I Sound Like Such An Absolute Beg But Would You Ever Write For Player 124/namgyu ?

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

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

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YOU HAVE FED US ILY

😼😼I HOPE IT WAS YUMMY, ILYT!

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life with choi subong (thanos)

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

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

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

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

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

alas, alas ... the melon streaming numbers spoke for itself (over 95k streams in total for his most recent mixtape), he just reached 10k followers on instagram, and all attention is good attention if you know how to work it ... and subong did, considering bookings went up when he announced he'd be performing this weekend prior to getting approval, cornering the club manager into a checkmate.

you noticed the slight commotion reverberating through the crowd when the music blared, but not enough to divert your attention wholly. when his set finished, he snuck into the crowd, snagging a rogue bloody mary from the bar and downing it without hesitation, turning his head sharply when someone from your party shouted his name.

your friend's boyfriend went to high school with him and hadn't seen him in years. with the way subong reacted, you would've thought they saw each other last week and were the best of friends, slinging his arm around his shoulders and capturing the attention of your table in a flurry. he was overtly charismatic, slowly coming around to your side of the table, eyeing you up and down without an iota of shame. he liked what he saw—his tongue running over his bottom lip.

he looked a bit try hard-y, in his loose fitting clothing, singular golden chain, and his black hair in an awkward stage of a grown out buzz cut—but admittedly he was fine. then you saw the layer of sweat shining on his tan skin ... oh ... he's fine.

"you like what you saw?" he shouted over the music, placing his hand on the table, inching towards you. he gestured to the now empty stage with a subtle flick of his head, leaning in to hear you. "that was you?" you said back. "i'm sorry, i wasn't watching!"

subong smirked, thinking you were joking, but his ego inflated nonetheless. "i—i rap!" he shouted, laying his palm against his chest. "i don't!" you quipped back with a grand smile, shaking your head. he had no idea his dick could get hard that quickly. "i work at a firm!" you say.

it could have been the sight of your glossed lips .. or his big brown eyes .. or your curvy hips .. full thighs .. his tattooed hands .. or the way his lips brushed against your earlobe for you to hear him .. or how your fingers brushed his hair back so he could hear you .. but next thing you know, his lips caught yours, and the next thing after that, his knees were on the porcelain tiles of the bathroom stall, head caught between your plush thighs, eating your pussy like a man starved.

subong's arms held your waist in place, not stopping your back from arching or your hands grasping onto either the wall or his hair, your breathy moans making his jeans feel as if he was wearing tight spandex. when you came—and you came hard—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into your hand, "number. now."

"fucking christ, i just came." you said, breathing labored. "hold on." when he stood up, you reached down, pulling your underwear up. you eyed the time on his phone whilst adding your number to his contacts, sending yourself a text. you caught sight of his bulge when you gave his phone back. "you'll have to take care of that yourself. i have to go." you say, running your hands through your hair in an effort to not look too disheveled, even if your friends were smart enough to put two and two together.

you noticed subong take a prolonged look at you. he read your mind: "taking a mental photo for later." he explained, inhaling sharply through his nose. a smirk tugged at your lips. "oh yeah? i'll make it 4d." you palmed his bulge. he nearly lost balance, his gasp sounding more vulnerable than he would've liked—"f-fuck—ngh!" he bit his bottom lip, planting his forehead against yours. your touch was slow and calculated but firm, applying enough pressure to make his vision go fuzzy. "you're f-fucking crazy," his voice shook pathetically, eyebrows contorted in deep pleasure. "y-you f-fucking—ngh!—crazy bitch!"

you stopped abruptly, grabbing subong through his pants harshly. he mewled pathetically in pain. "call me that shit one more time and see what happens." "i'm s-sorry! f-fuck, i'm sorry! i'm sorry! please!" his breath hitched. "oh my fuck—please, baby, i'm so sorry!"

you gradually began palming him again, feeling his deep breath brush against your skin as his forehead returned to yours. his lips eventually latched onto yours, and you couldn't help your thighs rubbing together from how long and slender he felt in your hand.

your phone started to ring in your purse, which hung off the hook at the top of the bathroom stall door, undoubtedly a friend looking for you. you broke the kiss and ceased your touch, stepping around him and fishing your phone out before slinging your purse over your shoulder. "you better fucking call me." you say, kissing his lips again. "i will, will."

you eye his tent. it looks like it hurts and the zipper could break off. you didn't even realise you were biting your bottom lip until your phone rang again. "best dick i'll ever have." subong heard you mutter as you walked away, his cocky smirk stretching across his face in no time. he bit his lip when he saw the wet spot on his jeans. unbeknownst to either of you, this night would become the defining vignette of your relationship.

he called you the very next day. when you didn't answer—because your phone was charging on your nightstand whilst you showered—he sent a dick pic with the bottom half of his face visible in the upper left corner with the accompanying text: Like what u see? he chuckled reading your response: should have kept it a surprise

from that point on he spent his spare money (he didn't have much to begin with) on e-cigarette refills, pills, eyebrow threading appointments (he swore you to secrecy), and, perhaps his most beloved purchase, condoms. he always kissed the wrapper before putting one on.

subong tries to give the impression of someone who fucks but the reality is .... well .... he wonders how he got so lucky whenever he's stood at your apartment door, waiting for you to open it after he's knocked. it's been a lot longer than he'd ever admit under sworn oath, but his erratic thrusts gave it away so quickly it was concerning.

don't get it twisted, it felt ... fine. maybe okay on a good day. he filled you up at the very least! but if only it could last longer ... and didn't feel so ... jabby ... and if only you didn't have to keep in your laughter when his forehead fell to your shoulder ... after he came so hard his vein bulged out of his temple and his breathing was deep enough to power a fucking windmill .. only for you to glance at the time on your phone when a notif popped up and think to yourself ... has it really only been four minutes?

so when he's thrusting into you from behind one night, panting like someone's choking him and drilling into you feverishly, you take his temporary halt to catch his breath as your moment. "subong..." your voice ruminates with lust, aided by the intoxicating feeling of his cock resting inside you. you look over your shoulder at his glistening body, illuminated even in your dimly lit bedroom. "you feel so good, baby." you half-lie, internally cringing. either way, he can't tell, he's too fucked out.

"but how about we ... go a little slower? so we can last longer? hm?" you say. his breath hitches when you roll your hips slowly, his palms laying against either globes of your ass lifelessly. you were struggling to keep it together, eyebrows contorted and mouth agape, stretching yourself out on him.

"like this, yeah?—mmf!" you bite your lip. this is the feeling you've been wanting ... you've been aching for. "it'll feel so much better, subong ..." "yeah, yeah ..." he was breathy. his palms slid to either side of your hips, pulling himself in slow and deep. you gasp, "yes! like that! start slow, then go faster ..."

the moans and whimpers that escaped your lips ran every single porno he's ever seen into the ground. he pounded into you when you told him to, feeling the gumminess of your tight walls hug his cock so divinely that he felt for a split second that maybe, just maybe, the cross he always wore served a different purpose than carrying his stash of pills. subong, unsurprisingly, did not last long, but for the first time, you didn't either. "b-baby! f-fuck—i'm gonna, i'm gonna!—" you clenched around him, and he saw white. subong thought he had transcended ... what better way to go out ... death by the best pussy ... he came so hard and so much that he felt himself drip down his thigh.

you first started calling him over on sundays. then he started to come on fridays ... then staying the weekend ... then he came by on wednesdays for a mid-week fuck .. and slowly, but surely, he essentially lived rent free in your apartment. it was a major plus for him. he'd just been floating from one friend's couch to another. your studio apartment was small as is, barely enough for someone a few years into the workforce and even less on affordability—you barely scraped by on groceries. you'd have to make a wish on a shooting star if you ever needed repairs or healthcare. subong, on the other hand? he finally got to sleep in a bed again, and he gets to not only bum it out on another couch, but also eat pussy, get his dick sucked, and fuck on it. 10/10 no notes from him

and christ did you fuck ... one ankle on the coffee table whilst the other rests atop the couch, him pounding into you deep and deliberately, his eyes boring into your face as yours rolled back, mouth agape. once he found his rhythm and knew your body more, it was over. by the grace of the universe, his stamina heightened, too. he thought about reading war and peace and the meticulous process of the seasonal fermentation of various vegetables to thwart his orgasm from coming too quickly, but fell into a mumble of incoherent whimpers and profanities when he heard your beautiful voice tell him to "h-harder, s-subong, harder," or the cacophony of stuttered grunts leaving both of your chests; sexual pleasure in its rawest form.

one friday evening he was sat at the top of your now shared bed with his back against the wall, legs spread and looking up at you with his mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed in inexplicable pleasure, watching you bounce up and down in fucked out bliss. you had a bullshit ass day at work—something about being denied a raise or being unfairly told off at a meeting—he didn't remember or really care, all he knew was he suggested you use him to relieve frustration, and you obliged. "that's it b-baby. give it all to me, u-use this dick." he bit his bottom lip, squeezing the side of your thigh as you slammed down onto him. "give all your stress to—ngh!—me. your subongie will help you relax." his hands trailed up your waist and kneaded your breasts, making you gasp. you rolled your hips to catch your breath, biting your lip.

you put your hands on his chest for support. "such good dick." you said breathily. "all mine." "that's right." he affirmed. one hand stationed beside your knee, the other reached to the nightside table for his e-cig, bringing it to his lips. you opened your eyes when the cloud of smoke brushed against your cheeks, filling your nostrils with the faint scent of strawberry.

