soofi

He couldn't flirt with women at bars like Derek could, though he still always managed to get a woman's number without trying — just saying some well-timed nerdy fact and dragging his eyes up and down in a way that seemed like he was studying a woman, not objectifying her… not that you noticed, of course, since he was just your best friend.

He confessed to you, over too much wine after a particularly stressful case, that he'd read countless smut books and non-fiction books on "women's pleasure." You were sitting outside on his apartment’s mini balcony on a worn out blanket on the floor, a glass of wine in each of your hands. You giggled in reply, sloshing your wine over yourself, imagining Spencer blushing while reading but maintaining a clear and rigorous focus. Imagining the way his fingers traced the words on the page, imagining him licking his fingers to turn it. Imagining him making notes, running a flustered hand through his hair.

He leaned over, his pocket hankercheif in hand, and helped clean the wine from your dress, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. It was so painfully, beautifully, perfectly Spencer. Your Spencer… your best friend Spencer.

But you couldn't pretend your heart didn't do flips when he cleaned you up, laughing shyly, embarrassed, protesting that he also "conducted practical experiments."

"So you're not a virgin?" you asked, boldly.

"I'm thirty," Spencer said dryly. "Of course I'm not a virgin."

"You never argue when Morgan makes fun of you for it?"

"Yeah, because then he'd want… details." He shuddered slightly. "I like being private."

"So Dr. Reid doesn't kiss and tell?"

"Never," he said, with far more seriousness than the conversation required — and you felt your stomach flip like it always did when Spencer looked into your eyes.

He wasn't attractive. You'd told yourself that so many times it should have started sounding true by now. It never did. Spencer Reid was beautiful, but you refused to let your stupid heart acknowledge it, because if you did, if you let yourself feel it all then there would be no going back, and that terrified you.

It was the way he existed in a room, maybe. The way he'd fold himself into a chair like his limbs were an afterthought, then forget his own body entirely the second something interesting crossed his mind. You weren't supposed to notice things like the curve of his jaw when he tilted his head mid-thought, or the way his hands moved when he talked — precise, almost delicate, like he was conducting something only he could hear. You definitely weren't supposed to notice his mouth. You'd made a personal rule about that months ago and broken it approximately four hundred times since.

This isn't attraction, you told yourself. Not really. It's just… observation. Anyone with eyes would notice these things. It didn't mean anything. Noticing that someone was beautiful wasn't the same as wanting them. You could admire a painting without needing to own it, could stand in front of a sculpture and think God, that's stunning without any of it meaning you'd lost your mind.

Except paintings didn't laugh at your jokes. Sculptures didn't remember your coffee order down to the exact ratio of oat milk. And you'd never wanted to trace your fingers along a canvas the way you wanted to reach across and push a piece of hair off his forehead, just to have an excuse to touch him.

He was your best friend. That was the whole point of him. That was supposed to be the entire, uncomplicated shape of this.

You were just observing. That's all this was.

… You were becoming a very unconvincing liar.

And maybe that's why you found yourself asking "any recommendations?" before you had a chance to stop yourself; you supposed you could always blame it on the wine.

"…recommendations?" Spencer questioned tilting his head as he did so.

"Yeah, like book recommendations. About... about the... the topic you were just telling me about."

"...Women's pleasure books?"

"…yes…"

"I— surely you're already an expert in that field?" he laughed awkwardly, avoiding your eyes. 

Three PhDs. Spencer took knowledge seriously, any knowledge. He wouldn't just read about something; he'd study it, understand it, master it. The thought sent a sharp pang through your chest—jealousy for every woman who had already experienced Spencer's expertise, for every person who had been on the receiving end of those precise, analytical hands applied to pleasure instead of paperwork. The thought made you want to both run from this conversation and lean into it simultaneously.

"It's funny, really," you began, the wine making you say more than you probably should — but Spencer was your best friend, you could tell him anything, even this. "I've never… you know…"

"Wait, you're a virgin?"

"What? No—"

"Then what?"

"Do I have to spell it out?"

"Do I have to remind you that yes, always?"

"Well." You felt your face flush a bright crimson. "I've never… cum before." you said, voice small, eyes avoiding his gaze.

Spencer’s head jolted up and just stared at you for a second, "Wait, you mean—?"

"…yeah."

"But you dated Andrew for, what, four years?" he immediately recalled the name of your most recent ex, and you swore for a second you could see his face sour a tiny bit at the mention of his name.

"…yep."

"And he never once—?"

"We had Sex, but I just never… It wasn't bad, and it's not like I need to, you know, to have fun. It feels good, I just — I don't know, I think I'm too stressed or something. Or maybe I’ve never really trusted the people I’ve been with as much as I should. I just kind of accepted it would never happen for me. Which is fine. But — sorry, this is weird, isn't it?"

"I don't think it's weird."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay." You said it almost at a whisper. You knew Spencer meant what he said. It felt like there were no boundaries between the two of you.

Truthfully, your previous sexual experiences had been fun and they felt good but you’d never experience that total wave of pleasure, you’ve felt the coil wind itself inside you but it just never snapped. You knew what it was supost to be like — Christ you’d faked enough to almost convince yourself... almost. 

"Can I ask a question?" Spencer probed, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"Go right ahead."

"So you've never even cum on your own?"

"You mean like… masturbated?" you said at almost a whisper, suddenly aware that the two of you were outside, the thought of his neighbours overhearing the conversation had you squirming.

"Yeah. Have you ever tried toys, or anything? At the end of the day you're the one who knows your body best, but — when you say never, do you mean never never, or never with someone else?" Spencer said, completely oblivious to the fact that you were trying to talk as quietly as possible.

"Erm." You were flustered. "I guess both. I've never — sorry, I'm a grown adult, I don't know why this is so difficult for me to talk about. I mean, I've never done anything on my own. I think it's a shame thing? And I know it's not shameful, not to profile myself, but maybe it was my upbringing, or maybe I'm not sure. I've read fiction and watched things and wanted to — I really wanted to, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Is that weird?"

"I don't think it's weird."

"You don't?"

"Of course I don't."He paused, considering you with those intense eyes that saw too much. "I just think you need more confidence, and to learn more about your own body — what you do and don't like. Learn your erogenous zones, stuff like that, what feels good for you."

"Yeah, maybe. I am nearly thirty, though, Spencer."

"Most women learn new ways to climax in their late twenties — in fact that's when a lot of women squirt for the first time. But plenty of women never orgasm in their lives at all, usually because they've only had one partner who didn't know what they were doing. A lot of women cum for the first time using toys. Some don't have their first orgasm until their forties and later. No one's sexual journey is the same."

"Wow, you really have read a lot of books."

"Yeah, I suppose I have." He shifted slightly closer. "Do you know your erogenous zones?"

"My what?"

Spencer just said your name, in a slightly condescending tone.

"What?"

A silent tension settled over the two of you, you could see Spencer's mind working in real time, saw him weighing up the pros and cons of something, something you weren’t entirely sure what it was yet.

“You trust me right?” Spencer's voice was suddenly softer, more intimate than before.

“More than anything.” The thought flashed through your mind and fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you realized with a jolt that it was absolutely true. You trusted Spencer Reid with your life on the job, with your secrets after hours, with your heart when it was breaking. Why not with this too?

"Okay, so…" Spencer took a breath, his eyes fixed on yours. "Let me try."

Did you hear him right? Your brain scrambled to catch up, replaying the words like they might change if you looked at them from a different angle. Spencer — your best friend, the one who once color-coded your bookshelf without asking, who'd fallen asleep on your couch more times than you could count — was offering to... no. That couldn't be right. This was Spencer. This was safe, familiar, uncomplicated Spencer, and yet here he was, looking at you like the ground had shifted and he was waiting to see if you'd noticed too. Was this even real? Was this some wine-soaked fever dream you were going to wake up from, mortified, in an hour? You searched his face for the joke, the out, the moment he'd laugh and say he was kidding. It didn't come.

“Let me try,” He repeated himself, “I don’t want to get your hopes up but I’ve been told I’m pretty good…”

"Shut up." You laughed in spite of yourself, the sound coming out shaky.

"I am being serious though…" His voice dropped lower, the academic detachment melting away into something raw and honest. "I don't want it to be weird between us but, I mean we're friends right?"

"Of course."

"And friends help each other out, right?"

You couldn't fault his logic. It was perfectly Spencer—framing an offer of intimate, mind-blowing pleasure in the practical terms of mutual assistance.

"...yeah?"

"It's obviously completely up to you, I'm not saying that we should have a whole complete friend with benefits situation, unless you want to, but I could… teach you?"

"Teach me?"

The words hung in the air between you, fragile but determined. Spencer's hands stilled on your waist, and he met your eyes in the mirror again, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.

"you know, to save you the trouble of reading every dusty book in my personal library," he teased gently.

"I mean yeah i guess we could do something like that," you managed, a nervous laugh escaping you.

His expression softened, the teasing replaced by something serious, something intent. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.

"Would you like to come inside?"

You laughed, a genuine, breathless sound this time. "I'd like to cum full stop, that's why we're in this predicament, Spencer."

"Shut up, you know what I mean." A faint blush crept up his neck, and you found it endearing.

"Yeah, sorry, after you,"

He led the way inside, his apartment a familiar space that suddenly felt charged with new potential. "My bedroom is this way," he said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather, "unless you'd rather the couch but I think that the bedroom would probably work better?"

"Yeah that… that works for me," you felt flush, heat pooling between your legs. You couldn't believe that you were doing this.

Spencer opened the door, and you followed him, unsure what else to do. His bedroom was quintessentially him—books stacked in precarious towers, a worn-out copy of some dense text on the nightstand, and a perfectly made bed with hospital corners. He turned to face you, and the air between you thickened.

"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," he said softly. "We can stop at any point."

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. The logical part of your brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Spencer himself, was screaming that this was a catastrophic idea. It would ruin everything. But the rest of you, the part that had been starved for this exact kind of attention, was thrumming with a nervous, desperate energy.

He seemed to understand your silent assent. He didn't move to kiss you or undress you. Instead, he stepped back, giving you space, and gestured towards a full-length mirror leaning against the far wall. "Come here for a second."

Confused, you walked up to him, your legs feeling unsteady. He positioned you in front of the mirror, standing behind you but not touching. You could see both of your reflections—your flushed face and wide eyes, and him behind you, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.

He took your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Okay, so... we're going to start with a lesson?" you asked, unsure of the situation you found yourself in.

Spencer shook his head slightly, his eyes sharp and focused on yours. "Not a lesson. A profile. You've been faking it, which means you're an excellent observer of others' pleasure but not your own. Let's treat this like a profile. I'm going to present you with stimuli, and you're going to tell me what data you gather from your own body. No right or wrong answers, just raw data. Can you do that for me?"

all you did was nod, what else could you do. Spencer, your spencer, even now was searching for ways to make you comfortable, to make you familiar. You knew profiling, you did it every day, and he knew that. He knew the logical part of your brain was telling you that this uncharted waters were a bad idea, he made it seem normal. you appreciated it more than he would ever know.

"Step 1," he said, his voice low and steady, a direct contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. "Observation. You need to see what I see." His hands came to rest gently on your waist, and you jumped slightly at the contact. "Easy," he murmured. "Relax, and just watch."

“Okay,” you breathed out, trusting him entirely.

“Before I do anything I want you to see how beautiful you are, no matter what does or doesn’t happen I need you to know that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can you say it back to me?”

“Spencer this is silly—”

“Just humour me, just say you’re beautiful,” his head dipped so his lips were next to your ear, his voice low and steady “Because you should know that you are so so beautiful.”

“I—” you swallowed thickly, your eyes resting on your figure, “I’m beautiful.”

“That’s so good.” he praised, “Well done.” His eyes met yours in the mirror. "I can feel your heart racing, relax." 

You tried to even out your breathing — you really did — but Spencer was so close. Sure, you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder on the jet before, you'd hugged him a hundred times, but this was something else entirely. This sent heat pooling low in your core and made your head spin, and he was barely even touching you, his hands just resting on your waist. 

