under the same roof. 02.
mx shownu x babysitter reader
explicit, smut, mdni, chapter 1
A quiet weekend alone turns undeniable as buried desires between you and Hyunwoo finally break through the silence.
You wake still feeling his touch.
The sheets smell like him. That clean, woodsy masculine cologne mixed with warmth underneath. Your body aches in places you didn't know could ache, a deep soreness between your thighs that makes you clench them together under the blanket.
Morning light filters through the curtains. Gray and muted. The rain has stopped.
You lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. The memory plays behind your closed eyes. His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing in his world.
You force yourself up.
The shower is quick, almost mechanical. You scrub at your skin, trying to erase the evidence. But his scent lingers in your hair, in the hollow of your throat. You press your fingers to your lips, remembering.
The baby's room is quiet when you check. She's still asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her fingers curled around the edge of her blanket. You adjust the monitor and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells like coffee.
You stop at the threshold.
Ana sits at the island in a crisp white blouse, her hair pulled back, her tablet propped against a mug. She's scrolling with one hand, sipping with the other. Polished. Composed. Already ready for the day.
Shownu stands at the counter, making toast.
He's in a simple black t-shirt and gray joggers. His shoulders are broad under the fabric. He looks calm. Collected. Like nothing happened.
Then his eyes meet yours.
The air leaves your lungs.
His gaze is dark, heavy, loaded with something that makes your stomach flip. He holds it for just a second too long before looking down at the toast, his jaw tight.
"Good morning," Ana says without looking up.
You force your feet to move. "Morning."
You pour yourself a glass of water, your back to them. The silence stretches, thin and dangerous. You can feel his presence behind you, a warmth at the edge of your awareness.
"I have news," Ana says, setting down her tablet.
You turn. She's smiling, but it's the sharp, efficient smile she uses for business.
"The brand is launching a major campaign soon. We're shooting at a private estate outside the city. I'll be gone Saturday and Sunday."
Your heart skips.
"I've already called my parents," she continues. "They're thrilled to keep Rosie for the weekend. It's been too long since they've seen her."
She looks at you, then at Shownu, who hasn't touched his toast.
"You'll need to come with me to drop her off," she says to you. "My mom gets anxious driving in the city. After that, you're free until Sunday evening. Consider it a paid break."
Your mouth opens, but no words come.
Shownu clears his throat. "I have studio sessions all weekend anyway."
Ana nods, already back on her tablet. "Perfect. Everyone's accounted for."
You stand there, your glass of water cold in your hands, the weight of the next two days pressing down on your chest.
The drive to Ana's parents' house takes forty minutes.
You sit in the back with the baby, watching the city give way to tree-lined suburbs. Ana chats on Bluetooth, her voice clipped and professional. Shownu's car, a sleek black sedan, follows behind until he turns off toward the studio.
Her parents' house is warm and inviting. Her mother coos over the baby, sweeping her into her arms before you're fully through the door. Her father offers you tea, which you politely decline.
"You look tired, dear," Ana's mother says, eyeing you with maternal concern. "Go home. Rest. We've got this little one covered."
The baby is already reaching for a stuffed toy on the couch, her attention gone.
Ana kisses her cheek, quick and efficient. "I'll call tomorrow."
And just like that, you're ushered back into the car.
The drive back is silent. Ana drops you at the house without getting out. "Lock up if you leave," she says, already typing on her phone. "See you Sunday."
The door closes. The engine fades.
You stand in the empty driveway, alone.
The house swallows you whole.
Silence presses against your ears. No baby monitor static. No distant footsteps. No sharp voice on the phone.
Just you and the memory of last night.
You walk through the living room, your fingers trailing over the kitchen counter where he lifted you. The hallway where he carried you. The door to your guest room, still slightly ajar.
The sheets are rumpled. You haven't made the bed.
You look away.
