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Jung Woo-sung lies at the head of the bed and feels something dark and irrational brewing inside him, an emotion completely uncharacteristic. He is a grown man, already past the threshold of 50, a well-known actor, a director, a co-founder of several companies, the owner of countless awards and so many properties that he sometimes forgets the addresses. He is used to public attention, to gossip, and to having every step he takes discussed online.
His close connection with Lee Jung-jae, another well-known media personality, has contributed greatly to this.
Over the years of their acquaintance and collaboration, Woo-sung had grown accustomed to the stories fans wrote about him and Lee online. He had also made his peace with talk-show hosts constantly joking about their on-screen «chemistry» and with studios always expecting something particular from them during promo tours.
«Cheongdam-dong Couple» – that was what he and Jung-jae had been dubbed long ago. And not without reason. After all, he and Lee had been in a relationship for 18 of the more than 20 years they'd known each other. That's hard to hide, especially given Jung-jae's emotionality – he had never been able to hide his feelings, either in front of the cameras or in private.
Woo-sung had long accepted this as part of their reality. The looks, the gossip, the photos, the fan service – it was all background noise, white noise that never penetrated the walls of their home.
But now – something had broken.
After the resounding success of Squid Game – a project Woo-sung hadn't even appeared in, but which has somehow barged shamelessly into his life – he suddenly found himself utterly unprepared to see someone else beside his partner. And not just in one clip, but in every other one, as soon as you typed that damned show's title into the search bar.
Using video editing and clever shot selection, fans turned any interaction between the main characters of that survival drama into blatant flirtation. And some TikTok users, like @inhunstories, even resorted to artificial intelligence to create their own mini-movies with kisses and passionate embraces. Byung-hun and Jung-jae had never filmed such scenes together. It was all fake. An illusion created by a neural network. But so damn convincing!..
And it would have been one thing if it had only been about the drama's characters. But the fans went further. Now they were editing videos from real press appearances, where Jung-jae and Byung-hun sat next to each other, joked, exchanged looks. On social media, people analyzed these frames second by second, arguing that the «chemistry» between the actors went beyond the professional sphere. And some especially helpful souls even published these «analyses» and tagged Woo-sung so he would see them too.
So how was he supposed to remain indifferent?
Thump!..
With an angry exhale, Woo-sung tosses his phone to the other end of the bed. The screen flashes and goes dark, but the frames still linger before his eyes: Jung-jae sits next to Byung-hun, smiling, touching his knee, leaning his whole body toward him. And looking – with that same gaze, warm, slightly mischievous, with that amused squint that Woo-sung had grown accustomed to thinking of as his alone.
It was the very same look Lee had given his partner during their own promo tour after the film Hunt. Back then, too, they had sat just like that, shoulder to shoulder. Woo-sung remembers how Jung-jae touched his knee then and didn't remove his hand – even after all the cameras were turned off.
But that had been a long time ago. Two years ago. Now Woo-sung wasn't busy with press at all; he was lying in his dark blue bathrobe, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, trying to calm down. His hair had already dried after his shower – he'd taken it right after returning from the gym. The freshly made bed smelled of fabric softener. Beneath his back lay a scattering of decorative pillows of various sizes and textures. The curtains were drawn, but the soft glow of neon from the street and the evening hum of traffic still filtered through.
The room was all pale furniture, muted walls, and shelves of books: cozy and warm. But unease was still gnawing at Woo-sung's heart.
Meanwhile, the sound of water died away in the bathroom – Jung-jae had finished washing off the last traces of makeup from a photoshoot for some magazine. He had returned home just half an hour ago: covered in hairspray, with traces of foundation and highlighter still on his skin, and an elegant necklace someone had given him as a thank-you gift. Woo-sung had seen his «spouse» briefly but hadn't gone out to greet him. He'd simply called out a hello and remained half-reclining, staring at his phone and clenching his jaw.
Another minute passed, perhaps – and the door opened to let Jung-jae into the bedroom. With all the stylists' work washed away, the man now looked rumpled, wet, and impossibly domestic. His hair, usually styled strand by strand, was sticking up in all directions, water dripping from the ends. He wore a white terry robe, a towel on his shoulders. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he noticed that the light in the bedroom was still on and his partner wasn't asleep at all.
Woo-sung, meanwhile, just sat there, staring at the opposite wall, not even turning his head.
