nct thinker

The bass of another noise song thrums through the floorboards, up through the soles of your shoes, and resonates deep in your chest where the alcohol has already made a warm little home for itself. The frat house is in a state of its standard party disaster—red solo cups scattered across every available surface, bodies pressed together in the living room that's been converted into a makeshift dance floor, the sharp mix of spilled beer and cologne and sweat weaving through the air in various equally sickening combinations. Somewhere in the back, someone's started a celebratory chant that keeps getting louder and then dissolving into laughter before it can really take off.

You're not paying attention to any of it, you're occupied with something else. With someone else.

Mingyu's lap is warm beneath you, his thighs solid and familiar, one of his big hands splayed across the small of your back while the other rests on the meat of your hip, fingers dimpling the soft flesh there. His mouth is hot and eager against yours, tasting like the cheap beer he's been nursing for the past hour, and you let yourself melt into it because Mingyu kisses the way he fucks—enthusiastic, a little sloppy and breathtakingly effective. His tongue slides against yours and you make a soft sound into his mouth, your fingers threading through his damp hair, still wet from the post-game shower.

"You were so good out there," you murmur against his lips, pulling back just far enough to speak, your breath fanning across his mouth. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and he chases your lips with that increasingly more horny desperation, immediately cutting you off before you manage to finish what you were saying. "Watched you the whole time. That tackle in the second half? You looked so hot and strong. Had me clenching in the stands." Distantly, you think that if you weren't a little drunk you'd cringe at your own words right now but since you're slightly intoxicated saying something like this feels easy and right.

He groans, low and wrecked, his grip on your hip tightening. "You can't just say shit like that."

"I can," you tell him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the spot just below his ear that makes him shiver. "I can say whatever I want. You know why?"

"Why?" His voice is strained.

"Because in about twenty minutes, you're gonna find us somewhere private, and you're gonna bend me over, and I'm gonna let you fuck me so hard you forget your own name." You nip at his earlobe, soothing the sting with a flick of your tongue. "That's your reward for winning. You earned it, big boy."

Mingyu makes a sound that's halfway between a whimper and a growl, both hands now gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him getting hard beneath you, the thick line of his cock pressing up against your clothed cunt. You roll your hips just to hear him curse, and he does, a strangled oh fuck that makes you grin.

This is easy. This is comfortable. Mingyu's been on your roster since the middle of your second year, and he's never once made it complicated. He's gorgeous and he knows it, tall and broad with a swimmer's build that's been beefed up by rugby, and he fucks with the kind of athletic stamina that leaves you bow-legged and stupid. But he also knows the rules. He doesn't get jealous, doesn't get territorial, doesn't look at you like he's thinking about keeping you.

Unlike—

"There you are."

The voice cuts through the bass and the noise and the fog of arousal like a blade through silk. Deep. Rough at the edges. Punctuated by that quiet authority of his that makes your spine straighten instinctively, your body responding before your brain can catch up.

You know that voice. You know it in your bones, in the wet heat already starting to pool between your thighs in Pavlovian response, in the way your heart kicks against your ribs like it's trying to break free.

Mingyu's hands loosen on your ass. Not because he's scared—Mingyu's not scared of anyone, even if it's his team captain—but because he knows the rules too. The unspoken ones. He knows what that voice means when it's directed at you.

You turn your head.

Seungcheol is standing in the doorway of the living room, and he's already changed out of his rugby kit into gray sweatpants and a team bomber jacket that does practically nothing to hide how broad his shoulders are or how built he is in general. If anything it only accentuates the fact. His hair is still damp, pushed back off his forehead, and there's a flush high on his cheeks—from the game, from the adrenaline, from the victory still singing in his blood. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, as if he's been looking for you and came straight here the second he could.

His eyes find yours and something in them flickers. Something dark and hungry and possessive that makes your cunt clench around nothing in response.

"Cheol," you say, and your voice comes out steady and a little bored, just like you intended, despite feeling anything but bored in this moment. "Hell of a game."

He doesn't acknowledge the words. His gaze drops to where you're sitting in Mingyu's lap, to Mingyu's hands on your hips, to the way your lip gloss is smeared from kissing someone who isn't him. His jaw tightens. The muscle there jumps.

"Up," he says. Not to Mingyu. To you.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm a little busy."

"You're done being busy." He takes a step into the room, and people move out of his way without seeming to realize they're doing it. He has that effect. "Come here."

Mingyu sighs behind you, but it's more resigned than annoyed. "Just go," he murmurs, giving your hip a soft pat. "You know how he gets." You turn to look at the guy and there's a small teasing smirk on his face.

"I don't belong to him," you say, and you're not sure if you're reminding Mingyu or yourself.

"Could've fooled me," Mingyu mutters, but there's no bitterness to it. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentlemanly despite everything, and helps you slide off his lap. "Rain check?"

"Of course," you tell him with an easy smile.

Then Seungcheol's hand is wrapping around your wrist—not hard, he never grabs you hard enough to hurt or scare, but firm enough that you know you're not getting away—and he's pulling you through the crowd, past the dancers and the drinkers and the people who pretend not to sneak glances, up the stairs, down the hall, into one of the bedrooms that's mercifully unoccupied.

The door clicks shut behind you. The music muffles to a dull throb and your ears ring a little with the newfound silence.

And then you're being pressed up against the door, Seungcheol's body a wall of heat against your back, his breath hot and uneven against the curve of your neck. His hands find your waist, your hips, your stomach, like he's reacquainting himself with the geography of your body even though it's only been three days since the last time he had you.

"Could smell you throughout the whole house," he rasps against your ear, and the words send a bolt of pure lightning straight to your clit. "That perfume you wear. The one like cherry and rum. Knew you were here before I even saw you."

"Good nose," you attempt something sassy, but your voice is already going breathy, your body already starting to soften and yield the way it only ever does for him. You briefly register your hips pushing backwards, into him. And you don't care to stop yourself from it.

"Good nothing." His teeth graze your earlobe, nipping. "I just know you. You know what else I know?" You hum in response, playing along as if intrigued. "I know the way you smell when you're worked up. And you were worked up, weren't you? Sitting on Mingyu's lap like a pretty little slut, grinding on him, getting him hard."

"He earned it," you say, and it's supposed to come out defiant but lands a lot closer to needy because you are a sucker for degradation when it comes from him. Always so sweet, it makes you feel fuzzy even when you just think about it.

Seungcheol's laugh is dark and low, rumbling through his chest and into your back. "Oh, did he?"

"He won the game."

"And what about me?" His hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, and stops just beneath the swell of your breasts. "I was on that field too. I scored two tries. I bled for that win." His lips brush the shell of your ear. "What do I get?"

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together, seeking friction, seeking relief. "Depends on what you want."

"You know what I want." His hand moves higher, finally cupping your breast through your top, his thumb finding your nipple even through layers of fabric and pressing down just hard enough to make your breath catch. "I want your mouth. Want to fuck that pretty throat until you're crying, until you can't talk, until the only thing you remember how to do is swallow."

Your knees buckle. He catches you easily, arm banding around your waist, and you can feel him—all of him—pressed against your ass. The thick, heavy line of his cock is already hard, already straining against his sweatpants, and you can feel the heat of it through both layers of fabric like a brand.

"Fuck,” you breathe.

"Yeah," he agrees, and spins you around to face him.

God, he's beautiful. It hits you every time, this stupid, gut-punch of a realization that you never quite get used to despite the fact that your roster is full of gorgeous men. No one hits like that. His eyes are dark and liquid, those big brown eyes with lashes so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones, and they're looking at you like you're something precious and something filthy all at once. His lips are parted, plump and pink and slightly wet, and when he smiles—just a little, just the corner of his mouth quirking up—his dimple appears like a secret.

"Missed you," he says, softer now, and it makes your chest ache.

"It's been three days."

"Three days too long." He cups your face in both hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and tilts your head up. "You been good?"

You know what he's asking. You know what he means. And a part of you wants to lie, wants to tell him that you've been a perfect little angel, that you haven't let anyone else touch you, that you're his, just his, only his.

But that's not the game you play. That's not the arrangement you have with him or anyone else for that matter.

"Been busy," you say instead, and watch his eyes darken. It brings you its own special kind of masochistic satisfaction.

"Busy," he repeats, flat.

"Jihoon on Thursday. Soonyoung yesterday morning." You hold his gaze, defiant and terrified in equal measure. "They're on the roster too, Cheol. Remember?"

Something flickers in his expression—something that looks a lot like hurt and a lot like jealousy—but it's gone as fast as it appears, replaced by that dark, possessive heat that makes your cunt drip.

"Then I better remind you why I'm at the top of that list," he says, and drops to his knees.

You don't have time to process the sight of him there, on his knees for you, looking up at you with those burning eyes—because his hands are already rucking up your skirt, pushing it up around your waist, and his mouth is pressing hot and open-mouthed against the damp cotton of your panties.

"Cheol—"

"Shh." His breath is warm through the fabric. "Let me take care of you first. Let me taste you. Then I'm gonna fuck your throat until you forget Soonyoung's name and everyone else's except mine."

His tongue presses flat against your clothed cunt, and you moan, head thumping back against the door. Your hips cant against his face, frustrated that there's some sort of barrier between his mouth and you.

This is how it always goes with him, how it's been going since the end of your second year, when you finally collided with him at a party not unlike this one, when you'd already built some reputation and he'd already heard the rumours. Neither of you had been prepared for the way your bodies would fit together like puzzle pieces.

Before that night, you'd known of him, obviously. Everyone knew the rugby team, and Seungcheol was the captain—loud and commanding on the field, quieter off it, with a cute laugh that didn't match his build and a dimpled smile that made you want to do stupid things. You'd seen him around campus, exchanged pleasantries, maybe flirted a little the way you flirted with everyone. But you'd never hooked up with him, partly because your paths didn't cross that way and partly because something in your gut had whispered to wait.

Waiting had been the right call. By the time you finally got your hands on each other, the tension had been stretched so tight it snapped like a rubber band, and you'd spent three hours in his dorm room doing things that still made even you blush when you thought about them too hard. And there weren't many things left that could make you blush anymore.

The difference was that Seungcheol hadn't been satisfied with one night. He'd come back for more. And more. And more. Unlike all your other hookups who followed your lead and showed up or engaged with you only on your demand.

So, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being just another name on your roster and started being something else. Something you allowed in your content, something you kept allowing more than you allowed anyone else.

"Fuck, you're soaked," he groans against you, pulling your panties to the side and swiping his tongue through your folds. The sensation is electric and sweet, and your hips buck against his face without your permission. "Taste so fucking good. Always taste so good."

"Cheol, please—"

"Hmm?" He looks up at you, chin glistening with your wetness, and the sight is so obscene it makes your brain short-circuit. "Use your words, baby."

"Please—fuck, your mouth—"

"My mouth what?" He's teasing now, the bastard, pressing soft little kisses to your inner thigh, your mons, everywhere except where you need him. "Tell me."

"Eat me out," you breathe, dignity abandoned. "Please, Cheol, please eat my pussy, I need your tongue, need you to make me come—"

"Good girl." And then his mouth is on you, tongue plunging into your hole and nose pressing against your clit, and you gasp.

He eats pussy like he's starving. Like your cunt is the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger. His tongue is thick and clever, alternating between fucking into your tight opening and flattening against your clit, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open and steady, pressing you against his face like he wants to crawl inside you.

You're babbling, you realize in a brief blink of clarity. Strings of praise and profanity falling from your lips between whimpers and mewls. "So good, so good, your tongue is so fucking good, Cheol, right there, please don't stop, please—"

Seungcheol doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train—sudden and utterly beyond your control, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head and your fingers fist in his hair and you come with a broken cry that gets swallowed by the bass still thumping through the house.

He works you through it, gentler now, laving at your oversensitive clit until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away. Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking up at you with eyes that are practically black as he licks your juices clean off of it.

"That's one," he says, and rises to his feet.

"One?" You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks, and he's looking at you like he hasn't even started. In your haze you've totally forgotten what he said he wanted you to do for him.

"One." He cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, tugging it down until your mouth obediently falls open. "Now it's my turn. On your knees, baby. Show me you still know how to worship this cock."

You sink to your knees before he finishes that sentence.

The carpet is scratchy against your skin, but you barely pay attention. Which is fixed on the way he's pulling down his sweatpants, freeing his cock, and there it is—a solid length of thick, flushed, leaking cock, curving slightly upward, the head an angry purple-red that looks almost painful. His balls hang heavy beneath, swaying as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing precum down the shaft.

"You remember this?" he asks, and his voice has gone gravel-rough. Half a step forward and Seungcheol is slapping the thick meat of his cock against your face. They are soft, almost gentle slaps that make you lean in and try to nuzzle, brain going offline on his musky scent. "Remember how it feels? How it stretches your throat? How it makes you choke?"

"Yes," you whisper, and feel your mouth watering, saliva pooling under your tongue. Your eyes are glued to his cock and you barely restrain yourself from trying to follow it and catch with your mouth. "Yes, I remember."

"Then show me."

You don't make him wait. You lean forward and press a kiss to the tip, as gentle and reverent as ever, tasting the salt-bitter tang of his precum. His breath hitches. You do it again, and again, pressing soft kisses up and down his shaft, nuzzling into the thick thatch of hair at the base, breathing him in. He smells like sweat and soap and that unique musk that you have no other description for than just him, and it makes your head spin the more you focus on it. You can probably get off on that alone.

"Stop teasing," he grits out, but his hand comes to rest on the back of your head, gentle, so gentle. Even though you wouldn't mind if he just grabbed your head to steady it and started face fucking you in earnest.

You look up at him through your lashes, make sure he's watching, and then you open your mouth and take him in.

The first inch is easy. The second makes your jaw stretch. By the third, you're breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, letting muscle memory take over. You've done this enough times—with him, with others—that your body knows what to do even when your brain has gone hazy and dumb with want.

"Fuck," he breathes, and his hips jerk forward just a little, just enough to push another inch past your lips. "That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so well."

You hum around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Your tongue works the underside of his shaft, tracing and massaging the thick vein that runs from base to tip, and your hand comes up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. They're heavy, full, and you can't help but imagine how much cum he's got stored up in just three days he hasn't seen you, how much he's going to pump down your throat.

It makes you moan again—the image you drew in your head—and you almost want to whimper and whine but you have a mouth full of cock and instead you just take him deeper, desperate to swallow him whole, to get more of him the only way you know how.

"Been thinking about this all game," he tells you, voice strained. "Couldn't focus during the second half. Kept looking for you in the stands. Kept thinking about your mouth."

You pull back until just the tip rests on your tongue, breath heavy, and then you sink down again, taking him even further this time, until he nudges the back of your throat and your gag reflex flutters. You push past it, breathe through it, and then you're swallowing around him and his cock is buried to the hilt and your nose is pressed against his pubic bone, cushioned with the bush of hairs there.

"Oh, fuck—" His hips buck, involuntary, and you choke but don't pull away. "Sorry, sorry, baby, you just—you feel so fucking good, I can't—"

You reach up and grab his hand, guide it to the back of your head, and press down.

He gets the message.

His grip tightens in your hair, and then he's fucking your throat in earnest, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's just shy of brutal. You can hear the wet, obscene sounds your own mouth is making—the slurping, the gagging, the choking, the slick slide of his cock through your spit-slick lips—and it's filthy, it's degrading, it's the most liberating thing you've ever experienced. To be reduced to this. No thoughts, no responsibilities, just sucking fat delicious cock.

"Look at you," he grunts, staring down at you with something like awe. "Taking all of it. Taking my dick like you were made for it. No one— no one sucks cock like you do. No one. Fucking— made for this. My perfect little cocksucker."

Tears are streaming down your face, mixing with the drool dripping down your chin, and your mascara is probably ruined, and your throat is going to be raw tomorrow, and you don't care. You don't care about anything except the substantial weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your lips around his girth, the way his breathing is getting ragged and uneven.

"Gonna cum," he warns, and tries to pull back. "Baby, I'm gonna—"

You grab his hips and pull him closer, taking him so deep your throat constricts around him, and he breaks.

The first spurt of cum hits the back of your throat, hot, thick and bitter, and you swallow on reflex, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking through tears. The second fills your mouth, and the third, and he's groaning like he's dying, like you're killing him, like you're giving him something no one else ever has. His hips jerk through the aftershocks, pumping more and more cum into your waiting mouth, and you take it all, swallow it all, until he's finally, finally still.

He pulls out slowly, and you gasp for air, chest heaving. Your throat feels used, bruised, incredible. Your jaw aches. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and cum, and you've never felt more beautiful. You'd go for another round all over again this very minute if you could.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, and then he's hauling you to your feet and kissing you, deep and filthy, licking into your mouth like he's trying to taste himself on your tongue. "You're insane. You're fucking perfect. I'm not done with you yet."

"I know," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked, barely a hoarse whisper. "You said something about my tits?"

His responding grin is sharp and hungry. "Take off your top."

You do. Your bra follows, and then your bare breasts are swinging free, heavy and round with puffy inverted nipples that are already aching tight from arousal. Seungcheol stares at them like a man possessed, and then his hands are on you, cupping the weight of them, thumbs circling your nipples until they pop out and he can pinch them between his fingers.

"Love your tits," he murmurs, bending to take one in his mouth and suck on it. His tongue is hot and wet, laving at the sensitive bud, and you moan, arching into him. "Love how big they are. Love how they bounce when I fuck you. Love how pretty your nipples are." He says that in the brief pauses he takes, alternating between the two breasts.

"Cheol—"

"Lie down on the bed." He pulls back, giving your nipple one last lick. "On your back. I want to watch them move while I fuck them."

You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on the edge of the mattress, and he follows, straddling your ribcage. His cock is still half-hard, glistening with your spit, and he strokes it back to full stiffness while he looks down at you.

"Hold them together for me."

You cup your breasts in both hands, pressing them together to create a deep, soft channel. He groans at the sight, and then he's slotting his cock between them, the head peeking out from the top of your cleavage.

"Fuck, that's good," he breathes, and starts to thrust.

The slide is slick from your spit and his cum, and he picks up a rhythm quickly, hips rocking as he fucks the valley of your breasts. His cock drags against your sternum, the head brushing your chin with every thrust, and you tilt your head down to lick at it each time it appears.

"Yeah, that's it," he pants. "Tongue out. Want you to taste me every time."

You obey, sticking your tongue out so the tip of his cock drags across it with every stroke. The angle is awkward and your neck is going to ache later, but the look on his face is worth it—eyes glazed, mouth slack, a flush spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

"Gonna paint your tits," Seungcheol warns, pace quickening. "Gonna cover them in my cum. Mark you up so everyone knows you're mine."

The possessive growl in his voice makes you moan, and the vibration travels through your chest and into his cock. He curses, hips stuttering, and then he's coming again—ropes of white streaking across your breasts, your collarbones, the lower part of your face. He milks himself through it, groaning, until every last drop is dripping down your skin.

You drop your head back onto the mattress and you wipe your face with your fingers. Cleaning most of the mess only to lick it all from your fingers. Seungcheol collapses beside you on the bed, chest heaving, and for a moment the only sound is both of you gasping for air.

Then he turns his head to look at you, and his expression is soft, so soft, softer than it has any right to be. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear, and his fingers linger on your cheek.

"Hey," he says.

“Hey,” you croak back.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need." He leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll get something to clean you up."

He disappears into the ensuite bathroom, and you lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his cum cool on your skin where you didn't wipe it. Your throat is raw, your jaw aches, your cunt is still throbbing with renewed need. And your chest aches in a completely different way. Which has nothing to do with the physical.

You push the feeling down. You're good at that.

When he comes back, it's with a wad of rough brown paper towels, the cheap kind that feel like tree bark against your skin, but he's somewhat dampened them under the tap and his touch is so fucking gentle as he cleans you up that you barely notice the difference. "Sorry," he murmurs, swiping carefully across your chest, your chin and anywhere else he sees that needs cleaning. "No actual towels. Fucking animals." He says it with so much genuine irritation that you laugh, and he looks up at you with that dimple and that soft, soft gaze, and your heart does the little summersault again.

"I'll survive," you manage.

"You will." He tosses the paper towels into a bin by the desk, then stands there, half-dishevelled, looking at you with his sweats slung low on his hips, showing the band of his boxers where his t-shirt rode up, and that possessive heat still simmering in his eyes. "We should go back down. It's still early, and the boys'll give me shit if I hog you all night."

You raise an eyebrow, even as you're reaching for your discarded clothes. "Since when do you care about that?"

"Since I'm the captain." He shrugs, unrepentant. "Gotta show my face. But—" He steps close, fingers catching your wrist, pulling you up against his chest the second your shirt is back on. His mouth finds your temple, lips warm and soft. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're with me tonight. Okay?"

The words shouldn't affect you but you feel the smouldering warmth spill through your body, heating you up from within. If he told you to drop down and fawn and do a puppy pose you would. You swallow. "Okay."

"Good girl." He says it like praise, low and private even though no one else can hear you in this room, and it makes your stomach flip even as you roll your eyes.

You both finish making yourselves look somewhat presentable. He helps you smooth down your skirt, his knuckles grazing the back of your thighs in a way that's more intimate than half the things you've ever done with other people. Then his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, and he's leading you out of the room and down the stairs back into the controlled disaster of the party.

The bass hits you again, still throbbing through the house, but it's mellowed a little as the night's gone on. It couldn't have been that long and yet people are drunker now, looser, the dance floor more of a tangle of bodies than it was before. The air is thick with beer and sweat and the faint sickly-sweet smell of someone's vape or multiple of them—it's hard to tell. Seungcheol doesn't pause. He threads through the crowd with the same quiet authority he has on the pitch, and like always people just sort of move for him, and because you're with him, they move for you too.

He heads straight for the back corner where the rugby team has claimed a cluster of battered couches and a low coffee table covered in cups and bottles. Mingyu's there, sprawled out with his long legs taking up way too much space, laughing at something Seokmin just said. Seokmin is leaning forward, beer in hand, cheeks flushed from alcohol and the residual high of the win. Joshua's perched on the arm of the couch, drink held delicately between two fingers, smiling his serene, knowing smile and thinking about something else and distant, judging by the slightly absent look on his face. Chan is on the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling through his phone but looking up when he sees you approach.

"There they are!" Seokmin crows, arms spreading wide like he's welcoming royalty. "Captain! And his—" He catches Seungcheol's eye, and whatever word he was about to say dies on his tongue. "—guest. His very special guest."

Mingyu snorts, raising his cup in a lazy salute. "Took your time? We were taking bets on whether you'd come back down at all."

"Put your money away," Seungcheol says, easy but with an edge that says conversation over. He pulls you onto one of the couches—a worn leather thing that groans under both your weight—and situates you directly in his lap, his arm banding around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he does it all the time. Like he has every right.

And maybe he does, because no one bats an eye. Mingyu just grins knowingly and takes a sip of his drink. Seokmin launches back into whatever story he was telling, something about a questionable call in the first half. Joshua offers you a faint, warm smile that you really don't want to read into so you don't. Chan goes back to his phone.

And because no one gives any big reactions you just let yourself relax into Seungcheol's chest. His thumb starts tracing slow circles on the jut of your hip, a steady, grounding rhythm. Every so often, he dips his head and presses a kiss to your temple, your hair, the shell of your ear, murmuring things only you can hear.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"Warm enough? Want my bomber?"

"I'm fine, Cheol."

"Need water? You should drink some water."

"You're not my mum."

"Doesn't mean I can't take care of you." He says it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that you don't have a retort, only feel your heart clench painfully tight in your chest.

The conversation around you ebbs and flows. Seungcheol is fully present in it—laughing at Seokmin's jokes, debriefing a specific play with Mingyu that devolves into good-natured bickering because the two like to act like an old married couple, teasing Chan about his post-game ritual of eating an entire pizza by himself and then recalling that one time the youngest almost fought Seokmin when the latter accidentally took a slice. He's easygoing and he's exactly the kind of captain the boys respect because he leads with warmth, not fear. But he also knows where the line is. When one of the boys makes a joke that's a little too crude about a cheerleader, Seungcheol gives him a look—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tilt of his chin—and the teammate immediately backtracks, hands up. "Joking, joking. Sorry, Cheol!"

"Mm," Seungcheol says, and the conversation moves on.

Through all of it, his attention keeps circling back to you. His hand never stops moving—stroking your hip, your thigh, the small of your back. He keeps checking in, his lips brushing your ear as he asks, "Still good?" and "Need anything?" and, when you start to flag, "You want to get out of here?" The last one is said with genuine concern, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you.

You shake your head, but your body betrays you. You're slumping heavier against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder. The bass is starting to feel less like music and more like an indistinguishable noise causing a headache. The chatter of the team is still warm and funny, but you're not following it anymore. Your eyelids are heavy.

"You're falling asleep," Seungcheol murmurs, amused and tender all at once.

'''M not."

"You are." He shifts, adjusting you more securely against his chest. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. "Alright. Time to go."

He says it to you, but the team hears it too. Seokmin starts to protest. "Already? It's not even—" but Seungcheol just glances at him, and the protest dies. Mingyu waves a lazy goodbye, a smirk on his lips. "See you, man. Take care of her."

"Don't drink too much on the weekends. I expect you all on the clock for Monday practice," Seungcheol says sternly, and it's not a throwaway. It's a legit threat. You've heard the boys complain in the past about him making them do various exercises till failure for punishments.

He stands, lifting you with him like you are weightless, and you barely have the energy to be embarrassed. Your legs are jelly, your mind foggy. You manage a vague wave to the group, and then Seungcheol is steering you out of the frat house, into the cool night air, one arm wrapped solidly around your waist.

He takes you home. His car smells like his cologne and an old air freshener shaped like a pine tree, and he keeps the radio low as he drives, his free hand resting on your thigh. At red lights, he glances over at you, and you're too tired to hide the way you're looking at him whenever your eyes are not too heavy to do so.

Your apartment is quiet when you stumble inside. You're barely upright, and Seungcheol doesn't ask if you want him to stay. He just does. He guides you to the bathroom, and there, under the harsh white light that takes some of that sleepiness away, he turns to you with a comically determined focus, considering the task at hand.

"Tell me what to do," he says, gesturing at your face. "Makeup. How do I not mess this up?"

Your chest clenches and if you were a little more drunk and a little less restrained, you'd definitely start bawling your eyes out.

Instead, you point him to the micellar water on the counter, the cotton pads in the drawer. He soaks a pad, and you sit on the closed toilet lid as he kneels in front of you—kneels, like it's nothing, like it's exactly where he wants to be—and carefully, wipes the ruined mascara from under your eyes, the smudged lipstick from the corners of your mouth. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, and he's so fucking gentle and adorable it makes your throat tight and your lips twitch with a hint of a laugh.

"There," he says when he's done, sitting back on his heels and inspecting his work. "Good?"

"Yeah." Your voice is a rasp as you turn to examine his work in the mirror. "Good."

Seungcheol helps you undress next. He's done it before, but this time it feels different somehow—more intentional? You're not sure.

He unclasps your bra with practiced ease—and you let out a heavy sigh of relief,—presses a kiss to your collarbone before he strips down to his boxers, and you're both standing there in the dim light of your bedroom, skin to skin, nothing between you but the cool air and the warmth of your skin.

He pulls you into bed. You curl into him instantly, seeking warmth in the still-cold sheets, your head on his chest, his big strong arms wrapped around you. You're both still warm from the party, from each other, and the heat of his bare skin against yours is the most comforting thing you've ever felt.

Seungcheol's heartbeat is steady under your ear. His hand traces lazy shapes on your spine that make your eyes feel heavier with every curl and swirl.

"Sleep," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."

And you do. With a deep sigh, your heavy eyes close and you immediately drift off.

You wake up to sunlight and the weight of him. He's still curled around you, his body a wall of heat along your back, his arm draped over your waist, his face half-buried in your hair, warm breath fanning quietly against your scalp. It sends weak shivers along your spine the moment your brain focuses on this little detail. And there's something else already—of course there is—the thick press of his morning wood against the curve of your ass, insistent even through his boxers.

Sometimes you think that the two of you should actually be separated and never allowed to interact ever again. There's always a high risk of turning into two horny bunnies and never leaving the bed.

But the thought drifts away as easily as it came in and you shift, just a little, and Seungcheol groans, low and sleep-rough. "Mm. Baby?"

"Morning," you murmur, pressing back against him deliberately. His hips twitch in response, a reflexive grind that makes your cunt pulse with want. You're already getting wet, you realize. Already aching. There's really no preamble with him. There never is.

"Fuck," he breathes, more awake now. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. It isn't surprising anymore, considering how many times he's been down there by now. He rubs slow circles, and you gasp, your hips bucking into his touch. "So wet already. How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough." You turn in his arms to face him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded but bright, the brown of them almost gold in the morning light. You kiss him, soft at first, lazy. Your hands are resting on his pecs, sliding lower to his stomach and then over to his soft sides. The kiss gets deeper, with your tongue sliding against his as his palms rest on the swell of your ass instead, squeezing you repeatedly like a stress ball, and you know you're bound to have light bruises after some especially passionate grabs. Then his hand glides to the front again, fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance, and you whimper into his mouth.

"Want you on top," he says against your lips. "Want to watch you take what you need."

"Hmm, is that so?"

There's no world in which you say no to that. You push Seungcheol onto his back and straddle his hips, your knees bracketing his thighs. He's already shoving his boxers down, freeing his cock, and it's just as thick and flushed and perfect as it was last night. Even better now that you can see it in broad daylight. You lean forward and spit into your palm—just a quick, filthy little motion—and reach down between your legs to wrap your hand around his shaft, stroking him once, twice, smearing the spit and his own leaking precum down the length.

"Fuck," he groans, head pressing back into the pillow. "You're so hot. So fucking hot."

You shift your panties to the side—can't even be bothered to take them off—and position him at your entrance. The first push is slow, a delicious stretch that makes both of you moan. Your cunt swallows him inch by inch, fluttering and squeezing and adjusting to his girth, and by the time he's seated inside you to the root, you're trembling, your clit throbbing where it's pressed against his pubic bone.

"There you go," he murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight, massaging soothing circles into the soft flesh there. "Take your time, baby. Ride me however you want. Use me."

You start to move. It's slow at first, a leisurely grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms, and he stares up at you with his half-lidded doe eyes like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The sunlight catches his face—the strong cut of his jaw, the pretty flush blooming on his cheeks, the way his plump lips part on every exhale.

"You feel so good," you whisper, and the words come out wrecked already. "So deep like this. Fill me up so perfect."

"Made for my cock," he agrees, and there's no arrogance in it, just awe. "This cunt was fucking made for me. Look at you. Look at how pretty you are, taking all of it."

You feel your face heat up in your cheeks and ears. Every time you think you're way beyond getting flustered upon receiving compliments there's Seungcheol with his seemingly personal mission of proving you wrong and successfully making you feel like the shy high school girl everyone made you to be.

You pick up the pace, rolling your hips faster, and the wet sounds of your pussy fill the room—slick and obscene, your arousal dripping down around the base of his cock. He's so deep that every thrust punches a moan from your throat, and you're not quiet, you've never been quiet with him, especially not in the confines of your apartment. The bed frame creaks in rhythm with your movements. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Love your tits bouncing like that," he grunts, eyes entranced on your chest. "Love watching them move when you ride me. Fuck, you're a dream. A fucking dream."

You feel tingles run through your body and rush all into your cunt, making you clench on Seungcheol's dick with a pathetic mewl that escapes before you can stop it.

Seungcheol moans and before another would leaves his mouth you lean down to kiss him, and the change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you gasp into his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, messy and hungry, and he fucks up into you now, meeting your rhythm with sharp little thrusts that make your vision go white at the edges. One of his hands leaves your hip and snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in tight, perfect circles.

"That's it," he pants against your lips. "Want you to come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me. Can you do that, baby? Can you come for me?"

You can. You are. The combination of his cock driving into you and his thumb on your clit and the way he's looking at you—like you're everything, like you're the only thing—sends you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

"Good girl," he rasps. "My good fucking girl. Gonna fill you up now, okay? Gonna cum inside you. Want it?"

"Yes," you gasp, still trembling. "Please, Cheol, please fill me up—"

He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's thrusting up into you in quick, desperate strokes, chasing his own release. You can feel him swelling, pulsing, and then he's coming, hot and thick, painting your walls with his cum. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—makes you moan again, clenching around him to milk every last drop.

He collapses back against the mattress, chest heaving, and you slump forward onto him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. You lie there for a long moment, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you, his seed slowly starting to leak out around it.

"Fuck," he finally says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Good morning to me."

You laugh, breathless and boneless, and he wraps his big arms around you and holds you tight.

The shower is a necessity after that. You stumble into the bathroom together, and he insists on washing your hair—sure fingers massaging shampoo into your scalp with a thoroughness that makes you want to melt. You return the favour, soaping up his broad back, tracing the lines of muscle, the bruises from the game that are already starting to purple on his ribs. You kiss every one of them. He pulls you under the spray and kisses you back until you're both completely out of breath and the water runs lukewarm.

Later, dressed in clean clothes that somehow smell like you and him all mixed together (no you don't have a drawer dedicated specifically to his stuff), you walk to the little cafe two blocks from your apartment. It's a Sunday, and the streets are quieter, the air crisp and clean. He holds your hand the whole way. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and it's such a small thing, but it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to look closer at.

At the cafe, you get a table by the window. Seungcheol orders a black coffee and a sandwich from their breakfast menu; you get a sweet latte with a syrup and a croissant that flakes all over the table whenever you as much as pick it up from its plate. He steals bites of your pastry and makes exaggerated sounds of approval. You steal a sip of his coffee in retaliation and grimace at the bitterness, audibly judging him for his beverage choices. He laughs, and the sound of it is so bright, so easy, that you feel something loosen in your chest.

You don't think about Monday. You don't think about your roster, or your own rules, or the way this whole thing is supposed to work according to them. You don't let yourself focus on the fact that you've never let anyone stay the night like this, never let anyone wash your hair and clean your face and hold your hand on a Sunday morning like it's the most natural thing in the world. You will have the time to think about it later, to reprimand yourself for it. But it's not now.

You just sit there, across from Seungcheol, your ankle pressed against his under the table, and you let yourself have this.

One more morning. One more slow, golden morning where he looks at you with his shiny boba eyes like you're something rare like the eighth wonder of the world, and you let him, and the world doesn't end.

It can hurt later, you tell yourself. The hurt will come—it always does. But right now, he's smiling at you with a flake of croissant stuck to his lip, and you're reaching across the table to wipe it away, and he's catching your hand and pressing a kiss right to the centre of your palm, lips soft and smooth after you threatened him into using your lip balm, and none of the rest of it matters.

And that's enough. For now, it's enough.

Monday can wait.

Monday morning starts with a text from Seungcheol.

It arrives while you're still half-asleep, face-down in your pillow, one arm flung out across the cold expanse of mattress where he'd been lying thirty-something hours ago. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you grope for it blindly, squinting at the screen through eyelids that feel like they've been glued shut.

hope you got home okay. forgot to text yesterday. still thinking bout that croissant.

There's a pause, then a second message: actually you. mostly you.

You stare at it for too long. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and you type out you're such a dork before deleting it, then miss you already before deleting that too, your face heating against the pillow even though no one's around to witness it. Eventually you settle on the safest option, the one that doesn't betray the way your pulse has picked up just from seeing his name on your screen.

Your coffee choices are atrocious.

His response comes almost immediately: brutal. i'm wounded.

Dramatic.

ouch, another wound:(

You don't answer that. You put the phone down and press your face into the pillow and try very hard not to think about the way he'd looked at you at that cafe, sun catching the gold in his eyes, his ankle hooked around yours beneath the table like he couldn't stand even that small of a physical distance. You try not to think about the kiss he'd given you when you'd parted—soft and lingering in the middle of the sidewalk, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones like you were something fragile and precious. "See you later," he'd said, and it hadn't sounded like a request. It had sounded like a promise.

You'd walked away from him with your heart pounding and your stomach in knots, and you'd spent all of Sunday afternoon telling yourself it was fine, it was nothing, it was just breakfast. People have breakfast. People who fuck each other regularly can absolutely have breakfast without it meaning anything.

Except you'd let him wash your hair. Except he'd held your hand the whole walk there and the whole walk back. Except you'd sat there with pastry flakes on your fingers and coffee on your breath and you'd felt a door crack open inside you, the one you'd spent years reinforcing to be locked permanently.

Monday can wait, you'd told yourself on Sunday evening, curled up in bed that still smelled like him. Monday can wait.

Monday, as it turns out, has other plans.

Your first class is Cognitive Psych at nine, and you barely make it on time, sliding into your usual seat near the back with your hair still damp from a rushed shower and your coffee clutched like a lifeline. The lecture hall is one of those big, tiered rooms with creaky seats and inadequate heating, and Professor Hitcher is already droning on about working memory models by the time you get your notebook out. You try to focus with all your might. But your brain keeps drifting back to Sunday morning—the warmth of Seungcheol's hand around yours, the way he'd laughed with his whole chest when you'd gotten powdered sugar on your nose, the way he'd wiped it off with the pad of his thumb and then licked the sugar off his own skin without breaking eye contact.

You're so lost in the memory that you almost miss the notification that pops up on your laptop screen. A Discord message, from the unofficial uni server you're in just like the rest of the university because everyone is hungry for juicy gossip.

so apparently someone saw that camgirl with choi seungcheol at that cafe yesterday morning?? like holding hands and everything??

Your stomach drops.

You close the notification and try to pretend you didn't see it, but the damage is already done. Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. By the time the lecture ends, you've got seven messages across three different platforms, all variations on the same theme: Is it true??? Are you and Seungcheol actually DATING???

You don't answer any of them. You shove your laptop into your bag and power-walk out of the lecture hall, head down, earbuds in, dodging the curious glances of the girls who sit two rows ahead of you and always whisper when you walk past.

It's not that you're surprised, exactly. Campus gossip moves at the speed of light, and you've always been a favourite topic. The girl who fucks like a man. The girl who doesn't catch feelings. The girl who's slept with half the rugby team and still walks around with her head held high like she hasn't noticed—or doesn't care—that most of the women on campus treat her like a contagion. You're a fascinating specimen to them. A cautionary tale and a fantasy and a threat all rolled into one.

You've heard the whispers before. You've perfected the art of ignoring them.

But this time it's different. This is Seungcheol, and that makes it feel personal in a way you can't afford it to be.

The quad is bustling when you cross it, students streaming between buildings in that mid-morning rush that always feels vaguely chaotic. You keep your head down, but you can still feel the looks—some curious, some hostile, some just... speculative. A girl from one of your classes catches your eye and immediately looks away, her mouth tightening. Two cheerleaders huddle near the fountain, and one of them elbows the other as you pass, her voice carrying just enough for you to catch: "...seriously, what does he see in her?"

Your jaw tightens. You don't break stride.

This is the part they never understand. The part you've stopped trying to explain. You didn't set out to be the campus villain, didn't wake up one day and decide to become the girl that other girls warned their boyfriends about. You just... refused to be ashamed. Refused to apologise for wanting what you wanted, for taking what was offered, for enjoying sex the way men have always been allowed to enjoy it without consequence. And somewhere along the way, that refusal had calcified into a reputation, and the reputation had calcified into a persona, and now you're the slut, the threat, the cautionary tale—and it's easier to lean into it than to fight it. Easier to pretend you don't care than to admit that sometimes the isolation gnaws at you like hunger.

You'd had friends, once. Back in first year, before everything. Girls who'd invited you to study groups and coffee dates and nights out, who'd shared their make up with you and borrowed your clothes and told you their secrets. But one by one, they'd drifted away. Sometimes it was gradual—a slow cooling, texts left on read, invitations that stopped coming. Sometimes it was abrupt: a boyfriend who'd looked at you a little too long, a rumour that he'd been seen talking to you at a party, an accusation you hadn't even known you were defending yourself against.

The thing is, you've never fucked a taken man. Never. It's a line you've drawn in permanent marker, a rule you've never even been tempted to break. But it doesn't matter. The possibility is enough. The idea of you is enough. You're the stress test for every relationship on campus, and most women decide it's easier to cut you out than to trust their partners not to fail or to blame them for failing.

So you'd built something else. Something stranger and lonelier and, in its own weird way, functional. A network of men who knew the rules and respected them, who didn't ask for more than you were willing to give. Your roster. It was supposed to be simple. Transactional. Safe.

Only two of them had ever slipped past those defences and become something else entirely.

You find Wonwoo and Minghao in the library exactly where they always are at this time on a Monday—the big table in the south corner, near the windows, with a clear sightline to the door that Wonwoo insists helps him concentrate and Minghao insists is just his control issues manifesting. Wonwoo is already buried in a book, his glasses perched on his nose and his posture so perfect it makes your spine ache in sympathy. Minghao is sprawled in the chair beside him, scrolling through his phone with the elegant disinterest that only he can pull off, his silver earrings catching the light every time he moves.

They look up in unison when you approach, and their expressions shift into something that makes you immediately suspicious. It is especially infuriating that Wonwoo haven't even lifted his eyes from the book.

"No," you say, dropping your bag onto the table and slumping into the chair across from them. "Whatever you're about to say, no."

"We haven't said anything," Minghao points out, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.

"You're making a face."

"I'm not making a face."

"You're absolutely making a face," Wonwoo confirms while still reading. "But to be fair, you're also making a face. It's the Seungcheol face."

"I don't have a Seungcheol face."

"You definitely do," Minghao says, setting down his phone and leaning forward with his chin propped on his hand. You scowl but his eyes are sharp and knowing, dark and amused in a way that makes you want to squirm. "It's very specific. Equal parts horny and emotionally constipated. You've been wearing it since you walked in."

"I hate you both."

"You love us," Wonwoo says, and finally closes his book, marking his page with one of those little sticky tabs he carries in his bag. "We're the only ones who'll study with you and not try to get in your pants."

"Jihoon studies with me."

"Jihoon studies with you and then gets in your pants."

"That's—" You pause, and your mouth twitches despite yourself. "Fair, actually."

Minghao laughs—his laugh is a low, elegant sound that rings soothingly in the space between you three—and leans back in his chair. The late afternoon sun slants through the window behind him, catching the sharp angles of his face, the delicate line of his collarbones where his shirt hangs open. He's beautiful, objectively speaking—all fine bone structure and dancer's grace—and you'd tried to sleep with him a few times, early on, before you'd figured out that he was looking for something different from what you were offering. It had been good, because sex with Minghao is always good, but it had also been... quiet. Tender in a way that made your skin itch. Afterwards, he'd looked at you with those perceptive eyes and said, "You don't actually want this from me, do you?" and you'd been so startled by the accuracy of it that you'd laughed and felt a heavy rock drop off your shoulders.

Wonwoo had been similar. A single night, a year and a half ago, after a party where you'd both drunk too much and talked too little. You'd woken up in his bed with a pounding headache and a surprisingly gentle hand on your shoulder, a glass of water pressed into your palm, and a soft voice saying, "We don't have to do this again. But I'd still like to be your friend, if you want that."

You'd cried in front of him. Right in his bed, tears leaking down your cheeks before you could stop them, because he'd offered friendship without conditions and you'd realised, in that moment, how desperately starved for it you were. That happened exactly around the period of time when all your girl friends peaked in massively withdrawing and the new ones already heard too much to take you in without prejudice.

They've been your people ever since. The only two who see past the persona to the person underneath. The only two who call you on your bullshit and save you a seat at the library and don't look at you like you're either a threat or a conquest.

Which is why you know, with a sinking certainty, that they're not going to let this Seungcheol thing go.

"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to sink a ship. "Sunday morning."

Your stomach tightens. "What about it?"

"Interesting choice of cafe," Wonwoo observes, his voice dry as old paper. "Very public. Very... date-appropriate."

"It wasn't a date."

"Right." Minghao nods sagely. "You just happened to be holding hands with Choi Seungcheol over croissants at ten in the morning on a Sunday. So platonic and casual."

"We were hungry." You can hear how defensive you sound, and you hate it. "We'd just—we'd been at the party the night before, we crashed at mine, and in the morning we were hungry. It's not a big deal."

"The party where he dragged you away from Mingyu like a caveman claiming his territory," Wonwoo says, still in that same mild, unbothered tone. "I saw that, by the way. Everyone saw that. Mingyu complained about it for ten minutes."

"Mingyu's fine."

"Mingyu's very fine," Minghao agrees. "But that's not really the point. The point is that you went from caveman-territory-claiming to hand-holding-breakfast in less than twelve hours, and you're sitting here telling us it's nothing."

"It is nothing." You grab your notebook out of your bag with more force than necessary, flipping it open to a random page. "It's just sex. It's always been just sex. Breakfast doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it?" Minghao's voice is softer now, less teasing. He's looking at you with something that might be concern, and that's so much worse than the mockery. "Because you let him stay the night. You let him take you to breakfast. You held his hand in public, where anyone could see. Those are not things you do with casual hookups. Those are things you do with someone you're—"

"Don't," you warn, your voice coming out louder sharper than you intended. "Don't say it."

Wonwoo and Minghao exchange a glance—one of those silent, loaded looks they've perfected over years of friendship—and you want to throw your highlighters at both of them.

"Look," Wonwoo says, gentler, more careful. "We're not trying to push. You know we're not. But we've been watching you circle this thing with Seungcheol for almost a year now, and you've never looked at anyone the way you look at him. Not even close."

You stare down at your notebook. Your pen has left a small ink blot on the corner of the page, bleeding outward.

"He's different," you admit in a whisper, and the words feel like pulling teeth raw. "I don't know why. I don't know what it is. But he just... he gets under my skin. And I hate it. I hate how much I—" You cut yourself off abruptly, swallow hard. "I hate how much I think about him when he's not there. I hate that I keep breaking my own rules for him without even meaning to. I hate that the idea of him with someone else makes me feel like I'm going to crawl out of my own body."

There's a pause. The library hums around you—the distant click of keyboards, the rustle of pages turning, someone coughing softly a few aisles over.

"That sounds a lot like feelings," Minghao says, but his voice is kind.

"It's terrifying," you murmur.

Wonwoo reaches across the table and puts his hand over yours. His fingers are cool and dry, and the simple, platonic comfort of the gesture makes your throat ache.

"You're allowed to be scared," he says. "You're allowed to want things, too. They're not mutually exclusive."

You don't have an answer to that. So you just sit there, your hand under Wonwoo's, your chest full of something too big to name, and let yourself be scared.

Minghao breaks the silence first, his voice light but measured. "For what it's worth, I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. I've known him for a while—we were in that ethics seminar together last semester, remember?—and he's not the type. He's disgustingly earnest, actually. It's a little off-putting."

You snort despite yourself, a wet, half-laughing sound. "Earnest?"

"Painfully so. He talked about responsibility and integrity for fifteen minutes straight during one discussion and the professor had to cut him off. It was very intense. Very captain-of-the-rugby-team energy."

"He scored two tries on Saturday," Wonwoo adds, withdrawing his hand and picking his book back up like the conversation hasn't just peeled back several layers of your emotional skin. "I don't know anything about rugby, but apparently that's impressive. Soonyoung mentioned it at least four times."

"Soonyoung mentions everything at least four times."

"True."

You look between them—Wonwoo with his glasses and his steady presence, Minghao with his sharp eyes and sharper wit—and something in your chest unclenches, just a little. This is what you'd been missing, in those days when your friends had peeled away one by one. This easy, uncomplicated affection. This space where you don't have to perform, don't have to pretend, don't have to be the persona you've built like armour around yourself.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

"For what?" Minghao asks, eyebrows raising.

"For not—" You gesture vaguely. "For not treating me like I'm contagious."

Something flickers across Minghao's expression, there and gone. "Yeah, well. We've seen how people treat you. It's bullshit."

"It's not entirely unearned," you admit. "I know what my reputation is."

"Your reputation," Wonwoo says glued to his book once more, "is largely the result of a double standard that neither me nor Hao subscribe to. You're a woman who enjoys the healthy pleasures of life and refuses to apologise for it. That doesn't make you dangerous. It makes you honest and real. The fact that most people can't handle that says more about them and the society we live in than it does about you."

You stare at him. He turns a page.

"That's—" You blink rapidly, your eyes suddenly stinging.

"It's just logic," he interferes, but the tips of his ears have gone slightly pink.