“Do you think you could take your dress off for me? We can do whatever you’re comfortable with, it may be easier if you're just in your bra and panties.”

“..yeah, okay.” 

Your fingers trembled as they found the zipper of your dress, the metallic sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed in nothing but your simple lace bra and panties. Spencer's gaze was like a physical touch, scorching a path over your skin. A low, strained sound escaped his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hands returned to your waist, his thumbs stroking circles against your hip bones.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name. "Repeat it back to me, baby."

The pet name sent a fresh wave of heat through you, making your head spin. Your voice was barely a whisper when you obeyed. "I'm so beautiful."

"Good girl," he breathed, the praise so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. But the way your knees went weak, threatening to give out, was very, very real. His hands tightened on your waist, the only thing holding you upright as he pulled you back flush against his chest.

"Now, I don't want you to just watch. I want you to watch your micro-expressions. Notice the slight flaring of your nostrils, the dilation of your pupils. Those are autonomic responses. They don't lie. We're going to use them as feedback to calibrate what works. Just tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel as we go on okay?"

He slowly slid his hands up your sides, his touch feather-light. "We're going to start with your somatic mapping points. These aren't technically sexual, but they're very receptive to touch in general, but especially when you're aroused. I’m going to touch you in these places, keep your eyes on the mirror baby so you can see exactly what I do."

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you watched in the mirror as your head tilted back slightly into his touch. "The neck," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "A concentration of nerve endings." He demonstrated, his fingertips skimming the sensitive skin below your ear, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You saw it happen in the mirror, the way your body responded instantly to his.

"See?" he said, a hint of academic satisfaction in his tone. "Your body knows what it likes. You just have to learn to listen." He moved his hands to your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there. "Stress is an inhibitor of pleasure. We need to get rid of it."

His touch was clinical in its precision, yet it sent arcs of electricity through you. You watched in the mirror, mesmerized, as his long fingers worked deep circles into the muscles flanking your spine. Your head lolled forward, giving him better access, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. The visual was intoxicating—seeing his large hands on your bare skin, watching the way your own body responded, the flush creeping up your chest and neck, the unmistakable pleasure slackening your features. It was like watching a stranger discover a new language of sensation, and you were both the observer and the observed. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed across your skin, not from exertion, but from the sheer, concentrated heat of his touch.

His hands were a study in controlled grace, a paradox you were only just beginning to understand. They weren't the hands of a laborer, thick and calloused, but they possessed a strength that belied their elegant appearance. You could see every long, tapered finger, the clean, square nails, the faint dusting of light brown hair on his knuckles. These were the hands that flicked through hundreds of pages a minute, that wrote complex formulas on whiteboards, that handled evidence with delicate precision. And now, they were mapping the terrain of your body with that same exacting attention to detail.

His thumbs were the focal point, pressing with an almost scientific pressure into the stubborn knot between your shoulder blades. You could feel the muscle slowly yielding, the tension unwinding under his relentless, circular motion. His other fingers splayed wide across your back, anchoring him, their pads a warm, steady presence that promised safety. As he worked his way down your spine, you could feel the subtle shift in his grip, the way his fingers would trace the line of your ribs before his palms would flatten against the small of your back, pressing gently to ground you. It was a language of touch, fluent and articulate, and with every passing second, you were becoming more and more fluent in reading it.

"Ready for the next step?" he asked.

You could only nod, your voice gone.

His hands moved around to your stomach, splaying across it. "The abdomen," he explained, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Full of nerve endings. Often overlooked." He began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, and your hips began to move restlessly.

"Here," he murmured, moving his hands, his voice a low hum against your ear. "The antecubital fossa," he said, his fingers gently tracing the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of your elbow. "The skin here is thinner, and the veins are closer to the surface, making it more receptive to light touch." He demonstrated, his fingertips barely grazing the area, and you shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with being cold. He smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips. "And the wrists," he continued, his thumb pressing gently into the pulse point there. "Another area of high sensitivity. It's a vulnerable spot, biologically. Protecting major arteries. The brain registers touch here as particularly significant. One of the reasons why people like being tied up, but we won’t get onto that today" He lifted your wrist to his lips, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the thrumming beat of your heart. You watched, mesmerized, as your own pulse seemed to leap in response.

His hands slid around to your ribcage, his long fingers spanning your waist. "The intercostal muscles," he explained, his voice a low, hypnotic drone. "The muscles between your ribs. They're constantly in use, expanding and contracting with every breath. They're not often touched, which makes them highly sensitive when they are." His thumbs traced the bottom curve of your ribs, a slow, deliberate motion that made you arch your back, a silent plea for more. "And the thorax," he continued, his hands moving up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the underside. "The mammary glands. We'll get to the nipples specifically, but the entire area is an erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings connected to the same network that innervates the clitoris." He squeezed gently, his palms molding to your curves, and you felt a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. He was turning your body into a textbook, and you were the most willing student.

"Spencer," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut.

"No," he said gently. "Eyes open. Watch yourself. See how beautiful you are when you're feeling pleasure."

Your eyes flew open, locking onto your reflection. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and straining against the fabric. The sensation was electric, shooting straight down to your core.

"This is a primary erogenous zone. these are universally responsive," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm as your body began to tremble. "Direct stimulation is key." He deftly unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts were exposed in the mirror, and for a moment, you felt a flash of self-consciousness.

"Don't look away," he commanded softly. He rolled your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and a choked moan tore from your throat. "That's it. Let yourself feel it."

One of his hands left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "There are other primary zones," he said, his fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. "But I think the most important lesson for tonight is about control."

He turned you to face him, his hands now on your waist. "I want you to see what I do," he said, his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn't quite name. "And then, I want you to do it to yourself."

Your breath hitched. "What?"

"You're the expert on your own body," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile. "I'm just here to give you the textbook. Now it's time for some practical application."

He led you back to the bed, positioning you against the pillows. He knelt between your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. "First," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "Remember, I'm going to show you. Then, you're going to take over."

And as his fingers finally found your clit, you knew this was a night you would never forget.

His fingers were impossibly gentle as they made contact, a stark contrast to the jolt of electricity that shot through you. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly, deliberately circled your clit with his middle finger. The touch was barely there, a whisper of sensation, but it was more intense than anything you'd ever felt.

"The clitoral glans," he began, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through you. "It contains approximately eight thousand sensory nerve fibers. That's double the number found in the entire penis, baby. It's purely for pleasure."

A soft whimper escaped his lips as he felt you pulse against his finger. He was getting off on this, on teaching you, on feeling you respond. The realization sent a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"More," you breathed, your hips arching off the bed.

"Not yet," he chided softly, his other hand pressing gently on your stomach to keep you still. "Patience. We're building sensation. Rushing bypasses crucial neural pathways." He applied a fraction more pressure, changing the motion to a slow, firm figure-eight. "The external structure is just the tip. The internal clitoral bulbs and crura extend down, wrapping around the vagina. When we stimulate this area," he paused to press down slightly, making you gasp, "we're engaging the entire complex."

Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Spencer... please."

"Please what, sweetheart? Use your words."

"Please... more. Please, sir."

The word hung in the air between you. Spencer's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with something primal. He let out a low, guttural groan. "Fuck," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "Don't... don't call me that unless you mean it."

"I mean it," you panted, the submission feeling natural, right.

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Good girl." He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more deliberate. "Now, pay attention. The clitoris isn't a button to be pushed. It's an entire network. Watch how I vary the pressure and speed. See how your body responds differently to each touch."

He demonstrated, switching from slow circles to rapid, light flicks, then back to firm, steady pressure. Each change sent you spiraling higher, your body trembling uncontrollably.

"You're doing so well," he praised, his voice strained with his own arousal. "You're so responsive. Look at you." He nodded towards the mirror, and you forced your eyes open. Your face was flushed, your mouth parted, your chest heaving. You looked debauched, and you'd never felt more beautiful.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "We're going to explore the anterior vaginal wall. Often called the G-spot, though that's a misnomer. It's actually the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, or CUV." He slowly slid a single finger inside you, and you cried out at the exquisite stretch. "There. Do you feel that? That slightly rougher, ridged texture?"

You could only nod, your words lost.

"That's it," he murmured, his finger curling upwards to stroke that spot. "That's the root of the clitoris we're stimulating from the inside. It's why some women can orgasm from penetration alone, though most need direct clitoral stimulation as well." He began to move his finger in a 'come here' motion, his thumb returning to circle your clit.

The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your vision blurred, your body arching off the bed.

"Easy, baby," he soothed, his voice strained. "Breathe through it. Don't chase it. Let it build." He whimpered again, the sound barely audible. "God, you're so tight. So wet for me."

You were close, so close to that edge you'd never been able to reach before. "Please Sir," you begged, "I'm gonna..."

"No," he said firmly, suddenly withdrawing his hand. You cried out at the loss, your eyes flying open in protest. "Not yet. I told you. You're going to do it yourself."

He shifted, leaning over you until his body bracketed yours, caging you in with a warmth that was both a comfort and a torment. His face was so close to yours that his curls brushed against your temple, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. His voice was a low, intimate rumble, a vibration that seemed to travel from his chest straight through your bones. "Your heart rate is still elevated—I can feel your pulse hammering right here." He punctuated the statement by pressing a soft, impossibly gentle kiss to the side of your neck, right over the frantic, fluttering pulse point. The contrast between his tender lips and your wild pulse made you whimper. "Your pupils are blown," he continued, his gaze dropping to your eyes for a fraction of a second before returning to your face. "But I need to know what's happening in your head. Are you truly processing the sensation, letting your body feel without judgment or analysis? Or are you just performing the role you think you're supposed to play, trying to give me the reaction you think I want to hear?"

"that's... this—"

"It's okay baby, take your time and tell me."

"Felt so good, I was going to cum spencer, please, please, please keep going," you whined.

He made a 'tsk' noise as he shifted, positioning himself beside you, his eyes burning into yours. "My turn to watch," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Show me what you learned. Touch yourself for me, baby. Let me see you make yourself cum."

Your hand shook as you brought it between your legs, your fingers sliding easily through your wetness. You mimicked his motions, circling your clit, then sliding a finger inside to stroke that sensitive spot.

"That's it," he encouraged, his hand resting on your thigh, his touch grounding you. "Just like that. You're in control now. Show me how you like it."

And as you watched yourself in the mirror, your fingers moving with growing confidence, Spencer's eyes locked on yours, you finally understood. This wasn't just about pleasure. It was about power. Your power. And as the first waves of your orgasm began to build, you knew this was only the beginning.

Your fingers moved with a hesitant rhythm, mimicking the patterns he'd taught you, but lacking his confident precision. It felt good, but it wasn't the same. The edge was there, but it was fuzzy, indistinct.

"Look at me, not the mirror," Spencer commanded softly, his voice a low thrum that seemed to resonate directly in your clit. You tore your gaze away from your reflection to meet his. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, and they were fixed on your face, on your hand. "That's it. Good girl. Now, tell me what you're feeling."

"I... it's good," you panted, your strokes faltering slightly. "But it's not... it's not the same."

"Because you're thinking too much," he said, his hand still resting heavily on your thigh. "You're performing instead of feeling. Your brain is still trying to analyze the data instead of just experiencing it. Let go."

"I don't know how," you whispered, frustration welling up inside you.

"Yes, you do," he murmured, his voice dropping impossibly lower. "You just need to stop fighting it. Let me help." He covered your hand with his, his long fingers wrapping around yours. "Together. Feel how I'm guiding you? Feel the pressure?"

His hand over yours was a revelation. He guided your fingers, showing you exactly where to press, how fast to move. The pleasure sharpened, your hips bucking up to meet the combined pressure of your hands.

"That's it," he breathed, his own voice strained. "You feel that? That's the frenulum of your clitoral hood. Extremely sensitive. We're going to focus there for a moment."

He guided your fingers in tiny, precise circles, and the coil inside you began to tighten, a hot, heavy pressure building in your core.

"Spencer," you gasped, your head falling back against the pillows.

"No," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Eyes on me. I want to see you when you cum for the first time."