"fuck you and your fuckass puff bar." you said, trying to take it, but he raised it in the air with a shit-eating grin. "what? are you jealous? hm? is my baby jealous?" he jutted out his bottom lip mockingly, chuckling when you swat the e-cig out of his hand. "the fuck would i be jealous about you destroying your lungs for?" you retort. he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "you think you're too good to be fucked by me that you needed to take the edge off." you say, throwing the e-cig onto the floor and ignoring his protests, only for them turn into sharp sucked-in breaths when you rolled your hips again. "th-that was my—shit!—my b-best fucking one," subong shuddered. "you want your best puff or pussy? hm?" you said sharply. with a whimper, he said "my best p-pussy." "i thought so. now say you're sorry until i believe you." you said, hearing him let out a wall-shattering moan when you began riding his long cock again. he would never admit to this in a million years, but this was his favorite way to fuck.

you were in denial for a long time that things had become more romantic and vulnerable. since it was unspoken between you two when he inconspicuously moved in (as irresponsible it is) ... to when he started calling you "my baby" two months in and him "your subongie" a couple weeks later ... to when steamy makeouts before bed remained just that, even through the hushed whimpers and dry humping ... to when he'd smoke a cigarette on the balcony after you routinely complained about the smell, him having you sit on his lap because "the cigarette doesn't hit the same," only to end up sucking the life out of his cock or him rutting into you from behind ... to when you'd wake up with his arm slung lazily across your waist and his head tucked into your neck ... he'd run verses by you and you'd unironically compliment them ... he unironically started going on grocery runs with you, and picking out your jewelry ... and to when sunday mornings became a lot more quieter than they used to be, you two sat on the small couch together, clad in nothing but your underwear, drinking stale black coffee as one of four channels you have play on your dinky tv. it might be due to the limited space, or something more, but his hand lay on your knee whilst yours mindlessly traced the tattoos on the back of his neck, or toyed with his cartilage piercing.

you couldn't kick the question out your mind anymore. "subong?" "hm?" he responded, eyes glued to the tv. "what are we?" he didn't budge. you nudged his shoulder, earning his attention but with a flutter of irritation. "huh? what'd you ask?" "i said what are we?" his eyebrows furrowed. "what do you mean?" you raised your eyebrows, losing patience. "you know exactly what i mean."

he takes a moment to rack his brain, and then gets it. "you're my girl. my señorita." his face fell when you scoffed and pushed him away. "talk to me when you want to be serious." "i am being serious!" he says defensively. "look, you're my girlfriend. we're together." he sets his coffee down, pulling you in for a kiss. he kept kissing you until you cracked a grin, which took all of two tries. he wields his big brown eyes like katanas looking into yours, raising a finger heart and pressing it against his lips. "i like you." he says, unable to hold back his smile when you moved his hand away.

subong leaned in closer, the tip of his nose feeling the warmth of your cheek. "do you like me, too? hm? you can tell me. i promise i'll keep it a secret. i won't tell anyone." he knew your answer, but teased nonetheless, shaking his head in affirmation. you shushed him gently, actively trying to thwart how flustered you've become. he only pushed more, pressing a purposely deep and obnoxious kiss onto your skin. "i'll be the best and sexiest boyfriend ever."

it felt so wrong that your heart beat a little faster. "i'm only saying okay so that you shut up." you muttered. a knowing grin stretched across subong's face. he placed a kiss on your neck and above the valley between your breasts, laying his temple on your chest, slinging his arms around you. he smirked when you wrapped your arm around his shoulder some minutes later, his eyes fluttering closed when your lips found the top of his head.

you made him start coughing up his earnings from gigs to go towards rent. considering he wasn't being paid much, bookings weren't predictable, and he'd sometimes try to hide his earnings from you (which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, and if he did it again, you threatened he'd be out on the balcony without a blanket) his contribution wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. you shut down any chance of retaliation from him with a look he's since named "period projection" or, depending on his mood, "viagra."

when a lot of time passed between gigs, subong was woken up by a notebook and pen thrown onto his chest. "if you don't have five songs written by the time i get back from work, you're pussyless for a week." you said, slinging your purse over your shoulder. he grunted, barely opening his eyes but sitting up, the notebook and pen falling onto the bed. you grabbed his face, pecking his cheek before heading out the door.

subong talked himself up if you were being particularly hard on him, or really, just not as delusional about his success. "baby, one day you won't have to worry about shit. i'll have us partying in mykonos by next valentine's and in switzerland to see the first snow." he said one morning, standing stupidly in the middle of the apartment with nothing but his briefs and a graphic tee that had stains you didn't want to know about. "book the flights when you stop eating week old beef and using my moisturizer." you mutter, shoving the vacuum cleaner in his hands, gesturing for him to hand over the shirt before heading to the basement of the building to do laundry.

if work permitted, you went to see him perform at whatever nightclub in the city. subong found you in the crowd after his set, giving you a sloppy kiss and wrapping his sweaty arms around you no matter if you came straight from work, still clad in business wear, or in something that made you look like the rapper girlfriend of his dreams. an air of added cockiness ruminated off him when you two tag-teamed hounding the club manager whenever they tried to lowball his pay. more often than not, they caved in and gave what was agreed to and then some after you shouted said your piece. either way, you end up on the dance floor wrestling with your tongues or him pounding into you from behind in a bathroom stall. everybody wins!

when you're at work and subong's at home, he films tiktoks and posts on his instagram to get his name out there. he also tries to start beef on various naver cafés, especially when he's bored. or texting you: Did u eat the last tico?; Hi baby I have a threading appt at 5 i will meet u at your work before we go to dinner; Highh as sht88df thikning about ❤️You girl❤️❤️❤️❤️; [insert photo of him flexing in the bathroom mirror] Come home for lunch

speaking of photos on his phone, he has quite the array—advertisements at the train and bus stations he finds funny; various hair colors from the department store he wants to try; mirror selfies of him either flexing or trying on shoes; a photo of his hand squishing your cheeks when you two were waiting in line for cheap street food for lunch; another photo of you looking rather disheveled in the kitchen when you two were unfairly woken up at 6 am one saturday morning by nearby construction, an adorably annoyed look on your face because he was standing in the way of the fridge; one selfie of him in bed hitting his e-cig; the next taken six minutes later with your tit in his mouth, his eyes looking at himself. if you didn't keep tabs on him, he would've made the latter the cover of his next mixtape.

some of your friends thought you were crazy for still being with him, someone who was barely scraping by and, from an outsider's pov, was a moocher. you'd shake your head, "you guys don't get it. i know what i'm doing. you don't need to worry." and you certainly did, considering whenever you came home to subong's big brown eyes, towering height, and his smooth, low voice asking "how was your day, baby?," or when his fingers traced a fresh hickey on your neck, or when he announced his presence by placing his hand teasingly low on your waist ... oh, you were just about ready to make him a father .... even if it would lower the nation's life expectancy rate.

you've caught yourself staring at him at night when you couldn't sleep, watching the way his lips parted every time he exhaled, or how his arms were sprawled out before him after he fell asleep with them crossed. you fought the fluttering of your heavy eyelids to just .... look at him. sometimes you succumb to slumber, pressing a gentle kiss onto his cheek before drifting off. but one night you were simply plagued by him, looking at subong as if he was a riddle to solve, until you realized with wide eyes that you were projecting: oh fuck no. i love him.

it terrified you, that strong feeling. but not enough to sit idly by if someone became a little too flirty with him at the club, or to slow your speed walk to the bathroom after a work conference to send him a picture after he sent one that morning—lowering your volume and pressing your phone to your ear, listening to the audio message he sent in response, subconsciously rubbing your thighs together: "god, you're so fucking hot baby. how did i get so lucky .... what am i supposed to do, hm? you made my dick so fucking hard .... and it's not even eleven am yet ... is this what you wanted, hm? to get me riled up first thing in the morning?" his voice was low, sleep still fresh in his tone, followed by wet strokes. "it's sad that you're at work for so long. leaving me here—f-fuck, yeah, just like th-that—all alone ... and so needy ..."

you fucked good and hard when subong got a spot in the rap battleground competition, landing him in a position to not only put his name out there, but possibly win some money that would make a difference. you were elated enough to go condom-less. "wanna make you feel good, baby," you murmured breathily, ass pushing against the kitchen countertop, subong standing between your warm thighs. "i'm just so—mmf!" you sucked in a breath when his lips and tongue found your neck. "s-so proud of you, subongie." oh. subong just knew something was up. but he wasn't stupid enough to question it, not when he knows he's about to enter the gates of heaven. "gonna let me fuck this tight pussy raw?" he muttered in that low voice of his, continuing his slow, wet kisses on your neck to avoid melting into a puddle of his libido. his voice quivered when you didn't answer, hidden well by your moan: "hm? gonna let me ruin this pussy—" "yes!" you whimpered.