Minghao is watching you with something soft and knowing in his eyes. "You've got good people around you no matter what type of relationship you have with them," he says. "Seungcheol. Soonyoung. Jihoon. Even Mingyu, in his own himbo way. The others. You built something that works for you, and you found people who respect it. That's more than most people manage."

"It's not exactly traditional."

"Since when have you ever wanted to be traditional?"

You don't have an answer for that. You've never wanted to be traditional. Okay, at least not since you figured out the world assigned you a role and it wasn't what you wanted for yourself. Ever since then you've never wanted to be the girl who gets the picture-perfect white picket fence and the monogamous fairytale and the happily ever after (even though you don't really mind that last one, who does in their right mind?). You've just wanted to be free. To want what you want without shame, to take pleasure where you find it, to owe nothing to anyone except what you choose to give.

But Seungcheol—Seungcheol makes you want things you never thought you'd want again willingly. Makes you dream about Sunday mornings and hand-holding and someone to come home to. Makes you wonder if maybe the fairytale isn't the trap you always thought it was. Maybe it's just... a story. A story you get to write yourself, in your own way, with whoever you choose.

The thought is so terrifying you have to physically shake your head to dislodge it.

"Okay," you say, and your voice comes out steady while you feel everything tremble inside. "Enough feelings. I have a cognitive psych exam on Friday and I've retained approximately nothing from this morning's lecture because I was too busy dodging stares and whispers about my alleged date."

"Alleged," Minghao repeats, arching an eyebrow, his tone so unimpressed and dry you suddenly want to take a sip of water.

"Alleged."

"Sure." He pulls his notes toward him, but his smile is knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You're about to fire back with something defensive once again when Wonwoo, who apparently got disracted to watch you and Minghao talk, pushes his glasses up his nose and opens his book again. "Start with Baddeley's working memory model," he says, and his voice has returned to its usual dry, academic tone, not without a hint of humor though. He lets you off the hook, even if it's just for now. "Central executive, phonological loop, visuospatial sketchpad. You're welcome."

You flip him off, but you're smiling, and when you finally bend your head over your notes and start to actually study, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest has loosened into something almost bearable.

Monday is still Monday. The whispers are still out there, spreading like ripples in a pond, and you know you're going to have to face them eventually. You're going to have to figure out what you're doing with Seungcheol, what you want, what you're willing to risk.

But first, the cognitive psych exam.

The messages from Seungcheol stop on Wednesday.

There is no fight or a slip up you can point to. They just... stop. Tuesday morning you'd woken up to a photo of a very disgruntled pigeon on the quad with the caption this is me when you're not around, and you'd laughed into your pillow, kicking your feet under the blanket, the sound of your giggle bright and unguarded in the quiet of your apartment. You'd typed back tragic, and he'd sent a string of crying emojis, and that had been that. Wednesday you'd sent him something about a professor with an absurd combover, and he'd replied LMAO six hours later, and you'd stared at those four letters for longer than you'd ever admit, trying not to admit to the growing unease twisting your stomach in knots as you kept waiting for the follow up that never came. Thursday was radio silence. By Friday morning you've stopped checking your phone every ten minutes, and the disappointment has settled into something dull and familiar—a low-grade ache at the base of your sternum, easy to ignore if you don't breathe too deep.

You expected it when you allowed yourself the weakness of letting him in closer than you usually have. You knew what you were signing up for.

You want to laugh, remembering Hao's words from Monday. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. Disgustingly earnest, he'd said. Painfully so. You'd let yourself believe it, just a little. You'd let yourself unclench, open a crack more, imagine that maybe this time it could be different. Even though this is exactly how almost every week went about for the past several months. Only this time you allowed yourself this weakness. And now you're paying for it.

Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.

Friday afternoon finds you walking across campus toward the athletic complex, your bag slung over one shoulder and a half-formed plan in your head. Your subscribers are getting restless—the comments on your last video with Seungcheol have become something of a monument to collective thirst, hundreds of messages demanding Daddy's return, speculating about your relationship, leaving increasingly unhinged declarations of devotion. You'd posted a short clip from your archives on Tuesday night to tide them over—Seungcheol's face out of frame as he fucked you from behind with you in a puppy pose, just the sound of his grunts and the sight of his thick cock disappearing into your cunt—but that kind of content has a shelf life, and you're running out of it. You need fresh material to stock up on. You need him.

Or you did. Before he stopped texting. Before the silence stretched longer and longer.

Now you just need to ask, because asking is practical, because content is content and business is business, and you're not going to let whatever this is—this hurt, this disappointment, this thing you refuse to give name to—interfere with your personal little empire you've built. If he says yes, you'll film. If he says no, you'll figure something else out. Simple and transactional. Exactly the way it's supposed to be.

The rugby pitch is at the far end of the athletic complex, and practice must have just ended because there's a stream of players heading toward the locker rooms, sweaty and grass-stained and loud with the particular brand of masculine energy that comes from an hour of what you sincerely consider to be just sanctioned violence. You scan the crowd for Seungcheol's familiar bulk, his captain's armband, the way he carries himself with that easy authority that makes people unconsciously move out of his way.

You don't see him on the pitch. You don't see him near the benches.

You do see him, eventually, around the side of the building near the parking lot, pressed up against the brick wall with a girl's legs wrapped around his waist.

The first thing you register is his hands. One is tangled in her ponytail—blonde, glossy, the kind of sleek high ponytail that cheerleaders favor—playing with the hair-tie and the other is halfway up her skirt, fingers dimpling the bare skin of her thigh, and even from twenty meters away you can see the way his hips are grinding against her, the way she's moaning into his mouth, the way his tongue is so far down her throat it's a public indecency charge waiting to happen.

The second thing you register is that you can't breathe and your heart may have stopped beating entirely.

It's not like a punch. A punch would be quick, clean, a sharp burst of pain that fades. This is something else—something that creeps in like cold water, starting at your crown and sliding down your spine and pooling in your stomach until you're sick with it. Your vision goes dark at the edges. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to sting. And somewhere beneath the shock, beneath the hurt, a hot and ugly rage ignites in your chest like a match struck against a rough surface.

You think about Minghao's words again. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.

Fucking hilarious.

You should walk away. That's what a rational person would do—turn around, go home, nurse your wounds in private, and compose a very firm and very unbothered text about how you won't be needing his services anymore, thank you very much. You should be the bigger person. You should be unbothered, icy, the version of yourself that doesn't care about anyone or anything.

But you've never been rational when it comes to him. And you've never been good at walking away.

So instead, you start walking toward them.

Your footsteps are measured, unhurried, audible against the pavement with a rhythm that announces your approach before your voice does. The girl notices you first—her eyes flutter open, widen, and she makes a muffled sound against Seungcheol's mouth that's more surprise than pleasure. She pulls back, her face flushed and her lip gloss thoroughly ruined, and you allow yourself the brief satisfaction of watching her expression shift from dazed to confused to something that looks a lot like apprehension.

She's young, you realize. A first-year, probably. You can tell by the freshness of her face, the way it's still a little round and naive, the way she still has that deer-in-headlights look that upperclassmen lose somewhere around the middle of second year. She's pretty in a conventional way—big eyes, pouty lips, the kind of body that looks good in a cheerleading uniform—and she's looking at you like she's not sure whether to be scared or defiant.

Seungcheol, still oblivious, has his face buried in her neck. "Mm, don't stop," he mutters, and his voice is rough with arousal, the same voice he uses with you, the same voice that's murmured good girl and let me take care of you and missed you against your skin in the dark.

The sound of it makes your stomach lurch.

"Busy, are we?" you say, and your voice comes out light, almost pleasant, with just the faintest edge of something sharp and deadly beneath it.

Seungcheol's head snaps up so fast you you're surprised he doesn't break his neck.

The look on his face would be almost comical under different circumstances—shock, then recognition, then something that flickers dangerously close to guilt before it's smothered by a mask of composure. He pulls his hand out from under the girl's skirt so fast it's like he's been burned, and the girl makes a small, confused noise, her legs sliding down from around his waist until her feet touch the ground.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is strained. "Didn't—didn't know you were coming by."

"Obviously." You let your gaze slide from his face to the girl and back again, unhurried, assessing. Then you give the girl a once-over—deliberate, slow, the kind of look that makes people feel like they're being measured and found wanting. She shrinks back a little, her hand coming up to wipe at her smeared mouth, and you feel a savage little spike of satisfaction at how easily she folds. "So. This is who you've been busy with all week?"

Seungcheol's jaw tightens. "It's not—"

"Relax, Cheol." You wave a hand, the picture of breezy indifference. "I'm not here to cause a scene. I just came to ask you a question." You pause, letting the silence stretch, watching the muscle in his jaw jump the way it always does when he's uncomfortable and tense. "But I can see you're... occupied."

The girl looks between the two of you, her brow furrowing. "Who is this?" she asks, and her voice is higher than you expected, a little breathy. She's looking at Seungcheol with a proprietary tilt to her head that makes your molars grind together.

"No one important," you say before Seungcheol can answer, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost satisfying. "Just a friend. We do some work together." You let the word work hang in the air, loaded with innuendo, and the girl's eyes narrow slightly. Adorable.

"I was going to ask if you were free to film this weekend," you continue, directing your words at Seungcheol with the kind of casual professionalism you'd probably use with a business associate if you had any business to begin with. "My subscribers are getting antsy. They miss seeing you. The comments on our last video are frankly obscene." You smile, a sharp little curve of your lips that doesn't reach your eyes. "But I can see your schedule's pretty full."

Seungcheol opens his mouth, closes it. His hands are hanging awkwardly at his sides now, and he looks like a man who's been caught with his pants down—which, metaphorically speaking, he has. "I can—we can talk about this later."

"Oh, don't worry about it." You shrug, another gesture deliberately careless. "I'll find someone else. Mingyu's been asking to be in a video for ages, you know that. He's got the stamina for it… and the subscribers love a fresh face. Maybe it's time I give him what he's been wanting."

Something in Seungcheol's expression goes rigid. His eyes darken, and you can see the possessive thing that lives inside him stirring, the territorial caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu's lap at the party and pressed you against a door and told you you were his. Perfect. Let him choke on it.

"Mingyu," he repeats, flat.

"Yeah." You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. "He's got a great body. Nice cock, too. The viewers would eat him up." You let your gaze drift back to the cheerleader, who's now standing there with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly trying to figure out why this random girl is talking to the guy she was just making out with about another guy's cock. You can't help a humourless smirk creeping in at the thought. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to... this." You gesture vaguely between them. "Enjoy your freshman, Cheol. Hope she's worth the crick in your neck."

The girl's mouth drops open indignantly. "Excuse me—"

"Have a good weekend," you say, and your smile is all teeth. Then you turn on your heel and walk away through the parking lot, your boots clicking against the pavement, your back straight, your head held high.

You don't look back. You don't let yourself. But you can feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning a hole between your shoulder blades, and you hope—viciously, childishly—that his erection has completely wilted and he's going to spend the rest of the evening trying to explain to a confused freshman why some random girl just talked to him about filming sex content.

You hope she asks questions he can't answer. You hope she realizes she's just a stand-in, a placeholder, a warm body he grabbed because he apparently thought you weren't available and he couldn't handle the silence any more than you could. You hope he goes home alone and jerks off to the memory of your mouth on his cock and feels like absolute shit about it.

But mostly, you hope the sick, hollow feeling in your stomach goes away before you have to be around other people.

It doesn't.

By the time you get back to your apartment, the triumph of your little performance has curdled into something darker. The rage is still there, simmering beneath your skin, but underneath it is hurt—raw and throbbing and so much bigger than you want it to be. You slam the door behind you, drop your bag on the floor, and stand in the middle of your living room with your hands shaking and your chest heaving and your eyes stinging with tears you refuse to let fall.

This is why you don't do feelings. This is exactly why. Feelings make you stupid and vulnerable and they give people the power to hurt you, and Seungcheol had promised—he'd fucking promised, hadn't he? I'm not going anywhere. I've got you. Liar. They're all liars in the end when you give them the upper hand.

You pull out your phone and scroll to your contacts with hands that are still trembling. You don't let yourself think. You just press the call button.

Soonyoung picks up on the second ring. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice is warm and easy, the way it always is. "What's up?"

"You free right now?"

"For you? Always." There's a pause, and then his voice shifts, dropping into something lower, more interested. "What do you need?"

"Bring Jihoon."

Another pause, longer this time. "Both of us?"

"Both of you. My place. Thirty minutes."

He doesn't ask if you're okay, and you're grateful for it. Soonyoung has always been good at reading a room, good at knowing when to push and when to let things lie. He just says, "We'll be there," and hangs up.

You toss your phone onto the couch and start undressing.

By the time they arrive, you've stripped down to a matching set of dark red lingerie—sheer lace that frames your tits nicely and a thong that barely covers anything—and you've lit a quite few candles in your bedroom and put on music, something low and thrumming with bass. You've also poured yourself a drink and you've downed half of it before the knock comes.

You open the door, and Soonyoung's eyes go dark the second he sees you. "Fuck, bunny. You look—"

"I know," you say, and pull him inside by the front of his shirt.

Jihoon is right behind him, quieter, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle as his eyebrows climb up in surprise. You barely get the door closed before Soonyoung's mouth is on your neck and Jihoon's hands are on your hips, sandwiching you between two warm, eager bodies.

"Someone's worked up," Jihoon murmurs against your shoulder, his voice low and knowing. "Rough week?"

"Don't want to talk." You turn your head and catch his mouth with yours, kissing him hard enough to bruise. "Just want to get fucked. Can you do that for me?"

"We can do that. We can do anything you want us to," Soonyoung says, and his hand slides down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your thong and finding your clit with practiced accuracy. You gasp into Jihoon's mouth, your hips bucking forward. "Fuck, she's getting wet already."

"Always so eager for us," Jihoon agrees, pulling back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "That's what we love about you, gorgeous. No games. Just tell us what you need."

"Need both of you. Need to not think. Need to feel so full I can't breathe."

They exchange a glance over your shoulder—something quick and unreadable—and then Soonyoung is spinning you around and walking you backward toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving your neck, his hands working at the clasp of your bra. Jihoon follows, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and by the time your back hits the mattress, all three of you are naked and the air is thick with the heat of skin and the sharp, musky scent of arousal.

Soonyoung settles between your thighs first, draping your legs over his shoulders and looking down at your cunt with something approaching reverence. "Prettiest pussy," he purrs, running a finger through your folds and watching the way you glisten in the candle- and lamplight. "Look at how wet you are, bunny. This all for us?"

"Yes," you gasp. "All for you."

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth. But that's not what tonight is about.

Soonyoung lowers his mouth to your soft pussy, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your back arching off the mattress, and then Jihoon is straddling your chest, his cock thick and flushed and already leaking, tapping against your lips.

"Open up," he says, and his voice is rough but not unkind. "Want to feel that pretty throat."

You open your mouth and take him in.

The stretch is immediate and familiar, your jaw adjusting to his girth as he slides past your lips and over your tongue. You breathe through your nose and relax your throat the way you've learned to do, and he groans, his hips twitching forward just enough to push another inch deeper.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Your mouth so fucking good. So wet. So warm."

You can't answer—your throat is too full—but you moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Below you, Soonyoung is eating you out like he's starving, going all ravenous, his tongue plunging into your hole and then flicking up to your clit, alternating between broad, flat licks and sharp, targeted flicks that make your hips jerk against his face. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pulses his tongue against it, and the dual sensation of his mouth on your cunt and Jihoon's cock in your throat is so overwhelming that your brain starts to go hazy at the edges.

"There we go," Jihoon murmurs, looking down at you with hooded eyes. "There's that glassy look. That's what we want, isn't it? No thoughts. Just our cocks. Just how good we make you feel."

You hum around him, and he groans.

"Gonna fuck your throat now," he warns. "Tap my thigh if it's too much."

He doesn't wait for a response. His fingers thread into your hair, and then he's thrusting into your mouth in deep, steady strokes, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every push. You gag around him, spit pooling and spilling from the corners of your mouth, and he groans like it's the hottest thing he's ever observed.

"Fuck, yes. Take it. Take all of it. Such a good little cocksucker."

Soonyoung pulls his mouth off your cunt just long enough to say, "She's dripping, Jihoon. Absolutely fucking soaked. You should see her pussy—it's clenching around nothing. She needs to be filled."

"Then fill her," Jihoon grunts, still fucking your mouth. "She's got three holes for a reason."

Soonyoung doesn't need to be told twice. He gets up to sit on his knees and positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He's gets himself slick with your wetness and his own spit, and when he pushes in, the stretch is so perfect it makes you keen around Jihoon's cock even with your mouth full.

"Fuuuuck," Soonyoung groans, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. "So tight. So fucking tight, bunny. This cunt was made for us."

He starts to move, and the rhythm is brutal-hard, fast strokes that drive the air from your lungs and make your tits bounce with every impact. Jihoon is still fucking your throat, and they find a tempo together, one thrusting into your cunt while the other pulls out of your mouth, so there's never a moment when you're not full. The wet, obscene sounds of your body fill the room—the slick squelch of your pussy getting pounded, the wet gagging of your throat, the sharp slap of skin against skin.

Spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth and runs down your cheeks. Your mascara is definitely ruined. Your cunt is making sounds that would be embarrassing if you had the capacity to feel embarrassment, but you don't—you've gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere where the only things that exist are the two cocks using your body and the music still thrumming through the apartment and the desperate, animal need to be used until you can't think anymore.

"Switch," Jihoon says abruptly, pulling out of your mouth. You gasp for air, chest heaving, and before you can catch your breath, they're maneuvering you like a doll—Soonyoung rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him, Jihoon positioning himself behind you.

"Both holes," Soonyoung says, looking up at you with eyes that are practically black. "Think you can take us both, bunny? Think you can take my cock in that pretty cunt and Jihoon's in that tight little ass?"

"Yes," you gasp, scrambling with disoriented hands to present your tight puckered hole. "Yes, fuck, please—"

"Please what?" Jihoon's voice is rough in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, the hard length of his cock sliding between your ass cheeks. "Use your words, gorgeous. Tell us what you want."

"Want both of you. Want to be stuffed. Want to be so full I can't breathe, can't think, can't remember my own fucking name—"

"Good girl," Soonyoung growls, and pulls you down onto his cock.

The stretch is exquisite—deeper than before, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white and fuzzy. You're still adjusting to him when you feel Jihoon's fingers at your other entrance, slick with lube you didn't even see him grab from your nightstand drawer—probably too busy processing Soonyoung's dick impaling you,—working you open with careful, practiced pressure. One finger, then two, stretching your tight ring of muscle until you're gasping and pushing back against his hand.

"Ready?" he asks, and his voice is strained from watching you take his fingers while your pussy is already stretched on another cock.

"Ready."

He lines himself up with your anus and pushes in.

The sensation of being filled in both holes at once is indescribable—a fullness so complete it borders on pain but it's exactly what you wished for, two thick cocks separated by only a thin wall of muscle, moving inside you in counterpoint. You're spilling nonsence, you realize, strings of profanity and praise and broken moans falling from your lips. "Fuck, fuck, so full, so good, both of you, ah—please don't stop, don't ever stop—"

"Never gonna stop," Soonyoung grunts, thrusting up into you. "Gonna fuck this cunt forever. Gonna fill you up so good, bunny, gonna pump you so full of cum it's dripping out of you."

"Want that," you gasp. "Want your cum. Want both of you to cum inside me—"

"Fuck," Jihoon grits out, and starts moving faster, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy slaps. Soonyoung matches his pace, and they're both pounding into you now, two cocks filling you completely, and your orgasm is building at the base of your spine like a scorching hot tidal wave, gathering force, unstoppable.

"Gonna come," you whimper. "Gonna come, please, please let me come—"

"Come for us, bunny," Soonyoung grunts, and reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers. "Come on our cocks. Show us how good we make you feel."

You shatter.

The orgasm is violent—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on Soonyoung's cock and your ass clenching around Jihoon's in spasms so intense you can't breathe, can't see, can't do anything except scream yourself hoarse as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you exactly the way you wished it would.

They fuck you through it, relentless, and then Jihoon is groaning and burying himself deep, his cock pulsing as he pumps his load into your ass—hot and thick, filling you up, and the sensation of it tips you into another orgasm, smaller but no less devastating. Soonyoung follows a moment later, his hips snapping up into you as he comes with a guttural roar, his cum flooding your pussy in thick, hot spurts that you can feel painting your walls.

For a long moment, none of you move. You're sandwiched between them, still impaled on both cocks, your body trembling with aftershocks, your holes dripping with their cum. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and ruined makeup, and your throat is raw, and your jaw aches, and you feel...

Empty.

The moment your mind clears enough for a thought this realization hits you like a cold wave. You're lying there, filled in every possible way, soaked in sweat and cum and spit, and you feel absolutely, utterly hollow. Worse than before. Worse than when you saw him with that cheerleader, worse than when the messages stopped, worse than anything you've felt in a very long time.

Because it didn't work. None of it worked. Even with two cocks inside you, even with two sets of hands on your body, even with two voices praising you and two loads of cum warming you from the inside—you couldn't truly stop thinking about him. About Seungcheol. About the way his eyes had gone dark and possessive when you'd mentioned Mingyu. About the way he'd looked at you like you were the only person in the room at the party. About the way he washed your hair on Sunday morning while taking a shower with you. Everything is just a broken record in your head, spinning on repeat.

You blink, and a tear slides down your temple and into your hair. It startles you and you almost forget to take a breath.

"Hey," Soonyoung says, and his voice is soft now, post-coital and gentle. He reaches up and wipes the tear away with his thumb. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. That's not what you invited them for.

They pull out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of cum sliding down your thighs. Jihoon disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth, and he cleans you up with the same quiet efficiency he's always had about him, touch careful, eyes unreadable.

"We'll head out," he says when he's done, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Unless you want us to stay."

"No," you say, too quickly. And then reach for them to compensate for it. Both take your hands, hold you with reassuring touches. "No, I'm good. Thank you. Both of you."

Soonyoung looks at you for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. Then he nods and pulls on his clothes. "Text us if you need anything, bunny."

"Will do."

They leave, and the door clicks shut behind them, and you're alone.

The apartment is suddenly too quiet. The pretty candles have burned down to stubs, and the music has stopped somewhere along the way, and the only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator. You lie there in your bed, naked and sore and sticky with the remnants of someone else's pleasure, and you stare at the ceiling and you try very, very hard not to cry.

It doesn't work.

The tears come hot and fast, leaking from the corners of your eyes and dripping into your hair, and you don't even have the energy to wipe them away. You just lie there and let them fall, let the sobs build in your chest until they're shaking your whole body, ugly and uncontrollable and nothing like the poised, unbothered persona you've spent three years perfecting.

You think about Sunday morning. The cafe. His hand around yours. The way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were something precious.

You think about his messages—the pigeon, the crying emojis, the mostly you—and the way they'd dried up like a river in a drought, leaving nothing behind but silence.

You think about his hands on that cheerleader, his mouth on her neck, and the way it had felt like being gutted alive.

You think about Minghao's words. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.

You were right to be scared. You were right to keep your distance. You were right to build those walls, to keep everyone at arm's length, to never let anyone close enough to leave a mark.

Because look at what just happened. You let him in—just a crack, just a tiny crack—and now you're bleeding.

You curl onto your side and press your face into the pillow that still smells faintly of his shampoo, and you let yourself be pathetic, just for tonight. Tomorrow you'll put the persona back on. Tomorrow you'll be the campus slut, the heartbreaker, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care. Tomorrow you'll film content with Mingyu or Soonyoung or whoever the fuck you want, and you'll moan and fuck and smile for the camera and for the whole world around, and you'll pretend that Seungcheol is just another name on your roster. The way he's supposed to be.

But tonight, you're just a girl with a broken heart she didn't even think she had anymore, crying into a pillow that still smells faintly like the boy who broke it.

The text from Seungcheol comes maybe an hour after you've finished crying, maybe two. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand while you're still curled in bed, still naked, still sticky with the cooling remnants of Soonyoung and Jihoon's cum drying on your thighs. You're too weak to force yourself into shower and for once in a lifetime you can't bring yourself to care.

can we talk?

You stare at the screen until it goes dark. Your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw and somewhere deep in your chest, something that was already cracked splits a little further.

You don't answer.

The second text comes Saturday morning.

i know you're pissed. i get it. just let me explain.

You're sitting at your kitchen counter, nursing a coffee that's gone cold, wearing an old t-shirt finally having taken the shower that brought you back to feeling human even if just a bit. You read the message three times. The first time, your stomach clenches. The second time, your eyes sting. The third time, something hardens inside you—a callus forming over the wound, protective and necessary.

You type back: Nothing to explain. You're free to do whatever you want with whoever you want. We never said otherwise.

His response is immediate, like he's been waiting by his phone: can we please just talk in person?

Busy this weekend. Maybe another time.

You don't say what you're busy with. You let him imagine it. Let him picture you with Mingyu, with Soonyoung, with anyone else on your roster who isn't him. Petty? Maybe. Cruel? Probably. But the image of his hands on that cheerleader is still burned into the back of your eyelids, and you're not above making him choke on the same thing he fed you. In fact, you are right on that level.

He sends a few more messages over the next couple of days. i miss you. Read, no reply. can i see you? Read, no reply. please, baby. Read, and the baby sends a spike of something hot and sharp through your ribs, but you still don't answer.

By Monday, your responses have settled into a rhythm of sanitised politeness. When he texts how was your weekend, you reply Fine, busy with stuff and nothing more. When he sends thinking about you, you leave it on read for six hours and then respond with Hope practice is going well like he's a colleague you vaguely tolerate. The messages are so neutral and so utterly bloodless—exactly the way they used to be, back before he'd carved out a space inside you that you didn't know you'd given him. Back when he was just another name on a list, just another warm body, just another cock to chase your pleasure with and send on his way. Actually, scratch that! Back then you had it in you to be sincerely friendly and flirty, to be pleasant. Now it's just hollow.

You're trying to go back to that easiness. You're trying so fucking hard.

It's not working.

The thing nobody tells you about letting someone in is that once they're in, you can't just evict them without causing a deep wound on your heart. They leave things behind—memories, habits, reminders. You catch yourself reaching for your phone to send him a stupid meme and then remembering. You catch yourself thinking Seungcheol would laugh at this and then remembering. You catch yourself waking up in the middle of the night with your hand stretched out toward the empty side of the bed, and the cold sheets under your palm feel like a rebuke.

But you don't text him when you get the urge. You don't call even when you really want to. You don't let yourself crack, because cracking is what got you here in the first place, bleeding out from a wound you'd handed him the knife to make.

Instead, you work.

Tuesday afternoon finds you in your bedroom with the lighting adjusted and the camera rolling and Mingyu's head between your thighs, his big hands gripping your hips hard enough to dimple the flesh, his tongue working your cunt with enthusiasm so strong it borders on devotional. You're propped up against your pillows, legs draped over his broad shoulders, one hand fisted in his dark hair while the other grips the sheets.

"Fuck, Gyu," you gasp, and your hips roll against his face without your permission. You know he loves that type of evidential validation mixed with verbal. "Your mouth—fuck, your mouth is so good—"

He hums against your clit, pleased, and the vibration sends a bolt of electricity straight up your spine, making you arch. His tongue is thick and relentless, alternating between broad flat licks that cover your entire cunt and sharp flicks against your swollen bud, working it in ways you never thought were possible, and he's got two fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot on your inner wall with insistent accuracy. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy and his fingers inside it fill the room—obscene and slurping and squelching and perfect for the camera angled at the foot of the bed.

"Taste so fucking good," he groans, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. His chin is glistening with your wetness, his lips swollen and pink, and he looks up at you through his lashes with those eager puppy eyes that have always made you feel like the center of the universe. "Could eat this cunt forever. Swear to god."

"Don't stop," you whimper, grinding down against his face. "Please yes, more of—yes yes yes, fuck, Gyu, I'm so close—"

He doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and stroking his tongue against it while his fingers fuck into you faster, deeper, and the orgasm hits you in a sudden savage wave that makes your back arch off the mattress and your thighs clamp around his head. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming around his fingers, and he works you through it with gentle laps of his tongue until you're twitching and whimpering and pushing at his forehead with whines and pitiful helpless giggles.

"Fuck," you breathe, chest heaving, shaking with breathless laughs. "Okay. Okay, your turn."

Mingyu grins up at you, his mouth still wet with you, and crawls up your body with the kind of athletic grace that always makes your stomach flip. He's so fucking big—broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that blocks out the light when he hovers over you—and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

"How do you want me?" he asks, and his voice has gone rough with want.

"Want to ride you," you tell him, pushing at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back. "Want to watch your face when you fill me up."

He groans, low and wrecked, his cock twitching against his stomach where it's lying thick and flushed and already leaking. You swing a leg over his hips and position yourself above him, your hand wrapping around his shaft to guide him to your entrance. He's frankly bigger than Seungcheol—not as girthy maybe, but he's longer and still really thick, and that combination makes your jaw and throat ache just looking at it—and when you sink down onto him, the stretch is so intense you have to pause halfway, your breath catching in your throat.

"Easy," Mingyu murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight to support your weight. "Take your time, pretty. Don't hurt yourself."

"I can take it," you say competitively, and push down the rest of the way.

The sound he makes is halfway between a groan and a whimper, his head pressing back into the pillow, the tendons in his neck standing out. You brace your hands on his chest—solid muscle and warm skin that looks even hotter with his natural tan—and start to move, a slow grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you.

"Hell, fucking hell," he breathes, staring up at you with glazed eyes. "You're so tight. So wet. How are you always so fucking wet?"

"Maybe you just bring it out of me," you say with a sly wink, and pick up the pace.

The rhythm builds quickly—faster, harder, the wet slap of your bodies filling the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bedframe beneath you. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and Mingyu reaches up to cup them, thumbs circling your nipples and pinching them between his fingers until they pop out of their hiding. The dual sensation of his cock driving into you and his hands on your chest makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering for just a moment before you find it again.

"Love your curves," he grunts. "Love touching them. You're so soft and pretty, beautiful."

"Gyu—"

"Gonna come," he warns, his hips starting to buck up into you, meeting your rhythm with desperate little thrusts. "Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you gasp. "Cum inside me. Want to feel it."

Mingyu groans, and then he's surging up, one arm banding around your waist to pull you tight against him as he buries himself deep and comes. His cock pulses inside you so tanglibly it makes you gasp in surprise—you can never get used to that. He's flooding your cunt with hot thick cum, and the sensation of it—the warmth spreading through your belly, the way he's groaning against your shoulder like you've broken him—sends you over the edge for a second time, your cunt clamping down around his shaft and milking him through the aftershocks.

You slump against his chest, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the bruising grip he'd had on your hip a moment ago. His arms are big and warm and they wrap around you so nicely you feel yourself drift away a little.

"Good?" he asks, and there's something soft in his voice.

"Yeah," you say. "Really good."

And it was. It was good. Mingyu is always good—enthusiastic and eager and athletic in ways that leave you with jelly legs. But as you lie there, sweaty and sated and full of his cum, you can't help but notice that the hollow ache in your chest hasn't gone anywhere. It's still there, nestled behind your sternum like a stone, and no amount of orgasms seems to dislodge it.

Mingyu stays for a bit—helps you clean up, raids your fridge and yaps about his sister being a pain in his ass lately, presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves—and you let him, because Mingyu is easy and uncomplicated and he's never once looked at you like he's thinking about keeping you. But after he's gone, the apartment is too quiet yet again, and you find yourself staring at your phone, thumb hovering over Seungcheol's contact. It's instinct to reach of him at this point. And you're going to have a hell of a time unrooting it.

So you don't text him. You open your filming schedule instead and start filling in slots that were initially all reserved to him and him alone.

Wednesday is Soonyoung. You film a scene with him in the morning—him fucking you over your desk while the natural light streams through the window, his hips slamming against your ass with a rhythm that's part dancer's precision and part animal hunger—and then you save the footage to your hard drive without posting it. You're not sure yet what you're going to do with all this content. You just know you need to keep making it, keep stocking up, keep yourself busy enough that you don't have time to think about anything else.

"You're different today," Soonyoung says afterward, when you're both lying on your bed, cooling down. His head is propped on his hand and he's looking at you with those sharp eyes that always see more than you want them to.

"Different how?"

"I don't know." He reaches out and traces a finger down your arm, light and idle. "Quieter. More... focused."

"I'm always focused during filming, you just don't know because you never filmed with me."

"I see." He pauses, and you can feel the question coming before he asks it. "Is this about Seungcheol?"

Your jaw tightens, you can't keep the defensiveness out of your voice and you can't meet his eyes either. "Why would it be about Seungcheol?"

Soonyoung shrugs, but his gaze is still too knowing. "Word gets around. Jihoon talks to Mingyu who talks to Seungcheol, and Minghao mentioned something about you and Cheol having a thing, and then Cheol showed up to practice on Monday looking like someone kicked his puppy, and now you're filming with me on a Wednesday afternoon instead of him." He ticks the points off on his fingers and you feel increasingly more embarrassed and defensive. "I'm not stupid."

"There's no thing," you say, and your voice comes out flatter than you'd like. You know it gives you away. But with Soonyoung anything can give you away, the guy has that sixth sense on max stats. "We hook up. He hooks up with someone else, I go through my roster like I always did. That's the end of it. Nothing special. I just needed content and he was busy, so I figured I'd remember that I actually have options."

"Mhm." Soonyoung doesn't look convinced. "And how's that working out for you?"

You don't answer. Just huff in irritation and roll onto your side, facing away from him petulantly, and after a moment he sighs and presses a kiss to your shoulder and gets up to leave.

Thursday is Jihoon, quieter and more intense, his dark eyes tracking your every movement as you ride him on the couch, your hands braced on his shoulders and your head thrown back, doing your best angles for the camera. He doesn't talk as much as the others—Jihoon has always been more about action than words—but when he does speak, it's measured, his voice rough with the effort of holding back.

"You're using me," he says, and it's not an accusation. Just an observation.

Your rhythm stutters. "What?"

"Using me. Using Soonyoung. Using Mingyu." His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you back into motion. "You're trying to fuck something out of your system. I get it. Just... be careful, okay? Whatever it is, don't let it eat you alive."

You stare down at him, at his steady gaze and the unexpected gentleness in his voice, and for a moment you want to tell him everything—the breakfast, the cheerleader, the way Seungcheol's messages had stopped and then started again, the way you can't close your eyes without seeing his face. But that's not what Jihoon is here for. That's not the arrangement you have.

So instead you take a mental note to cut this little moment from the footage later and then lean down and kiss him, hard and desperate, and you fuck him until neither of you can think anymore, and when he comes inside you—thick and hot, his groan muffled against your throat—you let the sensation drown out everything else for a few blessed seconds.

Afterwards, you add his footage to the growing folder on your hard drive. You still don't know if you'll post any of it.

Friday morning, you meet Wonwoo and Minghao at the campus coffee shop—it is cramped and small, tucked between the library and the humanities building, with exposed brick interior and stylish mismatched chairs and the constant hiss of the coffee machine. It's early, the sun is still watery and pale through the windows, and you're on your second almond latte by the time they both arrive.

Minghao slides into the seat across from you with that fluid grace that always makes you feel vaguely graceless in comparison. Wonwoo settles beside him, more reserved, setting his coffee down with the careful precision of someone who's never spilled or knocked off a thing in his life.

"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to fill a novel.

"So," you echo, and take a pointed sip of your latte, aiming for something nonchalant and lazy.

"We heard," Wonwoo says, and his voice is mild but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses. He begins to list off, matching your vibe. "About last week. Soonyoung and Jihoon. Then this Tuesday with Mingyu… and Wednesday with Soonyoung, and Thursday with… Jihoon again, I believe."

"Ah." You set your cup down, keeping your expression carefully neutral. "That."

"Yeah, that." Minghao leans forward, his chin propped on his hand. "Care to tell us what happened? Because last we talked, you were doing the emotional constipation dance about Seungcheol, and now suddenly you're having threesomes like it's second year again."

You shrug, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of brittle. "Nothing to tell. I wanted to film content, Seungcheol was busy, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon instead. And Mingyu, he wanted to be in one of my videos for a long time now anyway. It's not a big deal."

"Seungcheol was busy," Wonwoo repeats, and his tone is dryer than the Sahara.

"Apparently."

"Busy with what?"

"I don't know, Wonwoo. I didn't ask." You pick up your almond milk latte again, more for something to do with your hands than because you actually want more caffeine. "Look, it doesn't matter. The point is that I remembered I have options. I've got a whole roster of people who are more than willing to help me out, and I don't need to wait around for one guy to make time for me. That's the whole point of the roster. That's literally why I built it."

Minghao and Wonwoo exchange a glance—another one of those silent, loaded looks that you've come to recognise as their wordless way of saying she's full of shit. You hate when they do it in front of you.

"You saw him with someone else, didn't you," Minghao says. It's not a question.

Your jaw tightens. "Who told you?"

"No one. I'm just good at guessing." He tilts his head, his earrings catching the light. "Also, you're doing that thing where you pretend you don't care, but you're gripping your cup so hard your knuckles are white."

You look down. Your knuckles are, indeed, white. You force your fingers to relax.

"It's fine," you say, sounding so much steadier than you feel. You're almost proud of it. "We weren't exclusive. We were never exclusive. He can fuck whoever he wants. I can fuck whoever I want. That's how this works. That's how it's always worked."

"Except that's not how it's been working," Wonwoo says quietly. "Not for months. You stopped seeing most of your roster. He stopped seeing anyone but you. You were spending weekends together and holding hands in cafes and—"

"And none of that meant anything," you cut in, sharper than you intended to allow yourself to. "Clearly. Because the second he thought I wasn't available, he found a freshman cheerleader to stick his tongue down her throat. Which is fine. It's totally fine. I'm not upset about it."

"You're definitely upset about it," Minghao says.

"I'm not."

"You're doing the Seungcheol face."

"I don't have a—" Your back goes stiff and your voice begins to raise and you immediately stop, exhale hard through your nose. "Okay. You know what? Fine. I was upset. I was upset for like, a few hours. And then I got over it, because I remembered that I don't do relationships and I don't do feelings and I don't need some guy to validate my existence. It was just a good reminder of that, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon, and Mingyu because I wanted to have a good time, and I had a good time, and that's the end of it. Can we please talk about something else now?"

There's a pause. Minghao is looking at you with something that's equal parts exasperation and affection, and Wonwoo is doing that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose and says nothing but somehow communicates everything.

"You know it's okay to be hurt, right?" Wonwoo says eventually. "You're allowed to have feelings. You're allowed to want things. Pretending you don't isn't going to make it hurt less."

"It'll make it hurt less than the alternative."

"The alternative being... what? Actually admitting you care about him?"

"Admitting I care about him and then getting my heart broken when he inevitably gets bored or finds someone better or decides I'm not worth the hassle." The words come out before you can think better of it, ugly and honest in a way you haven't let yourself be all week. "That's how it goes. That's how it always goes. People leave. People get tired of you. People decide you're too much work or too much drama or too much whatever, and they leave. And I'm not—I can't—"

Your voice cracks. You stop, swallow hard, and stare at the dregs of your latte like they might contain the answers to the universe. No crying in public, no crying in public, no crying in public no crying in—

Minghao's hand covers yours on the table. His fingers are cool and soft, the rings on them pressing into your skin.

"He's not your bullies from middle school," he says quietly. "He's not your fake friends from high school or the ones who left when you started becoming more of yourself and less of what everyone thought you should be. He's not any of the people who hurt you before. He's Seungcheol. And I told you—he's disgustingly earnest. He's probably been moping all week."

"Then why did he stop texting me?" The question comes out smaller than you want it to, more vulnerable. "Why did he just—disappear for days and then I find him with someone else?"

"I don't know," Minghao admits. "But I think maybe you should ask him instead of trying to fuck the hurt away."

You pull your hand out from under his and cross your arms. "I'm not trying to fuck the hurt away. I'm filming content. It's what I do. My subscribers have been asking for variety."

"Uh huh." Wonwoo's tone is still bone-dry. He's so unimpressed with your antics you begin to feel remotely embarrassed. "And the fact that you've filmed with three different people in the past week and posted none of it?"

"I'm stocking up."

"You're avoiding."

"I'm not."

"You're a mess," Minghao says, but his voice is fond. "A complete and total mess. And we love you anyway."

You want to argue. You want to tell them they're wrong, that you're fine, that you're in complete control of your life and your emotions and your roster. But the words won't come, because they're not wrong, and you're so tired of pretending you're not exhausted.

"If he knows about Friday," you say instead, quieter, "if Soonyoung and Jihoon talked and Mingyu talked and everyone talked... Seungcheol knows too, doesn't he."

"Probably," Wonwoo says. "That group gossips worse than a knitting circle."

Something flickers in your chest—grim satisfaction, maybe, or something darker. You think about Seungcheol hearing about your threesome or any later encounter. You think about him picturing you with Soonyoung and Jihoon. You think about the possessive, territorial thing that lives inside him, the caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu and pressed you against a door and told you you were his.

You want to let him choke on it. Let him feel even a fraction of what you felt when you saw his hands on that cheerleader.

But the satisfaction curdles almost as soon as it arrives, leaving behind the same hollow ache that's been living in your chest since Friday afternoon. It doesn't feel like victory. It just feels like more of the same emptiness, dressed up in different clothes.

You leave the coffee shop with a promise to actually study this weekend instead of just doing it for the sake of distraction and you walk back to your apartment through the thin autumn sunshine, your hands shoved in your pockets and your head full of noise.

That night, you film a solo scene with your favourite vibrator, and you come twice with your face pressed into the pillow that still somehow smells like Seungcheol, and when you're done you lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and try very hard not to think about anything at all.

By the end of the next week, you've stockpiled enough content to keep your subscribers happy for a few months on end. Solo scenes, paired scenes, one threesome footage that you still haven't decided whether to post or delete entirely. Your hard drive is full, your body is sore in ways that should be satisfying, and you're still waking up every morning with the same dull ache behind your sternum, the same reflexive reach for your phone, the same disappointment when the only messages are from people who aren't him.

You're handling it. You're fine. You're the campus gooner dream, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care about anyone or anything, and you've got a roster full of gorgeous men who are more than happy to fill whatever role you need them to fill.

But at night, when the camera is off and the only thing in your bed is the memory of his arms around you, you press your face into that stupid pillow and you breathe in the fading scent of his shampoo and perfume and you wonder if he's thinking about you too.

You don't text him. You don't call. You don't crack.

But you want to. God, you want to.

And that's the worst part of all.

You've been live for forty-three minutes when the apartment door opens.

The stream started simple enough—you, your bedroom, the soft amber glow of the ring light you've positioned just off-frame, and the familiar hum of arousal building slow and honey-thick in your lower belly. You'd announced the stream on Twitter an hour before going live, a casual "come keep me company tonight?" with a photo of yourself in the black lace set that always drives your subscribers feral, the one with the filthy cutouts that frame your nipples and leave very little to the imagination. By the time you hit "Start Streaming," you'd already amassed a waiting room of nearly two thousand people, their usernames scrolling past in a blur of anticipation.

Now that number has swelled past five thousand, the chat flying at a pace that makes it nearly impossible to read individual messages, and you're sprawled across your bed in a pose that's equal parts lazy and calculated—propped against your pillows, legs spread just enough to show the damp spot darkening the centre of your panties, one hand trailing idly up and down your stomach while you read comments aloud in the breathy, teasing voice that's become your signature.

"Is that new lingerie? It's so pretty on you." You read it with a small, pleased smile, tilting your head toward the camera. "It's not new, actually. Had this set for a while. Just don't wear it often because—" you pluck at the waistband of your thong, letting it snap back against your hip, “—it's a pain to take off and put on. Too many little straps." A pause, a knowing glance at the lens. "But I figured you guys were worth the effort."

The chat explodes with heart emojis and flame emojis and a flood of tips that make your phone buzz on the nightstand. You let your smile curve wider, genuine despite yourself, because this part never gets old—the rush of being wanted, the validation of knowing thousands of people are getting off to you right now, the power of it.

"Let's see," you murmur, scrolling through the comments with your free hand. "What else are we talking about tonight?"

"Posted the new guy video finally I see"

"Ah, yeah." You stretch, arching your back just enough to make your tits press against the lace, and catch the way your nipples are already tightening beneath the fabric. "Posted that one on Tuesday. You guys seemed to like it—the views went kind of insane, actually. What did you think?"

A cascade of responses floods the chat. "He's so big" / "New daddy??" / "Where's the original daddy tho" / "Love seeing you with new people" / "When is Seungcheol coming back????" / "No one fucks you like he does" / "are you two still together??"

The mention of his name lands like a papercut—small, sharp, surprisingly painful. You've gotten better at not reacting, but you still feel the way your smile tightens at the corners, the way your hand pauses mid-stroke on your stomach. You've been seeing his name in the comments all week, ever since the Mingyu video dropped. Some of your viewers are obsessively loyal to him, the way people get attached to characters in a show they've been watching for months, and they've been demanding to know when he's coming back, why you're filming with other people, whether something happened between you.

You can't tell them the truth. You can barely admit the truth to yourself.

"We're mixing things up," you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere luckily close enough. "I was starting to feel like my content was getting a little stale, you know? Same angles, same faces. Figured variety would be good for everyone." You let your hand drift lower, fingers brushing over the damp spot on your panties, and let out a soft, theatrical sigh. "Mingyu was fun, right? He's got great energy. And there's someone else who's been wanting to film for ages, so you might see him soon too, we already recorded some stuff."

"But what about Seungcheol??" / "We miss daddy" / "Is he still on the roster or what" / "You two were so hot together please say he's coming back"

Your jaw tightens. You keep your expression pleasant through sheer force of will help of god. "Seungcheol's great," you say, and you feel like you swallowed some sludge and now the remnants of it won't wash off your tongue. "We're still... we're still friends. He's just busy with rugby stuff. You know how it is." You shrug, a little too casual. "I'm not his only priority. He's got a lot going on."

You don't say he's got a freshman cheerleader to keep him occupied. You don't say he stopped texting me after the best weekend of my life and then I caught him with his hand up someone else's skirt. And you certainly don't say I can't close my eyes without seeing his face and I hate him for it and I miss him so much I feel like I'm drowning.

You just smile, and reach for the vibrator on your nightstand, and say, "Anyway. Enough about boys who aren't here. Let's talk about what we're actually going to do tonight."

The chat, mercifully, lets you redirect. Questions pour in—"Are you going to use the pink one?" / "Please ride the dildo we never see you ride it anymore :(" / "Show us how wet you are first" / "Can you talk about what you think about when you touch yourself"—and you let yourself sink back into the performance, the familiar rhythm of teasing and pleasing and giving them just enough to keep them begging for more.

You're forty minutes in when it happens.

You've worked yourself up slowly, deliberately, drawing it out because you know the anticipation drives your tips up. Your panties are soaked through now, the dark lace glistening with wetness and clinging to your cunt, and you've pushed the cups of your bra down so your tits spill over the top, your nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air of the bedroom. You've got the vibrator pressed against your inner thigh, not quite where you need it, and you're reading a particularly unhinged comment about what someone wants to do to you while you trace lazy circles on your clit through the fabric.

"Someone's feeling creative tonight," you're saying through a chuckle, your voice a little breathier than it was before, a little more genuine. "This one says they want to—"

The apartment door opens.

You hear it clearly over the music—the click of the lock disengaging, the soft creak of hinges, the heavy footsteps in your entryway, the door shutting closed—and your entire body goes rigid. Your heart lurches into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system before your brain has time to catch up, and for one wild, stupid second you think someone's breaking in—

And then you remember.

The key.

Your key. The spare you'd given him months ago, in a moment of trust you'd never quite been able to bring yourself to revoke, not even during the worst of the silence. The key he's never used without asking before, because Seungcheol, for all his possessive caveman tendencies, has always been careful about your boundaries. Has always been respectful. Has always waited for you to invite him in.

Until now, apparently.

Your head snaps toward the bedroom doorway just as he appears in it—broad and solid and so fucking familiar it makes your chest ache. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair is damp, pushed back off his forehead like he just showered. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, like he ran here, like he saw your notification and didn't stop to think before coming over.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes sweep over you—sprawled on the bed in your ruined lingerie, vibrator in hand, five thousand people watching—with an expression that's equal parts hunger and something softer that looks terrifyingly like hope.