«What's wrong?» Jung-jae asked, stopping at the edge of the bed, clearly sensing something amiss.
«Nothing,» Woo-sung replied, without lifting his eyes. «All good.»
But Jung-jae would not let it go. He squinted and sat down on the edge of the mattress, which sagged slightly under his weight. He looked at Woo-sung intently, tilting his head slightly – just like an inquisitive bird. He smelled of shampoo, something citrusy and fresh, and that scent filled the bedroom, mingling with the fabric-softener scent of the sheets.
«I might not have my glasses on right now,» Lee said, drawing out his words, «but I can still see perfectly well that you're angry. What happened? Eh? Eeeeeh?»
He reached toward Woo-sung and moved his head from side to side, as if a new angle might help him solve the mystery of what was bothering his partner. The gesture was both amusing and infuriating. Because Woo-sung had seen it directed at Byung-hun on screen today. The internet had already turned that into a new sensation and spawned a slew of new videos. Jung-jae wasn't to blame for it. But what did that change?
Meanwhile, Lee tried to stroke his partner's knee, but a fresh wave of irritation made Woo-sung recoil from the touch.
«Maybe you should hug your castmate less if you want to see me in a better mood?» he said glumly, and the words came out heavier than he'd intended.
For a few seconds, a stunned silence filled the room. Jung-jae blinked. His eyebrows shot up, and genuine, unfiltered astonishment appeared on his face. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then – slapped his hands on the mattress.
«Hoo-o?? You mean the new interview? I already told you, I'm just following the contract. They're paying me for this – and Byung-hun too! We're actors!»
Jung-jae's voice rang with indignation. He huffed and shook his head, clearly unable to believe he had to justify something that had been standard practice in their industry for years.
Woo-sung crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. He knew. He knew all of it. Because he had been through dozens of such contracts and had done the same thing – smiling, winking, hugging castmates. But being the one doing it was one thing; watching it from the sidelines was something else entirely. For some reason, this was more than he could bear.
Take that damned neckline, for instance. Woo-sung noticed out of the corner of his eye how Jung-jae's robe had fallen open, and instantly remembered: in that interview, Lee had been sitting with a similar dip in his jacket, and Byung-hun had looked right there. Let his gaze drop. Brought it back up. And smiled. And Jung-jae hadn't moved away. Hadn't adjusted his clothing. Had simply sat there and smiled back at him.
The anger inside Woo-sung boiled hotter and hotter. It rose from somewhere in his stomach, spread through his chest, and tightened around his throat like a noose.
Jung-jae was angry too. He really couldn't do anything about it: he had a contract with Netflix, plus obligations to the film crew, producers, and hordes of fans worldwide. He couldn't just refuse fanservice because his partner was jealous! That would be unprofessional.
«This fake hype is already hard enough! I'm tired,» he snapped. «I spent a year filming and living on a strict diet, and you're making scenes just because I'm doing my job! Aaaah, just perfect…»
Throwing up his hands, Lee rolled his eyes, then demonstratively crawled to the other side of the bed. He lay down with his back to Woo-sung and didn't move. His posture – tense, closed – said more than any words. Woo-sung lay beside him, also motionless, staring at the ceiling. The light in the room was still on, and it was clear neither of them was going to sleep now. The silence was oppressive, viscous, full of unspoken words. Only the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional sound of water in the pipes behind the wall could be heard.
One minute passed. Then another. In the end, Jung-jae broke first. He turned sharply, looking over his shoulder, his eyes flashing.
«Go on, apologize. Why are you so quiet?» he demanded, angry but somehow childish.
Woo-sung raised his eyebrows and finally turned his head toward him.
«I should apologize? You apologize!» he retorted indignantly. «You didn't have to look at that guy the way you did! You were practically devouring him with your eyes for the entire press event. The only thing missing was you jumping into his lap at the end!»
At that, Jung-jae's patience finally snapped: he grabbed the nearest decorative pillow and whacked Woo-sung over the head with it – not at full strength, but enough to express his outrage.
«How dare you say such a thing, huu-uh?! He's married with two kids! What kind of person do you think I am?!»
