you with his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, even though the windows were open and you both knew the neighbors could hear—but also sweeter in the moments right after. you made lunch together: grilled cheese, kimchi jjigae, that fried rice he liked with too much sauce and barely any vegetables. and subong grabbed your ass when you reached for the bowls on the top shelf, grinning when you squealed. you watched movies on the couch, went out for dinner, went on walks where you’d hold his hand and swing it between you like kids, and he’d kiss your knuckles and call you pretty. he was a bit quieter than usual, sure. but you figured he was tired, or overworked, or just coming down from the crash of losing rap battlegrounds and all the energy he’d poured into it. you gave him space and avoided asking too many questions. you didn’t realize that was the worst thing you could’ve done.

one sunday morning, you’re sitting at the dining table in one of subong’s shirts and eating toast, scrolling on your phone and sipping lukewarm coffee. subong’s out running, something he’s started doing lately in the mornings, probably trying to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest that losing the rap tournament left behind, or maybe just chasing a little silence in his head that doesn’t sound like self-hatred. suddenly, there’s this violent banging on your front door. you jolt so hard your mug wobbles, coffee sloshing onto your thigh as you hear a group of men yelling right outside your apartment—slamming their palm or maybe even their fist against the door again and again, rattling it in its frame like they’re seconds from breaking it down. you don’t understand a word, the korean’s too fast, aggressive and slurred with rage, but the tone alone is enough to twist something tight in your gut. you don’t know what to do. part of you wants to scream back, part of you wants to hide, and part of you’s just whispering his name under your breath like “subong. subong. subong.” as if he’s gonna magically appear to protect you from whatever it is that those men want. you quickly pull out your phone.

subong

baby please answer me

a group of men’s banging on the door screaming in korean

idk who they are

they won’t stop

i’m scared

i didn’t call the police bc i don’t want them to hear me talking

please call them

send someone here

and don’t come home

they could be dangerous

just send someone please

idk what to do

they sound so angry

fuck

okay bby stay inside

dont open the door

omw

what??

no

no no

don’t come here subongie

please just call the cops

i cant call the cops

what?

wdym you can’t

its alr

they r my friends

friends??

what kind of friends are those

and why don’t i know about them?

not the point rn

wtf

subong explain this

now

i’m serious

you’re scaring me

this isn’t normal

need u to trust me baby

dont open that fucking door

you shouldn’t move. you know that. but your body doesn’t listen. something is wrong. you stare at your phone, at those last two texts from him before you start moving toward the door, your phone clutched in one hand just in case you need to dial someone. the banging has stopped (thank god) but you can still hear someone pacing outside, heavy boots against the hall’s floor. you press your eye to the peephole. three men. when your voice comes out it’s small and tentative. “who are you?” nothing. “what do you want?” they answer… in korean. you let out a frustrated sigh. “i don’t understand what you’re saying—” and that’s when one of them switches. the voice that comes through is rough and accented. “where’s thanos?” “what?” “choi subong,” he says. “we’re looking for him.” “why?” “just wanna talk.” right. because people who just wanna talk usually show up pounding on your door on a fucking sunday morning like a goddamn swat team. your hand tightens around your phone. “well, he’s not here,” you snap. “so either say what you came to say or fuck off.” the man laughs as if he’s dealing with a little kid playing guard dog. another voice joins in too, somewhere behind him, the cadence of it low and amused. “feisty,” the guy mutters through the door. “you’re his girl, huh? makes sense.” you don’t answer. your heart’s going so fucking fast it’s hard to breathe. “we don’t wanna hurt you,” he adds. “this isn’t about you, sweetheart. we just want what he owes.” “he doesn’t owe anyone shit,” you fire back. they’re quiet for a beat. then: “you sure about that?” and you realize he knows something you don’t. “what are you talking about?” another chuckle. it’s not kind. “your boyfriend owes us money,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “lot of it.” “…for what?”

they exchange words in korean on the other side of the door before they decide to speak to you again. “pills.” “what kind of pills?” “do we really need to say?” you shake your head, laugh once, because that’s fucking ridiculous. “you’re wrong,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “he doesn’t—subong doesn’t do that shit anymore.” “anymore?” the man echoes, amused. “then you do know.” you stay quiet so he continues, “he’s been getting supply from kyungho for almost a year now at club pentagon. pills, mostly… sometimes other stuff. he was good for it, at first—now he’s late.” you feel all the air in your body leave your lungs, your jaw tightening with the sudden warmth spreading in your face from anger. “you’re lying.” but deep down, you know… you know he isn’t. you feel so sick. “you didn’t know?” the guy says, all mock sympathy now. “shit.” you can tell he’s enjoying it—watching it all click into place behind a locked door. “what the fuck are you talking about,” you manage, but your voice wavers, already betrayed by the way your mind is dragging you down every memory, every weird excuse, every time subong came home late with red-rimmed eyes. the guy outside sighs, like he’s getting bored of your denial. “look, we just want what we’re owed. because we’ve been real fucking nice so far.” “how much?” “enough for us to be here.” you feel so fucking stupid. how could he lie to you for so long? “leave. just—leave. i don’t know where he is.” “we’ll be back,” he tells you, warning. “tell your boy to pick up his phone next time.” and then they’re gone.

you immediately walk to the bedroom, your hands moving before you even think of it, tearing through drawers and slamming them shut again when they turn up empty, muttering fuck under your breath. nothing in the nightstand, nothing in his coat pockets or the pockets of the jeans he left on the floor last night. your heart is hammering so hard it’s a wonder you don’t throw up right there on the carpet. the apartment isn’t big, but it feels endless all of a sudden—too many places where things could be hidden, too many corners where secrets could live. you start opening kitchen drawers next, rifling past silverware and receipts. nothing. you yank open the cabinet under the sink. cleaning supplies. trash bags. nothing. you’re not even thinking straight when you start on the closet—pulling clothes off hangers, tossing them over your shoulder, crawling halfway inside… when you see something wedged between a duffel bag and the wall. a shoebox. plain and black and stupidly suspicious now that you’re looking at it. you drag it out, breathing hard, hands shaking so bad you fumble the lid. and there it is. a small plastic bag—a few colorful pills, maybe four or five, rattling softly when you lift it.

you sit down right there on the floor, the shoebox slipping out of your hand and landing with a soft thud beside you. you don’t even know how long you stay there, hand frozen around the bag, feeling embarrassed as you stare at the proof that the men at your door weren’t lying. embarrased for being so in love with subong. because this whole time you were waking up next to him, laughing with him, moaning under him—you were also sleeping beside a liar. you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if that’ll make it stop, as if you can block out the sting or slow your heartbeat or undo the past year. but you can’t.

the front door opens so fast it hits the wall, rattling on its hinges, and subong’s voice cuts through the apartment before you even lift your head. “baby?” it’s that voice. the one that always used to make you feel safe. but now it feels foreign. “fuck, baby—where are you?” there’s panic in it, real panic. he probably thinks that something’s happened to you, that those guys hurt you, when the truth is sitting right here between your fingers, in its plastic cage. you hear him moving, fast, room to room, muttering curses under his breath as shit clatters to the floor. you can imagine it: the wild look in his eyes and that little tremble in his hands he tries so hard to hide. you can almost feel the moment he sees the living room, sees the drawers pulled out, the papers on the floor, the spilled coffee on the table, the overturned laundry basket… and then he’s sprinting again, calling your name louder now, almost begging. you’re still on the floor when he bursts into your bedroom, breathing hard, looking like he’s about to be sick until his eyes land on you. and when yours lift, you meet the expression that splits across his face. you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. the recognition. he doesn’t ask what you found, he doesn’t have to. he knows that box. he knows exactly what was inside. and you see it hit him all at once. “fuck,” he whispers, barely audible. when you don’t answer, he takes a step inside, tentative, and for a moment you think he might actually drop to his knees, just to be on your level. but he doesn’t. he just stands there, hands twitching at his sides. “it’s not—” he tries, but he doesn’t even finish the sentence. because what is it, really? what the fuck is it supposed to be, when you’re sitting on the floor with a bag of his pills in your lap and the knowledge that the man you love has been lying to your fucking face? what the fuck is he supposed to say? so he just stands there, shame written in every inch of him.

“go ahead,” you bite out, voice sharp and trembling, “finish the sentence.” he flinches. “no?” you scoff, dragging the back of your hand across your cheek even though it does nothing to stop the heat burning its way down. “then let me guess. it’s not what it looks like? it’s not yours? it’s not a big deal? pick one, subong. fucking pick one.” he shakes his head, takes a small step toward you. “baby, i just—please.” “don’t call me that.” his mouth snaps shut like you’ve slapped him. and you kind of wish you had. maybe then he’d look as hurt as you feel. “how long?” you ask, standing up slowly. “how long have you been using?” you already know the answer, but you want him to tell you. you want him to be honest for once. but instead: “why the fuck does it matter?” you can’t believe he still has the fucking audacity to say something like that, after everything. “are you serious? it matters because you’ve been lying to me! i don’t even fucking recognize you anymore!” he runs a hand down his face. “i didn’t want this! okay? i didn’t want you to find out like this. i was gonna fucking tell you—” “when?” you cut in. “when they kicked down the door and dragged you out in front of me? or were you gonna wait until you fucking overdosed?!” his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. of course. you’ve dragged the lie out into the daylight where it can’t be ignored and there’s no fucking escape hatch he can slip through now. “yeah,” you snap. “that’s what i fucking thought.” “i didn’t fucking mean for this to happen.” “oh, spare me the tragic little story, subong! you chose this! you fucking chose it!” his eyes flash. “i didn’t choose shit!” “you took the pills!” you scream, your whole body trembling now. “you bought them, hid them and lied to my fucking face! for months!” “yeah? well maybe i fucking had to! maybe if you weren’t always breathing down my fucking neck about everything i do—” he jabs his finger in your direction and you slap it away. “oh, sorry i love you!” you snarl. “sorry i trusted you! sorry i fucking worried for you every single day! how fucking stupid of me!”

you’re out of the room before he can finish another excuse, feet carrying you on instinct to the living room. subong follows—calling your name. but you don’t answer. don’t look at him when he stops behind you, breathing hard. “i was gonna stop,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of offering, some kind of band-aid for the fucking wound he ripped open. you scoff. “yeah?” “yeah. that’s why i didn’t say shit, okay?” you turn your head to glare at him. “you promised.” “i know.” “you promised me,” you repeat. “before i moved. you said you were done with that shit. you said you wouldn’t do it again.” “yeah, well, shit changed, didn’t it?!” he snaps, throwing his arms out. “i didn’t fucking want this. shit just got outta hand!” “got outta hand?” you laugh, disbelieving. “jesus, subong.” “what, you fucking perfect now?” he shoots back, voice rising. “you never lied about shit? never fucked up? never kept something to yourself ‘cause you knew how the other person would react?” “no, actually! i would never do this to you.” he just shakes his head, scoffing. “yeah? sure about that?” “don’t—don’t fucking twist this, subong! i would never lie to you about something this serious—” “the fuck you wouldn’t.” “i wouldn’t!” you shout, stepping closer, finger jabbing into his chest. “you know why? because i would’ve never done this in the first place! i wouldn’t have broken a promise i made to you! and i sure as hell wouldn’t have lied to you for who knows how fucking long!” “yeah, yeah, right. you’re a fucking saint, huh? miss flawless.” “what? that’s not—“ “i guess you’re some kind of fucking angel now—” “i didn’t say that!” “you don’t have to say it, it’s all over your fucking face!” “are you fucking kidding me?! i’ve been here, every night, waiting for you to come home—” “yeah, to bitch at me about every little thing—” “i was just trying—“ “to control me?” you huff, offended. “to help you, you fucking asshole! i’ve never—” “acting like you know what’s best for me, like you’re some goddamn savior!” “could you stop interrupting me?!” “you do the exact same shit, man!” “because you’re not listening to me! i fucking care about you, subong. that’s why—“ he interrupts again. “you’ve got a funny way of showing it! going through my fucking shit like a fucking cop—” “don’t do that.” “don’t do what?” “try to twist it—put this shit on me! i wouldn’t have gone through your shit if you hadn’t been hiding anything in the first place, genius!” “i’m not—you’re not fucking better than me, girl!” your mouth opens, but all you can manage is, “stop, okay? i never said i was. don’t turn this a competition—” “then stop looking at me like that!” “like what?!” “like i’m a fucking failure, that’s what,” he snaps. “like you pity me or some shit—waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can say ‘i told you so.’” “what are you even fucking saying? do you even hear yourself right now? i’ve done nothing but love you while you lied to my fucking face—and for what?! so you could bring that shit into our home?! so random men could show up banging on our door ready to fuck me up?!” “they weren’t gonna do shit—” “you don’t know that! you don’t fucking know that, subong! you don’t get to gamble with our fucking safety like that! they scared the fucking shit out of me, motherfucker!”

his face twists. “what the fuck did you just say to me?” you’re crying now, barely keeping yourself standing, but you don’t take it back. “you heard me,” you whisper. “you—you let them come to our fucking door. i thought—” your mouth clamps shut, shoulders heaving, “i thought they were gonna—i thought they were gonna get in here and—” you can’t even finish the sentence due to the lump that has formed in your throat. “i didn’t know they’d pull that shit, alright?” he shouts. “but you gave them a reason to! you gave them a fucking reason! you’re the one who owes them, the one who brought this into our life!” you sob, tears streaming freely now. “you’re so selfish… you only ever think about yourself. how long did you think you could keep doing this without it coming back around, huh?! how long before it got me hurt, too?!” “oh, get off your fucking high horse—” “no, fuck you!” you spit, so loud that it stuns him into silence for a moment. “you selfish, lying piece of shit! fuck you! i gave you everything—i fucking moved here for you! i changed my whole goddamn life for you, and all this time, you were out there getting high and playing gangster with a bunch of lowlife freaks while i sat at home thinking you were fucking working—” you can’t even see his expression properly anymore, your vision too blurred by tears, your voice cracking on every syllable, choking on the weight of every word coming out of your mouth. “—thinking you were tired or stressed or just—fuck, i don’t—i don’t know! i made up a thousand excuses for you. i fucking trusted you! i… i trusted you, subong.”

he opens his mouth, probably about to say something cruel to shove the blame back onto you, but you don’t let him. you step forward, eyes blazing. “everything makes sense now. i should’ve known. god, i should’ve known. i thought i was going crazy—thinking i was too clingy, too emotional, too needy! but it was you, subong. it was always you! you left me in a city that isn’t mine, with no one but you, and then you weren’t even fucking there! you left me here alone, every fucking day. while you were off getting high, choosing that shit over me! and i was here like a dumbass, waiting, worrying… do you have any idea how fucking alone i’ve felt since i got here? and now? now i find out you’ve been hiding fucking drugs in our apartment? getting involved with—i don’t even know! some psycho gang of criminals who showed up ready to kick the fucking door down?! you don’t fucking get it, do you? you put us in danger! you fucking asshole!”

whatever self-control he had left snaps, and you don’t even have time to react before your back hits the wall, the force of it rattling your teeth, his body right there in front of you, all chest and anger and spit flying from his mouth. “fuck you!” he yells, voice cracking with rage. “you think you can talk to me like that?! like you better than me?! fuck you, bitch! you don’t know shit about what i’ve been through!” your eyes widen, hands instinctively coming up between you and him. but he doesn’t touch you, just slams his palm into the wall right next to your head, so hard the picture frame beside you shakes. “subong—” your voice shakes with fear. “i never fucking asked you to move here, girl! you did that! you decided to drop your whole fucking life to be with me—” “subong, please.” “—and now what? now i’m the fucking problem?! huh? did i ruin your perfect little fantasy, baby? well, fuck that—welcome to the thanos’ world! i’ve always been this guy!“ his mouth keeps moving, hurling venom with every breath, eyes blown wide and frantic. he even starts talking in korean—things you don’t understand, but you know they’re mean. what a fucking coward. your voice cracks through, small and trembling. “you’re scaring me—” it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, but you say it again, louder this time. “stop! subong, you’re—you’re scaring me. please—” his body freezes. your arms are trembling, your chest is heaving, and your eyes—your perfect, pretty eyes—they’re wide with something subong never wanted to see pointed at him: fear. his hand drops from the wall and he takes a step back, then another, horror slowly crawling over his features as his brain catches up to what his body just did. “fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “shit. no. no, baby—fuck, no. i didn’t wanna—” you flinch again when he moves, just barely, but it’s enough to twist the knife in his chest. “i didn’t mean to scare you, i swear—baby, i swear. i just—fuck.” he runs a hand through his hair. “i would never—i would never hurt you, baby.”

you slide down the wall, chest caving in so tight it feels like someone’s kneeling on it. you can’t breathe. your hands claw at your throat and your sobs are coming in choked little bursts, your whole body shuddering from the inside out, and all you can hear is your own panicked gasps and the blood rushing behind your ears. your lungs won’t open, your throat won’t work, and your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even press them to your chest properly. “baby,” subong says, worried. “baby—fuck—what do i do?” your body curls forward and a broken sound slips out of you, desperate. “subong—” even though you’re terrified, your arms still reach for him. he drops to his knees the second he sees it. “fuck—shit, baby, hey, hey—” his arms wrap around you immediately. “you’re okay. you’re okay, i’m here—breathe for me, yeah?” he’s rambling now, a panicked whisper against your ear as he pulls you into his chest. your hands are clumsy, grabbing onto him. your fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt and you’re trembling so hard your teeth knock together, your shoulders jolting with every gasp. “i can’t—i—” your voice cuts off into another sob as your head drops against him. “i got you, baby. i got you,” he keeps saying, his grip tightening. “i’m so sorry. shit, i’m so sorry. please breathe, please—please, baby—” his own eyes start to water, while he kisses the side of your head and swears under his breath, over and over, cursing himself for letting it get this far. he’s scared too. of losing you. he can’t stop thinking about the look in your eyes, the fear that flashed there when he raised his voice, when he slammed his hand into the wall, when he lost control. it keeps replaying in his head, and he hates himself harder with every second that passes.

when your breath finally starts to slow, and your heart stops trying to jump out of your ribcage, you pull away. you get to your feet on shaky legs, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. you don’t even look at him when you speak. “i’m done with this.” you don’t even realize how much it stuns him until you’re halfway to the bedroom and his voice comes from behind you. “the fuck does that mean?” you don’t answer. “wait— wait. baby—” he rushes after you, practically tripping over his own feet, hand reaching for your arm… but you quickly pull yourself free from his grip, turning around to look at him. “who are you?” he frowns. “what?” “who are you?” you repeat. “what do you mean—” “i don’t know you anymore. you’re not the guy i met—the one i fell in love with two summers ago.” your lip quivers, but you keep going. “that boy was kind. sweet. funny. he made me feel safe. he would’ve never—never—lost it on me like that. he’d never scream in my face. he’d never leave me alone for nights on end and come home high off his ass and lie about it.” your voice cracks but you keep pushing, even though it hurts. “and the worst part is… you don’t even see it, do you? you think this is still you. but it’s not. you let that shit change you, subong.”

he knows you’re right. the words don’t even surprise him, because they’re true. because he’s been thinking them every fucking night. subong knows what he’s become. he’s known it for a while now. but hearing it from you… it’s humiliating. “listen, i—” you don’t give him time to talk. you turn back around and walk into the bedroom, leave him standing there with that glassy look in his eyes. subong hears the drawer open first, then it’s the rustling of clothes, the clatter of a hanger falling, the hollow thud of the closet door swinging open and slamming back into the wall. for a second, he doesn’t get it—his mind still stuck back there in the living room, where you were crying and shaking and tearing into him. but then he hears the distinct sound of wheels dragging against the floor. the realization hits him. that’s your suitcase. the one you hadn’t touched since you first unpacked it a year ago. he stumbles toward the bedroom. “the fuck you doing?” it’s stupid, because he knows what you’re doing. you don’t answer. you’re too busy grabbing whatever your hands land on—shirts, charger, underwear, your earrings from the nightstand... “hey—hey, talk to me.” “there’s nothing else to say.” you don’t even look up. “what do you mean there’s nothing—are you seriously leaving me right now?” you pause for half a second, hands frozen over the tangled mess of your t-shirts, and that silence alone almost kills him. “yo—fuck, stop—what the fuck are you doing?”

he’s on you in two steps, eyes darting between your suitcase and your face. his hands are on your stuff before you can stop him—hand yanking a pair of jeans straight out of the suitcase. “you’re not fucking doing this.” “get off,” you snap, trying to push him away with your elbow, but he doesn’t budge. “man, fuck that,” he growls, already reaching for more, grabbing a handful of shirts. “you’re not fucking leaving me like this—” “stop it!” you slap at his hands, pushing him away, trying to grab your things faster than he can take them. “fuck off, subong!” you shout. “don’t touch my stuff!” “don’t fucking do this, then, girl! acting like you’re actually gonna fucking go!” he snaps. “yeah, because i am!” you keep throwing things into the suitcase and his fingers wrap tight around your wrists in an attempt to stop you. “look at me. just—fucking stop, okay?! stop packing for a fucking second and talk to me—” “let go of me!” you rip your hands away with a curse. without even thinking, he grabs the suitcase by the handle and flings it off the bed, everything tumbling out at your feet. “there,” he spits. “you gonna pack now, huh? go ahead. pack it off the fucking floor.” you stare at him, stunned, blinking through tears. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, launching toward the pile. “what the fuck is wrong with me?!” “yes! yes—what the fuck is wrong with you?” “you’re the one trying to fucking leave! after all the shit we been through—fucking bitch.”

you freeze. your fingers curl around a balled-up shirt but you don’t move. your pulse thuds in your ears, all the heat in your face dropping down to your stomach. “don’t call me that,” you whisper, hands shaking as you grab at the scattered clothes on the floor. he scoffs. “what, you get to say whatever the fuck you want, but i can’t say shit back? fuck off, bitch—” “don’t fucking call me that!” you explode, standing up. “say it again, i fucking dare you—say it one more time and see what the fuck happens.” subong opens his mouth, defiant as ever, and you cut him off before he can get the word out. “fucking junkie,” you spit. his jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark. “the fuck did you just call me?” he steps forward and you flinch without meaning to, but you don’t back down. your chin stays lifted even as your fingers shake. “i said what i fucking said. you’re your dad’s fucking son after all, right? apple didn’t fall far at all! only difference is, your mom got stuck with him. i’m not gonna be that fucking stupid.” “you fucking bitch,” he snarls, stepping into your space without a single care. “you ain’t fucking shit, let me tell you that!“ you roll your eyes and ignore him, crouching down to zip up your suitcase. “fucking crazy—bringing my mom into this? my fucking dad?!” you grab the suitcase handle and start toward the door, but he blocks it. his hand jabs out, two fingers tapping hard against your temple like he’s trying to knock some kind of sense into you. “you’re not fucking special, alright? you’re not. get it through that pretty little fucking head of yours. i should’ve fucked one of those girls after the show i gave in busan—” your hand flies out, shoving his chest so hard he stumbles back a step. “don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. “don’t ever fucking touch me again. you disgust me.”

he sees it in your face. how the words cut deeper than anything else ever could. subong knows you’ve probably thought about it before—wondered if all those nights he came home late were because he was with someone else. he remembers the way you used to wait up for him, how your voice would turn smaller when you asked where he’d been, trying not to sound jealous. and now, saying that shit out loud—throwing those other girls in your face—he knows exactly what it does to you. and he wants it to hurt. “i could’ve been balls deep in a fan after every fucking show,” he continues. “could’ve been getting my dick sucked every fucking night, girl! they would’ve let me do whatever the fuck i wanted. would’ve saved me the fucking headache—“ “then go fucking do it! go get your dick sucked by every desperate fan who thinks you’re some kind of god—matter of fact, go ruin someone else’s fucking life for once! because i’m done.” you shoulder past him, yanking the bedroom door open with your free hand while dragging the suitcase behind you. you didn’t even get half your stuff, but you don’t care, you just need to get out. “yeah? fucking go, then!” he shouts after you, voice echoing down the hallway. “walk the fuck out that door, bitch! get the fuck outta my place!” you want to laugh at this point. at the way he’s calling it his place when he used to call it our home. isn’t he embarrassed? “you think i give a shit?!” he barks, following right on your heels now, his steps loud behind you. “go! go back to your fucking country and fuck off! i don’t fucking need you, girl! and don’t you fucking dare come back to me when you realize no one else is gonna put up with your bratty ass—” this time you can’t help it—you laugh. “as if i ever fucking would! you’re so pathetic.” subong’s desperate. he doesn’t want to lose you but he also doesn’t know how to stop that from happening. that’s why he says the worst things he can think of: “yeah? i’m gonna burn all your shit! every last thing you left in my closet!” as if that’ll to make you turn around and care. as if that’ll make you stay just to stop him. it’s selfish and stupid and he knows it won’t work, but he’s never been good at watching people leave nor letting go without dragging his own heart down with it. and he’s so, so disappointed and hurt by your indifference… “you hear me?! i’m gonna light it all the fuck up! don’t even think about coming back for it—” your hand’s already on the door when he screams that, fingers around the knob. you stand there for a second before you twist it, push the door open and let the stale hallway air hit your face. you glance back at subong over your shoulder, tears still streaking your cheeks, but your expression’s flat and empty now. “do whatever the fuck you want,” you mutter. “i don’t care.” and then you’re gone, the door swinging shut behind you.

the hotel is nice. the girl at the desk doesn’t ask questions when she sees your red eyes and the way your hand shakes when you pull your card out to pay. she just gives you the keycard and a weak smile right before you take the elevator up, in which you stand in silence, trying to soak in everything that has happened between you and subong. then you’re inside the room, thinking about the way he yanked your clothes out of your hands, about how he called you a brat, a bitch, how he looked at you when you said the word junkie, how he shoved his fucking fingers into your temple and slammed the wall inches away from your head. and you cry. you cry because you love him… you love him and you hate him too right now. and you think: how the fuck did i end up here. you used to know him. or you thought you did. and now it’s like every memory is gaslighting you. maybe you imagined the softness and he was always this cruel and you were just too in love to see it. now he’s proving your point in real time—not even an hour after you left, he’s already blowing up your phone with calls and texts, the same petty shit as always.

pick up the fucking phone

tf do u think u are girl

ignoring me

fucking coward

leaving me like this

after everything i’ve done for u

i don’t need u bitch

shoulda fucked someone else when i had the chance

leave me alone

and grow up

u r a selfish bitch

if you’re going to keep insulting me, at least expand your vocabulary!

it’s getting repetitive mf

shut the fuck up

always thinking u r so fuckin smart

istg im gonna fucking overdose

im gonna take all those fucking pills

if u dont answer the phone right tf now

im being fr

n give me my fucking shirt back

bet u r still wearin it rn

no, dw :)

it’s in the trash

yk what

hope it fuckin rots there

just like u

you spend a few days in the hotel, trying not to look at your phone too much. you haven’t told anyone what happened, but you’re already checking flights back, scrolling through the cheapest options to get the fuck out of here, wondering what the hell you’re even supposed to do next. your whole life here was built around him. and now? now you have nothing. subong is still being swallowed whole by whatever pride and rage cocktail he’s been nursing for the past year, and you refuse to speak to him like this. hell no. not when every word out of his mouth is sharpened into a knife and flung at you like it’s your fault he can’t stand the sight of his own reflection. it’s honestly insane, the way he tried to flip everything back on you. as if you hadn’t just caught him red-handed lying to your face, hiding shit, using, doing who knows what the fuck behind your back while you sat at home thinking you were too needy or just too much for him. the fucking audacity. but subong hasn’t given up. he’ll say he has—he’ll run his mouth like he always does, throw out every cruel sentence he can string together, try to convince you and himself that he doesn’t give a fuck. that he’s better off without you. but he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself. he wants you. he misses you so bad it eats at him, makes his stomach twist and turn, and he’s too much of a coward to say it but it doesn’t make it any less true. he needs you. more than he’s ever needed anyone. he loves and adores you. he talks big, but he’s never had anyone like you. he’s not sure he’s ever lasted this long with someone before. hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever wanted to! you’re the first person who’s made him think about things like future and forever, he used to laugh at people who said they found ‘the one’, rolling his eyes like that shit was a fairytale. now look at him, swallowing all that back… let’s be for real, he even bought a fucking ring. a ring… subong… like what?

and now he can’t stop picturing your packed suitcase and your teary eyes and the way your voice wavered when you told him you were done. that’s all he sees, every time he blinks. he regrets every single fucking thing that came out of his mouth. and that’s saying something, because subong doesn’t usually regret shit. he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t write... can’t even jerk off without thinking about you, and that pisses him off more than anything. he knows that if he doesn’t fix this, doesn’t get his shit together, doesn’t do something soon, you’re gonna be on the next flight out of korea and gone for good. and he can’t let that happen. he’s already ruined too much. so he starts moving, because time’s not on his side and every second that goes by feels like it’s dragging you farther and farther away from him. he’s racing the damn clock, fighting against the ticking sound. he needs money, fast. because his career’s in the fucking gutter, his rep is tanking, and he still owes kyungho more than he can count on both hands. he needs to come clean, clear the debt, make you feel safe again—not just with him, but around him, in the space you used to share. that’s the first step. and yet… how the hell is he supposed to make that kind of money in so little time?

he feels so fucking pathetic, slouched over his laptop at some godforsaken hour when even the drunks have gone to sleep, sitting there in the dark with nothing but the blue light burning into his face. he’s typing dumb things like how to make money fast in korea or side hustle ideas, like a teenager who’s maxed out his mom’s credit card and needs to fix it before she wakes up. except he’s not a teenager. he’s a grown-ass man, almost thirty-one already, sitting on a floor covered in dirty clothes and energy drink cans, shirt reeking of sweat and weed, hair greasy, trying to act like he’s got any fucking control left in his life. which he doesn’t. he watches hours of straight trash. clickbait garbage with thumbnails like ‘i made 1 MILLION won in 24 HOURS’ and ‘this changed my LIFE (no scam),’ and every single one of them leads to the same bullshit: a sketchy ass link to a survey that pays you two hundred won (if you’re lucky) and signs you up for spam emails. it’s humiliating. it’s so fucking humiliating. and yet he keeps clicking, because what else is there?