"Started without me," he says, and his voice is casual, almost lazy, but you can hear the tension underneath it. "That's cold, baby."

You glare at him.

You don't mean to. You know, on some distant rational level, that you should be performing right now—should be pasting on a smile, feigning pleasant surprise, playing the role of the girl who's delighted her favourite co-star has shown up unannounced. But your body reacts before your brain can intervene, and the look you throw him is pure venom, scorching and clawing and full of every single thing you've been choking on for the past weeks.

The chat notices.

"LMAOOO THAT LOOK" / "she's PISSED" / "wait is there drama??" / "omg did they break up???" / "She looks like she wants to murder him" / "DADDY'S BACK THOUGH" / "DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY"

You don't read any of it. Your eyes are locked on Seungcheol, and he's staring right back at you, and the air between you is so thick with unspoken things you could cut it with a knife and still choke on it. His jaw tightens at your glare—he saw it, he definitely saw it—but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't retreat. Instead, he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward the bed with that easy, rolling gait that's always made your mouth water, and your traitorous cunt clenches around nothing even as your hands itch to curl into fists.

"What are you doing here," you say, and it comes out flat, barely a question.

"Saw you were live." He settles onto the edge of the bed like he belongs there, like he's never left, like the past three weeks haven't happened. His eyes flick to the camera, then back to you, and his mouth curves into that half-smile that makes his dimple appear. "Thought I'd keep you company. You don't mind, do you?"

You mind. You mind so fucking much. But he's already turning to the camera, already addressing your audience with the ease of someone who knows exactly how much they love him, and you're trapped—because if you tell him to leave now, if you cause a scene on camera, the questions will never stop. The speculation will explode. Every single person watching will know something is wrong, and the carefully constructed narrative you've been maintaining—we're still friends, he's just busy, nothing happened—will crumble like wet paper.

"Of course not," you manage, and your voice is almost steady. Almost. "Wasn't expecting you, that's all."

"That's the point of a surprise." He leans closer, close enough that you can smell him—soap and something woodsy, the cologne he's worn as long as you've known him—and your stomach flips. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, and the gentleness of it makes your throat tight. "Missed you," he murmurs low enough that the camera might not catch it.

You want to bite his hand. You want to press your face into his palm and cry. You want to scream at him until your voice gives out and then kiss him until neither of you can breathe.

You do none of those things. You just hold his gaze, and let him see the hurt still simmering there, and say nothing.

The chat, oblivious to the nuances of your silent standoff, is losing its collective mind.

"THE WAY HE TOUCHED HER FACE" / "i'm literally crying they're so cute" / "MISSED YOU 😭😭😭" / "He's so down bad for her look at those eyes" / "Why does she look like she's about to cry though" / "maybe she's just emotional" / "DADDY CAME HOME" / "fuck her already PLEASE" / 'I'm throwing money at the screen TAKE IT" / "someone tipped $100 Imaoooooo"

Seungcheol glances at the chat scrolling on the monitor positioned just off-camera, and his smile widens. "You guys are really excited, huh? Been a while since I was on one of these."

A fresh explosion of caps-lock and emojis. He reads a few aloud, his voice dropping into that lower register he uses when he's playing up the Daddy persona for the audience—"We missed you, Daddy", "Please never leave again", "The content hasn't been the same without you”—and you watch him work with a mixture of resentment and grudging admiration. He's good at this. He's always been good at this. The persona fits him like a second skin, and the viewers eat it up, and somewhere beneath the anger you remember that the first time you ever filmed together, he'd been so nervous his hands had shaken. He'd hidden it well, but you'd felt the tremor in his fingers when he'd touched you, and you'd thought—Oh. He's not just doing this for the camera experience. He actually wants it for me.

You'd been so naive. So willing to believe.

“—right, baby?" Seungcheol's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you blink, realizing he's asked you a question you didn't hear.

"What?"

"I said, you've been having fun without me, haven't you? New videos. New faces." His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are dark and serious, searching your face for something you're not sure you want him to find. "Mingyu, huh? That's who you replaced me with?"

"I didn't replace you." It comes out colder than you intended, and you see his expression flicker—hurt, maybe, or guilt, or both. You force yourself to soften, to remember the camera, to remember the thousands of people watching this exchange with bated breath. "I told everyone earlier. I'm just mixing things up. Variety is good for content."

"Variety." He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Right."

The silence that follows is heavy, loaded, the kind of silence that makes the chat go wild with speculation. You need to do something—need to take control of the situation before it spirals into territory you can't recover from—so you do the only thing you can think of. You reach for him.

Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, and you pull him toward you with more force than necessary, your mouth crashing against his in a kiss that's more teeth than lips. He makes a sound of surprise against your mouth, his hands coming up to grip your hips, and then he's kissing you back just as hard, just as desperate, the familiar slide of his tongue against yours sending a bolt of heat straight to your cunt. And you feel the unwanted relief of something tight loosening in your chest just enough to allow you an easier breath.

The chat goes absolutely feral.

"FUCK YES" / "FINALLYYYYY" / "That was so aggressive Imaooooo" / "she's marking her territory" / "THE TENSION WAS INSANE" / "I'm so hard rn" / "look at the way he grabbed her" / "they're literally made for each other" / "DADDY IS HOME"

Your entire world has narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body pressing you back against the pillows, the way his hands are already sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts where they're still spilling out of your bra. He kisses you like he's starving, like you're the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger, and you hate how much you've missed this, hate how your body responds to him on instinct, hate that even now—even after everything—your thighs are falling open to make room for him as he leans you backwards onto the mattress and your hips are rocking up to meet the bulge already straining against his sweatpants.

But you don't relax into it the way you usually do. You can't. Every time you start to soften, to yield, your brain supplies an image—his hand under that cheerleader's skirt, his mouth on her neck, his voice rough with arousal as he told her don't stop—and the rage spikes fresh and hot in your chest, and your fingers curl into claws against his back.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving. "Baby—"

"Don't." You don't know what you're warning him against. Don't apologize. Don't explain. Don't pretend nothing happened. You just know you can't hear his voice say your name right now without shattering.

His jaw tightens, but he nods, just barely. "Okay." He kisses your forehead, soft and careful, and it makes your eyes sting. "Okay. Whatever you need."

What you need is for him to hurt the way you've been hurting. What you need is for him to understand what he did to you. What you need is for him to hold you and never let go and promise that he'll never, ever put his hands on someone else again.

You can't say any of that. So instead you kiss him again, and this time you bite his lower lip. Hard.

He hisses, his whole body tensing, and you taste copper—the bright, metallic tang of blood welling up where your teeth broke the delicate skin. His doe eyes fly open, dark and shocked, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't push you off. Just stares at you with something that looks almost like understanding, his tongue darting out to touch the small wound, smearing red across his lip.

"Okay," he says again, quieter this time. "I deserve that."

You don't answer. You just sink your nails into his back and drag them down, hard enough to leave raised red lines that' probably bruise by morning, and he groans—a low, wrecked sound that's half pain and half pleasure—and buries his face in your neck.

"Whatever you need," he repeats against your skin, and his voice is ragged now, strained with something that sounds a lot like guilt. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You want to scream at him. You left! You stopped texting. You had your hands all over some freshman bitch with a ponytail and you didn't even think about me! But the words won't come, stuck somewhere between your throat and your tongue, so instead you dig your nails in harder and feel the way his muscles jump beneath his skin, and you tell yourself this is enough. This is revenge. This is you hurting him the way he hurt you.

It doesn't feel like revenge. It just feels like more of the same hollow ache masterfully masked yet again.

"Okay is it just me or is this really intense" / "She's literally clawing him up" / "the way he's just taking it though" / "what the hell happened between them" / "I feel like I'm watching something private" / "this is hotter than any porn or sex scene i've ever watched or read" / "the tension is INSANE" / "why am i crying"

Seungcheol lifts his head from your neck and looks at you. His lip is still bleeding, a small bead of red welling up and threatening to drip down his chin right before he licks it off, and his back is on fire from the scratches you've carved into it, and his eyes are so soft, so impossibly tender, that it makes your chest crack open.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words are barely a whisper, meant only for you. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I was stupid and scared and I fucked up, and I know you're angry, and you have every right to be angry, but please—please just let me—"

"Stop." Your voice comes out broken, cracking in the middle. "Don't. I can't—"

"You can." His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and the gesture is so familiar, so achingly tender, that your eyes flood with tears. But you stubbornly refuse to let them fall. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything. You built this whole life from nothing, you made yourself into exactly who you wanted to be, and you don't need anyone, and I love that about you. I love everything about you. I love the way you laugh and the way you get excited when you eat good food and the way you get competitive about getting stupid little facts exactly right and the way you frown when you're focused and so many other little things. I love you. I've loved you since the first time you let me stay the night, and I was too scared to say it because I didn't think you'd want to hear it, because I thought I was just a name on your list, just a warm body, just someone you'd get bored of eventually—"

"You stopped texting me," you choke out, and the tears are falling now, hot and fast, tracking mascara down your cheeks. "You stopped texting me and then I saw you with her, I saw your hands on her, I saw—"

"I know." His voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper. "I know, and I hate myself for it. I was scared. Sunday was—Sunday was the best day of my life, and then Monday you went back to being casual, and I thought—l thought that after all it meant nothing to you. I thought I meant nothing to you. And I just—I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to stop hurting for five minutes. She was there, and she was easy, and she wasn't you, and I couldn't even—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I didn't sleep with her. I couldn't. You left and I stopped. I felt sick. Because she wasn't you. No one is you."

You stare up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your chest heaving. "You didn't sleep with her?"

"No." Seungcheol shakes his head, emphatic, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "No, baby, I didn't. I couldn't. The whole time I was just thinking about you. About how much I wished it was you. About how I'd ruined everything with you because I was too fucking scared to just openly tell you how I felt." He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for almost a year. And I know that's not what we agreed to, and I know you've got your rules and your roster and your whole thing about not catching feelings, and if you don't want me like that, if you just want this to be sex, l'll take whatever you'll give me. But I can't keep pretending I don't feel it. Not after Sunday. Not after I got to have you like that and then I thought l'd lost you."

The chat is going absolutely berserk at this point.

"OH MY GOD" / "HE'S IN LOVE WITH HER" / "THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER WITNESSED" / "I'M LITERALLY SOBBING" / "HE DIDNT SLEEP WITH THE OTHER GIRL" / "what other girl????" / "SOMEONE EXPLAIN THE LORE" / "she's crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "CONFESSION ON LIVE CAMERA" / "this is better than a drama" / "I'm screen recording this for posterity" / "THEY'RE SO IN LOVE IT HURTS" / "look at the way he's holding her face" / "DADDY IS GONE THIS IS JUST A MAN IN LOVE" / "$500 tip HOLY SHIT"

You don't see any of it. Your world has narrowed to the man above you, his face inches from yours, his eyes wet and earnest and terrified. The man who washed your hair and held your hand and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the centre of the universe. The man who hurt you, yes, but who's hurting too—who's been hurting this whole time, just as lost and scared and stupid as you've been.

"You love me," you whisper, tasting the words.

"I love you," he confirms, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I did the dumbest thing I've ever done because I thought you didn't love me back. And if you don't—if you can't—l understand. But needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud, at least once, even if it's in front of five thousand strangers."

A wet, hiccuping laugh escapes your throat. You glance at the monitor. "Six thousand. And climbing."

He blinks, then turns to look at it too. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, fuck."

"Yeah." You reach up and wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, smearing mascara across your knuckles and your cheeks. "We just did this on camera."

"We really did."

"Everyone saw."

"No doubt."

You should probably be mortified and scrambling to shut off the stream, to salvage some shred of privacy, to reclaim control of a situation that's spiralled completely out of your hands. But instead, you just feel... lighter. Like something that's been pressing on your chest for two weeks has finally lifted, and you can breathe again, really breathe, for the first time in days.

"I love you too," you say, and it's so scary to confess to it that your gut twists in a knot. "I've loved you for—I don't even know how long. It just happened and when I noticed it was already too late. I was just too scared to say it. I thought if I said it, you'd leave."

"I'm not leaving." His voice is fierce, almost angry and his big arms wrap tighter around you, as if you could escape. "I'm not everyone. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that on Sunday, and I meant it. I've got you. I'm always going to have you, if you'll let me. And I'm sorry that I made you doubt it but I'm not going anywhere anymore, just say the word."

"Even when I'm a disaster?"

"Especially when you're a disaster." He kisses your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose. "I love the disaster. I love the mess. I love all of it. I love you."

The chat, which you've been ignoring for several minutes now, is still scrolling at a pace that makes it totally unreadable now.

"THEY SAID I LOVE YOU" / "I'M CRYING IN THE CLUB RN" / "this is the most unhinged livestream i've ever watched and i've been subbed for 2 years" / "FROM CLAWING HIM UP TO LOVE CONFESSIONS" / "the emotional whiplash" / "SO ARE THEY TOGETHER NOW???" / "ask her to be your girlfriend COWARD" / "We just witnessed history" / "someone please tell me they're recording this" / "I'm never going to recover from this" / "BEST LIVESTREAM OF ALL TIME"

Seungcheol glances at the monitor and snorts at something he catches there. "They're telling me to ask you to be my girlfriend."

"Well," you say, and your voice is still watery but there's a smile tugging at your lips now, small and tentative but real, "are you going to?"

He looks back at you, and the expression on his face is so open, so hopeful, so overflowing with love—his baby cow eyes staring at you so intently—that it makes your heart stutter. "Will you? Be my girlfriend? For real this time? No roster, no rules, no pretending we're just casual?"

"Yes." The response comes out before you can overthink it, before you can second-guess, before the fear can creep back in and steal your voice. "Yes, Cheol. I want to be yours. I've wanted to be yours for a while, I just didn't have the courage."

The smile that breaks across his face is so bright it nearly blinds you. His dimples appear like a secret, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks so genuinely, incandescently happy with that gummy smile of his that it makes your chest ache in the best possible way and you can't help a responding smile that finds its way to your lips.

"She said yes," he announces to your viewers, like it's a victory, like he's just won the championship and the world cup all at once. "Did you hear that? She said yes!"

The chat erupts.

"SHE SAID YES" / "WE HEARD WE ALL HEARD" / "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE" / "CONGRATULATIONS DADDY YOU DID IT" / "from toxic situationship to marriage in one livestream" / "I'm throwing a virtual wedding RIGHT NOW" / "FINALLY OMFG" / "the slow burn paid off y'all" / "I've been subscribed for 18 months and this is the most satisfying conclusion I could have imagined" / "they're both crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "SOMEONE CLIP THAT" / "this is going to go viral omg"

You laugh, and Seungcheol laughs with you, and then he's kissing you again—soft this time, gentle, mindful of his split lip—and you're melting into him the way you always do, the way you only ever do for him.

"We should probably," you murmur against his mouth, "acknowledge the fact that we just trauma-dumped our entire relationship drama in front of six thousand people."

"Seven thousand now actually," he corrects, and his voice is sheepish but still giddy. "And I think there's more coming in."

"Oh my god."

"It's fine." He kisses the corner of your mouth, then pulls back to look at the camera. "Hey, everyone. Thanks for witnessing my emotional breakdown, I guess. Sorry it wasn't sexier."

"Speak for yourself," you mutter loud enough for the stream to catch, and he laughs again, that bright boyish laugh that makes your heart do backflips and somersaults.

The chat, predictably, disagrees with his assessment.

"This was the sexiest thing I've ever seen and it wasn't even sex" / "emotional vulnerability IS sexy" / "you apologized and confessed your feelings that's better than porn" / "We still want to see you fuck though" / "yeah don't think you're off the hook" / "now that you're officially together give us the makeup sex" / "MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX"

Seungcheol reads the last few comments and raises an eyebrow at you. "They have a point."

You roll your eyes, but the heat is already starting to pool in your belly again, slow and sweet, accelerated by this dopamine rush you just unleashed onto yourselves, your body remembering that you were worked up before all of this started and Seungcheol is still here, still solid and warm and now he's also yours, finally fully all yours. "You're insatiable."

"For you? Always." He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. "But if you want to stop the stream, we can. Whatever you want."

You consider it. Your makeup is ruined, your emotions are raw, and you've just exposed the most vulnerable parts of your relationship to an audience of thousands. The sensible thing would be to end the stream, crawl under the covers with him, and figure out the rest in private.

But then you look at him—his swollen lip, his flushed cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters—and you think, fuck it. You've never been very good at being sensible anyway.

"Let's give them what they want," you tell him, and your voice comes out husky. "If I am going all in then it's all in."

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach for the hem of his hoodie and tug it upward until he's forced to take it off and throw it somewhere on the floor, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, some fresh bruises from the drills, the fresh red scratches you've just carved into his back. Fuck you missed him like that so much. The urge to crawl under his skin and curl there is gnawing at your sanity. "Show them how you love me. Show them you're mine."

"I'm yours," he agrees, and his voice is a growl now, rough with renewed want. "Always been yours. Always will be."

He captures your mouth in another kiss, and this one is different—deeper, hungrier, the apology and the confession giving way to something more primal and soothingly familiar. His hands find your hips and pull you against him, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath his sweatpants, pressing insistently against your thigh. Your cunt throbs in response, already soaked, already aching for him, and you moan into his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair that already dried up.

The chat, which has been demanding makeup sex for the past ten minutes, gets exactly what it asked for.

Seungcheol strips you out of your lingerie with reverent hands, his mouth following every inch of newly exposed skin—your shoulders, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the sensitive undersides where his tongue traces patterns that make you shiver. He takes his time with your nipples, sucking them out of their shy inverted state until they're hard and pebbled and glistening with his spit, and you arch into his mouth with breathy gasps and tiny needy mewls that the camera definitely picks up.

"Love your tits," he murmurs against your skin, and the words are familiar, a call-back to every other time he's said them, but tonight they land differently. Tonight they feel like a premise to something so much bigger than just an arrangement. "Love how responsive you are. Love how you moan for me."

"Cheol—"

"Shh." He kisses down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you how much I missed you."

He settles between your legs, draping your thighs over his shoulders, and looks at your cunt with the kind of reverent hunger that always makes your breath catch. You're dripping, your folds slick and puffy and flushed, your clit a hard little pearl peeking out from its hood, begging for attention. He runs a finger through your wetness, spreading it around, and then brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean, his eyes fluttering closed like he's tasting the sweetest syrup on earth.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Missed this. Missed your taste. Missed the way you get so wet for me."

"Then stop talking and eat my pussy," you manage, and your voice is wrecked already, barely a whisper even though you aimed for something more smug and commanding. Still, it doesn't fail to make him get to work.

Seungcheol grins, feral and sharp. "Yes, ma'am."

His mouth descends on your cunt, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your hips bucking against his face, and he groans in response, the vibration travelling straight through your sensitive flesh. His tongue is thick and clever as always, alternating between plunging into your hole and flicking against your clit, and he's alternating it with wet smooches and filthy slurps, and his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open against his face like he wants to crawl inside you and stay there, like he always does.

"So fucking good," he grunts, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. "Best pussy I've ever tasted. Best pussy in the world. My pussy."

"Yours," you gasp, and the word feels different now, heavier, more real. Certainly real, not just cheap dirty talk to throw around. And the notion turns you on so much more. "Yours, Cheol, always yours—"

He groans against your clit, and the sound is so unrestrained, so desperate, that it sends you toward the edge like a speeding freight train going off rails. Your fingers fist in his hair and your thighs clamp around his head so hard you're briefly scared that you're either going to strangle him or squish his scull but the thought is fleeting. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming against his tongue while he works you through it, gentler now, lapping at your oversensitive flesh until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away.

Only then does he pull back, his chin glistening with your wetness, his swollen lip beaded with fresh blood from where his mouth stretched too wide. He looks up at you with eyes that are practically black, and the sight of him—ruined by just having you and so beautiful in his want and all yours—makes your spent cunt clench around nothing.

"That's one," he says, and rises to his knees. His cock is straining against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot where his precum has soaked through the gray fabric. "Now I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fill you up so good and reclaim this pretty pussy. Gonna make sure everyone watching knows exactly who you belong to."

"Already know," you breathe. "Already yours. Just—please, Cheol, please fuck me—"

Seungcheol doesn't make you wait. He shoves his sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock, too desperate to care for full undressing. You've seen him so many times and yet the sight of him thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, fat girthy inches of pure, aching need—never fails to make you salivate. He positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and you're so wet that he slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your waiting cunt without any resistance.

The sound you both make is obscene—a shared groan that fills the room, fills the stream, fills the ears of eight thousand people who are absolutely losing their minds in the chat.

"FINALLYYYYY THE MAIN EVENT" / "the way he just slid in so easy she was so ready" / "THAT GROAN" / "I need a cold shower after that" / "they're so in love and so hot at the same time" / "this is the best livestream in the history of onlyfans" / "DADDY IS BACK FOR REAL THIS TIME" / "look at how he's looking at her" / "I don't know whether to swoon or be a horndog" / "I'm never going to emotionally recover from this stream"

"I love you," Seungcheol says, and the words are strained, his hips already starting to move in slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

"I love you too," you gasp, your legs wrapping and locking around his waist, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Love you so much, Cheol, please don't stop—"

"Not stopping." He punctuates the promise with a harder thrust, and you moan, your back arching off the bed, feeling the sweet sparks building back up in your belly. "Never leaving. Never letting you go. You're mine. You're finally mine."

He fucks you like he means it—deep and steady and devastatingly thorough, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every stroke, his cock filling you so completely that you can feel him in your throat. The wet sounds of your bodies fill the room—the slick squelch of your cunt, the sharp slap of skin on skin, the broken praise falling from both your lips. He tells you you're beautiful, tells you you're perfect, tells you you're the best thing that's ever happened to him, and you sob your agreement into his mouth, your orgasm building at the base of your spine like a tidal wave.

"Gonna come," you whimper. "Cheol, I'm gonna—"

"Come for me, baby." His thumb finds your clit and presses down in tight, perfect circles. "Cream on my cock. Show me you're mine."

You shatter.

The orgasm is crushing—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out. "Gonna cum inside you, baby, gonna pump you so full—"

"Do it," you gasp. "Please, Cheol, please do it inside me, want to feel it—"

He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's burying himself deep and cumming, his cock pulsing inside you as he pumps rope after rope of hot, thick spend against your walls. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—sends you over the edge for a third time, a smaller but no less intense orgasm that makes your pussy milk him dry.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you wrap your arms around him and hold on.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You just lie there, tangled together, his cock still lodged deep inside you, his cum slowly leaking out around his shaft. His breath is warm against your neck, and his heart is pounding against your ribs in sync with yours, and you can feel every inch of him, solid and real and here.

"We should probably," he says eventually, his voice muffled against your skin, "check the chat."

"Mm." You don't move. "Do we have to?"

"I think we broke them."

"Probably."

He lifts his head to look at the monitor, and his expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, amusement, something that might be embarrassment because his ears begin to turn bright pink. "Uh. There are ten thousand people watching."

"What?"

"Well… ten thousand. And climbing."

You turn your head to look at the monitor, and sure enough, the view count is sitting at 10,247, and the chat is scrolling so fast it's barely legible.

"THEY'RE DONE" / "that was the hottest thing i've ever gooned to" / "HE CAME INSIDE HER" / "I'm crying and horny at the same time" / "This was better than any movie" / "FROM EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN TO LOVE CONFESSION TO MAKEOUT TO SEX" / "I'm subscribing for life" / "congrats on the sex and the relationship" / "they're just lying there now" / "look at them they're so cute" / "post-fuck cuddling is what we deserve yes"

You laugh at that last one you manage to catch, and the sound is breathless and giddy and maybe a little hysterical. "We just livestreamed our entire relationship drama and then had makeup sex in front of ten thousand people."

"We did," Seungcheol agrees. He looks down at you, his expression soft and wondering. "Any regrets?"

You consider it. You think about the roster, the rules, the walls you've spent three years building. You think about the girls who whisper when you walk past, the boyfriends who look too long, the reputation and a character that's defined you for so long you almost forgot there was a person underneath it. You think about that Sunday morning, the cafe, the way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world. And you think about tonight—the confession, the tears, the way he'd let you claw him almost bloody and then held you anyway. The way he'd had ten thousand strangers witness him telling you he loved you and didn't care who heard it. The way he's looking at you right now, like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"None," you say, and mean it. "No regrets."

"Good." He kisses you, soft and sweet, mindful of his split lip. "Because I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." You reach up and touch his face, your thumb tracing the edge of his dimple. "I believe you."

And you do. You really, really do.

He pulls out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of his cum sliding down your thighs. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth while you show off for your audience—a little lazy because your bones are all jelly and very smug because you always love to brag about what Seungcheol does to you—and he cleans you up with the same gentle thoroughness he used on your face that Friday night when he brought you home after that party.

"Alright," he says when he's done, turning to the camera with his best captain-of-the-rugby-team authority, which is somewhat undermined by the fact that he's still half-naked and his lip is swollen and his ears are actually burning bright red now that everything's catching up to him. "Show's over. Go drink some water. Go to sleep. We'll see you next time."

You tug him back down to the bed, curling into his side, your head on his chest. "Yeah," you add, addressing the camera with a smile that's genuine for the first time in weeks. "Thanks for witnessing our emotional carnage. Sorry it wasn't the usual programming. We'll be back to regularly scheduled filth soon."

"Very soon," Seungcheol murmurs, and you elbow him in the ribs.

The chat protests, as expected—a flood of "NOOOOO" and "DON'T GO" and "STREAM FOREVER" and "THIS WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE"—but you just laugh and blow them a kiss and reach for the laptop.

"Goodnight, everyone. Thanks for being here. Love you all."

"WE LOVE YOU TOO" / "GOODNIGHT DADDY AND DADDY'S GIRLFRIEND" / "this was unironically the best livestream i've ever watched" / "CONGRATS ON THE RELATIONSHIP" / "see you next time!!" / "sweet dreams you two" / "I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM"

You switch off the stream.

The silence that follows is sudden and absolute, broken only by the sound of both of you breathing, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustle of sheets as he pulls you closer. The ring light is still glowing, casting warm amber shadows across the ceiling, and you should turn it off, clean up properly, do a dozen different things that feel very far away right now.

"I love you," Seungcheol says into the quiet, and his voice is soft, private, meant only for you.

"I love you too," you whisper back. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."

"Don't apologize." His hand traces lazy patterns on your spine, the same way it always does, and your eyes flutter closed. "We got there in the end. That's what matters."

"The end," you repeat, and the word feels strange to your ear. You wouldn't call it an ending, really. A beginning—yes. The start of something new and terrifying and maybe—probably—the best thing you've ever been brave enough to try.

"The beginning," he corrects, as if reading your mind. "This is just the beginning, baby. We've got a lot more mornings to figure out."

Your throat tightens. You press your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—fresh sweat and soap and home—and let yourself believe it.

"Stay," you murmur, already half-asleep. "Stay with me for the night, don't want to let you go yet."

"Always," he says, and presses a kiss to your hair. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

And this time, you don't doubt it. Not even a little.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.

But he finds it endearing all the same, enjoying it, even.

He loves it even more when you start doing it more often in public. He’s able to see the hunger in your eyes from a mile away and it sends a chill down his spine each and every time he catches you.

He’s posing with nonchalance for their concept photos when you first arrive, eyes darting over his form and caging your bottom lip between your teeth. He had acknowledged you with a curt smile and a nod of his head before continuing with the shoot, his own body wanting nothing more than to greet you fully in a warm embrace and kiss to your already swollen lips.

Though, as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, you’re beating him to it. You cross the set with a few quick strides in his direction before melting against him, ducking your head beneath his chin to press an innocent peck to his jaw.

He welcomes you with a tight squeeze around the hips and continues to rock you back and forth while you breathe in his scent.

“Missed you so much,” you admit with a pathetic whine. You weren't normally this needy, much less in public, but today felt different. It felt.. wrong, for once, waking up to an empty bed and a phone full of updates from his weverse, yet not a single message from him directly to you.

You knew he was busy. Hell, your relationship had been built off of his grueling schedule, back when he was promoting his second album with his group and you becoming a staff member of a sister company. He was beyond unavailable and yet you found it difficult to keep your eyes off of him. Unbeknownst to you, he was equally as desperate when it came to your attention. The few instances your schedules would align left the both of you scrambling against the clock to further familiarize yourselves with one another, and eventually build a connection from a few fleeting glances and brief conversations.

Fast forward to now, things had only progressed in both of your careers, your lives busier than ever. You’ve been officially dating for three years and whilst primarily kept under wraps, your heart longed more and more for the opportunity to remind him of your devotion to him.

Much to your embarrassment, your loyalty presented itself with an unexplainable urge to swallow him whole and take every inch of his skin between your teeth without an ounce of shame.

Hence your current predicament; Seuncheol had his arms thrown lazily around your frame as you swayed, ever so blind to the scheming smile gracing your features. You leaned back, arching yourself against him as he questioned you with pinched brows.

To his surprise, you’d managed all the strength you had and utilized his obliviousness to your advantage, yanking him by the back of his neck and crashing your lips together with haste.

His hitched breath encourages you to move impossibly closer, your chests beating against one another with every jolt of your racing hearts.

The sheer intensity of the kiss is short lived when you detach from him with one last smack of your lips. Drunk on the high you’ve fed him, Seungcheol attempts to chase your lips, urging you to continue.

His silent pleas amuse you, enticing you to lean in towards his ear and whisper,

“Be good for me, Cheol. Go do your job and make me proud.”

You send him off with a playful nip to his cheek, your canines grazing the skin gently, cautious of the hours worth of effort his makeup artists have put in. His eyes follow your retreating form as you find your place behind the cameras.

He’s an hour and a half into taking naturally candid photos around the rented estate, and it’s driving you nuts.

The setting does little to ease your eagerness to claim him right then and there, offering a much more domestic and personal light to his preexisting bachelor aura.

He’s a fucking housewife, your mind offers you to no particular request. Your grip on your jacket’s strings falters when a deep, raspy voice presents itself near the cusp of your ear.

“Did he mention the next shoot to you?”

“Hm?” You respond, sparing Mingyu a passive glance before settling back on your deity of a man leaning over the terrace.

“We’re going swimming, if you wanted to join afterwards.”

“Why would I join?” You reply coolly.

“Well considering how much you’re drooling right now from him just standing there, I figured you’d want to indulge in having him in less layers for a few hours once we wrap up.” He grins.

Your skin burns from where he perches his chin on your shoulder, striking your body in flames as you try your best to shove your thoughts away. You can’t just indulge in your boyfriend’s near nudity just for a few hours. You know you don’t have that kind of self restraint when it comes to seeing him topless and unblemished.

“Mingyu, respectfully,” you turn to him slowly. “Get lost.”

His laugh reverberates against your arm as he tosses his top half against you, bracing himself as he catches his breath. Your sneer recoils into a smile as you catch Seungcheol’s curious glance from across the room.

His posture tenses while raking his eyes over you and mingyu, taking a moment to readjust before continuing his scene. The photographer calls for a break just a few moments later, satisfied with the outcome.

Your body is moving before you register it, slipping out of Mingyu’s reach with one last glare before you’re crashing into Seungcheol’s rigid chest.

“Baby,” he says softly, taking your arms and wrapping them around his waist before placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “Are you staying for the whole shoot?”

“Do you want me to?” You ask coyly, having preemptively cleared your own schedule in favor of following his.

“I always love having you here, you know that.” He smiles.

“Then I’ll stay.” You say and rise on your tip toes to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you two tired of being this clingy?” Mingyu invades your bubble in just a few seconds, separating your bodies with a sudden jut of his hip to yours.

You scowl at him as you’re rudely tossed to the side. His shit eating grin grazes his stupidly handsome features while returning your attention to him.

You two had always been at each other’s throats, both playfully and unwittingly at times. He was your best friend, nonetheless, but it sent Seungcheol’s mind reeling with how kittenish you became when he was around.

Something in his chest twinged with envy and had jealousy rearing its ugly head every once in a while when you two stood too close together, shared a meal during his turns to film or pose for photos, or even as you bantered and bickered in front of him.

He knew it was nothing. Knew you loved him too much to replace him so easily, nevertheless with his own friend and group mate.

“You’re just jealous, Gyu.” You huffed while snaking your arms around Seungcheol’s middle again.

“Me? Jealous?” He gasped, feigning an appalled expression while placing a hand to his chest.

“Yah,” Seungcheol growled. “Get lost before I call Heejoo and tell her you’re moping around on set.”

Mingyu’s eyes wander to the ground at that, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck as he begins backing away solemnly. The mention of his current situation-ship seems to strike him a lot harder than you’d both expected, and you smirk at his crumbling confidence.

“You’re a dick for that.” He grumbles toward your boyfriend, unable to hide the sudden flush peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.

Seungcheol grunts at him once more, sending the younger man away with another dismissive threat before finally turning his attention to you.

“Will you help me put some sunscreen on before the next set?”

The following hour of camerawork concludes with a brief discussion about tomorrow’s expected schedule, all the more exhausting and seemingly endless as the last. You can see the fatigue draped over Seungcheol's features from where you stand, plummeting your heart into your stomach as you continue to watch him, mingyu and the team wearily deliberate future activities and propositions for upcoming promotions.

With a supportive clap to their backs, the team dissipates around them to end their workdays.

You take the remaining opportunity after the last staff member's departure to approach your boyfriend, your hands instinctually attached to his neck and puling him toward you. He moves pliantly, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your shoulder and neck as he exhales tiredly.

"Long day, bunny?" you remark quietly, raking your nails across the nape of his neck.

"Too long," he grumbles, ignoring the nickname you know normally grinds his gears any other day. You feel his muscles returning to their tense state as he removes himself from you begrudgingly.

"Can you stay the night?" The light in his eyes flicker with something akin to hope before clouding with uncertainty at the sound of your defeated sigh.

"I have a meeting early in the morning. Have to meet with the company to discuss some upcoming solo works." Your words fall on deaf ears as he's already groaning and pouting, choosing to disregard your excuse in favor of throwing a short-lived fit.

"I can have someone drive you early in the morning?" His offer hangs heavily in the space between you, an offer you really want to take him up on.

To your misfortune, calling out for today was enough of a reason for your company to dismiss you of your duties permanently should you choose to do it again.

The short notice had thrown your team for a whirlwind, a mini crisis plaguing the workplace and blowing up your phone for the entirety of your time spent watching Seungcheol. You were ashamed to admit it out loud, but you'd give anything to quit and replace your priorities with becoming a stay at home simp for your boyfriend. You'd give anything to watch him all day long, cling to him at every beck and call, and devote yourself to being the best version of yourself you could be for him.

Were you insane for thinking that far? yes.

Were you that serious about him? also yes.

You couldn't help the pained complaint that escaped your throat upon seeing his face fall. It shredded every single piece of you to know you couldn't stay, and even more so when he began to beg for you to.

"Please? at least for a few hours? 'Till I fall asleep?" His eyes drift between yours, searching for any bit of redemption, consideration, confirmation.

Removing your hands, you smooth over your features to look at your watch, noting the late hour and the dread pestering your mind. Your notifications peer back at your for a second, reminding you of the dedication you had to your work for the following morning.

It would only be a few hours, you consider.

A beat of silence passes by before you inevitably agree with a nod of your head. "Okay."

To say he's elated would be an understatement. He's over the moon at your response, immediately linking your fingers and dragging you inside the airbnb, shifting his direction towards the bedroom as you enter.

"I'll take a shower and then we can watch a movie!" He suggests after leading you to the bed where you sit patiently, smiling as he trips over his own two feet while dashing toward the bathroom.

God, you can't believe he's yours.

"Did you know you had a mole here?"

Seungcheol meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror, watching you trail your nails down his spine as he finishes his skin routine at the bathroom sink. You've since changed into a spare set of his clothes, a simple t-shirt that drapes over your dips and curves and ends just past the apex of your thighs.

His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it normally does, mouth subconsciously watering at the sight of you.

"I don't think so." He chuckles softly while returning to his process of unfolding a face mask and spreading it across his features carefully.

"Your back is so..." your voice drawls with a pensive hum, considering your words intently before continuing. "boring."

"Huh?" He turns in your grasp, catching the faint smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.

"It's just missing something." You utter.

"Like what?" he murmurs, his lips pursed in effort to keep his mask from slipping.

Your grin spreads along your face, head cocking to the side as you maneuver your hands over the expanse of his bare chest, raising goosebumps along his skin in their wake.

"Could use a little more me on it."

You spot the shift in his demeanor, shoulders tensing slowly, eyes sharpening, and the veins in his neck straining as he swallows dryly. You don't give him a chance to act on his desire, gracefully pinning his wrists against the counter and slipping your tongue out to lap at the flushed skin of his neck.

His groan rumbles from between your pressed chests, audibly forfeiting all control as you continue to press open mouthed kisses to his throat. His hips buck desperately when he feels your teeth graze just past his jugular, sinking deeper into his flesh with every breath he gasps.

"Baby," he whimpers against your persistence. You pull back, relishing in the subtle chase of his lips toward yours, halting just out of his reach with an arched brow.

"Bunny?" you counter, urging him to proceed with what he needs to say.

"Can't." He whines, overwhelming mortified with displeasure for having to restrain himself.

"Can't what?" You probe innocently, inching closer once more, guiding him back to you by the draw strings of his shorts. He lulls forward without resistance, drawn to your lips with nothing except a mere inch between them.

"Can't be marked. Not now." He says petulantly, eyes downcast as he drops his head, dejected.

Your heart thuds against your rib cage at that, growing restless as fondness ebbs away at your brain, turning it into mush. He knows you so well, knows that you need to mark him up, leave your presence on his skin for everyone to see how taken he is.

Love smothers your senses, your head cloudy and full of him. Your everything. Your person.

You reach to curl your fingers through his blonde, wet strands, tugging with enough force to lift his head once more. He moans quietly at that, his own hands finding purchase on your hips as he stares at you through his dark lashes.

You smile and tap his bicep with your free hand. You notice his eyes trailing your features hungrily before placing a gentle kiss to his muscle, right below his shoulder.

"'S okay, Bunny." You coo.

His arm flexes under the warmth of your fanning breath, twitching with every peck of your lips you lead up his arm and toward his chest.

You freeze once you've reached his collar bone, slowing your breathing and blowing a long, heavy exhale that mists over his already clammy skin. You smirk triumphantly at his muted mewl, watching his chest rise and fall erratically.

"I won't mark your pretty skin just yet," you reassure calmly, your hand still twisted in his hair as you pull it experimentally once more, lavishing his skin in praises when he moans.

"Stay still for me, m'kay?"

You don't wait for his response before sinking your teeth near his clavicle with pressure, not enough to break skin but plenty to stimulate both him and you when he ruts against you.

"Gentle," He reminds you through brief, measured breaths.

"I know, I know." you chide and release your grip on his hair briefly to instead hold his throat between your hands.

His eyes peer down at you for a short moment before flashing you a playful grin. You mirror it with your own before squeezing lightly at his neck, reveling in the meek sound he coughs out.

"So pretty," you murmur lovingly. "All mine to play with however I want. Whenever I want."

To his dismay, his nod is restrained and dismissed by you when you apply just a bit more pressure, your gaze darkening as he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, wordlessly pleading for more. You oblige and wedge your knee between his thighs, now aware of how engrossed he truly was upon feeling his pulsing erection against your bare skin.

"Is this why you wanted me to stay so bad? So you could be manhandled by your pretty girlfriend? Hm?"

Your hands release him, dropping to your sides as he heaves a few labored breaths, his eyes never once leaving your retreating form as you saunter toward the bed, patting the space beside you once you're perched at the edge.

He carries himself on wobbly legs to where you sit, landing ungracefully onto the bed with a soft "oof" before reaching a hand out toward you. You link your hands together momentarily, allowing yourself to soak in the appearance of his current state; dazed, spent, and utterly beautiful with every inch of his skin painted a bright red by an angry flush.

"Roll onto your belly for me, Cheolie." you direct.

He does so without complaint, damningly compliant to your every command. You absentmindedly trace shapes into his spine, your lips curling into a smile each time he flinches against the brush of your nails.

He rests his head against his folded arms, unintentionally flexing his muscles at the broadness of his shoulder blades. You chuckle, quietly shifting your attention to the taut skin, lowering yourself to place lingering kisses.

A sigh creeps out of his deflating body, audibly enjoying your attention. You proceed to kiss your way up, pausing to nip at the fat of his arms playfully and releasing a giggle of your own when he claims he's ticklish with a laugh.

You bite back the quip on your tongue, choosing to focus more on his twitching hips by running your hand over the smooth skin of his arched lower back. He hums, satisfied, and groans when your begin to pull his shorts down his thighs, allowing them to fall aimlessly to the ground.

He jolts upright when your hand collides with a loud smack against his ass, immediately coiling into himself with a yelp.

"What, you can do it by I can't?" You joke when he replies with a harmless glare.

"I'm not letting you peg me, if that's what you're leading up to." He chastises with narrowed eyes.

You feign a look of betrayal, simultaneously guiding him onto his back once more as you move to straddle his hips.

"Tough, I really wanted to see your cute little ass all perked up for me." You can't hold back the devious giggle that threatens to escape you, fully leaning against his chest to stabilize yourself.

"You're insane." He huffs with an eye roll.

"Yeah, but it's kind of cute." Your smile lingers a moment longer as he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and everlasting.

It's then that you lift your head and laugh once more, your fingers reaching to remove his face mask he'd long forgotten.

"I was really trying to keep a straight face!" You giggled. He levels you with a bashful scowl, turning away from your gaze as you settle down with a quiet sigh.

In the blink of an eye, your playful character is gone, replaced by your previous deviant nature.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He murmurs against your skin when you begin grinding your clothed pussy onto his exposed cock.

"I better act quick then," You retort while reaching down and clutching onto your panties to pull them side, angling your sopping folds to trail over the head of his cock.

"Fuck, Bunny. You're so fucking perfect." You groan into the dip of his shoulder, pressing yourself harder against him. His grip on your waist returns, clambering against your ministrations.

"Just— just take me already." He grits out through a particularly sharp inhale. "And don't call me bunny— shit —while we're fucking, jesus."

"You got it, Bunny." Your voice cracks ever so slightly as you begin your descent down his length, abdomen flexing with every ragged breath you take as he breaches your entrance. The stretch is painful, tearing you apart no matter how many times you've taken it. Tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill before you finally settle, flush to his groin with a shaky breath.

"Oh fucking hell," He moans deeply. He recovers with a sudden shift of his hips, stripping you of all power you previously obtained.

You lurch forward with a startled mewl, your face falling between the crevice of his jaw and throat. Your mouth latches on helplessly, teeth grazing the stubble of his chin and biting down impishly.

He returns the favor, pausing to rip your (his) shirt off and tossing it aside hurriedly, attaching his mouth to the mound of your breast, nibbling at the supple flesh and grinding up into you when you elicit a borderline pornographic moan.

"Please, Cheol, please." You moan against his ear, grinding against him feverishly. Your begging fuels him further, ripping every ounce of self restraint out of him, replaced with an insatiable appetite only you can satisfy.

"You're so beautiful, baby. I'm gonna let you mark me as soon as all of this is over. Soon, my love. So soon." His attempts to soothe your desires warm your insides, your knees near gelatinous as he rams into your pulsating heat without a second regard or worry.

You feel his pace quickening with every plunge, your own movements futile in contrast with his. Your back hits the mattress in a flash, your legs forcefully pinned to your sides as he impales you over and over.

Your moans melt into short, wispish screams when you feel his mouth latch onto your breasts again, leaving deep, bruising indents from his teeth.

The mere idea of him biting you, the same way you've done with every given opportunity in the past, has your legs clenching against his waist, your teeth clamping around your lips as you feel yourself release into the euphoria of your climax.

"More, Cheol, please more—I want—I need more." Your cries fill his chest with pleasure and vanity, thrusting him head-first into the deep end of your satisfaction. He comes with a choked out cry, muffling the sound into your chest as he curls inwards, pumping himself dry into your tightening core.

"Baby," his hand leaves your waist to settle on your sweaty cheek, caressing the crimson skin as he adores your spent features. "You did so good, my love. so good for me."

You groan softly in reply, motioning for him to lay beside you with a limp wrist. He chuckles softly and gently pries himself free of your tight cunt with a groan.

“One more round?” You mumbles into the pillows, peeking an eye in his direction to catch the faint grin on his dewy face.

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Shit,” he hisses. “Slow down.”

Your tongue slips between the slit of his cock, catching every last drop of his seed from his second release.

If there’s anything you’ve learned about your boyfriend in the past three years of dating him, it’s that he’s prone to over sensitivity after his second high. While you can recover relatively quickly after an orgasm, his stamina is overmatched by the mere pain of reaching another climax so short apart.

It’s something you both teetered the line with, not knowing whether it was right or even possible to milk him for as many rounds as he could. But, much like the rest of your ideas and suggestions, he couldn’t say no to you.

So you pumped his cock even faster, watching his jaw slack and chin quiver with a cry as he came down from his third match.

“You’re doing great, bunny.” You encourage, slowing your pace down to run a stripe along the side of his length with your tongue.

His brows dip and another moan escapes him. “You’re— you’re killing me.”

“Mh,” you hum. With a final tug to his half hard cock, you trail your lips over the smooth surface of his inner thigh, relishing in his breathy exhales.

“You’re always so good for me.” You say.

The tip of your tongue traces the faint stretch marks of his upper thigh, nearing the edge of his hip where you still.

The pads of your fingers skim over the flesh before you’re leaning forward and clamping your mouth down full force, undoubtedly leaving a mark this time.

You hear his choked shriek of pleasure and pain, the sudden grip on your hair paired with it.

“Fuck! ‘M gonna come again.” His voice lilts, pitched higher than usual.

You continue to pepper kisses along his waistline before meeting his opposite thigh with another skin-breaking bite. Your moan pulsates against the irritated skin, soothing the burn and easing the mark against the fat of his thigh to an eventual bruise with the flat of your tongue.

“Can’t take anymore.” He cries desperately, loosening his fingers wrapped around your disheveled locks as he comes down from his final release.

You give in to his whining after another brief moment of caressing the enflamed skin. You carefully ascend up his hiccuping body, tiny pecks littering his bareness before you connect your mouth with his with the upmost tenderness you could possibly muster.

“I love you so much.” You speak quietly against his lips.

His eyes remain shut, fluttering in and out of consciousness as he nods his head in response.

“Love you too.” He murmurs.

Laying your head on his chest, your entire being laxes against him, fully satiated and enraptured in his presence. A hand creeps up your waist, squeezing your side carefully as his body deflates beneath you with a deep exhale.

You could never truly thank him enough for indulging in your antics. You’re aware your love languages are drastically different; yours being entirely unhinged and bordering aggressive, where as his is prevalent in his gentle mannerisms, gift giving and pure compliance when it comes to you.

Nevertheless, the love you both have for one another surpasses all expectations and continues to surprise you day after day, year after year.

Even if you have to hide your love bites from the public eye.

< A/N: fin! this took a lot less time to write than i anticipated, despite the fact that smut tends to discourage my creativity. but! after getting all of my thoughts out and returning to the storyline with fresh ideas and inspiration, i was able to pump out a pretty decent chunk of raunch to satisfy my expectations for my first time writing smut.

that being said, i hope this flows well and encourages you to leave a comment or repost! feedback and suggestions are always appreciated. :) thanks!!!

you sat up straighter, “a donor? you mean like….at the neo orgasm clinic?”

you’ve been hearing about this clinic for days now. it was everywhere – tiktok, instagram reels, even on facebook.

like temptation dressed up as self-care, like sin daring you to cheat on your boyfriend. the kind of thing you scrolled past too quickly before the thought could burrow too deep…so now, hearing the words from his mouth, left you shocked and confused.

the air between you went thick. you love felix, you really, really do.

but for the past year, you’d been pretending the candlelit nights and whispered questions were enough. pretending his careful touches didn’t leave you restless, frustrated and unfulfilled.

he was sweet, thoughtful, his voice alone can get you wet in seconds…but none of it was ever enough to make you feel alive under his hands.

felix laughed softly, cheeks pink even in the dim light.

“yeah. one of the guys told me he and his girlfriend tried it. he said it helped her figure out what she really liked. and…i just…want that for you too.”

“love, you’re really serious with this?” you asked, searching his face, heart squeezing at the honesty in his tone, at the gentleness in his eyes.