The authority in his voice sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. "Yes, sir," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He let out a ragged groan, his hips jerking against the bed. "Fuck, baby. You can't say things like that." He was painfully hard, his control clearly fraying at the edges. "You're so perfect. So responsive."

He guided your fingers faster, the pressure increasing. "Now, I want you to add another finger. Inside. Curl them up, just like I showed you." You obeyed, a second finger sliding easily into your wet heat. "That's it. Now press. Can you feel how full you are? How your body is opening up to receive pleasure?"

You could only moan in response, your body trembling on the verge of something monumental.

"You're close," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. Don't fight it. Let it happen." He removed his hand, leaving you to your own devices. "Now, baby. You know what to do. Show me. Cum for me."

His words were your undoing. You drove your fingers deeper, your thumb working your clit in a desperate, frantic rhythm. And then it happened. The coil snapped. A wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful crashed over you, stealing your breath, your vision whiting out. You cried out his name, your body arching off the bed, your inner walls clamping down on your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you.

It was endless. It was everything. It was heaven.

When you finally came back to yourself, Spencer was there, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face. "There you are," he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. "Welcome back."

You could only stare at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You'd never felt anything like that. You'd never even imagined anything like that.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I... I had no idea."

"You're just beginning to learn what your body is capable of," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "And I'm going to teach you everything."

A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart. Spencer didn't move, just watched you with an intensity that was both clinical and deeply intimate. You felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally, laid bare by the force of your own pleasure.

"Your body is still responding," he observed quietly, his gaze dropping to where your hand still rested between your legs. "The involuntary contractions can last for several minutes. It's called the resolution phase. The blood is still engorging the tissues."

He gently took your wrist, his touch careful as he drew your hand away. He brought your fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean. The sight was so obscene, so possessive, a fresh jolt of arousal shot through you.

"You taste incredible," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Slightly sweet, slightly tangy. The pH balance changes throughout the menstrual cycle, affecting the taste. Right now, it's perfect."

You whimpered, your body already gearing up for more.

"Shh, baby," he soothed, releasing your hand and leaning over you. "Don't rush. The refractory period for women is notoriously shorter than for men. In some cases, it's virtually non-existent. We can build on this sensation, make the next one even stronger." He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "But first, I need to taste you properly."

His mouth was on yours before you could respond, a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of you and of him. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, devouring. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same thoroughness he applied to everything else. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, tugging just as you'd imagined so many times.

He groaned into your mouth, his hips pressing into yours, and you could feel the hard, thick length of his erection through his pants. He was so turned on, and it was all because of you.

"Spencer," you gasped as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Please."

"Please what, sweetheart?" he murmured against your skin. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."

"I need... I need you."

"I know," he said, his voice strained. "And you'll have me. All of me. But we're not done with this yet." He moved down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire on your skin. "The perineum," he whispered, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive stretch of skin between your vagina and your anus. "Often neglected, but rich with nerve endings. Part of the pudendal nerve network."

You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. No one had ever touched you there, never with their mouth. The sensation was shocking, electric.

"And then," he continued, his voice muffled as he moved lower, "there's the anus itself. The external sphincter has one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in the entire body." He gently spread your cheeks, his tongue circling your tight hole. "It's not for everyone, but for those who enjoy it... it can be incredibly intense."

You were writhing now, your body a live wire of sensation. "Spencer, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for.

"Patience, baby," he chided, his voice a low chuckle. "We're getting there." He moved back up, his face hovering over your dripping core. "Now for the main event. Cunnilingus. From the Latin 'cunnus' for vulva and 'lingere' to lick." He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I'm going to use my tongue on your clitoris, baby. I'm going to make you cum again baby but this time on my mouth. I know you have it in you so I'm not going to stop until you do okay? I've been wanting to taste this pretty pussy for so long are you going to let me baby?"

"yes," you moaned at the mental image forming in your head, "yes sir."

"fuck," spencer groaned, "you're so perfect."

And then his mouth was on you, his tongue delving into your folds, licking and sucking with a skill that left you breathless. He was relentless, his tongue exploring every inch of you, his lips closing around your clit and sucking hard. You were lost, your body a vessel for pleasure, your mind gone.

"Spencer!" you screamed, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. "Please, don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking your clit in a rapid, staccato rhythm while he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. The combination was devastating, a perfect storm of sensation that sent you spiraling towards the edge again.

"That's it, baby," he growled against your core, his voice muffled. "Cum for me. Let me taste you. Give me everything."

And you did. You came with a force that terrified you, your body convulsing, your vision blacking out, a scream tearing from your throat. It was even more intense than the first one, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to drown you.

When you came back to yourself, Spencer was still there, his face glistening with your cum, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.

"Two," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "And that's just the beginning."

The world slowly came back into focus, not all at once, but in soft, hazy increments. The first thing you registered was the gentle weight of Spencer's hand on your trembling thigh, a grounding point in the sea of sensation you were still floating in. The second was his breathing, a steady, controlled rhythm that contrasted sharply with your own ragged gasps.

He didn't speak. He just watched you, his gaze soft but analytical, like a scientist observing a fascinating new phenomenon. He was giving you time, letting your body ride out the lingering aftershocks that were still making your muscles quiver.

"Your heart rate is approximately one hundred and ten beats per minute," he finally murmured, his voice a low vibration that you felt more than heard. "Elevated, but decreasing. The post-orgasmic prolactin surge is likely kicking in, creating that feeling of deep relaxation. It's nature's way of ensuring you rest and process the experience."

A weak laugh escaped your lips. "Only you would turn the best orgasm of my life into a biology lesson."

A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. "It's all biology, baby. Beautiful, messy, perfect biology." He shifted, moving to lie beside you, propping his head up on his hand. "How do you feel? Be specific. Describe the sensations."

You took a moment to assess yourself. "Tingly. All over. Like... like my skin is too small for my body. And heavy. So heavy, but in a good way. Like I could sink right through the mattress."

"That's the myotonia," he explained, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "The muscle tension that builds during arousal and release. It leaves you feeling limp, pliant. It's why you're so responsive to touch right now. Your nerve endings are still firing at an elevated rate."

His touch was light, almost absent-minded, but it was setting you on fire all over again. You could feel the heat building between your legs, a slow, deep ache.

"Again?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.

"We can," he said softly. "But not like that. Not yet." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. "Rushing from one orgasm to the next can be overwhelming. It can desensitize the clitoral glans, making subsequent orgasms more difficult to achieve. We need to be more strategic."

"Strategic?" you repeated, a breathless laugh escaping you. "You make it sound like a military operation."

"In a way, it is," he said, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. "It's a campaign for pleasure. And right now, we're in the reconnaissance phase." He nipped at your earlobe, his tongue swirling around the delicate shell. "We need to map out all the places that make you gasp."

His hands began to roam again, but this time, they were slower, more deliberate. He wasn't trying to get you off; he was exploring. He traced the line of your collarbone, his fingers dipping into the hollows of your throat. He skimmed his knuckles down the sides of your ribs, counting them one by one.

"Twenty-four," he whispered, his lips following the path of his fingers. "Protective cage for your heart and lungs. But so sensitive to touch."

You were melting, your body turning to liquid under his ministrations. This was a different kind of pleasure, slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn't about the frantic chase for release; it was about the journey itself.

"Spencer," you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his back, feeling the shift of his muscles under his shirt.

"Yes, baby?"

"Take this off," you tugged at his shirt. "I want to feel you."

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something—vulnerability, perhaps—in his eyes. Then he nodded, sitting up to pull his shirt over his head. Your breath caught. You'd seen him without a shirt before, on beach trips, but this was different. This was Spencer, your Spencer, bared to you in the soft lamplight of his bedroom.

He was leaner than you'd expected, his body a roadmap of pale skin and wiry muscle. There was a thin, silvery scar on his side, and another on his shoulder. You reached out, your fingers tracing the scar on his side.

"What happened here?" you asked softly.

"Gunshot wound," he said, his voice quiet. "A few years ago."

Your heart clenched. You knew, of course, about the dangers of his job, but seeing the evidence of it on his body made it terrifyingly real.

"Hey," he said, his voice gentle as he covered your hand with his. "I'm okay. It's all part of the past."

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. And in that moment, you saw it all—the genius, the profiler, the teacher, the man who had seen too much, the man who was offering you a piece of himself that he'd never offered to anyone else.

"Come here," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss.

It was different this time. Slower, deeper, more tender. It wasn't about hunger or desperation; it was about connection. It was about the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most vulnerable and had chosen to stay.

"I want you," you murmured against his lips. "All of you."

"I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you'll have me, we have one more step for today if you're up for it."

He moved back down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses. "We've explored the external," he said, his voice a low whisper against your skin. "Now it's time to go deeper."

His hands left your waist, moving to the button of his trousers. You watched, your breath held tight in your chest, as he undid them with quick, efficient movements. The fabric slid down his narrow hips, taking his boxers with it, and your eyes widened.

Oh.

He was built like the rest of him—all long lines and surprising substance. Your gaze traced the proud, rigid length of him, the flushed head already glistening at the tip. It wasn't just long; it was the thick, solid weight of him that made your mouth go dry, a formidable presence that promised a challenge, a stretch. A thatch of soft, brown curls nestled at the base, and the sight sent a dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated desire through you. This wasn't just a part of him; it was a statement, a quiet, undeniable proof of the power he usually kept so carefully restrained.

He reached for his nightstand, the movement pulling you from your reverie. He pulled out a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth before rolling the latex on with practiced, steady ease. He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to enter you, baby. But I'm not going to move. I'm just going to let you feel me. Let you get used to the sensation of being filled."

He leaned forward, his forearms braced on the bed beside your head, and positioned himself at your entrance. He didn't push, just rested the tip of his cock against your wet, swollen folds. The contact was electric, a promise of everything to come, and you gasped at the sheer intimacy of it.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"Don't stop," you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders.

Slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he pushed into you. It was a stretch, a delicious, overwhelming fullness that stole your breath. He was bigger than you'd expected, his thickness pressing against your inner walls in a way that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

When he was finally fully seated inside you, he stopped, his body still, his weight resting on his elbows. He just looked at you, his eyes dark with an emotion that took your breath away.

"How does that feel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Full," you gasped. "So full. It's... it's incredible."

"Good," he murmured, his hips rocking slightly, a tiny, experimental movement that made you cry out. "That's just the beginning, baby. That's just the first taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly mine."

He remained still, a statue of restraint above you, and the stillness itself became a form of exquisite torture. You could feel every single inch of him, the thick, hard length of him stretching you, filling you completely. Your inner muscles clenched around him, an involuntary spasm that made him hiss in a sharp breath.

"Easy, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, strained vibration against your throat. "Don't do that. Don't rush. Just... feel."

His words were a command, but they were also a gift. He was forcing you to slow down, to experience every nuance of the moment. You closed your eyes, focusing inward, cataloging the sensations. The pressure, the fullness, the heat of him, the way your body seemed to mold itself to his shape, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle you hadn't even realized were missing each other.

"The vaginal canal is remarkably elastic," he began, his voice a low, hypnotic drone that was somehow both incredibly arousing and deeply comforting. "It can expand significantly, but it's also rich with nerve endings, particularly in the outer third. What you're feeling now, that intense pressure, is the stimulation of those nerve endings. The deeper penetration primarily stimulates the internal structures—the cervix, the anterior fornix."

He shifted slightly, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, and you cried out, your hips bucking up to meet him.

"Shh," he soothed, his hand coming to rest on your hip, holding you still. "I know. It's a lot. But we need to take it slow. Your body is still adjusting to the intensity of the stimulation. We need to give your nervous system time to process the input."

"Spencer," you begged, your hands fisting in the sheets. "Please. I need... I need more."

"I know, baby," he said, his voice thick with sympathy and desire. "And you'll get it. But first, I want you to do something for me."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want you to bear down. Just a little. Like you're trying to push me out."

You looked at him, your eyes wide with confusion. "What? Why?"

"Just trust me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Do it."

