NAH YOURE JOKING YOURE KIDDING UOU NEED TO PAU FOR MY THERAPY CUZ WHAT OMG OVE NEVER CRIED SO MUCH FOR

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

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

???

do you think i’m attractive?

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

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

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

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

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

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

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

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

some stuff? what stuff?

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

who tf is this dude?

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

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

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

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

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

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

are u serious?

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

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

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

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

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

maybe

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

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

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

but have u?

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

can’t help it when u look that good💯

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

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

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

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

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

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

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

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

maybe i do

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

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

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

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

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

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

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

it was hypothetical

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

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

too much info, subong

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

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

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

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

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

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

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

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

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

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

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

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

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

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

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

it's him. he sent a picture.

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

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

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

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

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shit, subong… i’m close

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

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

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

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

wbu? still down to go?

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

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

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

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it happens everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you did. every single time.

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

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

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

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

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

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

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

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

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

i’m the only snack u need, girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

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

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

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

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

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

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

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

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

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

come bsck

i loveyouy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨I want to print out Hidden and tattoo it on my left butt cheek for all of eternity ✨

PLSSS LMAO😭😭 honestly… if you do it, i’ll frame a pic of your left butt cheek on my wall. that’s how honored i am! 😼 JOKES!😭

thank you so much for reading💗🥹

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

i take, you give — choi subong (thanos)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

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

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

I like hearing “I want you to come” instead of “you can come if you want”

UPDATE!

okay sooo… i’ve officially decided there’s gonna be a part 2 for ‘Hidden || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)’ !! it’s gonna be a lot shorter than the original fic since i never actually planned on writing a second part, but after seeing how much y’all connected with it, i really wanted to give the characters a bit more closure and make the ending hurt a little less.

i’ll be pausing the thanos fic for now (sorry king💜) and focusing on writing this second part—hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish and i can get it posted soon!!

thank u sm for all the love you’ve shown Hidden so far—i seriously appreciate it more than i can say!!🥹💗—lex

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

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

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

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

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

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

wow i just read Hidden and I had to make eye contact with the imaginary camera in my room bc WHAAAATT it was sooooo good omg like i need more (not specifically a part 2 just more top cause i love him AND I find it entertaining to read things that make me suffer)

AAAA THANK YOU‼️💗 i got good news for you 😼 after part 2, my next fic is gonna be a thanos one that i was already working on! but TRUST i’m definitely planning to write more for seunghyun, i already have an idea!! and i won’t lie… i kinda love making ppl suffer with my writing. i was way too nice with the endings in my other two fics LMAO

hiii hows progress for hidden pt 2? take ur time n pls tag me!! lvovyaaa 💗💗💗💗

hii!! part 2 is almost finished and i’ll be posting it in the next few days!! thank you so much for being patient with me💗 like i mentioned before, it’s a lot shorter than part 1, which is why i’m actually able to post it soon... considering part 1 took me almost a whole month to write😭 so yeah!!

alsooo, here’s a tiny sneak peek for you (the first sentence of part 2 hehe)

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her.