Then the pillow came again – this time to the shoulder. Woo-sung tried to intercept it, but Jung-jae didn't give up: he struck with the fierce, genuine hurt of someone accused of something he'd never done. The coverlet wrinkled under their struggle, and the rest of the pillows flew to the floor as the blanket bunched up. They both panted, hissed, exchanged short jabs – much like in their youth, when they fought over trivial things.
But now, everything had become more complicated.
Finally, Woo-sung gained the upper hand: he caught both of Jung-jae's wrists and pinned him to the bed. The struggle stopped – the pillow fell to the floor, and they froze. Woo-sung loomed over him, breathing heavily, while Jung-jae lay on the mattress – angry and disheveled. His damp hair was plastered across his forehead, and his robe had fallen open, revealing his chest and shoulders. Jung-jae's skin was soft and delicate, and Woo-sung was gripping it hard enough to leave marks.
Woo-sung looked at his partner: at his flushed cheekbones and eyes still glistening with hurt, but now mixed with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Then suddenly – the anger subsided. The fury, irritation, and jealousy receded like a wave, leaving behind only fatigue and a vague sense of shame. Woo-sung realized he was indeed wrong. It was just that he had nowhere to put his feelings, and they drove him into idiotic behavior.
«All right, you win. I went too far,» he said and released the other's wrists.
Then Woo-sung sat back against the headboard, deflated and rumpled. His robe was askew, the belt barely holding. Jung-jae looked up at him from below, still lying on his back, but didn't look particularly pleased with the victory. He frowned, studying Woo-sung's face: the way he had averted his eyes, the way his jaw had tightened. Then he edged closer.
Slowly, without sudden moves, Jung-jae placed his palm on Woo-sung's chest, where his robe had fallen open, and began to stroke the shaved skin. Lightly, almost weightlessly, with his fingertips. His movements were unhurried, soothing, and at the same time slightly coquettish.
«Kimbap-aaa,» he said softly, and there was no more hurt or anger in his voice – only tenderness and a special, slightly searing warmth. «You are the only man who truly interests me. Outside the contract.»
Woo-sung looked at him sidelong. His gaze was still grim, wary, but from these strokes and words, a change was beginning to show – the ice was ready to thaw. After all, his partner knew him too well not to find a way to reconcile.
Jung-jae noticed this. He smiled slightly, then pulled himself up and swung one leg over Woo-sung's thighs to sit astride him. His robe rode up beneath him, and Woo-sung felt the proximity of bare skin, because after his shower, Jung-jae had nothing on underneath. The realization shot through his body like an electric shock.
«You're the only one I want like this,» Lee continued, leaning lower and letting Woo-sung drown in his gaze. «Always, when we're alone…»
Woo-sung swallowed. His hands naturally found the other's thighs – warm, pleasantly heavy. He began to grow hard, and Jung-jae, too, it seemed – beneath the fabric of his robe, a visible bulge was beginning to form in response. Their proximity sent shivers through them like waves of surf.
«Even in the dressing room? The car? On the balcony?» Woo-sung's voice dropped, sounding hoarse.
«Especially there.»
Jung-jae smiled at him almost foxlike, squinting his eyes. There was something sly, promising, and intimate in that expression – something he no longer showed on camera, keeping it only for the two of them. Here. Alone.
«Mandu, you… ho-oo, you're such a rogue!» Woo-sung felt himself melting, ready to forgive this man for absolutely anything.
Yet at the last moment, he still grabbed the sole remaining pillow from the side and thwacked Jung-jae on the shoulder. The man laughed – brightly, wholeheartedly, throwing his head back. And that laughter spread through the bedroom, shattering the remnants of tension. Jung-jae fought back, trying to intercept the pillow, but then suddenly leaned forward and kissed Woo-sung on the lips.
The kiss was sloppy but real – hot, demanding, full of mischief. Woo-sung responded to his partner immediately, without hesitation, threading his fingers into Jung-jae's damp hair, dropping the pillow, and pulling his waist closer. Passion, tenderness, and irresistible desire flared between them like dry kindling. In a moment, their hands were reaching beneath the fabric of their robes to find and caress each other.
Jung-jae's palm reached Woo-sung's groin, and he exhaled through his teeth. Woo-sung was larger, thicker – he was generally bigger than his partner overall, though Lee was hardly short himself. But Jung-jae was so sensitive that he immediately pursed his lips and moaned at the slightest touch there.