“dead serious,” he said. his smile was sad, but earnest.

he reached for your hand immediately, threading his fingers through yours.

“i love you, but i know i’m not giving what you need. i know i’m too afraid to push too far,” his thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, “you deserve to…explore, to feel everything, to know what it’s like to be wanted in that way.”

your chest tightened. this was the problem. he was always too sweet. too nice. too sensitive.

“and…you’ll still want me to be your girlfriend?”

“of course,” he said softly, without hesitation.

“one session. a hall pass. no guilt, no rules. i’ll be here after, the same as always. i just want you to be happy, you know?”

you squeezed his hand, your chest warm and aching all at once, “you really are the sweetest.”

“not sweet enough to make you moan the way you should,” he joked lightly, kissing the back of your hand. “

“so… let someone who can do it show you how.”

you laughed softly, lying back down beside him. but long after felix fell asleep, his words kept replaying in your head, circling through your thoughts until the idea burned like a brand.

✚ BOOK NOW ✚

it sounded outrageous when felix said it, but now, in the quiet, it felt less like a wild idea and more like an open door you couldn’t stop peeking through.

careful not to wake him, you slipped your phone from the nightstand and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. with your heart already pounding, you opened a browser and searched for the neo orgasm clinic’s website.

the site loaded in clean white with soft blue lettering, promising safe, healthy, satisfying orgasms for women.

you chewed your lip as you scrolled, each click pulling you deeper. what had once just been a rumor floating across your social media feed now unfolding in front of you like something tangible, real, available.

page after page detailed how the clinic worked —rigorous screenings, medical clearances, licensed donors, customizable boundaries. it was clinical enough to seem safe, yet daring enough to feel dangerous.

by the time you reached the sign up form, you were convinced.

step 1: medical verification. a form requesting a recent full panel of STI test within the last month.

you nodded to yourself. easy enough. you’ve only ever had sex with felix and you both knew you were clean.

step 2: sexual preferences and boundaries. the screen lit up with a list and instructions

check all acts you’re open to exploring with your donor. this does not guarantee they will occur. your donor will review and operate within your boundaries.

your pulse skipped. besides felix’s careful touches and a couple of unsatisfying encounters from the past, you’d never let anyone really do these things to you. really treat you like you were something unbreakable. but wasn’t that the point? to finally see what it was supposed to feel like?

you hesitated, only briefly, before clicking through, your finger steady as the list filled with checks:

☑️ anal play

☑️ bondage

☑️ choking

☑️ clitoral simulation

☑️ degradation

☑️ dirty talk

☑️ discipline

☑️ domination

☑️ edging

☑️ fingering

☑️ hair-pulling

☑️ kissing

☑️ nipple play

☑️ objectification

☑️ oral

☑️ orgasm control

☑️ praise

☑️ rough sex

☑️ slapping

☑️ spanking

☑️ vaginal penetration

you hovered over more darker options like knife play, pet play, whipping – but you scrolled past them. those options felt a bit too much for someone who’s only used to soft kisses and vanilla sex.

for now, you wanted to taste what it meant to be touched without hesitation. to feel the difference between “gentle” and “rough,” between “careful” and “hungry.” you wanted to be handled, pushed, maybe even broken down but in ways your body could understand. so you left the darkest boxes empty. not now. maybe not ever. and you hit next.

step 3: why are you booking this appointment?

you typed quickly, the words’s spilling out raw before you could second-guess:

my boyfriend is too careful. too soft. i want someone who isn’t afraid to break me. someone who can test my limits. someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. i don’t want sweet this time. i want rough. i want to be manhandled so bad i have to beg to stop.

step 4: choose your donor

the profiles loaded. each headshot paired with glowing blurbs. the men all looked impressive, polished, safe. but then a name kept appearing – lee haechan.

you clicked on him. his profile photo stared back at you — sharp jaw, mischievous eyes, a smirk that made your stomach flip. and beneath it is a badge with the words: #1 Most Mentioned in Reviews.

the testimonials weren’t neat paragraphs like the others. they were chaotic, breathless, typed like confessions:

“i came so many times i lost count. he bullied me into orgasms i didn’t even know my body could have.”

“started off playful, made me laugh, then had me crying into the sheets ten minutes later. he’s a menace.”

“he choked me out, spanked me raw and still somehow made me feel safe enough to fall asleep on his chest after. unreal.”

and the most captivating one of all:

“haechan will literally ruin your life in the best way possible. don’t book him unless you’re ready to walk funny for two days.”

you swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as you scrolled. these didn’t sound like warnings. they sounded like invitations. like exactly what you wanted.

your thumb hovered over the glowing blue button at the boom of the screen. you looked once more at felix’s sleeping figure before inhaling sharply and clicking — BOOK NOW.

Neo Orgasm Clinic Consultation: CONFIRMED

Donor: Haechan Lee

Date of Consultation: August 24, 2025

you set your phone down slowly, pulse still racing. the room was quiet. felix’s breathing even beside you. but you knew nothing about tonight was quiet anymore. the decision was made. the door was open. and once you stepped through it, there was no going back.

✚ THE CONSULTATION ✚

the clinic lobby was quieter than you expected. soft instrumental music floated through the speakers, the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus carried in the air. everything about the place whispered safe, professional, even though your stomach was doing flips.

felix was waiting in the car, parked in the parking lot, giving your hand one last squeeze before letting go. he didn’t come in with you, said he wanted you to have the space to do this your way.

“i’ll be here when you’re done,” he’d murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. the memory was still warm against your skin as you stepped toward the front desk.

the receptionist, taeyong, looked up the moment you approached the front desk. his calm smile didn’t falter.

“welcome to neo orgasm clinic,” he greeted, his voice warm but efficient as he asked you for your full name. you gave it softly, almost like whispering it might steady your nerves.

“ahh,” taeyong nodded, typing something into his screen, “consultation with donor haechan?”

you swallowed and nodded, clutching your bag a little together, “yes.”

“great,” he reached over the counter, placing a table in front of you, “before we proceed, kindly review your form one last time. you can add or remove any preferences now. remember, consent is required for everything.”

your throat felt dry as you picked up the tablet. the screen glowing back at you with your selections — seeing it all lined up again made your skin feel hot, your fingers tightening against the edges of the tablet. it was one thing to click boxes in your bedroom at midnight, it was another to see them listed here in the clinic, knowing someone else would be reading them.

for a moment, you almost backed out — you could hand the tablet back, tell taeyong you’d changed your mind, walk right out the door and have felix drive you home. but then you thought about felix’s gentle smile, the way his hand lingered on yours when he told you he wanted this for you and you forced yourself to breathe, scrolled all the way to the bottom, and tapped confirm.

the tablet pinged softly, the screen thanked you and welcomed you officially to the program.

taeyong took the tablet back, his expression calm as ever, “perfect. haechan will be out in a moment to bring you in for consultation. please, have a seat.”

you nodded and sat down on one of the low chairs near the lobby wall, smoothing your palms against your knees. the room was warm, the music soft, but every nerve in your body felt on high alert.

five minutes later, the door at the far end of the hall clicked open.

“ms. y/n?”

you looked up.

lee haechan strode into the lobby with easy confidence, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the quiet. he didn’t walk so much as he owned the space. like every eye should naturally follow him. dressed casually — black trousers, a cream sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing lean, toned forearms. he looked nothing like the clinical profiles on the website. he looked real. intimidatingly real.

his dark eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, before a slow grin curved across his lips. the kind of grin that said he’d already read every word of your form and was dying to use it against you.

“hi,” he said, his voice warm but threaded with mischief as he walked straight toward you, closing the space between you without hesitation. he extended a hand, palm steady, fingers long.

“i’m haechan. ready for your consultation?”

you blinked up at him, nerves tangling in your chest. you slipped your hand into his, the contact sending a little spark up your arm. “y-yes,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended.

his grin widened, thumb brushing deliberately against your knuckles before he let go, “cute,” he said under his breath, like it was just for you, before gesturing toward the consultation rooms.

“follow me.”

as you rose to your feet, you swore your legs felt a little less steady. he didn’t rush, walking at a pace that made it impossible not to notice the confidence in his stride — the kind that promised trouble. the kind you’d signed up for.

the consultation room wasn’t clinical the way you half-expected. it was warm, softly lit, with a low couch and a single chair across from it. a table between them held water bottles, tissues, and another tablet. the space felt intimate, not intimidating, though the pounding of your pulse didn’t ease one bit.

“sit,” haechan said lightly, gesturing toward the couch. he dropped into the chair opposite, lounging back in a way that made it look like he’d been born comfortable there.

you perched on the edge of the couch, clutching your hands together in your lap.

he reached for the tablet, swiping it open, his eyes scanning the screen. his grin was instant.

“well, well,” he drawled, glancing up at you, “you didn’t hold back.”

your stomach flipped, “i…i just checked what i thought i wanted.”

“good,” he tapped the screen, still smirking, “because honesty makes this whole thing easier. and a hell of a lot more fun.”

your face warmed at the casual way he said it, like wrecking you was as simple as marking his calendar.

he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes glinting as he read, “bondage, choking, degradation, spanking, rough sex…” his grin sharpened, “you sure you’ve never done any of these before?”

you shook your head quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks, “no. my boyfriend… he’s not… like that.”

“mmm,” haechan tilted his head, studying you for a long beat, like he was already peeling away your nerves piece by piece, “and does your boyfriend know you’re here today?”

your throat bobbed, “y-yes. it was his idea.”

that made his brow quirk higher, amused, “bold move,” he set the tablet down on the table with a little click and leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely over his chest. his eyes never left yours.

“but the real question is… do you want this?”

suddenly, the air felt heavier, his words landing harder than you expected. your lips parted, but no sound came out right away. you were aware of your heartbeat thundering in your ears, of the way his gaze didn’t waver.

“i…” you swallowed. it was hard to admit that your boyfriend’s touches weren’t enough so you mustered all your courage and forced the words out.

“yes. i do.”

he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, “here’s how this works,” he said, voice steady, serious even beneath the teasing curl of his lips.

“you set the boundaries. i play inside them. you feel unsafe, we stop. you don’t even have to explain yourself. the safe word is red. got it?”

you nodded quickly, “got it.”

“say it for me.”

“…red.”

“good girl.”

the praise slipped off his tongue so naturally it made your chest flutter. he leaned back again, crossing one ankle over his knee.

“now, about your list. you want rough, you’re gonna get rough. but…” his grin turned wicked, “i’ll decide just how much you can actually take. you might think you’re ready for everything you checked but it’s my job to find out where your limit really is.”

the room felt hotter, your pulse hammering as his words sank in.

“and don’t worry,” he added, voice dropping lower, darker, “i’m very, very good at finding limits.”

you exhaled shakily, pressing your thighs together.

haechan’s smirk softened then, a flicker of playfulness breaking through the edge in his tone.

“so, ms. y/n,” he said, drawing your name out just enough to make it sound like a tease, “are you ready to book your appointment?”

you nodded quickly, your voice a little breathless, “yes.”

“august 27,” he confirmed smoothly, tapping it into the system without looking away from you, “that okay with you?”

“yes,” you said again, firmer this time.

his grin widened, wolfish, as he set the tablet aside.

“then i’ll see you on the 27th.”

he stood, offering you his hand to shake like it was the neat wrap-up of a business deal, except the glint in his eyes made it clear it was anything but.

Neo Orgasm Clinic Session: CONFIRMED

Client: Y/N L/N

Donor: Haechan Lee

Date of Session: August 27, 2025

✚ THE APPOINTMENT ✚

felix’s car rolled to a stop in front of the clinic, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence between you. you sat with your hands clasped tightly in your lap, staring at the clinic like it might swallow you whole.

“you okay?” your boyfriend’s voice was deep but quiet, careful.

you turned to look at him. his freckles were faint in the dark, his smile a little too soft to match the chaos inside your chest.

“i’m nervous,” you admitted, your voice small, “and i feel like i’m cheating on you.”

he offers you a small smile, “you’re not.”

he reached over, threading his fingers through yours, giving your hands the same steady squeeze he had the first time, “we both want this. just…text me when you’re done, okay?”

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, “okay.”

he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple, familiar, grounding, achingly sweet, “go,” he whispered.

you slipped out of the car before you could think twice, clutching your bag tight to your side. the doors slide open, welcoming you into the same softly lit lobby.

taeyong looked up the second you stepped inside, “just in time,” he said warmly.

“suite 6, he’s waiting for you.”

your pulse jumped as you entered the private suites room. each step toward suite 6 felt heavier then the last, your heartbeat loud in your ears. and then you were there — standing outside the door, staring at the number plate.

you drew in a shaky breath and heard the soft click as the door unlocked. the handle turned easily in your hand. you pushed the door open slowly, your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

suite 6 was nothing like a hotel room and nothing like a sterile clinic either. the lighting was low and golden, spiling from shaded lamps instead of harsh overhead bulbs. a wide bed sat at the center, dressed in dark, soft-looking sheets. there was a full-length mirror angled against one wall. the air carried a faint trace of sandal wood, warm and grounding but your nerves spiked the same.

and then you saw him — haechan was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, dressed in black slacks and a black polo that clung just enough to his frame, the arms rolled at the sides, showing off his veins, and a black belt with a silver buckle wrapped tightly around his hips.

the same cocky smirk you remembered from the consultation was already tugging at his lips, his eyes locking on you the second the door clicked shut behind you.

“took you long enough,” he teased, voice warm but edged with mischief, “i was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”

you swallowed, clutching your bag tighter, “i…almost did.”

“almost.” he pushed off the wall with lazy confidence, closing a little distance between you, “but you didn’t.” his gaze flicked down your body, slow and deliberate, before meeting your eyes again.

“good girl.” the praise landed hot in your stomach, just like it had in the consultation room.

he nodded toward the small chair by the corner, “put your bag there, you won’t need it.”

your feet moved before your brain could catch up, setting your bag down carefully where he’d pointed. almost like your body was ready to follow every single one of his commands without question.

when you turned back, he was closer now, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of clean soap and sandalwood clinging to his skin.

“first appointments are always a little nerve-wracking,” he said casually, as if reading the tension in your shoulders, as if he knew you would come back for another, “but you already know the rules. you already know the safe word. so all you have to do…” his smirk curved wider, taking another step towards you, “is follow my lead.”

he was so close now. your pulse hammered, your throat dry. you managed a small nod.

then, without warning, his hand lifted — long fingers grazing the bare skin of your forearm. they crawled upward, mapping the line of your arm until they reached your shoulder. the light brush of his touch left goosebumps in its wake.

“you asked for rough,” he said softly, but there was nothing gentle about the way his tone darkened, edged with promise.

his fingers slid higher, up the curve of your neck, threading into your hair at the base of your skull. he tugged — not harshly, not yet. but firm enough to tilt your chin up and force your eyes on his. and in him you saw the kind of hunger and spark felix never gave you.

“i’ll give you rough,” he continued, his voice a low rumble that sank straight in your chest.

“but the fun part…” his grin turned wicked, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp prickle, “…is figuring out just how much you can take, babygirl.”

the name landed hot and heavy in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat.

you swallowed hard, your voice barely steady, “and…if i can’t?”

his smirked sharpened, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“then you say the safe word. and i stop.”

his head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours, “and i’m gonna make sure—” his grip tugged your head just a fraction closer, his breath brushing over your lips, “—you’re going to be so fucked out you’ll scream red.”

you gulped. your thighs pressed together instinctively, the knot of anticipation in your belly tightening.

“now,” he said, releasing your hair only to drag his fingers back down your arm before dropping away completely, already making you miss the heat.

“let’s get started.”

you expected him to touch you again. to grab your wrist. to pull you. to close the gap between you in a feverish kiss. but he didn’t.

instead, he just looked at you.

his dark eyes locked on yours, steady, unblinking, glinting with the kind of confidence that pinned you in place without a single hand on you. the air felt charged, every second stretched thin with tension.

“back up,” he murmured.

your breath caught. he didn’t move, didn’t do so much as lift a finger but his gaze commanded. and before you realized it, your feet shifted. one step back. then another. the space between you stretched, yet somehow you felt closer, like he was pulling you along invisible strings.

“that’s it,” he said low, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk, “already so obedient for me.”

heat flooded your chest at the words, your pulse drumming loud in your ears. step by step, he walked you backward with nothing but his eyes and the weight of his voice. your calves brushed the edge of the bed before you even realized how far you’d gone.

haechan tilted his head, grin spreading wider, dangerous, “see? you’ll do exactly what i want without me even touching you.”

your throat felt dry, “i—”

“shhh.” his tongue clicked softly against his teeth as he stepped forward, finally closing the space. he placed one hand on the mattress beside your hip, leaning in just enough that his scent wrapped around you.

his other hand came up to brush your jaw, thumb sliding along your lower lip. his eyes burned into yours. his smirk curling like a secret only he knew.

“lie down.”

you sank onto the bed, the sheets cool under your palms. your pulse thundered as haechan leaned over you and before you could second guess this whole thing — his lips crashed onto yours.

and in this moment, you understood. this was nothing like your boyfriend. felix kissed you like you were porcelain, something to cradle. haechan kissed you like he wanted to devour you.

his mouth was hot, insistent, his tongue pushing into yours without hesitation, claiming, demanding. teeth grazed your lower lip before he bit down just enough to sting, sucking it into his mouth until a small sound tore out of your throat.

“fuck—” you gasped against him, but he swallowed it, deepening the kiss further.

every brush of his tongue was a battle you couldn’t win — he pushed you, you followed, he pulled back, you chased him without thinking. the urgency left your lungs burning, your body arching up to keep contact when he nipped at your mouth and dragged his lips down your jaw, sucking hard at the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“already squirming,” he muttered against your skin, teeth scraping along your throat before sinking into a bruise.

“let’s make sure your boyfriend knows you like being kissed like this…don’t you?”

you moaned. so into the kiss that the mention of your boyfriend couldn’t even faze you, your fingers clutching at his shirt

“y-yes—”

his chuckle vibrated against your neck, low and rough, clearly finding your reaction amusing.

then his hands were on you — big, warm palms sliding down your sides before yanking at your waistband.

he didn’t waste time. he didn’t ask.

he tugged everything down in one smooth motion, leaving you bare and breathless beneath him.

haechan’s fingers teased at your thighs, spreading them easily. his eyes flicked down, dark and hungry, before meeting yours again.

“ready to have fun, baby?,” he asked, yet wasted no time in hearing your answer.

his fingers slid over your slick folds, circling your clit, just once, hard, before plunging two digits deep inside your pussy with absolutely no warning. the stretch had your mouth falling open instantly.

“oh my god—”

“yeah?” his smirk widened, curling as his thumb pressed down on your clit while his fingers drove into you, curling, searching.

“that feel good, babygirl?”

“yes—ahhh—”

he worked you mercilessly, pumping faster, dragging your wetness out until the sound filled the room.

before you could even adjust, he added another finger, stretching your pussy wider, the burn sharp, almost unbearable.

“oh—fuck!” you cried out, your hands flying up to grab his arm.

the fullness had you gasping for air, as he worked you wider, spreading his three digits until you were whimpering out with every thrust.

“god, you’re taking it so well,” he groaned, your walls fluttering in protest and need all at once.

he laughed low, a dark sound, “maybe i should just fist you,” he said suddenly, his tone almost playful — except his eyes were deadly serious, “bet this cunt would swallow me whole if i let it.”

your breath hitched, your head falling back against the sheets as another cry tore out of you. the stretch was dizzying, humiliating, addicting.

and then his smirk turned sharper, meaner, “i know your sweet little boyfriend would love to see this,” he taunted, his voice cutting through the air.

“you, spread out, crying, stuffed full of my fingers. think he’d still be smiling after watching me turn his needy little girlfriend into a mess?”

your cheeks burned hot, shame and arousal tangling painfully tight in your chest. you whimpered, “haechan—oh god—”

he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers drove in deep again, stretching you even further.

“yeah, babygirl. you love the thought of it. him watching you get split open, stretched until you can’t breathe. you love knowing i’m giving you what he never could.”

your body betrayed you. your back arched off the bed, your fists gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles burned.

“haechan—please—ahhh—”

“please what?” he demanded, his other hand, comping up to your clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles, that made you scream.

“please stop? or please don’t stop?”

“don’t—don’t stop, oh my god—“

his smirk twisted darker, crueler, “that’s my girl.”

and then he drove in even harder, fingers curling just right, pressing against every tender spot inside you while his thumb continued tormenting your clit. the pleasure crashed over you sharp and brutal, tearing a raw scream from your throat as your first orgasm hit with no warning.

your body convulsed, shaking violently as wave after wave rolled through you. your cunt spasming around his fingers, squeezing so tight he groaned at the pressure.

“fuck, yes,” he hissed watching you unravel, “come on my hand, baby. make a mess for me.”

and still he didn’t stop.

instead, the hand at your clit wandered lower.

you jolted when his other finger pressed against your other hole, eyes snapping wide open, breaking the trance of your first orgasm as he teased lightly at the tight ring of muscle no one had ever touched before.

“wait—haechan—”

“relax,” he murmured, kissing you hard again as the pressure built, “hold.”

he guided your legs up in the air, making you hold them, opening you wide for him.

“now breathe, baby. we’re just getting started. you can take it.”

and then, slowly, deliberately, he pressed his finger past the tight resistance — the shock of it ripped a cry from your throat, your walls fluttering desperately around both sets of his fingers. you gasped, eyes rolling back, your grip on your own ankles tightening, the sensation overwhelming. too much. too new. too intense.

“fuck, that’s it,” haechan groaned, sinking a finger deep inside your anus, “stretched so tight for me. never been touched here, huh?”

“n-no—never—oh god—,” you stuttered, barely able to make out your words.

“mine, then.”

he said roughly, driving into both of your holes at once, feeling his fingers grind against your walls, filling you in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

“every sound you’re making — mine.”

your head fell back against the pillows as he pushed you closer to the edge again with every pump of his fingers. the burn, the stretch, the fullness in both places had you gasping for air, your chest heaving as the orgasm built sharp and fast.

“haechan—i—ahhh—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growled, biting your shoulder hard enough to make you cry out.

“take it. come on my fingers like a good little slut.”

before you know it, your body shattered, back arching, mouth open in a scream as you came hard, clenching around his digits, shaking, unable to breath through the force of your second orgasm, somehow hitting you harder than the last.

and still, his fingers continued to work, pumping into both holes at once, the squelch of your slick filling the room as your body tried to writhe away, legs wanting to shut close — but his weight, his hands, kept you spread open and helpless beneath him.

“don’t tell me you’re gonna say it already,” he taunts, tone sharp and teasing as his lips brushed hot against your ear, “not when the fun has only begun.”

you gasped, your voice breaking, “haechan—please—slow down—”

“i’m not your boyfriend, sweetheart,” he cut in, dark eyes glinting as he glanced down at the mess between your thighs.

“i’m here to give you what your body needs. and look at you. so fucking wet you’re dripping all over my hand — begging for me to slow but your body’s still clenching, still pulling me deeper.”

you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but fall apart beneath him. stars burst behind your eyelids, your thighs clamped uselessly around his arm, your voice breaking into high-pitched whimpers, chest rising and falling in frantic little gasps as your third orgasm took over so quickly you felt like you got whiplash.

haechan didn’t stop. not fully. his fingers stayed buried deep in your pussy, lazily curling as if to remind you he was still there, still in control.

and then his smirked darkened and before you could ask what was happening, he gripped your hip and flipped you over, guiding you easily until you were on your stomach, then tugged your ass up, leaving you bare and vulnerable before him.

you shivered at the shift, your face pressed into the sheets.

“you’ve never really been touched here, have you?” he said low, almost to himself, as his slick fingers spread your cheeks apart, exposing both of your holes to the cool air before he spat slowly, letting his saliva fall onto your hole.

“n-no…,” the word came out weak, your voice breaking.

you gasped when the wet press of his finger slid against your anus, already glistening from the mix of slick and your cum.

“h-haechan–”

“i said, relax, babygirl,” he murmured, his tone coaxing but still edged with command.

the pressure built slowly as he eased his finger in again, stretching you open inch by inch. you thought it would be easier this time around but the burn still made your eyes squeeze shut, your breath hitching hard against the sheets.

he groaned, watching the way your ass clenched around him, “tightest little hole i’ve ever felt. you’re gripping me like a vice.”

your hands fisted the bedding, your body caught between the sharp ache and the dizzying wave of heat, “oh my god—ahh—”

“you feel everything back here, don’t you?” his voice was low as he began to work the finger in and out, shallow at first, then deeper, twisting slightly to force you wider.

“every little movement, every stretch — your boyfriend never even thought to touch you here, huh?”

you moaned helplessly, your hips rocking back like you were possessed.

“fuck yes,” he growled, adding a second finger. the stretch doubled instantly, ripping another cry from your throat.

“open up for me, baby. let me ruin you everywhere.”

the rhythm he built was merciless – two fingers thrusting deep into your ass while his other hand slid back between your legs, shoving two more inside your dripping pussy. both holes stretched, filled, worked at until you were crying out with every push, your body arching off the bed.

“fuck, you’re so hot,” he rasped, his pace unrelenting, “stuffed full, clenching around me like you’re starving. bet you never thought your ass would feel this fucking good.”

you sobbed out a broken moan, your body spasming, pleasure blinding as another orgasm surged up out of nowhere, ripping through you sharp and brutal.

haechan groaned, his fingers driving harder, spreading you wider.

“come for me like this. cream all over my hand while i stretch both your holes wide open. fuck, you’re perfect.”

your scream tore out of you, muffled against the sheets as you convulsed, every muscle in your body seizing with the force of your climax. the dual stimulation, the unbearable stretch, had you shattering into pieces, gasping for air as your fourth orgasm slammed through you.

you collapsed forward, arms shaking, your cheek pressed into the sheets as you struggled to catch your breath when his hand slid firmly over your hip, tugging you until you rolled back onto your back. you blinked up at him, dazed, your skin hot and damp, your chest heaving.

haechan stood over you, that smirk still carved into his lips, his dark eyes glinting with mischief and something sharper.

“you’re ready for me, babygirl,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as if he owned even your mouth.

then he straightened, taking a slow step back.

you watched, wide-eyed, as his hands went to the first button of his shirt. he undid it leisurely, then the next, then the next, his gaze never leaving yours. every button popped with a free soft click, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes followed his movements, your lips parted in anticipation.

“like what you see?” he teased, pulling the shirt open to reveal golden skin, lean lines and muscles that flexed under the warm glow of the lamp. he shrugged if off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floors.

then his fingers moved to the buckle of his belt, the metallic clink echoed in the room as he pulled it free with a tug. for a moment, he dangled it loosely in his hand and you thought he was about to toss it aside.

but then – he climbed back onto the bed, straddling your thighs and seized your wrists, “hold still,” he ordered, his tone smooth but unyielding. you barely had time to gasp before he looped the belt around your wrists, buckling it snug, pinning your hand together.

the leather was cool and firm against your skin, the restraint making your stomach flip with equal parts nerves and arousal.

“perfect,” he murmured, tugging the belt once to test it before letting your bound wrists drop against the pillows above your head.

your breath hitched as he leaned back on his knees, fingers moving to the button of his slacks. he popped it open, dragged the zipper down, then shoved the fabric off his hips in one smooth motion.

and that’s when you saw him.

his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, flushed dark with arousal. big. bigger than you expected. bigger than you’d ever seen in real life. the sight alone had your thighs clenching, your body aching with fresh need.

haechan’s smirk sharpened when he caught your reaction, “yeah,” he drawled, wrapped a hand around the base casually, giving it one slow pump, “bigger than your boyfriend, huh?”

you couldn’t speak – your throat dry, your pulse hammering.

haechan reached over to the nightstand without breaking eye contact, tearing open a foil packet with his teeth. he rolled the condom down with practiced ease, stroking himself once more before leaning back over you.

“legs up,” he ordered.

you obeyed instantly but he wasn’t satisfied with just your knees bent – he grabbed the back of your thighs, folding you in half until your knees pressed nearly to your chest. the position left you completely open, bound wrists pinned above your head, body trembling under his control.

“look at you,” he groaned, lining himself up at your entrance, “tied up, spread out, waiting for me to ruin you. you look like a perfect little toy.”

the blunt head of his cock pushed at your pussy, stretching you wide inch by inch. the pressure made your jaw slack open, your breath catching on a sharp moan.

“oh my god–”

“that’s it,” haechan gritted, sinking deeper with a slow, deliberate thrust. the stretch burned, overwhelming compared to felix’s size and careful touches. this was new. different. too much and just enough all at once.

your walls clamped tight around him, your body fighting and welcoming him all at once.

“shit,” he hissed, his head falling forward, teeth gritted as he bottomed out, “you’re still so fucking tight. you’ve only ever taken him before, haven’t you?”

you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut, “y-yes–”

“pathetic,” he spat, grinding his hips deeper until you cried out, “all that time with him and you’re still this fucking starved. he’s been keeping you hungry for me.”

you moaned at the words, your bound hands curling against the belt, your thighs shaking with the effort of being held open.

“say it,” haechan demanded, pulling back only to thrust in again, hard and slow, hitting you perfectly with every stroke, “say he never gave you this.”

“he–he never—” your voice broke into a moan as another deep thrust stole your air, “he never gave me this!”

“good girl,” haechan growled, his pace steady but brutal, each slow grind making you yelp and moan in equal measure.

“he kissed you like you’d break, touched you like you were fragile but you don’t want that, do you?” he punctuated the word with a sharp snap of his hips, making you cry out.

“you want to be fucked like you were made for it, don’t you?” he asked, his wicked grin cemented on his lips.

when you didn’t answer, he slapped you right across the cheek, not enough to hurt but enough to send pleasure down your spine, enough to make you tighten around his cock.

“i asked you a question.” he growled, tugging at your jaw and forcing you to look at him.

“answer me.”

“ahh–fuck–yes–” you screamed, the degradation dragging the words right out of you.

“that’s it, use your voice,” he taunted, pulling your thighs even tighter against your chest, “let me hear how good this feels. let me hear how much better i fuck you than him.”

“you’re fuck—you’re better—oh my god–”

he laughed darkly, sweat dripping from his temple as he drove into you again and again, faster now, the wet slap of his cock filling the room.

your scream tore through the air as his cock slammed perfectly against that spot inside you, your body arching violently under him. every thrust knocked the air out of you, your wrists straining against the belt above your head, your moans spilling louder and rougher with each snap of his hips.

“making a mess all over me,” he muttered darkly, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, dragging a scream from your throat.

“greedy little slut can’t get enough.”

you barely noticed his hand leaving your thigh until you heard the slick click of a cap. your dazed gaze followed as he reached to the nightstand, grabbing a bottle of lube. and through it all, he never stopped thrusting. his cock still driving deep, relentless, keeping you stretched and gasping.

“what are you–” you tried, your voice breaking into a whimper when he poured the cool liquid over your pussy, letting it drop down to your ass.

the sudden chill made you jolt but his thrusts kept you pinned. the squelch of lube mixing with your wetness. he smirked, spreading it deliberately with his cock as he pumped into you, coating himself, coating you.

then he pulled out, dragging his cock lower.

your eyes widened, a sharp cry tearing out when the blunt head pressed against your other entrance, slick now but still achingly tight.

“holy fuck!—haechan—ahhh—”

“shhh,” he cooed mockingly, pushing just enough to breach you before sliding back into your pussy again, hard and deep.

“you’re stretched already. you can take it.”

the mix of burn and fullness made your body convulse, the pain spiking with each shift – but beneath it, the pleasure throbbed, heavy and undeniable.

“oh my god—fuck—” you moan, jaw slacking.

“you asked for this,” he groaned, switching holes again, his cock sinking into your ass slow and deliberate this time. your scream caught in your throat as your walls clamped down, body fluttering around him.

he pulled out, wet and glistening, only to slam back into your pussy in the next thrust. your voice cracked, moans spilling faster, louder every switch between holes leaving you trembling harder.

“too much?” he taunted, his grin feral as he set a rhythm – one thrust into your pussy, the next into you ass, back and forth, keeping both holes dripping, stretched, filled.

you shook your head desperately even as tears started spilling hot at the corners of your eyes, “n-no–hurts–ahh–so good–”

he groaned, head tipping back as he held your thighs high, forcing you to stay curled and open for him.

“listen to you,” he rasped, each word punched out with another brutal thrust, “crying and begging, taking it everywhere like a perfect little slut. bet your boyfriend never even dreamed of this.”

he thrust once, deep, making you gasp. then again, harder, the bed jolting under the force. but every time you clenched, every time you got close, he pulled out, switched holes, or stilled completely — dragging you right back from the edge.

“haechan—ahhh—fuck—please—”

he chuckled low in his chest, his hips never faltering, “please what, babygirl?”

“please—please let me come—”

“hmm.” his grin was sharp, wicked, as he pulled back to the tip before driving deep into your pussy again. the sound of it was obscene, slick, wet, your body sucking him in no matter where he went.

“greedy little slut. i already gave you four, and now you’re crying for another one?”

your thighs trembled, your voice breaking into whimpers, “y-yes—i can’t—i need it—”

“your boyfriend left you so deprived you’d do anything just to come on my cock,” he rasped, his thrusts deliberately slowing to deep, drawn-out pushes that made you feel every inch.

tears pricked your eyes, spilling down your temples as you arched under him, desperate.

“please—please, haechan—”

he shifted back into your ass, stretching you open again, and the burn had you sobbing, your body clamping down hard. he groaned, his head falling back.

“fuck, the way you grip me back here… so fucking tight. you were made for this.”

your voice broke on a high whimper, “i’m—ahhh—i’m gonna—”

“no. you’re not.”

he pulled out instantly, sliding wet and slick, back into your pussy instead, grinding deep but holding perfectly still inside you — the denial ripped a cry from your throat, frustration mixing with unbearable need.

“haechan! please, i can’t take it—”

“yes. you can.” his hand closed around your jaw, forcing you to look up at him even as tears streaked your cheeks. his smirk was cruel, his eyes dark.

“you’ll take it until i decide you’re allowed to come. not a second before.”

your voice had gone ragged, your body trembling, sweat beading along your skin. you were past begging now, reduced to sobbing pleas, your words broken.

“please—please, haechan—i can’t—need to come—please let me—”

he leaned over you, his cock buried in your ass, the stretch relentless. his lips brushed your ear, his breath hot and steady even as yours came in frantic gasps.

and all he was doing was laughing, mockingly, almost evil.

he pulled back, just enough to slam forward again, making you scream.

“you’ll remember this every time he touches you. how it felt to want something so bad you have to beg.”

“please, haechan—please, please, please”

he groaned low, the sound feral, his cock buried to the hilt in your pussy now, grinding deep enough to make you cry out again, your pussy gripping so tightly around him he could barely move. his eyes locked on yours, sharp and merciless, sweat dripping from his temple as his smirk curved into something darker.

“fuck… you really can’t take it anymore, can you?” he rasped, his pace quickening, his thrusts harder, more punishing now.

the bed rocked with each snap of his hips, “crying, trembling, begging like a desperate little whore.”

your head shook frantically, tears spilling hot, his hand shot down, fingers pressing cruelly against your clit, rubbing hard, relentless circles. the shock of it made your entire body jolt, your scream ripping from your chest.

“you want it that bad?” he snarled, pounding into you, his cock hitting that same devastating spot again and again until your vision blurred white.

“fine.” he growled. “fucking come for me.”

the command slammed into you like a match dropped on gasoline.

your fifth orgasm tore through you viciously, your back arching off the bed, your wrists pulling so tight against the belt you thought it might snap. a scream ripped from your throat, raw and broken, your body convulsing violently around his cock as he drove through every pulse.

“yeah, that’s it,” haechan growled, watching you unravel.

“scream for me. let him hear what he could never do for you. god, you’re clenching around me so fucking hard—fuck, that’s perfect.”

the waves crashed over you again and again, your body trembling so hard it bordered on pain, your thighs shaking uncontrollably. you were incoherent, moaning his name, babbling broken pleas as if your voice could hold onto him through the storm.

haechan held you there, never relenting, fucking you through it until you collapsed beneath him, trembling, your chest heaving as aftershocks tore through you.

your body was still shaking, chest heaving, when haechan pulled out without warning. you barely had time to whimper before he flipped you over again, hands firm and unyielding as he shoved you onto your knees.

“up,” he ordered, yanking you upright until you were on all fours, ass in the air. you wobbled, weak from your climax, but his palm cracked against your hip, steadying you.

“stay,” he snapped, and then he was behind you, cock already slick and hard, lining himself up again.

the first thrust slammed into you so hard you pitched forward, catching yourself on shaky arms.

“ahhh—h-haechan—!”

he didn’t care. he set a brutal rhythm instantly, hips snapping fast, rough, each thrust hitting so deep you cried out with every stroke. the sound of skin against skin was loud, filthy, echoing through the suite.

your tears spilled hot, your voice breaking into raw, helpless sounds with every brutal thrust.

“please—oh god—i can’t—”

“stop saying you can’t.”

his grip tightened in your hair, yanking your head back until your scalp screamed. your reflection suddenly came into view in the long mirror angled by the bed — your red, tear-streaked face, mouth slack, tits bouncing with every thrust.

“look at you,” he snarled, forcing your chin up with his fist tangled in your hair. “look in the mirror. that’s you — begging, crying, taking cock like a good little hole.”

you gasped, your eyes locking on your reflection. the sight was obscene — your body trembling, slick dripping down your thighs, his hips hammering against your ass with every brutal snap.

“you wanted to test your limits—” his hips slammed into you, driving you forward with the force, “—so be a good girl and take notes.”

your moans broke into sobs, your whole body trembling as he fucked you mercilessly. each snap of his hips dragged another loud, desperate sound from your throat, your face wet with tears, your bound wrists still straining against the belt.

“that’s it,” he rasped, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear, his voice sharp and filthy.

“cry for me. moan for me. tell me how much better this is than anything he’s ever given you.”

and when you didn’t answer, he landed a slap on your ass, hot and loud, making your body jolt forward, “i said tell me,” he grunted.

your voice cracked, high and hoarse, “so much better—fuck—ahhh—”

“good fucking girl,” he groaned, his pace punishing now, the bed frame creaking under his force. he spanked you again, harder this time, your ass burning as the sting lingered.

“my little fucktoy. just a hole to use until you forget every soft, pathetic touch he ever gave you.”

the room shook with every brutal thrust, the sound of his hips slamming into your ass loud and filthy. your voice spilled out in broken sobs, each cry higher than the last, every nerve in your body strung tight as he drove you toward another edge you weren’t ready for.

“h-haechan—i—ahhh—”

“shut up,” he growled, yanking your hair back until your throat arched, his cock hammering into you with merciless force. your tears streaked down your cheeks, your mouth slack open as the overstimulation clawed at your insides.

your reflection blurred through your tears, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away. the degradation, the spanking, his voice — it all fused together into unbearable heat, your body tightening, fluttering, ready to break.

“listen to yourself,” he spat, yanking your hair tighter as he fucked you senseless, “screaming like a desperate whore who’s been waiting her whole life for someone to fuck her right.”

the words shot straight through you, filthy and brutal, but instead of breaking you, they made your body clench tighter, wetter, needier.

“ahhh—oh my god—i can’t—”

“i said stop,” he rasped, his hips snapping faster, his cock hitting that devastating spot over and over until your vision blurred.

“you’ll take it. you’ll fucking thank me for it.”

your walls fluttered violently, your sobs growing louder, rawer, until you were choking on them.

you sobbed, the words punching through you like lightning. your pussy clenched violently, dripping down his thighs, “i—i’m gonna—ahhh—”

“do it,” he hissed in your ear, pulling your hair so tight you thought your scalp would tear. his thrusts grew rougher, faster, unrelenting, “come on my cock like the little whore you are.”

that was it — the push that broke you for the sixth time. your orgasm ripped through you hard and brutal, your scream tearing raw from your throat as your body convulsed violently around him. your pussy clenched so tight it almost forced him out, slick gushing down your thighs, your whole frame shaking uncontrollably.

“fuuuck, yes,” haechan groaned, slamming into you harder, riding out your orgasm as if your spasms were his to control.

“that’s it, babygirl. that’s the slut you are.”

you were already slumped into the sheets, trembling, sobbing, the aftershocks of your orgasm still rolling through your body when haechan’s grip in your hair tightened again. he didn’t slow, not for a second — his cock still pistoning into you, hard and deep, every thrust hitting so sharp your knees gave out beneath you.

“don’t you dare drop,” he growled, hauling you back upright by your hair, his chest pressed to your spine as his hips crashed into your ass.

“you’re not done until i’m done.”

your voice cracked into a scream.

“too much?” he snarled, breath hot and ragged against your ear. his free hand snaked between your thighs, finding your swollen clit. he rubbed it mercilessly, fast circles that made your entire body jolt forward.

“you’ll take too much. you’ll take everything i give you.”

the humiliation, the force, the way his cock hit deep while his fingers punished your clit — it shoved you past sanity.

your seventh orgasm tore through you before you could even comprehend it, harder than everything that came before, your scream muffled into the sheets as your entire body convulsed around him.

“yes—fuck—yes,” haechan growled, his hips slamming harder, chasing his own release now as your pussy milked him in violent spasms.

“come for me. that’s it. milk my cock. god, you’re perfect.”

his rhythm faltered, his groans breaking raw, desperate, as his cock throbbed inside you.

“fuck—fuck—i’m coming—”

he slammed in deep, grinding hard against you as he came. his voice dropping into a low, wrecked growl against your shoulder. even through the condom, you felt the twitch, the pulse, the overwhelming force of it — his whole body shuddering with the release.

but he never stopped touching you. his fingers rubbed your clit through your aftershocks, dragging every pulse, every shiver, until you were sobbing his name, shaking uncontrollably, your legs giving out completely beneath you.

finally, finally, he eased you down, letting you collapse into the sheets, sweat-slick and ruined, your chest heaving.

“good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough from his own orgasm but steady, dripping with satisfaction. his hips finally stilled, his chest heaving against your back as he leaned down, lips brushing your damp temple.

“seven orgasms…” his smirk curved against your skin, dangerous and smug, “…and you haven’t even used the safe word.”

the words landed heavy, sinking into the haze clouding your brain. you were trembling, ruined, your body still pulsing around him, but the truth of it made something deep in your chest twist with pride.

you hadn’t said red. not once.

haechan eased out of you slowly, making you whimper at the drag, and collapsed beside you on the sheets.

for a moment, he just let you breathe — the air thick with sweat, sex, and the faint sting of leather still biting into your wrists. his hand smoothed gently down your thigh, his touch softer now, grounding, the opposite of everything he’d just put you through.

“hey,” his voice dropped, warm and steady. his fingers brushed damp strands of hair from your cheek, tilting your chin until you met his eyes. they were still dark, still sharp, but softer now around the edges.

“talk to me, babygirl. what do you say… is that your limit?”

you swallowed hard, your lungs struggling to catch up, every nerve buzzing, overstimulated and sore. his thumb rubbed slow circles at your jaw, coaxing, patient.

“or…” his grin edged back in, playful but glinting with that dangerous promise as he brushed away your tears, “…do you think you can handle more?”

the room went still, the question hanging heavy between you.

your chest rose and fell in ragged waves, your throat dry, your body trembling. he was still watching you, waiting, thumb grazing lazily at your jaw as if he had all the time in the world.

and then you whispered, shaky but certain–

“i… i can handle more.”

haechan’s grin widened instantly, dangerous and satisfied.

“that’s a good girl,” he purred, brushing his lips across your cheek in something almost tender before pulling back.

his fingers slipped down to the belt binding your wrists, unbuckling it with a sharp click. your arms fell free, aching and stiff, and you flexed your wrists, breathing relief into your sore joints. for a fleeting moment, you thought maybe he’d ease up now, maybe he’d soften.

but then—

he held the belt up between his hands, leather glinting under the warm light, and his smirk curved wickedly.

“open that pretty mouth.”

your breath caught. “wait, you—”

“open,” he cut you off, voice commanding, leaving no room for argument.

heat flushed through your body as your lips parted. he slid the leather between them, tugging it snug, wrapping it behind your head and tying it off. the taste of leather filled your mouth, the restraint pressing at your jaw. your muffled sound of protest only made his grin deepen.

“perfect,” he murmured, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your cheek where the gag bit into you.

“such a greedy little slut—so eager for more you’ll let me shut you up myself.”

your thighs pressed together instinctively, arousal sparking fresh despite the soreness in every muscle.

he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his tone dropping to a low growl, “now, you can’t whine. you can’t beg. you can only take what i give you. think you’re ready for that?”

you nodded frantically, gag muffling the sound of your desperate hum.

“good.”

his smirk sharpened, his hand sliding down your stomach to grip your hip firmly.

“because i’m not done wrecking you.”

without warning, he shoved you flat against the mattress, your back hitting the cool sheets in one swift motion. his hands grabbed your thighs, spreading you wide and curling you open again, and then—he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

your muffled scream ripped against the gag, your wrists clawing at the sheets as his cock curved perfectly inside you, hitting that devastating spot like he’d built his body to ruin yours.

“fuck,” haechan groaned, hips snapping fast, rough, each thrust punching into you with merciless force.

“still this tight? after i’ve fucked you open all night? god, your pussy doesn’t know when to quit.”

your moans broke into sobs, muffled and desperate, your body writhing under him as he set a brutal pace.

then his hand shot up, seizing your breast in his palm, fingers digging into the soft flesh. he pinched your nipple hard, twisting it until your scream came out garbled through the gag, your back arching off the sheets.

“that’s it,” he snarled, eyes dark and hungry, “cry for me even if no one can understand you.”

his other hand came down hard, smack against your tits, the sting biting through the haze, making your whole body jolt. he spanked them again and again, alternating between sharp smacks and cruel pinches, your breasts flushed and swollen under his rough touch.

“look at these pretty tits,” he taunted, leaning down just enough to bite one nipple between his teeth before slapping it again, “made for me to play with while i fuck you senseless.”

your muffled cries grew louder, wetter, your body convulsing beneath him. each thrust carved deeper, his cock curving just right, dragging against your walls so perfectly it bordered on unbearable.

tears streaked down your temples again, your muffled sobs mixing with the obscene sound of skin meeting skin. you could barely breathe, barely think — just moan into the gag as he fucked you rough, filthy, relentless, his hands and mouth tormenting your breasts with each stroke. your body jerking against the sheets, but his smirk only sharpened.

“crying into my belt like the greedy little whore you are. can’t even use words anymore — just noises.”

you moaned, gagged, high and broken, your eyes rolling back as his pace picked up.

“yeah,” he gritted, his thrusts pounding harder, faster, each one slamming you into the mattress.

“this is what i wanted. to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak.”

his free hand slid back down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing viciously, matching the rhythm of his hips. you wailed against the gag, the overwhelming rush of stimulation too much, too sharp, your body already twitching with the warning of release.

“hmm, i feel it,” he groaned, his grin feral.

“you’re gonna come again, aren’t you? you’re gonna soak me while i’m slapping these tits red.”

another hard smack landed across your chest, and the sound of it — paired with the brutal grind of his cock and his fingers punishing your clit — tore you apart.

your eight orgasm slammed into you violently, your muffled scream shredding against the gag as your body convulsed, pussy clenching so hard around him.

haechan pressed his forehead to yours, his thrusts still deep, punishing, his voice dropping low and dark–

“you’re mine now. say it. even if it’s just a moan — say it with your body. show me this pussy only belongs to me.”

your body was gone — trembling, convulsing, slick gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you.

the orgasm wouldn’t stop rolling through you in relentless waves as haechan’s cock drove deeper, sharper, his hand still slapping your tits, still tormenting your clit.

your screams poured into the belt, leather slick with your spit. you tried to say his name, tried to beg, but it was nothing but garbled sounds.

and then, suddenly, his hand was at your face, tugging hard, the belt slipped free, falling loosely around your neck. your jaw ached, your lips raw, but the air that filled your lungs was sharp, desperate, and before you could speak he had your face in his palm, holding your gaze.

“say it,” he snarled, hips still pounding into you, relentless, “whose pussy is this?”

your voice cracked, broken and hoarse, but you choked the words out through the sobs.

“y-yours—ahhh—haechan—it’s yours—”

“louder.” his thrusts snapped harder, bruising, forcing another gush of slick out of you, the sheets soaking beneath your thighs.