until he sees it. one night, when his brain is fried and his eyes are bloodshot—mg coin. it’s the first video he’s come across that doesn’t look like it was edited by a fourteen-year-old. no fast-talking, no neon thumbnails—just this one guy, smug, sitting in a sleek office and explaining things that subong can barely follow, but it doesn’t matter, because the guy sounds smart. really fucking smart, actually. one video turns into two, then seven, and by the time the sun starts bleeding through the window and his laptop battery’s down to 3%, subong’s fully indoctrinated. mg coin is talking about this new shit—dalmatian, whatever the fuck that means—and he’s saying it’s the next big thing. that now’s the time to invest. and subong? he’s got nothing else to lose. he’s already lost the love of his life, his dignity, and whatever tiny bit of peace he had left. what the fuck’s one more risk? fuck it. he pulls up his bank account, stares at the sad number left, and throws it all in. all of it. and then the unthinkable happens: it works. within a few days, he’s staring at his screen like it’s the second coming of christ. his balance doubled. which gives him enough to finally pay off kyungho and breathe without feeling like someone’s got a fist wrapped around his lungs. for the first time in a long ass while, he doesn’t feel like a complete fucking idiot.

the first step was paying kyungho back. good, he can check that out now. the second step—arguably harder—was texting you. subong waits another full week. not out of pride, but out of pure fear. fear that you won’t answer, or worse, that you will and it won’t be what he wants to hear. but eventually, after pacing the length of the apartment for over thirty minutes, he types it out:

im sorry

i mean it bby

paid everything off

n i been clean

swear on my fuckin life

i know i fucked up baby

but i fixed it

i love u

talk to me señorita

i miss u so fuckin bad

my girl

i didn’t mean to hurt u, u know that

but im gonna change for u

because i want u girl

i only want u

it’s u n me bby

always

please

told u i would make u my wife n i will

pls let me see u

one time

if u hate me after that i’ll fuck off forever

just one time pretty girl

please

god. you really tried not to reply. tried so hard. but the timing of it, the way your chest had already been aching with the weight of him right before his name lit up your screen, made you text him back faster than you meant to. you send him the hotel’s address.

here

but don’t try anything

you’re lucky i even agree to talk to you

because you don’t deserve it

after the way you treated me

u r right baby i dont deserve it

im sorry

sorry isn’t and won’t be enough, let me tell you that subong

i was about to buy a ticket back home

this apology should’ve come sooner

i know

but i didnt wanna come back to u empty handed

i been tryna fix my shit first

and three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. when you open it, he’s standing there, holding flowers—fresh ones, tied together with a ribbon. but it’s his face that gets you, the way his eyes go soft the second they meet yours. you thought you’d feel stronger seeing him again, but you hate how fast your chest fills up with that dumb aching love that refuses to fucking die, no matter how many times he’s stomped on it. subong starts talking the second the door shuts behind him, apologizing profusely. you let him talk, let him trip over himself, because it’s the first time you’ve seen him beg without ego. and suddenly he’s dropping down—knees hitting the hotel’s carpet with a soft thud. his arms wrap around your legs, his forehead presses against your thigh, and then it comes—those broken, shuddering breaths. oh, god... he’s fucking crying. “please,” he says, over and over against you. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i know i fucked up—i know i fucked up so fucking bad. please, i can’t lose you.” you don’t look at him, but your hand finds its way into his hair anyway, and you hate yourself for it. hate how your fingers start brushing through the soft purple strands, slow and shaky, hate how your other hand ends up cradling his cheek like you’re the one trying to comfort him now. you should tell him to get the fuck up and leave and go cry to someone else. but damn, you’d be lying if you said that watching him cry and beg to you like that doesn’t get to you a little. he looks so fucking good… clutching your legs, hands squeezing your left thigh, pressing his face against your hip…

you don’t know how it happens after that. just know that you end up on the bed, lying back against the pillows, your thighs spread open while he’s between them, still on his knees on the floor, mouth buried in you trying to make up for every awful thing he said with the way he licks. you should be telling him he can’t just do this and expect everything to be fine, but your hands are in his hair and your hips are lifting off the bed because your body’s already made its decision for you. subong latches onto your pussy, and he’s sloppy with it too—tongue everywhere, spit and slick all over his chin, both hands holding you down, knowing you’re gonna start squirming the second it gets too much, which you do, always, because subong eats you out so insanely good… and he groans against you like he’s the one getting off. it’s overwhelming—his tongue, his hands gripping your thighs, the fucking look in his eyes when he glances up at you through his lashes… he knows he doesn’t deserve any of this but he’s still gonna take it if you’ll let him. you cum fast, too. with a cry so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls reception. and he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing at his hair, voice breaking, from how good it feels and how much you missed it—missed him. “still mine,” he mutters when he finally pulls away, hoarse. he swears he’ll fucking die if you don’t say yes. and god help you—“yes.” you whisper, completely out of breath. “yours.”

the thing about investing—and actually making money off it—is that it gets fucking addictive. especially for someone like subong, who’s always been wired for extremes, who doesn’t really know how to pace himself or think long-term most of the time. so yeah, the moment that first payout hit his account—double what he’d thrown in, just like mg coin said it would—it lit something up inside him. and now, with the high of having you back, and the low of whatever career collapse is brewing beneath him (because let’s be real, losing the battle fucked him, and no one’s calling anymore), he leans deeper into it. dalmatian coin becomes his obsession. he watches mg coin religiously—dude drops a new video and subong’s already clicking on it, nodding along, studying the man like he’s his long-lost big brother—even though, as far as you can tell, subong’s probably older. he trusts him blindly, like an idiot. like a kid. and you notice, of course. you live with him. the amount of money he’s getting is absurd, especially considering the fact that he hasn’t gotten a single call from his manager in ten whole days, hasn’t stepped foot on a stage in over a month, and keeps brushing it off like he doesn’t care. and you can’t help but wonder—how much is he fucking investing?

your concern’s been simmering for a while now… sitting there, in the pit of your stomach and growing heavier at the back of your mind. you’ve been swallowing it, biting your tongue, telling yourself it’s fine because he seems happy again and he’s been good. until one night, when he’s laying in bed with his phone in his hand and mg coin’s voice droning from the speakers like some kind of cult sermon, you say it out loud: “are you sure you know what you’re doing, subong?” he takes a slow drag from his vape, exhales, and tilts his head lazily in your direction. “what do you mean?” you’re by the closet, pulling on an oversized tee, before you sit down at the edge of the bed, facing him. “this crypto thing. you’re putting in more than you’re getting out, aren’t you?” he scoffs, like you just accused him of being bad in bed or something. “baby. you think i’d be makin’ this much money if i didn’t know what the fuck i was doing?” and there it is. that tone. defensive, making you feel stupid for even doubting him. you frown, exhaling through your nose as you shift a little closer to him on the bed, your voice gentler this time. “okay,” you say, carefully. “i’m not—i mean… just…” you glance at the phone still glowing beside him, mg coin’s pixelated face frozen mid-sentence. “just be smart about it, yeah?” “baby,” he says, reaching out to hook a hand around your wrist and tug you gently toward him, “i am being smart. i’ve been learning and doing my research. it’s okay.” you lean in, pressing your sweet lips blissfully against his in a small peck, even though the tension’s still sitting in your chest. “but i’m serious, subong. it’s not like we’ve got a safety net... you’re not performing, you don’t have steady income right now. if this goes south…” he cuts you off before you can finish, peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw. “it won’t, baby.” “you can’t know that.” he continues, kissing your neck before leaning his head on your shoulder, the weight of it warm. “you don’t have to worry, girl. i promise. thanos’ got this.” you nod slowly, but your hands are still curled a little too tight in your lap. “okay.”

‘thanos’ is stupid as fuck, to say the least. for one, your advice flies right over his head. he thinks, what would she know? she’s not the one watching all these videos. she’s worried because she doesn’t understand how this shit works. and he’s money-hungry, always has been—but can you blame him? he’s lived his whole life in straight up poverty, watching his mom beg loan sharks and pray rent wouldn’t go up. so now that he’s finally found a way to make money from the comfort of his couch, by just… clicking buttons? of course he’s gonna chase that shit like a starving dog. saying he’s investing all of his money would be a lie. right… because he’s not just investing his money. he’s investing yours too. your monthly rent payment is going straight into the crypto app, hand in hand with his, every single time. and it keeps working, always doubling. no exceptions. and that steady return finally gives him the excuse he’s been waiting for—the one thing he’s been wanting to do for months now: propose. you would’ve never expected to hear the words “would you marry me, baby?” coming out of his mouth for at least another five years. but there he is, on a random friday morning, down on one knee with a little ring box open in front of you. and you say yes before you even think. the word fiancée tastes strange in your mouth as he stands back up and kisses you, slipping the big fat ring he promised onto your finger.

but of course, subong’s liability strikes again not even three weeks later. he just doesn’t fucking learn, does he? he starts consuming again. little by little. easing his way back in, testing the waters—like he didn’t already almost drown last time. he gets on kyungho’s good side again, somehow, despite all the screaming and threats and close calls they shared when subong was neck-deep in debt. and if you were to ask him why the fuck he’s back on that shit, the answer would be as dumb as it is predictable: he doesn’t fucking know. but he does. oh, he fucking knows. he’s a junkie. like you once told him. he’s an addict who refuses to acknowledge it, refuses to name it, refuses to say it out loud. in his head, it’s anything but what it is: drug addiction. and he won’t ask for help. he won’t even bring it up. not the way his body starts to ache without it, the little voice in his head whispering on repeat: just take it. snort. lick. you’ll feel better. he’s weak. withdrawal always had the upper hand when it came to subong. it always wins. and he finds the dumbest, flimsiest excuses to justify himself to feel a little less guilty for doing this behind your back again, after he promised he wouldn’t. he’s caught in a loop. a loop of lies and guilt, of loving you so much he can’t bear to lose you… but still doing the one thing that already made you leave once.

so imagine his absolute terror when the cryptocurrency proved to be a hoax, and everyone who had invested in it, including himself, lost billions of won when dalmatian's inventors took the money and fled. subong sat there staring at his screen, refreshing the app every two seconds even though the balance wasn’t changing, wasn’t coming back, and wasn’t ever going to. first he felt confusion. then panic. then the realisation that everything he’d put in—his money, your money, your fucking rent—was gone. and all he could think was: how the fuck am i supposed to tell her? that was what made his hands start shaking. because it wasn’t just his fuckup. it was yours too, now. it was your life he’d gambled. your trust, your rent, your future… and you had no idea. on top of that—and the fact that everything would come crashing down the second the monthly payment bounced and you realized the rent hadn’t gone through—he also owed kyungho again. the moment dalmatian tanked, he thought about calling him, in an attempt to hold him over until he figured something out. and the second he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t work. last time, subong got lucky. this time’s different, because this is after he promised he’d never fuck him over again. and knowing kyungho, he wouldn’t be as merciful this time. subong’d always known this was where it was gonna end up, he wasn’t built for stability nor success. he was built to self-destruct.

it’s around 3 a.m. you’re cold, pulling the comforter tighter around you, but it’s not enough to warm you up. you turn over in bed, eyes still closed, scooting toward subong’s side in hopes of stealing a little of his body heat—stretching your arm out lazily, expecting the familiar weight of him sprawled across the sheets. but your hand touches nothing. his side is cold. you frown, still half-asleep, fingers patting around the mattress like maybe he’s just shifted out of reach, hiding somewhere under the blanket. but of course he’s not. you blink slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. “subongie?” you call out, voice a little hoarse. no answer. with a soft groan, you sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders as you climb out of bed. the floor’s cold under your feet and the apartment is quieter than usual. you shuffle to the light switch near the hallway and flick it on—but nothing changes. he’s not home. confused, you grab your phone from the nightstand and send him a quick text:

baby

where are you?

but when ten minutes go by and there’s still no sign of life from him, you decide to call. the number you have dialed is not available at present. please leave your message after the beep, says the robotic voice on the other end, flat and emotionless. your frown deepens as you call again—same outcome. your confusion slowly starts to shift into something heavier. panicked worry creeps up your spine as your brain starts running through a dozen different scenarios, each one worse than the last. what the fuck could subong be doing right now, while you’re sitting here on the couch with your heart in your throat? the first thing that crosses your mind is the same thing it’s always been—he’s being unfaithful. it’s not exactly new. that ugly, gut-rotting thought has circled your head for months, especially on the nights he’d disappear into the studio for hours. and it hasn’t changed, it’s still the first thing you think. is he with someone else? but then you shake your head. he wouldn’t be that fucking stupid. right? he wouldn’t throw all of this away just to fuck around. you’re not just dating anymore, you’re literally engaged. you have a ring on your finger. so you try to push that thought out. discard it—reluctantly and bitterly—trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. so there goes your second thought: maybe he’s using again. and you don’t even know which is worse. but what you do know is that you can’t stay here. you’re not gonna let whatever’s happening keep happening while you do nothing. you’re not gonna let him make a fool out of you for a second time.

you feel kind of stupid, honestly. standing outside club pentagon, shivering in your hoodie while you stare at the neon sign. it’s the only place you could think of. the only place that made sense. not because he told you, obviously, but because months ago, when those guys showed up knocking—no, banging—on your door, demanding money and scaring the shit out you, one of them mentioned this place. and it stuck. you’re not even sure this is the right club, though, but you’re still here, trying not to overthink how out of place you look, since everyone outside is in heels and tight clothes. still, when you approach the bouncer and explain—tell him you’re looking for your fiancée, show him your phone with the lockscreen photo of you and subong—he lets you in. “ah. thanos,” he nods. “he’s inside.” the confirmation makes your stomach drop and settle all at once. like, okay. at least he’s alive.

inside, the club is loud as fuck and everything’s flashing. you squint, trying to adjust as you push through the crowd like a baby deer on ice, getting shoved around from all sides by strangers who don’t even glance your way. he should be easy to spot, you think, heart pounding. not many people have purple hair. and he’s very tall. but even with that advantage, you don’t see him. you head toward the bar and approach the first guy behind the counter. “hey, sorry—” “i’m not bartending,” he says with a thick accent, without even looking up. you pause. read the name tag ‘namgyu’. “promoter. talk to him if you’re thirsty.” he adds, gesturing toward another guy without much interest. “no, i—i’m not here for a drink,” you say, pulling your phone out again and flipping it toward him. “have you seen this guy?” he looks. he recognizes him instantly, you can tell. his expression tightens, just for a second, brows furrowing slightly like he’s trying to figure out what this is. maybe why you’re here asking. maybe whether he should even answer. after a bit of coaxing, he sighs and gives in. “he went out the back a while ago. to smoke with friends.” your stomach drops. friends. right. you nod. “thanks.” your pulse is in your ears now. and as you push your way through the crowd again, one hand gripping your phone and the other shoving bodies aside, you already know—before you even reach the door—that something’s gone very, very wrong.

the cold bites at your skin again as you push the back door open and step outside, straight into the stillness of the alley. the air stings when you breathe it in. and nothing prepares you for what you see just a few feet away, at the very end of the alley, almost swallowed by the shadows—if it wasn’t for the sad little flickering streetlight barely hanging on, you might not have noticed him at all. subong. on the ground. you can’t really see his face—not his body, even—but you recognize the sneakers. they stick out just slightly from under a wall of bodies, a group of men surrounding him like fucking vultures. they’re stomping on him, over and over. one of them steps on his hand with his full weight, twisting his foot, testing how much pressure it takes to snap something, while another one drives his heel straight into subong’s ribs, again and again. there’s no hesitation in their movements, just pure, relentless violence. someone spits on him between kicks which makes another one laugh, this dry, joyless sound that scrapes down your back. and all you can really see is the way subong’s body jerks each time they land another blow, the way his legs twitch even though he’s already out cold. “subong,” you whisper, frozen in place, blood draining from your face all at once. your feet take off, each step heavier than the last, everything inside you tightening up. your chest starts to close in on itself, lungs shrinking with every breath until you can barely even get air in. “subong!” you scream this time. the first sob rips out of you without warning, panic settling in. you reach them fast, shoving the closest guy with everything you have. “get off him—what the fuck are you doing?!” they step back, amused. they were already done, and you showing up is just a mildly inconvenient. they say something you don’t understand but don’t need to—because whatever it is, it makes the others smirk as they start to walk away.

you see it then. his face. or what’s left of it. completely covered in blood, eyes swollen shut, skin split open in so many places you can’t even tell what’s dried and what’s fresh, what’s his real face and what’s just bruising and torn flesh layered on top of it. you drop to your knees without thinking, arms trembling as you lift his head from the concrete and pull it onto your lap, staining your clothes instantly, the warmth of his blood soaking through the fabric like ink. and you don’t even care, can’t bring yourself to care, because all you can think is this isn’t real, this can’t be fucking real, this can’t be happening. “subong,” you whisper, shaking him gently, your voice breaking. he doesn’t respond. not even a sound. his lips are parted slightly, but nothing comes out, and it’s the quiet that terrifies you the most. you start crying harder before leaning in closer, bringing your ear to his face, trying to listen for any hint of breath, anything at all, but it’s useless. you can’t hear anything. your ears are ringing and your heartbeat is pounding too loud to be sure. “no,” you whisper. “no, no, no, no.” your voice is shaking now, your mouth barely able to form the words. “baby, please—” you fumble for his wrist, grabbing at his arm with shaking fingers, pressing down where his pulse is supposed to be, where you hope it still is, but there’s nothing. nothing under your touch, just cold skin and the terrifying sense that you’re already too late. “subong!” you yell, like screaming might reach him wherever the fuck he’s drifted off to. “fuck—don’t fucking die on me, you idiot! please—just hold on, okay? please, don’t do this to me, don’t—” your eyes dart to his hand and that’s when you see his fingers. bent at unnatural angles, knuckles swollen and split, two of them so clearly broken it makes your stomach turn. they don’t even look like fingers anymore. and the sight of them, already starting to purple, makes your throat tighten even more. “help! someone help—please!” you reach for his neck next, your fingers slipping on his skin and pressing into the side where his pulse should be, and for a second you feel nothing… but then, there it is—the smallest flutter beneath your fingertips. the relief that hits you is so immediate you choke out a sob. your hands shake as you scramble for your phone, pulling it out with fingers soaked in red, the screen smudging immediately, slippery under your touch as you punch in the emergency number with all the desperation in the world and hit call. and while it rings, you look down at him and say, “stay with me, okay? i-i got you, i’m right here—you’re gonna be okay, baby.”

it’s been three days of subong being unconscious in the hospital when you find out the truth. you haven’t left his side. barely moved, really—just shifted from chair to chair. you’ve been watching the same slow drip of fluids into his arm for hours, watching machines beep and blink and stay steady while he does absolutely nothing, not a flinch, not a shift, not even the twitch of a finger. they’d stitched up most of his face and wrapped his hand so tightly you can’t see the fingers underneath. but he hasn’t opened his eyes. so when a nurse taps lightly on the doorframe and says billing would like to speak with you whenever you have a moment, you nod without really thinking about it, it’s probably just paperwork, something you can sign and walk away from. they lead you into a small office. the woman behind the desk is polite, middle-aged, tapping at her tablet when you walk in. you sit down across from her, and she gets right to the point. “are you a spouse or immediate family member?” “fiancée,” you answer. “okay,” she nods. “we’ve been trying to process the patient’s insurance but the information we had on file was incomplete, and there was no active policy under his name. sometimes these things lapse, or people forget to update their records. we see it a lot. we also tried the emergency contact, but the number doesn’t seem to be in service anymore.” you just stare at her. “normally in these cases we’d discuss payment options directly with the patient, but given his current condition…” she trails off, tilting her head gently, like she’s trying to be considerate. “are you aware of any prior hospital visits? or outstanding balances tied to his name?” you shake your head. “no, i—i don’t know. he never said anything.” “mmh.” she nods again, eyes glued to the tablet. “there’s no outstanding balance under his name,” she says, “no history of extended stays or billed treatment. but… there was one incident.” she scrolls, finds something, then stops tapping. the pause says enough. “it’s from about a month ago. not an official admission, more of a flagged intake. he came into the er alone, walked up to the desk and gave his name, said something about heart palpitations and chest pain. he wouldn’t give id, but they got his name down in triage.” “he—he what?” “the nurse on shift noted that he was visibly under the influence. possible opioids, though we can’t confirm—we didn’t get far enough for a tox screen. he refused treatment, got agitated when asked to sit down. started yelling. the staff tried to calm him, but he escalated quickly… so security was called and he was escorted out before we could assess him.” you’re in shock. you thought he was doing better. you believed he was doing better. and yet here it is, clear as day, handed to you by a stranger… the fucking proof that everything he swore to you was a lie. again. “there’s nothing else on record,” she adds gently. “but i thought you’d want to know.” you nod, unsure of what to say. “you’re listed as the emergency contact now, since you’re the one who brought him here. we updated the file.” “okay.”

you’re waiting for subong’s sister to arrive on the fourth day. she’s been living out of the country for the past year, based in atlanta for work, and the two of you have only met in person twice… but she was always kind to you. and when you called her that night, explaining haltingly through your tears what happened, the words unconscious and hospital tumbling out—she booked the next flight to seoul. she also promised to talk to their mom, which was a relief, because you’d tried, god knows you’d tried, but the language barrier between you and her made everything harder. to pass time while you wait for his sister to land, you leave the hospital room for the first time in hours, telling yourself you just need coffee. you feel too many things at once—anger, mostly. but also this deep, gnawing sadness. you’re mad at him, yes, at subong, for lying, for hiding, for doing all the shit he swore he wouldn’t do again. but you’re also mad at yourself, for being so blind. for trusting too easily. for loving him so much that you let it all slide, and now he’s lying here with a swollen face and broken bones and tubes coming out of his skin. you sigh through your nose, the sound sharp in the empty hallway as you make your way back to the room, clutching the vending machine coffee hoping it scalds some clarity into you. the chair squeaks in protest as you sit down again, your bones aching from the fourth sleepless night in a row, your back ready to file a complaint. you mutter under your breath, “these fucking chairs are gonna kill me,” and you’re mid eyeroll when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand beside the bed.

it’s the first sound that’s come from it in days, and it jolts you upright. you glance at the screen, and your first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but something about it nags at you, so you end up reaching for it. you press answer and lift it to your ear. “hello?” you say, unsure, cradling the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you reach for the edge of the nightstand to steady yourself. there’s a voice on the other end immediately, polite, but it’s in korean. you blink, startled. “oh—sorry, um… i don’t… i don’t understand korean very well,” you mumble. “i’m—i’m subong’s fiancée.” there’s a pause, then the voice switches languages. “ah, miss, thank you for picking up,” they say, now in accented but clear english. “we’ve been trying to get in contact with mr. choi regarding a pending matter tied to his housing account. is this a good time to speak?” you glance at his motionless body in the bed. “he’s—he can’t come to the phone right now. he’s in the hospital.” “oh.” another pause. “i’m sorry to hear that. we don’t mean to intrude. it’s just—we’ve issued multiple notices regarding the delinquency on unit 302, but we haven’t been able to reach anyone. this is our last courtesy call before further action is taken.” what? “delinquency?” you echo dumbly, your voice cautious. “i—i don’t understand. i sent the rent money. i always do. i send it to him, and he’s supposed to… he’s the one who handles it because it’s under his name, but—” “i understand,” the person says gently. “we’re not authorized to go into too much detail with anyone not on the lease, but we do have records of the unit going unpaid for the past two months. there’s no automatic withdrawal on file, and the last successful rent payment was processed… let me check… mid-february.” you press the phone tighter to your ear. “what—are you sure? two months?” “yes. we’ve also flagged unusual financial activity linked to the bank account on file… repeated large withdrawals routed to external cryptocurrency platforms. unfortunately, at this point, the account is severely delinquent.” what the actual fuck? “thank you,” you manage. “thanks for calling, i… i need a second.” you hang up.

you’ve avoided doing this so far because it felt invasive. you told yourself that you’d respect his privacy, that you were above snooping, that he’d tell you everything when he woke up. but now? fuck that. you unlock his phone and swipe through the home screen, and there it is—the crypto investment app. you tap it and it loads painfully slow, as if the phone itself is reluctant to show you what you’re about to see. and then the number appears in aggressive, glowing red: -₩1,190,000,000. you blink. for a second you think you’re reading it wrong, that maybe the comma’s in the wrong place or the negative sign is a formatting error or some stupid bug, maybe an update broke the display. but then the rest of the interface fills in, the full dashboard sliding into view, and you see the red line charting the value of the account: a steep, violent drop. a billion. more than a billion. in debt. actual, contractual, inescapable fucking debt. you scroll. the app’s cheerful ux design makes it worse somehow, and in small gray text, a disclaimer bar you almost miss: ‘dalmatian coin has been delisted. trading permanently suspended. please consult your issuing financial institution for debt reconciliation.’ your hand clenches the phone tighter just as you find the transaction history. the first thing you notice is the consistency. it’s sickening, how routine it is—subong sat down every month, probably around the same time you were wiring him the money for rent, and opened this exact app like it was his job. the entries start small, from when you two had broken up. neat rows of numbers: ₩50,000, ₩120,000, ₩340,000, all spaced out like he was dipping his toe in. and then, without warning, the amounts spike. ₩3 million. ₩7.2 million. ₩12 million. the pattern’s still there, but now it’s frantic. an addict pressing the same button over and over. you keep scrolling, your thumb shaking but steady enough to keep going. there are dozens of entries. all of them marked with the same exchange ID, the same nauseating little dalmatian coin logo next to each transfer. then your rent—clear as fucking day. same amount you send every month, logged here like it was nothing. all of that, he was using it to gamble. without telling you.

your thumb hovers over the last transaction, the one that pushed the account into the red. the screen says it was processed successfully. and then the collapse. you almost laugh. it bubbles up in your throat but never makes it out, just sits there, acidic and mean, curling around your vocal cords. your hands are trembling now, in disgust and disbelief. you have no idea how long you sit there staring at the screen, but when you finally look up—at him, lying unconscious, bruised, stitched-up and impossibly still—it’s like you’re looking at a stranger. how could he? how dare he? you need to sit down. your legs are shaking, barely holding you up, and your vision goes blurry for a second under the nauseating, unbearable weight of the truth. what the fuck was he thinking? you sink into a chair, retracing everything in your mind—every time he brushed off your concern with a kiss like you were overthinking and he had it handled. how could he do this to you?

you’re tired of the lies, of the blind trust you keep giving him like it doesn’t cost you anything, of the way love has become synonymous with anxiety in your body. it wasn’t always like this. there was a time when loving subong felt like the easiest thing in the world… but now it just feels bitter and corrosive. you never noticed when it started to curdle—when sweetness became suspicion, when comfort turned into dread—but it’s there now, undeniable, clinging to every part of your life with him. you sit there, the phone still in your palm, and all you can think is that this love, whatever’s left of it, is sour. spoiled by every broken promise, every little thing he did behind your back, every time he looked you in the eye and chose to lie anyway. and the worst part is that you can’t even summon rage anymore, just this miserable resignation. you wanted to believe he’d changed, you needed to. but now all that belief feels like another kind of foolishness, like you were complicit in your own undoing. and maybe you were. perhaps that’s what love does, when it sours—it asks you to keep holding it, even as it poisons you.

the ring is beautiful. obscenely so. you hold it between your fingers, the metal cool against your skin. it’s mocking me, you think. it knows i swore i’d be his forever, when he slipped it on my hand that friday morning. you keep rolling it between your thumb and index finger, watching how the light catches on the stone, glinting. you haven’t put it back on and you’re not sure you ever will. his sister didn’t stay long the night before. barely an hour after she arrived, you told her what you’d found, the full rot of it, all that debt and deception and cowardice packed into numbers. she left without saying much, just mumbled something about going to their mother’s, about needing to fix this before it gets worse. but you know better. you know there is no fixing this. this isn’t a mistake, it’s a pattern. and you’re tired of pretending it isn’t.

he’s awake now. the nurses crowded him, checking vitals, adjusting lines, poking and prodding his body. they asked you to step out while they did their work, and you did, without argument. there’s no desperate need to stay by his side anymore, no aching urgency to be the first thing he sees when his eyes open, because you’ve already made your decision. when they allow you back inside, he lifts his head the second he sees you—sluggish, but the warmth is there, that familiar flicker in his eyes that used to undo you so easily. “hey, señorita,” he rasps. “you stayed.” “mmh.” you nod. that’s all you give him. just a nod, and the chair scraping softly as you pull it closer and sit. he doesn’t seem to notice it at first, how your presence no longer leans toward him like it used to. instead, you sit with your hands in your lap, folded neatly. subong smiles, probably thinking this is the part where you cry with relief or crawl into the bed beside him or at the very least, kiss him and whisper that it’s over now, that he’s safe, that everything’s going to be okay. but you don’t move. “how long?” he asks after a beat, blinking up at the ceiling before dragging his eyes back to you. “how long was i out?” “four days.” he whistles softly, or tries to—it comes out more like a wheeze. “shit. that long?” “yes.” he shifts slightly, winces at the pain. “did… did you call my mom?” “i tried to… then i called your sister. she came, but left yesterday to see your mom. she’ll be back.” his eyebrows pull slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what’s off, why your voice sounds different. “you okay, baby?” your eyes trace the bruises on his face before you ask, “are you?” and the way it comes out—almost rhetorical—makes something flicker in his expression. he’s starting to get it.