in a moment of weakness, he bit his bottom lip. he grabbed your face with one hand, making you look him in the eye. even in his attempt at dominance, you saw the flickers of awe in his eyes. nothing filled the kitchen besides the sounds of your shaky breaths, his face studying yours. could this ... could he have just realized that ... he loves you, too? subong leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing with yours. you try to lean in, but his hold on your face stops you. you don't know what to make of his feelings with his next words, but with how his other hand comes up and combs your hair out of your face, and his forehead touches yours, its perhaps the most intimate moment of your relationship thus far: "you're finally gonna let me fuck what's mine?" he whispers. you nod silently.

subong bottomed out that night, cumming all over your stomach and back. your back arched like never before when he was pounding into you from behind, taking him deep into your gummy, warm walls. your fingernails clawed at your pillowcases and bed sheets, jaw hung open and eyes rolled back whilst his heavy balls hit the bottom of your stomach. your cunt suffocated his dick every time his palm smacked either globe of your ass—"take that fucking dick. take that fucking dick, just like that, yeah," he panted, palm rubbing over your hot skin before smacking it again. his voice cracked, "f-fuck! o-oh my god! fuck!" he squeezed your hips so hard you sucked a breath in through your teeth. his thrusts momentarily slowed, blinking hard when his vision began to blur at the sight of the creamy ring at the end of his cock. the noise was obnoxious, wet, and loud. you're everything he could ever hope for. in missionary, he tried so hard not to be a babbling mess, through his purposeful strokes. his hands held your head in place, his thumbs pressing into your temples, but his gaze failed to leave his cock fucking you. "give me that fucking puffy pussy." he murmured. he held his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning. "give me that puffy fucking—o-oh! ngh! f-fuck, you always know how to make me feel so f-fucking good, baby!"

you showered afterward together, momentarily forgetting about the water bill when your arms wrapped around subong's neck, your lips molding together. the kiss was soft and sensual. his hands massaged the same globes his palms set fire to whilst the remnants of his lust washed off your body and down the drain. he slept the best he had in weeks that night. a couple weeks later, you helped him dye his hair a deep purple a few days before the competition, just in time for him to adopt his new stage persona after becoming insufferable since watching "endgame," thanos.

the competition came and went, and he placed as a runner-up. he actually listened when you said you didn't want to head to the club since you had work early the next day, settling for a nice dinner and a bottle or two of soju instead. a group of fans of the show came up to him in the checkout line, and not only did you watch with an admiring grin, but your eyes widened surprise when he introduced you as his girlfriend after you were handed their phones to take a photo, harmlessly mistaken as a bystander. not only were you then asked to join the photo, but subong laughed heartily on the walk home upon hearing one of the girls' face dropped hearing the news that he's taken.

the bottles emptied on your coffee table, you ended the night rolling your hips atop his, holding onto his shoulders as his hands held onto either globes of your ass, looking up at you whilst you rode his cock. your dress pants for work were discarded on the floor, panties pushed to the side for his condom-less dick, biting your bottom lip when his palm massaged your breast through your blouse. nothing was in the room besides your breathy gasps, his low groans, the squeak of sweaty skin against the cheap faux leather of the couch, and his whispers . . . "you look so beautiful, baby. so fucking sexy." subong's eyebrows furrowed deeply, glancing at your swiveling hips before looking back up at you, despite your head being thrown back. "taking this cock so good...f-fuck ... know how to make me feel good, yeah? always know just how to squeeze me, how to make this big, fat cock cum, yeah? tell me, baby."

all you could muster was a whimper and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders, but that was more than okay with him. his hand trailed up the side of your neck, bringing your head forward. "come here, come here my beautiful baby. my beautiful fucking woman." his lips kissed yours, molding them together repeatedly. his tongue toyed with yours, picking up the speed of your hips, making him grunt into your mouth every time your inner thighs clapped against his lower stomach. you held onto each other tighter, the kiss becoming feverish, only to be broken when his thumb found your clit. you came in what felt like seconds, and before you knew it, the words slipped out: "i love you!" you whimpered, riding out the high of your intense orgasm, subong having pulled out and spilling onto his thigh. "i love you, i love you!" you repeated breathily. through the pounding of his temples, he heard. through your laborious breathing, you didn't register that he said nothing back.

subong loved you too. he's known for a while now. but that was precisely the problem—he knew, and he wasn't going to say shit. what was the reason? perhaps it was a fucked up way of protecting you by stonewalling that part of him, perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was the inferiority complex making him feel like he didn't deserve someone as patient, as transformative, and as loving as you, and he questioned every day why he hadn't been kicked to the fucking curb yet, even after a year and a half together. or maybe ... it was that fucking mg coin ...

he started watching that fuckass man a couple months before the rap battleground competition after a friend tipped him off about crypto. you peered over his shoulder after settling into bed, hearing parts of a youtube video through his phone speaker. "i stopped trying to understand that shit when they told me a picture of an ape is somehow currency." you muttered, making him laugh. "yeah. you're right, hm?" he let out a yawn, clicking his phone off before taking you in his arms, falling asleep with your head on his chest.

but then, it was like a flip switched. subong saw something you didn't (delusion), and seemed to be watching myung gi's videos at what felt like any chance he had. he watched him in the morning, sat at the small dining table in the kitchen as he ate leftover kimbap from dinner the night previous, already annoying you at barely 10 AM whilst pouring yourself cereal, sitting across from him on this rare saturday off. you eyed his phone, "i thought you dropped that shit." you said between chewing. his eyes stayed glued to his screen, putting another slice into his mouth. "i don't know, baby. i think he has a point. people are getting rich quick off this crypto shit. i might have to play my hand, y'know?" before you could respond, he reached over, wiping a rogue drop of milk that slipped from the corner of your mouth, sucking it off his thumb before pressing 'skip ad'. you reached over, clicking his phone off and turning it face down. "hey!—" "you talk like you routinely pay for this wifi." you said, looking into his eyes. "you talk about 'playing your hand' when you don't have the decency to spend 5,000 won on wired headphones so i don't have to hear this shit all day?"

his lip twitched in annoyance, eyes widening. "don't get smart with me!" he exclaimed. you scoffed and waved your hand dismissively, eating another scoop of your cereal. "i'll go get some headphones after i eat if that's what you really want, damn!" "if you invest in something invisible, you do it with your own money so you reap the punishment." you say. "i will." subong rolled his eyes, eating his last slice of kimbap, but irritably. "he knows his shit. says the coin'll blow up." he mumbled, glancing at you when you got up. you held his face, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. "that's what they all say, subong." you collected his and your dishes, bringing them to the sink and beginning to wash.

he funneled money into that coin behind your back no problem. every time a check came in, the slice that went to investing got larger and larger. he kept it hidden by putting aside just enough to not cause suspicion. and turning off notifs at specific times. he said he'd transfer a few months worth of the rent when the money hit his account after rap battleground and a couple of scheduled gigs he won as well, but it was a half-baked lie. he told you the money hit way after it actually did, giving you what he promised but keeping a large sum for himself, because he surprisingly got a return on his investment.

he kept going and going, the high of it all rivaling his pills. he bought limited edition shoes, a pair of earrings you'd been eyeing for a while for your anniversary, and got a couple new tattoos. all of it was hidden well behind his coincidentally coinciding success of his music in the wake of the competition ... damn ... he could get used to the universe dickriding him this hard ...

until it all came crashing down that night on the couch. the same night you confessed, he got a notif from one of his crypto apps that he had lost 30 million won. he bolted out of bed, leaving your sleeping, clueless form behind to smoke a cigarette outside, pacing back and forth in the street, trying to calm himself down at 2:30 in the morning. he stared at those numbers like they were going to change, ultimately convincing himself that it was a mere fluke and that money would come again in no time, stomping his cigarette into the asphalt and heading back upstairs.

it was like a routine: watch myung gi, take notes, invest. watch myung gi, take notes, invest. subong took it to heart when he said viewers would be foolish not to bet. he resented being made to feel stupid. even when the returns were slimmer with each swipe up to refresh, he kept going. he looked you straight in the eyes with an admiring grin on his face, lying through his teeth saying everything was okay. what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? right. but it ate away at him. subconsciously, then viscerally.

your confession hung at the back of subong's head for weeks. he tried to avoid it, even attempted to put that frustration into his music, but nothing was satisfactory. his inner turmoil flooded to the surface—avoiding your kiss in the morning before you headed to work, landing your lips on the corner of his mouth before he pecked yours without much thought. you didn't say those three words again, but he saw them on display in the softness of your eyes gazing up at him. he couldn't bare it. it was so easy for him to lie to your face about his whereabouts, how much of a fucking coward was he to not say three words back? especially when he felt them, too?

you noticed the change as well. he'd be gone for longer hours, only texting you back in the later evening. his hand stayed to hisself on sunday mornings. kisses were quick and choppy, not sensual and slow. sex was more rough and rushed. it made you feel so deeply embarrassed, like a teenaged girl made to feel silly and begging for her boyfriend's attention. you hated the feeling, but hated the fact that you let that confession slip more. you always felt he wasn't one to open up like that, but a girl can dream, can't she?

then it descended into utter madness. you came home from work later than usual, having to finish last minute assignments for someone who didn't show up. you nearly exploded at the haze of smoke filling your apartment, dropping your purse on the floor. there were bottles of soju and half-eaten food littering the kitchen counters and floor, the fridge left wide open, sure to have spoiled the rest of your leftovers. your eyes then found subong and his friend, a stranger to you, so fucking high that drool leaked out of the corner of their mouths.