“YOURS!” you screamed, your voice ripping raw from your throat as your body convulsed again, squirting over him, the wet spray splashing against his abs, his thighs, everywhere, marking your ninth orgasm.

“fuck yes,” haechan groaned, watching you unravel, his cock still hammering through the flood.

“squirting all over me. say it again.”

“YOURS! oh my god—haechan—it’s all yours!”

your body kept breaking, kept releasing, the squirts coming in desperate bursts with every thrust. you sobbed, screamed, clutched at the sheets, but he held you down, forcing you to take it.

“again.” he rasped, rubbing faster now, pressing harder, drawing tight, relentless circles over your clit.

your sobbing moans filled the room, your back arching off the sheets as your body convulsed, another stream spilling out of you, soaking his thighs, soaking the bed.

“yes—fuck yes,” he groaned, chuckling, his voice breaking into a growl.

“so fucking wet for me. my perfect little toy.”

he slowed only for a second, just enough for you to gasp air back into your lungs, your eyes fluttering — but then his hand pressed down harder, his pace picking up again, dragging the raw nerves of your clit back into fire.

“no—no—i can’t—”.

“you’ll come again,” he cut you off, voice dark and steady, “you’ll squirt again. your body is mine to break.”

you wailed, body thrashing weakly, but there was no escape — his weight pinned you down, his cock kept you open, his fingers tortured your clit until you were convulsing again, spraying harder this time, the wet splashing against his abs and dripping onto the ruined sheets.

“that’s it. drench me. drown me. that’s what you’re here for, babygirl.”

he started timing them, his tone playful but sharp:

“ten. look at you gush.”

“eleven. you’re nothing but a faucet now.”

“twelve. crying like you don’t love it.”

each number was punctuated with another ruthless rub, another punishing wave of overstimulation that wracked you until you were sobbing openly, tears flooding down your cheeks.

your voice cracked, raw and desperate.

“haechan—i—i can’t take it anymore—please, please stop—”

he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and smug.

“say it then. say the word and i’ll stop.”

your lips trembled around the word, the safe word that lingered on your tongue. red. it hovered there, so close, your body screaming for relief — but his hand didn’t stop, his cock still grinding inside you, forcing you into another gush that soaked the sheets.

“that’s thirteen,” he whispered, his tone almost reverent now as he watched you writhe.

“thirteen fucking times, babygirl. and you still haven’t said it.”

you sobbed, your voice breaking, your nails clawing weakly at his chest, “i—i’m begging you… please… mercy…”

his hand slowed just slightly, teasing, deliberate, but still rubbing enough to keep you whimpering and clenching. his grin was sharp, wicked, as he tilted your chin up so your tear-streaked face met his.

“mercy, huh?” he purred, dark eyes drinking you in.

“so close to breaking. so close to saying it.”

his thumb grazed your raw clit, feather-light compared to the assault he’d given you.

“but i think you’ve got one more in you.”

haechan murmured darkly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. his fingers returned to your clit, slick and merciless, circling faster, harder, punishing the swollen bundle of nerves until your whole body seized. his cock ground deeper, pinning you open, keeping you helplessly full.

you shook your head frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. your arms pushing him away were useless. he barely budged.

“no—no more—please i can’t—”

“one more, babygirl. give me one more.”

your hips bucked against him, the overstimulation tearing through every muscle, wringing sounds from your throat that didn’t sound human. his pace on your clit was brutal, deliberate, every stroke designed to break you.

your vision blurred, your lungs heaving. you screamed as the fourteenth orgasm ripped out of you, violent, uncontrollable — slick spraying from you in desperate, messy bursts. It drenched his hand, his abs, the soaked sheets beneath you.

“god, you’re perfectly ruined.”

but it didn’t stop. the gush kept coming, your body convulsing violently, your sobs turning hoarse, broken. the pleasure had crossed into pain, into something unbearable, your whole body twitching under his grip.

“please—please—i can’t—i—RED!”

the word tore out of you in a ragged scream, raw and desperate, louder than anything you’d said all night as the tears took over.

instantly, everything stopped.

haechan moved immediately. his hands, which had been cruel and unrelenting minutes before, were suddenly careful, gentle.

he slipped out of you slowly, murmuring, “shhh, it’s okay,” when you whimpered at the empty stretch.

“good girl,” haechan murmured softly now, brushing damp hair from your face. his voice had shifted completely — dark edge gone, steady and grounding.

the belt that was loosely around your neck came off, tossed aside.

“you did so fucking well,” he whispered, lips brushing over your skin with every word.

he kissed your temple, lingering, his hand rubbing slow circles into your hip to anchor you back into yourself as he let you lay down on the sheets to finally rest.

a warm towel appeared, you weren’t sure from where, and he cleaned you up with slow, methodical care, wiping your thighs, your stomach, between your legs. every touch was tender, patient, his focus entirely on you. between each swipe, he pressed soft kisses to your skin — your hipbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist, your damp temple.

“look at you,” he murmured, his smirk returning but softer, his voice threaded with warmth, “lasted through fourteen orgasms before you tapped out. that’s impressive, sweetheart. most clients are crying red way before that.”

you let out a shaky laugh through the tears still drying on your cheeks, “you nearly killed me…”

“nearly,” he teased, kissing your shoulder, his hand smoothing over your stomach, “but you said it. you knew when enough was enough. that’s exactly how this is supposed to work.”

he leaned down, lips pressing a trail of lazy kisses across your collarbone, then lower, over your breasts, nipping lightly at one nipple before soothing it with his tongue.

“your boyfriend’s gonna be proud, you know.”

your chest hitched. “what?”

“hmm.” his grin curved against your skin, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

“your boyfriend. sweet boy, isn’t he? he sent you here to figure yourself out. he’s probably gonna be thrilled when i tell him you lasted longer than half the women who walk through that door.”

you groaned weakly, swatting at his shoulder.

“don’t you dare—”

he laughed, the sound rich, low, warm.

“relax, i’m not really gonna tell him.” his lips brushed your jaw, lingering there, voice dropping softer. “confidentiality and all…but if he could see you right now — ruined, spent, glowing? yeah. he’d be proud.”

you swallowed hard, throat tight. his arms pulled you into his chest, his scent warm and steady around you. for the first time all night, you let your body melt against him fully, your breath evening out, the trembling fading into calm.

when your breath finally steadied and the trembling faded to small aftershocks, haechan shifted carefully, pressing one last kiss to your temple before reaching over the side of the bed.

“alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, tone steady but still carrying that teasing curl, “time to get you dressed before your boyfriend thinks i kidnapped you.”

he handed you your clothes one by one — your underwear, your shirt, your jeans, your bag — like a gentleman, though the smirk never left his lips.

“you know,” he murmured as you tugged your shirt back over your head, “watching you cry and beg is the highlight of my week.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks heating as you muttered, “you’re evil.”

“hmm, maybe,” he replied easily, leaning against the bedframe as he buttoned his black polo back on, the picture of casual confidence again, “but you like it.”

when you were fully dressed, he stepped close, slipping your bag gently over your shoulder before guiding you toward the door.

the walk to the suite door was quiet, your body still heavy, your chest still humming with everything you’d just been through. at the door, he paused, turning you to face him.

“you did good tonight. you got what you came here for,” he said, voice softer now, almost sincere, “you should be proud of yourself.”

your throat tightened at the unexpected warmth in his words. “...thank you.”

his grin returned, sharp and playful, undoing the softness just enough, “don’t thank me yet. you’re gonna have to explain to your boyfriend why you’ll be walking funny for days.”

you groaned, covering your face, which only made him laugh — low, rich, satisfied.

then, just like that, the line shifted. he extended his hand, professional, polished.

“it was a pleasure to be your donor, ms. y/n.”

you stared for a beat before shaking it, lips twitching. “...likewise.”

he dipped his head closer, his eyes gleaming, his smirk dangerous.

“and…if things ever get boring with your boyfriend again—” his gaze dragged deliberately over your face, down your body, before flicking back up, “—you know where to find me.”

then he winked, sharp and playful, stepping back as he pulled the door open for you.

the hall lighting spilled in, sterile and bright compared to the wrecked intimacy of the suite. you stepped past him, your heart still hammering in your chest, his smirk burning into your back.

✚ END OF SESSION ✚

taeyong looked up instantly, his calm smile never faltering.

“all set, ms. y/n?”

you nodded, your voice came out hoarse but steady, “y-yeah.”

“perfect.” he ducked behind the counter and pulled out a small gift bag with the neo orgasm clinic logo printed cleanly across the front.

he slid it toward you smoothly, “a little thank you for trusting us.”

“thanks,” you murmured, taking the bag gently.

he gave you that same warm, professional smile, “would you like to wait here for your ride?”

“yes, please.”

you found one of the lobby chairs, sinking down as you dug your phone out of your bag. with trembling fingers, you typed out a quick message to felix:

y/n: i’m done. ready to be picked up now

felix 🐥☀️: omw <3

the relief of knowing he was still there, like he said was, made your chest ache with something softer, grounding you.

while you waited, your curiosity tugged at the bag. you peeked inside — and immediately snorted. along with the chilled bottle of iced choco, folded neatly at the bottom was a white hoodie with bold lettering across the front

ORGASM DONOR

a surprised giggle escaped before you could swallow it back, the sound echoing in the quiet lobby.

taeyong’s head lifted from his monitor, eyebrows quirking, “you like it?”

you clutched the hoodie against your lap, grinning despite yourself, “it’s… definitely funny.”

he chuckled softly, leaning his elbows on the counter.

“took us a while to come up with that merch. we wanted something cheeky enough to make people laugh but not so over-the-top they’d never wear it out.”

you tilted your head, curiosity sparking, “how did this place even start, anyway?”

at that, his grin widened, boyish and knowing, “well, my friends and i…” he paused, like the memory itself amused him, “we realized we all had one thing in common — we genuinely love giving women orgasms. not just sex. not just the act. the aftershocks, the trembling, the tears, the laughter after. the whole thing.”

you blinked, taken aback. “…you’re serious?”

“as serious as we were that night,” he replied with a laugh, “johnny, jaehyun, ten, doyoung — all of us were talking over drinks, and what started as a joke turned into… well, this.” he gestured around the pristine lobby with a sweep of his hand.

you shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips.

“so the neo orgasm clinic was born out of a bunch of drunk men bragging about making women come?”

“not bragging,” taeyong corrected lightly, eyes glinting with quiet pride, “passion. and now…” he gestured toward the bag in your hands, “…here we are. merch included.”

your giggle bubbled up again, softer this time, and you tucked the hoodie back into the bag just as your phone buzzed:

felix 🐥☀️: i’m parked in front

you stood, smoothing your shirt, and gave taeyong a polite bow of thanks, “see you around, taeyong.”

his smile warmed, “take care, ms. y/n. and don’t be a stranger.”

with that, you pushed through the glass doors, the evening air cooling your flushed cheeks as you spotted felix’s car waiting at the curb.

the car door clicked open just as you reached the curb. he leaned across the seat, freckles catching the glow of the dashboard lights as he gave you a soft smile.

“hey, love. you okay?”

your chest tightened at the gentleness in his voice. you nodded quickly, sliding into the passenger seat, clutching the gift bag like a lifeline, “i’m okay.”

he searched your face, reading you the way only he could, “better than okay?”

heat crept up your neck. “...yeah,” you admitted, voice small but honest.

his hand found yours instantly, fingers weaving together as he squeezed. “good.” the relief in his tone was palpable, almost boyish. “i was hoping you’d say that.”

while he started the engine, you dug your phone out of your bag and opened the neo orgasm clinic’s portal. the review form blinked up at you, your heart still hammered, but the words spilled easily:

haechan showed me i could take more than i ever imagined. he pushed me, wrecked me, made me squirt until i reached my limit, and somehow still kept me safe. he’s ruthless, filthy, and relentless… but so much fun! if you want to be destroyed in the best way possible — book haechan.

you hit submit before you could second-guess, the confirmation screen glowing back at you.

felix glanced over at you as you set your phone down, curiosity soft in his eyes.

“so… how was it? really?”

your cheeks flamed instantly. you looked at him, torn between embarrassment, shame, and the desperate need to gush, before the words tumbled out anyway.

“felix… it was insane. he—he made me squirt. like… a lot. i didn’t even know my body could do that. and the way he—” you cut yourself off, burying your face in your hands with a groan. “god, i can’t believe im telling you this, is this not ridiculous?”

but felix only grinned, wide and proud, his thumb stroking over your knuckles where your hands still covered your face, “no. you sound happy. that’s all i wanted.”

you peeked at him, hesitant, “you’re… really okay with this?”

he laughed softly, “love, it told you. i wanted you to feel everything. and hearing you this excited? that’s better than anything.”

he drove in easy silence for a few minutes, the city lights passing in a blur outside the windows. his hand never left yours, thumb brushing slow, grounding strokes over your skin. the whole night still buzzing in your chest.

you turned to him, biting your lip, hesitant before you finally whispered, “maybe… we could try it together.”

his eyes flicked to you, soft but curious, “try what?”

your cheeks burned. “all of it. or… at least some of it. now that i know how much i can take, you won’t have to worry about hurting me.”

for a moment, he just looked at you, the corners of his lips twitching like he was trying to hold something back.

and then he smiled — wide, warm, freckled face glowing under the passing streetlights — and nodded.

“yeah,” he murmured, squeezing your hand, his voice full of quiet certainty. “yeah, i’d really like that.”

the warmth of his smile lingered as the two of you drove off into the night, the weight of what you’d just experienced no longer heavy but hopeful.

✚ APPOINTMENT STATUS: COMPLETE ✚

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

BONUS: #1. #2. #3. #4. #5. #6.

—

an: i’m a little late, i know! but it’s april 27 somewhere and i did add the mirror scene and the taeyong lore last minute so spare me! i tried my best to edit this but i was lowkey battling with time (and lost) so if there are typos here and there pretend you don’t see it. anyways, i hope you enjoyed the last of the orgasm donor series…for now…who knows when we’ll see them again. as always, this whole entire concept is supposed to be silly! please don't take it too seriously :)

🩺 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated

“Come on, baby—”

“No, Cheol. I have to go to work, and I cannot be late again.”

“Just the tip, please—”

“Cheol.”

It’s one of those mornings when your husband, Seungcheol, can’t keep his hands off you. It started early this morning when he woke you up with kisses before your alarm went off five minutes later. Not wanting to risk being late, you slipped out of bed and ran into the shower, hoping it would stop his antics. But then you catch him watching you as you dry off, discreetly palming himself under the blanket. You feel him creep up on you as you’re bent over, rubbing your body with your favorite lotion that leaves you smelling divine. You throw him a look in the mirror, watching him gaze at you with a mix of love and lust.

“It’s not happening, sir,” you warn, turning to face him. “I can’t be late to work today.”

“Why?” He raises his brows. “Do you have an important meeting today?”

“No,” you say carefully, acutely aware that you are still naked. “I just don’t want to be late today.”

You are putting up a brave front, stepping around him and into the closet. His hand brushes against your hips on the way, and tiny jolts of excitement spread throughout your body. Despite you saying no, your body says the opposite, your insides practically screaming to let him put in said tip. It doesn't help that Seungcheol looks the sexiest in the mornings, with his sleepy look and slightly disheveled hair. You imagine your fingers running through it, tugging it tightly while you kiss his perfect lips, riding him—

“Ahem.”

Snapping out of your reverie, you glance at Seungcheol before praying your perfume and body mist. He saunters toward you, his hands caressing your hips as his lips grace your neck. Your breath hitches involuntarily, your body betraying you as it reacts to his touch. He knows what he is doing, and you want to give in, but you must stay strong and stick to the schedule.

“Seungcheol,” you softly murmur, attempting to free yourself from him gently. “Not now.”

His fingers sneak lower, flirting with your bikini line. You turn, squinting your eyes at him before successfully unwrapping his hands around you and walking away. You had to leave for your own sake, because if you stayed a minute more, he would have you bent over the bathroom counter, again.

“I don’t know why you’re fighting it,” Seungcheol’s voice carries from the closet. “I know you’re thinking about it.”

A slow smirk plays on your lips, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the vivid imagery playing in your head. Your body tingles with excitement and lust, thinking of the last time he suggested ‘just the tip.’ You hear shuffling in the closet, and you pretend to look busy, digging for something imaginary to deter Seungcheol on his conquest. Unfortunately for you, when you turn around, Seungcheol is shirtless, twirling the matching set of bra and panties you had set out for today. He has a mischievous glint in his eye that makes you gulp. God, you are in trouble.

“Are you looking for these?” Seungcheol asks, feigning innocence.

“Possibly…” your voice trails off, squinting your eyes at him. “Not sure how you ended up with them.”

“Maybe I wanted to help you get dressed, since you don’t want to be late and all.”

You scoff, moving towards him and attempting to grab your undergarments. “I’m a big girl,” you roll your eyes. “I can dress myself.”

“I know, I know,” Seungcheol nods in agreement. “But wouldn’t it be so much quicker if you had help?”

You raise your brow at him, aware of the game he is trying to play. You watch him lower himself to his knees, lifting your leg and sliding your panties through it. His eyes are pleading, practically begging for what he wants. He licks his bottom lip at the sight of your naked center, a small sigh escaping his lips. Heat surges through you like a blue flame, your cunt undoubtedly wet and craving his tongue.

“Stop,” you murmur, locking your gaze with his. “You know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” Seungheol teases, kissing your inner thigh. “Tell me.”

“Don’t be coy with me,” you say with a resigned sigh. Looking at the time displayed on your digital clock, you gently grab his chin with your fingers. “Do it before I change my mind.”

“With pleasure, baby.”

His tongue graces your folds, tasting and playing with your clit in ways that make you gasp, clutching onto his hair. He doesn’t break his contact with you, carnal lust taking over him as he hums in your pussy. Pleasure courses through your body at the littlest movements, your hips slowly riding his tongue.

Seungcheol grips your thighs tighter, and he delves deeper, slurping and moaning sounds echoing in the room. The vibrations of his lips make you twitch, gripping his hair tighter. “Fuck, Cheol,” you grit your teeth, pleasure shooting through your abdomen.

“You look divine on my tongue, baby,” he murmurs, not letting up. “Give me more.”

With renewed vigor, Seungcheol slips two fingers inside of you, and you see heaven. Your pussy clenches around him, his tongue flattening against your clit as he thrusts into you relentlessly. You’re coming undone, legs shaking as his name spills from your lips like a mantra. You make the mistake of looking down, his lips and cheeks covered with your nectar, and it sends you over the edge, screaming colorful obscenities as you fall into an abyss of pleasure.

Seungcheol is earnest, lapping up everything you offer him, gripping you tighter until your legs give out, your bed being your saving grace as you fall back. He chuckles, licking his lips incessantly as your wetness is spread all over his face. Mind fuzzy from the pleasure, you lie back on the bed, your sheets giving you a soft, cool reprieve to the hot sensation spreading all over your body.

“Are you okay, love?”

You make a minimal effort to lift yourself, studying your husband as he licks his lips, completely satisfied.

“I am… a puddle,” you burst into a giggle, in disbelief. “I can’t believe I let you rope me into that.”

“I can be creative,” Seungcheol gloats, running his fingers through his hair. The bed creaks as he climbs on, towering over you and kissing you deeply. You’re in a daze, his lips and your taste on his tongue putting you in a trance. You feel strung out, overflowing with a lust that only your husband can fix, and it doesn’t help that his tip is poking at your entrance through his boxers.

“So,” he clears his throat, drawing lines across your chest. “Did I earn it?”

You throw him a look before letting out a silvery laugh. Seungcheol, ever the pleaser since you first met him, will always make sure he does a good job. “I think you managed.”

Seungcheol looks at you, surprised, amusement etched on his face. “Managed?”

“Yes. Managed,” you tease him. “You could always be better.”

You roar into laughter as Seungcheol lifts your legs, shoving down his sweats and his large cock springing free. He taps it on your clit, oversensitivity and pleasure shooting through your thighs. Your nails dug into his arm in retaliation, a fire burning your belly as you crave to be fucked.

“Just the tip?” He asks, sliding slowly into your wetness. Your fingers cling to your sheets, your eyes rolling back as his girthy cock goes in inch by inch. You shouldn’t have teased him, you know this, because now he has you where he wants you, just as he planned.

“More than the tip,” you purr, accepting the inevitable. “All of it.”

Without warning, he snaps his hips into you, fucking you without mercy. His strokes are long, deep, the kind that fill you up with joy and leave you with tears in your eyes. He pulls you closer, tasting your skin as your nails dig deeper into his back. Your walls spasm around him, loving every minute of the dick he is dropping off, for sure punishment for your teasing earlier.

“Fuck,” you rasp, feeling your peak reaching once more. “You feel so fucking good.”

You feel him grin against your neck, hitting you with a final stroke before lifting you and turning you over. He scurries to the baseboard, beckoning for him to come to him, wiggling his glistening cock. You crawl over to him happily, climbing over and sinking on him slowly, both groaning in unified satisfaction.

“Come here,” Seungcheol mutters, pulling you closer. “Give me your lips.”

His kiss is gratifying, your tongues interwining with another as you ride him, bouncing on his cock the way he likes it. Your pussy gushes as he fucks back, his fingers rubbing your clit vigorously like he owns it. Hit with a shock of pleasure that courses through your veins, you increase the pace and pull his hair, chasing your second orgasm. As if he read your mind, he pounds into you harder, taking your nipple and sucking on it fervently.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you whimper, everything turning white.”Don’t stop.”

“Never, baby,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”

It comes sharp and quick, your legs shuddering and your moans throaty and wet. You cling to Seungcheol as he talks you through it, whispering songs of praise and peppering you with kisses. His thrusts become rigid, signaling his own release as he lets out a loud guttural moan, your walls still pulsating as he empties himself into you. Relishing in each other, you still, your hearts beating as one, as he caresses your back. Love can’t describe what you feel.

“Are you still going to go in?” Seungcheol asks, drawing lines along your back. “Stay home and make it a 3-day weekend.”

Chuckling in the crook of his neck, you gaze at him, kissing him softly. “This was all a part of your plan, huh? Fuck me good and leave me too tired to move?”

Seungcheol peals into laughter, caressing your cheek. “And if it was?”

You lock eyes with him, a knowing look on your face as you lift off him slowly. “Do you remember the last time you begged for ‘just the tip?’” You point at the nightstand, your finger directed at a shiny baby monitor on display next to your wedding portrait.

“So?” Seungcheol shrugs with a smug look. “We can always have another.”

You shake your head with laughter, making your escape before you give him any ideas. A baby’s cry is heard through the monitor, and your heart pangs with guilt. The sunlight shines through the blinds, casting a soft glow that promises a peaceful day. You silently laugh, your shoulders shaking heavily as it dawns on you that at the end, Seungcheol is going to get what he wants.

“Babe? I’m staying home.”

Upon a massage table he lay on his stomach, hands resting his chin as his physiotherapist worked on the upper parts of his back, towards the muscles that connected to his neck. A long white towel stopped your sight from straying any further, and instantly you trailed back to his face, which now craned upward to shoot an irritated glance towards you. 

Because the image stunned you still, he took the opportunity of your silence to retort, “Aren’t you familiar with the concept of privacy?” 

His quip instantly snapped you out of your momentary daze. The only thing you could demand from him was, “Why’re you wasting your time on a massage?” 

A whoosh of breath escaped him, more exaggerated to incite your vexation. “You might as well stop now, Soon,” he exasperated to his attendee, “No one’s gonna be allowed to relax anymore.” 

“As if you stop bumming about when I tell you not to,” you cut right back, nodding in greeting to Seungcheol’s personal physio. “Soonyoung, next time, just keep squeezing the tension in his neck till it snaps.” 

The man’s mouth could have fallen to the floor in pure shock—more so when the driver spluttered out a rough laugh. “And you’re laughing?” Soonyoung demanded. “Maybe you deserve it, judging by your reaction.” 

“If _____ wants to choke me so badly, she can come here and do it herself.” He slid his head, baring his neck to you. “It’ll give you an excuse to touch me since you want me so bad.” 

Your scoff had the poor medic a little concerned for your throat. “I would rather the Ferraris run me over,” you snarled. “Or I could take Jay’s car and run you over instead! Save us all the headache, no?” 

“You might as well take my car then,” he quipped, settling his head in his hands, “You’ll run me over faster.” 

“So you admit you’re favoured over the second driver?” You latched onto the implication, stepping forward. “I always had a feeling the mechanics took extra time tuning your car.” 

“Since you’re too stupid to recognise it, I was praising the driver, not the car.” 

“Oh, I know, that’s why I ignored the indication,” you jeered, crossing your arms. “It’s a miracle he’s scored points anyway, given how difficult it is to drive the RB21.” 

Seungcheol’s remark was quick—cutting. “He’s not a baby. His whole job is to win points.” 

There—the perfect opportunity, presenting itself to you. “Hey, Soon, any chance I can speak to him alone?” 

“Of course,” he said, nodding as he swiped his hands together, dusting off remnants of his client. “Though I’m scared if Jihoon asks me to collect him I’ll only see his bleeding body on the table.” 

“Just know I did it for the team,” you drawled, earning a huff of laughter from the physio, and an unimpressed scoff from the champion. As the former bid his adieu, he closed the door behind him, you watching it slide shut.

With the door closed, you made yourself turn, expecting to stare him down. His eyes were already poised upon you. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable, the pressure akin to the Turn One g-force at the very circuit the man before you won in. It did not help either that he barely had any clothes on.

Not that it had an effect on you—no amount of perfectly lean muscle, dangerously curved shoulders that swell with every slight movement could change your mind about him. You made to keep your sights on his face, which had enraged you so much its objective allure had worn off completely.

That very face contorted in an arrogant dismissal. “Tryna get me alone while I’ve only got a towel to cover myself?” he provoked, slowly shifting his position. “Another one of your so-called faultless strategies?” 

“Your vanity is staggering, Seungcheol,” you remarked, rolling your eyes. “I was actually trying to save face, but I suppose I should have kept an audience to humiliate you.” 

A scoff through his nose. “You can try to humiliate me,” he dared, slowly swinging his leg downward, sitting up on the massage table. “What do you want?” 

You decided to cling onto the lead he slipped out. “You’re suspiciously critical about Jay,” you said. “Not a single word of congrats to him when he’s one of your first teammates in a while to gain points for the team.” 

He raised an incredulous brow. “That’s your issue with me?” 

“Don’t try to demean it,” you opposed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “He’s already got a ton of pressure on him for needing to perform after the previous rookie failures. You being overly mean doesn’t help.” 

Disbelieved, he twisted his mouth in a frown. “You’re berating me…because I’m not best friends with my teammate? The guy who’s competing with me for the Drivers’?”

Then, he clicked his tongue, unable to help himself. “I mean, not that he actually is, since there is no competition between us.” 

“Oh my God, this is what I mean!” you exclaimed, breaking the crossed arms to bring your hands to your hips. “I’m not asking for friendship bracelets, I’m asking there to be a little mutual respect. Jay clearly admires you, and you being the ‘difficult senior’ is only gonna make his journey in Red Bull more difficult.” 

He breathed in sharply, his bare chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. “Well…it seems you’re already there to make everything easier for him, so I don’t need to do anything.”

Your brows immediately furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He jerked his head towards the left wall, where the meeting room would have been situated. “You were all cheers and promises of team drinks when he placed fifth today. Fifth,” he repeated for good measure, almost spitting the position out. 

“So? I’m only celebrating team achievement.” 

“But when my name is concerned, suddenly praises and celebrations are illegal! Banned on the paddock!” he declared. “Shit, I won the Grand Prix today, yet you acted like I was disqualified.”

“I did not act like that,” you countered. “Pointing out possible performance improvements is not, and should not be taken as, a personal attack. Of course, since you’re so self-centred, I know how hard that is for you.” 

“It’s not selfish to demand respect,” he huffed, gripping harder onto the edges of the table. “I just think you hate to see me succeed.” 

You paused then, at a loss for words. “...what?” 

He carried on, forever a man in love with his own voice—Narcissus if he battled for podiums. “Don’t act so shocked by this. You just can’t take it if I’m winning.” 

The sheer lack of logic in his declaration had you snarking, “The only time you’re ever useful is when you are winning, since, you know,” you iterated, as if he was a child needing extra explanation, “we’re on the same team!” 

“Are we?” He stepped off the table, wrapping the towel around his waist—hanging too comfortably as it cut off the v-line trail, and still exposing his begrudgingly sculpted legs. “Are we really, when you applaud the kid more when he wasn’t even on the podium?” 

“Here we go again,” you grumbled, rubbing the space between your temples. “Seungcheol, the kid is on your team, too. This might be a foreign concept to you, but I want to support both the drivers.”

You craned your head to glare at him—never forgetting his height the closer he stalked towards you. “It’s the Oracle Red Bull Team, not the Red Bull Solo.”  

“I hope you remember that too,” he muttered, eyes imprisoning your own. “Stop needlessly shitting on me when I’m the reason you have points right now.” 

A scowl marred your mouth.  “Jay’s given us ten.” 

His eyes now squinted. “I’ve given you twenty-five today.”

“You’ve given me nothing,” you clarified, raising your chin at him. “It’s all going to the team.” 

“Are you not part of said team?” A slight lean, a stance to intimidate you. “Do all your little speeches on teamwork not apply to you?” 

“Don’t pretend I don’t slave away for Red Bull,” you guttered, refusing to be subdued. You stood tall, despite his muscled stature threatening to overpower you. “All those speeches you call them are aimed towards you.” 

He exhaled lightly then, lips breaking to release a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “Careful, Your Majesty, or I’m gonna think you’re obsessed with me.” 

Your nostrils flared at his audacity. “The only person obsessed with you is yourself, you stupid prick.” 

You meant to hurt him, bruise his ego. It only seemed to swell before your very eyes as his grin widened. “I have to, since you appreciate every idiot on the paddock except for me. Doesn’t help my three-time championship winning mindset, you see.” 

All these little quips, snippets of tom-foolery spluttering out of his cherry mouth. “You’ll deserve praise from me when you learn how to help your team out.” 

His pupils darted over your impassioned stare, your determined stance burning inside. “I’ll help the team out when you bother helping me out.” 

Bastard, bastard, bastard. Never wandering beyond his own borders—always thinking about himself. You could see it in his eyes, too. The dark, spruce-like browns of his irises, so resolute in his self-centredness. It made your lungs tighten at the notion. 

You did not bid his terrible counter with a response, simply sufficing in glaring him down. Of course, because he always knew how to match you, he, too, stayed content in this heavy silence, crossing his arms over his upper chest, barely catching onto the swell of his shoulders growing with the action. 

Even this was a power play—any normal opponent would have reacted to the state he was in, but you refused to succumb to the lack of layers. Any atom of awkwardness was thwarted by your growing obstinacy. No amount of aesthetic perfection could cancel out how much of an asshole he was. 

At least he knew that you were no frail intern, or a mindful, hesitant engineer. If he wished to stoop low, then you would dive to the lowest depths in order to silence him. 

As long as Choi Seungcheol did not win over you. 

but neither of you moves. the only thing that shifts is your breathing, shallow and messy, as the weed settles in your veins. the feeling of him inside you starts to blur with the buzz.

then you grind.

just a little.

just enough.

a groan erupts from his throat, low and wrecked. his grip tightens on your hips. his cock twitches inside you.

“that how we’re doing this?” he growls, gaze burning into you now.

you take another drag, slow and sultry, lips wrapped around the blunt like a threat. like a promise. you know exactly what you’re doing.

his fingers twitch. his cock jumps. 

“thought this was cockwarming, not cockteasing,” he mutters, voice thick with smoke and restraint.

you exhale, a thin stream of haze curling between your smirk.

“then stop me.”

his eyes flash.

you shift your hips, just enough to grind your clit against his pelvis, enough to make you both breathe a little harder.

“shit,” he whispers, hands clenching. “you're gonna regret that.”

you grin. “good.”

his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. his eyes darken, something fierce and possessive flashing through them. you can feel the tension coil in his muscles, the restraint about to shatter. the blunt is barely between your fingers when he grabs you by the throat and flips you onto your back, your head hitting the soft mattress underneath the two of you. 

“you think you can ride my cock, act all innocent, and just get away with it?”

you don’t even answer, you can’t. not with the way his hand squeezes the sides of your throat and his hips slam up into you before you can speak, knocking the breath from your lungs. the blunt is somehow still fixed between your fingers and the weed haze is gone. all that’s left is him, inside you, on top of you, fucking you like you owe him something.

his pace is brutal, like he’s punishing you for teasing him and the way his grip is tight on the sides of your throat, is painfully arousing. you close your eyes, letting them roll back as you let the blissful feeling drown you, really focusing on his cock pistoning in and out of you, and the way he’s choking you–

you moan. not a gentle, soft moan. a loud and unrestrained moan, drawn-out. 

“still teasing me?”

oh, he sounds pissed off.

you weren’t really teasing him this time but you let him believe you were. 

you clench around his moving cock, chuckling as he glares down at you, however the mischievous smirk planting on your face doesn’t last for long.

“you really don’t know what you’re starting, do you?” 

he presses his body flush against yours, the weight of him grounding and overwhelming all at once. his mouth crashes down on your neck, teeth grazing your skin, his breath hot and ragged. his grip shifts, one hand tangles in your hair, holding you firmly in place, while the other slides between your bodies, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock buried inside you.

the blunt finally falls from your fingers, forgotten and lays on the wooden flooring of his bedroom. his hips jerk forward sharply, thrusting deep and fast inside you. the sudden movement steals your breath, your body jerking with the impact. your walls clamp instinctively around him, clinging to the pulse of his cock, desperate for more, but he’s relentless, driving into you harder than before.

you try to catch your breath, but his pace gives you no chance. his hands roam over your body, some rough, some almost possessive, dragging you closer to the edge without mercy.

his teeth nip at your jaw, then trail down your collarbone as he grinds his hips into yours, each movement claiming you like you’re his territory.

“did you think this was a game?” he snarls, voice low but brutal. “you wanted this. now you’re gonna take it.”

your skin prickles with overstimulation, senses on fire. the heat of his body, the slickness between your legs, the haze of the weed mixing with the raw need flooding your veins. it’s overwhelming and you realise you’re not in control anymore.

and you don’t want to be.

his hips slam into you with unforgiving force, each thrust a pounding declaration that you’re his. your back arches instinctively as his grip tightens on your hips, nails digging into your skin like anchors.

you’re drowning in sensation, his cock filling you utterly, the slick heat mixing with the sting of his relentless pace. every inch of you burns. your muscles tremble and your breath catches in ragged gasps.

he leans down, breath hot against your ear, voice rough and dangerous. “look at you, all fucked out and still dripping for me. you wanted this, didn’t you?”

your body betrays you, clenching hard around him, squeezing him tighter as waves of overstimulation crash through your core. tears prick your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of pleasure and need.

he shoves you down harder, fingers digging into your thighs, spreading you wider without a shred of gentleness. “don’t you dare slow down. not now.”

your moans crack, raw and desperate, mixing with the sounds of skin slapping against skin. he fucks you like he’s trying to bury every last ounce of control you thought you had.

“say it,” he commands, voice gruff and harsh. “say you’re mine. say you want me to ruin you.”

you barely manage a broken whisper, voice thick with lust and haze, “please... don’t stop.”

his laugh is dark, almost cruel. “that’s my girl.”

he keeps pounding, relentless and deep, chasing his own release while pushing you past your limits, your body overwhelmed, mind melting into a haze of heat and sensation.

his thrusts begin to falter, hips stuttering as he nears his edge. his breathing hitches, ragged and uneven, lips pressed hard against your temple as he buries himself deeper inside you.

“you feel that?” he rasps. “that’s me. coming for you.”

your walls clamp instinctively around him, squeezing tight, drawing him closer to the edge. overstimulation crashes over you again, hotter and more urgent than before, your body trembling with the effort to hold on.

he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through your core and with a final, powerful thrust, he cums, spilling inside you, the warmth flooding through your insides.

your body shudders, overwhelmed, as the waves of his release ripple through you. your legs shake, your breath comes in short gasps, and tears spill freely down your cheeks, not from pain, but from the intensity of being utterly undone.

slowly, he pulls out, still panting, and wraps his arms around you, holding you close as your heart pounds in your chest. his fingers trace gentle circles on your back, soothing the storm inside you.

“you’re perfect,” he murmurs, voice soft now, filled with awe and something tender beneath the roughness. “you took everything like a fucking champion.”

he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“here,” he says, reaching for a bottle of water nearby, handing it to you with a crooked smile. “drink up. you earned it.”

you lean into him, the high from the weed mingling with the afterglow of everything he gave you. wrapped in his arms, you finally begin to come down, safe, warm, and utterly spent.

glossary:

Jangot – Veil-like cloak for women

Binyeo – Decorative hairpin

Yakgwa – Honey-ginger cookie

Jeonbok – Traditional sleeveless vest for men

Dasik – Pressed tea cookie

Jeogori – Upper garment or jacket

Chima – Skirt worn by women

Baduk – Strategy board game (Go)

Daenggi – Ribbon for braids

Hour of the Ox – 1:00–3:00 AM

Hour of the Tiger – 3:00–5:00 AM

Orabeoni – Respectful term for older brother

+82 some miracle

only listen to my general

“Daughter, this is General Choi Seungcheol, your betrothed. Greet him properly,” your father commands softly, his eyes trained on you.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Whether from the loaded tension in the air, the silence of the room or your future husband’s penetrating eyes on you, you are unsure. 

His eyes…

You saw them once, a long, long time ago, and you remember them in explicit detail because they are heterochromatic. His right iris is red, a shade of fiery crimson that is scary but also hypnotizing—a stark contrast to his left iris, which is pure black. 

You wish it were only his eyes that were lethal. Unfortunately for you, it is his presence itself. It is the way he silently sits there, poised and alert, holding his sword in his right hand and softly drumming his left index finger on his knee, as if telling you to hurry up. It is the way his face remains unreadable, a porcelain white canvas containing a pair of eyes fiercer than a mountain lion's, a sharp nose that is slightly crooked on the left, and pink lips that are pressed in a thin line. The most daunting of it all, the scar on the right side of his face, just below his eye and on top of his cheekbone. It is no more than a couple of inches long, but the gash looks deep, even after it has healed and imagining the pain behind that curse rakes shivers down your spine. 

Finally, you snap out of your reverie.

With a shaky exhale, you bow down and speak as humbly as possible. “Please accept my greetings, my lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

— 

Choi Seungcheol is well known throughout the kingdom, highly feared and revered. In fact, many hold him in the same regard as the king, which is not unfair or surprising. He is the Minister of War and the General of the royal military, the right-hand man of the King and his most trusted subject. Since his boyhood, he demonstrated excellent swordsmanship, and paired with his keen intellect and faultless war strategies, he quickly rose through the ranks and became the King's favourite. His name spread far and wide after he brought victory to the nation in two consecutive wars. He attended the first one when he was only eighteen, and he became infamous for that.

That war with the nearby enemy nation was extremely brutal, as it took away the lives of many of the best men in the military. When Seungcheol returned to the capital with the enemy General’s head in his hands, he was a changed man who had altered the course of history. Bloodied, beaten and bruised, he sported the deep scar on his face, fresh and bleeding. 

Rumours spread from there. Though he brought the nation victory, the townspeople gossiped about everything from his scar, his crimson eye, to his temper, claiming that he was a madman or possessed by an evil spirit. 

You have heard a few things from your father, too. He has agreed that the war changed the man, rightfully so. As the state minister, your father saw firsthand how brutal and merciless the war was till the last moment. So much so that he stepped down from his position afterwards.

He lost his son in the war, after all. Your older brother, whom you vaguely remember because you were only eight at that time. 

Nothing was the same after his passing. Your father lost his spark, your mother became quiet and indifferent, and the house fell into a deathly silence that felt haunted. The silence still lingers, fourteen years later. 

It has been a long time, so long that sometimes you feel like those days never existed. Yet, you remember them vividly: the pain of your mother’s death four years after your brothers, the remaining light dissipating from your father's eyes and the house falling into a perpetuating state of darkness, a place where everyone remained silent, from the slaves to the master. A place that never truly was illuminated, even during the brightest days of summer. A place that you had to call home but wasn’t your home. It was a graveyard where you floated through, watching the world outside bathe and shine with colours when the second war was won, when the king became the father of a boy, when the economy flourished. Seasons passed and years went by, yet your house never celebrated a holiday or a special occasion. 

You saw your father survive each day, haunted by his past and unaware of the present. Every day, he would see students from morning till noon, fulfilling his duties as a scholar before retiring to his room and staying there till the next morning.

The only time you saw some life in him was three years ago, when he called you one day in his chamber to announce that you would get married to Choi Seungcheol once he returned from his three-year trip to another country. Choi Seungcheol, the General of the Royal Military. The man with heterochromatic eyes, who came to your brother’s funeral years ago.

That’s how you have remembered him. The man with two different colored eyes, who stood in the rain with a grim expression on his face as they lowered your brother into the ground.

Over the years, you have heard notorious things about him. He has gained an infamous reputation among the townspeople. Many people believe that he is insane and that he murders people for fun. Word goes around that he is a womanizer, a man without a heart, a man who did not spare his own brother and executed him for treason.

You don’t know how much of this is true.

It all might be true; he just might be the devil living in a human body, but funnily enough, you do not care.

You will do anything to get out of this house. Living here for the past fourteen years has been like being buried alive. You are breathing, yet you don’t feel alive—you don’t remember the last time you felt that way, if ever.

And if a diabolical, insane man is your ticket out of this grave, you will take it. You will accept it with open arms and a smile on your face.

— 

The marketplace is crowded.

You gently tread through the throng of people, holding your jangot over your head as you eye the stalls leisurely, nothing in particular catching your attention. 

“My lady,” Jihye whispers, walking alongside you. “You have been circling the market for the past half an hour. What are you even looking for?”

A dejected sigh flows past your lips. 

Last time you came to the market, a pretty flower binyeo caught your eye. You had not received your salary yet at that time, and so, you could not purchase the piece. You had aimed to buy that binyeo today, but now that you've received your pay, it's no longer available. You have been scouring the market ever since, looking for something similar, but there is none.

“You know what, let us buy some yakgwa and head home,” you say, looking for a snack shop. Jihye smiles, her eyes flickering excitedly at your mention of buying sweets.

A few feet ahead of you, you spot a sweet shop. Instead of focusing on the plethora of sweets laid out, your gaze travels to the right, stopping on two men standing by that shop, their backs facing you.

Something about the tall, broad man dressed in black makes you stop in your tracks. Particularly, his long ebony hair feels oddly familiar to you. 

The man shifts a little, and you catch the slightest glimpse of his side profile through the busy street. Immediately, you squeak and hide behind a nearby stall.

It is General Choi, your husband-to-be.

“My lady, what is wrong?” Jihye hovers around you worriedly. Without looking away from the man, you dig into the sleeve of your hanbok, fishing out some coins and handing them to Jihye. 

“Here. Go buy as much yakgwa as you want.” You murmur, pushing her towards the shop while you get more comfortable in your hiding spot.

You don’t even know why you are hiding. You did not do anything wrong, and you surely have no reason to spy on your future husband in the middle of a busy marketplace.

Still, you continue observing him converse with the other gentleman. His stance is poised and powerful as always, and dressed head to toe in his signature black military clothes, he looks like death itself. Haunting but hypnotizing; which would explain why you cannot look away. 

And then, suddenly, he turns around, locking his eyes with you straight, as if he knew exactly where you were hiding. 

With a gasp of mortification and terror, you immediately whip your head away and bump into a passerby. Bowing your head in an apology, you let the woman pass through before tentatively turning your head back to the street.

Choi Seungcheol stands right behind you.

“Ah!” You yelp, taken aback and stumble a few steps behind. He reaches out immediately and grabs your elbow in a flash, saving you from the fall.

Flushed and breathless, you gape at him like a fish out of water.

He has the usual grim and unamused look on his face, peering down at you almost like he is judging you. His hair is tied up in a half bun, and his bangs frame half of his face, covering his odd eye and the scar. It is a shame, you find yourself thinking as you observe the rest of his face, counting the moles on his pale skin.

It is when he lets you go that you realize he had been holding onto you all this time, and you stood there like a statue.

How unladylike!

First, he catches you spying on him, and now— 

“My apologies, my Lord.” You immediately take several steps back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. Full of shame, you keep your head low as you murmur, “I was simply startled to see you.”

“It seems that you were spying on me.” His voice is smooth and rich, calm and authoritative. “No!” You gasp. “I was just…um…looking. I thought you…ah…looked somewhat familiar…”

He cocks a thick brow in amusement, the faintest smirk creeping up on his lips. 

What are you even saying?

Cringing at your own words, you press your lips shut and scowl at the ground, cursing the heavens for your predicament.

“You are not at the palace today?” He asks. You welcome the change of topic with great relief.

"No, my Lord. I asked for a break from my duties this week as I am preparing for the wedding.”

With no mother or close female relatives, it is up to you to prepare your wedding. 

Generally, you do not like skipping work. It has been two months since you secured a job at the palace after a lot of struggle. Your father was not very happy with the idea of you working, especially in the palace, but he ultimately gave in. 

You work as a teacher to the children under the head court lady of the palace, teaching them how to read and write while they train to be future court ladies. Sometimes you also work as a bookkeeper for the royal library, but that is something you do voluntarily and out of your love for reading. The pay is not very much, but it gives you a sense of freedom and identity, something you struggled to find for the last twenty-two years.

“Head Court Lady Yeo speaks very highly of you.” General Choi states. You do not understand whether he meant it positively or negatively, given his flat tone. Confused, you chuckle awkwardly. “It is a pleasure to work under her guidance. She is very patient and—”

Suddenly, Seungcheol reaches out to you, grabbing you by the arm and harshly tugging you towards him. Completely oblivious as to what is happening, you bump into his chest as his arms snake around you, protectively holding your body next to his.

Less than half a second later, a man riding a horse whooshes by, yelling out apologies to all the people for his rowdy horse. Dear Lord, you were about to be trampled by a horse if not for him.

“Are you alright?” 

His voice makes you look up at him, wide-eyed and panting. It takes a moment for you to realize that he is holding you against his chest, his warm hand resting on your shoulder in a protective grip while your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jeonbok for support.

With your heart pounding loudly in your ears, it takes you yet another moment to remember how inappropriate this is, the way you are pressed against him. In a flash, you free yourself from his hold and shuffle back, murmuring a mortified apology. At the same time, you hate how much you miss his touch on you.

How odd.

“My lady, are you alright!” Jihye comes running down the street, a packet of confectionery in her hands. 

“Y-yes, I am okay. Let us get going.” You announce, immediately turning away from General Choi, desperate to escape this mortifying situation.

“Hold on.” The deep baritone of his voice steals a breath from your lips. Your body instinctively listens to his command, and you carefully look behind to see him picking up your jangot, which you probably dropped earlier and were about to leave without.

Once more, you cringe at your clumsiness as you watch him brush off the dirt before extending the material towards you. With shaky hands, you reach for it. “Thank you, my Lord. I wish you a pleasant day.”

The next second, you rush out of the marketplace as if the grim reaper himself were chasing after you. Behind you, Jihye struggles to keep up, but you couldn't care less, hiding your face in embarrassment.

That night, under the blanket, you lie wide awake. The memory of General Choi’s hand on your body and his chest pressed against yours keeps repeating in your head in a loop. A foreign, warm sensation pools in your belly, and you find yourself shamefully fantasizing about your future husband, forsaking slumber.

—

You got married today. 

According to the elders of the town, it is one of the most important days of your life, yet it felt like every other—quick and ordinary. Probably because the groom was barely there.

During noon, he came in to fulfil the basic rituals before marching out, leaving a note for you with Jihye. The work in the palace is too demanding, so he must go. He would see you tonight at his place. That was all he said.

Hours later, night has fallen and you are now in his home.

You sit alone in a chamber prepared especially for you. His servants made sure you were comfortable, helping you bathe and prepare for the first night with your husband before leaving you alone to sit with your thoughts and hear the hum of the crickets in the nearby forest.

You declined their offer to serve you dinner. It is only appropriate to wait for your husband and share the first meal together. 

Adorned in fine silk and pretty ribbons, you sit and wait for your husband to come, watching the flame of the candle dancing and melting away the wax. 