You took a deep breath, then did as he asked, bearing down slightly. The sensation was immediate, and incredible. As you pushed down, his cock seemed to sink even deeper into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. At the same time, the pressure on your clit intensified, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through you.

"Oh god," you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied purr. "That's it. That's the anterior fornix, also known as the A-spot. It's a highly sensitive erogenous zone located deep inside the vagina, near the cervix. Stimulating it can lead to incredibly intense, full-body orgasms."

He began to move then, but not with the frantic thrusting you were used to. His movements were slow, deliberate, a deep, grinding rhythm that seemed to touch every part of you at once. Each time he bottomed out, he would pause, letting you feel the full, overwhelming pressure, before pulling back just as slowly.

"Feel that?" he asked, his voice a low, strained whisper. "Feel how I'm filling you up? How your body is opening up to receive me?"

You could only nod, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. This was different, so different from anything you'd ever experienced. It wasn't just about the physical act; it was about the connection, the intimacy, the way he seemed to know your body better than you did yourself.

"You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his hips grinding against yours. "So wet. So perfect for me."

He shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly, the stimulation on your clit intensified, his pubic bone rubbing against it with each deep thrust. The combination of the deep, internal pressure and the external friction was intoxicating, a slow, steady build towards an orgasm that you knew would be unlike anything you'd ever experienced before.

"Spencer," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I'm... I'm close."

"I know," he said, his voice a low, triumphant growl. "I can feel it. Your muscles are starting to contract. You're getting so tight around me."

He increased his pace slightly, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful. He was chasing your orgasm, but he was doing it with a surgeon's precision, with a scientist's understanding of the female body.

"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Let go. Give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock."

And with a final, deep thrust, you did. You came with a force that shattered you, a scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed around him. It was a full-body orgasm, a tidal wave of pleasure that started deep inside you and radiated outwards, consuming you entirely.

As you came down from the high, Spencer was still there, his body still buried deep inside yours, his eyes soft, a gentle smile on his face.

"Three," he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr. 

The world didn't just come back into focus; it seemed to have been entirely remade. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with the energy of what had just happened. Spencer remained inside you, not moving, just letting you adjust, letting the last tremors of your orgasm subside around him. He was a warm, heavy weight, a solid presence that anchored you to the earth when you felt like you might float away.

He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against your chest. He hadn't found his own release, you realized with a jolt. He had been so focused on you, on teaching you, that he had completely ignored his own needs.

"Spencer," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

"Shh," he murmured, his eyes closing. "This wasn't about me. This was about you. About showing you." He finally pulled out of you slowly, carefully, and the loss was immediate and profound. He dealt with the condom in the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth.

You lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable, as he gently cleaned you up. His touch was reverent, his movements careful and precise. It was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced, more intimate than the sex itself.

"There," he said softly, tossing the cloth aside and pulling the covers over both of you. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your ear.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

"I don't have words for it," you admitted, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "It was... like my body was a foreign country, and you were the only one who had a map."

A small smile touched his lips. "I just have a lot of reference material," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "The female orgasm is a fascinating subject. Did you know that the clitoral-urethral-vaginal complex, the entire network of structures responsible for female pleasure, is actually the size of a wishbone? Most of it is internal."

"I feel like I've just been on a field trip," you said, a sleepy laugh escaping you. "A very, very good field trip."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "There's still more to see," he said, his voice soft. "But not tonight. Tonight, we just rest."

“So they’ll be a next time?”

“If you’ll have me?”

“Yes, Spencer, I’ll always want you.”

You lay in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the steady rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. You felt safe, cherished, in a way you never had before.

"Spencer?" you said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you... why did you do this for me?"

He was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing every word before he let himself say it. "Because I hate the idea of you going through life missing something so fundamental," he said finally. "Because I've seen so much darkness in this job, in this world, and I wanted — just once — to be the reason something good happened to you instead." He paused, and you felt him take a breath, like he was steadying himself for something he'd rehearsed a hundred times and still wasn't ready for. "And because I've been in love with you for three years. The thought of you never knowing what it felt like to be wanted, completely, by someone who actually paid attention — I couldn't stand it anymore."

Your breath caught in your throat. You lifted your head to look at him, eyes wide, sure you'd misheard. "What?"

"I love you," he said again, steadier this time, like saying it once had used up all his fear. "Not as a friend. Not as a colleague. As the person I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. I've rewritten this confession in my head probably two hundred times, tried to find the perfect moment, the perfect words — and there never was one. So tonight I stopped waiting for the right time to say it, and just tried to show you instead."

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and sudden. You'd spent so long insisting that you didn't find him attractive, that he was just your best friend, that whatever you felt was loneliness dressed up as something else. But hearing him say it out loud, watching him hand you his fear like it was the safest thing in the world — you couldn't lie to yourself anymore. You never really could. You'd just been good at pretending.

"I love you too," you whispered, and the words felt strange in your mouth, like a language you'd never let yourself speak before. "I think I have for a long time. I was just too scared to say it first."

He leaned in, and the kiss that followed wasn't hungry — it was slow, careful, almost reverent, like he was sealing a promise rather than starting something. Like he needed you to feel every ounce of finally in it.

When he pulled back, he was smiling — not his usual crooked, nervous half-smile, but something wide open or unguarded, a smile you didn't think you'd ever seen on him before.

"So," he said, voice light, "what do we do now?"

"Well," you said, a matching smile spreading across your face. "I think we should probably go on a date. A real one. With dinner and a movie. And then maybe we can come back here and you can teach me about the male orgasm..."

He laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the room. "I think that can be arranged," he said, pulling you closer. "But for now, let's just sleep. We've had a big night."

And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life, a chapter that you couldn't wait to write with him.

★・・・・・・★

a/n: second time writing smut kinda nervous, how did i do? El try not to write a praise kink challenge, level impossible #writewhatyouknow.

but like fr tho how do people write smut, like this shit is HARD (and I'm not just talking about cock bbg)

I know this is not realistic, but the man is fictional so let me be delusional, and we don't read smut to mirror our own sex lives as they are either bad or non existant xoxo we read smut for empowerment and for a fun, funky and fictional time

You’ve known Choi Soobin your whole life. That’s not an exaggeration. Not in the "we went to the same school" way or the "our parents were friends so we saw each other sometimes" way. No, you’ve literally grown up with him, stitched into his days like a second shadow. The first birthday you actually remember, the one with the giant cake shaped like a castle, he was right there, wearing a crooked paper crown and making you laugh so hard you spat juice all over your expensive dress. When you went to Jeju for summer vacation as kids, you spent hours together on the beach, digging useless holes in the sand while your parents sat under parasols and talked business.

You can’t think of a single version of your childhood that doesn’t have him in it. That’s what it means to be born into families like yours: chaebol families. Dynasties. Empires disguised as people. Your life is never really your own; it’s an asset, a piece on a chessboard. Everyone knows it, but nobody ever says it out loud. Not at the long dinner tables, not in the marble hallways, not in the black cars with tinted windows.

But you always knew. Because when you were still young enough to think ten years was forever away, your grandmother leaned down and said it so casually, so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: "One day, you’ll marry Soobin."

Promised. That’s the word she used.

At first it didn’t mean anything. You were six years old and more concerned with whether Soobin would let you win at board games. (He didn’t. But he always slipped you the extra piece of candy when no one was looking, so you forgave him.)

But as you grew older, the promise became less of a whisper and more of a fact. Your families said it at parties with knowing smiles, with champagne flutes raised high. Your teachers at school looked at the two of you and shook their heads fondly. Even your classmates teased you about it, though not cruelly. It was just… obvious. It was the story everyone had already written for you.

And maybe it should’ve felt suffocating. Maybe it should’ve made you want to run away. But it didn’t, because it was Soobin. Tall, gentle, awkward Soobin. The boy who lent you his notes in high school because he knew you hated math. The boy who carried your bag without being asked when you sprained your ankle in PE. The boy who, even when the world expected him to be perfect, would trip over his own feet and laugh at himself before anyone else could.

So when the engagement was finally announced, you weren’t shocked. You didn’t cry in your room, or curse your family, or dream of some secret romance that would sweep you away from all this. You just nodded. Because this wasn’t some stranger. This wasn’t a hostile takeover. This was the same boy who used to sneak you strawberry milk from the corner store, the same boy who let you copy his answers during boring summer tutoring, the same boy who knew you better than anyone else ever could.

You're now 23 and two months ago, you married him.

The wedding was exactly what you’d expect when two conglomerates decide to tie themselves together with silk ribbon. Endless flowers flown in from Europe, tables so tall with champagne glasses they looked like crystal towers, a guest list packed with politicians and CEOs. Your dress was heavy, glittering, the kind of thing little girls dream about until they realize how exhausting it is to actually walk in.

And beside you, through all of it, was Soobin. His hand steady in yours. His eyes darting to yours every time the cameras flashed, a silent check-in: you okay? And every time, you nodded back.

The tabloids loved it. They called it the alliance of the year, the perfect pairing, the future of chaebol dynasties. Your parents smiled wider than you’d ever seen. The stock prices went up.

But under all the noise, all the spectacle, the truth was quiet: you and Soobin were married now.

And surprisingly…it wasn’t bad.

It’s been two months, and the mansion is still absurdly large for two people. The kind of place with three kitchens and a hallway long enough to echo when you walk down it. You used to feel small in it, like the house itself was swallowing you whole. But now there are slippers by the door that aren’t yours. There are mugs in the cabinet that aren't yours.

Sometimes, when you’re walking through the garden, you’ll hear his laugh drift through the open window of his study. And suddenly it feels less empty.

The truth is, you’re not unhappy. You’re not strangers fumbling through awkward silences. You’re not enemies forced to play nice. You’re not even in denial. You just…are. Comfortable. Steady. Friendly.

Because who else in the world would understand this life like he does? Who else would get the endless galas, the suffocating weight of expectation, the way your last name feels more like a brand than your own? He’s the only one who’s ever seen the parts of you that exist outside of all that, the real you, the messy, quiet, human you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Your mornings together are strangely domestic. Not in the sitcom way, not in the “we’re cooking pancakes in matching aprons” way. More like: you wake up to sunlight spilling across the bed, and Soobin is already awake, sitting with a book open, his glasses sliding down his nose. He looks up when you stir, and he smiles in that small, sleepy way that makes your chest ache a little.

"Morning" he’ll say, voice low, gentle.

And you’ll groan, roll over, and accuse him of waking up early just to be smug about it. He never denies it, but he always laughs.

Breakfast is a table way too big for two people, lined with dishes no normal person could finish. But it doesn’t feel ridiculous anymore, not when you’re sitting across from him. Sometimes you tease him about looking like a staged magazine spread: Heir to the Choi Empire, photographed in his natural habitat. He always goes along with the joke, tilting his chin and pretending to look aloof until you’re laughing so loudly the maids startle.It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something.

And at night, when the day’s obligations are finally over, the two of you walk the garden together. You don’t always talk. Sometimes it’s enough just to match your footsteps, to breathe the same air under the glow of the moon.

But when you do talk, it’s easy.

"Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t been promised to each other?" you asked him once.

He thought about it, long and serious, like he always does. And then he said "I don’t wonder about marrying someone else. I wonder if we would’ve found each other anyway."

You’d stared at him, heart aching in your chest.

"I like to think we would have" he added, quiet, almost shy.

And the worst part (the best part) was that you believed him.

The bed is big. Too big.

It was imported, of course. Some custom Italian designer your mother-in-law mentioned with pride as though you’d appreciate the craftsmanship. It could easily fit four people if it wanted to, maybe even six if you tried hard enough. But it’s just the two of you.

You, on one side. Soobin, on the other.

The mattress dips gently under his weight, a subtle reminder that he’s there, close enough that if you rolled over just a little, you could tuck yourself into the space where his warmth lingers. But you don’t. Not really. Because even though you share a bed, you don’t actually touch. Not when you climb under the sheets at night, not when you both shift and turn in your sleep, not even in the hazy, half-awake mornings when it would be so easy to just...reach out.

His body is a steady presence beside you, always within reach, but there’s a line drawn between you, invisible but sharp, and he never crosses it.