The day passes in slow motion. You take a long bath, letting the hot water soften your muscles. You wash your hair. You put on a fresh oversized t-shirt and a pair of cotton panties, no bra, and you wander through the quiet rooms like a ghost.
By early evening, the light has turned golden, slanting through the windows in long amber strips.
You gather your laundry and head to the narrow room off the kitchen.
The dryer hums as you pull out the warm clothes. The scent of clean linen fills the small space. You fold methodically, your hands moving on autopilot, your mind somewhere else entirely.
The front door chimes.
You freeze.
Your heart lurches into your throat.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar. They move through the entryway, up the stairs, fading into the master bedroom.
The shower turns on. The distant sound of water through pipes.
You stand in the laundry room, a folded t-shirt pressed against your chest, your breath shallow.
He's home.
The water stops. Silence. Then footsteps again, softer this time, descending the stairs.
They pause.
You hear him in the kitchen. A cabinet opens. Closes. Then the footsteps resume, growing closer.
He appears in the doorway.
He's wearing only boxer shorts, low on his hips. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face. Water droplets cling to his shoulders, his chest, the hard lines of his stomach. His glorious abs. His skin looks warm in the dim light.
The laundry room suddenly feels impossibly small.
You can't move. Can't breathe.
His eyes find yours, and the air between you thickens.
"Hey," he says. His voice is low, rough.
"Hey."
The word comes out barely above a whisper.
He takes a step inside. The space shrinks further. You're backed against the counter, a folded towel in your hands, your heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can smell his soap, the clean scent of his skin.
"I didn't expect you to be back so early," you manage.
"Finished earlier than I thought."
His eyes drop to your t-shirt, loose and soft, the way it hangs off one shoulder. His jaw tightens.
"Are you hungry?" you ask, shifting slightly under his gaze. "I can make you dinner."
"Still full, maybe later," he says softly.
He reaches out. His fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is featherlight, but it burns. His hand lingers, his thumb grazing your skin.
"I need to apologize," he says.
You shake your head, but he continues.
"Last night. I was out of line. You were being kind. You were trying to comfort me, and I took advantage of that."
His voice cracks on the last word.
"Hyunwoo—"
"Let me say this." He swallows. "You're sweet. You're gentle. You're everything good in this house, and I had no right to drag you into my mess."
His hand is still on your cheek. His eyes are dark, conflicted, full of guilt and hunger and something broken.
"But I can't lie to you."
His thumb traces your lower lip.
"Touching you. Holding you. Having you under me. It was the first time I've felt alive in years."
Your chest aches.
His hand slides to your neck, warm and heavy. You reach up, your fingers covering his, holding him there.
You look at him. The man who's been starving for so long. The man who held you like you were oxygen.
You close your eyes. "No... We can't be doing this."
Your voice is quiet. Shaky.
You turn around, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. The fabric of your t-shirt shifts, the hem riding up.
You feel him step closer.
His hands land on your waist.
The contrast hits you immediately. His fingers span almost your entire side. His palms are warm, calloused, pressing into the soft curve of your hips. He's so much bigger than you. Broader. Taller. His chest flattens against your back, and you're trapped between his body and the counter.
His breath ghosts over the spot behind your ear, and you shiver.
"No." His voice is a low rumble, almost a growl.
"Your mouth said no."
His lips brush the shell of your ear.
"But your body." His hands slide under the hem of your t-shirt, spreading across your stomach. His fingers are wide, warm, covering you like you're something precious. "Your body is softening against me sweetheart. Melting into my hands."
You grip the counter harder.
"I can feel your heartbeat," he murmurs. "It's echoing through your ribs."
His lips press against your neck. Soft. Lingering.
"Tell me again."
Your breath hitches.
"Tell me no again."
His teeth graze your skin.
"And I'll stop."
You close your eyes. Your body is betraying you, leaning back into him, your hips pressing against his. He groans, low in his chest.
"You're so good," he says against your neck. "So sweet. Always taking care of everyone else."
His fingers spread wider on your stomach.