he clears his throat, shifts again, and you can see the way it costs him. “look, if this is about… i mean, if you figured it out, the reason they came after me, why it got that bad, it’s not—” he pauses, because the words are heavy in his mouth. “i wasn’t doing that shit regularly. i swear. just—it was getting hard to sleep, baby, and i didn’t want to worry you so, you know, i thought if i just—” “subong.” he stops, mid-ramble. his eyes search yours, desperate to find something soft in them—some familiar flash of tenderness, or even pity. but there’s nothing. “you don’t need to explain,” you say. “it won’t change anything.” he opens his mouth again anyway, because he doesn’t know how not to try, not when it’s you. “no, no, baby—you gotta believe me. i was gonna tell you, but i—” he sees it mid-sentence. his voice falters, crumbles into silence as his gaze drops to your hand. “wha—where’s your ring?” you glance down at your hand, where it used to sit. for a second, you almost lie. almost tell him it’s at home, that you took it off to shower and it’s safe somewhere. but you don’t. you just say, “off.” his face twists in disbelief. “off? what you mean ‘off’?” you shrug. “it didn’t make sense to wear it anymore.” he lets out this breath, something pitiful lodged in the back of his throat. “so that’s it?” he says, and there’s this sharp edge creeping into his voice now, brittle and defensive. “why? because i messed up again? because you found out before i could explain anything? jesus, baby—” you would slap him across the face right now if it wasn’t so bruised already. “when?” you ask, your voice almost gentle in its cruelty. “when were you going to tell me you were in fucking debt, subong?” shit. he freezes—the question catching him off guard completely. all you can hear is the steady beep of the heart monitor behind him, stubbornly unfazed by the absolute wreckage of the moment. “what?” he says, but he already knows what. “1.19 billion won,” you answer, enunciating each syllable. “and you didn’t just lose your own money… you used mine. every transfer i made for rent.” his face drains of whatever color it had left. you don’t know if it’s the shock, the shame, or the weight of getting caught.

but then there it is. that same infuriating, jerk attitude you’ve seen too many times before. the one that shows up whenever he feels small, cornered, like a child trying to puff out his chest and pretend he’s not the guilty one. “okay, and?” he scoffs, all false bravado, even from that goddamn hospital bed with his face torn up and a fucking iv sticking out of his arm. “you sent it to me, didn’t you? you wanted me to handle it. so why’re you going through my shit?” he mutters, like that’s the offense here. “what, you think you’re entitled to every fucking thing just ‘cause you sent me money?” you just stare at him, stunned. not because of what he said, but because of course that’s where he’d go. deflection, arrogance and pride. “are you serious? you lied to me, subong. again!” he shifts upright in the bed with a groan, eyes flaring. “i was tryna fix it, okay? for us. so we wouldn’t have to worry about shit anymore once we get married. i didn’t know th—” “you told me the bills were paid—” “i didn’t wanna stress you out,” he counters, eyes darting toward the blanket. “don’t say that like you were doing me a fucking favor. you didn’t want me to know because you knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.” “baby, c’mon—” “don’t,” you say, quick and clean, the word slicing through whatever lie he was about to conjure. “save it.”

you stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your jeans. his voice turns softer, trying to course-correct. “you’re mad… i-i get it. but you’re not really gonna throw everything away over this, are you? i fucking love you, girl. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. my fucking future wife and mother of my babies. please, we—we’ll get out of this. we could… i don’t know. i don’t know, but i promise—” you shake your head. he still doesn’t get it. “stop making fucking promises. i don’t believe you anymore… and i’m certainly not marrying you.” his jaw goes slack. “the fuck you mean you’re not—” “i mean i can’t do this anymore, subong,” you cut in, your tone unflinching. “i can’t keep loving someone who lies to me constantly. who uses me, drains me, breaks me, and isn’t even sorry.” “i am. i am sorry—i am, baby,” he insists, struggling to sit up straighter in the bed despite the groan it pulls from his body. “no, you’re not. you’re sorry you got caught. that’s not the same thing.” “you think i knew they were gonna fucking scam me? that i knew it was fake? they lied, not me. they took the money and ran. i’m the one who got fucked over here—” “no,” you snap, feeling the fury start to push past the exhaustion, slicing through the ache in your chest like glass through gauze. “you got fucked over because you’re a fucking idiot, subong.” his mouth opens, about to throw something back at you, but you don’t stop. “i told you to be careful. i told you to think before doing anything stupid—do you remember that? you didn’t listen! you never fucking listen. and now you want me to feel sorry for you? like this wasn’t your own fucking fault?” “i just wanted to give us a better life. i didn’t mean to—” “you never mean to! you never mean to hurt me. but you do it anyway, over and over. and then you sit there and act like it’s the universe conspiring against you, like you’re just the poor, misunderstood victim who can’t catch fucking a break.” you swallow hard. “but you made this mess. you did this. you.”

his eyes go wide when you reach into your pocket and pull out the ring. you hold it for a second in your palm. it means nothing now. just a pretty, glittering promise that never had a fucking chance. you hold it out to him. “take it.” he flinches. “what the fuck are you doing?” “what does it look like?” your voice is calm, and it makes him angrier. “i’m giving it back.” “no.” he shakes his head, the wires at his wrist pulling tight when he tries to push your hand down. “no, fuck that! i’m not taking it. you’re not—you can’t just leave because shit got hard—” “this isn’t just hard, subong. it’s toxic!” “i’m in a fucking hospital bed!” he snaps, like that’s the only context that matters. “you think i don’t know i fucked up? you think i don’t feel like shit already? and now you wanna leave? now?! what kind of fucking person does that?!” you clench your jaw. “what kind of person does that? you’re really asking? be so fucking for real!” he throws his arms out, desperate. “what? look at me, girl!” he gestures. “and you wanna fucking abandon me!“ “stop trying to make me feel guilty,” you hiss. “you’re the one who lied and stole, and gambled away the fucking roof over our heads.” “and you wanna fucking leave me after i almost died! that’s some next level heartless shit, bro!” “you almost died because of you,” you bite back. “because you chose to keep getting involved with those people.” “that’s not—” he starts, defensive, already gearing up to twist the narrative again. “i thought you were dead when i found you,” you continue. “do you even get what that means, subong? do you? i had to check your neck and wrist for a pulse, with your blood on my hands, and there was nothing. you weren’t breathing. your head was in my lap, and you were just… gone. and in that second, i swear to god, i thought i was gonna have to watch you die. and i was there, wondering who i’d have to call first—your family or a fucking funeral home! do you know what that does to someone?” you fight back tears. “to stand over the body of the person you love and think: this is it. this is how it fucking ends. and i know it’s gonna happen again. one day… one day it’ll be real, and you’ll be fucking dead for good. because you don’t care about your life, subong. so tell me… why the fuck should i?” he stares at you, breathing heavy, but there’s no apology in his eyes. just the selfish kind of panic that only cares about what he’s losing, not what he’s done. “you said you’d never leave me. you said—” “and you said you’d stop lying,” you snap. “that you’d never do drugs again. you said so many things, subong… so keep it.” you shove the ring into his hand, even as he fumbles to force it back into yours. “sell it, pawn it, melt it down and invest in another scam for all i fucking care. just don’t ever speak to me again. it’s over.”

subong, in all his deluded hope and terminal denial, convinced himself that it wasn’t really over. that after the heat of your anger wore off, you’d remember how much you loved him. he told himself it was just a matter of time, weeks at most. that you’d remember who you were to each other. and that no matter how bad it got, you’d still choose him. but reality hits hard the moment he tries to message you and realizes he’s been blocked. everywhere. and that’s when it sinks in—that you meant every single word. the rage that comes next is something new. he wants so badly to blame you and curse your name, call you heartless for how you left him when he needed you most. but no matter how hard he tries to twist the story, the truth keeps bleeding through. because even through the haze of anger and self-pity, he knows. he knows this is what happens when you treat the one person who gave a shit about you like he did. he knows you walked away because you had no choice, not because you stopped loving him, but because loving him had become impossible. and he hates you for that now, in the same exact way he still loves you. he hates that you’re right. that he’s every bit the coward and the liar you accused him of being.

he should’ve learned. everyone would expect that a man who nearly died in a back alley, would use that as a wake-up call, get clean and seek help to try to find his way back into something like dignity. but not him. no, every time subong says he’s ‘fixing it,’ what he really means is that he’s finding new ways to bury the damage deeper. he’s still taking pills, and now that he’s got nowhere to go—not after his mother shut the door in his face, and after losing you and the apartment—he crashes on friends’ couches. it’s never been clearer. he ruined it. all of it.

so after months of living in unrelenting misery, trapped in guilt and shame, with no hint of light at the end of the tunnel… subong’s mind starts circling darker and darker thoughts, until it lands, almost comfortingly, on the idea of ending everything once and for all. because really, who would miss him? who would cry for him? his mother won’t even speak to him, his sister’s too tired, and you… shit. he’s the only one missing people. missing you. missing himself. and every single day that goes by without hearing your voice the world feels colder. he’s tried to reach you through burner accounts, through friends, through songs you’ll never hear. but you’re gone. not just physically—though he knows, somehow, you went back to your country—but in the way that matters most. you’re out of his life. and you’re not coming back.

that’s why, one night, when the weight of it all finally sinks so deep he can’t shake it off… he walks to the han river. the same place where you spent one of your first nights together, laughing like idiots with convenience store snacks and nothing but stars overhead. now he’s alone. crying and high out of his mind as he starts climbing up onto the rail of the bridge. and as he stares down at the water, thinking of how quiet everything would be if he just fucking let go, a shadow falls over him. a man in a black suit. subong blinks, dazed. someone’s come to do the job for me, he thinks. he must be a debt collector. “yo, back the fuck off, man. i swear to god if you try anything—” but no. the man smiles, kindly, and says, “sir… do you have a minute?” “the fuck you want?” subong spits, voice slurring from both the cold and the chemicals still in his blood. “can’t you see i’m fucking busy, bro?” the man tilts his head, stepping a little closer. “would you like to play a game with me?” subong squints at him, trying to see if he’s hallucinating. “yo, are you deaf?” he snaps, the wind catching his voice. “i said fuck off, man. i’m not in the mood to buy your religion shit or whatever the fuck this is.” the guy reaches into his sleek black briefcase, as if they’re in some kind of business meeting instead of standing ten steps away from a very public suicide attempt. he pulls out two square pieces of paper—one red, one blue—and holds them out. “ddakji. play with me,” he says, “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong scoffs, shoulders twitching with disbelief. “nah. fuck no. you think i’m stupid? you think i’m falling for that shit again? you got the wrong guy, man. i’m not gonna fucking—” subong’s words die in his throat when his eyes land on the banded bills packed tight inside the briefcase. he stares at the money, at the wind lifting the edge of one of the bills and making it flutter gently. “play with me,” the man repeats. “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong laughs bitterly. “yeah? and what, you gonna fucking tax me if i lose?” the man’s smile widens a fraction. “if you lose… you pay me 100,000 won.” “what the—i’m fucking broke.” subong’s snaps, frustrated. “i don’t have shit to give you, man. what, you gonna take a kidney? my shoes? fuck off.” “you’ll find a way. people always do.” who the fuck is this dude? subong’s eyes flick down to the money again. he hasn’t seen that much cash in years. it’s probably more than he ever had even at the peak of his fake crypto high. he licks his lips, teeth grinding. “one round,” he mutters. “and i’m not paying shit if you cheat.” the man nods once, that same eerie, collected expression never slipping. “one round.”

can you guys tell i wrote half of this while sleep deprived and drowning in uni work?💀 anyway, this was so long i nearly gave up multiple times. i even had to cut a few scenes because it was getting way too long (and honestly, it still is). but i hope you enjoyed it!💗 (idk, but i feel like if you made it this far, we should kiss rn… just a thought)

regular taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii @sherxoo @isssaaaa2111

this fic’s taglist: @thanosspills @loonybunny1

[twjournals]

PLEASE start writing for this woman more. i’m literally shaking, i need her so bad 😭

rest in peace fine shyt 💔

[twjournals]

High enough

Namgyu x female reader

Left alone with your brother’s annoying friend, the night takes a turn you never saw coming. warnings: mild drug use, sexually explicit content

  You stare at your reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, hands trembling slightly as you touch up the last of your makeup. The light above you flickers like it’s trying to piss you off on purpose. Tonight was supposed to be simple: a night out at Club Pentagon with your brother Subong and his insufferable friend Namgyu. Instead, you’re here in Namgyu’s bathroom, listening to the muffled thump of bass through the wall and trying not to scream.

  Your stomach twists with irritation. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Subong begging you to come. “It’ll be fun, little sis,” he’d said, completely oblivious to how you and Namgyu mix like oil and water. You only agreed because you miss spending time with your brother, ever since he fell into Namgyu’s orbit of clubbing and getting high, you hardly see him sober. If tagging along means keeping an eye on Subong, you’ll swallow your pride for one night.

 You flinch when a fist hits the door, loud and impatient. “Hurry the fuck up in there,” Namgyu’s voice barks from the other side. He’s been pacing outside for the last ten minutes, making it impossible to get ready in peace. Your grip on the mascara wand tightens. Heat flares in your chest

  “You can wait, asshole,” you snap back, trying to keep your hand steady as you coat your lashes. “I’m almost done, so chill.”

  “Jesus, how much fucking makeup do you need?”His tone drips with condescension. You can practically picture the smug smirk on his face as he leans against the wall, probably running a hand through his hair.

  Your jaw clenches. Every interaction with Namgyu feels like nails on a chalkboard. Don’t engage, you remind yourself. But it’s useless. He always knows how to get under your skin.

  A bitter comeback flies out before you can stop it. “Some of us actually care how we look. Unlike you, I don’t roll out of bed smelling like booze and call it a day.”

  There’s a beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Sure, princess. Keep telling yourself that makeup hides your bitchy attitude.” He’s practically purring with provocation now. “Though that dress is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Who are you trying to impress? Or are you just hoping to get laid to loosen up that uptight ass of yours?”

  You freeze, blood rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and rage. You spent way too long stressing over what to wear, settling on a sleek black mini-dress that hugs your curves just right, paired with knee-high boots. It’s bold for you, a departure from your usual jeans, but you wanted to feel confident tonight. Now Namgyu’s twisted it into something cheap.

  Face burning, you fling open the bathroom door so hard it bounces off the stopper with a bang. Namgyu stands there in the narrow hallway, one eyebrow arched over those dark, mocking eyes. He’s dressed in his typical club attire: ripped black jeans, a fitted grey tee that rides up just enough to flash a bit of a toned stomach when he shifts, and a worn leather jacket. The silver chain at his neck catches the light. Flashy. Just like everything about him. He’s the picture of casual arrogance, arms crossed as he looks you up and down with a curled lip.

  “Fuck you, Namgyu,” you hiss, shouldering past him. Your bare arm grazes against his leather jacket and you pull away as if burned. The living room is just a few steps away, the whole apartment is small and poorly furnished, clearly a bachelor pad. Empty beer cans and takeout boxes litter the coffee table, and the smell of smoke clings to the sagging couch cushions. You whirl around to face him, anger boiling over.

  “I’m ‘trying to impress’ no one. And don’t you dare talk to me about being uptight,” you spit out. “Maybe if you weren’t such a misogynistic piece of shit, you’d know the difference between dressing for yourself and dressing for male attention.”

  Namgyu saunters out of the hallway after you, leaving the bathroom door to drift shut. He towers a few good inches over you and uses every bit of it, looming with a lazy grin. “Spare me the feminist lecture,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You walk into my place looking like that and expect me not to comment? I’m just being honest, babe.”

  “I’m not your babe,” you snap, heart pounding in your chest. He infuriates you. The way he says things, like he’s entitled to judge you. You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, which keeps flicking over you. The air between you crackles with hostility.

  Namgyu steps closer, the smell of his cologne invading your space. You refuse to back up, even as your nerves jangle.His head tips slightly, gaze crawling from your boots to your face without an ounce of shame. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, then smirks. “By the way, you missed a spot.” He gestures vaguely at your face.

  You blink. “What?”

  He makes a circular motion at his own cheek. “Your makeup. It’s uneven or something. But hey, maybe no one’ll notice in the dark. Lighting’s pretty forgiving at the club.”

  Humiliation slams into you. You spent extra time trying to get everything perfect, and he’s saying you look… wrong? Instinctively, your hand twitches toward your purse for a compact mirror, but you catch yourself. This is exactly what he wants, to make you doubt yourself. To get under your skin and make fun of your insecurities.

  You lift your chin instead. “Eat shit, Namgyu,” you growl, forcing your voice not to waver. “Like I’d trust your opinion on anything women related. The last time I saw you, you were drooling over some girl wearing fishnets as pants.”

  Namgyu’s grin sharpens. “Yeah, I remember. She was hot as fuck. Hooked up after, no regrets.” He licks his bottom lip suggestively, and you nearly gag. “Unlike some people who are all bark, no bite.”

  Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “It means you talk a big game about being independent and dressing for yourself, but I bet you’d never have the guts to do what she did. You judge her, but at least she knows how to have fun.” He gives you a once-over again, slower this time. “All this effort just to scowl all night? What a waste.”

  A hot, prickling sensation creeps up your neck. “Don’t compare me to your flavor of the week,” you say tightly. “And I’m not judging her, I’m judging you. You treat women like they’re disposable, Namgyu. It’s disgusting.”

  He laughs. A short, harsh sound. “Better than treating them like saints and getting walked all over. Not that you’d understand. You’re too busy acting like you’re above everyone to actually get laid.”

  The words hit a nerve. You flinch before you can stop yourself. Acting like you’re above everyone… Is that how he sees you? As some stuck-up prude? Your face burns, this time not just from anger but a flicker of shame. You open your mouth, a retort on the tip of your tongue, when your phone buzzes loudly in your purse.

  You exhale, tearing your glare away from Namgyu’s infuriating face to yank your phone out. Saved by the bell, you think, relief short-lived as you see the caller ID: Subong.

  Namgyu’s eyes narrow at the phone in your hand. “That him?”

  Ignoring Namgyu for a moment, you answer, turning slightly away. “Where are you? We’ve been waiting—”

  Subong’s voice crackles through, loud enough that even Namgyu can likely hear the tinny sound. “Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up with my girl. She’s  having a meltdown over some shit, and I… I can’t leave her like this. I’m not gonna make it tonight.”

  It takes a second for his words to register. You frown, pressing the phone harder to your ear. “Wait, what? You’re bailing?”

  Namgyu comes closer, trying to catch what’s being said. You feel him hovering at your shoulder, and you twist away further, heat simmering again.

  “Look, I know it sucks,” Subong continues, sounding genuinely upset, “but I have to sort this out with her. She’s threatening to break up and… fuck, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. I owe you one, okay?”

  You’re silent, a mixture of disappointment and panic swirling in your gut. If Subong’s not coming, that leaves you here… alone with Namgyu for the rest of the night. The plan had been to meet up and head to the club together. Now everything is falling apart.

  Subong’s still talking, oblivious to your inner crisis. “You two should still go! Have fun, drink on my tab. Namgyu can get you in VIP. Seriously, I feel like shit for cancelling last minute. Just… try not to kill each other, alright?” He attempts a weak chuckle.

  You can’t even fake a laugh. Your eyes dart to Namgyu, who’s watching your face intently, arms still crossed. You know he can tell something’s wrong. “Yeah,” you say into the phone, voice flat. “Sure. Take care of her. Bye.” Without waiting for a response, you hang up.

  The moment you lower your phone, Namgyu asks, “What happened? Where’s Thanos?”

  You suck in a deep breath. “He’s not coming.”

  Namgyu blinks. “What do you mean ‘not coming’?”

  You slide your phone back into your purse with stiff movements. “I mean he’s ditching us. Girlfriend problems or whatever.” The bitterness in your tone is unmistakable. “So it’s just—”

  “Just us,” Namgyu finishes, his voice flat.

  For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. The reality settles in the cramped living room like a foul odor. You feel your night splintering into chaos. There’s no way in hell you’ll go clubbing alone with Namgyu. You’d rather swallow glass.

  He must feel similarly because he immediately shakes his head. “Well, fuck that. I’m not going to Pentagon with just you.” 

  “Glad we agree,” you retort, fuming. “So do us both a favor and drive me home. Now.”

  Namgyu’s brows shoot up at your demand, and for a second you think he might actually do it. Instead, he strolls around you and collapses onto the couch. He fishes his phone from his pocket and tosses it onto the cluttered coffee table, then runs a hand over his face. “God, what a waste of a night…” he mutters.

  You remain standing, arms tightly crossed. The thump of club music you heard earlier is now gone, maybe it was just in your head. In the silence, you notice your own heart pounding. “Namgyu,” you say sharply. “Hello? Did you hear me? I want to go home.”

  He tilts his head back against the couch, eyes closing for a moment. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, then he cracks one eye open to look at you. “And I want you to stop bitching, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

  You stare at him, incredulous. “What is your problem? My brother just screwed us over, and now you’re throwing a tantrum? If you’re not going out, fine. Just drive me back. Or call me a taxi, I don’t care.”

  Namgyu sighs dramatically. “Will you chill for one second?” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thin, hand-rolled blunt. You recognize the distinct brown leaf wrapper. He probably prepped it for later at the club. With an irritated grunt, he pats his other pockets and then looks at you expectantly. “You got a lighter?”

  You fumble, thrown off by the random request. “Seriously? You’re going to get high right now?”

  He flashes you a sarcastic grin. “I was planning to later anyway. Might as well salvage something from this shitshow. Now, do you have a lighter or do I have to get up?”

  Unbelievable. You dig in your purse on autopilot, your hands are shaking with frustration and some leftover adrenaline from the earlier fight. You find a pink lighter. Wordlessly, you toss it to Namgyu.

  He catches it in one smooth motion. “Thanks,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm, as if you’ve done him a grand favor. Then he hesitates. His gaze flickers over you, less hostile now and more considering. “Look… I’ll take you home after this, okay? Ten minutes. Relax.”

  You open your mouth to say something back. Something about how he should take you now, not after he gets high, but you bite it back. He’s clearly not budging, and a taxi ride alone from this part of town doesn’t thrill you. Namgyu’s apartment is in a sketchier part of the city, somewhere you wouldn’t wander by yourself at night. He knows it too, you can tell by the way he watches you wrestle internally with your options. Damn it.

  “Fine,” you say curtly, moving to perch on the arm of a chair across from the couch. You make sure to smooth your dress down, aware of his eyes flicking to the exposed length of your thighs. “Ten minutes. That’s it. Then you’re driving me home.”

  He doesn’t respond, already holding the blunt between his lips. He sparks the lighter. The tip of the blunt glows orange as he inhales deeply. Almost immediately, the pungent scent of weed fills the small living room. Earthy and a little sweet. It blends with the stale tobacco odor that clings to everything Namgyu owns.

  You watch him through narrowed eyes. His lashes flutter shut as he holds the smoke in his lungs, head tipped back. For a brief moment, with his guard down, he looks almost peaceful. Strong features softened in the dim light, full lips parted as he finally exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the stained ceiling. The tension in his posture eases slightly.

  It’s the calmest you’ve seen him all evening, maybe ever. Not that you’re looking, you tell yourself, but your gaze betrays you. There’s something morbidly fascinating about Namgyu in his element like this. The asshole who’s been tormenting you all night is, for a few seconds, just a guy unwinding.

  He catches you staring. Of course he does. Those dark eyes cut to you through the haze, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Want a hit?” he asks, voice raspier after holding the smoke. He extends the blunt toward you between two fingers, the offer almost gentlemanly if not for the smirk.

  You blink, thrown off. “What?”

  He waves the smoking blunt slightly. “Do you want a hit, (Y/N)? It might get that stick out of your ass for a bit.” Then he adds with a thoughtful expression, “Unless you’re too much of a good girl to indulge?”

  His words are needling, but there’s less venom behind them than before. More like he’s teasing. You glare at him all the same, ignoring the prickle of temptation. You don’t often smoke weed, just a few times in college, and occasionally with Subong when he was desperate for company and you were desperate to understand what was pulling him away. It’s not really your thing. Yet right now, your nerves are frayed and your night is ruined. Maybe a little escape would be welcome.

  Namgyu raises an eyebrow at your silence. “Thought so,” he says, about to retract the offer.

  Something rebellious flares in you. Before you can think it through, you push off the chair and cross the space between you. “Give me that,” you mutter, plucking the blunt from his fingers.

  A look of surprise flickers across his face, quickly masked by a cocky grin. “Well, well. Look who’s full of surprises tonight.”

  You ignore him and bring the blunt to your lips like you’ve seen Subong do countless times. Inhale, deep but careful, you tell yourself. The moment you draw the smoke into your mouth and then down your throat, a harsh burn scratches at your lungs. You break into a cough, heat searing your chest, and quickly pass the blunt back to Namgyu as you cover your mouth.

  He’s laughing at you, of course. “Smooth,” he comments, but he shuffles over on the couch, patting the seat beside him. “Sit down before you fall down, maybe.”

  Your eyes water from the coughing fit and embarrassment. You want to snap at him, but the truth is your knees do feel a little wobbly. Partly from the coughing, partly from the adrenaline crash. Reluctantly, you sink down onto the far end of the couch. The cushions sag under your weight, tilting you slightly toward Namgyu.

  He offers the blunt again, now that you’ve recovered. “Try again. Slower this time. Don’t hold it in so long if you can’t handle it.”

  You tense at his tone, but snatch the blunt anyway, determined to not look completely incompetent. Another drag, smaller this time. The smoke curls into your lungs and you let it out quickly, coughing only a little. The second attempt goes better, a tendril of warmth unfurls in your chest, spreading to your limbs.

  Namgyu watches you with a lazy half-smile. “There you go. Not so hard, huh?”

  The sarcasm in his voice is mild now. You hand the blunt back, leaning into the couch as you exhale slowly. A strange calm begins to creep in, like your anger is a radio someone just dialed down. It’s not gone, just not blaring in your ears so loudly.

  “Don’t get used to it,” you mumble. You’re not sure if you mean the weed or sitting civilly with Namgyu on a couch sharing a smoke. Maybe both.

  He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates through the quiet room. “Trust me, I’m not. But I gotta admit, I’m impressed. I figured you’d march out of here the second your brother bailed.”

“I thought about it,” you confess bluntly. The honesty surprises even you, but the filter between your brain and mouth feels like it’s loosening. “But this neighborhood is sketchy and the buses are shit at night. So… I’m kinda stuck with you.”

  “Lucky me,” Namgyu says dryly, but there’s no bite to it. He takes another slow drag, then passes the blunt back. As your fingers brush his, you notice the rough calluses on his fingertips, probably from rolling so many joints or handling whatever other drugs he both deals and uses. For some reason, that detail sticks in your mind.

  Silence settles as you take another hit. It’s not exactly comfortable silence. There's too much history of animosity for that, but it’s less charged than before. The weed’s effects are subtle but growing. Your limbs feel looser, your head a touch light. The tension in your shoulders unknots itself. Even Namgyu seems more relaxed, sinking into the cushions, manspreading in that obnoxious way but at least not on full alert to start shit with you.

  Your eyes drift over the coffee table: a couple of empty Soju bottles, a half-full ashtray, crumpled receipts. Among them, a small framed photo stands out, unexpected in the mess. It’s of Subong and Namgyu from last summer, arms slung around each other’s shoulders in front of Club Pentagon’s neon sign. Your brother’s grinning wide, clearly buzzed, and Namgyu has the goofiest expression you’ve ever seen on him, both middle fingers up at the camera. They look so… happy. Carefree idiots. You remember Subong showing you that photo, trying to convince you Namgyu wasn’t that bad once you “got to know him.” You’d laughed in your brother’s face then.

  Now, with a slight haze settling in your mind, you find yourself pointing at the photo. “You and my brother,” you say, “how did that even start? You two don’t exactly make sense as friends.”

  Namgyu’s gaze follows your finger to the photo. He snorts. “Met at the club, how? He was a paying customer, I was the charming promoter. One thing led to another. Shots, girls, a little coke in the bathroom and bam, buds.” He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  You frown. The mention of coke sends a ripple of worry through you, even in your relaxed state. “I wish he’d never met you,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

  Namgyu exhales smoke and laughs under his breath. “You and me both, sometimes.”

  That answer surprises you. You turn to look at him fully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs, tapping ash off the blunt into an empty can. “Just that your brother’s a pain in my ass too, princess. I didn’t sign up to be anyone’s dealer-slash-babysitter. But he kept coming around, and, I dunno… he grows on you.” Namgyu rolls his eyes. “Like a fungus.”

  Despite yourself, a tiny smile tugs at your lips. It’s bizarre to hear him talk about Subong like that. Almost affectionately, in his own twisted way. Normally you only hear secondhand accounts from your brother or catch glimpses of them together when you’re picking Subong up after a bender. You’ve never bothered to wonder how Namgyu feels about any of it, or why he sticks around when even you know Subong treats him like crap sometimes.

  “I know he looks down on you,” you blurt, the filter in your brain apparently completely gone now. “Subong… he talks like you’re just his fix.” You bite your lip. You hadn’t meant to spill that, but it’s true. You’ve heard your brother on the phone bragging about how he’s got Namgyu “wrapped around his finger” for any party favor he needs. It always made you uneasy, like Namgyu was some rabid dog that could bite back any time.

  Namgyu is silent for a moment, jaw tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. When he speaks, his tone is neutral, but a muscle twitches in his cheek. “He’s not wrong. I mean, what do I do? I get him high. He gets me into VIP rooms with his trust fund friends who want product. It’s mutual use, princess. Symbiotic, even. Save your judgment.”

  It’s weird. Normally his assholery hits you like darts, but right now, it almost sounds like he’s deflecting. You can sense a bitterness under the surface. Maybe even hurt? But before you can decide, he smirks and nods at the blunt in your hand. “You gonna finish that or just hold it all night?”

  Startled, you bring it to your lips and draw one last hit. The paper has burned down almost to the end. You cough softly as you exhale, and he plucks it from your fingers, stubbing it out in the ashtray.

  Almost immediately, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lights one. “Seriously?” you groan, waving smoke away from your face. “More?”

  “Nicotine boost,” he says, leaning back with the cigarette dangling from his lips. “And it’s my place, so yeah. Seriously.” He regards you through the thinning weed haze, blowing a stream of lighter smoke upward. “But look at that, we actually shared something without biting each other’s heads off. Miracle.”

  You roll your eyes but can’t deny it. The fight in you has dulled to embers. The weed has wrapped you in a peculiar tranquility, where everything, even sitting here with him, feels one step removed and softer at the edges. Your body is relaxed against the couch, limbs loose, head pleasantly buzzing. Even your anger has been gentled. Not gone, but gentled.