You don’t either. At least, not on purpose.

At first, it made sense. You weren’t in love. You weren’t strangers, but you weren’t lovers, either. This wasn’t some passionate whirlwind romance; this was a promise, a duty, a friendship sealed with wedding vows. The world didn’t need to know that when the cameras stopped flashing and the door shut behind you, you and Soobin just quietly agreed to go to bed. Together. Separately.

But then the weeks turned into months. And now, every night, you find yourself lying there, staring at the ceiling, wishing. Wishing for something simple. Not the grand gestures, no sweeping kisses in the rain, no cinematic declarations of love. Just…closeness. His arm draped over your waist. His breath warm against your hair. His fingers tangled with yours under the sheets. Cuddles. That’s all you want.

But every time you shift a little closer, every time you let your hand hover just inches from his, Soobin subtly moves. Not harshly, not with rejection, but with quiet, careful distance. As if to say: we’re friends, remember? And you hate that it stings.

Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if he notices. Like when you’re brushing your teeth side by side in the ensuite bathroom, and you glance at his reflection in the mirror. He looks calm, collected, as though nothing about this arrangement is strange. As though sleeping side by side without ever touching is perfectly normal.

Or when you’re both curled up on opposite ends of the couch, reading, the quiet of the house pressing in around you. You want to scoot closer, lean your head on his shoulder. But you don’t. Because you already know he’ll gently shift away, not enough to be cruel, but enough to remind you of the line.

It’s not rejection. Not exactly. It’s worse. It’s care. The kind of care that says: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to take advantage. I don’t want to blur something you might regret.

But what if you wouldn’t regret it? The thing is, you can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be. All those years of friendship mean you already know him, the way he likes his coffee, the way he fidgets when he’s nervous, the way his laugh cracks when it’s really genuine. You already know him better than anyone else.

So what would be so wrong about leaning into him at night? What would be so wrong about asking for a little more warmth, a little more closeness?You’re married, for God’s sake. You wear the ring. You share the name. You stand beside him at every gala, every business dinner, every press event. People look at you and see a couple. They don’t see the gap between you in bed. They don’t see the way your fingers ache to reach for his.

They don’t see how much you want.

One night, the yearning gets the better of you. You’re lying on your side, staring at the shadow of him in the dark. His back is turned, broad and solid, his breathing slow, steady. The kind of rhythm that says he’s either asleep or pretending very, very well. Your hand twitches against the sheets. Just a little. Just enough to brush the edge of his side if you dared to reach.

You think about it. God, you think about it. And then you let your hand fall back, curling into yourself instead. Because you know what will happen. If you touch him, he’ll shift away. If you reach for him, he’ll gently set you back. Not cruel, not cold, just firm. Just Soobin. Drawing that same line he’s always drawn: we’re friends. I won’t cross it. I won’t let you cross it either.

And so you stay put. The distance between you becomes heavy, louder than the silence. You stare at the ceiling, heart aching in a way you can’t even explain.

But here’s the thing about yearning: it doesn’t go away just because you ignore it. You start noticing little things. The way his arm sometimes drifts across the middle of the bed when he’s half-asleep. The way his warmth seeps through the sheets and brushes your skin when you both turn at the same time. The way his voice softens when he says goodnight, even if it’s just a whisper in the dark. You want to reach across that invisible line so badly it hurts.

But Soobin doesn’t. He never does. And you wonder, late at night, when your chest feels tight and the silence feels endless, if he doesn’t want to.

The cruelest part is that he’s still Soobin. He’s still the boy who lets you steal the last dumpling at dinner. The boy who always walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. The boy who makes you laugh so hard you forget what you were stressed about. He still cares for you, still looks out for you, still makes the whole weight of your life feel a little lighter just by being in it.

But he won’t touch you. Not the way you want. Not even a little. And maybe it shouldn’t matter. Maybe it’s selfish to want more when you already have so much. But when you’re lying awake in the middle of the night, staring at the shadow of his body just inches away, it feels like the only thing that matters at all.

So the bed remains too big. The line remains uncrossed. And you remain caught in the middle of wanting and waiting, wondering if one day he’ll finally reach across the space between you. Or if you’ll be the one who breaks first.

You’d been through countless dinners like this before. The polished silverware, the endless wine, the hushed but razor-sharp conversations that weren’t really about family at all, but about power. You’d sat through dozens of them with your own parents, smiling until your cheeks ached, nodding at comments you didn’t agree with, answering questions that weren’t questions but commands disguised as polite curiosity.

But somehow, walking into the Choi mansion that evening, the weight on your chest felt heavier than usual.

Maybe it was because it had been two months since the wedding, and tonight wasn’t just you being scrutinized, it was you as Soobin’s wife. The official daughter-in-law. The new extension of the Choi family name.

You smoothed the front of your dress as the butler opened the tall doors, the sound of your heels clicking too loud against the marble floor. Beside you, Soobin’s hand hovered close enough that you could feel the warmth of it, but he didn’t take yours. Not here. Not under his parents’ roof.

"Ready?" he murmured under his breath.

You nodded, though your stomach had been twisting all afternoon.

His parents were already waiting in the grand dining room, seated at the head of the impossibly long table. Crystal chandeliers glittered above. His mother’s jewelry caught the light. His father looked up from the glass of red wine in his hand, sharp-eyed even in his casual indifference.

"Finally" his mother said, her smile tight. "We were beginning to wonder if marriage had made you both tardy."

Soobin bowed slightly, polite, measured. "Traffic" he explained simply, before gesturing for you to take the seat beside him.

You sat, folding your hands neatly in your lap, back straight. You’d been trained for this, in a way. Years of practice had taught you how to smile without showing discomfort, how to look attentive even when you wanted to disappear.

The first few courses passed in silence, the clink of silverware against porcelain the only sound. But of course, it didn’t last.

"So" his father began, swirling his wine "two months already. How are you finding married life?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Soobin beat you to it. "Comfortable" he said easily, as if that was the only word that mattered.

His father arched a brow. "Comfortable? That’s all?"

Soobin smiled faintly. "It suits us."

His parents exchanged a look, one of those silent, wordless glances that carried entire conversations. You kept your gaze lowered to your plate, pretending not to notice.

And then, as expected, his mother turned the topic where it was always destined to go.

"It’s time you start thinking about the future" she said, her voice smooth, rehearsed. "An heir. Or heirs, preferably. You both are young, healthy, there’s no need to waste time."

The words made your fork freeze mid-air. Heirs. Of course. You’d known it was coming. You’d known it from the moment the engagement was announced, from the way people at galas whispered not about the wedding but about what would come after. Your body, your life, reduced to an expectation.

But even expecting it didn’t stop the sting.

You set your fork down carefully, keeping your expression neutral.

His mother continued, as though she hadn’t just tossed the weight of an entire future onto the table like another dish to be served. "And of course, there’s the matter of your public presence. Charity work, hosting events, managing appearances. You’ve been doing...fine so far." She said the word with a little tilt of her head, a dismissal wrapped in silk. "But the press will be looking for more from you. More polish. More perfection. The wife of Choi Soobin must embody our family’s standard."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. You wanted to sink into the floor, to vanish into the glittering chandelier light above.

Because of course this was how it went. You weren’t a person to them. You were an accessory, a vessel, an extension of their empire. A trophy.

You swallowed hard, trying to will your face into calmness, but your chest ached with something sharp.

And then, for the first time in your life, you heard Soobin’s voice cut through the air, not soft, not hesitant.

"That’s enough."

The table went silent. You turned to him, startled. His gaze wasn’t on you, it was fixed on his parents.

"What did you say?" his father asked, his tone icy.

Soobin didn’t flinch. "I said that’s enough. She’s already doing everything asked of her. More than enough. She’s been dragged into every dinner, every event, every gala. She smiles, she answers your questions, she plays the role. And now you sit here and tell her she isn’t perfect enough?"

His mother’s expression tightened. "Soobin..."

"No" he interrupted, sharper than you’d ever heard him. "No more. We got married because you all decided it was best for the families. Fine. But she’s my wife. She’s not your project. She’s not your accessory. And she’s not here to be lectured like she’s never enough. She already is."

Your breath caught. The chandelier light blurred in your eyes, your throat tightening as you tried to process the words leaving his mouth.

His father’s jaw clenched. "You’re being emotional."

"I’m being honest" Soobin replied calmly, though there was a harshness beneath it. "If you can’t respect her, then you’re not respecting me either."

The silence that followed was deafening. His mother placed her wine glass down with a controlled little click. "We’ll continue this conversation another time."

Soobin stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "No. We won’t."

Then he turned to you, his expression softening instantly, and held out his hand. "Come on. We’re leaving."

You hesitated only for a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip was warm, steady, grounding. Together, you walked out of the glittering dining room, past the butlers and maids frozen in shock, out of the heavy mansion doors.

The car ride back was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. Your hands were folded in your lap, but you could still feel the ghost of his hand in yours, still feel the way your heart had been thruming in your chest from the moment he spoke up.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. The way he’d looked at his parents, unflinching. How he defended you. The way he’d said you're already enough. You hadn’t realized until now how badly you’d needed someone to say it.

By the time you reached your own home, your throat felt tight, heavy with unspoken words. Soobin closed the car door behind you. He turned, eyes immediately searching yours.“

"Hey" he said gently. "You okay?"

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled. "I…I don’t know."

His expression softened, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was afraid to scare you off. "You don’t have to listen to them. Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it."

You blinked fast, your chest aching. "But they’re right. About the expectations. About-"

"No." His voice was firm. He reached out, and for once, he didn’t stop himself. His hands found your shoulders, warm and grounding. "Don’t say that. Don’t let them make you believe that. You’re already perfect."

The words hit you like a tidal wave. Perfect. Not for the cameras, not for the press, not for the family name. Perfect for him.

Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes, and you lowered your head, embarrassed. But Soobin tilted your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I mean it" he whispered. "You don’t have to do more. You don’t have to be more. You’re already enough, just as you are."

Your throat closed, your breath catching. And in that moment, standing in the quiet glow of your home, you let yourself believe him.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the ache in your chest eased. Because Soobin, your Soobin, your best friend, your husband, wasn’t just drawing lines to protect you. He was standing on your side.

Gala nights always feel the same. The chandelier light blinding, the air heavy with perfume and champagne, the endless murmur of voices that all sound the same: sharp, polished, and calculating. Everyone dresses like royalty, but you know better. These aren’t kings and queens. They’re hunters. Sharks in glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos.

And tonight, you are the newest piece of bait in the water.

"Remember" Soobin murmurs beside you as the car pulls up to the hotel entrance "it’s just a few hours. We smile, we greet, and then we leave."

You nod, clutching your clutch a little too tightly. His hand rests lightly on your back as the chauffeur opens the door, guiding you out into the blinding flash of cameras. For a moment, you want to lean into him, anchor yourself in the quiet steadiness he always carries, but there are too many eyes on you. So you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and step into the hall.

The first hour is a blur of introductions. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve bowed politely, how many times you’ve heard the same compliments dressed up in different words. Beautiful couple. Beautiful bride. So radiant. So graceful.

You know they don’t mean you. They mean the idea of you. The package you present standing beside Choi Soobin, the way your gown clings in all the right places, the way your smile looks like it was practiced in the mirror (because it was).

Soobin never strays far. Even when he’s shaking hands with an executive, even when he’s laughing at a politician’s dull joke, his eyes flick toward you. Just a glance, but enough. You can feel the tether between you, invisible but taut, pulling you back to him no matter where you drift.

It should make you feel safe. And it does. Mostly. Until you start noticing the other looks.

The first man is harmless enough, at least on the surface. Mid-fifties, balding, with the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He shakes Soobin’s hand, praises the merger, then lets his gaze slide to you. It lingers. Too long.

You feel the weight of it on your skin, crawling, leaving something dirty behind. You force a polite smile anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But you see the way his eyes trail over your dress, slow and greedy, before he finally looks away.

The second man doesn’t bother with subtlety. Younger, maybe mid-thirties, handsome in a too-perfect way. He laughs too loud at his own jokes, leans too close when he speaks to you, his gaze shameless as it drags down your figure.