"out!" you yelled, enraged. "get the fuck out!" neither of them moved until the piercing sound of the soju bottle you threw at the wall, shattering into pieces, jolted their senses awake. you grabbed the friend by his tank top, yanking him out of his seat like a fucking rag doll, and shoved him out the door. "the fuck! get ... get your—tell your bitch to fucking chill, bro!" the man's words slurred, only for him to nearly stumble down the stairs when you hurled another bottle at him. "don't ever fucking come back here!" you yelled.

"jesus fucking christ, you're so fucking loud." subong muttered, now standing and rubbing his fingers against his temples. "what the fuck is wrong with you! you've never done shit like this before!" you yelled, paying no mind to his wincing. "the fuck are you talking about? i get high, you know this—" "yeah, i do! but never like this. in our fucking house, subong!"

it was then that you saw the syringe and tinfoil on the coffee table. even in your blistering anger, you took his wrists in your hands, looking over his arms. "since when did you do hard shit? huh?" you muttered. his eyebrows furrowed, looking over to the table with hooded eyes. "what? i...i don't." his words slurred, a low burp gurgling out from his lips, shaking his head. "my friend fucks around with that. not me. i stick to pills and vape, baby. i swear."

you let go of his wrists, running a hand through your hair and pacing. the smoke had cleared. you turned around, seeing him laying his temple against the fridge, mouth hung open and eyes closed. you slowly walked up to him, not sure where to begin, your hands reaching up and holding his face. "baby." you said, him grunting in response. "i don't ... i don't know what's going been going on with you lately. you've been so distant and ... and cold. and then coming home to this ... subong, you're—you're scaring me a little."

he groaned weakly, chin sinking downward before you caught him, holding his face up whilst looking into his hooded eyes. your heart felt punctured. "is it ... is it because i said i love you? is it because of that?" his eyes opened, making way for his frustrated grimace. he shook his head, lip curling in what you mistook as disgust, when in reality he was outwardly sickened by himself. "you don't know fucking shit about anything, bitch."

your face fell, eyes watering. you let go of him, his cheek flattened against the fridge, barely stabilizing himself against it. you took a step back. a million thoughts ran through your mind, but one prevailed amongst all of them: what i've been avoiding has shown itself to be true. a tear escaped your waterline, but your voice was stable. "get out." you sniffled, wiping your cheek. "get out, subong."

"huh?" he mumbled, gradually opening his eyes. "i said get the fuck out of my house, subong." "what? i'm not going—" he burped again. "i'm not going fucking anywhere." he wagged a finger in your face. you swatted his arm away, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt and yanked him with all of your might, pushing his back, shoving him out the door even after he tripped over your purse. you slammed the door and locked it before he got to his feet again. "hey!" he yelled. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "open the damn door, you fucking bitch!" he pounded on the door with his palm. "come back when you stop acting like a fucking child!" you yelled, hitting the door back repeatedly. "and not turn my place into a fucking trap house, you piece of shit!"

"what about all that money i gave you, huh!? for rent? and your fucking groceries? give me those fucking earrings you have on, you never fucking deserved them anyway—" "fuck no!" you shouted over him. "this is the least i fucking deserve after your fucking pennies, you cheap piece of shit! if you're so loaded, then fuck off!" subong pressed his mouth to edge of the door, seething. "throwing your boyfriend out like this? when i'm making it big, huh? you'll come to regret this—" you bursted out laughing almost maniacally, a very strange mixture of anger, frustration, and hilarity brewing in your chest. he could be so fucking ridiculous. "m-making it big?" you repeated, laughing so hard you clutched your stomach and wiped tears from your face. it was cathartic. "i-if you're 'making it big,' subong, then—then i'm a lost member of the royal fucking family!" you exclaimed. "how's the fund for greece, huh? still plan on taking me for valentine's? or are you going to continue to clog my toilet because you're still too cheap to buy fresh meat?" "shut the fuck up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the door and wiggling the doorknob.

a neighbor opened their door, avoiding eye contact and stepping around the broken glass to take out their trash, visibly not wanting to be caught in the firestorm taking place in the hall. subong grew embarrassed, turning back to the closed door with a new plea to avoid the atomically sinking feeling. "open the door. please, baby. let's talk this out." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level, wiping his nose with the side of his thumb. when you didn't answer, he kept going. "i'm sorry for all the trouble, baby. let me make it up to you, yeah? just open the door, and we can talk this out. c'mon, baby, the neighbors'll hear—" "let them fucking hear!" you yelled, making him flinh. you leaned closer to the edge of the door, directly parallel to him. "what's that bullshit you always say, huh? any attention is good attention, if you know what to do with it? well, eat your fucking words then, subong! be a man for once in your stupid life!" his eyes widened, vein popping out of his temple. "fuck you, you fucking whore!" he slammed the door repeatedly, the two of you creating a cacophony when you started hitting it, too. "fuck you too, dumbass!"

it was eerily silent that evening in your apartment. you, alone, cleaning up the mess he left behind. carefully sweeping up shattered glass, plastic bags, food wrappers, washing the dishes, cleaning out the fridge, etc. subong was universe knows where. you didn't have the energy to think about him, not even bothering to look around on your walk to the convenience mart to buy ramen for dinner. the emotional turmoil sank into your chest when you sat at the same kitchen table where chaos unfolded at mere hours ago to eat. you barely swallowed the first mouthful before you sank into tears, shoulders shaking, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to console yourself. how could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

you and subong didn't speak for three months. he called and texted those first couple weeks, but that fizzled out, and you didn't answer at all. you didn't owe him anything, especially after the shit he put you through. the wound was still felt too fresh, sensitive enough to do anything but wallow in the silence, heading back out to bars with your friends on the weekends.

none of your friends dared to say much. you were offered apologetic words, but a fool wouldn't notice the air of i told you so in their tone. even with you ceasing caring to cover the healing hickies, being much more subdued on nights out, or your eye bags deepening in the wake of the break up, you were mainly left to wallow in your own grief. you felt it was half deserved and half fucking rude.

but as more time went on, you felt hurt by the fact that subong didn't show back up. not once. not even a mean note on your door, or sign of attempted entry. did he really not fucking care that much? he was just a man, after all ... but then again, not every man is reduced to grateful tears after eating pussy. or looks at you like a renaissance painting come to life when you're retouching his fucking hair dye. when you got home one night, a little tipsy from the cocktails you had, you clicked on those unread text messages— ranging from Baby i'm sorry please talk to me; Stop being so fucking stubborn; ileft my keytthere I dont wantt it back u fknng cnutt; to I don't deserve you i fucked up please baby—and listening to those voicemails.

one resonated with you, even in your inebriated state: "hi ... um, it's been, like, four days since we ... and i, uh—i feel weird. and i don't like it at all. i know you're at work right now but i can't bring myself to show my face and i fucking hate it. i don't like being a coward. but you ... you're ... you're just ... you need to stop. you can't keep doing this to me. you make me feel things i've never felt and it fucking scares me. and you cut me off before i could even say my bit. how is that fair? you can't just come into my life like that and walk away before i get a say. you can't change my life and me and then just throw me away. i know ... i know i'm not the best guy. but even i don't deserve to be thrown out like—" he was cut off and did not call back. "oh my god. what a fucking idiot." you murmured, rubbing your temple with your fingers.

but the universe loves to throw curveballs, because you saw him two weeks later at a bar a few blocks down from the club you first met at. subong saw you long before you saw him that night. he'd spent so much of the last four months feeling a spectrum of emotions, coping with his frustration by daydreaming about what he'd say the next time he saw you—all of the insults to suffice for his anger, all of the things he'd say to make you feel bad for how you treated him—all cogs in his self-deflection apparatus. but when he actually saw you, sat alone at the bar with no friend group in sight, drinking what looked to be martini, he was at a loss for words. even his emotionally daft ass was aware enough to sense something was different about you. more muted, more subdued. that's what she fucking gets. his inner monologue was unforgiving, only for him to peer over a tall strangers shoulder to keep his softened eyes on you. but she ... she can't be alone. not here.

subong was really good at blending into the crowd, until he got too close, and by chance you glanced up and saw him. he was close enough to hear you suck in a breath through your teeth, and see your eyes widen in panic the same time his did. without thinking, you got up from your seat, grabbing your purse hanging on the back of your chair, forgetting you hadn't even taken a second sip of your overpriced drink. subong stepped out of the crowd, "don't go." he said gentler than anticipated, before remembering he was supposed to be livid. his expression hardened, lips tightened, hand grabbing for your arm. "we need to talk."