  “Don’t get used to it,” you repeat, but there’s no heat in it. Your eyes drift over Namgyu’s profile as he smokes. He has one arm slung over the back of the couch now, not quite touching your shoulders but close enough you feel the warmth radiating from him. His t-shirt rides up a bit, revealing a bit of his stomach and the trail of a tattoo curling up from his hip. You catch yourself staring at the ink and quickly look away, focusing on the dirty coffee table again. Anything but him.

  Namgyu notices anyway. He always notices. “Something interesting?” he drawls.

  “Nope,” you say quickly. But then a bubble of curiosity, fueled by the weed’s uninhibiting effects, pushes you to speak. “What’s the tattoo of?” you nod vaguely at his waist.

  He glances down as if he’s forgotten it’s there. “Oh. This old thing?” He lifts the hem of his shirt a couple of inches, enough to give you a better look. It’s a black-ink design slashing across his right hip: some kind of stylized dragon or snake, you’re not sure, curling towards his abs. The skin looks a little scarred in places, like it was done in haste or by someone learning. “Just stupid teenage choices,” he says dismissively, dropping the shirt. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  You find yourself oddly disappointed at the lack of a story. Maybe you expected something more dramatic, like he got it in a gang or for a lost love. But of course he won’t give you that, even if it were true. He’s always been a closed book.

  Still, the brief glimpse of his skin has you unnerved. You hate to admit it, but Namgyu has always been attractive in a dangerous way. You noticed it against your will the first time Subong dragged you out to meet him. He was hot before he opened his mouth and ruined it with his personality. He’s lean but strong, with those sharp cheekbones and perpetually messy black hair that just begs fingers to tame it. Not that you’ve ever thought about doing that.

  Nope, absolutely not. You shake your head, physically dismissing the thought. You blame the high for loosening your control. Heat rises in your cheeks again, but this time it’s not pure anger. It’s something more confusing.

  To fill the silence and your own awkwardness, you latch onto the first topic that drifts through your hazy mind. “So… besides dealing and pissing people off, what do you do for fun?”

  Namgyu chuckles, a puff of cigarette smoke escaping his lips. “Who says I piss people off for fun? That’s just a bonus.” He takes another drag, then stubs the cigarette out half-finished on the same ashtray. You wonder idly if he’s actually anxious. He usually smokes to look cool or out of boredom, but leaving one burning out is unusual. Maybe the conversation is making him restless too.

  “I’m serious,” you insist, turning to face him a bit more. Your knee bumps into his thigh and you both pause at the contact. Neither of you moves away, though your pulse ticks up. “What do you do when you’re not at the club? There’s gotta be more to you than free drugs and a big ego.”

  Namgyu laughs. “You really wanna know?”

  “I… yeah.” Do you? The sober part of you might not, but right now some curious part does. “Unless it’s going to bore me to death, sure.”

  He runs his tongue over his teeth, considering. “Alright. Fun. Let’s see… I like music.”

  You blink, not expecting something so normal. “Music?”

  “Yeah, you know, those sounds people listen to for enjoyment,” he says sarcastically. “I DJ sometimes on off-nights at the club. Write some mixes. Not that you’d know, you’ve never come when I’m spinning.”

  This is news. You recall Subong mentioning Namgyu messing with playlists occasionally, but you always assumed it was just him blasting bass-heavy crap. “What kind of music?”

  “EDM, mostly. Trap, house… shit that gets girls shaking ass like the biggest sluts.”

  He waggles his eyebrows comically, and you groan.

  “Of course.” So much for depth, he made it sleazy again. Still, the idea of Namgyu focusing on something creative like mixing music is oddly humanizing.

  He continues, “I also watch movies, play some games, normal shit.” Then he grins wickedly. “And fuck. That’s a hobby, right?”

  You roll your eyes hard. “You would count that as a hobby.”

  He chuckles. “Why not? It’s fun. Good exercise too. And I’m damn good at it.”

  The arrogance in his voice is simultaneously irritating and strangely intriguing. You can’t help but laugh. “Oh really? Is that what all the girls say when they’re done with you?”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” he says, casual as anything. “Though usually they can’t talk right after, being exhausted and all.”

  You make a gagging noise. “Oh my God, shut up. I’m gonna puke.��

  He just smirks. “Truth hurts, princess. Don’t blame me because you’ve only been with boys who couldn’t find the clit if it bit them.”

  Your mouth falls open in shock. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugs, totally unrepentant. “I’m just saying, you’re constantly bitching about shit. Maybe you need some good dick to sort you out. 

You shoot him a glare. Heart thudding grossed out, but also unsettled by how much it gets to you.

  It’s not like you haven’t had… well, you’ve had an okay sex life. With your ex. It was fine. Fine, not mind-blowing, but fine. But Namgyu doesn’t need to know any of that.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you snap, but there’s less venom than usual. Possibly because you’re distinctly aware that your limbs are soft from the high and your comebacks are coming slower. “Unlike you, I don’t base my self-worth on who I’ve slept with or how many notches are in my bedpost.”

  Namgyu’s eyes gleam. “That wasn’t a denial.”

  Shit. You scowl at him, lifting your chin defiantly. “My sex life is none of your business, Namgyu.”

  He raises his hands in mock surrender, though the grin stays. “Alright, alright. Touchy subject. I get it. Must be a dry spell.”

  You almost lunge at him, but manage to restrain yourself, nails biting crescents into your palms. “God, I hate you,” you mutter. The problem is he’s too perceptive even when high. Your reaction gave away more than you wanted. Now he looks like a cat who’s cornered a mouse, delighted and toying.

  “If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under,” he teases. He scoots a fraction closer; you feel the cushions shift, and suddenly your thigh is against his. A zap of awareness goes through you at the contact. Namgyu lowers his voice conspiratorially. “C’mon, tell me one thing. When’s the last time you got laid? Bet it’s been a while.”

  You grit your teeth. “None of your business,” you repeat, but he’s not wrong. Since your ex, you haven’t exactly had the energy or trust to sleep with anyone else. Sure, there were a few dates, some drunken makeouts that went nowhere. Your standards climbed sky-high after being burned. The memory of catching your ex screwing his colleague on his couch while you stood there with a birthday cake still twists your gut.

  A flicker of that hurt must show on your face, because Namgyu’s smirk fades a touch. “Oh,” he says softly. “That bad, huh?”

  His tone holds something almost like understanding, and that strange gentleness is worse than his taunting. You don’t want his pity or whatever this is. You cross your arms defensively. “Drop it. I’m not joking.”

  Namgyu tilts his head, studying you. Maybe it’s the low lamplight or the way your head is swimming, but you think his gaze softens for a split second. Then he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, ankles crossed, affecting nonchalance. “Alright. No need to bite my head off. I was just curious. The tension on you is so thick.”

  You huff, not sure if that was another insult or a weird observation. Possibly both. He’s not entirely wrong.You've been on edge a lot these days, stressed from work, constantly worrying about Subong, and pissed off at life in general. But you’re not about to unpack that with Namgyu of all people.

  “So, your idea of fun is screwing and bragging about it,” you say, redirecting away from yourself. “What an exciting life you have.”

  He laughs. “There’s that sharp tongue. Careful, I might start thinking you’re fun to hang out with after all.”

  That draws a genuine scoff from you. “In your dreams.”

  The high peeled back that usual filter in your brain, leaving things messier, more honest. You find yourself saying things you normally wouldn’t and surprisingly not regretting it instantly.

  Namgyu stretches, raising his arms above his head until his joints crack. Your eyes unintentionally skim up the strip of skin revealed where his shirt lifts: a lean V-line diving below his belt, more of that tattoo peeking out. You swallow and force yourself to look away, pretending to pick at a stray thread on your dress.

  He drops his arms and suddenly asks, “So what about you? What do you do for fun, when you’re not judging me and Subong?”

  The question is so unexpected you have to think. What do you do for fun nowadays? It feels like all you do is work, go home, occasionally drag your brother out of trouble, and repeat. How sad is that?

  “I… read, sometimes,” you say lamely. “Watch Netflix. Hang out with friends.” Although you’ve been distant with friends lately, canceling plans because you’re either too tired or anxious about leaving your mom alone. She's been a wreck since she discovered Subong’s habit.

  Namgyu raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? And you call me boring.”

  “I didn’t say you were boring, I said you’re a sleaze,” you correct, then sigh. “And yeah, I know. My life’s not exactly wild. Sorry it doesn’t measure up to yours.”

  He regards you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Ever think maybe that’s why you got cheated on?”

  The comment is like a slap. You flinch as if struck, eyes widening. “What the fuck did you just say?”

  He doesn’t back down. “Your ex. He cheated, right? I heard something like that from Thanos. Maybe if you weren’t so… I dunno, predictable, he wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere.”

  Anger whooshes back in, dousing the mellow haze. A pressure builds behind your eyes,angry tears threatening. But you refuse to show that weakness. That wound is still raw beneath layers of scar tissue and here he is poking it casually.

  “That’s rich coming from you, Namgyu,” you manage to bite out, voice trembling despite your efforts. “You barely know anything about me or that relationship. But sure, blame me for a man’s shitty choices. How very on-brand of you, you misogynistic prick.”

  He actually has the decency to look a bit contrite, a crease forming between his brows. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. It sucks, but guys get bored if you don’t keep things interesting.”

  You shake your head in disbelief, a bitter laugh escaping. “Right, because it’s the woman’s job to be a circus act to hold a man’s attention. You really are a piece of work.”

  Namgyu exhales slowly, irritation crossing his features. “Twist my words all you want, princess. I’m trying to give you a fucking insight and you’re taking it personal.”

  You glare daggers at him. “How is it not personal? You’re talking about my life, my relationship that you know nothing about.” Your voice rises, cracking. “You don’t know how hard I tried to make it work with him, what I put up with, how I—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were about to spill far too much.

Namgyu’s face shifts, less cocky now, more attentive. “How you what?” he prompts quietly.

  Your heart thuds. The walls you usually keep so sturdily in place are wobbling, weakened by weed and emotion. Your chest is tight, you press a fist there as if it could hold the hurt in. “How I never measured up,” you finish bitterly. “At least, that’s how it felt. No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough for him. Not exciting enough, not sexy enough, not—” you gesture vaguely, “whatever.”

  The admission hangs in the air, and immediately you regret it. You hate that you admitted that to him of all people. You sink back, dragging a hand over your face. “Fuck. I can’t believe I’m talking about this.”

  Namgyu is quiet, surprisingly so. When you peek at him through your fingers, he isn’t smirking. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. It almost looks like… understanding. Maybe even sympathy. But it’s gone too fast to tell, replaced by his usual half-grin, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Well, his loss,” he says casually, but there’s a rough edge to it. “If I had a girl like you—”

  He stops abruptly, and your heart skips a beat. Did you hear that right? The air in the room suddenly feels charged again, but with something different from anger or annoyance. Namgyu’s looking away, jaw working as if he’s angry at himself.

  Slowly, you find your voice. “If you had a girl like me… what?”

  He flicks his eyes back to you, then lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Forget it. I was just talking out of my ass.”

  You’re not about to let that slide. Maybe it’s masochistic, but you press on, needing to know. “No, tell me. If you had a girl like me, what?”

  Namgyu meets your gaze directly now. There’s a heat in his eyes that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was and you’re only now noticing it. It makes your breath catch.

  “You really want to know?” he asks quietly.

  The way he says it makes your skin pebble with goosebumps. You nod, though you’re not entirely sure you’re prepared for his answer.

  He leans in slightly, resting his forearm on his thigh, his body angled toward you. You can see the faint stubble along his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is low, deliberate.

  “If I had a girl like you, I sure as hell wouldn’t leave her wanting,” he says. “Not for anything. Not attention… not respect…” His eyes dip down your form and back up, igniting sparks under your skin. “And definitely not pleasure.”

  The bluntness of that last word sends a hot flush through you. Your mouth goes dry. You should laugh it off or slap him or something, but you’re frozen, hanging on that husky tone. He’s likely just fucking with you. He has to be. But it doesn’t stop your pulse from thudding in your ears.

  Namgyu smirks lightly at your speechless figure. “I’m just saying, princess, some guys actually know how to take care of a woman. Sounds like your ex wasn’t one of them.”

  You search his face for any sign he’s joking, that this is just a way to humiliate you further. But his expression is oddly serious despite the quirk of his lips. There’s something hungry in his eyes that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was and you’re only now noticing it.

  Namgyu reaches out, slowly, giving you time to stop him. He takes a lock of your hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if examining the texture. The gesture is surprisingly tender, and it sends a tingle across your scalp. “He must’ve been a fucking idiot,” he murmurs, “to not want to taste you.”

  Your breath catches. The words are obscene, but the way he says them, almost reverent and low, makes your thighs clench unconsciously. Heat floods your face, and you’re caught between mortification and sudden arousal. You should slap him for being so vulgar. You should laugh it off. You should do anything but stare at him with your lips parted and your body betraying you with a surge of desire.

  But you do stare. And he stares back, that cocky mask dropping completely now. What remains is raw and unreadable except for one thing: lust. You recognize it because it’s mirrored in how your own belly flips and tightens.

  “You… you’re high,” you whisper, a weak attempt to break whatever spell is coiling around you both. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Namgyu’s fingers leave your hair to trail lightly down your cheek. You shiver. “I know exactly what I’m saying,” he replies softly. “I’m saying your ex was a moron. And that maybe you shouldn’t knock me until you try me.”

  Your brain misfires. Did he just—?

  The world tilts as Namgyu shifts nearer, his face now inches from yours. You can see the subtle variation of brown in his irises and the way his throat moves as he swallows. The scent of him surrounds you. A mix of smoke, cheap aftershave, and something warm and male underneath. It’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s dizzying in a way that makes you feel even more lightheaded than the weed alone.

  “You’re out of your damn mind,” you finally manage to croak, but your voice lacks conviction. It comes out husky, almost needy, and you internally cringe at how weak it sounds.

  “Maybe,” he breathes, eyes flicking to your lips. “But the offer stands.”

  Offer. The word sends a jolt through you. This is actually happening. Namgyu is offering. No, basically suggesting that he’ll go down on you. To let you experience what you’ve missed. The audacity, the arrogance, and yet… the thought makes your entire body flush hot.

  Your rational mind screams at you to say no, to push him away. This is Namgyu. The man you loathe. Your brother’s fuck-up friend. You shouldn’t even consider this.

  But then another part of you, possibly influenced by being high and definitely by the lingering frustration and curiosity of years, whispers: Why not?

  It’s just physical, right? Two people blowing off steam. It doesn’t mean you suddenly like him. In fact, you could blame it on the weed and anger and everything colliding. And who’s going to know? Subong bailed. It’s just you two, alone in this apartment where secrets likely pile up with the dust.

  You realize you’ve been quiet for too long. Namgyu misreads it as reluctance or outright rejection. Slowly, he pulls back a few inches, clearing his throat. His hand drops from your face. “Forget it,” he mutters, a defensive edge returning to his tone. “Stupid idea.”

  The loss of his warmth on your skin spurs you to action. Without fully knowing why, you reach out and grab his wrist before he can retreat completely. “Wait.”

  He stills, looking at you in surprise. You don’t think you’ve ever willingly touched him before. His skin is warm under your hand, his pulse skittering at the base of his arm. You gather your courage, pushing aside a lifetime of animosity just for this suspended moment.

  “You’re serious?” you ask softly, needing confirmation straight from him. “You’d… do that? For me?”

  Namgyu’s eyes flicker with something. Perhaps shock that you’re actually considering it. Then they darken, and he leans back into your space slightly, the tension between you coiling tight again. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean, princess. If you want it…” His gaze travels down your body and up, lingering on the press of your breasts against your arms where you’re still tensely hugging your knees. “I’ll give it to you. No strings attached. Think of it as… a favor.”

  You nearly snort. A favor. Right. More like he wants to prove a point. But damned if you aren’t tempted beyond reason now.

  This is insane, the last lucid part of you interjects. You can’t sleep with Namgyu. There’s literally no one worse to mess around with. This will complicate everything, and if your brother ever found out—

  But he won’t find out. Because you’ll never tell him, and Namgyu certainly won’t either. It would ruin their friendship and probably cut off his best customer.

  It’ll just be this once, a devil on your shoulder murmurs. An itch scratched. Then you can both pretend it never happened.

  Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You slowly release his wrist, only for him to take your hand in his, calloused thumb brushing the inside of your palm in an almost soothing motion. It sends tingles all the way up your arm.

  “And you think you can actually get me off?” you say, trying to inject some challenge in your tone to mask how close you are to caving. “What, like all those other girls you brag about?”

  He sees right through your bravado. “I’ve never had any complaints in that department.” Then he adds, eyes locking with yours, “But I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

  Your breath hitches. The ball’s back in your court. Decide, he’s saying. Yes or no.

  Time seems to slow. In the space of a few seconds, a cascade of thoughts and images flood your mind. You imagine what it might be like. Namgyu’s head between your thighs, that sharp tongue of his put to better use, his hands holding you down, your fingers in that messy hair. The idea is outrageous, terrifying, and incredibly arousing. Your core contracts and you realize with a start that you’re wet, just from the thought and the heated look he’s giving you.

  You could say no. Stand up, call a cab, run away from this. But you know you won’t. Because you’re tired of always doing the right thing, tired of the what-ifs and missed experiences. Tired of holding yourself back out of fear or principle. You rationalize it swiftly. It’s one night. You’re both a little high, pent-up, and clearly attracted enough to entertain this. You can do this and still hate him tomorrow.

  In fact, a part of you wants to do it because you hate him, like extracting a twisted revenge by using each other’s bodies. Fuelled by all those emotions you keep bottled up. Release, in the purest form.

  The words leave you in a soft exhale: “Fuck it.”

  Namgyu’s eyes widen a fraction. “Yeah?”

  You lick your lips and nod, your decision solidifying in the drum of your pulse. “Yeah. Just… don’t make me regret it, or I swear—”

  He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift movement, Namgyu closes the scant distance and kisses you.

  It’s like a spark hitting a fuse. The moment his lips crush against yours, every rational thought left in your brain incinerates. You gasp against his mouth, shocked by the suddenness, but he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours, a bold, filthy stroke that draws a whimper from you.

  It’s not a gentle kiss. There's nothing gentle about Namgyu, apparently even now. It’s bruising, aggressive, a clash of teeth and tongue as you respond with equal fervor. All the pent-up frustration, the years of mutual antagonism, it spills into the kiss, making it far hotter than it has any right to be. You pour your anger and confusion into biting at his lower lip, and he retaliates with a growl, one large hand coming up to cup the back of your head, tangling in your hair to hold you in place.

  Your hands hover uncertainly. One grips his shoulder through his jacket, the leather cool and smooth under your fingers, while the other, almost of its own accord, slides up the hard plane of his chest. You feel his heart thudding nearly as hard as yours beneath your palm.

  He tastes faintly of smoke and mint, and something sweet from the blunt. It’s intoxicating. Or maybe that’s just the lack of oxygen because he’s kissing you like he wants to devour you and you’re letting him.

  A small, distant voice in your head screams that this is Namgyu you’re making out with, how can you stomach it? But that voice is drowned out by the roar of your blood and the heat coiling in your belly.

  Namgyu nips at your bottom lip, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. He smirks against your mouth. “Still with me, princess?”

  “Shut up,” you breathe, then pull him back in, surprising both of you with your urgency. You slide your hands up around his neck, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. It’s as soft as it looks, damp still from an earlier shower or product. You tug, and he makes a delicious sound low in his throat, deepening the kiss in retaliation until you’re dizzy.

  At some point, he shifts, guiding you to lie back against the couch. You find yourself pressed into the worn cushions as Namgyu moves over you, one knee sliding between your thighs. Your dress hikes up your legs, and you couldn’t care less at the moment. All you care about is the solid weight of him partially on top of you and the way his mouth has begun to wander from your lips to your jaw and down your neck.

  He bites at the sensitive spot where your neck meets shoulder just hard enough to make you gasp. Then soothes it with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. Your back arches involuntarily, breasts pressing against his chest. He notices, of course, and a hand that had been gripping your waist slides up to the neckline of your dress.

  “Is this okay?” he mutters against your skin, fingers teasing the strap.

  It’s almost sweet that he asked, like he’s checking in. You’d be more touched if he didn’t follow it up immediately with a typical Namgyu remark. “I mean, I assume you want more and not just a PG-13 makeout.”

  You huff a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access as he kisses along your collarbone. “Yes, dumbass. It’s okay.”

  “Good,” he growls, and with that, he yanks one strap of your dress down, then the other, not even bothering to find a zipper. The stretchy fabric gives way, and suddenly your bra is exposed. He wastes no time pulling the cup down to free one breast, his mouth descending on your nipple so quickly it forces a shocked cry from you.

  Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, then closes his lips around it to suck. Your nerves are on fire. You can feel that sensation spearing straight down between your legs. You clamp your thighs around the knee he’s pressed against you, a reflexive attempt to ease the ache building there.

  “Fuck,” you whimper, the expletive drawn out into a moan as he gently bites your nipple. It sends a lightning bolt of pain-pleasure through you. He soothes it with another lap of his tongue, looking up at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

  Your hand finds the side of his head, fingers threading in his hair again. Not to pull him away, but to hold him there, wordlessly urging him on. He obliges, giving attention to your other breast, tugging the dress and bra down enough to expose it as well. His big hand cups you, thumb strumming over the nipple not currently in his mouth.

  It’s almost too much. You feel your pulse between your thighs, your panties undoubtedly damp by now. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been this turned on. Scratch that, you’ve never been quite this turned on. Maybe it’s the taboo nature of it, the hate-turned-lust, or just Namgyu actually being as skilled as he boasts. Whatever it is, it has you writhing under him, your hips instinctively grinding up against the pressure of his knee between your legs.

  Namgyu notices your squirming. He releases your nipple with a wet pop, leaving both your breasts slick with his saliva and cool in the open air. The combined sensation of chilled air and heat from his mouth makes you shudder.

  “Someone’s eager,” he taunts, but his voice is thick, belying his own arousal. He plants a hand on your thigh, just below the hem of your ruched-up skirt. The weight of his palm on your bare skin sends a thrill up your spine. “Relax. I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

  You bite your lip, nodding, because words seem to have abandoned you. There’s an urge to snark back, to maintain some upper hand, but it melts away when his fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your inner thigh.

  He nudges your thighs apart a bit more, sliding down until he’s kneeling on the floor between your legs, the couch cushions supporting your back. The sight of Namgyu on his knees for you is almost as heady as the feeling of his hands pushing your skirt fully up around your hips. He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission.

  It occurs to you, fleetingly, that this is it. Cross this line and nothing between you will ever be the same. But honestly, things were never good between you to begin with. At least this would be a different kind of tension.

  And you want it. God, you want it so bad you can taste it.

  You lift your hips slightly, granting him access. That’s all the answer he needs. In one swift motion, he drags your panties down your legs, tossing the scrap of fabric aside. You cringe internally at how wet they are. Evidence of just how affected you are by him. But if Namgyu notices, he doesn’t tease for once. His focus is laser-sharp on the prize between your thighs.

  The air against your damp, exposed core makes you shiver, but not as much as the look in Namgyu’s eyes when he settles his gaze there. It’s a mix of hunger and smug male pride.

  He licks his lips. “Damn, princess… you’re already dripping.” He says it almost reverently, his hands sliding up your thighs to gently push them further apart. You flush deeply at his words, instinctively trying to press your knees together to hide yourself, but he holds you firmly.

  “Don’t,” he murmurs, and the unexpected tenderness in that single word freezes you. “I want to see.”

  Your cheeks are on fire, but you force yourself to drop your knees open again. You’ve never felt so vulnerable lying half-dressed on Namgyu’s couch, legs spread with his face hovering inches from your most private area. The one no man has ever given his full attention to. Your heart hammers at the thought that this is Namgyu about to do this. Namgyu, who you always said you hated. And yet, the anticipation coursing through you doesn’t feel like hate at all.

  He trails a finger down your slit, feather-light, and you jerk at the contact, a soft cry escaping. You’re embarrassingly sensitive, all your nerve endings on high alert.

  “Easy,” he coos, in a tone that might be mocking if it wasn’t so throaty. His finger slides through your folds again, gathering wetness, then he brings it to his lips and sucks it off with a hum of satisfaction. “Fuck… you taste good already.”

  You bite back a whine. The sight of him tasting you like that sends a pulse of arousal through you, and you clench around nothing, hips canting upward involuntarily.

  “Please,” you hear yourself whisper. It’s half an entreaty, half a demand.

  Namgyu flashes you a grin, almost feral in the low light. “Told you, just had to ask nicely.” And with that, he ducks his head and finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

  The first swipe of his tongue through your folds has you moaning outright. It’s a slow, deliberate lick, from your entrance up to your clit, where he circles teasingly before doing it all over again. Your hand flies to your mouth, almost embarrassed at the sounds trying to escape you. The other grips the back of the couch above your head, bracing yourself as your body jolts with electricity at each lap of his tongue.

  If he was smug before, he’s downright energized now. “That’s it,” he murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice against your sensitive flesh making you gasp. “Already making such pretty noises. And I’ve barely started.”

  “Don’t—ah—don’t get cocky,” you manage to pant, though it loses effect since it’s punctuated by a whimper when he sucks lightly on your clit. Your vision sparks. Pleasure bolts through you, and you instinctively clamp your thighs around his head.

  Namgyu just chuckles, prying them back apart with firm hands. “Nuh-uh, keep these open. I’m not done with you.”

  He latches his mouth around your clit and begins to suck in earnest, flicking his tongue over the swollen nub in rapid strokes. The world drops out from under you. You cry out, both hands flying to his head this time, fingers tangling in his hair and holding on for dear life.

  “Fuck! Namgyu—” you gasp. It’s half curse, half plea. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding up against his face as he works you with a precision that leaves you reeling. He alternates between sucking and licking, occasionally dipping his tongue down to tease at your entrance, then back up to torment your clit again until you’re a writhing mess.

  Pleasure coils tight in your belly, an insistent, molten heat growing with each passing second. You can’t believe how fast he’s unraveling you, how your body responds to every flick of his tongue as if he’s played this instrument a thousand times.

  Maybe he has, just not with you. The thought of all those other girls, faceless in his past, usually would provoke jealousy or disgust. But right now, you’re almost grateful he’s had practice, because he’s playing you like a maestro, and you’re hurtling towards a crescendo at breakneck speed.

  “Oh god,” you choke out. One of your hands claws at the cushion, the other gripping his hair almost painfully, but he only groans as if he likes it. The sound vibrates through your core, sending you closer to the edge.

  Heat is surging inside you, muscles tensing. Your breaths come in short, ragged pants. It’s never been like this, so overwhelming, so all-consuming. Your ex’s fumbling attempts to get you off were like weak tremors compared to this earthquake building inside you.

  Namgyu slides one hand up to intertwine with yours where you clutch the cushion, pinning it above your head. With his other, he teases your entrance with his index finger, circling lightly. “You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Think you can take a finger?”

  You nod frantically, not trusting your voice. Actually, you could probably take more than one given how aroused you are, but one is a fine start.

  He eases a finger into you, slowly, watching your face for any discomfort. All you feel is relief, the fullness a welcome addition to the relentless stimulation of his mouth. You moan, loud and unabashed now, as he pumps the finger in and out a few times before adding a second without even needing to ask. You’re more than ready.

  The stretch is perfect enough to feel it, not enough to hurt. He finds a rhythm, curling his fingers to press against your front wall as he thrusts slowly. The combination of his fingers inside and his mouth on your clit has you hurtling toward that peak so fast it’s almost frightening.

  Your legs are trembling on either side of his head. “Namgyu—” you gasp, looking down at him.

  His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the heated haze in them pushes you closer to oblivion. He looks thoroughly in his element between your thighs, like he belongs there, and the realization that you’re letting him do this, loving that he’s doing this,sends your mind reeling.

  “I’m—” you try to warn him, but coherence fails you as he redoubles his efforts, fingers curling just right inside you to hit a spot that makes you see stars, tongue flicking faster over your clit.

  It’s too much. You shatter with a cry, your climax crashing over you in a white-hot wave. Your thighs clamp around his head despite his earlier admonition, and you feel him groan against you in response, but he doesn’t let up. He carries you through it, lapping at you as you spasm and arch off the couch. Your hand in his hair tightens, likely painfully, but he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering and pushing at his head, the overstimulation turning sharp.

  He relents then, gently removing his fingers and placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh as your body continues to quake. You can hardly breathe, much less form a sentence. An intense flush covers you from face to chest, your skin damp with sweat. You’re pretty sure you just saw heaven for a second there.

  Namgyu sits back on his heels, wiping the glistening wetness from his chin with the back of his hand. He looks incredibly self-satisfied, the bastard. But you can’t even summon the will to knock that smug grin off his face because you’re still floating.

  When you finally manage to catch your breath, you croak out, “Holy shit…”

  He laughs, low and pleased. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  You manage a weak glare that probably looks more like awed gratitude than irritation. “Don’t—don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”

  He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, to your surprise, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your mound, almost… sweetly. Your heart skips at the gentleness of it. Maybe he’s more affected by this than he’s letting on.

  You’re more affected by him than you’d like to admit. Because as the haze of climax slowly clears, the reality sets in. You just came harder than ever in your life from Namgyu’s mouth. And now he’s looking up at you, hair disheveled from your fingers, lips swollen and glistening with your arousal, and he’s… beautiful. Ruggedly, sinfully beautiful. The thought shakes you.

  He moves to stand, and in a daze, you sit up, legs still feeling like jelly. Your dress is still bunched around your waist, breasts exposed, and you start to pull it back up, suddenly self-conscious. But Namgyu stops you with a hand on your knee.

  “Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “I’m not done looking at you.”

  The way he says it sends a flicker of renewed arousal through you. You should be spent, utterly satisfied. And you are, in one sense. But seeing the bulge straining against his jeans, knowing he’s hard and aching and that you can do something about it, stirs your own hunger back to life.