"Soobin" he says, clapping your husband on the back "you really lucked out. Didn’t know you had such good taste."

You stiffen, your cheeks burning, but before you can even react, Soobin’s hand is at your waist. Tight. Firm. The man notices. He smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes flick to you one last time before he slinks away.

Soobin doesn’t say a word. But his hand doesn’t leave your waist.

As the hours drag on, it only gets worse. Everywhere you turn, someone is staring. Some openly, some behind the rim of their champagne flutes. You can feel their eyes tracing you, dissecting you, judging you like you’re not even real. You hate it. You hate how exposed you feel, how powerless. You hate that your smile has to stay fixed, that you can’t call them out, that you can’t do anything but endure it.

But Soobin sees. He always sees. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens when another man’s gaze lingers too long. By the way he positions himself just slightly in front of you, his broad frame blocking their view. By the way his arm finds its way around your shoulders, around your waist, pulling you into his side like he’s daring anyone else to look.

It’s subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. But you feel it. The possessiveness.The protectiveness. The unspoken promise: She’s mine. Don’t even think about hurting her. And God, it makes your chest ache.

At one point, while he’s momentarily pulled aside by a board member, you find yourself cornered by another man. Older. Wealthier. The kind of person who thinks his power allows him to do anything.

"You really are stunning" he says, his voice low, slimy. "Soobin’s a lucky man. Though, I suppose…luck has nothing to do with it, hm? Arrangements like yours are always…strategic."

The implication burns. You open your mouth, ready to respond, when a shadow falls over you. Soobin. His hand slips into yours, threading your fingers together firmly, unmistakably.

"Excuse us" he says, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "We have somewhere to be."

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just pulls you away, his grip protective, his stride long and determined. Only when you’re safely in a quieter corner of the hall does he stop. He turns to you, his eyes scanning your face, his jaw still tight.

"Are you okay?" he asks, softer now.

You nod, though your throat feels tight. "I’m fine."

He doesn’t look convinced. His hand squeezes yours, grounding. "I hate the way they look at you. Like just a trophy wife, a woman that got lucky to get married to me."

Your breath catches. He’s never said it out loud before.

"I know I can’t stop it" he continues, his voice low "but I want to. Every time I see it, I want to..." He cuts himself off, exhaling hard, shaking his head. "You’re not theirs to look at like that."

Something in your chest twists. Because you’ve wanted closeness. You’ve wanted warmth. You’ve wanted him to look at you as more than just a friend. And right now, in his words, in the way his grip tightens like he’ll never let go, you can feel the start of something more.

Something protective. Something possessive. Something that feels dangerously close to want.

The rest of the night, he doesn’t leave your side. Not for a second.

Every handshake, every smile, every polite conversation, you’re close to him. His arm around you, his hand at the small of your back, his gaze cutting sharp whenever someone’s eyes linger too long.

And you can’t help but feel it. The shift. Because this isn’t just duty. This isn’t just politeness. This is Soobin staking a claim.

By the fourth hour of the gala, your cheeks are starting to ache from smiling. The air is too warm, the champagne too sweet, and the voices all blend together in a single blur of names, titles, mergers, deals. You’ve shaken so many hands your skin feels faintly numb. And all the while, you can feel the eyes. Some curious, some calculating. Some wandering.

Soobin’s hand stays at the small of your back, a light pressure that never quite lets you forget he’s there. He hasn’t said much, he doesn’t need to. His presence is enough, a steady anchor in a sea of artificial glitter and teeth.

But then you feel it. A new gaze. Heavier. Hungrier. You know it before you even look up.

The man is older, maybe late forties or early fifties. Silver hair slicked back too neatly, a tailored suit stretched over a body gone soft from indulgence. He carries his glass like an extension of his hand, tilting it lazily as he steps toward you with the kind of confidence only obscene money and unchecked arrogance can buy.

You’re standing alone for a rare moment, Soobin pulled into conversation a few feet away and the man seizes the opportunity.

"My, my" he says, his voice oily, words slured as if drunk. "So this is the famous bride."

You bow politely, lips pressed into that same polite smile you’ve worn all night. "It’s an honor to meet you."

But you don’t miss the way his eyes trail down your frame. Slowly. Shamelessly. You want to shrink, to fold yourself into nothing, but you can’t. Not here. Not with so many people watching. So you stay still, spine straight, smile fixed.

"I must say, Soobin has excellent taste" he drawls, stepping closer, far too close. "I’d heard you were beautiful, but they didn’t do you justice. You’re even more exquisite in person."

The words make your skin crawl. His gaze doesn’t leave you, lingering on the neckline of your dress, the curve of your neck. You shift slightly, trying to put a little more space between you, but he only leans in.

"Tell me" he continues, his voice low, invasive, "are you finding married life… fulfilling?"

Your throat tightens. "I..." You glance toward Soobin, who’s still deep in discussion with two executives, his profile sharp under the light. He doesn’t see you. Not yet. You force a smile anyway. "We’re very happy, thank you."

But the man doesn’t take the hint. He chuckles, swirling his drink, eyes never leaving you. "Happy, yes. But satisfied?"

Your stomach turns. You take a half-step back, trying to keep your tone even. "Excuse me, I should..."

His hand darts out, fingers brushing against your arm to stop you. "No need to run off so quickly. I only wanted a little of your time."

The contact is brief, but it feels like a brand against your skin. You stiffen, panic flashing in your chest, when suddenly, his hand is gone. Because Soobin is there.

It happens fast. One moment, the man’s fingers are on you. The next, Soobin’s grip is wrapped around his wrist, firmly, pulling him back with a force that leaves no room for argument.

"Don’t touch her." Soobin’s voice is quiet, but it slices through the din of the gala like a blade.

The older man blinks, surprised, then tries to laugh it off. "Ah, Soobin. I didn’t see you there."

"You saw her" Soobin says flatly. His grip doesn’t loosen. His height towers over the man, his shoulders squared, his presence suddenly sharp in a way that makes the air around you tense. "And you touched her."

Around you, a few people glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes. But most look away again just as quickly: no one wants to get in the middle of a chaebol son’s temper.

The man shifts uncomfortably, trying to free his wrist. "Come now, it was nothing..."

Soobin’s jaw tightens. "Don’t. Pretend it was nothing."

He finally releases the man’s wrist, but only to step closer, placing himself directly between you and him. The message is clear: a wall, immovable, impenetrable.

The man laughs again, brittle this time. "You’re overreacting. I was simply being friendly."

Soobin tilts his head slightly, his expression calm but cold. "If that’s your idea of friendly, then I suggest you keep it far away from my wife."

The word wife lands heavy, final. The man falters. His smile slips. He clears his throat, mutters something about needing another drink, and disappears into the crowd with his pride in tatters. And just like that, he’s gone.

But Soobin doesn’t move. He stays standing in front of you, tall and steady, his shoulders tense. His hand lingers at your waist now, not the polite, guiding touch he usually offers, but something firmer. Protective.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

"You okay?" he asks finally, his voice softer now, turning back to look at you.

You swallow, nodding quickly. "I...I’m fine."

His gaze lingers on your face, searching, like he doesn’t quite believe you. His hand squeezes lightly at your side. "Don’t lie to me."

The words nearly undo you. Because you weren’t fine. You’d felt cornered, trapped, like prey under a predator’s gaze. And if Soobin hadn’t stepped in...

Your chest tightens. "I just… I hated the way he looked at me."

Soobin’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching. "I did too."

Something about the honesty of it makes your breath hitch.

"I wanted to..." He stops himself, exhaling hard, like he’s fighting to hold something back. Then, quieter: "I wanted to make sure he’d never look at you again." Your heart stutters.You’re not used to hearing him like this. Not your gentle, patient Soobin, who always draws the line, who always insists you’re just friends despite the ring on your finger. This is different. Closer.

For a moment, you wonder if anyone else can feel it, the tension radiating off him, the way his hand hasn’t left your waist, the way his body is angled like he’s ready to fight anyone who dares come near.

It feels like a claim. It feels like protection. It feels like something more.

By the time the gala ends, you’re running on fumes. Your face aches from smiling, your hand feels numb from shaking so many others, and your feet, God, your feet are screaming. The heels you’d chosen to match your gown were stunning under the chandeliers, but after four hours of standing, walking, and twirling through conversations, they’re starting to feel like medieval torture devices.

You don’t complain, of course. Not out loud. Not here. You’ve been raised to know better. So you keep your spine straight, your head high, and your lips curved into that picture-perfect smile as the last goodbyes are exchanged, the last congratulations murmured. You let Soobin guide you through the glittering crowd with his hand at your back, the two of you weaving toward the exit.

But the second the massive doors close behind you and the cool night air hits your skin, you can’t help it. A small groan escapes you, soft, almost pitiful, as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

Soobin hears it immediately. He glances down at you, brows furrowing, the sharp protectiveness from earlier melting into something softer, gentler. "Are you okay?"

You nod quickly, out of habit. "I’m fine."

"You’re not fine."

"I’m-"

"Please" he says, the word carrying that quiet firmness he always uses when he knows you’re hiding something. His eyes flick down to your shoes. "Your feet hurt."

Heat creeps into your cheeks. You don’t know why it feels embarrassing to admit it. Maybe because you’ve been trained to never show weakness in public. Maybe because you hate that he notices everything, even the things you try to hide.

"...They’re just a little sore" you mumble.

Soobin’s lips press into a line. Then, before you can even process what’s happening, he crouches down in front of you.

Your breath catches. "Soobin...what are you..."

"Stay still." He’s already reaching for your ankle, fingers brushing against the strap of your heel. With surprising ease, he unclasps it, sliding the shoe off your foot. The relief is immediate, sharp enough to make you sigh out loud.

He glances up briefly at the sound, his expression unreadable, before repeating the motion with your other shoe. Both heels dangle from his fingers a moment later, and you’re standing barefoot on the cool stone steps, your gown brushing the ground.

It should feel awkward. Indecent, even. But the only thing you feel is your heart, pounding too fast in your chest.

"You didn’t have to" you start, your voice embarrassingly small.

"Yes, I did" he interrupts simply. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he straightens, slips one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you off the ground.

You gasp, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders. "Soobin!"

"Shh" he says softly, not looking down at you as he carries you down the last few steps. His hold is steady, effortless, like you weigh nothing at all. "Your feet need a break."

You should protest. You should tell him to put you down. You should laugh it off, pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Because something about the way he’s holding you, like it’s second nature, like he was meant to, is undoing all the walls you’ve carefully kept in place to avoid getting hurt.

The car is waiting at the curb. Soobin lowers you gently into the leather seat on the passenger side, careful not to let your gown catch, setting your heels beside you. Then he slides in next to you on the driver side, closing the door with a soft click. The city hums outside, neon lights casting colors across the tinted glass as the car pulls away from the gala. But inside, it feels quiet. Intimate.

You sit with your bare feet curled beneath you, the cool leather against your skin. Your hands twist nervously in your lap, the memory of his arms around you still burning into your body.

"You didn’t have to carry me" you murmur finally, unable to handle the silence.

"I know" he says simply.

Your chest tightens. "Then… why did you?"

Soobin leans back against the seat, his gaze fixed out the window. His profile is sharp in the passing light, but his voice is softer than you expect when he answers. "Because I wanted to."

The words are simple. Too simple. But they hit you harder than anything else tonight. You look down quickly, your cheeks heating, your fingers curling tighter in your lap. Your heart feels too big for your chest, pulsing rapidly.

The car ride stretches on, filled with silence but not empty. Not anymore.

You can feel him there beside you, close enough to touch. You can smell his cologne, expensive, clean, familiar. You can sense the weight of everything that went unsaid at the gala still hanging between you.

Your throat feels dry. You want to speak. You want to thank him again, not just for carrying you, but for everything, for stepping in when that man cornered you, for standing up for you in ways no one else ever has, for seeing you in a way that makes you feel less alone.

But the words won't come out. So instead, you sit in silence, watching the city blur past, your heart beating frantically.