"i don't have anything to fucking say to you." you say sharply, not looking at him, keeping your voice low to not cause commotion. "yes the fuck you do." he bit back. you tried to pull your arm out of his grip, failing. "let me go or i'll throw my drink in your face." "really?" he smirked. "i didn't take you to be so careless with your money." you look up, eyebrows raised, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. "oh, that's funny. do you still think you're up and coming? or have you come to terms with the fact that you're an illiterate fuck who steals IP just to still write shit fucking bars?"

subong closed much of the remaining gap between you. "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch." he seethed through gritted teeth. you look him dead in the eyes, "see what i mean? you still can't come up with anything new, and you've had all this time." you pulled at his grip again, but he was strong. "let me go." "you didn't listen to me before, so you're going to listen now." "like the fuck i am!" you looked at him like he was crazy. you pulled again, finally freeing your arm. you grabbed your drink, purse in your other hand. "now leave me alone." you say. "or i'll throw this drink right in your fucking eyes."

you turned and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar; just anywhere that was not where he was. you found an empty booth, sitting down with a huff, taking a hefty swig of your martini. you shot up when you saw him walk over, putting your arm in position, only for subong to put his hands up, one hovering over your drink. "don't throw it! don't!" "do you not know how to fucking listen!?" "you don't know how, either!" he shot back. "why did you never respond to my texts or calls?" "don't ask me that with that stupid look on your face like it's as bad as you bringing a fucking stranger and hard drugs into my home!" you exclaimed. "which, by the way, in all of your rambling voicemails and texts, you've never once apologized for." "so you did read them?" "that's not the fucking point, subong!" "yes, it is! to me!" "and what? you don't think it matters to me that you never said 'i love you' back? that i felt like a fucking teenage girl, waiting at her boyfriend's beck and call to care about her?"

people were starting to stare, but your sense of decorum was long gone. he got up in your face, and you took him up at that challenge. "i care! i fucking cared!" he stared into your eyes in frustration, pushing his fingers into his chest in a desperate gesture. "well, you didn't do a good job of showing it. because at some point, i felt my loneliest even when you were beside me, snoring like fucking pug and dutch ovening the blanket."

subong, at a loss for words, too choked up on his anger and long-suppressed complicated feelings boiling to the surface, turned to what he knew best: low hanging fruit. after a moment, he collects himself. a smug smirk stretches across his face, taking a step back and glancing at the dated wall art behind you. he shook his head, looking down at the floor with a chuckle. "and here i was, thinking you were secretly pregnant with my kid or something." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, deeply confused. this was stupid, even for him. "what?" you shook your head. "what the fuck are you talking about—" "—it makes sense that you wouldn't want to tell me. too much for you too handle. but then i saw you tonight, and you looked more bloated than usual, so i thought i was right. but then you were drinking—" he yelped when the cold gin splashed in his face, flinching at the glass bouncing off his chest, shattering next to his foot. gasps erupted throughout the room. subong hastily wiped his eyes, feeling them burn. "fucking bitch!" "your children would be lucky to never know their deadbeat of a fucking father."

you stormed off, heading into the nearby women's bathroom. heartbeat in your throat, you turned on a sink, rinsing the alcohol off your hands. you didn't look up when the door hit the wall, or when subong yelled "fuck off!" to the other three women in the room, causing a brief scurry of heels out the door. he pushed you out of the way, rinsing his eyes. "i should go and file a fucking police report on you." he mumbled. he looked up at you, expression angry, even with his squinting eyes. "i should've written 'sex slave' on my tax forms, too, with how you treated me!"

you pushed him right back, collecting a handful of water from the running sink with your palm, and throwing it at his face. "when was the last time you paid your taxes? hm!?" you exclaimed. "do you even know where your bank is? did you ever buy a new toothbrush after the one you had became a clump of bristles and i had to get one for you like a fucking mother!?" you yelled, using both palms and throwing more water; some hitting the floor, some splashing on yourself, but most wetting his face and clothing. "hey!" his voice boomed. he took a step forward, slipping, but caught himself on the edge of the sink. he turned the water off, landing your hand atop his in a failed effort to stop him. "you don't get to speak to me like that!" he yelled. "i can speak however i want to!" you yelled louder, making him wince, cursing under his breath. "you lost your chance when you made me feel crazy for loving you. i don't know how i could've even liked you!"

"hey!" subong's voice echoed off the walls. "your voice is so fucking shrill! you're giving me a fucking headache!" he pushed his fingers into his temple. he pointed at you, unwavering when you smacked it away. "don't act like you're fucking innocent, either—let me fucking finish!" you closed your mouth, crossing your arms over your chest. "see, this is what your problem is. you don't let anyone speak, or want to do anything i like. all those times you laughed in my face, didn't take me seriously, or tossed my career away like it was garbage, like some fucking fly you couldn't swat away." he waved his hand in front of his face, mimicking the gesture. "well, i'm sorry i put a roof over your head when you were piss poor broke." your voice was eerily leveled, staring so hard into his eyes you could've burned holes into his retinas. "and didn't act like you were nominated for grammys in fucking return."

"'laughed?' 'didn't take seriously?'" you repeated his words, eyebrows furrowing. "who dyed your stupid fucking purple hair? who reminded you to write songs? who pushed you to call clubs? who yelled at pervert managers to get you fair pay!?" your voice escalated. subong's eyes drifted to the tiled floor, head hanging lower than before. you took a breath. "subong, i—" he met your eyes at the mention of his name. "i invented you."

his expression soured, hating that you were right and faced with his own cowardice once again. but he would rather give himself up to his loan shark than show it. "invented is the right word." subong spoke lowly, nodding. his hand came up to his head, making a screwing gesture. "false ideas—you have false ideas of who i am. you played with me like a toy." you were in disbelief. "p-played you? like ... like a toy?" you began to stutter through this newfound upheaval of anger, something that made your face feel hot and stomach churn, increasingly irritated with each second you couldn't get the words out. "you!—you!" you hit your palm on the edge of the sink, sending your purse to the floor. "you came so hard that i thought i had to go to urgent care to get you an oxygen mask!" every word sounded more strained than before. you inhaled deeply, running against a ticking timer in your head to when he'd open his mouth next. you gestured at a bathroom stall door, but in your head, it was a memory. "you held onto me so tightly after your performances or at home or—or eating dinner to the point where i had to eat with one hand!" you closed the gap, your pointer finger brushing against the tip of his nose. "at some point, you couldn't fall asleep unless you felt my fucking heartbeat, motherfucker!"

"and you did all of that," you gestured around you. "just to fuck me over, and make me realize i've wasted my time loving someone who doesn't give half a fucking shit whether i live or die!" "i care!" his voice boomed. "how many times do i have to say that!?" "until your last goddamn breath." you retort without hesitation. "and with how you live, that should be right around the corner." "are you saying i should die?" "what? no, subong. of course not." you shook your head. "that's not what i—that's not what i meant." "so what did you mean?" "what i mean was—no, stop distracting. you know exactly what i meant." with your next look at him, you saw them: his manicured hands, equipped with different colors on all fingernails. oh, you hated how quickly your mind shifted gears, how quickly the worries of the imaginary teenage girl clouded your logic and best judgment, but none more than this being what your eyes began watering over. "who ... who did that?" you asked, your suddenly quieted voice catching subong off guard.

"what?" he asked, confused. his eyes followed your gaze, landing at his hands, eyebrows raising at the realization that this was his chance at getting the upper hand: "someone i saw." he lied. it wasn't wholly untrue, but dubiously framed; the nail tech was a woman, so he did see her, just not in the way he just purposefully vaguely implied. he needed something to jab at you, to knock you down a peg like it was a schoolyard fight, but even he couldn't smirk at the hurt on your face. in fact, he regretted those words the moment he said them. "who is she?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. subong had never seen you look so devastated like this before. it made him feel an instinct that straightened his posture, unaware of what to do next, standing awkwardly. he attempted to say these next words with venom, but he couldn't even believe them himself, almost sounding as subdued as you: "it's none of your fucking business."

your heart drops. you feel nauseous. if subong had blinked, he would've missed your curt nod. you didn't bother wiping the tear trailing your cheek, his eyes watching as you pick up your purse from the floor, ears perking at your sniffle. "okay." you whispered, but you were so quiet that your voice nearly blended with the air vent. you started walking, fully intending to never turn back around, until his hand on your wrist stopped you. "wait—" "stop!" you said sharply, yanking out of his grip before he could close his fingers entirely. you held your hands in the air before circling around, your eyes landing on his. his face fell. you looked perishable, drained of an essence he couldn't fathom you without. oh, he'd really done it this time.

you lunged forward, nail of your pointer finger scratching against his nose. "you don't get to do this to me, s-subong!" you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tears stifle the effort. you couldn't contain the sob. he was mortified at the sight. "it's ... it's not fair." you whispered meekly. your hands trailed to his chest, balling into fists as you cried. he stood there, frozen, mouth agape like a fool. subong raised his hand, petting your hair with a light, unsure touch. "it's fi—" he sucked in a surprised breath through his teeth when you started swatting his chest, pushing and shoving at him in a pitiful tantrum. subong took it silently, putting his hands up, face contorting uncomfortably at the sound of your cries. his bottom lip started to quiver as time went on. he couldn't tell what he hated more: the fact he lost the fight, or the fact he cared about that to begin with.