You are nervous. It is your first night with your husband. You, who has never even looked at a man for a second too long. You are now married to one of the most feared men in the kingdom. You have heard people talk about his ruthlessness in bed. Apparently, the girls in the brothel talk about it all the time, especially when he visits. Jihye said that whoever spends the night with him needs an entire day to recover.

“Lady Choi,” Head Servant Yang suddenly calls your name before opening the door. “Master has arrived. He is taking a bath currently.”

You snap out of the thoughts of bedding your husband and give her a shy smile. “Could you please set the table then?”

“Of course.” The elderly woman bows and walks out of the room, arranging for dinner to be set in your chamber.

Ten minutes after the dinner is served, General Choi walks into the room. Fresh out of the bath, he is dressed in his nightwear and his hair is tied up in a neat bun, giving you an uninterrupted view of his face. Once again, you find yourself hypnotised by his heterochromatic eyes.

“You did not have dinner?” He asks, sitting down in front of you. His movement is as graceful as always, silent yet stealthy. His posture is upright, the muscles of his shoulders taught as he sits and regards you with careful eyes.

“I was waiting for you, my Lord.” You reply meekly.

“You should not have,” he states, his tone almost condescending. “I am sure Head Servant Yang informed you that I return from work late most days.”

“Today is a special day, is it not?” You find yourself speaking boldly. Your words are firm like the gaze in your eyes, and for a long moment, the chamber is plunged into suffocating silence.

General Choi keeps looking down at you, his gaze as intimidating as ever, and you half expect him to draw his sword from its sheath and slice your head off. Instead, his lips curl upwards, and a noise of amusement leaves his throat. 

“Lady Choi, you seem upset.” He states, his voice half challenging and half something you cannot pinpoint. Sarcasm? Threat?

Unsure how to reply to that, you bite your lip and stare at the food laid out in front of you. All your appetite is gone now.

“Let me tell you something, Lady Choi.” Your husband leans closer to you over the table. Something about the way he utters your title forces you to meet his gaze. Like always, the fierce look in his eyes steals away your breath.

The man is hauntingly beautiful.

“I am certain you have some expectations from this marriage, and I cannot hold that against you. However, let me inform you now, I will not be able to fulfil your expectations, whatever they may be. So, I suggest you completely let go of your expectations, for your own good.”

What? You are sure no woman in Joseon’s history ever had to hear these words on her wedding night.

“My Lord, I do not understand.”

He does not bother clarifying his words. Instead, the look in his eyes shifts, his gaze sharpening on you. Lazily, he pours himself a drink from the pitcher and chugs it down.

“I know what this marriage means to you.”

You hold your breath and watch him, alarmed. He smirks. “It means freedom. It is your way out of that house. So, let this marriage be just that. A way out for you and a duty obliged for me.”

Well, consummating the marriage is also a duty. So is spending time with your wife and sharing a meal with her on your wedding night. You want to yell the words out, but you press your lips shut and stare at him, still processing what is happening.

“As long as we maintain our boundaries, this will be a great union,” he announces almost like he is reassuring you. You feel anything but that.

You feel abandoned, yet again.

“You should eat now,” he says, standing up. “I will retire for the night.” Without sparing another glance at you, he leaves the room. For a long moment, you silently sit in your place, your fancy garment and jewellery suddenly becoming too heavy on your skin. Ignoring the sensation, you reach for the rice, nibbling on the grains with your chopsticks.

You do not understand why tears prick your eyes.

— 

The next morning, an unknown man waits for you as you step out of your chamber and put on your shoes, ready to leave for the palace.

Your husband had left early in the morning, and while the news hurt you slightly, it also left you with relief. After last night, you have not had enough time to process your emotions to face him.

The strange man bows as he sees you approaching. “Greetings, Lady Choi. I am San. As per General Choi’s orders, I shall accompany you from now on for your safety.” Stupefied, you blink at the man. His build and posture indicate that he is a military person, but you do not understand why your husband would have someone guard you.

“My husband put you up to this?” You raise a brow. “Why?”

“I am afraid I cannot say. It was his order.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “So, from now on, you will what? Follow me everywhere?”

“Yes. Whenever you need to go out, I shall accompany you.”

“Is someone trying to kill me?” You ask, point blank, blinking at him.

San makes a noise of surprise before an awkward laugh spills from his lips. “O-of course not, my lady.” You keep eyeing the strange man with suspicion as you start heading for the front door. “Alright then, let us leave.”

— 

You bump into your husband at the palace.

At noon, when the sun is high in the sky, you finish teaching the young girls. Then, you head to the library to cool off and see if the head librarian needs any help. With no new work for you, Librarian Kim serves you some tea and sweets, congratulating you on your marriage. On your way out, he gives you some dasik to take home and share with your husband.

The husband who seems to want to do nothing with you.

With gratitude, you take the sweets and head out of the library, done with your day's work at the palace. That is when you see him. Below the steps of the library building, he approaches, followed by two other men, all dressed in uniforms. Their movements are quick and determined, almost like they are on a military mission.

General Choi takes notice of you as he climbs the stairs. Flustered and oddly shy, your first instinct is to hide. With no place to do that, you stand your ground and bow, “My Lord—”

He walks past as if he did not see you.

You stand rooted to your spot, blinking at the ground.

What just happened?

He ignored you. He blatantly ignored you. His wife. There is no way he did not see you. He did. His eyes met yours, and he held your gaze before looking away.

Hurt and humiliated, you stand there for several long moments, the sun scorching your back. You are tempted to storm back into the library and demand why he did that, but you know better than that.

For one, there is always the danger of him chopping your head off. You heard he once cut off a man’s head just for looking at him too long.

The other issue is more personal. Walking in there would make you look desperate, especially in front of others. You are supposed to be a newlywed happy wife, not someone who chases after her husband when he ignores her in public. The thought makes you feel like pins prickling your heart.

Once more in your life, you are insignificant. You are the lesser one, the one who can be forgotten, overlooked.

With boulders forming in your heart, you head home.

— 

Your husband returned home late today as well.

You had your dinner long ago, and Jihye prepared your bed for you. However, you did not get under the covers. In the dimly lit space of your bedchamber, you have been sitting with your head on your knees, curled up in a corner and watching the candle burn.

No matter how hard you try, you fail to get past the incident earlier today. You simply cannot comprehend why your husband would ignore you like that.

Your curiosity gets the better of you. With a resolved breath, you step out of your room and walk into his bedchamber. You knock at his door. “My Lord, may I come in?”

A beat of silence. “Yes.”

Opening the doors, you find Seungcheol tying the knot of his undershirt. The material is thin and white, giving you a pretty decent glimpse of his silhouette. Flustered, you immediately lower your gaze and shake your head at yourself. 

You did not think this through. Of course, he would be in his sleepwear, like you.

Shit.

It takes you another second to realize you, too, are in your sleepwear. A thin white top over your underskirt. With the realization dawning on you, you cross your arms over your chest and look up at him, conflicted and embarrassed.

Like always, his face gives nothing away. In the calmest of tones, he questions, “Did you need something from me?”

“Uhm…well…” Once again, you get distracted by the visual of your husband. In the dimly lit room, he appears even more stunning, the light of the candle casting strange shadows on his figure, contouring his muscles underneath the thin fabric. With his long, black hair undone, some strands fall on his face, covering his eyes. Through the curtain of his hair, his odd eye shines exceptionally bright in the darkness, stealing your breath.

“I am sure the reason for your visit is not to stare at me, Lady Choi.” He states once more, and you finally snap out of your thoughts.

Closing the door behind you, you gather all your resolve and stand straight.  “My apologies. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I am all ears.” He says, not looking at you. He busies himself by placing his sword next to his mat and sitting down comfortably.

“Why did you ignore me today at the palace?” You get straight to the point. The man turns to look at you slowly, his eyes sharpening ever so slightly. Despite him sitting, you feel as if he is towering over you, and you cannot help but hold your breath, waiting for whatever is to come. Something flashes in his eyes, and once again, you do not know what it is. Rage? Annoyance? Amusement?

You have no clue.

“It seems that you are disappointed, Lady Choi.” He finally replies, his tone containing that tinge of amusement he has with you. Like you are a circus monkey whose action provides him with fleeting, insignificant pleasure. 

You wait for him to elaborate, but he does not, looking at you with a challenging stare. You hate how…diplomatic he is all the time. “Why did you do it?” You repeat, trying to appear as stern as possible, which is almost comical. In front of you is the man people call the grim reaper.

General Choi shifts his position, resting his arm on his knee before fixing his gaze back on you. His tone is quiet, serious. “Let me tell you something, Lady Choi. In public, we are not to acknowledge each other. Do you understand me?”

The ground has been snatched from beneath your feet. You fall into an endless pit, your heart crushing into tiny bits with each of his words. Why? Why would he say something like that?

“Why?” You don’t mask the hurt and desperation in your voice. He ignores you. “If that was all, you may leave now. I wish to get some rest.”

Tears brim in your eyes. Why does he treat you like this? What crime did you ever commit against him?

Your mouth hangs open, shocked and helpless at his attitude towards you. Defeated, you silently pad back to the door. Before you open it, however, you pause. Slowly, you turn back to him. “Why did you assign that man to follow me around?”

He does not look at you. “San is one of the few men I trust. He will keep you safe.”

He has this tendency to never answer your question directly. He dances around it, giving curt, memorized answers. It feels like you are talking to a wall, frustrating and pointless. The next words slip past your lips thoughtlessly and barely above a whisper. “Why do we not sleep in the same room?” That finally gets his attention. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his pupils wide with shock. Like, he cannot believe that you just said that. 

Right. Why did you say that out loud? You look away in embarrassment, cringing at your words.

“So…” he starts to get up. You step back, alarmed.

Why is he getting up? He will slice your head off for sure this time.

With the grace of a lion about to devour his prey, he inches closer to you, his eyes flashing almost unnaturally. You keep walking backwards until your back meets the door and there is no place left to go.

He stops a mere inch away from you, so close that your clothes brush, so close that you can see his chest underneath his nightshirt, so close that you can inhale the scent of soap on his skin. Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes fall shut on their own.

“My wife wishes to sleep with me. Is that it?” His voice is heaven against your ears, deep, husky and warm, leaving your brain fumbling. You open your eyes to see him staring straight at you, and immediately, heat shoots up all through your body from your toes. 

“I…I didn’t…mean…” You stumble over your words, the sight of him so close to you, messing with your system.

He stares at you, his lips curling up in a smirk. “I am sure you have heard what they say about me.” He pauses. His hand reaches out towards your face, and you hold your breath in alarm and anticipation. With the faintest of touches, he drags his index finger against your jaw and down your neck. “I am sure you know how I am…in bed.” He whispers against your ear, and you can feel your heart physically drop as tingles shoot through your entire body.

At this point, you have forgotten how to breathe. 

“You could not handle me, Lady Choi.” He says and then, absolutely shocking you, leans closer to your neck. Tucking a stray piece of hair beneath your ears, he takes a long inhale of you and then slowly steps away from you.

You feel like you are on fire, beads of sweat gathering on your temples. Your mouth remains agape, processing what just happened as you stand pressed against the door, frozen like prey in shock.

“Good night, Lady Choi.” He says in the most nonchalant way possible, going back to bed. You manage to summon all your strength and rush out of his room, shutting the wooden panels loudly behind you. Outside, you gasp for air, clutching your chest, your heart racing like you just ran for your life. You stand outside the door for a long time, taking in deep breaths and trying to get your heart to calm down as foreign sensations flood through your veins, leaving behind an ache you have never felt before.

You want your husband, you realize. You want him to do all those filthy, animalistic things that you heard of…with you.

— 

You have accepted your new life. A married woman without a husband’s attention or acknowledgement.

In the last two weeks, a routine has fallen into place for you. You wake up, go to work, come home for lunch, spend the afternoon with Jihye lounging around before having dinner and going to bed. Throughout the day, setting eyes upon your husband is rare because he leaves with the sunrise and gets home after dinner. Most days, he has dinner in his chamber by himself, and on the rare occasions he is home early (twice), he shares it with you.

The freedom you thought an advantageous marriage would give you has not come. In fact, you feel more restricted than before. With San following you around like a hawk, you have lost interest in going outside to explore the neighbourhood. Jihye, too, has been weird lately. She vehemently opposes you going outside, especially to the market or other crowded areas and always runs your errands for you.

After a lot of thinking, you have come to a conclusion. Your husband has a mistress. Maybe, mistress is not the right word. If anything, you feel like the mistress in this relationship.

“I am sure he has someone he loves.” You hum, nodding to yourself. 

It is a Thursday afternoon in early spring, the warmth of the sun shining on you as you return home from an unusually long shift at the palace. A few steps behind you is San, ever present like a shadow, following you down a steep road to home.

With him around, you have started to voice your thoughts, no matter how crazy. There is nothing to hide from him after all. He sees it all firsthand, how his boss never spends time with you. 

You have another theory. San knows about the other woman. He has to, right? That is why General Choi employed him to guard you in the first place. He probably knows where your husband goes during his free time, and it is his job to make sure you never see him. 

General Choi seems to have bought off Jihye somehow, too. You find that absolutely bizarre, considering her long loyalty towards you. You are deeply hurt by her betrayal, and so, you have decided to shun her until she comes to you and explains what is going on.

That leaves you with San only.

“I’m right, no?” You turn around to take a glance at him. As usual, he looks helpless and awkward, almost like he is about to leave everything behind and run for the hills. You continue. “He has to have known her for a long, long time. However, I do not understand why he didn’t marry her. Is she not a nobleborn?”

You stop for a moment.

“Ah! She is someone from the brothel, probably, right?”

San continues looking at you helplessly, an awkward smile plastered on his face. You continue walking, nodding to yourself. “No wonder he told me not to expect anything from him. He also said that he fulfilled his duty by marrying me. No one will pester him now because he has the perfect cover.” You nod your head, impressed. “I have to give it to him. This is a good plan.”

The path down the cliff comes to an end, and you stop, admiring the sun slowly going lower in the western sky. The birds fly in the sky in groups, returning home as the sky changes colour, a deep tint of orange taking over the blue.

Is she pretty? You wonder to yourself. She must be. There must be something about her that keeps a man like him hooked. 

The thought pains you. More than it should.

You understand it. You really do, but what you don’t understand is why he married you. Why did he trap you into this marriage? The least he could have done was be honest with you instead of avoiding you like the plague.

The more you get to know this man, the more cowardly he seems. The thought brings an unironic smile to your face. The most feared man in the country, yet he refuses to communicate with his wife. He does not have the guts to speak the truth, which makes him nothing but a coward in your eyes.

“Let us stop by the market.” You announce, taking a different route. San rushes in front of you, alarmed. “Lady Choi, w-why?”

You stare at him, slightly annoyed. Why is he acting like this? Is General Choi supposed to be there now? With his lover? All the more reason why you must go.

You continue walking, ignoring San.

“My Lady, please. Tell me what you need and I shall get that for you after I escort you home.”

“San,” you abruptly stop and glare at him. “I shall tell you what I need right now. I need you to shut up and follow me quietly. Or, you can just leave and report to your boss that I am breaking protocol. Whatever fancies you.”

The man makes a pained sound, groaning almost like a wounded animal. However, you don’t wait for him, marching down the path with determination. Helplessly, he chases after you.

— 

The marketplace is less crowded than you expected. You heard there have been attacks by gangs in this area, so people are more reluctant to leave their houses, especially as evening approaches.

With the roads not as crowded as usual, it takes you only a couple of minutes to spot him. He stands out, as always, his broad shoulders and tall build catching your eye from far away. You observe him for a moment from afar, squinting your eyes to see what he is doing exactly.

He stands in front of a trinket shop, carefully going through the pieces laid out in front of him. 

Wow, is he shopping for something for his hidden lover? 

Bemused, you watch him, eyes scanning for a woman near him, only to find no one.

“My Lady, we should really get going. This area is not safe, and—” Ignoring San’s plea, you head straight towards where your husband stands.

“My Lord, what brings you here?” You chirp, standing right behind him. The man immediately turns around, his pupils blown wide in shock. You do not miss the way he hides something behind him. It takes a moment for him to register that it is you, and once he does, that grim look settles on his face. “What are you doing here?’’

San rushes next to you, “My Lord, I am so sorry—”

General Choi cuts him off with a raised hand and gives him a look of dismissal, which sends the young man scurrying away. Ignoring his question, you say. “It seems like you were finished with work early today.” You pointedly look at the shop behind him.

“Yes. I finished early today.” He states, expressionless. “Are you returning from the palace now?”

“Yes, the work at the library took longer than usual. Some records were accidentally destroyed, so we had to salvage them.”

“I see.” He nods. You wait, wondering if he has anything more to say. He keeps gazing at you silently, his odd eye hidden behind his hair. You have noticed that he always hides it in public. Why? To avoid detection? 

Finally, he speaks, his eyes narrow and his tone sharp. “You should not be here. I am sure you are aware of the looting and killing taking place in this area.”

You hate his tone. Frowning, you reply. “Thank you for your concern, My Lord. I was aware. I just wanted to explore—”

You are cut off.

The next sequence of events takes place exceptionally quickly. First, you see your husband’s gaze shift and focus on something behind you. The very next moment, he yanks you towards him, making a swift turn so that his body covers yours. You lose your footing from the harsh tug, gripping onto his arms with a yelp of surprise.

Something whizzes past you, sharp and quick, that makes you jerk and hold onto him tighter.

Gasps, yells and screams of people echo all around you. You blink, befuddled, staring at your husband, who holds you tightly against his body, looking behind him. Following his gaze, you find San chasing after a man who dashes away through the crowd at remarkably fast speed, shoving people and running over stalls on his way.

Your husband whips his head back to look at you, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay? Look at me!” He shakes you, his grip on your arms fierce. Something wet touches your fingers. Slowly, your eyes trail to your right hand, which is grabbing General Choi’s bicep.

There is a tear on his sleeve, a couple of inches above your fingers and red liquid oozes out from the thin cut. You gasp, your breath escaping your lungs in a choked wheeze.

Finally, everything clicks.

Someone just shot an arrow at him. Who? An enemy? A gang member? An assassin?

“Oh…oh my god! My Lord!” You clutch onto his sleeve, panicking.

General Choi ignores your cry and forces you to look at him, tilting your chin upwards. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Is he seriously worrying about you right now?

“I am fine.” You choke on a sob. “But my Lord, you are bleeding! What…what should I do?”

He rubs a gentle hand on your back, pulling you closer to him. “I am fine. It is nothing.” He assures, his eyes scanning the place carefully as if looking for someone. You panic. “My Lord, we need to go home. Come on. You are hurt!” You urge, tugging him with you, even though you cannot make him move an inch.

The man stands rooted to his spot, his eyes still scouring through the marketplace. Finally, he nods and pulls you into his arms, holding you protectively. “Let us go.”

— 

After your relentless nagging, you finally get your husband to sit still so that you can treat his wound.

“I told you, it is nothing serious.” He admonishes when you step into his bedchamber with a rag, a bowl of water, and some medicine. Ignoring him, you hurry closer to him, inspecting the wound.

You have never treated someone before, but your mother was a very good nurse. She helped a lot of people during the war with her vast knowledge of medicinal herbs. You remember watching her work for hours, and even though you never directly learned from her, you are confident you can do this right.

The memory of his blood seeping out and wetting your hands sends shivers down your spine, and you have to take a deep breath to get yourself to calm down. Your heart has been racing ever since, the adrenaline yet to wear off.

“You should take off your shirt.” You whisper, wetting the rag in the bowl of water. Your husband complies, slowly removing the garment and shrugging it off his shoulders. Your breath catches in your throat once you lay your eyes on his body.

It is not his muscular build but the plethora of scars littering his body. Small and big, they taint his chest and all the way down to his lower abdomen, and you cannot help but stare, wincing at the marks that look particularly nasty.

What has this man been through?

General Choi snatches the rag from your hands and starts treating his cut. Embarrassed, you protest, but he cuts you off. “I can do it myself.” His response, like always, is curt, but you ignore it, too distracted by his scars. The one on his left abdomen looks particularly ghastly, and you know for sure it was a deep stab wound. 

The amount of pain he must have been in…

The thought makes you shudder, and you bite your lip, holding your tears back.

“This is why I assigned someone to protect you.” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “I am sure he told you to return, but you insisted on going to the market.”

“Who was that man?” You cut him off, unable to prevent yourself from voicing your worries any longer. Why did they want to hurt him? 

His lips thin, and something flashes over his eyes, leaving you guessing. He pauses for a moment, looking at you impassively, almost like he knows a secret that you don’t. “They were probably from some gang. They have been causing havoc recently, as you know.”

You know it is a lie. It is blatant that he is hiding something from you, and you cannot help but sigh out loud, sagging onto the floor. You do not even have it in you to fight with him right now. You are just glad he is okay. The bleeding has stopped now, and as you watch him apply the herb on his cut, a small sigh of relief flows past your lips.

Finally, it feels like you can breathe.

Silently, you help him tie a clean rag around his bicep before wiping the residual herb from his fingers. “You should take a bath.” He keeps staring at your face as if he is trying to understand something.

“Are you sure you are okay?” he asks, his tone soft. His gaze, for the first time, appears to be almost tender, and for a moment, the concept of language evaporates from your mind.

You want to say a lot of things. You want to yell at him, scream at him to explain himself and cry in his arms. You are unable to do any of that. “I am fine,” you whisper, your voice small and shaky.

He keeps looking at you for a few more seconds before nodding and getting up. Just as he is about to exit the room, you call for him. “My Lord?” “Hm?” He turns around to look at you.

You pause, hesitating. “I know you brought something today. At the market…” you trail off, unsure why you are saying this. His body tenses, and he looks at you warily…like he has been caught. For a second, you pray that he comes clean, but he remains silent, waiting for you to continue.

You swallow a lump in your throat and look away. Your voice is wobbly when you speak. “You should wrap it. Put it in a nice box. Women love gifts that are nicely wrapped. The woman…whoever you bought it for…you should wrap it.”

You do not dare to meet his gaze, so you sit on the floor, staring at the bowl of water that is now tinted red from his blood. He does not reply but walks out the door, his footsteps padding softly over the wooden floors.

— 

That night, you lay in bed awake, replaying the event at the market over and over again in your head. And as you keep revisiting that moment, a shuddering realization dawns on you.

What if…what if…

The arrow wasn't meant for General Choi but for you?

The more you think about it, the more probable it seems. The arrow would have originally hit you if not for him moving you out of the way. The thought makes you bolt up from your bed, your heart racing as beads of sweat gather on your temples. Tossing the blanket away, you step out of your sleeping mat and start pacing around your room.

Today's events are a mystery to you. You have no enemies, and neither does your father. Hell, he has been out of politics ever since your brother died. You simply have no reason to have someone shoot an arrow at you in the middle of a marketplace.

If it were not for your husband, you would have died for sure.

Shit. Who would do that? 

Your mind starts spiraling to the point that your temples begin to throb. You press the spot with your fingers, trying to make the ache go away.

It doesn't.

Instead, paranoia starts settling in. Suddenly, the thought of being alone in your room frightens you so much that you feel a chill in your bones. Unable to tolerate the deafening silence and the darkness any longer, you step out of your chamber, taking tentative steps towards your husband's room. The hallway is dark except for one small lamp flickering at the end of the long corridor, an eerie quietness hanging heavy in the air as the whole house sleeps.

You come to stop in front of your husband's room, your hands hesitating to pull open the wooden panels. 

What are you doing here? Sneaking into your husband’s chamber in the middle of the night?

With the resolved exhale, you pull open the door. In the darkness, it takes a moment for you to spot your husband sleeping on his side, his long raven hair splayed messily over the mat.

You remain rooted in your spot outside the door, hesitating yet once again before gingerly making your way inside and quietly closing the panel behind you. The room would be pitch dark if not for the faint light of the lamp flickering outside, filtering in through the panel. You take a moment to let your eyes adjust to the visibility before placing yourself next to him. With his sword resting between the two of you, you silently lie down, gazing at the silhouette of his face in the darkness.

Your heart aches. He got hurt because of you. 

Why do you feel such a strong attraction towards this cold, stubborn man? Why does it hurt you so much to see him hurt? Most importantly, is this how he feels about his lover? Does her pain make him hurt like this as well? Is that why he refuses to be with you, unable to resist his heart's longing?

So many questions and no answer to soothe your wretched soul. 

You keep gazing at him, a strange sensation filling your heart. He is physically so close to you, right within your reach, yet it feels like he is a million miles away, tucked away in a place for which you have no key. At the same time, lying next to him like this, you feel oddly comfortable. With him next to you, the silence and the darkness of the night are bearable, no longer stealing your sleep.

With a heavy ache in your chest and tears in your eyes, you fall asleep, happy to be in the same space as your husband.

—

When you open your eyes next morning, the sun is high up in the sky and the light flooding into the room immediately tells you that you have slept way longer than you should have.

Shit. You missed work today.

All concerns of work, however, fly out the window when you register where you are. You fell asleep on the floor next to General Choi yesterday. Then why are you sleeping on his mat, his blanket tucked around you, and his pillow under your head? 

With a gasp, you sit up and look around you, double checking to make sure you are in the right place.

How did you get here? Did he tuck you in after waking up? How did you not wake up?

Your face flushes with heat, imagining him carrying you and putting you in his bed. No wonder you feel so well rested after a long time. You must have slept like a log throughout everything.

Did you snore? Did you drool? Did you say something weird in your sleep?

“Oh dear lord, help me!” You whine, putting your face in your hands, cringing at all the possible ways you might have embarrassed yourself. Once you are over the initial wave of embarrassment, you spot a trinket on top of the small wooden table by the mat.

Curious, you shuffle closer. It is a bineyo with a beautiful butterfly in pink and blue, exactly the one you had been looking for. With a gasp, you lean closer, mesmerized by the way it sparkles underneath the sunlight. Next to it sits a letter, face up.

Dear wife, 

I am sorry I did not wrap it. I was interrupted by someone before I could choose a box. I do not know how the misunderstanding came to be, but this was meant to be yours from the beginning, not any other woman’s. I hope you like it.

From, Your husband

Your hands cover your mouth in shock and absolute glee before clutching the letter and the hairpin to your chest. Tears brim your eyes, your heart melting like a caramel under the sun, warm and sweet.

It seems like you misunderstood his actions. Still, some things remain unclear.

“Jihye!” You yell. She rushes in a few moments later. “My lady, you are awake! Master said not to disturb you. He said he will let Head Court Lady Yeo know that you will not go to work today.”

Ignoring her words, you quickly motion for her to come closer to you and sit down. “You,” you narrow your eyes at her. “You have been hiding something from me.” She blinks, her gaze slowly lowering to the floor.

“What did General Choi tell you? He definitely told you something. That is why you have not been letting me out of the house by myself.”

She looks at you helplessly for a long moment before sighing. “Okay, I will tell you, my lady. But you have to promise me you will not tell Master. I gave him my word.” She winces.

What could it be? Eager, you scoot closer to her. “I will not. Now out with it.”

“On the first night of your marriage, he called me and asked about you. What you like to eat, what your favourite season is…things like that.”

Wow. Your heart races with each of her words.

“Then, he asked me what you were doing in the market that day. You know that noon a week before your wedding? When we bumped into him? I said that you were looking for a hairpin. He asked in detail about the hairpin, and I told him that you were looking for one with a butterfly. Then, he ordered me to keep you from going outside, especially to crowded areas, as much as possible. He said it is not safe for you. And he made me promise not to tell you.”

A lot of the blanks start filling up. He listened to her and got this hairpin for you. No wonder!

You keep finding yourself revisiting that moment in the market. The way he protected you. The worry in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped onto you, the way his voice was filled with worry when he asked you if you were ok. The realization that you may have misunderstood him greatly starts settling in your bones. 

Maybe there was no one else from the beginning. Maybe it was only you all along. Maybe everything he did was to protect you. But protect you from what? Did he know that someone was after you? Who? Why did he not tell you anything?

No matter, you shall set the record straight when he gets home today. You have caught a glimpse into your husband’s heart, and it turns out he is not as cruel as they say. Now, there is nothing strong enough to stop you. He has had his way until now, and now, it is your time.

“Did he say when he will return?” You ask Jihye, your heart racing.

“No, my lady.”

“No matter.” You smile. “I will wait for him.”

— 

The heavens seem to be on your side because your husband returns home right before sunset. As he takes a bath, you prepare in your room, getting dressed for the evening.

Jihye braids your hair for you before helping you put on your hanbok, a soft yellow jeogori with a pastel pink chima. 

Just as you are almost finished with your makeup, Head Servant Yang knocks at the door, letting you know that your husband has finished his bath. With a smile, you stand up and walk over to the mirror, smoothing your skirt.

“Jihye, how do I look?”

“Absolutely beautiful, my lady!” She squeals. “Master will not be able to resist you tonight!”

You throw a scandalized look at her before reaching for the hairpin your husband gave you. Gingerly placing it on your hair, you complete the look and twirl in front of the mirror. “Alright, let us go!”

You knock twice at your husband’s chamber.

“Come in.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, you open the door and find sitting on the floor, wearing a navy blue hanbok. A book sits open on his lap, which is discarded once he lays eyes upon you.

Silence.

You hold your breath, watching his eyes scan you top to bottom, before going up again and finally stopping at your hairpin. He looks awestruck and speechless—a look you have never seen on him, and you struggle to stifle a smile.

“May I come in?” You ask coquettishly. 

“Ah—yes, of course.” He blinks and sits up straight. With a smile, you walk into the room and sit in front of him, closer than you have ever been before. "How is your arm?” You ask, jutting your chin towards it. “Do you need me to apply some herbs?”

“No, it is fine. I changed the gauze after my bath.”

“Are you in any pain?”

“Thank you for your concern, Lady Choi, but I am well.” He sets the book aside. “What brings you to my chamber?”

You ignore his curt replies. “Thank you for the gift, my lord.” You smile, saccharine sweet. Titling your head, you show him the trinket nestled in your hair. “How do I look?”

“Hm?” He gapes at you, eyes wide, clearly taken aback by the question. “Uh…it suits you. You look lovely.”

You smile like a lovestruck fool. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Silence. He keeps looking at you like it is a staring competition. Realizing he will not be the first one to break the silence, you continue with a sigh, “I have some questions, my Lord. I hope you will answer them honestly.” His gaze shifts, something unreadable briefly flashing by his eyes. His hands on to rest on his knees, his back straightening as he takes a moment before subtly nodding his head.

“Is there someone trying to kill me?” Your gaze does not waver. General Choi’s lips press into a thin line, his thick brows forming a frown, a look of pure displeasure settling on his face.

You do not back down. “Yesterday, the arrow was meant for me, was it not? You knew someone was after me. That is why you assigned San to be with me. That is why you told Jihye not to let me go outside.”

Another beat of silence. “Yes.” He murmurs, his haunting gaze piercing yours.

You swallow. “Who is it? I do not understand…I do not have any enemies— “

“They are my enemies.” He cuts you off. “The arrow yesterday…yes, it was meant for you, but it was also meant for me. It was their warning to me.”

“What warning? Why are they after you?” You cry.

His gaze narrows. “That is private information. Only the King’s most trusted men are aware of it.” You look down, worriedly chewing on your lower lip. After a beat, you ask, “Is that why you ignored me in the palace that day?”

“Yes. I thought the less I interacted with you, the better.” He pauses, his gaze focusing on the lamp burning at his side. “I am sorry for putting you in danger, but rest assured, they will be dealt with.”

You are not really worried about losing your life. If anything, his being in danger scares you more. Odd, is it not?

“Why did you let me misunderstand, my Lord?” You ask softly.

“That was not my intention.”

“But it happened anyway.” You cannot hold back the bite in your voice. “From the first day of this marriage, I believed that you have someone else.”

He remains silent, looking almost guilty. It scares and infuriates you. “Tell me! Do you?”

“No,” his voice never loses its quiet composure. “I do not.”

“Then why did you lie?”

For the first time, you see his gaze soften. For once, it looks like he is not scowling but rather, he appears ashamed and helpless. The hidden frustration inside you reaches its tipping point. “You could have told me! You could have said that I was in danger instead of pushing me away like I disgust you and letting me think that you were seeing someone else!” 

You hear him exhale a breath. “How do you expect me to tell my young, newlywed wife that her life is in danger because of me, her husband?”

The guilt is raw and vivid in his voice, echoing throughout the room like a haunted cry. This new side of your husband knocks all the air out of your lungs, leaving you feeling helpless as you stare at him, tears pricking your eyes.

“My Lord—”

“I know I am not the best match for you. You got married to be free, but instead, this marriage became a trap for you. How could I tell you that? I believed it would be better to let you think all crazy things about me rather than taking away your freedom by scaring you. I apologize for my shortsightedness.” A lone tear rolls down your cheek. He is not the best match for you? What is he saying?

Unable to hold back any longer, you close the little distance between the two of you and leap into his arms, hugging him tightly. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you rest your face on his shoulder, your fingers tightly holding onto the fabric of his hanbok. “Please do not apologize, my Lord. I understand you.”

Against you, your husband’s entire body remains tense, his hands awkwardly raised into the air like he is too scared to touch you. You ignore his hesitation and hold onto him tightly, your heart breaking and healing simultaneously. The warmth and comfort of his body soothe all the anguish in your heart, making you never want to let him go.

Finally, his hands touch your back, his large palms holding the small of your back, softly patting you.

Loosening your arms around him, you take a peek at his face and find the most sincere look in his eyes, warm and kind, the complete opposite of how you have seen him until now. You truly believed he was beyond all emotions, cold and mechanical, but right now, as he holds you in his arms and gazes at you with so much reverence and softness, you can only think of him as this quiet, considerate man who is misunderstood greatly.

Something in you shifts. No longer afraid, you shift in his arms, positioning yourself better on his lap before kissing him.

You press your lips against his without thinking, pulling him closer by the lapels of his hanbok and holding your lips right there, against his, soft and warm. With your heart hammering in your chest, you stay there, testing the waters. Your husband remains frozen at first, almost like he is waiting for you to back out. Once sure that you will not, he reaches for you, gently cupping your cheek with his right hand to tilt your face. The kiss deepens just a tad bit, his lips pressing against you just hard enough. His touch on you is meticulous and guarded, like you are a wild animal he does not want to frighten. You know he is being gentle for your sake, so you take the lead, snaking an arm around his neck and kissing him the way he led you.

Slow, sweet and passionate.

It is everything you imagined and more, all your dreams coming true and giving you a taste of ecstasy. By the time your lips part from his, there is a ringing in your ears along with your heart galloping like a race horse and a strange, tingling sensation between your legs. You feel drunk on your husband’s kiss, your eyes involuntarily trailing to his lips that are now shining with saliva.

You want this man so much, body and soul.

Your husband’s fingers remain against your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek, slow and tentative like you are the most precious porcelain. Mirroring his hand, your fingers cup his cheek, your thumb gently tracing the scar beneath his odd eye. The skin is harsh and bumpy under your touch, making your heart heavy. You want to kiss it, tell him that he is beautiful despite it, tell him that you feel his pain, but something shifts.

His gaze grows unfocused, something foreign flashing by in his eyes, like he has been woken back to reality. With a sudden noise, he clears his throat and retracts his hand from your face. The action pulls you out of your haze as well, making you suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you kissed him.

Holy shit. You kissed your husband. And he kissed you back. And it was amazing.

Clearing his throat once more, your husband looks away, carefully trying to put some distance between you and him. Flustered, you take the hint and stand up rather unceremoniously. As you take a step back, however, misfortune befalls.

The ghost of clumsiness yet again takes over your body, and you trip over your skirt. With a loud, unladylike yelp, you fall backwards, terrified but also anticipating the brutal hit to the floor.

It does not come. You do not fall on the ground because your husband saves you, reaching for your arm and tugging you back towards him just in time. Something else happens in the process. The ribbon of your jeogori comes off.

You realize that several moments later, too preoccupied with trying to calm your beating heart and processing what just happened. As you stay pressed against his body, your arms tightly holding onto his shoulders for balance, General Choi’s eyes skim over your face before fixing beneath your neck and on your exposed shoulder.

This time, something dark and carnal takes over his gaze, his eyes sharp and narrow, staring intently at your bare skin. Your heart beats so loudly you fear he can hear it, and for a moment, you are sure you will pass out from the intensity of his gaze and the swirl of emotions—desire and shame, surging within you.

Like before, he is the one who backs away, quietly clearing his throat and looking away. Embarrassed, you quickly fix your jeogori and clutch it tightly to your chest while also scrambling off his body.

“I—” you stammer, mortified to look at his face. “I will see you for d-dinner then, my Lord.” Picking up your skirt to avoid further accidents, you rush for the door, eager to be out of his sight.

His voice forces you to stop right at the door. “Why did you come to my room last night?”

You halt, processing his question. Then, with quick fingers, you tie your jeogori and carefully turn around. Your husband looks at you inquisitively. “Were…were you awake, my Lord?” You ask. He did not even sir when you came into the room.

In reply, he nods. You look around, trying to find the words. “I…was scared to be alone. I kept thinking of what happened at the market, and I do not know…” You trail off, embarrassed and worried about his reaction. He, however, keeps looking at you intently before shaking his head up and down in understanding.

“How did you know I came in? You did not even move a muscle. I thought you were asleep.”

“I smelled you.” He states, his face expressionless. You take a step back, alarmed. “Do I stink?”

He shakes his head. “No. I meant that I smelled roses. You smell like roses.”

Oh. “I see,” you mumble shyly, your fingers twiddling with the fabric of your skirt. He regards you quietly for a beat before murmuring. “You can sleep with me tonight as well, if you desire it.”

“Really?” You squeal, not hiding the excitement brimming in your voice. 

“Yes.”

“Thank you, my Lord!” You smile so big it hurts.

— 

After dinner, Headservant Yang sets the mattress for the two of you with a suggestive, happy smile on her face that makes you grin goofily. 

Once finished with your nightly routine and dressed for bed, you pad into your husband's chamber and find him already lying down, his eyes closed and his hands resting over his chest. One could think he was asleep, but you know better now. With wonder, you observe that the place of his sword has shifted and moved to his left, right next to his mat, now that yours occupies the space it took before.

“My Lord,” you ask softly, “shall I blow out the candle?”

“Yes.” He replies, not moving or opening his eyes. Carefully, you pad over to the study table and blow out the candle before finding your place on the mat. With the noise of the crickets humming outside, you lie on your mat, pulling the blanket up to your chin and staring at the ceiling. Your blood thrums in your veins, your brain too wired to fall asleep. The excitement of lying next to your husband keeps you awake.

Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, you take tentative peeks at him and find him in the same position as he originally was. Is he sleeping? You wish you could tell.

“My Lord?” You speak, quiet as a mouse.

Silence.

“Hm?” He hums.

“Why do you sleep with your sword next to you?”

“Force of habit, I suppose…from the war.”

You hum in acknowledgement, looking at him eagerly amid the darkness. After a short pause, you call for him again. “My Lord?”

“Yes.”

“Can I sleep with you from now on?”

Silence. Seconds pass by, but no answer comes, and you start to think that he has fallen asleep. Just then, he finally replies, his voice quiet and deep in the solitude of the night. “If you wish to.” You smile, happy and wide, even though he cannot see you. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Another short pause later, he murmurs. “Goodnight.” You take it as a sign that he does not wish to talk anymore, and with a nod, you shift and lie on your side, your right arm resting underneath your head.  “Goodnight, my Lord.” You whisper with a smile.

— 

You wake up just before sunrise. 

The spot next to you is empty, and with no sign of your husband, you step out of his bedchamber in search of him. It is a rest day, so you wonder where he is so early in the morning.

You find the man in the backyard, already dressed, quietly observing the flowers in the garden. “My Lord?” You call for him.

“Oh, good morning.” He acknowledges you with a small nod. “Why are you up so early?”

“I woke up and you were not there. Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” He assures. “You should sleep some more.” You pause, carefully observing him. In the soft morning light, the man looks different, more relaxed and homely, dressed in his hanbok and his long raven hair draped elegantly against his back.

How can you leave his majestic man just for a few more hours of sleep?

“My Lord?”

“Hm?”

“Let us go for a walk.”

— 

After quickly getting dressed, you and your husband go for a stroll, the early morning sun softly gleaming in the sky.

Your husband heads towards the nearby forest, which leads to a cliff offering a nice view of the town and the hilly background. He walks quietly with his hands behind him, his movements deliberately slow to accommodate your pace. With a soft smile that never leaves your lips, you walk alongside him, your heart thrumming happily.

Can this be called a date?

Without any words exchanged between the two of you, you navigate the path through the forest, your eyes skirting towards him every now and then. The silence between you is not awkward because you can see from his face that he is thinking deeply about something. So, you let him think and use the solitude to take peeks at his handsome face, memorizing the details of his visage.

By the time you reach the cliff, you are out of breath.

“Wow,” you wheeze out, panting for air as you rest with your palms on your knees. 

“Are you alright?” General Choi asks, peering down to see your face. “Yes,” you nod, trying to control your breathing. “It has been a while since I came up here. The view is magnificent.”

“It is.” He hums, looking over the cliff. “That last time I came here, I was a child.” You share, standing up and gazing at the view. It is truly still beautiful.

“Why so long ago?”

“What?” You blink, looking at your husband, who is regarding you with a curious tilt of his head.

“Uh…” you think. “My father…he was not fond of me going out much. Especially anywhere far, after my brother died. He liked to keep me within his sight.”

He keeps looking at you attentively, and you wonder what he is thinking. Is he judging you?

Needing to fill the silence, you ramble. “On top of that, I have always been clumsy. I’m sure you have figured that out by now. Once, when I was a child, I somehow broke my arm playing in the yard. My brother ran all the way to the physician’s office with me on his back. With him gone, my father thought it would be better for me to be within the house. For my safety and his mental peace.”

“It was suffocating, no? That is why you married me. For freedom.” Your husband observes. You nod, albeit shakily, thinking of your days back at your parents' home. The cold treatment of your father and the way you were never enough. Not enough to take away the pain of them losing their son.

In the silence, you take a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the man next to you and voicing a question you have always wanted to ask. “Why did you choose to marry me?”

He takes a moment to answer. 

“Because no one else wanted to. A lot of ministers tried to get me engaged to their daughters, but the girls refused when they saw me. Some even rejected just after hearing my name. They feared me.”

You find it ridiculous. “Why?” Your tone drips with bewilderment. “My reputation,” he shrugs. “My face does not help much, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” You frown, leaning closer to him. He regards you in silence, as if the answer to that question is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am ugly.”

“What?” You gape at him, utterly befuddled. Does this man truly think that? His sharp eyes narrow on you, his brows knotting in confusion. “I do not know if you are making fun of me.”

“Why would I make fun of you?” You cry. This entire thing is ludicrous. “I simply find it absolutely enraging that you think so!”

He remains mute, watching you like you are an equation he needs to solve.

You take a tentative step closer to him, mumbling, “It is true that your reputation is scary. I also feared you for that in the beginning. I do not know if you are aware, but people say all types of crazy things about you.” You pause, inching even closer to him. With a few small inches between the two of you, you look up and meet his eyes, hoping to convey your sincerity. “But as I got to know you…I have realized there is nothing to fear. You are undoubtedly a cold man, my Lord, but you are also warm. Your heart is always in the right place. That alone is enough to make you the most beautiful man in the land.”

His face relaxes, and you can see how his gaze softens, the turbulent storms ever present in his eyes dissipating for a moment. 

In the back of your mind, one thought runs rampant. You want to kiss him. In the soft morning light, he looks as breathtaking as ever, his lips soft and kissable. Remembering the touch of his lips against yours last night, you muster the courage and lean up on your tippy toes, pressing a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. The man immediately leans back, a look of surprise on his face. Ignoring his reaction, you smile and step back, facing the view again. Your husband clears his throat before silently joining you in gazing at the view.

A while later, you voice out another thought. “My Lord, when you said not to expect anything from you, what did you mean?”

He takes a moment to answer. “I don’t know. Just do not expect anything from me. I cannot give you anything.”

Frowning, you face him. “But you have already given me so much.”

“I do not believe that.”

You sigh. The cranky man is returning. Hitching your skirt, you walk closer to him, determined. “What did you mean, my Lord? I cannot expect what?” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “Whatever a wife expects from her husband, I suppose.”

Your frown deepens. “What? Love? Attention? Devotion?”

“I will be devoted to you, but I cannot give you love.” His words are like a punch to the gut. “Why not?” You plead.

He hesitates. “I…just cannot.”

“You cannot or will not?”

His eyes, sharp and fiery, pierce right through you, and you see the truth in his eyes. You see the answer he refuses to utter. “Let us get back.” He announces, turning on his heel and dismissing you, starts marching down the path. You scoff, watching with an open mouth as he almost runs down the track to escape answering your question.

This stubborn, frustrating man.

— 

After breakfast, General Choi goes out to visit an old friend. With a sour mood, you shuffle through the house, watching as everyone remains busy with their work. You try to practice some needlework but fail to get far with that. As always, your hand at embroidery is embarrassingly bad. For two hours, you try to create a flower on a handkerchief, but when it turns out looking questionable, you drop the task.

You find San sitting outside on the porch, chatting animatedly with Headservant Yang. “My Lady, are you bored?” Headservant Yang asks upon seeing you walk over. With your shoulders slumped, you nod, pouting.

“General Choi will not be back for some time. Should we play a game then? San offers.

Your eyes shine. “Sure!”

— 

Your game of baduk with San lasts even after sunset. 

You keep playing match after match, your own competitive streak matching his. He does not go easy on you just because you are married to his General, and that makes it all the more fun. 

Your husband returns right before lunch and after observing the two of you for a mere minute, he leaves, locking himself in his study for the rest of the day. His disinterest irks you, and you decide to ignore him as well, honing all your attention towards the game. During different times, Headservant Yang and Jihye stop by between their work, watching you two play with rapt fascination.

The game only ends with you winning, long after the sky has gone dark. Cheers and yells erupt in the small crowd of servants gathered to watch the game. You grin cockily, finally standing up and stretching your legs. San accepts his defeat and takes his leave, not before you make him promise to join you another day for another match.

“Would you like to have your bath first or dinner, my Lady?” Headservant Yang asks. You ponder, still reeling from the high of winning. “Did my husband have dinner?”

“Yes, my Lady.” You sigh. “Well then, I will have my dinner now and then take my bath.”

— 

After your bath, you sit in your room with the mirror in front of you while Jihye combs your hair. “Today was a fun day, no, my Lady?” She asks.

“Yes,” you hum. “It is a shame General Choi did not join us.” “Indeed.”

“Where has he been all day?” “In his room, my Lady. He was studying.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Your husband truly does not know how to have fun. Instead of spending a rest day with his wife, he would rather read and strategize and sulk by himself.

As if he could hear your thoughts, the man appears with a knock at your door and steps in a second later. Jihye excuses herself, leaving the two of you alone, the room suddenly buzzing with tension.

Your husband regards you with that same unreadable face, but something in you tells you that he is grumpier than usual. Still, you try to be civil. “Hello, my Lord.”

“Lady Choi. It was hard to catch sight of you all day.” 

Yes. He is annoyed about something. The subtle bite in his voice is unmissable. You finish combing the ends of your hair before setting the comb down. “My apologies about that. I was too immersed in the game of baduk.”

“Yes, I noticed.” He peers down at you, his eyes ethereally flashing in the soft lights of your chamber. “You seemed to quite enjoy your time with San.”

“He is an excellent player. He also mentioned that you used to play with him.” You supply, trying to understand what might be the cause of his annoyance.

“I don’t know about excellent.” He murmurs, looking away from you. “I taught him, true, but he is no match for me.”

You narrow your eyes. What is he implying? “I am sure he is not, my Lord.” You force a smile. 

“Yet, you chose to spend the entire day with him.” This time, he snaps, clear and offended. Your jaw hangs low, surprised at his pettiness. You stand up frowning. “You were away, my Lord.”

“Not the entire day. I returned long ago, but you were too busy playing with him till dinner time.” He grumbles, not meeting your eyes but staring at the lamp. Stunned, you gape at him, trying to understand where he is coming from.

Your heart flutters. Is it possible that he is jealous?

“My Lord,” you step closer to take a look at his face. “Are you…jealous?”

“Ha!” He scoffs, stepping away. “Why would I be jealous of that little punk?” he half yells, waving his hand dismissively like he is swatting away a bug.