Woo-sung knew what his partner liked: over the years, he had learned everything about him. He slowly and deliberately licked his palm, savoring the sight of Jung-jae watching, then moved his hand more distinctly, more rhythmically, bringing Jung-jae's cock to full erection. At the same time, his lips pressed to Jung-jae's mouth – and he kissed Lee greedily, deeply, catching his gasps and moans. Jung-jae responded, moving his own hand too, stroking the head of his partner's cock, squeezing it slightly, making Woo-sung shudder involuntarily.
«Let's do it,» Jung-jae suddenly breathed out.
«Are you sure? You're not too tired?»
Woo-sung pulled back slightly, running an attentive gaze over Jung-jae. The man looked exhausted: his eyelids were slightly puffy after a long day, his shoulders slumped. But Jung-jae only smirked, not discouraged in the slightest.
«Ho-oo, of course I'm tired. But you know the position for occasions like this!»
Then they pressed their foreheads together and rubbed noses – and the contact sent a pleasant shiver through them. Just like the first time. Woo-sung swallowed and nodded, then watched as Jung-jae opened and removed his robe. It fell in a soft white wave, settling on the bed, revealing slender collarbones, chest, lean stomach, and long legs – a sight no fan would ever have access to. No AI video, interview, or drawing could show what Jung Woo-sung saw at this moment. And Lee Byung-hun would certainly never see it.
Leaning forward, Woo-sung immediately covered his «spouse's» chest with kisses and light bites. He squeezed his buttocks – firmly, possessively – and heard a moan, felt fingers grip his hair. His mouth greedily closed around his partner's nipples – first one, then the other – bit them, teased them with his tongue, circled them. This made Jung-jae arch and moan louder, no longer restraining himself. His body responded to every touch – trembling, melting, flowing.
And yet Woo-sung made himself pull away at some point. He knew: if he continued, it would end too quickly. He let Jung-jae reach for the nightstand, from which the man produced a tube of lubricant. They applied it to their fingers together, and while Woo-sung reached his hand behind to prepare his «spouse», Lee continued to stroke his cock, somehow wedging his palm between their bodies.
Jung-jae moaned at the intrusion of fingers – sweetly, drawn out – then hissed and arched when Woo-sung squeezed his chest again with his free hand. The muscle shifted tautly under his fingers, the nipple hardened, and Lee whimpered, biting his lip. He managed to stay upright for another couple of minutes, then exhausted, Jung-jae flopped onto his side.
Jung-jae – completely naked, flushed, and disheveled – stretched out on the bed and waited. Woo-sung watched him mesmerized, then forced his gaze away and rummaged through the nightstand for condoms. He needed them not because he was afraid of anything, but because he wanted to be able to come without pulling out. Finding the package, he flung open his own robe, took off his underwear, and turned Jung-jae onto his side, his back to him, feeling the other immediately press against his groin.
Rolling the latex down the entire length, Woo-sung pulled his partner's hips slightly toward him and finally pushed in – smoothly, carefully. He filled the other's body gradually, giving him time to adjust. His cock sank inside – tight, hot – and Jung-jae made that sound that always made Woo-sung's pulse quicken: something between a moan and a sigh.
Lee breathed rapidly, his fingers digging into the duvet. Because they still had not turned off the light, Woo-sung could see every line on his face in profile: every fine wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, every drop of moisture from his hair, every movement of his parted lips. And this sight took his breath away. Jung-jae was beautiful. Even now – especially now – without makeup, styling and expensive clothes. Real. His.
How incredibly Woo-sung loved him. To the point of madness. To the point of complete abandon.
At such a moment, all thoughts of videos, fan speculation, and that damn TikTok faded into the background. They seemed so trivial and insignificant compared to the heat of the body, the soft moans, and the way Jung-jae pushed back, taking him deeper. Woo-sung kissed his shoulder, then, waiting for full relaxation, began to move with him – in sync, unhurriedly, the way they both liked on evenings after particularly exhausting days or foolish arguments.
His lips kissed Jung-jae's neck and nipped his earlobe, making the man whimper, bite his lip, and thrust his hips harder. With one palm, Woo-sung squeezed his partner's buttock, while he slid the other hand forward again to reach his nipples. They were tense and no less sensitive now than his cock – Woo-sung knew this, just as he knew how quickly Jung-jae lost his head from such stimulation.