And beside you, Soobin stays quiet too. But his hand, resting on the armrest between you, is close enough that if you reached out, just a little, you could slip your fingers into his.

You don’t. Not yet. But the thought lingers. You glance at him once, twice, before finally finding your voice.

"Thank you."

He turns his head, surprised. "For what?"

"For…earlier." You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together nervously. "For stepping in. For...protecting me."

His expression softens, just slightly. "You don’t need to thank me for that."

"I do" you say quietly. "You didn’t have to. But you did."

Soobin’s gaze lingers on you, unreadable. Then he exhales, leaning back against the seat.

"I’ll always step in" he says simply. "No one gets to treat you like that. Ever."

You want to reach out, to take his hand, to tell him how much it means. But you don’t. Instead, you sit in silence, the distance between you feeling shorter than ever. Something fragile.

By the time you get home, it feels like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. The mansion is quiet. The staff had gone to bed hours ago, leaving only a few lamps glowing to light your way inside.

You slip out of your gown in your shared walk-in closet, the heavy silk pooling at your feet. Your jewelry goes next, then the makeup, until all that’s left is the soft cotton of your pajamas and the faint ache in your muscles. You scrub at your face in the mirror until you look like yourself again, not the glittering wife of Choi Soobin, not the porcelain doll paraded through the gala. Just…you.

When you step into the bedroom, Soobin’s already there, changed into his own pajamas, simple, loose-fitting. His hair is damp from a quick shower, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his skin looks flushed and warm.

For a moment, you just…look at him. Not the heir of the family. Not the perfect son. Just the boy you grew up with, the one you’ve known all your life. He glances up when he feels your gaze and offers you a small smile, the kind that’s reserved only for you.

"Tired?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Exhausted."

He doesn’t push further. He never does. Instead, he simply pulls back the duvet, a silent invitation for you to climb into the bed you’ve shared for two months without ever really sharing it.

You slide in carefully, settling onto your usual side, the cool sheets freezing your skin. The mattress dips as he joins you, the familiar distance stretching between you once again.

It should feel normal by now. Comforting, even. But tonight… it doesn’t. Tonight the space feels unbearable. You try to sleep. You really do. But your body is too aware of itself, too aware of him. Of the way his breathing sounds in the dark, steady but a little uneven. Of the way his presence radiates heat under the sheets. Of the way the silence between you feels heavy.

Finally, you turn your head slightly, peeking at his silhouette.

"Soobin?" you whisper.

He shifts slightly, enough that you know he’s awake. "Hm?" His voice is soft, a little rough from tiredness.

You hesitate, chewing at your lip, your chest tightening with nerves. You want to ask, but how do you? How do you put yearning into words without breaking the fragile balance you’ve kept for so long?

Your voice is small when it finally comes. "Can I…sleep closer to you?"

The silence that follows nearly swallows you whole. For a terrifying second, you think he’ll say no. That he’ll remind you of the line, the friendship, the duty. That he’ll gently set you back where you belong, as he always does.

But then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. He lifts his arm, the duvet rustling faintly, a quiet opening. Your breath stutters. And then you move, tentative but determined, closing the space between you and curling carefully against his side.

His body is warm, solid, real. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady under your ear. His arm settles around you, not hesitantly, pulling you closer as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. "You’re shaking" he murmurs, voice low.

"I’m not" you whisper back, though you are. Every nerve in your body is alive, buzzing with the reality of him holding you for the first time.

"You are" he says gently. His hand rubs a slow circle against your back, soothing, grounding. "Hey. It’s okay."

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "It’s just…I’ve wanted this for so long" you admit quietly, so quietly you almost hope he won’t hear. "Just this. To be close."

Soobin goes still for a moment. And then, just as softly: "Me too."

Your heart stops. You tilt your head up slightly, searching his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His eyes are already on you, unreadable but warm. "You have…?"

"I didn’t want to push" he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. So I kept my distance. But if you want this…" His arm tightens around you, just a little. "Then I do too."

Something inside you unravels. Relief, affection, longing, it all floods through you at once, overwhelming you. You bury your face against his chest to hide the tears threatening to spill, but he notices anyway.

"Hey" he murmurs again, tilting his head to press the lightest kiss to the top of your head. "You don’t have to be perfect with me, remember?"

Your throat aches. "I know" you whisper. "It’s just…I didn’t think you wanted this."

His chest rumbles with a quiet sigh. "I wanted it too much. That’s why I was careful."

You let out a shaky laugh, half-cry, half-disbelief. "So we were both suffering for nothing?"

"Pretty much" he says, a wry smile in his voice.

The absurdity of it makes you laugh for real this time, muffled against him. His arm tightens around you, his body shaking slightly with his own soft laugh.

And then the laughter fades, leaving only warmth, silence, closeness. You curl tighter against him, your bare feet brushing his legs, your body fitting into the shape of his like it was always meant to. His hand strokes absentmindedly through your hair, a steady rhythm that makes your eyelids close.

For the first time since your wedding, since the cameras and the vows and the expectations, you feel like you can breathe. For the first time, the bed doesn’t feel too big.

You drift toward sleep like that, wrapped in his warmth, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his breath a gentle whisper against your hair. And just before sleep pulls you under completely, you hear him murmur, so soft you almost think you’re dreaming: "You’re perfect."

The strange thing is, nothing really changes and yet everything does.

You still wake up in the same bed, still share the same routines, still go through the same obligations of two people born into chaebol families. The staff still bow when you pass through the halls. His phone still buzzes endlessly with meetings and decisions.

But now, there’s this. This secret sweetness. This undercurrent of joy. This quiet revolution between the two of you. Because now, when you wake up, Soobin’s arm is already around you. Not just draped politely, not the hesitant closeness from that first night you broke the invisible line, but solid and warm, curling you into his chest as though his body is the only place you belong. His face nuzzles against your hair in sleep, his breath soft on your skin, and sometimes you wake to the press of the faintest kiss against your forehead, placed unconsciously before his eyes even open.

And when he does open them, when those sleepy eyes meet yours in the first light of morning, it’s like the entire world softens.

"Morning" he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, lips curving into a smile that’s just for you. And you can’t help it, you smile back, every single time.

During the day, the difference shows in smaller ways. When you pass him a coffee, his fingers linger on yours longer than they need to, and the contact makes your chest flutter. When you’re walking through the gardens together, he sometimes reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers with his like it’s second nature. The first time he did it, you almost tripped from how casual he was about it, as though this wasn’t something you’d been secretly longing for, as though it hadn’t taken months of restraint to get here.

At the weekly family dinners, when his parents drone on about expectations, you feel his knee press against yours under the table. A grounding touch, steady, silent reassurance. Sometimes he glances your way, the tiniest lift of his brow, the corner of his lips quirking when he catches your stifled sighs. It’s almost conspiratorial, like you’re two kids again, sharing secrets across the dining table.

And then there are the kisses.

They’re not constant, not yet, Soobin is still Soobin, careful and deliberate, not one to fling passion out into the open carelessly. But now that the line has been crossed, he doesn’t stop himself when the moment feels right.

A kiss on your temple when he passes you in the hallway. A soft peck on your lips before he leaves for the office. A lingering kiss in the kitchen when you’re both trying to cook something ridiculous together, laughter spilling between you as flour dusts your hands.

Each one feels like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky.

One evening, a week after that first kiss, you find yourself on the balcony outside your bedroom. The air is cool, the city lights glittering like jewels in the distance, and you lean against the railing, letting the breeze wash over you.

You hear the soft slide of the glass door and turn your head just as Soobin steps out. He’s changed into something comfortable, his hair slightly damp from a shower, a faintly tired but soft expression on his face.

"Cold?" he asks, stopping beside you.

"Not too much."

Without a word, he slides his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. The gesture is so natural, so easy, that you have to bite back the giddy smile threatening to bloom. For a while, you stand there together in silence, watching the city below.

Then Soobin exhales slowly, his chin resting atop your head. "You know… I didn’t think I’d get this."

Your brows furrow. "Get what?"

"This. Us. Like this." His thumb strokes absentmindedly against your hip. "I thought marriage would always just be…an arrangement. A contract. Duty."

You look up at him, heart squeezing at the vulnerability in his voice. "And now?"

He meets your gaze, and the answer is obvious in his eyes before he even speaks. "Now it feels like the first thing that’s really mine."

Your throat tightens, and before you can think better of it, you rise on your toes and kiss him. It’s slow, unhurried, full of quiet promises. His hands slide up your back, holding you close, and the world seems to melt away until it’s just the two of you and the taste of something sweeter than you ever thought you’d have.

The weeks that follow are full of little moments like that. Moments where joy drowns out all the pressure and expectations. There are late-night talks sprawled out across the bed, the two of you whispering about old childhood memories, about dreams you were too afraid to share before.

There are quiet car rides where his hand rests on your knee, absent but deliberate, like he needs to feel you there beside him. There are stolen kisses in the library, laughter muffled against his lips when one of the staff nearly catches you tucked between bookshelves.

You’ve always known him, as a friend, as a partner, as someone bound to you by family ties. But now you’re learning him in new ways: the little hum he makes when he’s focusing on a crossword puzzle, the way he always drapes a blanket over you when you fall asleep reading, the surprisingly terrible doodles he makes in the margins of his notebooks.

And you think maybe, just maybe, this is what love feels like.

One night, after a particularly long day, you’re curled on the sofa together, your head on his chest as he absentmindedly traces shapes against your arm.

"Soobin?" you murmur, breaking the silence.

"Hm?"

"Are you happy?"

His hand pauses for a moment. Then he tilts his head, looking at you, his expression softening.

"Yeah" he says finally. "I am. With you, I am."

Something inside you warms at the confidence in his tone.

And when he kisses you, slow, deep, filled with quiet devotion, you believe him completely.

The first brush of his lips against yours is as soft as ever, but tonight, it doesn’t end there. Tonight, he doesn’t pull away after a heartbeat. Tonight, when you sigh into him, his hand slides from your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss.

Heat sparks low in your stomach. You respond instinctively, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. The kiss grows sloppier, more insistent, the two of you finding a rhythm that makes the rest of the world blur.

Soobin makes a quiet sound into your mouth, half sigh, half something deeper, and it shoots straight through you. His thumb strokes against your jaw as his lips move against yours with more certainty, like he’s finally allowing himself to give in.

You’ve kissed him before, plenty now. Sweet, lingering pecks that left you smiling like a fool. But this…this is different. This is hungry. This is months of restraint finally slipping.

Your breath stutters as his tongue brushes against yours, hesitant for a moment until you part your lips for him. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, your body melting against his.

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat pounding hard, quick as yours, proof that he’s just as swept up as you are.

When you tilt your head, deepening the kiss further, his fingers thread into your hair, holding you to him like he’s afraid to let go. It’s dizzying. It’s intoxicating. It’s Soobin everywhere, overwhelming.

You lose track of how long it lasts, how many times you break for air only to dive back in, lips finding each other again and again like magnets.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging lightly, and the low groan he lets out makes heat flood your cheeks. The sound is unlike anything you’ve heard from him before, raw, unguarded, uncomposed and you swear you’ll replay it in your head for days.

It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s perfect.

By the time you finally part, your head is spinning, your lips numb, your body humming with the aftermath of it all. You collapse against his chest, your forehead pressed to his shoulder. His arms circle around you instantly, holding you close, as if sealing the moment. He presses one last kiss to the top of your head, soft again now, tender.

And in that quiet aftermath, wrapped up in him, you realize something certain: You don’t ever want to go back to the days before this.

It’s not perfect. Of course it isn’t. There are still the endless demands from family, the suffocating expectations of heirs and image, the looming shadows of duty that neither of you can entirely escape.

But now you face them together. And somehow, that makes all the difference. Because now, when the days are heavy, you have his hand to hold. When the nights are long, you have his arms to curl into. And when the world feels like too much, you have the reminder that in the midst of it all, you’ve found something real. Something joyful. Something yours. Something that feels like love.

The first sign is the silence.

Normally, when Soobin comes home, there’s at least some kind of soft acknowledgment: a muttered "I’m back", the faintest of smiles, the quick loosen of his tie as he enters the bedroom you share. Not always cheerful, he’s not the type to bubble over, but steady, familiar.