"that's enough. hey—" subong inhaled sharply through his nose. he grabbed both of your wrists, holding them in place. "that's enough." he hoped to whatever higher power you didn't hear the quiver. he swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. your hands went limp. he let go, feelings your palms trail up to his face. "you're mine." you spoke weakly. his mouth fell open, staring at your lips whilst you begged for his eyes; earning you such when your hand on his cheek guided him to your gaze. "do you hear me?" you whispered. "you're mine, subong. no one elses." you shook your forehead against his, your tragic desperation ailing him. "mhm." his hands trailed your waist. "i'm yours, baby. all yours."

with a shaky hand, your fingers ran through his hair, thumb so close to his lips he pressed a skeleton of a kiss onto it. "i'm sorry i threw my drink at you." you cry, voice stuck at a whisper. "i'm so sorry, subong—" "stop." his low voice shushes you, nose nestling beside yours, slowly trailing to your neck. he inhaled your scent, eyes rolling back when your fingers brushed past his cartilage piercing. "i had it coming." his nose found its way back to your cheek, pressing kisses onto the warm, wet skin. "why didn't you come home, subong? i .. i've been waiting for so long." his bottom lip quivered again, but his voice was utmost steady: "you never asked."

"i—i shouldn't have to!" you swatted at his chest. "you idiot!" "i know, i know. i've been really fucking stupid." his voice cracks. subong leans in, but you turn away. "i can't. it's not good for me." "can't you see we're dying without each other?" he pleads, his hands turning your head to look at him. "look at me, look at you! just one, baby. please." his breath brushed against your cheeks, his hands holding either side of your face. "i can't ... i can't go on without you."

with a shaky breath and fresh tears falling down your cheeks, you closed the gap. a guttural moan rumbled through your chest, subong whimpering desperately. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, your hands holding his face for dear life—the kiss slow and purposeful, making up for lost time, a conversation no words could say. subong's palms made way to your ass, acting on pure muscle memory. he angled his head, introducing his tongue into the equation, having to quickly bend his knees to catch your fidgety form. "i'm not going anywhere." he unintentionally stifled the most heavenly moan he's ever heard from you. you broke the kiss for air. subong wasted no time, returning to his favorite spot on your neck, holding you in place firmly. your head fell back, letting him do whatever he so pleased—your hand on the back of his head wielding the power of casting a centuries-long trance.

he sucked and licked with precision, like a day hadn't gone by. he even hummed in concentration, mouth popping off of your soft skin until the bruise was to his liking. "s-subong." you whined, needing his lips back, your fingers messily carding through his hair. "i'm almost done." he was gentle, even if he was ignoring the concrete fucking lump in his pants and starting to sweat over your warmth against his. he latched off, fingers tracing the bluish-red spot with satisfaction. "come here, pretty girl." his slightly swollen lips made your eyebrows furrow pathetically, the kiss felt sticky, your lips sown with his. "i need you." you murmured. "i need you." "stall. the bathroom stall."

you grabbed his hand, rushing to the closest one, pulling him inside. neither of you think to close the door, letting it bang against the wall after swinging it open. subong's lips returned to yours, but his hands pat his pockets, feeling his phone and wallet, unsure: "i don't—i don't have a condom." "it's okay, it's okay." you assure truthfully, hurriedly kissing him as if he'd disappear if you let go. "it'll be just like how we used to, hm?" "turn around for me."

you do, placing your hands on the bathroom stall wall to hold yourself up. subong pulls your pants down to your ankles, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to grind his hardened cock against your ass, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with the barrier of his briefs and your underwear. "s-subong!" you gasped, back arching, pushing your ass farther onto him, feeling his cock closer to your aching pussy but not quite there yet. "how could you take this away from me?" he whispered into your ear, breath hitching vulnerably as he tried to keep himself composed, the plush of your round ass making his mind mush. "from us?" subong's hands snuck past the hem, grabbing at the powdery softness of either globes of your ass. his bottom lip suffered between his teeth, watching his hands work underneath the fabric, squeezing firmly. your nails clawed at the wall, eyes fluttering closed whenever his cool rings cinched around your hot skin. "stop teasing." your cheek collided with his nose, not realizing how close his face was to yours.

subong kissed your supple skin like instinct. "you'll take this dick like a good fucking girl, right?" he was so close to your ear the tip of his nose smushed against the stall wall. "y-yes!" you helplessly paw at the wall. his hand pulled down your underwear, rutting himself against your bare ass. his fingers maneuvered between your legs, middle finger sinking between your folds and encircling, keeping you steady between him and the wall. when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, he feels faint, cursing under his breath as your guttural grunt that bounced off the walls. "s-subong—" your voice sounded dry from the earlier arguing and succumbing to your illustrious libido. "i know, baby, i know." his fingers were unrelenting. christ, you were so fucking wet. "just wait for a little longer, and i'll fuck this pussy like the good boy you know i fucking am."

his fingers came to a gradual halt. whilst your chest heaved, he sucked on the tip of his middle finger, licking it clean. "i'm getting on my knees. don't move." he pulled your underwear down, peering up at the puffy lips he has to thank for opening his third eye. you cover your mouth, his warm tongue delving between your folds, scared of what you might sound like if you let go. for the next minute, all that fills the bathroom are the lewd sounds of his tongue nursing your sweet pussy and your muffled whimpers. a crude smack on your left globe followed by a harsh squeeze was the unspoken: let me fucking hear you. "o-oh!" you cried out. "o-oh my fucking god!"

you pushed your ass onto his face, your eyes crossing over the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your clit, squeezing them shut. he lapped your hole repeatedly, swallowing, taking a breath before adjusting his knees on the floor. subong's thumbs spread your lips apart, latching his mouth onto your clit and sucking. the curvature of your back deepened, head thrown back, a cry of pure lust brewing out of your diaphragm, heartbeat stuttering when his tongue lapped the bundle without mercy. "r-right there! just, just—ngh! hngh!—just l-like that!" "where? here?" he asked knowingly, tongue replaced by his finger, rubbing your clit mercilessly. his other hand fished his cock out from his briefs, beginning to stroke himself.

it was a cacophony of wet slick, choked moans, and squelching heat. nothing could deter it, not even the pair of friends that walked in the bathroom, chatting away and completely unaware, only to quickly back out of the room widened eyes and whispers of "oh my god, did you see them?" and "on a tuesday?" it was a sight to behold: your ass in his face; a mixture of his saliva and your slick trailing down his chin, quickly wiped by the back of his hand when he took a breath, but smearing nonetheless; his precum leaking onto the floor; your moans so delicate and raw any erotic film director would beg on their knees to cast you; and subong's affirming mhms and thats rights as he sucks and laps your clit.

subong knew you were close when your thighs began to shake. "give it to me." his hand ceased pumping his dick, both thumbs separating your puffy lips farther than before, running his tongue over your clit. "give it to me, mama," your moan made his dick twitch, eyebrows deeply furrowed, fucked-out gloss coating his eyes. "give it to me, baby, come on—" "ngh!" your body squirmed, nails scraping against the wall, one hand reaching for the top, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm took over your body. subong was stubborn—his palms pressing your back down further, tongue unrelenting through your high, swallowing whatever you gave him. he slowed when your breathing leveled, suckling one last time before rising to his feet.

he pushed your shirt up, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder. "hey," he said gently, hearing your shaky breaths. "still with me?" "mhm." you nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth, trying your best to remain standing. his lips kissed your temple, "everything okay?" "mhm," was all you were able to muster. "f-felt really good. needed it." "me too. i dreamt about you, baby." he whined, lips pressed to your skin. "i dreamt about you so much." his breathing became ragged, tip of his cock red and angry. "tugged at my dick so much and i never came as good as when i was with you. now you made me cum just from eating your pussy. do you see what you've done to me? do you see what you've done to your precious subongie?"

you feel dizzy, lifting your head for air. "put it in." you whisper. you push your ass into him, moaning at the feeling of his cock rutting against you. "put it in, subongie." he slowly pushed his tip in, eventually enveloped by your gummy walls. his face contorted—"how're you so much tighter than before!?" his voice was notably higher, barely moving his hips, slowly inching out of you. "h-haven't had anyone else," you sucked in a tight breath. "b-been waiting for you—hngh!" oh, you were so back ... you couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across your face, ears filled with his needy whines and blubbering incoherently about how much he missed you, and his girthy cock stretching you out in the way you deserve. "fuck me, subongie," you said breathlessly. "fuck me the way you dream about." "i won't last, you're so fucking tight!—" "—be the good boy you said you'd be!"

with that, he got to work. his pelvis hit your ass, not rapidly, but with reverberating force, moaning and whining like it was the last thing he'd ever do. your mouth fell open, body shaking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut. you gasped when his hand reached into your bra, holding your left breast, biting your lip as your nipple hardened against his palm. you looked over your shoulder, catching sight of your jiggling globes every time he thrusted. "faster," you said. "faster and harder, s-subong. i—fuck!—i n-need you so b-badly!" he grabbed either side of your hips, pounding into you through his intensifying blurry haze, balls slapping against you so unapologetically that, if someone got close enough, it could've been heard from outside the door. subong wasn't showing off; he wasn't outdoing himself, to him, this was making love. here he was, fucking the woman of his dreams (he got her back!!,) hearing those moans he was so afraid would escape his memories, and fortunate to be feeling and fucking her divine pussy. talk about a jackpot.