"But I can't let you pretend neither of us wants this."
His other hand slides up, brushing the underside of your breast through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You gasp.
"I've been lying awake for months," he says. "Listening to you move through this house. Smelling your shampoo in the hallway. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my arms."
His hips press forward. You feel him, hard and heavy against you through the thin fabric of his boxers.
"Last night wasn't a mistake."
His hand cups your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric. It hardens instantly.
"Last night was the only honest thing I've done in years."
You can't breathe. Can't think. Your hands release the counter, reaching back, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.
He turns you around.
His mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, months of suppressed want pouring through the seam of your lips. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste mint and coffee and him. His hands grip your waist, lifting you onto the edge of the counter.
The laundry basket clatters to the floor.
He steps between your knees, pushing them apart. His body fills the space, chest to chest, hips to hips. His hands slide up your thighs, under your t-shirt, gripping the bare skin of your ass.
You break the kiss, gasping.
"Hyunwoo—"
"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know we shouldn't. I don't care."
His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. Your head falls back, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
"You feel that?" His voice is rough, almost pained. "That's what you do to me."
He takes your hand, guiding it down between your bodies. He wraps your fingers around him through his boxers. He's thick, hard, pulsing against your palm.
"All day," he breathes. "I couldn't think about anything else."
Your hand moves, tracing his length, and he groans, his hips bucking into your touch.
"Hyunwoo please," you whisper.
"Please what sweetheart?"
His eyes are dark, searching yours.
"Not here," you quietly say.
He doesn't carry you this time. He takes your hand, leading you through the dim house. The living room is bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. The plush couch sits in the center, facing the windows.
He sits, pulling you onto his lap.
You straddle him, your knees on either side of his hips. His hands find your waist, your thighs, the curve of your ass. He pulls you closer, and you feel him against your core through the thin cotton of your panties.
"Take this off."
His voice is a command wrapped in a plea.
You grab the hem of your t-shirt and pull it over your head.
His breath catches.
His hands come up, cupping your breasts. They're full, heavy, and his thumbs trace your nipples, already hard and tight. He leans forward, his mouth closing around one.
You moan, your head falling back.
His tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate. He sucks gently, then harder, and your hips grind against him involuntarily. His other hand kneads your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "So perfect."
He switches sides, giving the same attention to the other. You're trembling, your fingers in his damp hair, holding him to you.
He pulls back, looking up at you with dark, heavy eyes.
You slide off his lap, your knees hitting the carpet.
He watches you, his chest rising and falling.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips, and you pull them down, freeing him.
He springs up, hard and thick, the tip already gleaming.
You wrap your hand around his velvety length. He's so big, your fingers barely meeting. The head almost a shade of purple. You lean forward, your tongue tracing the length of him from base to tip.
He groans, his head falling back.
You take him into your mouth.
The taste is salt and skin and him. You work him slowly, your tongue swirling around the head, your hand stroking what you can't reach. His hips twitch, his fingers finding your hair.
"Fuck."
His voice is strained, barely a whisper.
You take him deeper, and he gasps, his grip tightening. Your throat adjusts, muscles straining, but you push forward. You want to feel all of him.
"That's it," he breathes. "That's it, sweetheart."
His hips move, a gentle thrust, and you let him guide you. His hands in your hair, his voice above you, broken and desperate.
You suck harder, your tongue working him, and he groans your name.
He pulls you off gently.
"Not yet."
His hands find your arms, lifting you onto your back on the couch. He settles between your legs, his shoulders pushing your knees apart. He looks at you, lying there in nothing but your panties, and his eyes go dark.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband, pulling them down slowly.
The cool air hits your skin.
Then his mouth.
He doesn't start slow. He's starved, and he acts like it. His tongue presses flat against you, dragging up through your folds, circling your clit with a pressure that makes you gasp.
Your hands fly to his hair.
He eats you like you're his last meal.