Tonight, there’s none of that. Tonight, the door shuts with a low thud, heavier than usual. The sound makes you glance up from where you’re curled on the sofa, a book open in your lap. You catch sight of him as he steps inside: shoulders hunched, tie askew, hair mussed in a way that isn’t charming but messy.

"Soobin?"

His eyes lift to you, and you’re startled by how tired he looks. Dark circles beneath his eyes and there’s a tightness around his mouth that hasn’t been there before.

"You’re still up" he says, his voice low, rough around the edges.

"I was waiting for you."

Something flickers in his gaze, too quick to understand, before he looks away. He crosses the room in long strides, shrugs off his suit jacket, and drops onto the other end of the sofa with a heavy exhale.

The silence stretches. You study him, worry gnawing at your chest. "Rough day?"

"That’s one way to put it" he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Back-to-back meetings. Arguments. The board’s restless, the investors are restless. My father-" His jaw tightens. "He never thinks anything I do is enough."

Your heart aches at the sadness in his tone.

"Soobin…"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands rubbing down his face.

Without thinking, you shift closer. You reach out, laying your hand gently on his back. The contact makes him freeze for a second, like he isn’t used to it. Then he exhales, some of the tension removing from his shoulders under your touch.

"Want to talk about it?" you ask softly.

His head shakes slowly. "Not really."

"Then don’t" you murmur. "You don’t have to. Just…let yourself rest."

For a moment, you’re not sure he’ll let you. For a moment, you think he’ll brush you off, stand up, retreat into the shell of duty and self-control that’s been drilled into him since birth.

But instead, he leans. His body tilts until his shoulder presses against yours, heavy, grounding. You slide your arm around him instinctively, and he lets you, his weight shifting until his head drops onto your shoulder.

The breath you let out is shaky, but you hold him anyway. Your fingers find their way into his hair, brushing lightly, soothing. His eyes flutter shut, his breathing slowing bit by bit.

You whisper his name once, softly. He hums in response, too tired to do more.

"You don’t always have to be perfect" you murmur, stroking his hair. "Not with me. You know that, right?"

For a long time, he doesn’t answer. You start to think he’s drifted to sleep, but then "Why do you always know what to say?" he mutters, voice muffled against your shoulder.

A small smile curves your lips, though your chest feels tight. “Because that's what I like to hear for myself."

That earns you the faintest huff of laughter, warm against your skin. But then, before you can react, he shifts. He kisses you deeply.

He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something caught between relief and need, and suddenly the kiss deepens. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until your body presses against his. It’s dizzying. Overwhelming.

It happens so suddenly you almost think you imagined it. One moment you’re still on the sofa, wrapped in the warm haze of the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours like he can’t bear to let go. The next, Soobin is pulling back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Not just affection. Something deeper. Something hungrier.

And before you can speak, he scoops you up. Your breath catches as your world tilts, his arms sliding beneath your knees and back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He rises smoothly, holding you as though you weigh nothing at all, though you can feel the tension in the strength of his grip. His suit jacket is gone, but he still smells faintly of cologne and the long, exhausting day he’s carried on his shoulders.

"W–What are you doing?" you whisper, though your arms instinctively loop around his neck.

"Taking you to bed" he says simply. His voice is low, steady, but there’s a tremor under the calm, a crack in the perfect composure he’s always carried.

Your heart stutters at his words, your pulse hammering in your ears. Soobin carries you down the hall, his long strides unhurried but certain, every step echoing through the mansion. The two of you have walked this hallway a thousand times before. But this time feels different. Charged. Each step is weighted with something that makes your breath catch, makes you bury your face in the crook of his neck just to steady yourself.

You can feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, quick and uneven. He’s not as calm as he looks.

When he pushes open the door to your bedroom, the air shifts. It’s familiar, the soft lamplight spilling over the spacious room, the linen sheets tucked perfectly over the bed.

Soobin sets you down gently on the mattress, as though you’re made of glass. He lingers for a moment, his hands still at your waist, his tall frame looming over you. His eyes search yours, dark and uncertain and full of something that steals the breath from your lungs.

You should speak. You should say something, break the tension, make sure you’re both on the same page. But the words catch in your throat, because you want this. You want him.

And then he leans down, and your mouth meets his before you can think. The kiss is different this time. No hesitation, no testing. It’s deep and desperate, the kind of kiss that says I’ve been waiting for this longer than I can admit. His hands slide up your arms, cradling your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes you ache.

You cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. The world narrows to just the two of you, to the warmth of his body pressed against yours, to the way he sighs into your mouth like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding back.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breath uneven. His forehead drops against yours again, but this time his hands are trembling where they cradle your face.

"Are you sure?" he whispers, his voice rough.

The question triggers something in you, because it’s so him. Even now, even here, he’s giving you the choice. He’s always drawn the line, always kept you safe, even from himself. And for the first time, you push past it.

"Yes" you breathe, your voice steady despite the rush in your veins. "I’m sure. Soobin… I want this. I want you."

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes search yours, looking for any flicker of doubt. And when he finds none, when he sees the certainty in your gaze, something inside him breaks.

His mouth is on yours again, fiercer this time, his hands sliding down to your waist as he presses you back into the mattress, his hips grinding against yours. You gasp into the kiss, the sound swallowed by his lips, and you swear you can feel the years of restraint unraveling in every movement, every touch.

The kiss deepens, turning messy and heated, as though he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands trail over you with reverence, never rushing, never taking without asking.

"Good ?" He asks.

You nodded, though your mouth felt dry. "Yeah, just... nervous. In a good way."

He knelt in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees, thumbs tracing small circles over your skin through your thin pants.

"Me too" he admitted, his eyes meeting yours with raw honesty. "I've wanted this for so long, but I don't want to rush you."

You reached out, cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms. His cheeks flushed slightly, and you leaned in to kiss him. It was slow, his lips soft and tentative against yours, but as your fingers threaded into his hair, it deepened. His tongue slipped past your lips, and a low groan escaped him when you tugged lightly on his hair.

Soobin's hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips, his body pressing flush against yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle hardness growing in his pants brushing against your lower belly. It sent a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and nerves.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me if you want to stop" he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Anytime."

"I don't" you whispered back, your voice breathy. "I want you."

That seemed to ignite something in him. His hands found the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, his knuckles grazing your sides as he peeled it off. You raised your arms to help, and when it was gone, his eyes darkened as they roamed over your exposed skin, lingering on the lace of your bra.

"God, you're beautiful" he said, almost reverently.

You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in his world, made your confidence surge. You reached behind to unhook your bra, letting it fall away, and Soobin's breath hitched. His hands cupped your breasts immediately, thumbs brushing over your nipples, which hardened instantly under his touch. He leaned down, taking one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand kneaded the other.

A moan escaped you, your head falling back as pleasure sparked through your body. His mouth was hot, wet, and insistent, sucking and licking with a fervor that made your core ache. You arched into him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Soobin... that feels so good."

He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. Switching to the other breast, he gave it the same attention, his free hand sliding down to hook into the waistband of your pants. He tugged them down slowly, along with your panties, exposing you inch by inch. You got shy, now completely bare before him, and he straightened, his gaze hungry as it traveled down your body.

"Your turn" you said, your voice bolder than you felt. You grabbed his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing his smooth chest, the toned abs that you'd only glimpsed before. He was lean but strong, muscles flexing under your touch as you ran your hands over him.

He kicked off his pants and boxers in one fluid motion, and your eyes widened at the sight of him. He was long and thick, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, veins prominent along his shaft. He was bigger than you'd imagined, and a flicker of apprehension mixed with your arousal.

He noticed, his expression softening. "We can take it slow" he assured you, stepping closer to wrap his arms around you. His erection pressed against your thigh, hot and hard, but he didn't push. Instead, he kissed you again, putting a pillow under your head.

He hovered over you, his weight supported on his elbows. His lips found yours once more, then moved down, kissing your collarbone, your sternum, down to your navel. He parted your thighs gently, settling between them, and you felt his breath fan over your core.

"Soobin..." you breathed, a mix of embarrassment and need.

He looked up at you, eyes locking with yours. "Can I taste you? Please?"

The plea in his voice made you melt. It was so him, your Soobin.

You nodded, and he didn't hesitate. His tongue flicked out, tracing a slow line along your folds, and you gasped at the sensation. He groaned at your taste, his tongue delving deeper, his lips wrapping around your clit as he sucked gently. His tongue circled the sensitive bud, then dipped lower, pushing inside you with shallow thrusts.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, pleasure building rapidly. "Oh fuck, Soobin... right there." One of his hands held your thigh open, the other sliding up to tease your entrance with a finger. He slipped it in slowly, your wetness making it glide easily, and curled it upward, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his mouth never leaving your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring to prepare you, while his tongue lapped and sucked. You could feel the knot tightening in your belly, your breaths coming in short pants.

"I'm gonna... Soobin, I'm close..." you whimpered, your hand fisting in his hair.

He hummed in encouragement, increasing the pace, and it pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of ecstasy pulsing through your body as you clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, his tongue gentle now, until you were trembling and oversensitive.

Pulling back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled up your body, kissing you deeply, and you tasted yourself on him, making you moan into his mouth.

"You taste amazing" he whispered, his voice rough with desire. His cock was pressed against your thigh, throbbing, and you reached down to wrap your hand around it. He hissed at the contact, his hips jerking forward. You stroked him slowly, feeling the smooth skin thumbing the slit to spread the pre-cum. He was so responsive, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he panted. "If you keep that up, I won't last."

You smiled, feeling empowered. "I want to make you feel good too, like you did for me."

He shook his head, kissing your neck. "Next time. Tonight's about us, together."

He reached over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom from the drawer. You watched as he tore it open with his teeth, rolling it down his length with ease.

"You had condoms in your drawer?" You ask.

"I mean, I kinda hoped we'd do this soon. And we don't plan on having kids yet."

He positioned himself between your legs, the tip pressing against your entrance.

"Ready?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

"Yes" you whispered. "Please, Soobin."

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, a delicious burn as he filled you completely. You gasped, nails digging into his back, and he stilled when he was fully seated, his hips flush against yours.

"Fuck, you're so tight" he groaned, his voice strained. "You feel incredible."

You nodded, breathing deeply, the fullness overwhelming but perfect. "Move, please."

He started with slow thrusts, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in, each movement deliberate. The friction was exquisite, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he picked up the pace.The room filled with the sounds of your bodies, skin slapping against skin, wet and rhythmic, mingled with your moans and his groans. He buried his face in your neck, sucking hickeys into your skin, his hands gripping your hips almost hard enough to bruise.

"Harder" you begged, and he obliged, slamming into you with more force. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure through you, building toward another orgasm.

Soobin's control was slipping, his thrusts became erratic, deeper, his breath hot against your ear.

"I'm not gonna last much longer" he admitted, one hand moving between you to rub circles on your clit.

The added stimulation was too much. "Me neither...come with me."

A few more thrusts, and you shattered again, your walls clenching around him like a vice. He followed seconds later, groaning your name as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering as he rode out his release.

He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty and spent. After a moment, he disposed of the condom and pulled you into his arms, kissing your forehead. "That was... amazing. Are you okay?"

You smiled, snuggling into his chest. "More than okay. That was perfect."

And in that quiet aftermath, wrapped up in him, you realize something certain: the marriage you once thought would only ever be duty and friendship has become something else entirely. Something real, something warm, something that feels like a home you never knew you were waiting for.

Soobin’s hand strokes down your back, his voice low but sure when he murmurs “We’ll be okay, you and me.”

And as you melt into him, heart light, you believe it.

Maybe this arranged marriage won’t be so bad after all, not when it’s him, not when it’s you, not when you have each other.

The two of you against the world.

Taglist : @whoisgami @frvnbeom @motheraiya55 @lustfulwithoutsex @haohaoshoe @usuallyunlikelyfox @hanhani29 @love4yubin @soobinieswife @seungminnieinthebuilding @tttubatttu