"a-agh! f-fuck!" he cried out, hips stuttering as you began fucking him back. he looked down at the sight, watching his creamy cock disappear and reappear at your volition, his indescribable pleasure displayed on his face, envied by empty canvases wishing to capture such raw human emotion. "n-no, no!" he gasped, feeling your pussy clench around him, that knot forming in his abdomen. "y-you're killing me, baby," he panted. "b-baby—ngh!—s-stop, need to f-fuck you. m'gonna cum s'quick if you—if you, f-fuck!" you stopped abruptly, slamming against his pelvis with a shaky breath. "i'm almost there, too." you said. you sunk a little lower, pushing your ass against him. "k-keep going, my love. you're doing so good. always know how to fuck this pussy so good, hm? yeah? best dick i've ever fucking had." you whine, feeling his cock pulsate in your cunt. you look over your shoulder, feeling his hand squeeze your left asscheek, "wanna cum in me?" wanna cum in me so much that i make you a daddy? yeah?" a wall-rattling gasp shattered out of your lungs when he thrust into you hard, once. then twice. "you're going to be the fucking death of me."

subong pounded into your tight pussy mercilessly, brushing against that spongy spot deep in your cunt with little effort at the angle you were in now. "right there, right t-there! o-oh my god, f-fuck—fuck! s-subong—subong! keep going! you feel so f-f-fucking good!" your whorish mewls were no match for his. he was a goner; bottomed out; becoming lightheaded. he kept going, kept hitting that spongy haven, but it wasn't a knot in your abdomen that fleshed goosebumps across your skin, embarking on its unravel—it was deeper, more carnal than that—but before you could register it, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your leg felt wet. "o-oh—oh my g-god—" you were a mumbling mess through this indescribable orgasm, wholly aware of your body but lost in your lustful haze. subong knew exactly what was going on. it brought him over the edge. "f-fuck! fuck! fuck!" warmth coated your walls, chock-full of his cum, trailing down your thigh with your squirt. he slowed his thrusts, moving so delicately it was as if his cock was made of glass.

he stopped moving, cock resting inside your warm cunt. you were in your own world, weakly holding onto the wall, ears ringing, temples pounding. your senses cleared albeit minutely with his hands holding your shoulders, helping you stand up better. you raised your arm, planting it before you and resting your forehead against it, taking deep breaths. subong pulled out, tutting softly hearing your quiet gasp, palm tracing your lower back as a silent i know, i know. his chest heaving, subong's hand reached over, trying to tuck your hair behind your ear to talk to you, but stops when he sees your earrings—the ones he gave you all those months ago; the ones he said you didn't deserve during that explosive argument. unexpectedly to him, his eyes started to water, quickly pressing a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, mouth muffled against the fabric of your top. in the midst of your labored breathing, you don't overhear: "i love you," he whispered. he pressed another kiss. "i love you."

after a few moments, you stood up steadily, making subong lift his head. your hand aimlessly reached behind you for him."you made me ... you made me—" "—i know, i know." he spoke gently. your senses found him when his arm wrapped around your waist, lips pressing a kiss to your temple and staying there. your hand reached up, coaxing your fingers through his hair. "have we ... have we ever done that before?" "i don't think we did." "yeah ... i figured." your eyes were still closed, slowly opening when his lips peppered kisses on your jaw. "i don't—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "i don't know if i can walk straight." both of you couldn't help but laugh, his forehead resting against your temple. "you know," he cleared his throat. "i think someone came in when i was eating you out." "oh god." you murmured. "did they say anything?" "i was kinda busy to notice if they did." he chuckled lowly. "right, right."

the heat of your apartment woke you up in the middle of the night, lazily tugging the duvet of your sweaty body. subong's light snores became background noise after a press of a button, the air conditioning kicking in. in your sleepy state, you squinted at the time on the oven: 4:27 AM. shuffling to the bathroom, you emerged a few minutes later, filling a glass of water from the kitchen tap. after taking a sip, you walked to the ac unit, eyes closed whilst you cooled down, wind flowing modestly through your hair.

feeling refreshed enough, you headed back to bed. you carefully slid your glass onto the nightside table, hoping there was a enough space on the already small and cluttered surface—equipped with yours and subong's charging phones, hair ties, ibuprofen, whatever else you were too lazy to properly put away, and not lit since there was no room for a lamp—but guessed wrong, accidentally sliding both phones off. a loud clatter rang throughout the apartment, "shit!" you cursed under your breath, quickly eyeing subong. he didn't flinch, snoring peacefully. you picked the phones up, plugged his back in, and set them onto the table securely. a notif came up on his screen. by chance, your eyes glanced over. what was a mere peek became a full on stare.

it was from a crypto app. you didn't have to be a genius to know; the word was in the name of the fucking app. you read the notif before his screen went dark: You have an update on your investment. Tap to view. you have got to be fucking kidding me. you thought to yourself. without thinking, you unplugged his phone, tapping his screen to see it again. but the notif was now hidden, requiring his face id or passcode to view. is his passcode still the same as before? you wondered, thinking of those times he'd let you use his phone to connect him to the wifi, or send yourself photos from dates he'd always forget to. you look over your shoulder at his sleeping form, clueless. forget ethics, forget respecting privacy, forget trusting your partner; your brain was in overdrive. this better fucking work. you swipe up, typing 6969—it works. you tap the notif, the app loads quickly. your eyes run over an interface filled with lingo you don't know or care for and usernames that should be put on a watchlist, but then you find it: his profile. you click the icon on the bottom right corner, seeing the Investments tab with an encircled 1 next to it, clicking it, waiting for the screen to load. it only took a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to make you nervously gnaw at your bottom lip and tap your foot. then it loaded.

-850 MILLION KRW — in unmissable red at the top of the screen, above a graph you could only guess illustrated the fluctuation of his money, and other bullshit you couldn't comprehend in the moment. you stared. in silence, numb. before you knew it, the number changed: -1.19 BILLION KRW. your thumb acted before your brain could, scrolling, finding the extensive histories of his investments. he was betting hourly during the day with money he certainly did not have, losing thousands. you scrolled even deeper, finding investments from before you broke up. 50,000 krw here, 5 million there, 30 million another day .... he'd been lying that entire time. selfishly keeping more for himself, all the while consoling your crying state from not being able to make rent in time, even with what you suspected to be all he had ("i'm so sorry, baby. you don't deserve this. we don't deserve this. i'll fight your landlord for you, don't worry.") what utter bullshit.

it was all lies. it was all deception. and now he was back in your bed, peacefully asleep like everything was okay. you let him back into your life, thinking everything was going to be fucking okay. you squeeze his phone in your hand, arm shaking. your other hand sinks your fingers into your knee, as if to prevent from screaming; trying to find another outlet for the anger—fuck it! irate, you grab your glass of water and rush to his side of the bed, throwing it onto his face. he shot up immediately. you paced back and forth, eyes rolling at his coughing fit. "wha—what?" his voice was gravely, wiping his eyes. "was that—was that water?" he asked stupidly. "yes it was fucking water!" you spoke loudly, irritated at the sight of his barely opened eyes."what're you yelling for?" his voice was lower than usual, clouded by looming sleep. "it's, like, four in the morning, baby."

"don't you fucking 'baby' me." you muttered, marching up to him. you showed him his screen. "the fuck is this? hm?" "what?" he asked, wiping water off his forehead. you threw his phone onto his lap. "check your fucking investments." he picked up his phone and scrolled. he didn't say a word. you continued to pace like a madwoman, back and forth, nothing filling the air but the skid of the heels of your feet against the floor. you mentally cursed and screamed, thoughts so scrambled that if you opened your mouth all that would come out would be jibberish, so you paced. and paced. and paced. it could've been anywhere between five or ten minutes when you stopped. "well?" you asked sharply, arms crossed over your chest. "how much money did you fucking make?"