His tongue dips inside you, then returns to your clit, flicking, circling, driving you toward the edge. His fingers find your nipples, pinching, rolling, and the dual sensation makes you whimper.
"Hyunwoo—"
He hums against you, and the vibration sends a shock through your body.
He adds a finger. Then two. He pumps them slowly, his tongue working your clit in perfect rhythm.
You're close. So close.
"Come for me," he murmurs against your skin.
Your body shatters.
The orgasm rips through you, your back arching, your moans filling the empty living room. He stays with you, working you through it, lapping gently until your trembling subsides.
He crawls up your body, kissing your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts.
His mouth finds yours.
You taste yourself on his lips.
"Please," you breathe. "I need you inside me."
He sits up, pulling you with him. You straddle him again, facing him. His cock presses against your entrance, hot and slick.
You reach between your bodies, guiding him.
You sink down.
The stretch makes you gasp. He's so big, filling you inch by inch. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath coming in short gasps.
He groans, his hands gripping your hips.
"Easy," he breathes. "Easy, sweetheart."
You take him fully, seated in his lap. The fullness is overwhelming, a pressure that makes your head spin.
You start to move.
Slow at first, your hips rolling in a rhythm that makes him moan. His hands guide you, his thumbs pressing into your hips. You build speed, riding him harder, your breasts bouncing in his face.
He takes one in his mouth, sucking gently.
Your pace quickens.
The sound of your bodies, skin against skin, fills the quiet room. His breathing is ragged, his hands desperate.
"I'm close," you gasp.
"Me too."
You ride him faster, chasing the edge. His hand finds your clit, pressing in tight circles, and the pressure builds to a breaking point.
You come with a cry, your body clenching around him.
He groans, pulling out just in time.
His hand strokes himself twice, three times, and then he's spilling across your stomach and thighs, warm and thick, his breath ragged.
He collapses back against the couch.
You fall forward, your forehead resting on his shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you close. His lips press against your hair.
"Stay here, don't move."
He lifts you gently, setting you on the couch before disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water run. He returns with a warm, damp towel, kneeling between your legs.
He cleans you carefully. Gently. Like you're something sacred. Then wipes himself too.
Then he lies down, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you.
The sun has set. The living room is dark, lit only by the glow of the streetlights outside.
You curl into him, your ear pressed to his heartbeat.
His hand strokes your hair. Neither of you speaks. The silence is full.
You close your eyes. His breathing slows, his hand stilling against your back. You stay like that for minutes, maybe hours, suspended in the quiet room.
Then, a loud, betrayal of a rumble echoes from your stomach. Your last meal was an early lunch.
The silence breaks as you both burst out laughing, the tension melting away completely. Chuckling, you finally pull yourself away, leaving the warmth of the bed to start preparing dinner.
Neither of you bothers with clothes. As you move around the kitchen completely bare, he sits up on the counter, relaxed and naked, his gaze following your every move.
A sudden ring breaks the quiet. He reaches over to grab his phone from the counter and swiping the screen.
"Hey," he answers, his voice soft as Rosie's grandparents' faces fill the display. They just wanted to check in, give a quick update on the baby, and flip the camera to show little Rosie fast asleep in her crib. You stay safely out of the camera's angle, aware of your lack of clothes, but you catch his eye and flash him a quiet, fond smile from across the counter.
You lean back toward the stove with a soft smile, turning down the flame as his voice instantly shifts into a higher, sweeter pitch.
"Look at those tiny cheeks," he coos into the screen, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes as he leans closer to the phone. "Is my girl being good for Grandma and Grandpa? Yeah? You taking big naps?"
You can’t help but look over your shoulder, stirring the pot while watching him completely melt. On the screen, little Rosie lets out a soft, babbling sigh in her sleep, and his whole expression softens, a quiet tenderness washing over his features.
While he finishes catching up with the grandparents, you plate up the hot food, the warm kitchen quiet returning just as he finally hangs up with a fond sigh.