Your spirits dampen, and annoyance starts to take over. You give him a saccharine sweet smile that is evidently fake. “Well then, there is nothing to worry about. Shall we head to bed?” He refuses to let the topic go. “You finally remembered me, no? Now that it is time to sleep?”

The thread holding you together snaps. With gritted teeth, you stare at him, trying your level best to keep your tone neutral. “Well, when your husband dismisses you at every chance he gets and tries to run from you at the mere mention of intimacy, a girl would naturally be upset and spend time elsewhere. I hope you pardon her for spending some time away from him.” You bow dramatically in apology, making sure that he understands it is sarcasm. 

“Wha—” He regards you, eyes wide and mouth agape, like he cannot believe the words coming from your lips. “You—” He seems to be at a loss for words.

You step past him, but he raises a finger at you. “So you prefer San over me? Is that what you are saying?”

You roll your eyes at his words. However, today there is an urge within you to push him to his limit. So, you whip your head back and glare at him. 

“Who knows?” You singsong. Your husband’s eyes only enlarge, the look of pure shock taking over his face, his mouth hanging open wider than before. “Maybe I do. Maybe I do prefer him over you. He spends time with me, after all. Despite today being a rest day, you stayed in your room all day when you could have joined us. So what if I prefer his company?” You add the last line for good measure, trying to appear as threatening as possible.

“Take that back,” he says, his tone quiet. The look on his face starts to shift towards something serious. 

You egg him on. “I won’t! In fact, from now on, I will spend more time with him. Who knows, he might give me all the love and attention you refuse.”

The man finally snaps. In the flash of an eye, he is right in front of you, his hand behind your neck pulling you so close to him that you feel his breath. All earlier pettiness and playfulness are gone. He looks like a raging beast, barely hanging on by a thread.

“Take that back. Tell me you do not mean it or I swear to God, I will chop his head off.” He grits, his voice shaking with anger and his grip on your skin tightening. His eyes are like two molten pools of lava, angry and bright, and he has never looked hotter.

Without wasting a second, you smash your lips with his, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer and closer towards you. The force of your kiss is so strong that it knocks him back a few steps. However, he is quick to recover, meeting your lips with even more passion, a side of him completely new to you. Raw and unchained, he goes all in, devouring your lips like it is his salvation.

You don’t hold back either.

You let go of your body weight entirely, pushing him on the ground below you while never letting go of his lips. Your hands—his and yours—move frantically to claw at each other through the layers of fabric. With a huff, your husband finally removes his lips from yours, a long string of saliva connecting your lips to his. “If we continue…I cannot hold back.” He pants, his eyes wild and shining.

His words make you giddy with anticipation, molten hot pools of lava swirling in your belly.

“That is what I want,” you whisper, feeling the cold air against your swollen lips. “I do not want you to hold back.” Slowly, you snake your arms around his neck and you move closer to his face. With a mere inch between your lips, you murmur, “I want you to devour me, my Lord.”

Your husband makes a sound, a low, primal grunt that comes from the deepest part of his chest. He exhales sharply, determination swirling in his eyes as he finally lets go of all the restraint he had been practicing till now.

In a flash, he flips your positions, holding you against the ground, his large body looming over yours. Your breath catches in your throat with the view on top of you, and he has not even taken off his clothes yet. Desire thrums in your veins, making you curl your toes in anticipation.

“I will ruin you tonight.” That is a promise. His voice is laced with something dark, like he will thoroughly enjoy ruining you. Little does he know, you will enjoy it too.

“Please, my Lord.” You beg, all too eager to become his.

His eyes flash at your words, and immediately, his hands get to work. They move with ease, graceful yet quick, as he strips you off your garments. All too soon, you are left only in your underskirt, your bare chest exposed for his eyes to feast on. You have the urge to cover them, and as if your husband can read your mind, he grabs your hands and links your fingers with his, pinning them on top of your head.

“Do not hide from me,” he commands, his lips hovering over yours. You nod, jittery with need and anticipation. 

Once sure your hands will not move, he slowly traces his fingers from your jawbone to your neck and then your shoulder, before reaching for your braid. You shift and let him hold your hair, his fingers gently caressing over the long braided strands. His fingers trace over your daenggi before tugging on it sharply. Undone, the strip of cloth comes off as your hair starts to loosen from the braid.

“So beautiful.” He hums, holding a few strands of hair between his fingers. He places a soft kiss on them before reaching for your hands. With your daenggi, he ties your wrists together, making sure the knot will hold before placing your hands back where they were, arms stretched straight on top of your head.

“Be a good girl.” He whispers, his voice sultry, his gaze half lidded yet dangerous. Your heart hammers loudly in your chest as the reality of what is happening actually starts to settle in your bones.

You are half-naked, tied up and vulnerable underneath your husband. The man they call the Grim Reaper, the most merciless man in the land. Yet, you are not afraid.

You watch as he shifts, making himself comfortable between your spread legs. He lifts your underskirt, exposing your core, and despite the urge to close your legs, you cannot.

“So beautiful. It will be a treat to ruin you.” He hums, his eyes focused between your legs, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Without any warning, he slaps you between your legs, right on your sensitive flesh, the sharp whack echoing through the quietness of the night.

“Ah!” You cry, mortified and surprised. It stings but also unlocks a new sensation of pleasure within you. Your face heats up as you realize how much you enjoyed it, a deep and deprived sense of pleasure.

He slaps you again. “Do you like it? I can see you are getting wet.” He says, his flashing eyes set on your face.

You make a pathetic noise of agreement. “Answer me!” He commands, slapping you once more. A long, needy moan is ripped from your throat. You pant. “Y-yes, my Lord.”

Pleased, he smirks before leaning down to press kisses on your inner thighs. He moves slowly and deliberately, playing with you, nibbling on your skin with his teeth before giving it a soothing lick and making sure it is marked. When he sits back up, his eyes trace all over your face as if he is trying to remember every small detail about you. You do the same, peering at him through your lashes with bated breath, wishing you could pull him closer for another kiss.

You could spend your entire life kissing this man.

With the ease and grace of a panther that has trapped its prey, your husband moves, enveloping you with his body, his hair falling over you like a black curtain. Lying on top of you, one of his hands holds on to the nape of your neck while the other explores your body, teasingly moving down your waist and between your legs. His warm fingers trace your core, feeling the wetness gathered between your legs. Without losing eye contact, he plays with you, dipping his fingers inside, making you shiver and whimper and continues to smirk knowingly.

He pushes his index and middle finger inside you, just up to his knuckles and the intrusion have you shuddering, your core throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. A breathy moan tears from your lips, and he uses the opportunity to lean in and bite your lip softly. 

Dear god. You whimper. “Please.”

“What?” He mouths against your lips. “T-touch me,” you reply, chasing his lips to reconnect with yours.

You hear him scoff cockily. “I am touching you, wife.” His title for you makes you only more desperate. You whine, starting to writhe, “More.”

You feel him smile against your mouth, his fingers slipping all the way in. His lips trace your jaw, his nose pressed against your skin before trailing down your neck, while his fingers start moving in and out. Involuntarily, your hips writhe, chasing his fingers while he peppers your neck with kisses and bites before fixing on a particular spot beneath your ear that makes you whimper. Then, he uses his thumb to give you a flick, his dark eyes trained on your face as your pleasure amplifies. 

“Oh my god,” you shut your eyes closed, reveling in the feeling of his fingers inside you. He starts to pick up pace, moving the fingers in tandem, circling them inside you and giving your clit an occasional flick. You wrap your legs around his lower waist, crossing them over and pulling him even closer, a desperate attempt at trying to ease the growing ache. Inside you, his fingers move rapidly, making your body tense as you start climbing your high, the coil in your belly pulling tight. 

“My L-lord…” You pant, looking at him with pleading eyes, even though you are unsure what you are trying to say. “Say my name,” he commands, dark eyes trained on you.

You feel even hotter, the coil in your belly pulled impossibly tight. “S-Seungcheol.”

“That is right. Scream my name.” He orders, eyes hazy with a film of lust and possessiveness. As if teasing you, his thumb brushes over your clit ever so slightly, drawing out a shuddering whine from your lips that makes him chuckle quietly. The sound feels like magic to your ears, a drug to your system that heightens your pleasure. His teeth dig into the soft flesh of your neck, undoubtedly leaving a mark.

“P-please Seungcheol,” you heave, eyes closed shut, fingernails digging into your palms. Humming against your neck, he uses his fingers to rub an even deeper spot inside you as his thumb rubs your clit mercilessly. 

“Please!” You hiss, throwing your head back, your toes curling as you wail. “I… I cannot…”

“You are going to cum for me. Now,” his voice is a quiet order. 

He curls his fingers inside you one last time and flicks your clit hard with his thumb, sending you over the edge. Your release is a tidal wave of mind-breaking pleasure as your body goes tense, your hips arching off the bed, your mouth hanging open as a reaction to the overwhelming pleasure; your first orgasm. 

You experience a type of bliss you had no idea existed, and for a moment, your mind goes blank, your body lying taut and tense underneath his. The onslaught of pleasure leaves your vision blurry with unshed tears and your mind numb to everything as you slowly descend from the throes of heavenly bliss and register that your husband is sitting upright between your legs.

With his relentless gaze locked with yours, he slowly licks his fingers clean, his long pink tongue darting out to caress his digits as he hums, “This is the sweetest pussy I have ever had.”

The sight is more than erotic, and for a moment, you are scared you will die from a heart attack. You want this man. You need him all at once, in every way possible. There is an ache coming from the depths of your soul that only he can satisfy.

“Please…untie me. I want to touch you.” You beg, hoping he takes mercy. It has been torture keeping your hands off of him. Hearing your plea, he takes mercy and undoes the ribbon tying your wrists. Free, you immediately sit up and wrap yourself around him, pulling him close for a kiss. Vigorously, wantonly, you kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue, moaning and gripping onto his back, your fingers itching to touch his skin underneath his nightshirt. 

“Please take this off,” you breathe against his mouth. Your husband smiles, undoubtedly enjoying teasing you. “Why?”

“Because…I want to see you.” You whisper sweetly, looking at him through your lashes. The man obliges, letting his hands off you for a moment to take off his shirt.

The sight of his naked body renews the heat between your legs, a new wave of desire overcoming your system. You let yourself gawk at the expanse of the muscles on his chest and the bulky thickness of his arms, all littered with scars, strong and dependable. As he stares at your face for a reaction, you reach for him absentmindedly, dragging your index finger over a scar on his right bicep. It is long, old, and jagged, rough and bumpy to the touch. Without thinking, you lean towards his arm and softly press a kiss on the wound before slowly dragging your lips to his chest, where another scar has bloomed. “It must have hurt,” you whisper to yourself, pressing another kiss on the scar before meeting his eyes. “I want to see all of your scars, dear husband. And I want to kiss all of them. I want to kiss away your pain.”

Something flashes by his eyes, brief but vulnerable. He immediately snakes a strong around around your waist to pull you tight against him and seal his lips over yours in a possessive kiss.

With his lips tangled with yours, he carries you to the sleeping mat, setting you down gently. You sigh in satisfaction as your back meets the soft, warm quilt. 

Your husband quickly gets to work, taking off your underskirt in a sharp yank and ripping it in the process. Surprised and embarrassed, you squeak, trying to hide yourself from his gaze. With the lamp burning right on the desk next to the mat, he has a pretty clear view of your body.

“Your pants…” You whisper, tugging them as well, and Seungcheol chuckles. “So desperate, aren't we?”

“Please,” you beg, throwing him your best pleading eyes as your hands roam around his back, feeling the ridge and bump of his muscles. 

The man quickly takes off his pants, giving you the briefest glimpse of his cock. You barely get to see him as he leans down towards you again, his eyes locked with yours. He drags his palms up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them. A breathy sigh of pleasure falls from your lips as you automatically lean closer to his face, your lips chasing his. Seungcheol captures them in a soft, teasing kiss, his lips gently biting yours as you feel his cock brush against your thigh.

You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin.

You are a ball of nerves right now, the idea of getting intimate with a man for the first time plaguing your mind with worry. Yet, at the same time, you are overcome with desire, need running through your veins.

This is scary yet perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Your husband attacks your neck, kissing and biting the skin while simultaneously playing with your breasts. You mewl, letting your head fall to one side to give him better access to your neck. He hums, the sound so deep and throaty you feel it in your core. His lips do not break contact with your skin, kissing and sucking your sensitive flesh until your whole body shakes like leaves in a tree. 

“Please…” You beg, digging your nails into his shoulder, your body unconsciously starting to grind against him, desperate to ease the throbbing ache between your legs. Seungcheol, finally satisfied with the red spot blooming on your neck, lets you go, peering down at you with his hypnotizing eyes.

“I teased you a lot, did I not, wife?” He hums, caressing your heated face with his knuckles. Drunk with desire, you nod, your half-lidded gaze transfixed. “Please, take me, my Lord.”

He tsks disapprovingly. As if to prove a point, he wraps his hand around your throat but does not apply any pressure. “My name.”

“Seungcheol.” You reply immediately.

“Good girl.” Seungcheol smirks, his eyes flashing with something dark as he leans back on his heels, taking a slow, good look at your body. Then, spreading your legs wider, he spits on his fingers and using it as a lubricant over his cock before lining up with your entrance.

“This will hurt at first.” He warns. You nod, one hand covering your face as you choose to look at the ceiling out of embarrassment.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.” He demands, the tip of his cock brushing against your pussy lips, making you shiver and follow his command. “Keep your eyes on me. Watch me devour this tight cunt.”

You feel like someone set your face on fire. Face flushed with his crude words, you barely get to make a sound when Seungcheol thrusts himself inside you. Your head lolls forward with the impact as your hands immediately clutch his arm around your waist for support. 

“Ah!” You cry out, eyes squeezed shut as you feel a sharp sting between your legs. “Fuck,” Seungcheol hisses, his voice throaty as he remains half buried inside you. Pausing for a moment, he lets you adjust before pulling back and then thrusting back in. This time, he goes all the way in, and you swear you feel him in your stomach. With a loud, pathetic cry, you cling onto his body, your brain unable to keep up with all the different sensations. 

He builds a pace, pushing in and out of you in strong movements.

Your brain feels like mush as you fail to utter anything, your mouth simply hanging open to let out breathy pants as you close your eyes and feel every ridge of his cock move in and out of you, the initial pain of intrusion fizzling away. It is a blissful experience, a high you never want to come out of.

“Push out your hips a little,” he orders quietly, dark eyes set on you so intensely, you feel like he can see your soul.

Immediately, you comply, extending your waist towards him while keeping your upper back pressed to the mat. His hands hold your hip bone n a strong grip as he places a pillow under your ass and slides himself back inside you with a leisurely pace, the new angle making his length curve inside you. 

You start seeing stars.

“Oh my god,” you hiss, eyes squeezed shut. The back of your thighs rests over Seungcheol’s, your legs dangling around his waist, and your hands clenched around the sleeping mat as he starts to pick up pace. With each thrust, the force increases, the tip of his cock hitting your most sensitive spot, low groans falling from his lips to match your breathy moans. 

“I… I cannot…please” your whisper mindlessly, the words scattered and almost unintelligible due to your broken moans. “You want to come?” His voice is almost taunting as he leans closer to look at your face. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You do not come until I give you permission, wife.” Your husband warns, making you whine. 

The need to find your release only intensifies. You are so close you can almost taste the blissful release.

“P-Please,” You beg, wrapping your arms around his neck and digging your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “Say it louder. Scream my name. Who is fucking this tight pussy?’’ he grunts in your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Seungcheol!” The desperate yell is quick to leave your lips.

“Who will make you come?”

“You! Seungcheol!”

“That is right, wife. It is I, your husband.” He gives you a particularly harsh thrust. “Not San. Not any other man but me.”

“Y-yes. Please…” you sob. Gripping your chin, he forces you to look at him. “Who do you belong to?” His voice is as quiet as a winter night.

“You, my husband.” You manage to utter clearly amid his brutal thrusts. “Good girl,” he praises, nibbling on your jaw. One of his hands reaches below to touch your clit as he wastes no time rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pads of his finger, all the while continuing to thrust inside you earnestly.

“Seungcheol!” You scream, your entire body jolting.

Your reaction makes him smirk as he chases his own high, seconds away from erupting inside you. He places your clit between his thumb and index finger, giving you a particularly harsh rub followed by a pinch.

You are catapulted over the edge. Your vision goes white, your entire sweat-coated body twitching from the intensity of the pleasure. It only amplifies as you feel Seungcheol spill inside you, his warm release filling you up and dripping lazily out of you. 

You feel like you are floating from the bliss.

— 

Your husband’s hand strokes your back in repeated soothing motions while you bask in the afterglow of your passionate lovemaking. With him lying behind you on the mat, your bodies pressed together, you move from reality to dreamland every now and then, the smile never leaving your face as you savour his touch and warmth. 

“Are you asleep?” he softly asks, bringing his face closer to inspect you.

You make a noise and shake your head, too lazy to move. Your husband gently turns you so that you lie face to face.

“Are you in any pain?” You ask again, carefully looking at your face, his fingers brushing away the rowdy strands of hair from your face. You open your eyes and look at him with a gaze full of love. “I am perfect, husband. Thank you.”

He smiles when you address him by that name, a warm, gummy smile that shows his unbridled joy. The possessive madman from earlier has completely disappeared, replaced by a man eager to dote on his wife.

This is your first time seeing this side of your husband. 

He pulls you against his chest, holding you tight in his arms. “No, thank you, wife. Thank you for being mine.” You smile, nuzzling his bare chest. This is the safest and most comfortable you have ever felt, and you do not want to let go. Ever.

After a moment of pause, he whispers. “I know I lack a lot. I can be clueless sometimes. So from now on, I hope you share with me whatever is on your mind. All your wishes, hopes and dreams, your desires— everything. I promise I will make them come true.”

You are too tired to form a reply, your body growing heavier each second but still, you smile. You peacefully drift off.

— 

Seungcheol did not go to work today.

The news delights you when you hear it from Jihye as she helps you get dressed. Her eyes linger on your body, especially on your neck, where little marks have formed— evidence of your lovemaking. 

She looks half worried and half scandalized, and you wink at her playfully before stepping out of your chamber.  Your husband sits on the porch, fully dressed, basking in the sun with a book in his hand.

“Good morning, my Lord.” You whisper, feeling pathetically shy when you catch sight of him. He looks up, his eyes shining when they land on you. “Good morning, wife. How are you feeling?” Shyly, you walk over to him and sit down without leaving any space between the two of you. Fiddling with your skirt, you look away when you answer, “I am alright, my Lord.”

With a gentle grasp on your chin, he turns your face and forces you to look at him. “The truth.” He says quietly.

Truthfully, you are quite sore, and an ache has taken hold all over your body. However, you cannot complain. The ache is laced with pleasure, especially between your legs, reminding you of last night.

Your heart gallops in your chest as you look into his eyes. “I am a little sore,” you reply timidly. “But it is a good kind of sore, I promise.”

His eyes travel to your neck, eyeing the red marks visible on your skin. “I was too rough with you,” he murmurs, his tone laced with regret, his eyes focused on your neck. Quickly, you snap him out of it. “Not at all, my Lord.” You sling your arms with his, pulling him closer so that you can rest your face on his shoulder. “You were just perfect. I enjoyed it. A lot.” You whisper, face flushing.

Your husband keeps gazing at you like he does not believe you. Whipping your head around, you take a quick scan around the yard before pressing a sweet kiss on his lips and giggling like a child. A soft smile blooms on his lips, even though he tries to stifle it.

“You should smile more, my Lord. You look so handsome.”

“Why are you calling me that? You called me by my name last night.” His lips form a soft pout as he complains. You pause, “Well…last night was…”

“You shall call me Seungcheol from now on.” He announces. “I would like it even more if you gave me a nickname.”

Wide eyed, you look at him.

“Do you understand me, wife?”

“Yes, husband.” 

Happy with that for now, he does not pester you anymore. You rest your head on his shoulders, your hands intertwined, and watch the morning sky in silence.

“You asked me to share all my wishes with you last night.” You speak after a while, eyes focused somewhere distant. “Can I share one with you right now?”

“Of course,” he shifts so that his body faces you. 

Tilting your head up, you admire a white, fluffy cloud. “Ever since my brother died, I have only had one wish for my life. I wanted to live by the sea in a small house. In that house, there would be my husband and I, and we would spend the rest of our days there, away from all the noise and bleakness of this town.”

“That sounds lovely.” He murmurs. You nod before looking at him. “Do you think it would ever be possible for us?”

He remains silent. 

“Given the nature of your job, I understand. However, I need you to promise me one thing. You must take care of yourself. You must not get hurt, do you hear me? You have someone to come home to now. You must think about me and you must return home to me, do you understand?” Your hands grip his in an earnest hold. 

His free hand comes to rest on top of yours, and he gives you a reassuring squeeze, warm and soft. “Rest easy, wife. I shall come back to you. Always.”

A lone drop of tear strolls down your cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before pressing the softest, feather-like kiss on your forehead. After a moment's pause, you speak. “Now it is your turn to share something with me.”

He regards you with confusion. 

“Anything. A wish, a secret…” You stare at him with eagerness. He sighs softly, his eyes trained on his lap as he thinks about something. 

“Well…when I told you not to expect anything from me,” he begins, looking almost shy, his gaze soft and apologetic. “I was afraid. I wanted to keep you at an arm's length from the beginning because I was scared of losing you. I have lost everyone close to me, and the thought of going through something like that again terrifies me. Since I joined the military, I have kept myself detached from everyone because the less I cared, the better.”

Your heart aches for the man. With gentle fingers, you brush away the unruly strands of hair from his face and trace the scar next to his eye. “You will not lose me, husband. I am right here.” You promise.

He wraps his arms around you as if to test your words. You wrap yourself around him, basking in his embrace, your bodies melting into one. “Do not leave me.” He whispers, his voice raw and vulnerable.

“Never.”

— 

Seungcheol left for the palace early today. After two days of relaxation, a letter came for him last night from the palace, demanding his presence first thing in the morning.

At night, Seuncheol held you tight in his arms, soothing away your worries. He finally shared what has been going on in the palace and why there are assassins after him.

Turns out they are working for the Minister of Trade, who is strictly against the new reformations currently being done by the king, like an attempt to abolish the slavery system. Seungcheol has been the King’s number one ally and a powerful piece in the game, which is why they are after him. Removing him from the equation is as good as stripping the King of his powers. Minister Kim has done exceptionally well in covering up his tracks, which is why there is no solid proof against him, complicating this entire issue. He has been playing a cat-and-mouse game with the royal army for a while now. 

Your husband left even before you woke up, leaving a note for you promising he would be home for dinner.

The day slowly passes by with you going to the palace and coming home once your shift is over, always under the watchful eye of San. The mood in the palace has been tense today, different rumours about Minister Kim floating in the air and a sinking feeling forms in your gut. No matter how hard you try, you cannot shake off the feeling that something ominous is about to take place.

Your suspicion starts taking shape when dusk falls and Seungcheol does not return. It turns into terror and restlessness as night falls, and still, there is no sign of him. The supper grows cold, and you fall asleep upright, waiting for him, your husband, who never comes.

When you open your eyes again, you find Jihye sitting next to you, a worried look on her face. “What is it?” You immediately sit up straight. “My lady, it is past midnight. Master has not returned yet. Should we send someone to the palace to ask for him?” She asks.

Your fingers fist around your skirt, anxiety coursing through your veins like poison. “We should.” You whisper.

Just as you are following Jihye out of the room, you hear commotion; the voice of a servant and Headservant Yang. Running to the porch, you see Seungcheol entering the house, dressed in his military uniform, his sword in his hand.

He marches straight towards you and drags you into your bedchamber without any words. “My Lord, where have you been!” You cry, gripping his arm. “I have been waiting for you—”

“Listen to me carefully,” he cuts you off, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leans down to be at your eye level. His usual unbothered demeanour is gone, replaced by worry that you see in his eyes as vividly as daylight. 

Something must be wrong. Your heart starts racing.

“The Minister of Trade is planning to attack us here tonight. They will be here anytime, so I need to get you out of here.”

“Wha— How did you even find that out? Are you sure?”

“The royal army captured a member of his team yesterday. We tortured the information out of him. Look at me,” he urges you, his fingers gripping your shoulder even tighter. “Minister Kim knows we are onto him. He has gone into hiding. He will stop at nothing to get to me, to you, do you understand? He plans to go down and drag me with him.” You see the fear in his eyes. The unshakable, indestructible man suddenly appears different, and this change terrifies you. 

“I am scared.” You whisper.

“You have nothing to be scared of.” He pulls you in his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “I am going to send you to a safe place. I need you to do as I say, okay?”

You nod shakily, your fingers holding onto his sleeve in a death grip.

“Pack your essentials. We will leave within thirty minutes. Ask Jihye to help you.” He says, pressing a kiss on your forehead before marching outside.

With your heart hammering in your chest, you get to work, moving your shaky limbs to pack a bag with the help of Jihye. Soon, you are ready, and Seungcheol wastes no time wrapping everything up. He places Headservant Yang and the other servant in another neighbor's house to make sure they are safe before setting out with you.

In the darkness of the night, you get onto his horse with his help, followed by him sitting behind you, his arms around you to hold onto the reins. Jihye and another male servant get on another horse, and finally, a royal soldier follows from behind.

A little to the south of the town, there is a long, dense forest which leads to a small, quaint village. There is an ancient shrine there, inhabited by monks, and that is where Seungcheol intends to get you by dawn.

The silence grows heavier and thicker as you tread into the forest; the only sound echoing around is the soft galloping of the horses. You shiver, more from dread than from the cold night air and Seungcheol notices it. “Hold the reins.” He orders quietly so that his hands are free. He takes off the muffler wrapped around his neck and gently puts it around yours.

“I asked you to pack the essentials, wife.” His tone is playful. “I think a muffler in this weather counts as an essential.” He teases, and you understand it is his attempt to soothe you. “I am sorry, my lord. You should keep it. You will catch a cold.” You murmur.

“Hush now,” he shushes you, taking back the reins. “You should lean on me and close your eyes. It will take a while for us to reach there.”

“No, it is okay.” You reply, eyes focused ahead on the dark, narrow road cutting through the forest. 

It is such a gloomy night. You cannot spot a single star in the sky, shrouded by clouds.

Time ticks by. The night grows darker. 

Your journey continues through the hour of the ox and into the hour of the tiger. Exhaustion takes over you, and unable to resist it any longer, you close your eyes and lean your head back, resting it against your husband’s shoulder. It is not an ideal condition to get some shut-eye, but somehow you doze off.

When your eyes reopen, you hear the loud sound of a horse neighing and its heavy galloping. Seungcheol holds you tighter, and with a sharp tug of the reins and a nudge of his heels, his horse leaps into a full sprint. You look around worriedly, scanning through the dense bushes surrounding you.

“Master! Did they find us already?” Servant Min cries from behind as his horse too picks up pace.

The sounds grow louder, and just as your body tenses up, fearing the worst, you see San pop up from inside the forest, his horse taking a lunge and joining you on the road. “General, you have to keep going!” He yells. “They are right behind us.”

Seungcheol’s horse sprints parallel to his.

“How did they catch up so quickly?”

“Minister Kim had his men spread out. They were hiding in a camp a few miles behind. I took care of them, but the messenger escaped. I’m sure the minister is on his way. You need to move fast. There might be more of his men hiding in the forest.”

Upon hearing his words, you notice the specks of red on his hanbok. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you look behind to see your husband’s face. His jaw is clenched tight. “We need to come up with a plan. If they find us, we cannot hold them off. I need to get my wife to safety.” He yells back.

It is as if a cactus is lodged in your throat. “W-what do you mean?” You cry, your face aghast. 

He does not reply to you.

“It will be daybreak soon, General! We should hide somewhere.” San suggests.

Just then, you notice a sudden, strange ball of light in the sky, a little towards your right. It takes a moment for you to register that it is a signal, an arrow of fire shot from behind you.

“There are assassins ahead of us. They now know we are headed that way.” Seungcheol hisses.

“I will take care of it.” San nods, wielding his sword and screaming at the horse, “Go!” The horse runs faster, impossibly so, almost flying forward.

“I need you to stay calm and follow my orders.” Your husband says to you. “Do you hear me?” You nod shakily, “Yes.”

In five minutes, you catch up to San, who has taken care of most of the assassins that sat ahead at the curve. As you sprint near, Seungcheol hands the reins to you and readies his bow and arrow, taking perfect shots at the rest of the assassins. Then, he smoothly gets off the horse, followed by the other soldier who has been accompanying you, their swords wielded as they fight one-on-one.

A little ahead of the curb, you stop the horse and so does Jihye and servant Min, watching the fight anxiously. The three men take multiple assassins at a time, making sure they do not get to you.

You chew on your lower lip, your hands fidgeting as you watch the fight unfold. You wish Seungcheol gave you an archery set. You know the basics because you practised regularly as a child with your brother. Even though after his death, you stopped it for a while, you did not completely let go, taking occasional lessons from the older nobleman in your neighbourhood who used to be a skillful archer once upon a time.

By the time the last member of the group has been killed, shades of blue have coated the sky. Seungcheol and his team run back to the horses, their clothes specked with blood.  “Come on, we need to leave,” he says, mounting the horse.

There is a sudden sound; a sharp whoosh like a strong gust of wind just flew by, followed by a soft thud.

It is an arrow.

It whizzes towards you, missing the mark and hitting the tree trunk a couple of inches to your left. Your heart stops. A few hundred meters from the way you came, a large group of armed men show up. It is Minister Kim’s convoy.

They have caught up to you.

At the center, leading them is the minister himself, dressed in iron like he is about to go to war. His eyes, black and empty, scour the dead bodies of his assassins lying on the ground in front of him before looking at your husband.

His thin lips curl up into an evil smile. “General! No point in running now! It’s time to see how good of a fighter you are!” He yells. 

You feel Seungcheol's body growing tenser with each passing second, his hand gripping your thigh in a bruising hold. You, too, are paralyzed with fear, unsure of what to do. Then, absolutely shocking you, Seungcheol does the thing you least expected him to do. He starts getting off the horse slowly, his eyes trained on Minister Kim.

“San, take my wife and go.” He speaks quietly to the younger man who hadn’t gotten on his horse yet. “My Lord, what are you—” You do not get to finish your sentence because the younger man has instantly climbed behind you and snatched the reins from your hands.

“Get them!” You hear a shout as you are swept away with lightning speed. San’s grip around your body is iron solid, holding the reins with his eyes focused ahead on climbing the steep, hilly road at the end of the forest.

“No, please! You need to be with him!” You cry, fighting against him as you look behind to see Seungcheol fighting the Minister’s men, accompanied by the other soldier. 

He can never outfight all those people.

“Have faith in him. He knows what he is doing.” San assures, kicking his heels so the horse runs faster. You hear sounds right behind you, and you turn to see an assassin on a horse, aiming his arrow at you. San takes notice of it and swerves right immediately to avoid it.

As calculated, it misses, but a second later, your horse neighs out loud, standing on its hind legs before dropping down on the ground, taking the two of you with it. The arrow was meant for the horse. It struck his leg, injuring him, leaving the animal on the ground, softly crying in pain.

San wastes no time getting up and wielding his sword to fight off the man and the others following behind him. Jihye and servant Min, who were right behind you, yell out, calling for you to get on their horse. Jihye extends her hand towards you, but you ignore her, bunching up your skirt and making a run towards the curb.

“My Lady, what are you doing?” San yells, fighting off the assassins. “Jihye, stop her!”

“My Lady, come back!”

Ignoring their cries, you pick up the bow and set of arrows dropped by the assassin and continue sprinting down the steep road.

Then, finding a safe distance and a place behind an oak tree, you spot your husband, his movements sharp and precise as he takes down one man after the other. You watch as the minister slowly walks towards him, his sword dragging on the ground, leaving behind a threatening trail. Due to him wearing the armored plates, you know it is pointless to shoot at him, so you load your bow and aim at the assassins and start shooting.

The first one grazes past the man you aim at. Not discouraged, you continue, and the second one hits the target. 

Your husband looks in your direction immediately when the assassin drops dead, his eyes going from confusion to worry the moment he spots you. He does not have the time to do anything about it, as he has to fight the never-ending men.

And you are slightly grateful for that. Right now, he does not have the chance to come to you and force you away, giving you the chance to help him from afar. You continue loading arrows and shooting, missing some but hitting most, well aware of the fact that the Minister has spotted you.

From behind, you hear Jihye coming towards you, her exhausted pleas echoing down the path. “Jihye, I need more arrows!” You yell as you come down to your last two. “There should be some on the road back there!”

By now, most of the assassins have been taken care of, and the remainder are being fought by the soldier accompanying your husband. Minister Kim has approached Seunghceol as they engage in a heated sword fight, the minister swinging his sword like a madman, his growls echoing in the air. Your eyes scan around the place, thinking of finding a way to help Seungcheol, when San finally catches up to you, followed by Jihye, who did not get the arrows you asked for.

“My Lady, enough!” he yells. “You cannot be here! The road has been cleared—”

“We need to help him!” you yell back. “I cannot leave him here for—” You do not get to finish your sentence.

An arrow hits Seungcheol, piercing through the skin right below his right shoulder, on the top of his chest.

“No!” You scream, watching him stumble back for a moment. Your eyes fly through the scene, spotting an archer hidden inside the forest a little ahead towards your right. As you load your bow to take a shot at him, San finally comes to his senses, flying down the road to help Seungcheol.

You take the shot.

The arrow hits the hidden archer right in the chest, making him tumble backwards, disappearing out of sight. Then, you dash down the road, not scared of anything anymore, Jihye following you as your shadow.

San stands no match to Minister Kim, easily overpowered and tossed aside by his brute strength. He has the eyes of a madman, hell bent on getting to Seungcheol, discarding everything in his way like little bugs.

“I told you, you scarred lunatic!” He screams, charging at your husband. “I will slice your head off your neck and then do the same to your wife!”

He swings his sword around, charging for Seungcheol with all his might. Seungcheol blocks him with his sword, but the force of the attack forces him to fall to his knees. Minister Kim takes the opportunity to knock him off his feet with a kick. Seungcheol falls on the ground on his back, and in the split second, the minister raises his sword towards the sky before bringing it down sideways on his chest.

“Seungcheol!” You yell at the top of your lungs. “General!” San yells, coming from behind and tackling Minister Kim to the ground before he can fully swing his sword across. His helmet falls off from the force of San's attack. With your heart thundering in your ears, you point the remaining arrow at him.

It is like your body is not yours anymore. With zero hesitation, you take the shot while he is still pinned to the ground, struggling to get free, and the arrow hits the bullseye, right in the center of his forehead. 

His body slumps to the ground.

Pushing him away, San holds your husband’s lifeless body, his eyes slowly falling shut as he yells his name. Jihye and servant Min run past you, calling their master.

The bow drops from your hand.

You stand there, watching the ground go red underneath your husband’s body, your fingers gripping his muffler around your neck. 

—

Seungcheol receives his initial treatment in the shrine you were originally supposed to visit.

Once the news of the attack reached the capital, upon the king’s orders, the royal physician Yoon came to treat Seungcheol. He and his assistants crowded the room, tending to your husband’s injury with medicine and wrapping the area with gauze as he lay motionless on the mat.

You stood just outside the room, gazing at your sleeping husband, who looked nothing like his usual self—pale and frail, his body littered with little cuts. 

Why won’t he wake up? You miss his eyes. You miss his slow, unravelling gaze on you, his crimson, fiery eye that can almost cut through stone with a simple gaze. Where is that man?

Physician Yoon said he is in a deep sleep. They call it a vegetative state. The injury was quite lethal; the wound just a few centimetres away from damaging his heart. He said that the worst is over, and his pulse is stable now.

But he won’t wake up. He remains unresponsive, and it is unclear how long it will take for him to regain consciousness. 

“I see,” was all you said, standing motionless in your spot, gazing at your comatose husband.

A couple of days later, the King sent a royal convoy to move Seungcheol back to his house from the shrine. You had no complaints, wanting your husband to rest comfortably in his own house rather than a shrine. After a long journey, you reached home in the afternoon, greeted by Headservant Yang, who looked as devastated as you. After making sure your husband was okay, physician Yoon left, leaving you anticipating yet another sleepless night. 

It is nighttime now, and you sit still next to your sleeping husband. Headservant Yang peeks into the room, begging you to have some food. You ignore her, sitting quietly and observing your husband. The small lamp in the bedchamber casts warm shadows on his face, his sharp features appearing softer and weaker. 

He looks oddly at peace. You do not cry. You force a smile.

Leaning closer to him, you glide a gentle hand down his face and whisper, “You can rest. You have had a tough life, my dear. You can rest as long as you need, but you have to come back to me.”

You will pray to every god out there. You will visit every shrine, give unlimited offerings, and pray that your husband returns to you. You will do everything in your power to see him open his eyes. It is truly a shame you do not have much power in your hands.

Sometime later, your exhausted body falls into deep slumber, riddled with nightmares. Your husband lies in a pool of blood, and he does not wake up.

— 

The next morning, your father comes to see you. You do not move from your spot next to your husband to greet him as San leads him into the room before excusing himself.

He sits next to you, watching his son-in-law with small, worried eyes, muttering words of regret and concern. You hardly hear them, too busy patting Seungcheol’s face and arms with a damp cloth. Physician Yoon left a while ago after checking up on him and said that there is no progress. The king’s personal messenger came with him as well as the Head Eunuch, praying for Seungcheol and assuring to provide help in any way they can.

You couldn't care less about them. You sent them off, handing the letter you wrote for the king in the messenger’s hand before asking San to see them out.

“My daughter, you should eat something. You have to take care of yourself so that you can take care of him.” Your father urges.

You finish wiping your husband’s body in silence before setting the rag down and clasping his hand in yours. They are calloused but warm, and you silently send a prayer of gratitude to the heavens. He is alive. He is still here.

Tracing over his bruised knuckles with your fingertips, you whisper, “You know, Father, I have been lonely for a long time. After orabeoni died, I thought that was it. It could not get worse, but then Mother died. And I…I hated that I was alive. Because in that house, I was dead. I was dead while still being alive.”

You exhale a shaky breath, pulling Seungcheol’s hand closer to inspect it. You need to apply ointment on his knuckles.

“There was no colour, no joy, no celebration in that house. You were there but also not there. You never saw me. I was not enough, not after losing someone as precious as orabeoni. I felt so guilty. It should have been me, not him—that is all I could think of. I thought my entire life would be miserable like that, which is why I was so eager to marry this man.”

Another heavy sigh whooshes out of your lungs.

“Father, this man…people fear him. They say all sorts of weird things about him. But he is the kindest, warmest man I know. He kept his heart locked and hidden from the world, but he is so precious. He is gentle and kind, and he loves me. He loves me so dearly, Father, and I love him. How could I go on without him?”

And finally, the tears fall. Big droplets of water roll down your cheek as you fall on the ground, clutching onto your husband’s hand and sobbing into the floor, loud and broken.

Your father’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder rather unsurely, softly patting you as you keep crying, the tears that never came till now gushing out like a river with a broken dam. Your broken heart continues to shatter into even smaller pieces, and you cannot help but wonder what if he never wakes up again. Maybe you are doomed to be lonely.

The thought makes you cry some more. After a while, once you have managed to calm down, you sit up and wipe your tears.

“I…I did not know you felt that way.” Your father whispers, his voice ridden with guilt. “I…I never meant to hurt you. I am sorry—”

“I don’t want your apology right now, Father. I want you to pray for him.” You cut him off.

“I will. Of course I will.” He says, his eyes shining with unshed tears and guilt. “And when he is back on his feet, I will come visit you and I will accept your apology then.” You murmur, your gaze trained on your husband.

“Of course. Have faith, my dear. He will be awake soon.” Your father assures, his voice unstable. You hum absentmindedly.

If Seungcheol does not wake up, you do not know what you will do.

— 

The wind is particularly chilly this morning.

It has been a fortnight since Seungcheol fell into his comatose state, and he is just as before. Every day, Physician Yoon comes to check on him and then leaves while handing you some herbs to apply to his wound.

You have accepted this as your life now. Waking up every morning with a prayer that all the previous days were a long, gruesome nightmare, but then feeling grateful to see him still breathing, warm and alive.

After completing your daily prayer and offerings at the temple, you walk home in slow steps, the fatigue slowly creeping into your bones. The past week has been hard on you, and it looks like your body to starting to give up. You have not been eating properly, spending all your waking hours beside Seungcheol, tending to his comatose body or crying at the altar of the temple.

You cannot give up. Seungcheol is yet to awake.

Just as you come in front of your house, you find a small stray cat sitting comfortably in the sun. With a small, exhausted smile, you walk closer and crouch down, running your fingers through its shaggy fur. It looks dirty and disheveled, and you wonder where it is from.

You should probably bring it inside and give it some milk to eat. Judging by how comfortably it sits and basks in the sun, you are doubtful you will be able to get it inside your house.

“Would you like something to eat?” You whisper, gently scratching between its ears. The cat meows rather boredly, closing its eyes and resting its head on the ground after a quick swish of its tail.

Right then, a servant bursts out of the front door, looking like he saw a ghost. He looks back and forth down the road before finally spotting you on the ground. The wide-eyed, frazzled look on his face makes your blood run ice cold, and you immediately stand up.

“What is it?”

“My lady…Master is awake.”

You are free falling. You fall and fall, all the limbs of your body finally giving up after a week of war. For a long moment, you stand there, stuck in a daze. You don’t dare to breathe, afraid you would wake up and realize it was a dream.

“I will go get Physician Yoon. Please go inside, my lady.” The servant says before rushing down the street. You struggle to move. The stray cat at your feet has got up due to the commotion and is now strolling into the house.

With your heart racing in your chest, you slowly follow it, your legs shaky due to the nerves.

Seungcheol is awake. He is finally awake. 

You hear lots of voices, especially Headservant Yang’s, as she scolds and cries loudly. With a lump lodged in your throat, you keep on walking until you spot the door to his bedchamber. You catch a glimpse of your husband sitting up, and for some reason unknown to you, you immediately hide behind a nearby wall.

You are too scared to see him. Too overwhelmed, too afraid.

You thought of this. You dreamed of the day he would wake and look at you, and now that it is here, you do not know what to do. It feels unreal.

You are angry at him. You are also grateful. Angry for getting hurt. Grateful for waking up.

A sob bursts out of your throat, and you start wailing, unable to hold back the tears any longer. With your palms clasped over your mouth, you cry so hard that it becomes hard to breathe. The sobs wrack your body, knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving behind only pain.

The pain of almost losing him. The pain of seeing him lie there almost lifeless, day after day.

A hand on your shoulder startles you, and you find Jihye standing next to you. Her eyes are misty as she wraps an arm around your heaving body and rubs your arms soothingly. “It is alright, my lady. Please do not cry. He is looking for you.”

Her words make you cry some more before you manage to wipe your tears and snot. It is pretty futile because they do not stop completely. With shaky legs, you move from your hiding spot and continue towards his chamber, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

Seungcheol spots you immediately, his posture straightening as he sees you arriving. But you do not meet his eye. 

You cannot bring yourself to. If you look at him, you will start crying once more, right in the middle of the yard, in front of all the servants. 

Headservant Yang and others start moving away as they see you approaching, giving you privacy. You cross the porch, your eyes still trained on the wooden floor of his bedchamber, your hands slightly shaking.

Finally, you step inside and shut the door behind you. Then, your eyes slowly travel to his.

He is definitely paler and thinner than before, but you see life in his eyes. You see the spark and the shine that have always been present in them, and right at that moment, you are sure he will be alright.

Thank god.

He looks up at you, his eyes brimming with longing and guilt. His usual plump red lip shaded in a pale pink colour. His face littered with little cuts that are still healing, yet he has never looked more handsome.

And you have never been happier to see him.

You want to scream. You want to yell at him and tell him how much you love him, but you cannot speak. Tears and sobs threaten to overflow once more, so you stand there like a statue and keep staring at your husband, repeating in your head that he is alive and well. 

Until your knees finally give out. 

You kneel in front of him and wrap your arms around his neck, careful to avoid his left chest and leaning your weight more on the right.  Breathing him in, you hold him as tightly as possible, wishing you could merge yourself into him, wishing you could lock him away and protect him for the rest of his life.

Your tears wet his bare shoulders, your fingers tightly gripping onto the muscles on his back, clutching him on for dear life. It feels as if you let him go— if your grip loosens ever so slightly, you will lose him forever.

It takes a long moment for you to realize how your body is shaking due to your sobs and tearful hiccups, only when your husband's warm hands wrap around you, patting your back like you are a small, wounded animal.

“It is okay, my dear. Everything is okay,” he soothes in the softest voice, and when you hear him, another violent sob slips past your throat while you cling to him and cry in the crook of his neck.

You want to stop, but the tears are endless, a mixture of pain and relief. Gingerly, Seungcheol pulls you away from him to take a look at your face, which is puffy and tear-stained. With his thumbs, he wipes your tears away, murmuring, “Hush, now. It pains me to see you cry like this.”

You want to reply, but the lump in your throat is still heavy, and you know if you try to utter something, only sobs will come out, so you remain silent, raking your eyes over his body before settling on the wound on his chest.

“I am alright, I promise.” He assures you once he sees your gaze. “I feel well-rested, in fact.”

You are glad to hear that.

Wiping the remaining tears and snot rather unceremoniously with your sleeve, you get up on your feet to leave the room, but he tugs on your wrist, pulling you back down and into his arms this time.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you some herbal tea.” You reply, your voice meek and scratchy. Your husband locks his arms around you. “Headservant Yang will do that. I need you to stay here. I have missed you.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you will yourself not to cry again. Instead, you whisper, “I have missed you as well. I have missed you so much, you have no idea, Seungcheol.”

He shifts, peering at your face with a surprised look. “You called me by my name.”

“I have been calling your name for the past week.” You murmur, staring at your lap.

He maneuvers your body with gentle, effortless hands so that he can see you fully. “You know, you look like the one who has been comatose for a week. What is this I am seeing? When was the last time you had a proper meal?” He frowns, his eyes trained on you like a hawk as he squints at your face.

You look away, murmuring, “I have been busy nursing a sick man.”

He scoffs. “Not busy enough to eat. You look like a ghost, my wife. I am genuinely worried about you.”

You do not meet his gaze. With an exasperated sigh, he gently tilts your face up by the chin. “Look at me.” He softly commands you. You do as you are told, finding his eyes set on you, those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes that you missed so deeply. 

Your husband’s face inches closer to press a soft kiss on your forehead. It is not quick; he holds his lips pressed right in the middle of your forehead, slightly above your brow, like he is trying to leave an imprint. You close your eyes and lean closer, savouring the feel of his lips against your skin.

Oh, how you longed for this.

“I love you.”

You must have heard wrong. You stop breathing, your body going tense for a moment. Seungcheol leans back, one of his hands wrapped around your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek while the other cups the back of your head, angling your face just slightly upwards and in line with his gaze.

“I love you.” He repeats—his words slow, heavy, deliberate.

You feel faint. It is hard for you to find words, and while you continue gaping at him with parted lips and shining eyes, he continues, “I was scared I would not be able to say this to you. As I lay on the ground and saw you standing there, this was all I could think of. I was angry at myself for never telling you how much I love you.”

“Oh Seungcheol…” your lips tremble. You wrap your arms around his neck, making yourself at home by placing your head under his chin, feeling his hard muscles against your body.

“I love you, dear wife. I love you more than life itself. More than I could ever express.” You hug him tighter. “I love you, too. I love you so much, Seungcheol. You are my whole world.”

“I know.” He murmurs. “I knew the moment you came back towards me. Which you should not have done, by the way. You put yourself in danger.” He loosens his hold on you to catch a glimpse of your face, his gaze admonishing. “I am still mad at you for doing that, but you look miserable enough, so I will let you off.”

You only smile.

“Also, when were you going to tell me what an amazing archer you are? How come I did not know that?”

You look away sheepishly, biting your lip. “You never asked.”

He laughs, the sound sweet and throaty. His arms wrap around you in a tight, protective hold once again, and you close your eyes, savouring the rhythm of his heartbeat next to your ear. As you bask in his warmth, you announce, “You are not going back to the military. I am not letting you go.” Detangling himself from you, your husband regards you with an amused look, like he cannot believe you. “Oh, really?”