"why'd you look at my phone?" asked subong. he was trying so hard to avoid openly showing his shame; his pride prevailing. "that's—" you stuttered. "that's seriously what you're asking right now?" "yes, that's what i'm fucking asking right the fuck now." he looked up at you, meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression. "you just threw water in my face. i get to ask questions." "you're a billion in debt!" you whisper-yelled, afraid your eyes would water if you were any louder. you trudged to his side of the bed, eyes wide and finger to his chest. he stared at you blankly, a twitch of his eyebrow outed his mounting frustration at his stifled shame. "you're a billion in debt, subong. where did you ... where did you even get all that money?" you swallowed, taking a step back, eyes looking everywhere but him to thwart the mounting glossiness. "why did you lie to me? all those times, all those times where i felt like it was the end. where i felt like i was at a dead end." you gestured to the couch with your hand, staring at him. "and you ... you lied. you were selfish, and didn't want to help. i ... i saw everything, subong. i know you kept on lying about your earnings when we were together."

another beat of silence. "subong, why did you put so much money into—" "—why'd you look at my phone? hm?" he interrupted, eyes wide. "why couldn't you just mind your fucking business?" "you're a billion in debt—" "i didn't owe you anything!" subong suddenly yelled, catching you off guard. he ripped the duvet off, marching up to you, finger in your face. "i didn't owe you fucking anything." he repeated, breathing hard through his nostrils. "what was it you said to me? hm? that it's my money, my punishment to have? so let me fucking have it." "you owed me everything!" you yelled, smacking his hand away. "you owed me the fucking truth!" he turned around, walking to the window leading to the balcony, hands roughly rubbing his face and hair. "why didn't you just tell me? why did you hide—" "—i did it all for you."

your eyes widened and jaw fell, appalled. "oh my god." you muttered to yourself, but he overheard. "i'm going fucking crazy. i'm going fucking crazy." you ran your hands through your hair, pacing. "i know you did not just ... i know you did not just say that." you shook your head. "how could you be so fucking stupid. how could i be so fucking stupid?" subong whipped his head around. "hey! don't call me stupid!" he walked up to you, growing angrier with your ignoring him. "hey!" he exclaimed. "don't call me stupid! i'm not stupid for taking initiative, or, or doing shit because i care about you!" his arms flailed.

"oh..." you shook your head, facing him. he felt like a first grader being told off by his teacher, frustratingly shifting his weight between his feet, unsure of where to put this uncomfortable energy. "oh no, subong. this isn't caring. this is being a complete and utter dumbass." you said, eyes porous in realization. tears were no longer in the realm of possibility. now, it was just pity. "there's no coming back from this." you made sure he knew. "you're fucked." "i know that!" he yelled, vein tight in his temple. "you don't think i fucking know that!?" subong's eyebrows furrowed. it was his turn to avoid crying. he looked away hastily, cursing repeatedly under his breath as if it'd ward off his blurring vision. he blinked hard—"i ... i tried everything." he muttered, bottom lip quivering. "i ... made deals with dangerous p-people." he cleared his throat. "i slept on benches. my own mother wouldn't pick up my calls. i've disappointed her too many times. and you ... you," he cleared his throat again. "you weren't an option." he shook his head, a tear landing on his arm. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "but ... but i have this one last chance—"

"—you're hopeless." you cut him off. "you're the worst person i've ever fucking met." subong looked at you, silently pleading to take those words back. "no." he sounded wounded. "you don't ... you don't mean that." "i do. i mean every word." you nodded. "i must have done something really horrible in a past life to be cursed with loving someone as hurtful as you." "no ..." he shook his head, his palms flattening his hair. "you don't mean what you're saying." "i do!" you yelled, voice cracking, heartbeat in your throat. a shaky breath left his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling and blinking fast, waterline feeling heavy. "no ... no, no." he muttered to himself. he took your face in his hands, eyes darting around your features, making them out even in the meek lighting of the slowly emerging sunrise. you stared blankly at the floor, emotionless between his palms.

"you don't mean those words. i know you don't." he spoke aloud, trying to convince himself. "you don't mean them." his fingers combed your hair out of your face. "i've been trying so hard. i'm so fucking scared, baby." subong shook his head quickly, but it didn't halt his falling tears. "i f-fucked up so bad." he whispered, lips quivering. he pressed kisses to your supple skin, attempting to fill the eerie silence. "but i promise—" his lips peppering your face. "i promise i'm going to fix all of this. i have a plan." subong tasted something salty, seeing a tear having fallen down your cheek. "no, no." he tutted gently, kissing it away. "don't cry. you're too beautiful to cry over a loser like me, baby." he kissed that same spot. "no, no. don't cry. here, let me hold you. come here." his lips trailed to the back of your jaw, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. even in his desperation, he was unsure. his eyes glanced at the glimmer of your dainty diamond drop earrings. "the earrings look good on you. you've always had good taste." he muttered against your shoulder. you didn't move. nor say a word. the silence was killing him. "i've been scared for so long." he whispered. your shoulder felt wet. "please ... please hold me."

he said no apology. no "i'm sorry," no "i regret this." it was a tale as old as time: redirected sympathy; a murky, multi-layered distraction, him avoiding taking full responsibility. you sympathized with his pain, you felt his hurt and the monstrous circumstance, but at some fucking point, there is only so much you could do. there is so much strength one could muster; so much mercy a heart could offer. this wasn't your problem, and you weren't going to go out of your way to make it yours. it was time to draw the line. right here, right now. you didn't recognize the man before you. he was a stranger: "subong?" "yes?" he responded quickly, a hint of hope in his tone. "when were you going to tell me about your debt?"

subong was silent, but you spoke for him. "when i get a promotion? when i get laid off? when there's an eviction notice on my door? after we elope at the courthouse, or when i tell you you're the father of my baby? hm? when were you going to tell me?" your voice was unexpectedly gentle. his shoulders started to shake, quietly sobbing. "when, subong? when?" "forgive me." he pleaded. "forgive me. please, baby—" "—get off of me." you pushed him away, slipping out of his embrace. he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "you're the worst!" you exclaimed. "it's exhausting loving you! it's torture! i'm decaying from the inside!"

you took a breath, looking at this pathetic form. "i've forgiven you too much." you shook your head. "you've made me a stranger to myself. you take, and you take, and you take. i share my home, i let you fuck me, i let myself think you respect me—" "—i d-do, baby, i do! i lo—" "—i let you into the deepest, darkest pits of who i am, and you let me cry over your fucking nail polish while you were throwing away millions into something that isn't even fucking real. and you have the audacity to say it was for me?" you gesture to yourself. "as much as i tried to fix you, stupidity is in incurable disease. you're the dumbest person i've ever fucking met. you're not even smart enough to say 'i'm sorry.'"

"i never want to see you again." you turn around, your back facing him. "you don't know me. i don't know you. get out." this was it. you didn't move your eyes from the kitchen floor tiles as you heard him collect his things—the clinking of his belt; his shallow breaths; his heavy, stuttered footsteps; the clean swoosh of his pants as he put them on; over-pronounced inhales; his shoving of his feet into his sneakers—punctuated by the slam of the door. you slowly turned around. the oven read 4:53 AM. you sat on the couch, the silence heavy, only moderately cut through by the sporadic chirping of the birds outside. you sunk into the cheap cushions, hands coming up to your face, chest convulsing.

subong didn't know how long he'd been walking for. he was numb; eyes wet, cheeks swollen, snot dried, sneakers carelessly dragging against the sidewalk. the sun had risen. he could hear the taxis driving by, or catch in his peripheral vision the sight of people hurriedly leaving their apartment buildings as the morning commute commenced, but his gaze never shifted from aimless. he was wandering; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. his chest heaved and his heart pounded in his temples, feelings buried in an overly complicated web that made his ears ring. subong's tongue was dry from breathing through his mouth, but he was so out of it he didn't bother to close his jaw.

it was the ring of a pedestrian's bike bell that temporarily took him out of this trance, stumbling a few steps to the right, letting them pass. "i'm sorry." he muttered weakly. it was only then that he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was walking along a bridge. seeing the water flow below him without issue made him feel so inconsequentially small, almost as if the car driving by or the subtle whispers of the leaves rattling in the wind told him that no matter what he did, or what he went through, or what he said, nature will be there before and after. "excuse me, sir." a voice said. subong's head felt heavy, but he turned it nonetheless. it was the man in the suit from a week ago. "i forgot to give you this after our game last week." he handed subong what looked to be a business card. "my sincerest apologies. i kindly ask that you forgive me, sir." with that, he walked away.

you woke up on the couch in the late morning, having slept through your phone alarm. you had the day off, so that wasn't exactly a concern, only to jolt awake from seering pain on side of your neck and lower back from falling asleep in such a cramped, awkward position. it was hot in the apartment again. you gradually stood on your feet, carefully stretching. "fuck." you mutter under your breath. you moved to the bathroom. you peeled your clothes off, throwing them mindlessly into the hamper. before you stepped into the shower, the glimmer of your earrings caught your sight. you tucked your hair back, staring hard into the mirror. memories of the night previous came rushing back. your quivering lip made you mad all over again, quickly taking the earrings off, throwing them into the trash bin without second thought.

you did errands. you went to work the next day. you quit your job three months later, having landed a better paying one on the opposite side of the city. a year later, you were longed moved out of your small studio and into your one bedroom abode, equipped with an in house dryer and washer. you had new friends. you had a new life. in the end, you really did get your wish of never seeing subong again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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Any more seunghyun fics in the works?

i’ve got some ideas and i’m writing them down in my notes app, but right now i’m focused on a thanos fic! that’ll be my next work :)💗

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✨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💗🥹

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