Right on cue, Lee moaned and panted, moving his hand along his own cock and yielding to the pressing thrusts. He intensified the contact, pressing his back against Woo-sung's chest and sinking down tighter, deeper, to the very base. Finally, they clung so close that the fullness stretched him, making him pulse and causing the lube to leak out. The thrusts became very short due to the maximum depth, and Jung-jae threw his head back onto Woo-sung's shoulder to moan at full volume, taking advantage of their apartment's good soundproofing.
«Kimbap… Kimbap-aaah!..»
«Mandu…»
Gods only knew why they still called each other like that. These nicknames had started long ago, in their youth, when they'd get stuck after shared shoots in cheap eateries and spend nearly half their day's earnings on food and revelry. Still unknown to anyone, but already happy. Joking with each other and nudging shoulders – never suspecting where this would lead them 20 years later.
«Kimbap» – because Woo-sung constantly ordered kimbap rolls for lunch, until Jung-jae finally couldn't take it and mocked him for his «boring choice.» And «Mandu» – because in response, Woo-sung called him «round-faced like a dumpling,» at which Lee became terribly offended and didn't speak to him for a full 2 hours.
By now, those nicknames had become as dear and essential to them as breathing.
Woo-sung's fingers squeezed the other's chest again, and Jung-jae couldn't take it. With a drawn-out cry, he came into his fist – hot, intense, his whole body shuddering. His muscles tightened around Woo-sung's cock, and then Woo-sung came too: deeply, without pulling out, filling the condom. A groan escaped his chest – low, hoarse – and Woo-sung buried his nose in the back of Jung-jae's head, riding out the peak alongside him.
They lay in silence for a long time, catching their breath. Sweat ran down their temples, their hearts pounded against each other, muscles pleasantly ached. Outside, all was still quiet, only the wind rustling somewhere beyond the window. Woo-sung turned the other's face toward him and kissed him – gently, wetly, lazily. There was no passion in this kiss – only quiet gratitude and relief.
«I'm sorry,» he whispered against his lips, speaking the words of reconciliation much more calmly and softly now. «I can't help wanting not to share you with the rest of the world.»
In response, Jung-jae laughed – quietly, tiredly but with warmth.
«Idiot,» he said, poking his partner in the forehead with a finger.
«You're the idiot. You could be a little less playful about all this,» Woo-sung said with a frown, but not seriously anymore.
After that, they disentangled. Woo-sung withdrew, tied off the condom, and tossed it somewhere on the floor – he'd find it in the morning, nothing new there. Then he reached for the light switch and turned off the overhead light, leaving only the under-bed lighting – soft, golden, running in a thin strip along the perimeter of the floor. Click!
The room sank into a cozy half-darkness. Jung-jae snorted, then caught hold of Woo-sung, throwing his arms and legs around him with familiar ease as if his «spouse» were a big pillow. He pressed his slightly damp crown to Woo-sung's cheek and settled in more comfortably.
«Well, I'm sorry too,» he mumbled. «I didn't mean to upset you. It really is just work… How about lunch together tomorrow? My treat!»
Woo-sung huffed and in turn hugged Jung-jae with one arm, pulling the blanket over them. His palm rested on a bare shoulder, and his fingers stroked the skin – warm, soft, still impossibly fragrant.
«I was just about to suggest that,» he replied. «We could even drop by one of those old eateries still left in that neighborhood. Remember the one where we ordered 4 large portions of tteokbokki and then could barely make it to the motel?»
«As if I could forget! You groaned about being stuffed and lay flat on your back until morning!»
«That was you groaning, ee-eh. I held myself with dignity.»
«Oh-hooo? Not at all!»
They traded a couple more jabs – completely harmless, light – and then Jung-jae yawned and fell silent. His breathing steadied, grew deeper – and he sank into sleep like into a pit, completely exhausted. Woo-sung lay a while longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the other's closeness gradually pulling him into slumber. His fingers absently combed through Jung-jae's hair – slightly wavy after the shower.
His phone still lay where he had thrown it, forgotten at the other end of the mattress.
No more videos bothered Woo-sung: not from TikTok, not from Instagram, not the endless compilations on YouTube. All of that was a mirage. Reality was here, in his arms, quiet and sleeping, smelling of citrus shampoo and something already inexpressibly his own.
«Sweet dreams, Mandu,» he whispered into the darkness and closed his eyes too.