  He’s done this incredible thing for you, no one can say Namgyu doesn’t give as good as he boasts. And now, surprisingly, you want to return the favor. Not out of obligation, but because the idea of making him unravel like you just did is suddenly very, very appealing.

  Maybe it’s also because a part of you still wants to wipe that cocky grin off his face, and what better way than to have him at your mercy for a change?

  You reach for him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He raises an eyebrow as you tug him closer. “Your turn,” you say, voice still a bit shaky but gaining strength with each word.

  Namgyu blinks. “What, you gonna suck my dick out of gratitude?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a flicker of genuine surprise and desire in his eyes.

  You flush. “Gratitude? No. Consider it… payback.” You force a smirk. “Unless you’re all talk and no stamina?”

  He laughs, a genuine warm sound that rumbles through his chest. “Oh, I’ll show you stamina.”

  But as he starts to undo his belt, you stop him, batting his hands away. “I got it.”

  He lets you, curious, as you rise onto unsteady knees on the couch and push his leather jacket off his shoulders. He shrugs out of it and tosses it aside, then grabs the back of his t-shirt and yanks it off in one fluid motion, clearly eager to shed clothes. You drink in the sight revealed: lean muscle, a scatter of tattoos across his chest and arms and a few old scars. His skin is warm and smooth except for the roughness of scars and ink.

  You realize you’re outright staring when he smirks. “Like what you see?”

  You snap back, “Shut up,” but it lacks bite because, yeah, you do like it. Too much. You place your hands on his bare chest, intent on pushing him to sit on the couch so you can straddle him or kneel or something, but he’s not easily guided.

  Instead, Namgyu grabs your hips and flips positions with you, sinking onto the couch and pulling you into his lap in one swift move. You gasp, hands landing on his shoulders for balance. Your bare core is pressed against the rough fabric of his jeans and the hard bulge beneath, and even though your nerve endings are a bit sensitive from your orgasm, the friction makes you suck in a breath.

  He groans softly, hands sliding up your thighs under your bunched dress. “Fuck, you’re so wet… gonna ruin my jeans,” he mutters appreciatively.

  “Then take them off,” you counter.

  His eyes flash with heat. “As you wish.”

  You help, fingers fumbling only slightly as you undo his belt and pop the button on his jeans. The zipper is next, and as you pull it down, his erection strains against black boxer briefs, the tip already gleaming with a damp spot of pre-cum.

  You feel a fresh wave of arousal at the sight and the realization: he got that worked up just from going down on you. The power in that is heady. You reach into the waistband of his briefs and wrap your hand around him, freeing his cock from its confines. He hisses as the cool air hits it.

  Holy hell. He’s big. Not in a way that seems impossible, but definitely enough to command attention. Long, with a slight curve, and girthier than you expected. Your mouth goes a bit dry, not with fear, but anticipation. A flicker of nerves, sure But mostly excitement at the challenge.

  Namgyu watches you pump him slowly, eyes hooded. His chest rises and falls faster now. “Enjoying yourself?” he quips, but it comes out in a strained rasp.

  You smile sweetly. “Actually, yeah.” And to emphasize, you swirl your thumb over the slick head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum around. He inhales sharply, hips twitching.

  “Two can play that game,” he breathes, and suddenly he sits up and captures one of your still-bared breasts in his mouth again, teeth scraping your sensitive nipple unexpectedly. You cry out, pleasure laced with a bit of overstimulation pain, and arch against him. He soothes it with his tongue, then pulls back with a self-satisfied look.

  “You distract me, I distract you,” he says smugly.

  Your eyes narrow playfully. “Fine.”

  You slide off his lap to the floor, kneeling between his spread legs. The position reversal from earlier is not lost on either of you. He looks genuinely stunned for a second, maybe not having expected you to go this far. But he recovers with a grin.

  “If you wanted to get on your knees for me, all you had to do was ask,” he taunts.

  “You talk way too much,” you mutter.

  “Make me shut up, then,” he challenges.

  So you do. By wrapping your hand around the base of his cock and leaning forward to take the tip into your mouth. That shuts him up real fast.

  “Ah, fuck—” he curses, head tipping back as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of him. His hand flies to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, as if to convince himself this is real.

  Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, sliding your lips down his shaft as far as you can comfortably go. He’s thick, stretching your mouth wide, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you pull back.

  “Jesus, (Y/N)…” he groans. The sound of your name in that ragged tone sends a thrill through you. Usually he calls you princess or just hurls insults, but the way he says your actual name now, like a prayer or a curse, spurs you on.

  You begin a steady rhythm, bobbing your head, taking him a little deeper each time until the tip nudges the back of your throat and you have to ease up. Your hand works in tandem, stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and you use your other hand to gently cup his balls. He curses again, a litany of “shit, fuck, yeah” spilling from his lips.

  Namgyu is not quiet, he lets you know exactly how good it feels with those filthy words and deep, throaty groans that only make you wetter. He tries to watch you, propping himself on an elbow to gaze down, but one particularly hard suck makes his eyes roll back and he collapses against the couch with a strangled moan.

  The taste of him and the musky scent envelops your senses. You never particularly enjoyed giving head with your ex. It always felt like a chore because he never reciprocated. But this… this feels powerful. You’re driving Namgyu absolutely wild. Him, who always acted like nothing fazed him.

  You hum around his length, and he actually whimpers, his grip on your hair tightening. “Fuck, baby, you keep doing that—” He cuts himself off, chest heaving.

  The pet name slips out and surprises both of you. You feel his thigh muscles tense under your hand as if he’s bracing for you to tease him about it.

  Instead, you double down, sucking even harder and then releasing him with a lewd pop to catch your breath, pumping him with your fist. “Keep talking like that and I might think you like me or something,” you tease breathlessly, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

  Namgyu lets out a breathy chuckle, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Don’t get it twisted,” he pants, though his hand is petting your hair almost affectionately now. “I just really, really like your mouth.”

  “To think earlier you said I talked too much,” you quip, then lick around his head again, focusing on that sensitive spot just under the crown.

  He swears, hips bucking a little. “Shit— okay, fine, shutting up.”

  You smile, victorious, and take him back in, bobbing faster now. His breathing grows ragged, and you can tell he’s getting close. His thighs tremble on either side of you.

  “(Y/N)… I’m gonna…” He grits out, a warning.

  You should pull back and finish him with your hand, or ask where he wants to come. But a streak of recklessness, or perhaps generosity, makes you want to take it all the way, consequences be damned. You want to taste him, to swallow his cockiness literally and figuratively.

  So you don’t slow. You keep going, slurping and sucking, pumping the base with a twist of your wrist the way some instinct tells you he’ll like.

  With a hoarse shout, Namgyu comes undone. He spills hot and salty into your mouth in spurts, and you do your best to swallow quickly, but some still trickles past your lips. You keep milking him until he’s empty, his body shuddering with aftershocks, a string of curses and your name tumbling from his lips.

  Finally, you release him, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth, catching the bit that escaped. Namgyu is panting, head thrown back, one arm over his face. He looks thoroughly debauched and utterly spent.

  Pride swells in your chest. You did that. Little Miss Uptight made the king of sleaze fall apart.

  As the high of the moment begins to settle, an uncertain quiet envelops the room. You slowly rise from your knees, your own legs screaming from the position, and sit on the couch next to him. You’re hyper-aware of your disheveled state. Dress still down around your waist, breasts out, hair a mess, lips swollen. He’s not any better. Jeans open, shirt off, chest glistening with sweat.

  Your mind races to process the sheer insanity of what just happened. A half hour ago, you were at each other’s throats. And now…

  Namgyu is the first to break the silence. He lifts his arm from his face, turning to look at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Sated, yes, but there’s something softer, almost perplexed in his eyes.

  “That,” he says slowly, voice rough from groaning, “was…”

  You tense, wondering if he’s about to ruin it by saying something cruel or crass.

  “…fucking amazing,” he finishes with a faint, almost incredulous laugh.

  You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, then manage a smirk. “Yeah, it was alright.”

  He barks a laugh at your nonchalance. “Alright, she says. The way you were moaning, I’d say it was a bit better than alright.”

  Now that the deed is done, your reflexive banter returns to cover up the weird vulnerability creeping in. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was thinking of someone else the whole time.”

  He grins, rolling his head to face you fully. “Liar.” His hand comes up, and for a second you think he might touch your face. But he hesitates, then smirks and flicks your exposed nipple instead. “And cover up. Not that I mind the view, but you’ll catch cold or some shit.”

  You swat his hand away, cheeks heating, and quickly pull your bra and dress back up over your chest. “Ever the gentleman,” you quip.

  He zips up his jeans, not bothering with the belt yet. An awkward beat passes as you both adjust yourselves, reality slowly seeping back in. The air smells of sex and sweat and weed, a pungent reminder of what happened.

  Your mind starts to chase implications: what now? Do you just… go home? Do you say thank you? God, that would be weird. This was transactional in a sense, but also not. It felt… personal, in ways you’re not prepared to face yet.

  Namgyu clears his throat, seeming to sense your sudden tension. “So,” he drawls, attempting nonchalance, “this definitely beats going to the club, huh?”

  A startled laugh escapes you. “Yeah,” you admit, “the club would have to be pretty damn special to top this.”

  He flashes a lazy grin. “I mean, we could probably charge people to watch next time. Might make more than I do dealing in a night.”

  You roll your eyes, but can’t help a small smile. “In your dreams, Namgyu.”

  He waggles his eyebrows. “Could be fun. But fine, I’ll keep this private show just for me.”

  The implication that there might be a next time hangs in the air. You should shut that down. This was a one-time lapse in judgment, right? Brought on by weed and weird circumstances. Tomorrow, you’ll both go back to hating each other. That’s the safe assumption.

  Yet, a treacherous part of you isn’t entirely sure you want it to be a one-time thing. Not after discovering what lies beneath all that bickering, a chemistry so intense it scorched you both.

  You stand up on slightly unsteady legs, smoothing your dress and searching for your discarded panties. You spot them half under the coffee table and bend to pick them up, wincing at the slight ache between your thighs. Namgyu definitely did a number on you.

  As you step into your underwear and right yourself, Namgyu has also stood, pulling on his t-shirt again. You catch each other’s eyes and then quickly look away, both of you seemingly unsure how to navigate this new terrain.

  The awkwardness is starting to creep in. You hate it. After everything, returning to being strangers enemies feels wrong. But you’re not about to get all sappy and ask him what this means or any of that nonsense. Instead, you latch onto practical matters.

  “You still gonna drive me home?” you ask, your tone a bit more snappy than intended. Defense mechanism, fully engaged.

  He runs a hand through his mussed hair, giving you a sideways look. “Yeah… of course.”

  He grabs his jacket and keys from where they ended up, while you retrieve your purse and phone which somehow got knocked to the floor in the fray.

  As you slip on your heels that you’d kicked off at some point, you become hyper-aware of the silence. A million thoughts swirl in your head. What will it be like tomorrow? Next week? Can you really act like nothing happened? Do you want to?

  Should you say something? Like, set a rule or…?

  Before you can decide, Namgyu speaks up, his tone oddly serious. “Hey.” He steps closer, standing in front of you. You clutch your purse strap, steeling yourself and meeting his gaze.

  He actually looks a bit nervous, which is a new look on him. “About… all this,” he begins, gesturing vaguely at the couch and you. “We’re cool, right?”

  It’s almost endearing, how unsure he sounds. You realize he might be worried you’re going to freak out or regret it and make things weird for Subong or something.

  You force what you hope is a reassuring smirk. “As cool as we ever were.”

  He gives a small huff of laughter. “Not saying much. But yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, an unusual bashfulness creeping in. “I mean… we don’t have to tell him. Obviously.”

  “Oh god, no,” you say quickly, mortified at the very thought. “We take this to our graves.”

  “Good,” Namgyu says, though something in his face twitches. Disappointment? You can’t tell. He recovers with a cocky grin. “Though if he ever found out, at least he’d know his sister isn’t as uptight as she acts.”

  You swat his arm, but lightly. “Shut up.”

  He laughs and heads to the door, pulling it open and gesturing for you to go ahead. “After you.”

  Well, at least he’s not a total asshole post fucking, you think dryly. You step out into the hallway, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat inside that apartment. As you pass him, you feel his hand lightly brush your lower back in a way that’s oddly protective, but it could have been accidental.

  The walk down to his car is quiet. Your body feels heavy, sated, a pleasant hum in your veins. Namgyu unlocks his beat-up car with a click, and you slide into the passenger seat. He gets in the driver’s side and for a moment, you just sit there. The car smells faintly of him, plus a bit of weed. You wonder if the scent of sex clings to you both.

  When he starts the engine, a music track comes on. Some EDM thing with a driving bass. He quickly turns the volume way down to a background thump. Neither of you seem inclined to blast music right now.

  As he pulls out and heads toward your part of town, you find yourself stealing glances at his profile in the passing streetlights. He looks calm, maybe a bit tired. You suddenly recall the way he looked between your legs, concentrated and feral, and you flush, facing forward again.

  Say something, you urge yourself. Anything to cut the tension. But small talk feels ridiculous after what you’ve done.

  In the end, it’s Namgyu who speaks, just as you’re almost halfway. “So… your first time, huh?”

  You almost choke. “Wh— excuse me?”

  He clarifies, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually out the open window. “Getting head. That was your first.”

  “Oh.” You bite your lip. “Uh, yeah.”

  He glances at you, a hint of a proud smirk on his lips. “Glad I could be of service.”

  You manage a huff. “Way to ruin it, jerk.”

  He frowns. “That’s not—” He stops, sighs. “I’m just saying. I’m glad it was me.”

  That admission hangs in the air, far more intimate than the crude talk before. You turn your face to the window, hoping the darkness hides the way your cheeks burn yet again. There’s that softness from earlier creeping in, threatening to make this more than just a sleazy hook-up story.

  “Don’t let it get to your head,” you murmur, trying to keep your tone light. “Just because you gave me an orgasm or two doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends or something.”

  He is quiet for a moment, and you worry you’ve offended him. But when you peek over, he’s smirking lightly. “Orgasm or two, huh? So I set a high bar. Whoever comes after me’s got their work cut out.”

  Whoever comes after… The idea of someone else, someone not him touching you should be a comforting thought because obviously you won’t do this with him again. You’ll eventually meet a nice guy, have normal sex, maybe they’ll be generous lovers too. That’s what you want… right?

  So why does picturing anyone else down there make you feel oddly… empty?

  “Yeah, well,” you say carefully, “maybe no one will have to try. I might just swear off guys entirely after tonight. Retire at my peak.”

  He actually looks almost insulted. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  You can’t help it. You burst out laughing. “You idiot. I meant the opposite.”

  His grin returns. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.”

  You shake your head, but a smile tugs your lips. “Fine. Congratulations, Namgyu, you’ve officially ruined me for other men. Happy?”

  He taps the wheel in a little drum fill, clearly pleased. “Very.”

  The rest of the drive is mostly quiet, but not painfully so. You both seem lost in thought. Soon, he’s pulling up to your house. It’s late and the lights are off.

  Namgyu parks and stops the engine. You hesitate, hand on the door handle. This might be the weirdest part yet, saying goodbye.

  “So…” you begin awkwardly, turning to him. “Thanks for the ride. And… uh…”

  He raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And… uh…?”

  You groan. “Don’t make it weird.”

  He chuckles. “Alright. I won’t say ‘it was a pleasure’ then, even though it was.”

  You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Good night, Namgyu.”

  You push open the door and step out, eager to escape before anything more can be said to muddle your brain.

  Just as you’re about to close the door, he calls your name. You lean down, looking at him questioningly through the open car door.

  His face is partially in shadow from the streetlight, but you can see he’s serious. “Don’t forget… still taking this to the grave, yeah?”

  You nod firmly. “Absolutely.”

  He nods back. But you think you catch a flash of something like regret in his eyes before he masks it. Maybe you imagined it.

  Without another word, you close the door gently and head up the path to your house. You don’t look back, but you hear his car start up and drive off as you reach your door.

  Inside, the house is silent. You tiptoe to your room, not bothering with more than kicking off your heels and dropping your purse. You collapse on your bed, every muscle in your body relaxing into the mattress.

  The night’s events replay behind your eyelids. Already, it feels a bit like a dream or something you might have hallucinated. But the aches and tingles in your body are proof it was real.

  As you drift off to sleep, one last thought goes through your mind: you’re definitely not telling Subong. But lying here, sated and warm, you’re also definitely not regretting a damn thing.

  And that might be the most confusing part of all.

[twjournals]

Hostage

Namgyu x female reader

You almost made it out. warnings: depictions of domestic abuse, emotional manipulation, substance abuse, threats of self-harm.

  The cardboard box in your hands felt heavier than it should have, weighted down with the finality of what you were doing. Three years of your life packed into boxes, taped shut, labeled in your careful handwriting. Books. Kitchen stuff. Clothes. Each word a small obituary for the life you’d tried so hard to build here.

  The apartment was eerily quiet except for the sound of tape being pulled and torn, the rustle of newspaper as you wrapped the few fragile things worth saving. It had taken you four hours to pack everything that mattered, and your back ached from bending over boxes, your fingers raw from the cardboard edges.

Namgyu had been gone since yesterday. He stormed out after another fight that had escalated too far, left you with a split lip and the growing certainty that this couldn’t continue. You’d spent the morning calling in sick to work, your voice still hoarse from screaming. Your boss had bought the excuse about food poisoning, but you could hear the concern in her voice when she told you to take care of yourself.

  If only it were that simple.

  You’d waited until you were sure he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. His pattern was predictable: fight, leave, drink himself into oblivion, maybe get into another fight with strangers who didn’t know to stay away from him when he got like this. Usually he’d be gone for at least twenty-four hours, sometimes longer if he passed out at some friend’s place or ended up in jail for the night.

  The thought of him in jail should have worried you. Six months ago, it would have. You would have been calling every precinct in the city, bailing him out, making excuses to his boss when he didn’t show up to work. But now? Now you just felt relieved at the idea of a locked door between you and him.

  He’d come back tomorrow or the next day, bruised and sorry and full of promises that meant nothing anymore. The same fucking script every time. “Baby, I’m sorry. I was drunk. You know I love you. I’ll never do it again.” And like an idiot, you’d believed him. Over and over and over until the words lost all meaning.

  But this time, you wouldn’t be here when he returned.

  The bedroom felt smaller with half the furniture missing, your absence already carved into the space like a wound. You’d taken only what was yours, left behind anything that felt contaminated by what you’d become together. The bed where he’d held you down when you tried to leave during arguments. The mirror that had reflected your face, swollen and tear-streaked, too many times to count. The chair in the corner where you’d sit and wait for him to calm down, where you’d learned to make yourself small and quiet until the storm passed.

  Your best friend had offered to help you pack, but you’d turned her down. How could you explain the shame of it? How could you tell her that you’d let it get this bad, that you’d stayed this long? She’d never understand what you saw in Namgyu anyway. “He’s bad news,” she’d said after meeting him the first time. “There’s something off about him.”

  You’d defended him then. Told her she didn’t know him like you did, that he was sweet when it was just the two of you. That he’d had a hard childhood, that he just needed someone to love him the right way.  What a fucking joke that had turned out to be.

  You were sealing the last box when you heard his key in the lock.

  “Fuck,” you whispered, heart immediately hammering against your ribs. The sound of that key still made your body react like a startled animal, even when things were good between you. Even when he came home sober and sweet and apologetic.

  He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. The sun was still up, bars weren’t even open. It was barely three in the afternoon, and he’d left yesterday evening. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You’d planned this down to the minute, had everything timed perfectly.

  “Baby?” His voice carried through the apartment, slurred and rough. The sound made your stomach clench with familiar dread. Still drunk, then. Or drunk again. “Baby, where the fuck are you?”

  You stood frozen in the bedroom, surrounded by boxes and the evidence of your escape attempt. Maybe if you stayed quiet, if you didn’t answer, he’d think you were out. Maybe he’d just grab some clothes and leave again.

  “I know you’re here,” he called, and you could hear him moving through the living room. Heavy footsteps, unsteady. Something crashed, probably the lamp you’d left on the side table. The sound of glass shattering echoed through the apartment. “Your shitty car’s outside.”

  Your hands were shaking as you tried to think. The fire escape was too far, and he’d hear the window. The front door was the only way out, but he was between you and freedom now. You were trapped, and he was drunk, and history had taught you that this combination never ended well.

  More crashing from the kitchen. Probably throwing open cabinets, discovering the empty shelves. You could picture his face when he realized what you’d done. The way his features would twist with rage and hurt and that particular brand of possessive fury that made him dangerous.

  Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer. You could hear him breathing hard, muttering to himself. Words you couldn’t quite make out but recognized the tone of. He was working himself up, getting angrier with each step.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  You heard him in the kitchen, probably seeing the empty cabinets, the missing appliances. Your coffee maker was gone, the good knives, the blender he’d bought you for you last year. All of it packed away in boxes, ready to start over somewhere he couldn’t find you.

His voice was getting louder, more aggressive. You knew that tone. It meant broken dishes and holes in walls and your wrists pinned above your head while he told you exactly what he thought of your attempts to leave him. It meant hours of screaming and crying and him blocking every exit until you promised you weren’t going anywhere.

  “Baby!” The bedroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall, and there he was.

  He looked like absolute hell. His left eye was swollen shut, purple and grotesque. A cut across his cheekbone was still seeping blood, and his lip was split so badly you could see the white of his teeth through it. His knuckles were raw and bloody, skin torn open like. There was a bruise across his ribs that looked fresh, dark purple spreading across his pale skin.

No shirt, jeans unbuttoned and hanging low like he’d undressed in a hurry. His hair was matted with what looked like dried blood, and there were scratches down his neck that definitely wasn’t from fighting some random guy at a bar.

  He’d been with someone else. You could smell perfume on him, something cheap and cloying that made your stomach turn. Lipstick smeared across his collarbone, barely visible but there if you knew where to look.

  “Jesus Christ, Namgyu. What happened to you?”

  His good eye took in the boxes, the half-empty room, your guilty face. You watched the realization hit him like a physical blow, watched his expression change from confusion to hurt to rage in the span of seconds.

  “No,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. His voice was raw, like he’d been screaming. “No, no, no, you’re not—” His voice broke, and suddenly he looked younger, more fragile. “You can’t fucking leave me.”

  “Namgyu—”

  “Don’t.” He stepped into the room, and you instinctively backed toward the window. The movement was automatic, learned from months of reading his moods, his body language. “Don’t you fucking dare say my name like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to break up with me. Like you’re about to destroy my whole fucking life.” He was crying now, tears cutting tracks through the dried blood on his face. “Where are you going? Where the fuck do you think you’re going to go?”

  “I found a place—”

  “What place? With who?” His voice was getting higher, more frantic. 

“With that bitch of a friend of yours? She’s been trying to turn you against me since day one.”

  “She has nothing to do with this.”

  “Bullshit. This is exactly the kind of shit she’d put in your head. ‘He’s no good for you, honey. You deserve better.’” His impression of your friend was cruel, mocking. “She’s just jealous because she can’t keep a man for longer than five minutes.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  “I’ll talk about her however the fuck I want.” He stepped closer, and you could smell the alcohol on him now. Not just beer. Whiskey, maybe vodka. The kind of drunk that made him mean. “She doesn’t know what we have. She doesn’t understand us.”

  “We don’t have anything, Namgyu.” The words felt like pulling glass from your throat. “Not anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” His face crumpled like a child’s. “That’s not fucking true. We love each other. We’re supposed to be together forever, remember? You promised me forever.”

  You had promised him that. Two years ago, lying in bed after making love, both of you drunk on wine. You’d traced patterns on his chest and whispered about the future like it was something you could control.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted, but at least it came out. “I can’t keep living like this.”

  “Like what?” He was getting agitated again, pacing back and forth in the small space. “What did I do? Tell me what I fucking did.”

  “You know what you did.”

  “The fight? That was an accident. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was high, I was angry about work, I wasn’t thinking straight—”

  “It wasn’t an accident.” The words felt like a confession. Like admitting to yourself what you’d been denying for months. “You held me down, Namgyu. You wouldn’t let me leave the room.”

  “I was trying to make you listen—”

  “You hurt me.” You touched your lip, still tender from where it had split against your teeth when he’d grabbed your face. “You’ve been hurting me for months, and I’m done pretending it’s okay.”

  His face went through another series of changes. Hurt, anger, desperation, calculation. You could practically see him cycling through his usual strategies, trying to figure out which one would work this time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll quit drugs too. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me.” The words tumbled out in a rush, practiced and hollow. “Please, baby. Please don’t do this to me.”

  You’d heard this before. The promises, the tears, the desperate bargaining. It always sounded so sincere in the moment. And for a while, things would get better. He’d be sweet again, careful with you, like he was trying to prove something. He’d bring you flowers and cook dinner and hold you like you were made of glass.

But it never lasted. It couldn’t last, because the problem wasn’t the drinking, the drugs or the anger or the stress from work. The problem was deeper than that, something fundamental about who he was and how he saw you. You weren’t a person to him. You were a possession, something that belonged to him, and he’d destroy you before he’d let you go.

  “I’ve already decided.” You moved toward the door, but he stepped sideways, blocking your path with his body. He was bigger than you, stronger, and he knew it. “Namgyu, please. Just let me go.”

  “No.” His hand moved to his back pocket, and your blood went cold. You knew what he kept there. Had seen him clean it after fights, had watched him practice with it when he thought you weren’t looking. “I can’t. I can’t fucking let you leave me.”

  The knife was small, nothing fancy. Just the one from your kitchen, the one you used to cut vegetables. But in his shaking hand, it looked deadly. The blade caught the afternoon light streaming through the window, and you couldn’t look away from it.

  “Namgyu, put that down.” Your voice was steady, but inside you were screaming. This was it. This was how it ended. Not with a breakup or a move across town, but with blood on the bedroom floor.

  “You don’t understand.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, staring at the floor instead. The knife trembled in his grip like he was fighting himself, like part of him knew how insane this was. “You don’t understand what happens to me when you’re gone.”

  “Nothing happens to you. You go out, you drink or get high, you come back—”

  “I can’t breathe when you’re not here.” His voice was getting higher, more panicked. “I can’t fucking breathe. I sit in this apartment and I think about you with someone else, and I can’t—I can’t handle it.”

  “So you’re going to threaten me with a knife?” The question came out sharper than you intended, but you were beyond caring about his feelings now. “This is your solution?”

  “I’m not threatening you.” He looked up then, and his eyes were wild, unfocused. The pupils were blown wide, and you realized he wasn’t just drunk. There was something else in his system, something that made him unpredictable in ways alcohol never did. 

“I’m not threatening you, baby. I would never hurt you.”

But the knife was still in his hand, still pointed in your direction. And you were still trapped between him and the wall, your escape route blocked by three feet of desperate, unstable man who thought love meant ownership.

  “Then put it down.”

  “You leave me, I’ll do it.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. Like he was talking about the weather or what to have for dinner. 

  “Right here. You walk out that door, and I’ll do it right fucking here.”

  Your heart stopped. The room went silent except for the sound of your own breathing, too fast and too shallow. “Namgyu—”

  “I mean it.” The knife turned, blade now pointing toward his own chest. The tip pressed against his skin, not quite breaking it but close enough that you could see the indent it left. “You think I’m bluffing? You think I won’t?”

  You stared at him, this man you’d loved, this man you’d tried so hard to save from himself. His face was a mess of tears and blood and desperation, and you could see in his eyes that he meant it. Every word. He’d rather die than let you go, and he’d make sure you watched.

  “You can’t put that on me,” you whispered.

  “I’m not putting anything on you.” His voice was softer now, coaxing. Like he was trying to convince you of something reasonable instead of holding a knife to his own chest. “I’m just telling you what happens if you leave. I’m just being honest about who I am without you.”

  The manipulation was so clear, so textbook, but it worked anyway. Because you could see him doing it. Could see him following through just to prove a point, just to make sure you never forgot what your leaving had cost. And you’d have to live with that for the rest of your life.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “Nothing about this is fucking fair. Nothing about loving you has ever been fair.”

  You took a step toward the door, testing him, and his grip tightened on the knife. The blade pressed harder against his skin, and you saw a thin line of blood appear where the point met his chest.

  “Stop.” You held up your hands, panic rising in your throat. “Stop, okay? Just… just put it down.”

  “You’ll stay?” His voice was small, childlike. Like he was asking for something simple, something easy to give.

The question hung between you like a noose. You looked at him, really looked at him. Broken and bleeding and so desperate that he was willing to die rather than let you go. And you realized that this was what your love had become. This was what you’d created together.

  “If I stay,” you said carefully, each word chosen like you were defusing a bomb, “will you put the knife down?”

  “Promise me.” His voice was breaking again. “Promise me you’ll stay. Say the words.”

  “I promise.” The lie tasted like ash in your mouth, like everything good in you dying at once.

  The knife clattered to the floor, and he collapsed with it. Just fell to his knees like his strings had been cut, sobbing into his hands like a child. You stood there for a moment, watching him fall apart, and felt absolutely nothing.

  This was what rock bottom looked like. This was the end of the road you’d been traveling for three years, the inevitable destination of a love that had curdled into something poisonous and unrecognizable.

You walked over and picked up the knife, your hands surprisingly steady. The blade was warm from his grip, and there was a smear of blood on the tip that made your stomach turn. You set it on the dresser where he couldn’t reach it easily, then sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for him to compose himself.

The silence stretched between you, broken only by his ragged breathing and the sound of traffic outside. Normal life continuing while yours fell apart in a bedroom that smelled like blood and desperation.

  “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, not looking at you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re sick, Namgyu.” The words came out gentler than you felt. “You need help.”

  “I need you.” He looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “I just need you.”

  “No.” You shook your head. “You need a therapist. You need medication. You need to be in a hospital somewhere getting the help I can’t give you.”

  “I’ll change. I swear to God, I’ll change. You can even hit me back. You can hurt me however you want. Just stay.”  The offer made your stomach turn. That he thought your relationship was something that could be balanced out with reciprocal violence. That he thought you wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt you.

  “I don’t want to hit you,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Then what do you want?” He crawled closer, and you forced yourself not to flinch away. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

  What you wanted was to go back in time. To meet him when you were both different people, when his demons were smaller and your boundaries were stronger. You wanted to love him the way you used to, when his intensity felt like passion instead of possession.

But you couldn’t say any of that.

  “I want you to get help,” you said instead.

  “Okay.” He nodded eagerly. “Okay, I’ll get help. I’ll call someone tomorrow.”

    “You’ll do it now.”

    “What?”

  “Call someone right now.” You pulled out your phone. “I’ll help you find a place.” He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see him calculating. Trying to figure out if this was real or just another way for you to leave him.

“You’ll stay if I get help?”

  Another lie balanced on your tongue. Because you knew that even if he got help, even if he got better, you’d never be able to look at him without seeing this moment. Without remembering the weight of that knife in his hand and the look in his eyes when he promised to use it.

  “I’ll stay while you get help,” you said carefully.

  It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was the only one you had. And as he reached for your phone with shaking hands, you started planning your real escape. The one he’d never see coming.

Because love wasn’t supposed to be held hostage.

And you were done being a prisoner in your own life.

[twjournals]

Deliver us from evil

Namgyu x female reader

Your junkie ex-boyfriend pays you an unexpected visit. warnings: graphic depictions of emotional abuse, drug addiction, verbal degradation, non-consensual themes, and toxic, sexually explicit content.

  

The apartment felt hollow without his presence, though you’d never admit that out loud. Not to your parents, not to your pastor, and certainly not to yourself during those late-night conversations with God. The silence was different now, not the comfortable quiet of solitude, but the oppressive kind that seemed to press against your chest and remind you of everything that used to fill this space.

  You knelt beside your bed, the same worn carpet beneath your knees that had cushioned countless prayers over the past three years. The rosary beads felt familiar between your fingers, smooth from use, each one a small anchor in the storm that had become your life. Your parents had given you this rosary back when your biggest worry was whether you’d remember all the prayers correctly.

  That felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Heavenly Father,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the darkness. The words came automatically, a rhythm you’d learned before you could properly tie your shoes. “I come before you tonight with a heavy heart.”

  The prayer felt different now. Before Namgyu, your conversations with God had been simple, gratitude for your family, pleas for good grades, hopes for a future husband who would love you and lead you closer to faith. Now your prayers were messy, complicated things full of contradictions that would make your youth pastor’s head spin.

  You remember you’d met him outside a coffee shop near campus, of all places. He was leaning against the glass door, chain-smoking and handing out glossy flyers for some sketchy club downtown. And your parents had been suspicious from the start. “There’s something about him,” your mother had said after their first meeting, her lips pressed into that thin line that appeared whenever she disapproved of something. “He seems… troubled.”

  But you’d seen something else. Beneath the tired eyes and the way he sometimes fidgeted when he thought no one was looking, you’d seen someone who was searching. Someone who asked the right questions, even if he didn’t have the answers. You’d convinced yourself that was enough, that love could bridge the gap between his searching and your certainty.

“Watch over him tonight, Lord,” you continued, your forehead pressed against your clasped hands. “Keep him safe from harm, from himself, from the darkness that seems to follow him.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on you. Even now, even after everything, you were still praying for him. Still hoping that somehow, some way, he would find his way back to the light you’d tried so desperately to show him.

  The first time you’d seen him use, you’d told yourself it was just marijuana. Everyone experimented in college, right? Even some of the kids from your youth group had tried it, though they’d never admit. You’d prayed about it, asked God to help you guide Namgyu away from substances that clouded his judgment and separated him from divine purpose.

  But marijuana had been just the beginning.

  “I don’t understand,” you’d said to him one night, maybe six months into your relationship. You’d found the small baggie in his jacket pocket while looking for his keys. The white powder inside had made your stomach drop. “Why do you need this?”

  He’d gotten defensive, the way he always did when you asked questions he didn’t want to answer. “You wouldn’t understand,” he’d said, snatching the baggie from your hands. “Your life is perfect. You have your little prayers and your perfect family and your perfect faith. Some of us aren’t so lucky.”

  You’d tried to explain that faith wasn’t about luck, that it was about choice, about opening your heart to God’s love. But Namgyu had looked at you like you were speaking a foreign language, like the words coming out of your mouth were incomprehensible.

  That should have been your first warning. Maybe it was, and you’d just chosen to ignore it.

   “Please, God,” you whispered now, your voice cracking slightly.        

  “Please help me understand why loving him wasn’t enough. Help me understand what I could have done differently.”

  The guilt was the worst part. Your pastor had told you that addiction was a disease, that you couldn’t love someone into recovery. But late at night, when the apartment was too quiet and the absence of his presence felt like a physical ache, you wondered if you’d given up too easily. If you’d prayed harder, loved stronger, been more patient…

  But then you’d remember the last night, the night that had finally broken something inside you that you weren’t sure could be repaired.

  He’d been gone for three days. Three days of unanswered calls and texts, of driving by his usual spots, of calling his few friends who still spoke to him. You’d been sick with worry, imagining him overdosed in some alley or arrested or worse. Your parents had begged you to stay with them, but you’d insisted on staying at the apartment in case he came back.

  When he’d finally stumbled through the door at two in the morning, you’d been so relieved you’d almost cried. Until you’d seen his eyes. Pupils dilated, movements erratic, words slurred and aggressive.

  “Where have you been?” you’d asked, and he’d laughed, a sound devoid of any humor.

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” he’d said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Is there anything to eat in this shithole?”

  You’d smelled the alcohol on his breath, seen the way his hands shook. But what had terrified you most was the stranger looking back at you from his eyes. The Namgyu you’d fallen in love with, the one who’d quoted scripture ironically but with somewhat curiosity, who’d listened to your stories about youth group with affectionate amusement, was gone.

  “I was worried about you,” you’d said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I thought something had happened.”

  “Something did happen,” he’d said, moving closer to you in a way that made your skin crawl. “I realized what a fucking joke this all is. You, me, this whole thing. You think you’re saving me? You think your little prayers and your innocent act make you better than me?”

  The words had stung, but you’d heard them before. What was new was the way he’d grabbed your arm when you’d tried to walk away, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

  “Let go of me,” you’d said, your voice barely above a whisper.

  “Why?” he’d asked, his grip tightening. “Afraid I’ll corrupt your precious purity? Afraid I’ll drag you down to my level?”

  For a moment, you’d seen something in his eyes that had made your blood run cold. A potential for violence that you’d never seen before, a willingness to hurt you that went beyond words. Your heart had hammered against your ribs as you’d realized how alone you were, how far you’d let yourself drift from the people who actually cared about your wellbeing.

  “Please,” you’d whispered, and something in your voice must have gotten through to him because he’d released you suddenly, stumbling backward like he’d been burned.

  “Shit,” he’d said, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I would never…”

  But you’d already seen the truth. You’d seen what he was capable of, what the drugs were turning him into. And you’d realized that all your prayers, all your love, all your desperate attempts to save him had only enabled him to sink deeper into a darkness that was consuming him from the inside out.

  The next morning, you’d found your jewelry box empty and several bills missing from your purse. He’d been gone when you’d woken up, and you’d known with crystal clarity that you couldn’t do this anymore.

  “Give me strength,” you prayed now, your voice steadier than it had been in weeks. “Help me forgive him, and help me forgive myself.”

  The breakup had been messy, painful in ways you hadn’t expected. Not because he’d fought for you, he’d barely seemed to register that you were serious when you’d told him it was over. But because cutting him out of your life had felt like amputating a part of yourself.

  Your parents had been relieved, though they’d tried to hide it. Your mother had made your favorite dinner and sat with you while you’d cried, stroking your hair and whispering that it was for the best. Your father had simply hugged you and said that sometimes loving someone meant letting them go.

  But letting go was easier said than done.

  The apartment still smelled like him sometimes. Cigarettes and that cologne he’d worn, the one that had been too expensive for his budget but that he’d insisted on buying anyway. His comics were still on the shelf, the ones he’d left behind in his hasty departure. You’d thought about packing them up, donating them or throwing them away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

  Maybe some part of you was still hoping he’d come back for them. Maybe some part of you was still hoping he’d come back for you.

  “Help him find peace,” you whispered, finishing your prayer. “Help him find his way back to you, even if it’s not through me.”

  You crossed yourself and rose from your knees, your legs stiff from kneeling. The apartment felt even quieter now, the silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.

  Coffee. You needed coffee, or maybe tea. Something warm to chase away the chill that seemed to have settled in your bones.

  You padded to the kitchen in your bare feet, your pajamas soft against your skin. The routine of making coffee was comforting, measuring out the grounds, filling the pot with water, pressing the button and listening to the familiar gurgle as the machine came to life.

  It was then that you heard it.

  The knocking started soft, almost tentative, like whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t sure they wanted to be there. But it grew more insistent, more desperate, until it became a pounding that echoed through the small apartment.

  Your heart stopped.

  You knew that knock. You’d heard it a thousand times before. When he’d forgotten his keys, when he’d come home late and didn’t want to wake you, when he’d been too high to figure out how to use his key properly.

  “I know you’re in there,” his voice came through the door, muffled but unmistakable. “I can see the light. Just… just open the door, okay? I forgot something. I need to get something.”

  You stood frozen in the kitchen, your hand still on the coffee maker. This was not happening. This could not be happening. Not tonight, not after you’d finally started to feel like you were healing.

  “Please,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “I just need five minutes. I forgot something important.”

  The rational part of your mind, the part that sounded like your mother and your pastor and every self-help book you’d ever read, told you to ignore him. To let him knock until he got tired and went away. To protect yourself from whatever chaos he was bringing to your door.

  But the part of you that had loved him, that maybe still loved him despite everything, wanted to know what he’d forgotten. Wanted to see him, to make sure he was okay, to convince yourself that he was someone else’s problem now.

  “Go away, Namgyu,” you called out, your voice stronger than you felt. “You don’t live here anymore.”

  The knocking stopped for a moment, and you thought maybe he’d listened. Maybe he’d finally developed enough respect for your boundaries to leave you alone.

  Then it started again, harder this time.

  “Don’t be like this,” he said, his voice taking on an edge you recognized. “I’m not asking for much. Just let me get my stuff and I’ll leave. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  “You already got your stuff,” you said, moving closer to the door despite yourself. “You took everything when you left.”

  “I fucking missed something,” he said. “Something important. Something I can’t replace.”

  You pressed your forehead against the door, trying to steady your breathing. Through the peephole, you could see him swaying slightly, his hair disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been sleeping in them. Even in the dim hallway light, you could see the familiar signs, the restless energy, the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, the slight tremor in his hands.

  He was high.

  “What did you forget?” you asked, though you weren’t sure why you were engaging with him at all.

  “Just… something,” he said, and you could hear the desperation creeping into his voice. “Look, I know you hate me, okay? I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I’m not asking for forgiveness here. I’m just asking for five minutes to get something that belongs to me.”

  “Everything that belongs to you is already gone,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction. “I don’t have anything of yours.”

 “You’re lying,” he said, and his voice was getting louder now, more agitated. “You’re fucking lying and you know it. Just open the goddamn door!”

  The coffee maker beeped behind you, signaling that your coffee was ready. The sound seemed obscenely normal, ridiculously domestic, in the face of the chaos brewing outside your door.

  “Stop yelling,” you said. “You’re going to wake up the neighbors.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the neighbors,” he said, and you could hear him pacing now, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. “I don’t give a shit about anything except getting what’s mine.”

  This was the Namgyu you’d learned to fear, the one who emerged when the drugs took hold and stripped away everything that had made him human. The one who’d grabbed your arm that last night, who’d looked at you like you were an obstacle to be removed rather than a person he’d claimed to love.

  “Please don’t make me call the police,” you said, though you weren’t sure you’d actually do it.

  “Call them,” he said, and you could hear the bitter laugh in his voice. “Call them and tell them what? That your junkie ex-boyfriend is asking for his stuff back? That’ll go over real well.”

  You closed your eyes, trying to think. Every instinct you had was screaming at you to keep the door closed, to wait until he got tired and left. But you also knew Namgyu well enough to know that he could be incredibly persistent when he wanted something. He’d stand out there all night if he had to, pounding on the door and yelling until someone called the police anyway.

  “What did you forget?” you asked again.

  “Just… let me in and I’ll show you,” he said. “I promise I’ll be quick. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

  His promises had been worthless for months now, but there was something different in his voice. Something that sounded almost like the old Namgyu, the one who’d listened to your dreams about the future.

  “You’re high,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m fine,” he said, but you could hear the lie in his voice. “I’m totally fine. Just let me in.”

  The pounding started again, more desperate now. You could hear him pressing his whole body against the door, could feel the vibration through the wood.

  “Please,” he said, and his voice broke completely. “Please, I’m begging you. I know I don’t deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but I’m begging you. Just five minutes.”

  And then, to your horror, you heard something that made your resolve crumble completely.

  He was crying.

  Not the angry, frustrated tears of someone who wasn’t getting their way, but the broken, desperate sobs of someone who had reached the end of their rope. Through the door, you could hear him slide down to the floor, could hear the way his breathing hitched between sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I ruined everything. I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But please, please just let me get this one thing.”

  Your hand was on the deadbolt before you’d consciously decided to move. Every rational thought in your head was screaming at you to stop, to think about what you were doing, to remember why you’d ended things in the first place.

  But the sound of his crying was breaking something inside you, cracking open the careful walls you’d built around your heart over the past month.

  The deadbolt clicked open, and you heard him scramble to his feet. You undid the chain lock with shaking hands, your mind still not quite believing what you were doing.

  When you opened the door, the sight of him nearly brought you to your knees.

  He looked terrible. Worse than you’d ever seen him. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, his hair greasy and unkempt. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch. They were hollow, desperate, with the glassy shine that meant he was definitely under the influence of something stronger than alcohol.

  He’d lost weight, you realized. His cheekbones were more prominent, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a cut on his lip that looked recent.

  “Jesus, Namgyu,” you whispered, and he flinched at the sound of his name.

  “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was hoarse from crying. “Thank you for letting me in.”

  He stepped past you into the apartment, and you caught a whiff of his scent, unwashed clothes, cigarettes, and something chemical that made your stomach turn. This wasn’t the Namgyu you’d fallen in love with. This wasn’t even the Namgyu you’d broken up with.

  This was someone else entirely.

  “What did you forget?” you asked, closing the door behind him but leaving it unlocked. You needed to be able to get him out quickly if things went south.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” he said, already moving toward the bedroom. “Just… just give me a minute to look around.”

  “Namgyu, wait,” you said, but he was already disappearing down the hallway.

  You stood in the living room, your heart hammering against your ribs, listening to the sounds of him moving around in what used to be your shared bedroom. You could hear drawers opening and closing, the sound of things being moved around.

  What could he have possibly forgotten? You’d been meticulous when he’d moved out, making sure every item of his clothing, every book, every random possession had been packed up and removed. You’d even found things you’d forgotten were his, a phone charger, a coffee mug, a book of poetry that had been tucked behind your dresser.

  The coffee maker beeped again, reminding you that your coffee was getting cold. Almost without thinking, you moved to the kitchen and poured two cups, one for you, one for him. It was automatic, muscle memory from hundreds of mornings spent sharing coffee before he’d started his downward spiral.

  You’d just finished adding cream to his cup the way he liked it when you heard him coming back down the hallway. You turned to face him, the two mugs in your hands, and immediately knew that something had changed.

  His eyes were different now. Not just high, but dark in a way that made your skin crawl. There was something predatory in his gaze, something that hadn’t been there when he’d been begging at your door just minutes ago.

  “Find what you were looking for?” you asked, your voice carefully neutral.

  He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze flicking between your face and the coffee mugs in your hands. Then, slowly, he smiled.

But it wasn’t a nice smile.

  He didn’t answer your question. Instead, he moved toward you with that predatory grace you’d seen before, when the drugs made him feel invincible and dangerous. The space between you seemed to shrink as he approached, his movements deliberate and unsettling.

  Without warning, he reached out and grabbed one of the coffee mugs from your hands, his fingers deliberately brushing against yours. His skin was clammy and cold, and you instinctively pulled back from the contact.

  You watched in growing alarm as he lifted the mug to his lips, took a long sip, and then immediately spat the hot liquid across your kitchen floor. Coffee splattered against the cabinets, dark stains spreading across the white surfaces you’d scrubbed clean just yesterday.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, staring at the mess he’d created.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, that unsettling smile never leaving his face. “Tastes like shit,” he said, dropping the mug carelessly onto the counter. “When did you start making coffee this shitty? You used to make it strong, the way I liked it.”

  “It’s late, and I don’t make coffee for you anymore,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I make it for me.”

  “Right,” he said, drawing out the word like it tasted bitter. “Of course you do.”

  He was already reaching into his jacket pocket, and you felt your stomach drop as you saw what he was pulling out. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, the kind he’d smoked constantly toward the end of your relationship. The kind that had made your apartment reek of smoke and reminded you daily of his deteriorating condition.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” you said immediately, panic rising in your voice. “This is my apartment now, Namgyu. You can’t just—”

  He laughed, the sound harsh and grating in the small space. The cigarette was already between his lips, and he was flicking his lighter with practiced ease. The flame cast dancing shadows across his gaunt face, making him look almost demonic in the dim kitchen light.

  “Can’t I?” he said around the cigarette, his words slightly muffled. 

“Since when do you make the rules?”

  “Since you moved out,” you said, your voice rising. “Since you decided to throw away everything we had for whatever poison you’re putting in your body now.”

  The cigarette was lit now, and he took a long drag, the tip glowing orange in the darkness. When he exhaled, the smoke hit you directly in the face, making you cough and step backward.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” you repeated, more desperately now. “The lease says no smoking. I could get evicted. Please, just—”

  “Shut up, you fucking bitch ” he said, his voice suddenly cold and sharp. “Just shut the fuck up for five seconds.”

  He held up his free hand, palm facing you, and before you could process what he was doing, he pressed the lit end of the cigarette directly into his skin.

  The sizzle was immediate and horrifying. The smell of burning flesh hit you like a physical blow, acrid and nauseating. You watched in horror as his skin blistered and burned, the cigarette tip eating through his palm like it was paper. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes never left yours, watching your reaction with something that looked almost like satisfaction. The pain should have been excruciating, but he might as well have been pressing the cigarette into a piece of wood for all the reaction he showed.

  “You’re insane,” you whispered, backing away from him until your back hit the refrigerator. “You’re absolutely fucking insane.”

  He dropped the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his heel without breaking eye contact. The burn on his palm was already turning an angry red, the skin raised and blistered in a perfect circle.

  “Maybe I am,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Maybe that’s what happens when an ungrateful bitch like you decides I’m not worth saving.”

  “You need to leave,” you said, your voice shaking so badly you could barely get the words out. “Right now. Get whatever you came for and get out, or I swear to God I’ll scream loud enough for the whole building to hear.”

  “Oh, you’ll scream for your neighbors,” he said, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious. “But you won’t scream for your precious God? What happened to all that faith, sweetheart? What happened to loving your enemies and turning the other cheek?”

  The way he said ‘sweetheart’ made bile rise in your throat. It was the same endearment he’d used when you’d first started dating, when he’d whisper it against your ear. Now it sounded like a mockery, like he was throwing your shared intimacy back in your face.

  “Don’t call me that,” you warned, but he was already moving again.

He reached into his pocket with his uninjured hand, his movements deliberate and slow, like he was savoring whatever moment was about to come. When he pulled his hand back out, your world tilted sideways.

  Dangling from his fingers was a pair of underwear. Your underwear. But not just any pair, these were new, delicate, nothing like the practical cotton ones you’d always worn when you were together. These were black lace, with tiny ribbons at the sides, the kind of thing you’d bought after the breakup in some desperate attempt to feel beautiful again.

“Found what I was looking for,” he said, his voice thick with something that made your skin crawl.

  The coffee mug you’d been holding slipped from your numb fingers, shattering against the kitchen floor. The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence, ceramic shards scattering across the linoleum like broken promises.

  “Where did you—” you started, but the words died in your throat.

  The violation of it hit you like a physical blow. He’d been in your bedroom, going through your drawers, touching your most intimate belongings. The thought of his hands on your things, searching through your underwear drawer like he had some right to be there, made you feel sick.

  “Why were you going through my things?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

  His expression changed instantly, the predatory smile vanishing and being replaced by something much darker. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was full of rage.

  “You want to know why?” he snarled, his grip tightening on the underwear. “Because when you were with me, you always wore those fucking granny panties. Those ugly, beige, cotton pieces of shit that covered everything. And now I’m gone and you’re pulling out this sexy lingerie bullshit?”

  He threw the underwear at you, the fabric hitting your chest before falling to the floor among the broken ceramic. You flinched as if he’d struck you, the violation of the gesture making you feel dirty and exposed.

  “Who are you fucking?” he demanded, taking a step closer to you. 

  “Huh? Who’s the bastard who gets to see you in that shit? Some clean-cut Christian boy from your church? Someone your parents would actually approve of?”

  “Nobody,” you said, but your voice came out weak and unconvincing.

  “Bullshit,” he spat. “You don’t buy underwear like that for nobody. You don’t start dressing like a whore unless someone’s paying attention.”

  The word hit you like a slap, and you felt tears starting to burn behind your eyes. This wasn’t the Namgyu you’d fallen in love with. This wasn’t even the broken, desperate man who’d been destroying himself with drugs. This was something else entirely, something cruel and vicious that had taken up residence in his body.

  “Get out,” you said, your voice stronger now. “Get out of my apartment right now.”

  “Or what?” he sneered, kicking at the broken ceramic on the floor. “You’ll call your daddy? Tell him the big bad junkie is being mean to his precious little angel?”

  “Fuck you,” you spat, the words tearing out of your throat before you could stop them. You never cursed, your parents had raised you better than that, but something about his presence in your space was bringing out a side of you that you didn’t recognize.

  “There she is,” he said, his eyes lighting up with sick satisfaction. “There’s the real you. Not the perfect little church girl act you put on for everyone else.”

  “You don’t know shit about the real me,” you shot back, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “The real me got tired of watching you destroy yourself. The real me got tired of making excuses for a pathetic loser who chose drugs over everything else.”

  His face twisted with rage, and before you could react, he grabbed the remaining coffee mug from the counter and hurled it at the wall next to your head. You ducked instinctively as ceramic exploded against the drywall, shards raining down around you.

  “Pathetic loser?” he screamed. “I’m a pathetic loser? You’re the one who’s so desperate for attention that you’re buying slutty underwear the second I’m gone!”

  Without thinking, you grabbed the sugar bowl from the counter and threw it at him. It caught him in the shoulder, white granules scattering across the floor as the bowl shattered.

  “I bought them for me!” you screamed back. “Because for the first time in months, I wanted to feel like a woman instead of a fucking babysitter!”

  “Bullshit!” He was advancing on you now, his burned hand leaving bloody smears on whatever he touched. “You bought them for whoever you’re spreading your legs for now. Some clean-cut asshole who doesn’t know what a manipulative bitch you really are.”

  “You’re insane!” You grabbed a dinner plate from the drying rack and hurled it at his head. He dodged, and it smashed against the refrigerator. “You’re a paranoid, delusional piece of shit who can’t stand the thought that someone might actually be happy without you!”

  “Happy?” he laughed, the sound completely unhinged. “You call this happy? Living alone in this shithole, buying fancy underwear for nobody, pretending like you don’t miss what we had?”

  “What we had was toxic!” you screamed, throwing a fork at him that clattered harmlessly against the wall. “What we had was me enabling your addiction while you stole from me and treated me like garbage!”

  “I never treated you like garbage,” he snarled, grabbing a coffee mug from the counter and slamming it down so hard the handle broke off. “I fucking loved you!”

  “You loved having someone to take care of you!” You were both circling each other now like animals, the kitchen floor littered with broken dishes and spilled coffee. “You loved having someone to clean up your messes and make excuses for you and pretend like everything was fine while you flushed your life down the drain!”

  “That’s not true,” he said, but his voice was less certain now, more desperate. “That’s not fucking true and you know it.”

  “It is true!” you shouted. “And you know what the worst part is? I actually thought I could save you. I thought if I just loved you enough, prayed hard enough, you’d get clean. But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved!”

  “I never asked you to save me!” he screamed, his face contorted with rage and pain. “I never asked for your prayers or your judgment or your perfect little Christian conscience!”

  “Then what did you ask for?” you demanded. “What did you want from me, Namgyu?”

  “I wanted you to love me!” he roared. “I wanted you to fucking love me without trying to fix me! I wanted you to accept me the way I am instead of constantly trying to turn me into someone else!”

  “The way you are is broken!” you screamed back. “The way you are is sick and destructive and—”

  You never got to finish the sentence because suddenly he was across the kitchen, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling your face toward his. His mouth crashed against yours with desperate violence, all teeth and desperation and the taste of cigarettes and something chemical that made you gag.

  You tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong, his fingers twisted in your hair so tightly that moving sent shooting pains across your scalp. His kiss was nothing like the gentle, hesitant kisses from when you’d first started dating. This was possession, domination, an attempt to reclaim something that had never really belonged to him.

When he finally released you, you stumbled backward, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You could taste blood. Whether his or yours, you couldn’t tell.

  The look on his face made your blood run cold. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, but there was something else there now. Something calculating and dangerous that made every instinct in your body scream at you to run.

  “You still taste the same,” he said softly, and the quiet tone was somehow more terrifying than all his screaming had been.

  You stared at him, wide-eyed, stunned into stillness. The world felt off-kilter, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as your back pressed into the edge of the fridge. The ache in your scalp from where he’d yanked your hair hadn’t faded, but it was the look in his eyes that left you shaking, like he’d seen straight through your defenses and found the part of you that still wanted something from him.

  You hated yourself for it.

  “Don’t touch me,” you managed to whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence. “Please, just—just go.”

  But the tears were already falling, hot and heavy and ugly, streaming down your cheeks in uneven lines. You weren’t crying pretty, and you didn’t care. Your nose was running, your lips trembling, your whole body shuddering from the aftermath of the argument and that violent kiss. You could taste him in your mouth, and it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

  He didn’t back away.

  He watched you like you were a movie he’d seen a dozen times, like he already knew how this scene ended. When he stepped closer, you flinched, your hands curling into fists at your sides like you could punch the pain out of the air.

  But you didn’t move. You didn’t stop him.

  Because some sick, buried part of you still remembered what it felt like to be touched by him when things were good. Before the lies. Before the drugs. Before the nights you sat by the window waiting, praying, begging God to bring him home alive.

  That part of you still lived somewhere inside your ribcage. And she wasn’t gone yet.

  “Don’t cry like that,” he said, his voice low, rough, familiar in the way poison is familiar to someone dying slow. He reached up and wiped your cheek with his burned hand, the smell of scorched skin still thick in the air. “It makes me hard.”

  You choked on a sob, horrified at yourself for the way your thighs clenched at his words. Your whole body was betraying you, rewiring itself around him like muscle memory.

  “I hate you,” you breathed, but even you weren’t sure if it was the truth.

  “I know,” he said, stepping even closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You hate me. You miss me. You fucking need me.”

  Before you could protest, before you could gather any coherent thought, he spun you around and shoved you forward until your hips slammed against the kitchen counter. You gasped, your palms bracing against the cool surface, your chest rising and falling with shallow, frantic breaths.

  “I said no—” you started, but the words died the moment you felt his hand between your thighs, bold and possessive like he had every right to touch you. You should’ve stopped him. You should’ve screamed. But instead, you bucked into his hand like your body remembered something your soul wanted to forget.

  “You wore this for someone else?” he growled against your ear, yanking the lace panties down your thighs in one rough motion. “Some loser church boy with?”

  “No,” you whispered, tears falling anew as his fingers traced over your folds with slow, humiliating familiarity. “I wore them for me…”

  “Liar,” he hissed, slapping the inside of your thigh. “Fucking liar. You wore them for attention. You wanted someone to look at you and think, ‘I bet she fucks like a whore when the lights are off.’ Isn’t that right?”

  Your breath hitched. His fingers slipped inside you, two at once, deep and practiced, curling just right as your knees buckled.

  “Namgyu—”

  He growled low in his throat, grabbing a fistful of your hair again and yanking your head back. “Say my name again. Go on. You’re already dripping down my fingers, might as well admit how much you missed this cock.”

  You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood. And still, you didn’t tell him to stop.

  He shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, and a second later, he was pushing into you hard and fast, with no preamble, no mercy, no illusion of tenderness. You gasped, the stretch sharp and unrelenting, your cheek pressed against the cool countertop as he buried himself to the hilt.

  “Still so tight,” he groaned, one hand gripping your waist, the other pressing down on your back to keep you bent for him. “Like your pussy knows it belongs to me.”

  You sobbed again, the shame and arousal mixing in a sickening cocktail that flooded your veins. His thrusts were brutal, punishing, fast. His hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as he used you like a thing, like a possession he’d left behind and come back to reclaim.

  “You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” he sneered, pounding into you harder. “You think some little church boy could make you moan like a slut while crying on your knees?”

  Your mouth opened but no sound came out. He had you folded over the counter like a doll, your hands slipping on the surface as he drilled into you, as he took and took like you owed him every last drop of what was left.

  “Who does this pussy belong to?” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat as he fucked into you deeper.

  You couldn’t answer.

  He squeezed just enough to make your head swim.

  “Say it.”

  “Y-You,” you sobbed, your voice cracked and broken. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

  “Damn right it is.” His voice was like gravel, low and victorious. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck the faith out of you.”

  You came with a violent shudder, biting down on your forearm to muffle the sounds you couldn’t control. The heat, the pain, the degradation, it all blurred into one humiliating wave that crested and crashed over you while he rutted into you from behind like an animal.

  He followed seconds later with a loud, guttural groan, spilling into you with no protection, no hesitation. You felt it. Hot, thick, invasive, and the aftershocks left your body trembling, hollow, used.

  He pulled out slowly, with a satisfied grunt, and you collapsed against the counter like your bones had given out.

  There was silence after that.

  The kind that made you want to rip your own skin off. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

  You heard him adjust his clothes, zip up. Then footsteps. Then the sound of him crouching beside you.

  Something warm brushed your temple.

  A kiss.

  Soft.

  Gentle.

  Mocking.

  “You may not take me back today,” he murmured, his lips ghosting against your skin, “or tomorrow. But I’ll wait. I know you’re too smart to go for someone else…” He paused, and then added, almost sweetly, “Or I’ll end you both.”

  Your breath caught, your body still trembling from everything. Fear, anger, disgust, and something darker still. Something shameful that lived deep inside you, refusing to die.

  When you finally turned to look at him, he was already at the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the black lace underwear, dangling it between two fingers.

  “I’ll take this as a souvenir,” he said with a smirk. “Good night, beautiful. Lock up after me.”

  Then he was gone.

  And you were alone again.

  Broken prayers, shattered dignity, and the smell of smoke still hanging in the air.

[twjournals]

How They React When They Find Out Their One Night Stand Had A Child

Headcannon/Oneshot hybrid 😵😅

Squid Games x F!Reader

Including: The Frontman/Player 001/Hwang In-ho | Player 230/Thanos/ Choi Su-bong | Player 388/Kang Dae-ho | Player 333/Lee Myung-gi | The Recruiter

Description: Years later they bump into you, a past one night stand. But they were not expecting to see a toddler who looks suspiciously like them by your side. Takes place after the squid games.

The Frontman/Player 001/Hwang In-ho

~ He would still recognize you after your one night stand a handful of years ago. He would approach you with a charming smile, but his entire expression would change when he saw a little toddler pop up at your side. He would deftly notice the similarities between him and this little child almost immediately. Especially in the dark hair and eyes.

~ Your awkwardness would also be noted by him, although he wouldn’t necessarily call it out. Instead, he’d be focused on bringing the unusual situation to light.

~ “Well… Is there anything you’d like to tell me, darling?”

~ Within minutes he would feel a responsibility to his child and the mother of that child, despite just learning of said child’s existence. He wouldn’t need to hear your explanations as to why you didn’t reach out to him. Instead, he would be focused on you and your child’s life.

~ What is your living situation? How are you supporting the both of you? Who watches your child when you go to work?

~ And he’d quickly offer solutions to the “obvious problems”. You clearly needed a bigger place to live. And you couldn’t be working full time. He could easily be supporting the two of you financially.

~ You would insist you didn’t need any help. The only thing you would be beholden to accept is the ask to allow him back into his own child’s life.

~ The first time he picks up his child for a day is also the first time he would see your cramped apartment. You could see the slight disapproval on his face, despite his efforts to veil his feelings. It wouldn’t surprise you though. Even from just that one shared night years ago you could tell he was a man of a particular taste.

~ He had curbed talking about taking care of you both, but every time you tried to pay your rent your landlord would insist it was already paid. And he was always offering to watch your child as you went to work.

~ But everytime you came back home, exhausted from a day of working, he would start up again. “Why not take me up on my offer? Wouldn’t you like to spend your days going shopping, sleeping in, and playing with our child? Hm? Doesn’t that sound so much better?”

~ If you ever caved and started letting him fund your simple lifestyle, your willingness to let him in more and more would only serve to bolster his confidence. Soon you would be having people show up who insist they were hired to clean your apartment, private chiefs who have been prepaid to cook your meals for the next month, and even a nanny. Your child would become so spoiled as he bought them intricate, expensive toys and designer clothes they would grow out of within a week.

~ You could try to insist to In-ho you didn’t need any of those things, but he would insist that you do.

~ “Darling, if you don’t have a nanny then who will watch our child while we’re away on our date?”

~ He would eventually start to ask you out nearly every weekend, and soon his gifts started to skew more romantic. Ever since he saw the two of you all those months ago he was working towards this exact outcome; to have the both of you in his life.

Player 230/Thanos/ Choi Su-bong

~ You wouldn’t believe your toddler was fascinated with the very rapper you had hooked up with that resulted in them even existing. And that’s ignoring the fact you definitely had not allowed your toddler to listen to his music. You seriously had no idea who told them about him, but one day after daycare they suddenly had a new obsession.

~ So one day when you were walking down the street it was no surprise when your child spotted the celebrity they were slipping out of your grasp and running in their obsession’s direction. You chased after them, but of course they had an easy time slipping through the many people on the crowded street while you were struggling to make it through the throngs.

~ Thanos was busy signing autographs and taking selfies for the mass of fans surrounding him, but he looked up in interest as the group broke into a chorus of ‘aw’s and ‘so cute’s. Soon he spotted the source of the crowd’s affection. There was a toddler looking up at him with starstruck eyes. He leaned down, waving to them and jokingly asking if they were a fan. 

~ Someone in the crowd joked how similar the two looked, and a few others agreed. He asked the crowd whose child this was, but when no one responded he got a little worried.

~ “Hey kid, where’s your mom?”

~ It was as if you were summoned by the rapper, suddenly popping up in the midst of the crowd to grab your kid. You were out of breath as you picked them up and told them not to run off again. Thanos decided to speak up on his little fan’s behalf, saying “Don’t worry. I kept an eye on them.”

~ As soon as the two of you locked eyes, he finally realized who you were. And who the kid was too. Suddenly the crowd seemed a little claustrophobic for him. And, apparently, for you. You suddenly were ducking through the throngs, trying to leave the awkward situation as quickly as possible. But Thanos followed you easily, just keeping an ear out for the yells of his kid.

~ He managed to shake his fans and find you almost a block over. You were tiredly asking your kid to breathe as they threw a tantrum. He felt a wave of guilt, wondering how exhausted you must be from raising this kid on your own.

~ “Listen to your mom,” he told your kid as he approached the two of you, “You're about to run out of oxygen, kid.”

~ Your kids' eyes lit up as soon as they realized their hero was nearby. But as excited as your kid was, you were equally as nervous by the appearance of Su-bong (or “Thanos” as your kid knew him as). You eyed the tall figure anxiously, waiting to hear what he had to say to you. Somehow you were still unprepared for the very obvious question of why you didn't tell him.

~ You quickly listed off a litany of answers that would often run through your head as you tried to justify your decision. You didn’t really know each other, but even then he didn’t come off as the type of person who wanted kids. He was a celebrity, and you didn't want your kid growing up in the limelight. You didn’t want him to think you were trying to trap him into raising a kid.

~ As soon as you ran out of excuses, Su-bong spoke up and simply asked when would be a good time for him to visit his child. You were a bit taken back. You honestly had always doubted he would want anything to do with his kid, but here he was asking you when he can see them. You told him that weekend should be fine. The two of you exchanged numbers, you gave him your address, and he gave a promise to drop by.

~ Every weekend he would drop by to pick up your kid, and then drop them off by the end of the day. You would listen as they told you all the fun things they did that day. Su-bong obviously immediately spoiled them rotten.

~ One day you were surprised to have Su-bong invite you along. You hesitated at first, but as your child begged you to come you found yourself agreeing to the proposition. Soon, when Su-bong was coming by he was taking you both on some sort of adventure for the day. 

~ Eventually, there was at least one evening a week where Su-bong would come by to take you out to dinner. And he wouldn’t just come by to pick your kid up. Soon you let him stick around your house instead, and the visits expanded well past the weekends. Before either of you realized it, you had become a little family of three.

Player 388/Kang Dae-ho

~ Dae-ho wouldn’t quite believe what he was seeing when there was a little toddler sitting on your hip. He had originally come up to you to say hi, of course remembering you despite it being one fleeting night years ago, but when you turned around and the child came into view he was floored.

~ For a moment he had thought you had simply gotten married and started a family of your own, but as he looked at the child he started to see how much it looked like him. He would be standing in open mouthed shock that you would have to be the one to break the silence, asking him to say something.

~ He would gather his composure after that, introducing himself with a smile and a wave to the child. Your heart would twist a little with guilt as you noticed how easily he could get them to laugh.

~ That laughter is what got you to ask if he wanted to join the two of you for ice cream. He would, of course, immediately accept. It seems the two of them were utterly fascinated by each other, which both broke and mended your heart as you watched the pair.

~ He would scoop on as many gummy bears and m&ms that your kid asked for till the toppings were piled so high they seemed to outweigh the ice cream. You went to pay for the three ice creams, but Dae-ho would quickly pull out his own wallet and cover the costs. You would insist he didn’t have to do that, but he would assure you it wasn’t a problem.

~ Dae-ho had a million questions for you, namely why you hadn’t come to him when you found out you were pregnant, but he knew he could ask those questions eventually. He was currently trying to cram years of missed out interactions into one desert filled outing.

~ You were less than surprised as the sugar high hit them both seemingly at the same time. Soon your child was dragging you both towards the little arcade in the back of the cafe. Dae-ho spent nearly ten dollars in quarters as he attempted time and again to get your child’s choice of stuffed animal out of the claw machine. You momentarily allowed yourself to get swooped up in the fun, trying and failing to beat Dae-ho on one of those strength testers.

~ You both had a shock of awkward reality when your child asked if all three of you could use the photo booth. Of course, there was one thing that would inevitably get you both into the booth: neither of you could say no to your kid.

~ As soon as Dae-ho saw the photos of the three of you crammed into one booth his heart felt as if someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing tight. His child sitting between the two of you with an ice cream stained face and laughing, or the photo of him pulling a face while you and your child laughed, or the smile of his child that looked nearly identical to his own: every tiny photo confirmed one thing for him.

~ He wanted nothing more than to have you both be in his life from this moment onward.

~ You spent longer in the ice cream cafe than you had meant to, and soon the sun was beginning to set and your kid needed to go home to sleep. Dae-ho carried them out to your car, and once again you felt a pang as you noticed how natural all this was for him.

~ When you suggested the three of you hang out again this weekend, he immediately agreed. You thought that was the end of the conversation, but after Dae-ho settled the toddler into their booster he was turning back to you.

~ “So… why didn’t you tell me?”

~ You explained how you didn’t want to pressure him into anything, how you were nervous how he’d react, and after a few years you decided it had been too long. He listened to your explanations, and apologies, with much appreciated patience. You knew it wasn’t a perfect reason, but it was enough for him for now.

~ After that, he was dropping by nearly four or five times a week, and soon enough he was basically a mainstay at your place. The three of you seemed to fall into a new domestic situation with such ease that when Dae-ho asked you out it wasn’t hard to say yes. You seemed to fit perfectly into each other's lives.

Player 333/Lee Myung-gi

~ Myung-gi had spotted you, and your toddler, at the same bookstore he was currently inhabiting. It would take him a moment to realize where he recognized you from, but as soon as he realized it was from a one night stand he re-evaluated the child holding your hand.

~ After some quick math in his head he would realize he could very easily be the father of this child. But why wouldn’t you tell him? At least, he thought, you would contact him for child support. So obviously, it couldn’t be his kid, right?

~ But there was no denying it. The kid was a spitting image of him. As the reality dawned on him, he found his feet unable to move. It was like he was glued to the carpet as shock set in. He was so in his own head he didn’t notice the toddler approaching him.

~ He looked down when he felt a small hand tug on the edge of his shirt. Myung-gi’s mouth went dry as he looked face to face with his own kid. They were looking back with tear soaked cheeks, asking for help. They had somehow lost track of their mom and needed someone to help find her.

~ “Oh… Uh, sure kid.”

~ Myung-gi paused for a moment as the kid reached a pudgy hand up, but he eventually took it in his own. He glanced in the direction he had last seen you, but you were gone. He had the kid walk him back to where they could remember you were last, but of course you weren’t there either.

~ He stifled a sigh as his kid started to cry again, sniffling every few seconds. “It’s alright, we’ll find your mom.” But soon they started to bawl, unable to quell the worry the longer it took. Myung-gi reached down, picking them up with ease. He patted their back awkwardly, not sure at all how to handle this situation, but somehow it worked.

~ He felt some sort of unfamiliar feeling of protectiveness as the child calmed in his arms. He decided to head to the cashier and see if they could make an announcement over the intercom. As he made his way over he would every so often assure the toddler in his arms everything would turn out just fine.

~ As he headed to the front he spotted you already talking with a manager. He could see you were clearly very worried. As soon as he pointed you out your child would immediately start calling for you. The relief flooding your face as you spotted your kid was evident to everyone around you. You rushed over and Myung-gi handed his child over with an unexpected pang of pain. He watched as you wiped away your child’s tears before holding them in a tight hug.

~ “I cannot thank you enough. Thank you so-”

~ As you turned to thank the helpful stranger you would come face to face with the last person you were expecting to see at that moment. Myung-gi cocked an eyebrow at your shocked expression, a move that informed you he knew exactly who’s child that was.

~ “I think we need to talk.”

The Recruiter

~ He spotted you, holding the hands of a child, while he was in the middle of “work”. He normally would go on with his job, but he didn’t want to risk you noticing as he slapped a stranger straight across the face. Even though it was a one night stand you had managed to make quite the impact on him.  Instead, he hurriedly ended the unfinished transaction as the child started to notice the game being played.

~ Your child would be tugging at your hand, and once you glanced in the direction they pointed to you saw the person you least expected to. He waved in your direction, but instead of returning the gesture you picked up your child and hurried up the subway steps.

~ He noticed your odd reaction to seeing him. It made him reevaluate the situation. As he looked closer at the two of you, he started to notice the similarities between him and the child who was currently looking at him over your shoulder as you rushed up the stairs.

~ He would quickly follow you, not letting you get far before he stepped in front of you. He glanced between you and the child, openly putting two and two together. You would feel a tinge of guilt as he finally kept his eyes on you. He waited silently for you to speak up.

~ His tactic would inevitably work, and soon you’d be trying to explain away why you hadn’t gone to find him and tell him. He would notice you trying to keep everything generalized, and would once again glance in the direction of the child in your arms. With an annoyed sigh he would tell you that the two of you could talk about this later. Then he would go on his way and let the two of you go on yours.

~ But later you would receive a text from your old one night stand. “Are you free to talk yet?”. You would stare at the text, debating whether or not to answer. But eventually the guilt would take over and you would respond with a yes.

~ Moments later you would be getting a phone call. You were prepared to explain yourself once more, but instead he wanted to discuss when he could start to see his kid. You were a little surprised. You really weren’t sure if he would be interested or not.

~ Within a few days he was dropping by as your “friend” who was going to hang out for a bit and get to know your child. You tried to give them some space, but you couldn’t stop peaking your head in to see how it was going. You couldn't believe just how similar they looked.

~ Within moments he was feeling a swelling need to protect this little bundle of joy in front of him. As they bobbed around the room, showing him every book and toy in their possession he could feel himself getting more and more attached. Those few hours flew by, and he was already asking you when he could come by again.

~ After a few weeks you got the usual text, expecting it to be asking when he could come see his child. But instead it was asking when you would be free. Between coming by to pick you up for a date or dropping in to visit your kid, he was around quite a bit. Once he started spending nights there he never really left, and without noticing it the three of you became a family.

[twjournals]

SQUID GAME : HOW THEY EAT YOU OUT

➛ warnings. — oral sex (f!receiving) ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ MDNI 18+ ➛ jackie's note. — a bit rushed; my apologies ➛ ft. nam-gyu (124) ‧ thanos (230) ‧ dae-ho (388)

NAM-GYU eats you out like it’s a punishment. as though you did something to piss him off, and this is the (glorious) consequence—laid out beneath him, thighs hooked over his shoulders, his mouth pressed against your cunt. no teasing, nor does he give you any form of affection such as soft kisses, just his tongue swiping up your slit in one broad stroke before his lips latch onto your clit. sucks hard to make you gasp, hands scrambling against the sheets. he smirks, barely giving you a second before diving back in, his fingers spreading you open wider so he can work his tongue even deeper.

he’s messy with it, too. to the point of obscene, really. making sure you hear every wet, lewd sound as he devours you. when he pulls back for air, his mouth is slick, spit and arousal smeared all over his chin. “fuckin’ dripping,” he mutters, more to himself than you, “so easy.” his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you from squirming away. “stay still,” he orders, and when you don’t immediately obey, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, pinning you in place. “didn’t say i was done, did i?”

and then he’s back on you, lapping at your clit, the cold metal of his ring grazing your skin as he presses two fingers inside, stretching you out without warning. the contrast—the warmth of his tongue, the ice of his ring—makes you shudder, a broken whimper slipping past your lips. he groans at that, greedy. fuck, he loves the way you sound. “knew you’d like that,” he taunts, fucking his fingers into you faster, mouth working in tandem.

his free hand moves, sliding up your body, and then he’s pressing those same cold fingers against your lips, smearing your own slick over them. “open,” nam-gyu orders. when you hesitate, he grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. his pupils are blown, his expression somewhere between cruel and wonder. “be good. taste yourself.” you part your lips, and he pushes two fingers inside, pressing down on your tongue. “good girl,” he drawls, before lowering his head again, tongue curling over your clit in quick, ruthless flicks. your moan is muffled around his fingers, eyes rolling back as heat pools low in your belly.

he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble. he chuckles against you, low and mean. “gonna cum for me, baby?” he goads, curling his fingers for emphasis. “go on, then. make a mess.” and when you do, legs trembling, the moan breaking into a choked sob, nam-gyu doesn’t stop. just groans into you, drinking in every last drop, lips and chin wet with it. when he finally pulls away, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, grinning wolfishly down at you. “fuck… look what you made me do,” he muses, glancing down at the dark spot on his jeans. then he leans in, presses a languid, filthy kiss to your mouth, making sure you taste yourself on his tongue. “hope you’re gonna clean that up.”

CHOI SU-BONG eats you out like it’s his favourite pastime (apart from partying and taking drugs… or both) he’s got you spread out on the thin mattress, legs draped over his shoulders, knees shaking, and he’s barely even started. presses an open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another, dragging his tongue along your skin just to hear that little sigh escape your lips. “what, you nervous?” he taunts, looking up at you with that smug little smirk. “c’mon, señorita, i don’t bite—” his teeth scrape ever so lightly at the soft flesh. “—unless you want me to.”

and then he’s in, burying his face between your thighs like a man starved, tongue flicking against your clit before dragging down, teasing at your entrance, humming like he’s savouring the taste. and fuck, that little hum alone sends a jolt through you. he’s talking between licks, of course he is, lips slick and breath warm against your skin. “mhmm so good, fuck— could eat you for days.” then he moans, a low, satisfied sound as his tongue plunges deeper, and the vibrations make your whole body jerk. he’s insufferable, but he’s so good at it. alternates between deep, slow strokes of his tongue and quick flicks over your clit, gauging your every reaction. “that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “feels good, huh?”

you nod, or try to, but he’s already got a hand braced against your stomach, pressing you down, keeping you from arching up too much. su-bong looks up at you again, pupils blown open, mouth shining. “say it,” he drawls, before sucking your clit between his lips, tongue laving over it like he’s savouring something decadent. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans against you, rutting his hips against the mattress. “fuck, you’re killing me,” he pants, but he’s grinning, breathless and wrecked. “gonna let me make you come, baby? bet you’ll look so pretty for me.”

he doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop licking, doesn’t stop anything until you’re shuddering beneath him, crying out as he works you through it, murmuring praises against your skin because he simply can’t help himself. and when you finally go limp, chest heaving, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. “damn,” he exhales, crawling up to kiss you, slow and filthy, making you taste yourself on his tongue. “wanna go again?”

KANG DAE-HO eats you out like he’s got something to prove—not in an arrogant show-off way, but in that eager, wide-eyed, desperate-to-make-you-feel-good way. his big hands are warm, gripping your thighs as he presses tender, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of them, he’s savouring you, like he could do this all night and still not get enough. and when he finally buries his face between your legs, he lets out this quiet, needy moan, his breath stuttering against your skin.

eyes flicking up to meet yours. he’s got that lovesick look on his face, cheeks flushed, lips wet. “is this okay?” when you nod, breathless, he smiles—sweet and a little bashful—and then he’s back at it, tongue flicking over your clit in careful, deliberate strokes, humming softly. he can’t stop making little noises, soft groans and breathy whimpers, like he’s the one getting worked up from this. his grip on your thighs tightens every time you let out a sound, and fuck, when your fingers tangle in his hair and tug—just a little—he practically whines against you, grinding himself into the mattress, he simply can’t help it.

“so good,” voice muffled as he presses his tongue inside, slow and deep. “so fuckin’ good, baby…” he pulls back just to glance up at you again, lips glossy, panting a little. “you—hah—you taste…” he trails off, shaking his head like words aren’t enough. and then he’s right back at it, sucking your clit into his mouth, moaning low in his throat when you buck up against him. thick fingers slide into you next, careful, coaxing, curling just right, and the sound he makes when you tighten around him— “please, wanna feel it—wanna taste you so bad—” he pants, pressing kisses to your thigh between kitten licks, fingers never stopping. and when you do—when you arch off the bed, thighs shaking—dae-ho just groans, holding you through it, whispering sweet praises between kisses, licking you through every aftershock. when he finally pulls away, cheeks flushed, he just grins boyishly up at you. “holy shit,” his voice thick with awe. “can we do that again?”

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[twjournals]

No more apologizing for being horny on main. No more horny jail. We’re horny prison abolitionists. No gods, no masters! Wait. Okay maybe a few masters. Alright but no bars will hold us! No whips and chains will — fuck, hang on, let me start again.

[twjournals]

GOOD ONES

the good ones always go. and when it’s survival over shame— namgyu’s all you can afford.

contains: darkfic. dub/noncon themes. misogyny. harassment. yandere-ish namgyu. smut mentions. suicidal thoughts + attempt (me in the games tbh). 18+

based on a request from @iziiurnamguygirl

you don’t know what it is about you that’s always drawn their eyes. the bad ones.

the loud-mouthed rapper 230 and his rat-faced lackey 124, that is. thanos and namgyu you’ve come to learn. they’ve had their sights leeched onto you since day one in this godforsaken slaughter island. like they were attracted to the scent trail of your fear.

catcalls followed you like a second shadow. 230’s tongue practically slithered out every time you passed by, and 124 just stood there grinning, whispering shit behind his hand as they watched you on the bunks.

it was because of them that you clung to your group: the “marine” men, plus the loony 456 who had supposedly played these games before. you didn’t believe half of the shit he’d spout— but you did believe in strength in numbers. in protection. so that billy and stu over there couldn’t try anything in lights out, crawling into your bunk as you slept.

and then there was also 388— daeho. the ponytailed one, with the kind eyes and warm smile. he insisted that you went to school together— swore he could never forget a face like yours. he was practically glued to you by the hip, and for a while, you let him. even liked him, in some quiet way.

but oh, did namgyu not appreciate that.

you could feel it in the way his gaze seared into your skin across the dorm. in the way his laugh turned meaner when you passed by. how he’d shove his shoulder into daeho passing in the hallway. his hands twitching at his sides like he’s imagining them around your neck or on your thighs— either’s equally possible.

but then thanos dies. and what follows is a blood-soaked ripple of events.

the lights-out murders. the players revolted. your group dropped like flies. your daeho lost his nerve, reduced to a shaking, curled-up mess. protection was gone, danger was nigh.

so stupidly, maybe instinctively, you found yourself drifting to someone whose better interests are keeping you around. namgyu.

because bad men don’t run when it gets ugly. they stand tall, flourish in the gore with a smile. you didn’t need it gentle or genuine or good. you needed to stay alive. and namgyu, for his own fucked-up reasons, could deliver on that.

namgyu’s all teeth and jealousy. suffocatingly obsessive. from the moment you approach him, you have to ignore his crude quips about you finally coming around, not acting like a stuck-up bitch. you have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes, launch your fist at his face, kick your knee into his crotch, whatever. you just nod and smile. let his hands creep up your waist, fingers curl around the back of your neck. because your survival depends on it. because the prospect of fucking you is enough for namgyu to value your life in this next game.

“you’re one of the good ones, you know.” he had murmured, nails digging into the shirt fabric at your hip.

“i’ll change your mind about this—” he flicked a finger at the red cross patch on your tracksuit, snickering. “you’re gonna want to stay.”

he’s basically already fucking you with his eyes. you know what’s in store for you, once the lights dim. he even tells you as much.

“if only i knew where you were hiding…” he smirked, voice low as his fingers walked up your thigh. “i could’ve had a little fun with you.”

he practically corners you as he asks if you and daeho got up to anything— demanding to know if he’s getting some other man’s sloppy seconds.

and then he’s enticing you into popping a pill with him in the next breath.

“it’s fuckin’ crazy,” he crooned, holding out a rainbow-coloured tablet between his teeth.

you don’t take it then. but you don’t turn it down, either.

that night, with the next game looming on the horizon and your insides curled into knots, you caved. it’s far from out of want or trust. you let namgyu touch you, let him kiss you, hands wandering beneath the covers as his body curls around yours like a noose. you let him chew off that little piece of control.

because you needed him docile. needed him asleep.

so you swallow down the bile burning your throat when he stretches you open, hand wrapped around the base of your throat as he fucks into you. he only has his way for a few minutes— it doesn’t take long before he’s collapsing on top of you, panting at your ear.

and then once his breathing slows, lips slackening against your shoulder with a firm arm draped over your stomach, you moved.

carefully, silently, you reached for his necklace. unlatched the tiny silver cross, slipping out the pills tucked inside. four. enough, you thought. he takes two to feel good. four might let you sleep forever.

you held them in your palm, stared for a long time. you listen to his shallow breath beside you.

and you decide that yes— death is better than bedding this maniac just to live another day.

so no more thinking.

you briefly hear the sound of him rousing next to you, but you don’t care— not wasting another second in cupping your palm over your mouth, letting the pills fall onto your tongue.

and then there’s a hand flying out, roughly prying your jaw open.

“yah!” namgyu hisses, fingers intruding into your mouth as he fishes for the pills. one crumbles beneath your molar, bitter. another slides down your throat. he manages to claw the rest out— wet and glistening in his hand, soaked in saliva and shame.

he was on top of you then, straddling your hips. chest heaving with hard breaths. eyes blown wide and furious.

“don’t be fucking stupid,” he growled, snatching a fistful of your hair and jerking your head back. “you wanna break up that bad already?!”

you just gawked at him, heart drumming against your chest as the pills dissolve into your bloodstream.

“is that all this was?” he spits, face hovering over yours. “let me fuck you so i fall asleep easier? so you could off yourself right next to me like some kind of twisted fucking goodbye??”

you don’t answer. can’t.

he shook you by the shoulders. “i picked you, god-fucking-dammit. chose you over every other dog in this place.”

his mouth comes to just below your ear, and you shiver when his lips ghost over the skin.

but then he’s biting down, hard; hand flying out to clamp over your mouth as you thrash beneath him.

“you don’t get to leave me.” he hisses, thumb pressing into the teeth mark blooming onto your neck. a reminder.

“don’t fucking forget it.”

mlist · taglist 〃

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @ferrarifinnick @loveesiren @madebybec @avsarchivez @frontwomann @szonyix6277 @namgyooner @thanosspills

[twjournals]

《Sorry, I'm not interested in you! 》 Various Male Characters Squid Game

✰Pairing: Hwang In-ho x reader | Nam-gyu x reader | Lee Myung-gi x reader |

✰Summary: You're really not interested in them.

✰Warning: dark content, yandere themes, vulgar language, manipulation, blood, gore (typical of the canon), mentions of death, pregnant reader (reader takes 222 place in Myung-gi's part), mentions of abortion, abortion mentioned, abandonment mentioned, jealousy, possessiveness, and more.

✰A/N: The reactions are a bit long and detailed, although not very coherent since I'm writing this at 2 a.m. and I'm literally a zombie, but I hope you like it :) PD: This is long as fuck and makes about as much sense as wearing a scarf in the summer.

✰Part 1 (you are here) | Part 2 here |

Hwang In-Ho | Oh Young-il (Leader, Player 001)

In-ho had left the comfort and luxuries of being the leader to enter the games himself. He wanted to know what Gi-hun's plans were, besides obviously ending the games.

As chameleon-like as he is, he took on another name, another attitude, and another personality, ones that would perfectly fit Gi-hun's ideals and allow him to approach him without raising suspicion.

Everything was going as he had planned, as he had hoped. He managed to get close to Gi-hun and gain his trust. There was only one thing that was out of his plan, one thing he hadn't foreseen and was driving him crazy: you.

When he saw you after the first game, all scared, in shock, and almost on the verge of collapse, something touched his dark heart. The fact that you resembled his late wife didn't help much. From that moment on, he kept you in his sights, under his watchful eye.

When everyone started forming teams, he couldn't help but notice that you weren't able to join any team. You were standing in a corner staring into space. Without hesitation, he approached you, smiling slightly when you jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Sorry to scare you. I couldn't help but notice you don't have a team. You can join mine.”

“I... erm... I don't want to be a burden on your team.”

You respond nervously, almost embarrassed, as you play with the sleeves of your jacket. In-ho smiles at the scene while reassuring you in a cloyingly kind voice. He raises one of his hands and gently pats your head.

“You're not a burden. If we want to get out of these games alive, we must help each other, leaving no one behind, as a team.”

“Well... in that case, I'd love to join your team. Thank you.”

He smiles kindly, and something possessive, something dark inside him, squirms with delight as he places one of his hands on the small of your back and guides you to where his team is. It didn't take much convincing for him to convince the others that they couldn't leave a defenseless girl like you alone. As the games progress, he and you become increasingly closer.

He made you feel safe and protected. He never judged you when you were scared or when you sobbed at the thought of home—of course not. He always takes you in his firm arms, listening to you vent and rant before cooing and kissing your forehead.

“You're a strong girl. I believe in you, and I assure you we'll get out of here. I'll make sure of that.”

In-ho made sure the guards never hurt you during the games, at least not too badly, just enough to make you run into his arms. He takes pride in the fact that whenever Gi-hun or someone else asks you to do something, you look at him for approval before doing anything. You never reject him or push him away, and he thought he had you right where he wanted you; it was time to make his move.

Their hugs quickly become more intimate, their hands begin to wander, and their compliments become more romantic. One night, with the riot approaching, he convinces you to sleep together in his bunk for added 'safety.' The lights are off, and everything is dark when his hands slip under your shirt, touching the skin of your stomach. His hot breath brushes your ear when he speaks in a whisper.

“You're really beautiful, a good girl.”

“Young-il, wait... stop!”

He frowns at your outburst and feels anger rising when you leap away from him, sitting down on the thin mattress. He swallows hard, trying to calm himself as you stammer and apologize to him for 'giving the wrong signal about your feelings for him' and assure him 'that you love him very much and see him as a father figure.'

He holds back a sneer at your words. He'll be your husband, you silly girl. The only one he'll be a father figure to is your future children together. Even so, he takes your trembling hand in his to reassure you.

“You don't have to apologize, darling. This is my fault. All this chaos made me misunderstand things. I apologize for this.”

“Y-you don't have to apologize. Let's just forget this ever happened, okay, Young-il?”

“Of course, darling. Sleep now, everything will be okay.”

You murmur an agreement and lie down again. This time he doesn't hug you, he just lies down and stares at the top bunk. He was furious. You're really ungrateful. Wasn't he the one who had looked after you from the beginning? Didn't he bring you to his team? Didn't he make sure nothing bad would happen to you? Tsk, how dare you reject him. In-ho doesn't sleep a wink the whole night. The next morning when you wake up, both of you act as if nothing had happened. Everything seemed fine, that is, until the day of the riot.

You were dizzy. Everything was chaos. Many of your friends and teammates were dead. You and Gi-hun were on your knees surrounded by armed guards. You felt like you were about to faint until the person you least expected appeared before your eyes: Young-il. He... was he the leader? No... it couldn't be... he never... your head filled with thoughts. You barely heard what Gi-hun was saying, and you just stared at Young-il.

“Tell me, Gi-hun, did you really think you could destroy a network as complex as this? I thought you were smarter than that. Anyway, all you've achieved is that your friend dies and you'll be back in the games. You didn't save anyone.”

Then he looks at you, a hollow smile spreading across his face. He approaches you, extending his hand, which tightly grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“I'm merciful, so as for you, brat, I'll make sure you have a VIP view so you can watch all your friends die while you think about why it was a terrible idea to reject me.”

Nam-gyu ( Player 124)

Nam-gyu had wanted to fuck you from the second he saw you. He had wanted you from the very second he saw you. With that arrogant bitch attitude you had, it made him want to shut you up with his cock. Thinking about all the things he wants to do to you gives him the same effect as drugs. He wanted to put you in your place, but there was one fucking problem.

Thanos.

Of course you did. You, like most of the idiots here, seemed to orbit around the failed rapper, who also seemed to orbit around you. When you joined his team, you spent all your time glued to Thanos, hugging him while he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. Seeing you together made him want to kill the violet-haired boy.

Why did that idiot have to keep all the things Nam-gyu wanted? Why did he have to play the fucking loyal lackey? That shit gets on his nerves, and the looks you gave him didn't help. You winked at him whenever Thanos ordered him around like he was a dog. Laughing when Thanos called him 'Nam-su' even after he corrected him a million times telling him his damn name is 'Nam-gyu' 'NAM-GYU' fuck it's not that hard to understand.

Nam-gyu approached you whenever Thanos was out of sight. With a confident and arrogant attitude, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders in the same way Thanos did, his ringed fingers rubbing your jacket-covered arm. He spoke in a confident and bold voice.

“Look at this, you're alone? I thought you'd be sucking Thanos's cock in the bathroom or something. Mine's bigger, by the way.”

“You're not with him either, are you? A dog's duty is to follow its master, so why don't you go find him, Nam-su? I'm not interested in you or your cock!”

He tenses at your comment. His hand tightens on your arm, his fingers digging into the skin, it's painful even through the fabric. He brings his face close to yours, his hot breath against your face as he hisses at you, his eyes burning with anger.

“It's NAM-GYU! You stupid bitch. I'm no one's dog, but you sure are a whore, i'm sure you'd love any cock you saw!”

“Hey bro! Why are you harassing my girl?”

Nam-gyu always shrugged when Thanos caught him, backing away from you while you gave him a mocking look when Thanos put his arm around you and started scolding him, telling him that 'brothers' don't steal their 'brothers' girls. I fucking hated it.

After the incident in the restroom and with Thanos dead, Nam-gyu thought he'd finally have you all to himself, but like the bitch you are, you switched teams and joined the revolutionary team of player 456 and his idiotic followers. What a stupid idea! As expected, that plan failed.

Nam-gyu watched you the whole time from a distance as the games progressed and the drugs began to mess with his head. All he could think about was beating you up and teaching you a lesson for being such a fucking bitch to him.

When the game of hide-and-seek started, you were on the blue team. A psychopathic smile crept across his lips as he watched you. He cut his finger with the sharp knife and you gulped. He snorted when the guards gave the blue team the advantage of sneaking away. He felt his blood bubble with the excitement of the hunt.

When he finally managed to enter the labyrinth, he wasted no time looking for you, killing every blue player in his path. When he finally found you, you were trying to open a door with your key. He approached, his face stained with blood, as were his hands and clothes.

“Ha! what do we have here? Isn't that the bitch from the blue team?”

“Don't come near me, Nam-gyu! Stay away from me!”

You become alert when you see him covered in blood, frantic, and with his pupils completely dilated. Does that sick bastard really enjoy killing people? You shudder at the thought, and Nam-gyu smiles at the realization. You back away as he slowly approaches, twisting the knife in his bloody hand.

“Why are you so scared, huh? What happened to that arrogant bitch attitude you had?”

You back away and without hesitation, you run, but you don't get very far. Nam-gyu runs after you and grabs you by the hair tightly, pulling painfully on it, and you feel your scalp burning. He pulls you against his chest, still holding your hair. He raises his other hand, pressing the dagger to your neck tightly, almost breaking the skin, and breathes heavily in your ear.

“Don't try to run away from me, bitch! If you want me to even consider letting you walk out of here alive, you'll have to beg my forgiveness for acting like a pretentious whore. You could start by sucking my cock.”

Lee Myung-gi ( MC coin, Player 333)

Myung-gi had entered the games to pay off all his debts and to get back with you and give you the life you deserved. He knew he'd broken your heart when he disappeared after you told him you were pregnant with his child and simply told you to get an abortion, but he planned to apologize to you and win you back when he got out.

What he didn't expect was to find you at the games, and not only that, but you had a big baby bump under your tracksuit. Didn't you get an abortion? Why didn't you listen to him for once in your life? He approached you, firmly grabbing your arm and leading you to a far corner despite your protests.

“What the hell are you doing here? And what happened to the baby? I thought we agreed you'd get an abortion.”

“You would know if you'd stayed with me. And I'm here because the mom needs money to take care of the baby if the dad doesn't want to take care of it.”

You abruptly break free from his grasp, and he lets out a frustrated sigh. When you turn around and walk quickly away, he reaches out, taking your arm again.

“Stay with me, I'll protect you.”

“I don't need you to protect me. Stay away from me and my baby.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest, squinting at him before freeing yourself from his grasp and walking away. Myung-gi scratches the back of his neck before rubbing his face. When he turns around, he sees Thanos and his group of idiots staring at him. He frowns before heading back to his bunk. The last thing he needs is those idiots targeting you.

He wanted you to join his team, but you'd already joined another team. You seemed comfortable with your team, and they seemed to take good care of you, especially players 120, 388, and 149. They made sure you were safe, gave you food, and cared for you. Seeing that bothered him a lot; after all, that's their job.

As the games progressed, you stayed as far away from him as possible, which frustrated him immensely. But there was one thing that bothered him and made him blindly jealous: your closeness with player 456. He was always touching you, making you laugh, and whispering things in your ear. Who the hell did that old man think he was? Trying to take advantage of you? Or did you two already know each other? Is that what it's all about?

He had so many doubts and questions swirling around in his head, so one day when you went to the bathroom, he decided to wait for you outside, leaning against the wall. When you came out, he firmly grabbed your arms, confronting you.

“What's going on between you and 456, huh? Do you like him...? Y-you're having an intimate relationship with him? Tell me right now what's going on between you two!”

His voice is frantic, and there's a jealous glint in his dark eyes. You frown at the crazy accusation.

“Are you hearing what you're saying? What kind of person do you think I am?! And why do you think I owe you an explanation after everything you've done?”

“Are you sleeping with him or not?! Tell me now!”

His hands tightened on your arms, and you whimpered in discomfort. Before the situation could escalate, Player 001 intervened, placing a firm hand on Myung-gi's shoulder, a warning.

“You're hurting her. I advise you, for your own good, to let her go right now.”

Myung-gi frowned, looking over the man at the older man, who was looking at him sharply. Myung-gi saw what the man had done to Thanos and Nam-gyu, and against his will, he let go of you, taking a few steps away. He watched as the man examined you and asked if you were okay as he led you toward the others.

“I'm fine, thanks Young-il.”

Myung-gi clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palms as he watched you walk away with the man. Are you sleeping with him too? Why didn't you answer him when he asked about your relationship with 456? Why?!

Those thoughts were driving him crazy. He started to despise player 456 and everyone around you. A few days later, when you were eating, Myung-gi came over and gave you one of his sweet potatoes. You frowned adorably, and the others in the group stared at him.

“For you, I know they're your favorite. You have to eat to stay strong, you and my baby.”

“Uh..?”

Myung-gi says the last words possessively, looking at Gi-hun and Young-il, who frown unimpressed. He rubs your shoulder and leaves before you can protest. After the failed rebellion and the start of the game of hide-and-seek, he's determined to find you and take you to safety.

He ends up teaming up with Nam-gyu, killing other players while he searches for you. Right in a hallway, he sees player 120 standing in the doorway of one of the rooms. He knows you must be with her, so without hesitation, he approaches her and stabs her in the back. She lets out a moan before falling to the floor. You scream, sobbing, and his eyes immediately travel to you.

“What did you do?! You killed her... you killed her! Hyun-ju!”

“The baby's already born...?”

Myung-gi asks in disbelief, staring at the bundle in your arms, which you clutch to your chest as you sob. He takes a step closer, and the old woman covers you with her body protectively. Myung-gi frowns, staying in place before staring at you.

“I don't want to hurt anyone else. I just want you, me, and the baby to get out of here. I just want you to stop rejecting me and staying away from me. Is that too much to ask? If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for the baby. You don't want anything bad to happen to it... right?”

[twjournals]

The Future is Now (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Word count: 4.3K

Summary: aemond discovers plans for you to be wed in the near future are being made—and they don’t include him as your husband. he’s not happy about it, especially when you don’t protest

Tags: (18+), cw: dub-con, cw: sibling incest, targaryen!reader, dark themes, coercion, kissing, manhandling, intimidation, choking (not actually but his hand is on her neck), P in V sex, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, aemond is kinda scary but also weirdly loving. idk that’s just the vibe I ended up going with

Disclaimer: if you are uncomfortable with dark themes in your fanfiction, then this story is not for you. I do not condone sexual violence irl, but this is fiction—a fantasy—so morality police need not interact. if you don’t like it, keep scrolling.

A/N: first darker fic but I couldn’t help but be inspired by a darker character. ngl I’m team black but I can’t help but be intrigued by aemond and this idea invaded my brain

HotD masterlist + main masterlist

Aemond had become nearly an expert at concealing his presence as he lurked within the Red Keep. This skill allowed him to be privy to private conversations he had not been welcomed into.

Because of this, he knew all about his grandsire’s plan to place Aegon on the throne once the king had passed. He also knew that his mother had not been involved in that conversation. It was obvious Otto Hightower was running things.

That meant that more of his journeys to seek information were focused on Otto. That’s why when conversations around the marriage of his darling sister came up, Aemond was there to witness it.

It had always been an assumption of his that due to his two older siblings being wed to one another, it would only make sense for you to become his wife. You were his younger sister just as Helaena was to Aegon. It was only fair.

Well, Aemond heard every single word as Otto schemed to marry you off to some prince from another region in order to gain support for Aegon as future king. That infuriated him. Aegon already had the throne instead of him, and now the future wife he’d been (mostly) patiently waiting for was not to be his? No. He couldn’t let this stand.

Enough had been heard of his grandsire’s plot. Aemond left his concealed spot silently to search for his mother. He needed to know if she had been aware of this plan. There was a voice in the back of his head that knew she hadn’t orchestrated it, yet there was still concern that she would side with the wants of her father over her son. Alicent had a weakness to Otto, he had been influencing her decisions long before anyone else could.

When Aemond found her and confronted his mother about everything he had heard, that concern was validated.

Standing across from him, gazing upward, Alicent let out a gentle breath. “I did not know what he had planned for your sister,” she admitted. Then, unfortunately, she continued. “But I have to agree. The marriage of Aegon to Helaena was meant to strengthen his claim to the throne. For you that is not necessary.”

The words struck like a knife. It being confirmed there was no intention for you to be wed to him was the painful stab, and being reminded yet again he was to be denied the throne was just twisting it.

“So I get nothing?” Aemond asked accusingly, initial disappointment shifting into anger and impending dread.

“You may still have a wife of your choosing, but—”

“Not the one I truly want,” he finished, nearly spitting out the words.

Alicent let out a sigh and tilted her head—it was that look she’d get when she was experiencing pity—but didn’t say a word. There were no words left for Aemond to say. He gave her a cold look that was somehow even more menacing with just the one eye before turning his back on his mother.

Aemond was fuming as he mindlessly walked through the palace. Those who wandered the corridors were quick to move out of his way. He must’ve looked as enraged on the outside as he was on the inside.

He found himself outside of the door to your chambers. Without hesitation, he barged in. Once the doors were closed behind him, Aemond spotted you sitting near your largest window, simply gazing out at the landscape below. You were already dressed for bed despite the sun only now starting to set. You turned to face him and offered a welcoming smile, which caused a feeling of relief to wash over him. Aemond often found comfort in you.

You were meant for him. He knew you were. No one would ever make him feel like this. Maybe it wasn’t common to marry for love but after he’d been scorned with denial of the throne, how could you be taken from him as well? He was owed at least one thing he desired.

You stood from where you were seated and approached your older brother. “Hello,” you greeted calmly before noticing the energy radiating off of him. “What’s happened?” you wondered, stopping a few feet away.

“Your marriage is being discussed,” Aemond revealed. “There’s talk of you being wed to a prince from another house.”

You were silent for a long moment, eyes gazing past him as you seemingly thought over his words. You and Helaena remind him of one another. You both hardly had interest in any of your family’s dramas, but unlike Helaena, you had developed much more apathy to it. Aemond wondered if it was because of your age, being the youngest you had hardly any say—even less than your sister if that was even possible. At a point you had stopped speaking up and resolved to keep to yourself and your books. The only one who you allowed to draw your attention was Aemond.

It was a privilege even your own mother didn’t have.

Maybe that’s why he thought he was special in your eyes, that you’d reciprocate his anger at the thought of him not becoming your husband. He had desired you for so long and there were moments when Aemond was certain you felt the same. You’d never spoken the words aloud that you loved him in that way, but there was something there. To him, it was only a matter of time. That eventually he would have you. It always seemed to be a given.

Until now.

When you finally spoke, your question pulled him from his thoughts and brought his focus to your face. The expression you wore was hard to read, but he could see the consideration you gave it.

“Do you know when I am to be married?” Your tone almost sounded tired. Like you’d already given up on the matter.

Admittedly, he was briefly stunned. “You’re not in agreement,” Aemond didn’t ask, he stated it as if it was to be expected. To him, it should’ve been.

You let out an impassive sigh. “If it’s what the queen and the hand have decided,” you began with disdain in your voice, “then do I even have a choice?”

Aemond knew you cared nothing for the power struggle between the heirs. You’d revealed that to him once, saying, “I do not care for politics. Whoever ascends the throne, I want no part of it.” Aemond didn’t share your sentiments, but his ambition was much more deadly than yours.

He took a short, frustrated breath. It bothered him that you’d be so flippant in the matter. He continued to insist, “It is you and I that should be wed.”

“Perhaps there was a time when that would be the truth, but it is not now.” There was a rageful glint in his eye as you spoke. It was hard to conclude whether it was directed towards you or at the situation.

You resumed stepping closer to him, looking up at your older brother. Your soft hands rose to cup his sharp jaw. “I love you, brother.” Those words washed over him like a wave, he always relished in hearing you speak them. If only you’d confirm the type of love went beyond your love for him as a brother.

Aemond almost allowed himself to relax into your touch and your sweet words. Then you continued. “That’s why I say this. It will do you no good to lust after things you cannot have. The throne…”

“You,” Aemond finished.

A few beats of silence passed before you answered.

“Yes.”

Aemond gazed down at you intensely, his entire demeanor becoming even more icy than what was normal for him. He let out a small, humorless laugh. It was a harsh, mocking sound.

“You think I cannot have you?”

There was venom in his voice. His eye was wide with sudden anger. The expression on your face shifted when you saw that. Your eyes that previously held sympathy and your subtle frown that pleaded for understanding began to fade.

Fear was trickling in. He could sense it.

Aemond knew he was intimidating, that some even viewed him as frightening, but he’d never turned those tactics on you the way he did others. He could justify to himself that it wasn’t intentional, but the spark that ignited in him at the reaction you had was undeniable.

He’d finally provoked you. Now he truly had your full attention. His mind began to race. The darkness he usually directed towards his enemies began to take hold. You were standing in front of him, hands slipping from contact. He snapped to grab one of your wrists and you flinched. A small gasp even slipped from your lips.

You were scared of him. Aemond liked it.

It had not been his plan when Aemond first entered your chambers, but in that moment he made up his mind.

“I may not be able to take the throne, but I will take you,” he said with hostility. Aemond took a step forward, forcing the gap between the two of you to become shorter. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed and your eyes shone with concern. You tried to step back, but the grip he had on your wrist tightened.

“Aemond…” you breathed out.

“You and I have always been meant to be,” Aemond declared with certainty. To you, it sounded like a threat.

He leaned down, nose brushing against yours. Aemond felt your breath hitch as his lips sought out yours. You were seemingly too stunned to move, but that benefited your brother as he freely captured your soft lips.

Aemond fisted his hand in the fabric of your dress to pull you closer to him. Finally he released the grip on your wrist, only to slide his hand up to yours. He held it tight and pulled it between the two of you, his fingers laced with yours. Aemond couldn't trust you to stay in place but he didn’t want to hurt you. Maybe you were scared, and maybe Aemond enjoyed it, but he did care for you. His feelings in the moment were conflicting as even he couldn’t predict his next action, but one thing was crystal clear to him; Aemond loved you.

His other large, cold hand rose to your face. Aemond’s pale skin always seemed to be chilled and you shivered as his fingers ghosted your jawline. He finally cupped your face, his thumb resting on your cheek.

Aemond kissed gently at first, testing the waters. You didn’t kiss him back, but you also didn’t pull away. He twisted that in his mind to view it as permission. Once he got a small taste, there was no turning back.

His lips began to move against yours with fervor, desire and need seeping out. The kiss seemed like he was starving and with each movement you began to believe he was going to devour you. Especially when Aemond’s teeth sank into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

You gasped at the sting of pain and turned your head away. His hand didn’t keep your head still but Aemond didn’t miss a beat. His lips found the side of your cheek and he kissed his way down your neck. The side of your face rested against his hand now. His thumb strangely ran down the bridge of your nose, then over your lips.

The hand on your face fell to the neckline on your sleep dress. He fiddled with the material, feeling the softness of the fabric between his fingers as he nipped at your neck.

Aemond pulled his head back to watch you carefully. He turned your head back and you met his eye. The slight smile on his face was somehow both devious and shy.

Only now did the silence between the two of you make its way to your mind. You hadn’t said a word. Aemond didn’t need to. He had you where he wanted you.

His hand released yours and both moved to the back of your sleep dress. With a wicked glint in his eye Aemond leaned in to kiss you again just as his fingers began to undo the string keeping the dress in place.

That shocked you back to reality. The spell of complacency evaporated and you took a step back from him. You weren’t sure who was more surprised by your sudden movement, you or Aemond. Your brother looked confused and even a little hurt, but there was a clear agitation that began to fester.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat and spoke first. “We can’t.” The words came out as a whisper. “I’m sorry, Aemond,” you said much clearer. “I do not wish to see you upset, but this can’t go any further.”

Your decided tone made him glare. Aemond stepped forward and you stepped back. The expression on his face in that moment terrified you as he closed in on you. You hadn't ever wanted to be on the receiving end of his wrath. Aemond never reacted well to being slighted.

“Who’s going to stop me?” he challenged.

You hated that sinister look on his face. It scared you. The position you were in finally sank in. Aemond stared down at you as prey as he closed in.

You backed away yet again, but this time you bumped against your bed. You fell backward and landed to sit on the foot of your bed. This seemed to be exactly where Aemond wanted you.

Time seemed to slow as you looked up at your brother, unable to move or speak. Aemond was horrifyingly silent as he held his gaze on your face.

Any sort of plan Aemond had was completely thrown out the window. Aemond hadn’t prepared for you to resist after you first accepted his kiss. He hadn’t even planned on kissing you. He was reacting in the moment. He hadn’t planned on scaring you at first, either. But this is where he was now and Aemond was never one to back down from what he wanted. Hell, he was still vying for the throne—getting you was much easier.

Everything moved quickly then. You hardly had time to register as Aemond shoved you further up on the bed and climbed on top of you. His knees planted on either side of your legs, and his large hands wrapped around your wrists and pinned them down when you tried to push him off.

“We’re meant to be married,” Aemond said firmly, his face hovering above yours. Your eyes were wide, pleading. Your soft lips were parted, panting out frightened breaths. “You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, as if unaware that he was saying it out loud.

“You’re frightening me, Aemond,” you said softly, asking him to stop, or at the very least... “Please don’t hurt me.”

Your gentle pleading made him hesitate for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Aemond revealed. In his heart, he meant it. At least, he wanted to mean it. You wished that was reassurance, but then he continued. “You’re my sister and my wife. You are mine. But you don’t seem to understand that. So…”

Aemond released your hands and you shot to push him away. He must’ve known that was coming because his right hand immediately fell to your neck. He didn’t squeeze hard, but the grasp was enough to still you. Your breath hitched.

“…I’ll make you understand,” he finished.

His left maneuvered the top of your dress down, revealing your naked chest. You heard your brother’s breathing falter.

Aemond’s body flooded with anticipation. He could feel himself reacting to the excitement. He’d waited so long to take you and now it was happening and seven hells he was going to enjoy it. It was unfortunate that you didn’t share in his spirits, but Aemond would do everything in his power to allow you to find pleasure as well. He wanted you to want to be with him. He’d give you time after this initial coupling to accept him because Aemond would be damned if he mirrored his elder brother in his marriage.

But for now, he’d have to coerce it from you.

Your face was flushed with heat. Shame overwhelmed you as your brother reached beneath your dress and skillfully removed your undergarments. He seemed to know that he wouldn’t be able to get your dress fully off without having to fight with you, so he simply pushed the skirt of it up.

Your dress was still on, just bunched around your middle. Your chest and above, and your waist and lower were exposed.

Aemond drank you in, his eyes trailing over your body. Finally, he spoke. “I wish my first woman had been you.” Your brother sounded nearly breathless already. He shoved his knee between your legs and forced them to part.. “Not some whore for Aegon’s amusement.” Bitterness drifted briefly into his tone, but then it faded. He was too eager to be angry about the past at the moment. He kept one hand on your neck, while the other reached to push his pants down. He didn’t bother with anything else. Undressing would require two hands and he couldn’t afford to risk it.

You didn’t look down. You knew he’d taken his cock out and you did not wish to look upon what he was doing. Even as he maneuvered himself between your legs.

You were meant to stay a maiden until your marriage. While marriage between siblings was not uncommon, Aemond was not your husband (despite his claims). If anyone found out you were with a man who was not your husband, even if you didn’t want to be, you’d be viewed as spoiled goods. You weren’t expecting to be happy as a wife to some ally prince, but at least you’d be useful to your family. Now, it seemed as if you were only to be used by your family—well, your brother.

The press of his cock at your entrance made you suck in a breath. “Well…” he mused. “At least I will take pleasure in knowing that I am the first man to touch you. And the last.”

Aemond thrust into you after that declaration. You let out a cry but had enough awareness to press your lips together and muffle the sound seconds later. If anyone heard, Aemond could twist things and you’d be the one being facing backlash.

Your brother let out a groan, adjusting to the tight squeeze. He could hardly move within your walls but he pushed himself as deep as he could go.

A man had never had you, but you knew Aemond was large. His cock felt as if it was splitting you open and your breath left you completely.

Once he was seated inside you, Aemond’s hand on your neck finally released. He stared down at you, watching as you clenched your eyes shut. His cold hands finally began to explore the smooth skin of your naked body trapped beneath him. You shuddered under his touch, but you’d stopped fighting him.

“Look at me,” Aemond coaxed. His hand grazed over your breast before tapping your chin. He gently turned your head and you allowed your eyes to flutter open. You felt so small under his lustful, empowered gaze.

Aemond leaned over you. He planted one hand on the mattress beside your head and gripped your hip with the other. He angled your hips up to give himself better access. Bruises would be left in his wake almost certainly.

Pain accompanied the feeling of his cock withdrawing from your body. You winced, but it turned to a choking gasp when he pushed back into you. Hard. You couldn’t help your reaction as you found yourself having latched onto him. Your arms wrapped around him like a hug. It was your instinct to seek safety from him—Aemond was always the one to protect you, after all. In that moment your mind forgot that he was the one causing the pain and fear.

Aemond lowered down so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “Allow yourself to be mine,” he whispered.

You held him tighter.

Aemond knew he’d won.

His movements were less rough than the initial insertion. Now that he knew he wouldn’t have to force you completely, Aemond seemed to be gentler—but not gentle.

Slowly, your body began to accept him. It became easier for him to thrust into you. He murmured praises into your ear, but you hardly registered them as the pain subsided and a new sensation took its place.

There was a wetness forming between your legs that seemed to please your brother. “I knew you’d enjoy me,” he muttered, not hiding his ego.

“Wha-“

“Shh, darling,” Aemond said, pushing you down when you got curious. He buried his face into your neck and began to kiss your heated skin. “Just relax.”

You tried to do what he said, but it was hard. His pace picked up speed before it became steady. You laid beneath him, taking everything he had to give you.

Aemond pounded his cock into you, eliciting soft whimpers and moans from you. Suddenly, he angled his thrusts at a different angle and your toes curled. The pleasure was much greater and your whole body shook. The feeling of him inside you was becoming overwhelming.

The feeling of your cunt was something Aemond had dreamt about. Reality was so much better than his fantasies. You were wet and waiting, holding onto him for dear life, and allowing him to fuck you into bliss. The perfect sister—soon to be the perfect wife.

Nothing would ever compare to the feeling of you giving in and finally accepting him. Aemond had lifted his head briefly to stare down at you. He needed to drink this moment in. You were beautiful beneath him; your hair splayed out like a crown, the flush of your cheeks, your parted, kiss-swollen lips, and the sweet yet somehow still innocent look in your eyes as you met his eye.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long,” Aemond uttered under his breath. He deeply regretted not taking you sooner. Your tight walls began to clench around his cock and Aemond didn’t allow himself to falter.

“Aemond,” you whimpered out, unsure of what you were experiencing. He could hear your confusion. His movements seemed to be precise, hitting that same spot he found over and over again. A small, devious smile found its way onto his lips at your inexperience. He was going to give you your first orgasm and you didn’t even know what was happening.

Aemond kept thrusting into you, pushing you towards what he wanted from you. Your nails dug into his back as the tension in your belly finally snapped.

Your body tensed and a wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashed over you. A moan tore from you. Aemond slowed down as you tightened around him.

“That’s it, my love,” he purred in your ear. His voice was ragged after not speaking for so long.

You panted as the powerful pleasure began to subside. Aemond knew he made you feel good and the flush on your cheeks wasn’t only from exertion, but embarrassment.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Aemond implored. “That’s a part of fucking. You’re allowed to like it.”

Words completely failed you. You were reeling, and you didn’t know what to say either.

Aemond understood. “It’s alright,” he uttered softly, beginning to resume his old pace. “Again,” Aemond breathed out. “I want you to give me another one.” Another what? You didn’t know. But you felt limp in your brother's arms as he pulled the two of you upright.

Now you were in his lap, body spent, arms and head draped over his shoulders. You were still dizzy as Aemond began to pound his cock up into you. He could fuck you how he wanted now, as hard as he wanted. You were completely compliant.

Aemond was chasing his release now, but he wanted you to fall over that edge with him. He yanked your nightgown off of you above your head and you let him. It was then that you realized he was still clothed. You were entirely exposed to him while he kept himself covered.

It was a perfect display of the power dynamics between the two of you, but that thought slipped your mind as he found that spot inside you again.

You lost track of time and seemed to fade in and out as the pleasure blazed through you. Aemond cradling you against him. He was breathing roughly into your neck, his own being encompassed by the euphoria. He was so close, and he could feel that you were too.

Aemond thrust up into your pliant, waiting body one more time. His cock twitched inside of you as you pulsed around him. Then it happened. Aemond let out a deep moan as his seed spilled inside of you while you shuddered around him.

“You are divine,” Aemond groaned out, holding you close to him.

There were a few beats of silence and no movement. The only sound in the room was your and Aemond’s twin breaths.

Aemond pulled out of his satisfied haze first. He withdrew from you entirely and helped you to lay down.

You were physically and mentally exhausted. You hardly comprehended that Aemond even tucked you under your covers. His hand reached down to stroke through your hair as he admired your sleepy face. He smiled to himself, knowing he’d only have to wait a short time and then he’d have the most beautiful wife in all of Westeros.

Aemond sat on the edge of your bed, looking down at where your head rested on your pillow.

“You and I will be wed on the morrow,” he clued you in on his thoughts.

“They won’t let us marry,” you hummed tiredly. He knew that “they” meant Otto, the small council, and Alicent.

“They will,” he assured.

For the first time since he walked in your doors, Aemond had a plan that he was sure of. He looked down upon you as you drifted off, your eyes unable to stay open much longer. Before you drifted off, you made out his final words of the night clearly.

“And if anyone tries to interfere, Vhagar will be awaiting them.”