“I am serious.” You huff with a frown. “You are not going back. You have fought enough battles for a lifetime. Now it is time for you to rest.”

“Hm. And what if His Majesty disapproves?” His tone is playful.

“I do not care. I already wrote him a letter, saying that once you woke up, you would not resume your duties.”

Amazed, your husband watches you, his eyes twinkling with pride. “I cannot believe you did that.” You ignore him. “Promise me. Promise me you will not go back to the military.”

He remains silent, watching you calmly, and you start getting anxious, expecting the worst. Just as you start thinking of different ways to force him to stay, he says, “I will not, I promise. I was not going to go any way. That was the first decision I made when I opened my eyes. I got another chance at life with you. I plan on using it very well.”

Your heart soars. You grin, a full-on smile sweeping over your face after a long time. Pressing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, you whisper, “Can we go live by the sea now?” His eyes shine with love. “Yes, we can.”

You couldn't be happier. Your heart couldn't be fuller. It is pure delight when you think of a future with this man, away from all the noise and the troubles that have been plaguing your life until now.

He can be safe now. He can rest.

Unconsciously, your thumb traces the scar next to his eye, feeling the bumpy skin underneath your finger. The scar now looks like a tree branch that extends into even smaller branches containing little flowers.

You lean forward and press a kiss on it. 

“I am just glad you will not get hurt anymore. You have already been through so much.” You whisper, your sad gaze trailing over all the marks on his skin, old and new, before settling on his left chest. You gingerly place your hand over the gauze, remembering how long and deep the gash was.

It will scar for sure. Probably the biggest scar on his body, and it will be because he was protecting you. A shaky breath parts from your lips as you are momentarily transported back in time; him lying motionless on the ground that was turning red. As if your husband can read your thoughts, he gently tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his eyes.

“My dear, I am alright. Look at me.”

“This will scar. You will be in much pain as it heals. Because of me.”

“Don't say that.” He holds you against his chest, his fingers wrapping tightly around your limbs. “You are the only one who loves my scars. Because of you, I now love them too. I would not have changed a single thing if I had the chance. You know why? Because every one of the scars in my body led me to you. And this one?” He places a hand over yours, which is resting on his chest.

“This one tied me to you forever. I earned you. I earned your forever through this. So I think this is the most beautiful.”

A lone tear strolls down your cheek. “Oh, Seungcheol,” you choke over a sob, tilting your face up to capture his lips in a kiss.

His arms engulf you completely, his lips taking over yours, his tongue moving inside your mouth like he has been starving for this.

It is breathless, passionate, and gentle at the same time, conveying all the feelings and emotions the two of you could never put into words. 

It is beautiful, like the scars on his body, leaving behind a trace of love.

For a special epilogue, head over to my Patreon. Click here to see the preview!

© startlightxsvt 2025 | All Rights Reserved. Do not copy, translate, adapt, or repurpose any of my works.

A/N 2: First of all, I want to thank you for reading till the end. Next, I just want to say that this fic has been one of my dream projects. Is it the best? Maybe not but did I have the most fun writing it? Hell yes! It was originally supposed to be a bit longer but I cut some parts out, mainly because I was worried this app wouldn't let me post the entire thing easily. Sure enough, it said that there were too many blocks on my post, so I had to stitch together a lot of passages even though they were separate at first. So, I'm sorry if the flow gets weird in some places.

On a different note, I will also be posting this on AO3 once I have opened my account (I am still waiting for their invitation mail), so once I have made my account, I will link it here. Do support me over there! Finally, I just want to take a moment to thank you all for your support. I am really excited to hear from you guys about this fic, so please do send an ask!

it was supposed to be dinner. nothing fancy. just a place you liked, a reservation made two weeks ago, and a text that arrived half an hour too late.

babe, the guys just dropped by unexpectedly. can we move dinner to sunday?

you read it once. then again. no sorry this time. just logistics. like you were another appointment.

your wine was already poured by then. the waitress had just lit the candle at your table when the message came through.

you sat there a little longer than you needed to, staring at the plate of pasta in front of you like it might blink first.

you didn’t cry. didn’t throw your phone across the table or curse his name under your breath. you just asked for the check, signed it without looking, and stepped out into the street like you weren’t sure where else to go.

the bar next door wasn’t unfamiliar. warm lighting, quiet music, a vaguely vintage smell of oak and orange peel. a safe place to disappear for a bit.

somewhere you used to come before things felt like routines.

you sit at the bar and order something stronger than wine. pretend to scroll through your phone while you decide if it’s sadder to go home early or stay and look like you’re waiting for someone.

you’re not even supposed to be talking to anyone. that was the deal you made with yourself the second you sat down at the bar. no rebound flirting, no trying to “salvage the night.” just one drink and then home.

except now there’s this guy two stools over, arguing with the bartender about the jazz playlist like he owns the place.

“you seriously changed it?” he says, mock offended. “after everything we’ve been through?”

the bartender laughs. “you only show up when you get dumped.”

“i was not dumped. it was mutual ghosting.”

“uh-huh. tell that to your sad playlist.”

you try not to stare. try not to smile. but it’s already tugging at the corner of your mouth when he catches your eye.

“don’t judge me,” he says, raising his glass like a toast. “i’m having a deeply personal moment with chet baker.”

you raise your own glass in response. “chet’s been through worse.”

his grin widens. “you know jazz?”

“i know heartbreak.”

“same thing, really.” he shifts one seat closer. doesn’t ask permission.

“he canceled on you?”

you turned toward the voice.

he didn’t smile. just sipped and looked at you like he already knew the answer.

you raised an eyebrow. “what makes you think that?”

“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.”

you looked down. your hand was resting near your phone.

“he postponed. technically.”

“ah. even worse.” he nodded. “delayed disappointment. classic.”

you tried not to let it affect you.

“you always this nosy with strangers?”

“only the ones who walk in like they’re trying not to be seen.”

“what does that mean?”

he shrugged. “you have the look.”

“what look?”

“like you needed a quiet place to be mad.”

you huffed. not quite a laugh, but not denial either. he leaned slightly closer, just enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath.

“don’t worry,” he said. “i’m not here to flirt.”

“good.” you replied. “because that would be a waste of time.”

he chuckled. “noted.”

“what’s your name?” he asks.

you hesitate. you shouldn’t. you really shouldn’t. but you tell him.

he nods. repeats it under his breath, like he’s trying it on for size.

“pretty...” he says. “but not soft. just like you.”

you narrow your eyes. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“well, i know that you’re here. alone. wearing a ring.”

your fingers curl slightly on instinct, brushing over the thin gold band. not a wedding ring. just a simple promise.

you wait for the question. the judgement. something. it doesn’t come.

“i’m not married.” you say.

“didn’t say you were.”

“you implied it.”

“to be honest, i’m just curious...” he says, voice low. “he must be a very secure man to leave you alone in a place like this.”

you should be annoyed. but there’s something in his tone... not pushy, not smug. just... present. you let the silence stretch between you. then, like it’s nothing:

“seungcheol.”

he offers it like a passing thought, not something he expects you to keep. you nod once. don’t repeat it.

“you’re still not flirting?” you ask.

he smiles again, slower this time. “if i were, you'd be laughing by now.”

you roll your eyes. but your lips curve with it. he doesn’t try to close the distance. doesn’t ask where your boyfriend is. doesn’t mention the ring again.

instead, he traces the rim of his glass with one finger, thoughtful. then looks at you again.

“you look like you’re about to leave.”

“maybe.”

“shame.”

“why?”

“conversation was just getting interesting.”

you finish your drink in one swallow. stand up. he doesn’t stop you. just watches as you slip your coat back on.

you turn once before walking out and that’s when he moves. reaches for a napkin, scribbles something quickly, and offers it to you with two fingers.

“in case you feel like being seen, next time.”

you glance at the numbers. no name.

“that’s bold.” you say.

“i won’t hold my breath.” he replies, finishing his drink. “but thursdays can be unpredictable.”

you leave the bar lighter than when you walked in and you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. you don’t text him that week. or the one after.

but you think about it. more than once.

the days pass. your boyfriend keeps canceling. dinners, movies, weekends. things you used to look forward a little too much to. things that now feel like maybe they were never really for you.

at first, he has good reasons. work’s been hectic. he’s exhausted. something urgent came up. his brother’s in town. he needs a night with the guys. you say okay. every time. you want to be understanding. you really do.

but the excuses start piling.

and the effort? that doesn’t.

he forgets small things. the book you told him you were reading. your big meeting last week. your sister’s birthday dinner. he kisses you without looking up from his phone. asks “what’s wrong?” like he hasn’t already ignored your last three texts.

you try bringing it up. gently. once.

he sighs. tells you you’re being dramatic. says “you know how much i care about you” and somehow it sounds like “can we not do this right now?”

so you stop.

you stop asking when he’ll be free. stop reminding him of your plans. you stop expecting anything at all. you just shrink around it.

you still see him, sometimes. but even when you’re in the same room, you feel like background noise. a fixture in the apartment. a maybe. a later. a rain check with legs.

the silence between you gets heavier. and you keep thinking that maybe it’s just a phase. maybe everyone gets like this eventually.

but then thursday rolls around again. you’re already home this time. a takeout bag still warm on the counter. candles lit in your bedroom like you were trying to make it feel like something. like it meant something. you didn’t even tell him to come over. you just hoped he might.

your phone buzzes.

they want to grab a drink. it’s been months. you understand, right?

nothing more. no i’ll make it up to you. just assumption. expectation. like of course you’ll understand.

you don’t reply. you just sit there for a moment, still. like maybe if you stay still enough, you won’t feel the ache settling in your chest. like maybe it’s your fault for hoping. for waiting.

you blow out the candles. walk to the kitchen. and open the drawer where you keep old receipts, forgotten pens, and a napkin you were absolutely not supposed to keep.

your fingers find it too easily. your thumbs hover over your phone for a long time.

you type. delete. type again.

and then:

you guess you were right about thursdays

the response comes quicker than you expect.

seungcheol didn’t think i’d hear from you but i was hoping

you bite your lip. heart a little too loud.

you i wasn’t gonna text you

seungcheol and yet

a pause.

seungcheol where are you?

your breath catches. your fingers tighten around the phone.

you home. alone.

one minute. then two.

seungcheol do you want company?

you don’t answer right away. you reread the last message. and the one before that. and suddenly the silence of your apartment feels unbearable.

so you type slowly.

you maybe just a drink

seungcheol sure just a drink

you don’t believe him. and maybe that’s why you get up to change.

it’s the same bar. same lights, same low music. same seat at the corner that feels like it’s been holding its breath.

he’s already there when you walk in. same shirt. same chain. same look in his eyes when he sees you. amused, unreadable, like he saw this coming before you did.

you slide onto the stool beside him. he doesn’t say anything at first. just slides a glass in your direction, like it’s habit.

you glance at it, then at him.

“don’t assume i drink the same thing every time.” you say.

he shrugs. “didn’t seem like the night to experiment.”

you take the glass anyway. the first sip burns. he watches you like it doesn’t.

he lifts his drink. “to whatever brought you in.”

you clink, barely. no toast in return.

you talk, eventually. but it stays on the surface. music, cities, random half-stories that make you both smile. he doesn’t ask about your boyfriend. doesn’t say “so, what changed?”

he doesn’t need to.

his knee bumps yours once, then doesn’t move.

his eyes flick to your mouth more than once, and every time they do, your breath feels a little less steady. his thumb runs absently along the rim of his glass, and all you can think about is how it would feel against your skin.

you set your drink down and ask: “why are you so confident? so sure of things?”

his smile is lazy. “it’s not confidence if i’m right.”

you roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest doesn’t fade. you stare at him for a second too long. and maybe it’s the drink. or the week you had. or the way he looks at you like he already knows what you taste like.

but when you say it, your voice doesn’t shake.

“wanna come over?”

he doesn’t blink. doesn’t hesitate.

“just one more drink?” he says, like it’s a joke. like he’d already said yes the second you walked in.

your place is dim. a little messy. the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound louder than it should.

you open a bottle of wine and pour into mismatched glasses, the only ones clean.

he follows without asking. just steps inside like he’s done it before, like he belongs there. doesn’t sit. just stands in the middle of your living room and watches you take a sip, fingers wrapped tight around the glass.

you try not to look nervous. fail completely.

“so…” you start. but don’t finish. because he’s already walking toward you. slow. certain. and suddenly there’s no space left to pretend this is casual.

he takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter without looking. then, like he’s asking something simple:

“come here.”

you don’t think. you just move.

his hands are on your waist before you reach him. his mouth on yours before your next breath. the kiss is slow, not soft. there’s a difference. he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t fumble.

he kisses you like he’s been imagining it in pieces, and now he’s putting them together one by one. his hands slide down your hips, anchoring you. fingers splayed, certain. he pulls back just enough to look at you.

his voice is low, near your jaw:

“you want this or you’re just lonely?”

you meet his eyes.

“does it matter?”

he smiles. dark. “not to me.”

you nod. he doesn’t ask again.

he lifts you easily, like it’s instinct. and starts walking you backward, lips brushing your neck, knuckles grazing skin. your back hits the bed before you realize how far you’ve made it.

he undresses you slowly. not teasing, not showy. just… deliberate. like this part matters. like every layer is something he earned.

he doesn’t ask for permission with every touch. just watches your face, waits for the way your breath catches like that’s all the yes he needs.

when he looks at you bare, he exhales sharp. something between reverence and hunger.

“fuck...” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

his fingers trail lower. measuring. learning. and when his mouth follows, slow at first and then not, you gasp. too hard, too loud.

you reach for his hair. he doesn’t stop. just holds you down, steady, until your thighs are trembling and your breath comes in broken pieces.

when he finally kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips.

his fingers slide between your thighs again, slick and sensitive. you flinch. he hums against your mouth.

“not used to this, huh?”

you try to speak. fail. you can’t even lie. he slides in slow. one long thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

your mouth falls open. no sound. just pressure. full and overwhelming.

he fucks you deep and steady, one hand gripping your waist, the other braced beside your head.

he doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s a low string of things you weren’t ready to hear.

“look at me, pretty.”

“is this what you needed?”

you nod, gasping, fingers digging into his arms. he kisses you like he’s claiming you. fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else.

and by the time you come again, you’re half-sure he’s already succeeded.

after, he stays. not awkward. not obligated. just… stays. like it never crossed his mind to leave.

you’re half-draped across his chest, legs tangled. neither of you says anything for a long time. his hand moves slow down your back, tracing nothing in particular.

you wonder if this is where the guilt is supposed to kick in. but all you feel is warm. and his breath, steady against your neck.

you close your eyes.

just for a second.

you wake before him. his arm is heavy across your waist. your sheets smell like wine, sweat, and something deeper. something not yours alone anymore.

you don’t move.

when he stirs, you let your breath even out. pretend. he says your name once, then again. softer the second time. you keep still.

you feel the mattress shift as he gets up, the quiet sounds of him dressing. zipper, keys, the door unlatching.

then silence.

you stare at the ceiling, trying to find the feeling you’re supposed to be having.

guilt. shame. regret.

nothing comes.

only the memory of his voice, rough and close: look at me, pretty. you close your eyes again. you don’t want to forget it.

after that, you don’t text him. not that day. not the next. you go back to your life. the one with morning coffee, dry kisses, and half-finished grocery lists.

your boyfriend doesn’t notice anything. he’s busy. distracted. work, gym, group chats, meetings. he falls asleep on the couch half the week.

when he kisses you, it’s soft. detached. like muscle memory. you match the energy. nod at the right times. laugh on cue. you smile when you’re supposed to. and it should feel wrong.

but it doesn’t.

and that’s what starts to eat at you. not the sex. not the lie. just the absence of guilt. the weightless way it all fits together.

you think about seungcheol more than you mean to.

the way he looked at you like you were real. like you were seen. you remember the weight of his body. the voice. the calm kind of control that made your pulse spike.

you don’t delete the messages but you stop replying. and he doesn’t push.

a few texts come in:

seungcheol i know you’re busy just checking in

seungcheol did thursday get boring without me?

then nothing.

you try to feel relieved. you don’t.

the knock on your door comes a week later. friday night. your boyfriend’s out, drinks with coworkers. you expect delivery but when you open the door, it’s him. black hoodie, wind in his hair, one hand in his pocket like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

you freeze.

“what the fuck?”

“hi, pretty.”

your heart stutters.

“what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “returning the favor. figured we owed each other a drink.”

you glance behind you, pulse climbing.

“you can’t just show up like this.”

he lifts a brow. “why not? i already know the way.”

“my boyfriend could’ve been here.”

his mouth twitches. “but he’s not.”

you want to slam the door. you don’t.

you step back and he walks in like the place still remembers him. he doesn’t hesitate. just turns to you, hands in his pockets.

“you ghosted me.”

you cross your arms. “i had to. it wasn’t... sustainable.”

he scoffs. “funny. felt pretty natural to me.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re being an asshole.”

“am i?” he takes a step closer. “or am i the only one telling the truth?”

you hate how steady he is. how your body reacts before your brain decides.

“why are you really here?” you ask, quieter now.

he’s close. not touching you but close enough that your skin feels aware of it.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about you” he says. his hand brushes your arm. “your mouth. your voice. how you sound when you come apart. fuck…” his voice falters, almost like he hates hearing himself say it. “you’re in my head all the time, pretty.”

you should push him away. but instead, you tilt your chin and say,

“you don’t get to call me that.”

he smiles, slow. “you didn’t mind it before.”

you don’t deny it. you don’t say anything at all.

his thumb skims your bottom lip. “want me to leave?” he asks, soft now.

dangerous.

you don’t answer but he knows.

he kisses you like he’s angry at how long it’s been. like restraint was never really on the table. your back hits the wall and his hands are everywhere. under your shirt, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

you gasp when he lifts you. legs wrap around his waist without hesitation.

“missed this...” he breathes against your skin. “missed you.”

you’re already breathless.

“you shouldn’t be here.” you whisper.

he laughs. low, amused, a sound that hums against your neck. “but you want me here.” a kiss under your jaw. “don’t you?”

you close your eyes. “fuck.”

he carries you to the couch. lays you down with urgency, like the moment might slip away if he’s not careful.

this time, he’s faster. pulls your shirt off like it doesn't matters how it comes off. you squirm under his gaze.

“don’t look at me like that.” you say.

“like what?”

“like you care.”

he leans in, kisses your sternum. then lower. then lower still.

“maybe i do.” he murmurs. his voice is rough now. “would that be so bad?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

his hands slide under your waistband. he takes his time. when he kisses your thigh, you say his name once, barely a breath. and he exhales like it undid something in him.

then his mouth is on you. again. he eats you like he’s starving. not for release, for you. like the taste is proof you’re real. your hips jerk and he presses you down, firm.

“stay still.” he murmurs.

“let me.”

you come too fast, too hard. and before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again. mouth, hands, heat, everything.

his belt clinks. your thoughts scatter. he fucks you slow this time. but still deep. sure. like he wants you to remember every second of it tomorrow. you clutch at him. his back, his shoulder, anything.

you don’t say his name again. but you think it. over and over. like a secret. like a prayer.

when he speaks, it’s low. honest. unguarded.

“i can’t stop thinking about you.”

“he doesn’t get to have you like this.”

and then, right before you fall apart again, voice barely a whisper:

“say you’re mine. just for now. say it.”

and you do. because in that moment, you are.

after, you lay on the couch, tangled and silent. his hand is on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. you try not to think about what this means. you try not to look at the time. you try not to imagine your boyfriend walking in.

but none of that happens.

the world is quiet. and seungcheol is warm beside you.

“you okay?” he asks, finally.

you nod. “yeah.” then, after a beat:

“you can’t keep showing up like this.”

he doesn’t flinch. “then don’t make me miss you.”

you laugh. tired. frustrated. “it’s not that simple.”

“it is for me.” he says. “i want you. that’s it.”

you turn away, suddenly overwhelmed. he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“i’ll go.” he murmurs. “just... tell me if you’re gonna shut me out again.”

you don’t promise anything. but when he gets up to leave, you don’t stop him. you just lie there. quiet. and when the door clicks shut behind him, you already miss him.

it becomes routine faster than you expect. thursdays, mostly. sometimes mondays. you don’t talk about it. you don’t have to. he texts. you show up. sometimes you stay for an hour. sometimes all night.

always at his place now. a quiet apartment on the edge of the city with clean sheets and soft lighting and music that never stops playing.

he never asks questions. never pushes. but he always opens the door like he’s been waiting. and you like that. you like how he looks at you like you’re not cheating.

he still calls you pretty. sometimes in bed. sometimes when you’re just sitting there, drinking his whiskey in one of his hoodies, legs tucked under you like you belong there. you hate how right it feels.

your boyfriend starts to notice. at first, it’s nothing. a passing comment:

“you seem happier lately.”

“you look really good this week.”

and then it builds.

“wanna do something friday? just us?”

“i miss this. you and me.”

you nod. you smile. you let him hold your hand across the dinner table. but your mind is still stuck on the way seungcheol holds your hips when you ride him. the way he says your name with his mouth full of need.

and it gets harder to juggle. you start making excuses.

"i'm working late."

"i told a friend i'd help her move."

"my mom's been calling a lot lately."

and your boyfriend buys it. until he doesn’t.

it happens on a tuesday. you’re in the shower, phone on the bathroom counter, music playing. he walks in, says something about ordering dinner. you shout back, "anything's fine!"

he says okay. you don’t notice the pause. don’t hear the phone buzz under the steam and music. when you walk out, towel wrapped around you, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

yours.

your heart stops. you freeze in the doorway.

he looks up, eyes unreadable.

“who’s seungcheol?” he asks. it’s not loud. not angry. just quiet. and you feel the floor shift under you.

your mouth opens. closes.

“what?”

he shows you the screen. a single notification:

seungcheol you left your sweater, pretty.

just that. nothing else. but it’s enough.

you step forward, towel clutched tighter.

“he’s just...it’s not like that.”

“so what is it like?” his voice still calm. too calm.

“he’s just a coworker. he calls everyone that. it's... it's just his thing.”

he stares at you. like he’s trying to see through you. you smile, shaky.

“you know i’d never do anything.”

he nods. too fast.

“right.” he says. then stands. “i’ll order something.”

he walks out of the room. doesn’t say another word. and you stand there, dripping, heart racing, stomach twisted, wondering if this was it.

if it’s already falling apart. if you’ve gone too far to come back.

you wipe the steam from the mirror. look at your reflection.

you look good. a little flushed. a little wild. like someone in love.

and that’s the problem.

you shouldn’t have gone to his place that night. but you did.

the city was too loud. your boyfriend too quiet. and the ache in your chest too familiar.

you texted two words:

you you home?

and he replied in under a minute.

seungcheol always for you, pretty

you didn’t even say hi when you walked in. you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him like you were trying to shut yourself up. he let you. hands on your waist. mouth on your throat.

you pulled off his shirt. he pressed you to the wall. clothes hit the floor without ceremony. he fucks you hard this time.

not unkind but intense. like he’s trying to burn his name into your spine. your nails leave red trails on his shoulders. you moan too loud. you don’t care.

when it’s over, you lie there in the dark, chest still heaving. he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checking something. you sit up.

“cheol...”

he looks over.

you swallow. “you need to stop texting me first.”

he blinks.

“…what?”

“i mean it. don’t reach out unless i text you first. it’s... risky.”

he sits up slowly. you feel the shift in the air.

“risky.” he repeats. “but what we’re doing isn’t?”

“it’s different.”

“it’s not.” he says. then quieter, “but sure. whatever makes you feel better.”

you can feel the weight in his words. you know he’s hurt. you see it in the way he doesn’t look at you as he grabs his shirt. you pretend not to notice. because acknowledging it would make it real.

you stay the night, anyway.

things start to press down on you after that. not like guilt. more like gravity.

being with two people is exhausting. two versions of yourself, two stories to tell, two worlds you’re keeping from colliding.

you’re good at it but you’re tired. and then it gets worse.

you’re out with your boyfriend, some rooftop bar he found online. warm lights, clinking glasses, music low enough for conversation.

he’s holding your hand again. touching your waist like he remembered how.

“i missed this” he says.

you smile. you nod. you lie. you turn your head to avoid the weight of it and that’s when you see him.

two tables away. black shirt. same chain. drink in hand. and a girl beside him.

she’s laughing. touching his arm like she’s done it before. and he’s letting her.

your stomach twists before you can stop it. your pulse stutters. your jaw tightens. jealousy blooms in your throat like something rotten. ugly and hot and sudden. and you have no right to feel it.

you watch them too long.

your boyfriend says something beside you but it’s muffled, far away. like you’re underwater.

you stand before you even think to. legs moving without permission. you walk over like it’s casual, like it’s nothing, like your entire body isn’t vibrating.

“hey” you say, too cheerful.

seungcheol looks up slowly. blinks.

“hi.” he says. voice unreadable.

you gesture vaguely over your shoulder. “my boyfriend’s here. just thought i’d say hi.”

there’s a pause. too long.

you glance at the girl. “and this is…?”

she smiles before he can speak. “i’m jihye, nice to meet you.” she says, light and easy.

seungcheol lifts his glass. “she’s my friend.” he says, dry.

you meet his eyes. there’s something bitter there. but neither of your dates seem to notice.

you turn just in time as your boyfriend joins you.

“babe, this is seungcheol.” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. “the friend i told you about.”

friend. you could choke on it.

your boyfriend nods, polite. they shake hands. the girl stays quiet. just keeps watching you.

you smile too wide. “well. don’t let us interrupt. looks like a great date.”

seungcheol raises an eyebrow. but he says nothing.

you turn around. walk away before your mouth does something reckless.

you don’t look back.

you show up at his door an hour later. no text. no warning. he opens it, surprised. his shirt is off. he looks tired. annoyed.

“what are you doing here?”

“where is she?”

he raises an eyebrow. “she left. why?”

you push past him, walk into his apartment like you live there. he shuts the door behind you, slow.

“you okay?”

you turn, arms crossed.

“were you gonna sleep with her?”

he laughs. dry. “are you serious?”

“answer me.”

“why do you care?” his voice is sharper now. “you’re the one who keeps leaving. you’re the one who goes home to someone else.”

“that’s not the point.”

“then what is?” he steps closer. “you don’t get to be jealous, pretty. not when the only place we exist is this apartment.”

your mouth goes dry. “you were the one who said you didn’t care” you whisper.

he laughs again, but it doesn’t sound like humor. “yeah, well. i lied.”

the silence stretches. you feel it like a bruise. your throat tight. your heart worse.

“so what now?” you ask.

“you tell me...” he says. “you’re the one juggling hearts like glassware.”

you stare at him. and for the first time, you’re not sure which one you’re more afraid of losing.

after that night everything changed between you and seungcheol. the easy back-and-forth, the electric pull that used to crackle in the air whenever you touched. it all shifted.

his messages became sparse, his words clipped, and the warmth you used to find in his eyes was replaced by a quiet distance that made your chest ache.

it was like you were holding onto a ghost, reaching out through the silence but feeling nothing but cold air.

you tried to tell yourself he just needed space, that maybe he was sorting through his own mess. but the silence grew heavier every day. your phone would buzz and you’d hope it was him, but often it wasn’t.

and when you did hear from him, it was just a word, a sentence. never the late-night confessions or teasing you craved.

the gap between you widened, and with every unanswered text, the weight in your chest tightened.

the loneliness started to claw at you, and one night you couldn’t hold it back anymore. you sent the simplest message you could think of:

you can you come over?

seungcheol on my way

when he arrived, the air between you was thick, heavy with things neither of you said. his eyes searched yours, like he was trying to read all the words left unsaid.

you sat close but felt miles apart, the quiet stretching until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“seungcheol, how am i supposed to leave him...” you whispered, voice shaking, “when i don’t even know you? when what we have feels like just this... something physical, something temporary?”

his jaw tightened, and for a moment he said nothing. then, quietly, he said, “you never gave me a chance to be more.”

those words hit you harder than you expected, a sudden crack in your carefully guarded walls. you swallowed, the ache growing deeper.

“you think i wanted it to be like this?” you say, quiet but firm. “living my life like you’re not part of it? but it’s not that simple.”

he stood up, slowly, like your words had pushed him back. “then maybe you shouldn’t have started something you weren’t ready for.”

your breath caught. “i didn’t mean to...”

“but you did.” his voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean. “we don’t need to have this conversation. not if you’re still choosing someone else.”

you flinched. “i’m not choosing him.”

“you know what? that’s true...” he said, bitter now. “it feels like you’re not choosing anything. not him. not me. just whatever hurts less in the moment.”

you stared at him, suddenly cold. “so what, you’re done?”

he exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor. “i’m not a detour. and i’m not going to keep waiting for you to decide if i’m worth it.”

you didn’t stop him when he walked to the door. you didn’t ask him to stay. you watched the door close.

and this time, the silence answered for you.

you don’t go back to seungcheol. not that night. not the one after.

you don’t text. you don’t call. you just sit with it. the weight of everything, the way your heart aches in places you didn’t even know existed.

you think about the way he looked at you that night. how quiet he went when you said the wrong thing. how badly he wanted to be more, and how little you let him.

it’s around 3 a.m. when it hits you. curled into the far end of the couch, silent, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t feel like warmth anymore.

you’ve been shrinking. pulling yourself in at the seams, little by little. and maybe that’s what this was always about.

not him. just you.

you ask your boyfriend to come over. he says yes, too quickly. like he’s relieved. like maybe he’s been waiting for this to feel normal again.

he brings wine. you don’t drink it. you sit on opposite ends of the couch, the distance screaming louder than either of you.

you take a deep breath. start slow.

“we need to talk.”

his eyes flick to yours. guarded. calm. you expect confusion. anger. something. but all he does is nod. like he’s already bracing for the hit.

“i’m ending this.” you say. “we’re not working. we haven’t been. and i’ve been lying to you.”

his mouth twitches. not a smile. something smaller.

“you think i didn’t know?”

you blink.

“you think i don’t smell his cologne on your clothes?” his voice doesn’t raise. it sharpens. “you think i don’t see the marks on your body? the ones i didn’t leave?”

your breath catches. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“you think i don’t notice when you shower twice before bed? or when you smile at your phone like it’s holding something sacred?”

you stare at him.

“you’re just confused,” he says, like that explains it all. “it’s okay. i’ve been there. i had a thing, once. a girl i couldn’t stop thinking about. but it passed.” he shrugs.

“it always passes. you realize it’s just a phase, a distraction. some affair to escape real life for a while.”

you clench your fists. “this isn’t about him.”

“no.” he says, with a strange, soft certainty. “it’s about us. it’s always been about us. this is us. and deep down, you know that.”

you shake your head. something dark stirs in your chest.

“no, it’s about you being a selfish, inattentive, emotionally lazy piece of shit who didn’t notice i was slipping away until it was convenient to care.” his face shifts, just slightly.

“you want to know the truth?” you whisper. “i didn’t feel guilty. not once. not even the first time.”

he goes still.

“and it wasn’t because i stopped loving you.” you continue, “it’s because somewhere along the way, you stopped deserving to be loved.”

his jaw tightens.

“this was never about him. not really. he was just the first person in a long time who saw me. who wanted me. who listened when i spoke. who looked at me like i was still alive.” you exhale. “so no... i’m not confused. i’m just done.”

silence.

you watch him absorb that. watch him break without breaking. he nods. once. stands up. doesn’t say a word. he walks to the door.

pauses.

“you’ll regret this.” he says, not looking back.

“maybe,” you reply. “but at least i’ll regret it for myself.”

and then he’s gone. you sit there for a long time. longer than you mean to.

you breathe in.

breathe out.

and for the first time in weeks, you feel light. not healed. not free. but closer.

but after that night, you don’t go after seungcheol. again. not because you don’t miss him. not because you don’t replay his voice in your head when everything goes quiet.

you never gave me a chance to be more.

he was right and that’s exactly why you don’t call. because if you went now, after everything, it would feel like he was what’s left.

and he doesn’t deserve to be what’s left. he deserves to be a choice. and you’re not ready to choose anything yet, not even yourself.

the days that follow move slow, like the world is giving you room to breathe.

you spend the first week in silence. not the heavy, guilty kind, just the kind that wraps around your apartment like a fog. you sleep better.

you leave your phone on do not disturb and stop checking it like it holds your pulse. for the first time in months, you feel still.

you go for long walks without a destination. buy fresh flowers. drink your coffee without company and realize how much better it tastes that way.

you say yes to your friends again. not because you’re running away from the quiet, but because you finally have room to enjoy it.

some nights are harder than others. some nights you lie awake and wonder what it would’ve felt like to fall asleep next to seungcheol without consequence. not hiding. not rushing. not lying.

but you don’t text. you don’t open old messages. you let the thought pass through you like wind. and you don’t chase it.

you stop waiting. for him, for anyone. you stop hoping for closure or answers or a version of this story that hurts less.

and somewhere in the middle of that, you start living. your laugh gets louder. your hair gets longer. your presence, bigger. not for someone else, just for you.

and still, sometimes... in a song, in the shape of someone’s shoulders on the street, in the space beside you at a dinner table, he appears.

just for a second. just long enough to make you wonder what could’ve been. and that’s okay.

it's another thursday. not a poetic one. not a repeat. just a thursday where the air feels nice and you don’t want to go home just yet.

you end up at the bar again. not because you need distraction, just because you like it. you like the dim light. the soft hum of conversation. the way no one asks anything of you here.

you order a drink. sit in your usual spot. cross your legs and let your shoulders relax. it’s quiet.

you’re not waiting for anything. and then you see him.

not right away, just out of the corner of your eye. a shift in movement. the sound of a voice that lands like something familiar in your chest.

you look. and there he is.

seungcheol.

same bar. same broad frame. same profile you used to trace with your eyes when you thought he couldn’t feel you watching.

a few seats away, facing slightly away from you, elbow on the bar, fingers drumming absently against a glass that looks mostly untouched.

he’s wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled, hair a little longer than before, eyes a little tired. the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from carrying something too long.

you take him in quietly. he hasn’t seen you yet.

and you don’t look away.

you watch the way he shifts his weight, how his jaw tightens when the bartender asks if he wants another.

he just nods, runs a hand through his hair and exhales. like he’s trying to breathe something out of him.

and then, you move. slowly. like gravity is pulling you toward him.

you sit one stool over. not quite close. not quite far. just enough to be undeniable. he glances at you, casual, instinctive. then does a double take.

you meet his eyes with a soft smile. lift your drink slightly.

“she canceled on you?”

his expression barely changes, but you catch the flicker in his gaze. surprise. then something warmer.

“what makes you think that?” he says. his voice still has that rough edge you remember.

“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.” you say.

he lets out a quiet laugh, barely a breath. “you always open with that line?”

“only when it works.”

there’s a pause. his eyes flicker down, like he’s trying to process something and you know the moment he notices.

your left hand, resting against the base of your glass. bare. no ring. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to. the acknowledgment sits there between you like a breath held and released.

“what’s your name?” you ask, mirroring that first conversation, letting the words stretch into something gentler now.

he tilts his head slightly, amused. “we’re doing this again?”

“i just like the idea of meeting you properly this time.”

he holds your gaze. “seungcheol.”

you repeat it. like it’s new.

“and you?” he teases, softly.

“still me.”

he hums, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. you set your drink down and shift toward him slightly. your knee almost touches his.

“can i ask you something?” you say.

he nods.

“where did you go to school?”

he looks caught off guard. blinks. “what?”

“like. where did you study? what do you do? what’s your thing, seungcheol?”

he watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the punchline. but it doesn’t come.

“i studied music.” he says eventually. “switched to sound engineering halfway through. now i do studio work. production, some mixing. freelance stuff.”

you smile. “that sounds like the coolest job i’ve ever heard.”

he shrugs, eyes flicking down to his glass. “pays the bills.”

“do you like it?”

“i do,” he says after a second. “especially when no one’s breathing down my neck about deadlines.”

you nod. and then, before you lose your nerve, you say,

“i want to know you.”

his eyes lift again. sharp. steady.

“for real this time.” you add.

his mouth parts. just slightly. and then he laughs, a real one. full and breathy and stunned.

“what are you doing?” he asks, not defensive, just curious.

“i don’t know...” you say, grinning now. “trying again. starting over. meeting you without the mess.”

his shoulders relax a little. “that’s a new one,” he says. “meeting someone you’ve already—”

“don’t say it.”

he laughs again, quiet and warm.

the conversation moves easily from there. small things, light things.

you talk about terrible dates and strange pets, favorite takeout orders and the music that makes you cry when you least expect it. at one point, he asks if you still sleep with socks on. and you roll your eyes, say you’re reformed now.

he calls you a liar.

it feels easy. not rushed. not performative. just two people in a bar. trying. softly.

the night gets late, but you don’t check the time. the air smells like citrus and leather. the noise around you fades into a low blur. and then he leans slightly closer, elbow brushing yours.

“so...” he murmurs. “you’re not gonna ask me back to your place for a drink?”

you blink at him. not shocked. just careful.

“no.”

his expression stills. not hurt, not angry. just… unreadable. a quiet breath held in his chest.

you wait a second. then say,

“but i was gonna ask if you’re free tomorrow.”

he looks at you. eyes softening.

“i was thinking something stupid. like a picnic or whatever. somewhere public. full daylight. no bedroom in sight.”

he tilts his head. “trying to prove something?”

“trying to... unlearn something.” you say.

he smiles. and it’s a real smile now. slow and easy, like he’s letting it happen without thinking too hard.

“i’d like that.” he says.

“me too.”

the words sit gently between you and he doesn’t say anything for a moment. just looks at you like maybe for the first time, you’re really seeing him. not through the blur of want or the ache of something forbidden, but just… him.

here. now. choosing him, simply because you want to.

you finish your drinks slowly.

there’s no silence to fill. just a kind of quiet you both settle into, like it belongs to you.

he helps you with your jacket before you even think to reach for it. you laugh when his hand brushes your shoulder.

you walk out together. the air outside is cooler now, clean on your skin. the kind of night that hums low, full of things waiting to happen.

he doesn’t reach for your hand. you don’t reach for his.

because this time, there’s no need to rush toward the next thing. no need to blur the lines to feel close. this time, you’re both choosing to build something slowly.

openly. no shadows. no secrets. no scripts to follow.

just the quiet unfolding of something new. something soft, and good, and real.

and as you walk beside him, shoulders barely touching, you feel it settle in your chest:

you don’t know exactly where this is going.

but for the first time, that doesn’t scare you. because it doesn’t feel like an ending. it feels like the part right before everything begins.

“Daughter, this is General Choi Seungcheol, your betrothed. Greet him properly,” your father commands softly, his eyes trained on you.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Whether from the loaded tension in the air, the silence of the room or your future husband’s penetrating eyes on you, you are unsure. 

His eyes…

You saw them once, a long, long time ago, and you remember them in explicit detail because they are heterochromatic. His right iris is red, a shade of fiery crimson that is scary but also hypnotizing— a stark contrast to his left iris, which is pure black. 

You wish it were only his eyes that were lethal. Unfortunately for you, it is his presence itself. It is the way he silently sits there, poised and alert, holding his sword in his right hand and softly drumming his left index finger on his knee, as if telling you to hurry up. It is the way his face remains unreadable, a porcelain white canvas containing a pair of eyes fiercer than a mountain lion's, a sharp nose that is slightly crooked on the left, and pink lips that are pressed in a thin line. The most daunting of it all, the scar on the right side of his face, just below his eye and on top of his cheekbone. It is no more than a couple of inches long, but the gash looks deep, even after it has healed and imagining the pain behind that curse rakes shivers down your spine. 

Finally, you snap out of your reverie.

With a shaky exhale, you bow down and speak as humbly as possible. “Please accept my greetings, my lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

RELEASE DATE: August 1, 2025

(take the release date with a grain of salt, there's still a lot of writing and editing left)

His body is heavy over yours, one of his hands gripping your hip like he’s anchoring himself, the other cupping the back of your neck so he can keep your lips close, even when he’s pounding into you so deep and slow that you feel every single inch he gives you.

“You’re taking me so well,” he growls against your mouth, forehead slick with sweat. “So fucking good for me.”

You whimper, body twitching from continual overstimulation. “Cheol, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice drops an octave, but still remains dark and sweet. “My good girl always can. You’re made for this, and for me.”

Another sharp thrust from him. You cry out from being wrecked and full, overstimulated and delirious, and hot tears are prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s it,” he coos, kissing down from your cheek, to your jaw, and then to your shoulder. “Taking all my cum, just like I knew you would. Letting me fill you up again and again…”

You whine because you feel it. Every time he slows down and pulls back, just to press deeper again, grinding against your swollen, overstimulated clit.

“You feel how messy you are, sweetheart?” he breathes, pressing his palm to your lower stomach. “You’re dripping with it, so stuffed full of me.”

You nod incoherently, your body jerking. He doesn’t stop, not even as another orgasm builds, fast and overwhelming.

“Give me one more,” he murmurs, voice velvet and demanding. “Just one more, baby, let me see you fall apart.”

You do as he says with a sob, clinging tightly to his shoulders as your body clenches around him again, trembling from the intensity. That’s what finally pushes him over the edge, a broken moan leaving his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you once more, still whispering:

“That’s it. Good girl. So perfect for me. My pretty baby, letting me fill her up…”

You’re completely spent. And he’s still holding you like you’re something fragile and precious, even after all that he'd given you. He kisses your temple softly.

you grabbed his face roughly, forcing his teary eyes to meet yours. “look at me when you answer. be a man for once. i don’t need no cowards.” your voice hit him harshly, making more tears to roll down. “now say it again.”

haechan swallowed hard, lips quivering. “i don’t deserve it… mommy…” the words stung, humiliation creeping up his spine, but he knew better than to disobey.

the smile that crept up in your face was slow and wicked. “that’s right. and why is that?”

his adam’s apple bobbed, hesitation getting on him. “because i was bad…”

donghyuck absolutely hated how small and pathetic he sounded, how exposed he felt under your gaze. every word burned, a stark reminder of his own undoing. not only your words—but his too.

he had no one to blame but himself. the exact person who put him under this state.

he should’ve never flirted with those girls. not because he wanted them—god, no. he was irrevocably yours, he worshiped you, lived for you. if you told him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you told him to fall, he’d hit the ground with no questions.

but he wanted a reaction. he knew you were nothing like his past girlfriend, that took pride in making him insecure. always insinuating for other men, always making him feel like he was less. but you were so composed. he wanted to know if you cared enough to be jealous, that you wouldn’t let it slide. a sign that, underneath your usually unshakable composure, there was a storm, just waiting to break for him.

and oh, he got his answer.

“good boy.” you murmured, finally pulling your hand away from his neglected cock.

and you earned a sharp, frustrated whimper that escaped him.

he was such a beautiful mess. tip flushed, resting just right above his navel, throbbing, needy, leaking. every inch of him screamed for relief, but you weren’t one to give in so easily. and you could use some more fun.

you spread his legs wider, settling yourself over his left thigh. “i still intend to finish what i started,” you mused, a teasing lilt in your voice. “after all, you still have a price to pay, don’t you?” your smile mocked him as you lowered yourself on his thigh.

when the heat of your arousal met his skin, his whole body jolted, a strangled moan left his throat. his head fell back, breath hitching at the sensation, at the realization of what you were doing.

his stomach tightened, mind hazy with want. haechan knew your wetness was enough to make him dizzy, and it was such a pleasure for him, but in this moment, it was nothing but a sick, evil torture. he wished—god, he wished—that wetness was coating his cock, or even better, his tongue. but he has chosen to be a brat. and now, he was paying the price.

one hand rested on his shoulder, while the other gripped his knee for balance as you began to move.

“m-mommy…” he whimpered, feeling your slick warmth gliding against him, marking him, using him.

“shut the fuck up, donghyuck. can you do that for once?” your voice came out respite, angered. and he didn’t feel proud by the way his cock twitched when you talked like that. so strict, so demanding, so fucking hot for him.

he sucked in a breath, nodding frantically, pressing his lips together into a thin, trembling line.

pleased, you smirked and continued, dragging yourself against his thigh, slow at first, teasing. but it wasn’t long before your rhythm grew frantic, messy—your slick leaving a glistening trail against his skin, a visible sign of how much you were enjoying this. and oh, you were loving it.

his hands twitched at his back, aching to grab you, to hold you close, to beg for more. but he didn’t dare—not even if he wanted. right when you stepped into the house—after that fucking party—the first thing you did, right after getting him naked, was to tie his hands. he could only watch, mesmerized, as you unraveled above him.

and when you finally came—when your body tensed, when your lips parted in a breathy, sugar-sweet moan—donghyuck nearly lost himself right then and there.

if you thought he was beautiful, his feelings were twice reciprocated—obsessed. he could only look at you and was ready. ready to be used, wherever, whenever. you got a hold on him, it felt nearly cosmic.

he barely had time to process before you pulled away, standing up, leaving behind nothing but the mess of your pleasure painting his thigh.

his breath came in heavy pants, heart hammering against his ribs. and yet, there was no relief—only the unbearable ache of his own denied release.

you knelt after him, tapping his thigh to bring him back to reality. and when he did—fuck. he blinked, eyes glassy, hiccuping softly as he met your gaze. your eyes shone with mischief—a minx.

slowly, deliberately, you leaned in, tongue flicking over his neglected tip, lips wrapping around him just enough to send another sharp jolt of pleasure through his body.

his breath stuttered. hope flared in his chest.

but then you pulled back.

“i’m gonna take a shower. when i come back, i’ll clean you up.” you stood, smirking as his face crumpled in frustration. the whine that bubbled up in his throat died the moment your expression turned sharp. “be a good boy and wait patiently, hyuck.” his name rolled off your tongue in a mocking lilt as you headed towards the bathroom.

he exhaled shakily, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

left alone, he felt his body tremble with unfulfilled need, tears welling once more. his sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead and neck, the evidence of your claim littering his skin—bite marks, bruises, the shimmering remnants of your pleasure staining his thigh.

and, of course, his throbbing untouched cock—aching, desperate, dripping.

it was going to be a long wait.

Warnings: Recreational drinking, mild jealousy from both reader and Cheol, themes of self doubt/relationship doubt, light depictions of anxiety regarding ambiguous relationships, explicit language, Cheol and reader are both idiots, explicit sexual content including oral (f. and m. receiving), vaginal fingering, nipple stim, breath play if you squint, unprotected vaginal sex, a lot of bodily fluids like spit and cum, multiple smut scenes, hair pulling, light spanking, sub-space adjacent feelings, being a lil silly goofy during sex sometimes, stupid ass nicknames at the end because I’m a millennial and I’m cringe sometimes. 

DAY ONE

You’re a goner as soon as you lay eyes on him. You know it before Jeonghan properly introduces you, shouting over the rock music that is blaring in the dive bar you like to hang out at on Friday nights. The neon from the sign creates a blue silhouette around Seungcheol as he smiles and holds a hand out to you. You can barely pull yourself together to shake his hand - warm, firm - too busy staring at his face. 

Choi Seungcheol is what your best friend Vin likes to call pretty motherfuckin handsome. He’s got dark, warm eyes that light up playfully when they meet yours, full lips the color of crushed rose petals, a square, firm jawline and silky dark hair that falls in his eyes when he tilts his face down to hide a smile at something Jeonghan says. 

Crushed against the wall of the booth, you feel the cold glass of your beer warm against your palms as you steal glances at Seungcheol. He’s directly across from you, angling his broad shoulders to fit snug into the corner of the booth, lounging backward as he observes the argument brewing between Joshua and Jeonghan. 

He even dresses well. Fitted t-shirt paired with light wash jeans and boots, a fancy watch reflecting the burning neon on the wall next to him, delicate chain necklaces tucked into the collar of his shirt. 

It’s the way he wears them that speaks to you, though. 

“Do they do this often?” his deep voice drags you from your reverie. You blink, gathering yourself when you realize he’s leaning forward a little, addressing you. He sips his beer before tilting the tip of the bottle toward Jeonghan and Joshua. “It’s like they're married.”

“You have no idea. Wait until game night.” 

“Oh yeah. Jeonghan told me about game night.” Seungcheol’s mouth twitches in a smile. “You’ll be there?” 

“Every Sunday. Do you like games?” 

Something about the glint in his eye makes your stomach flip. You sip your beer just to give you something to do, feeling more drunk off the easy confidence he exudes as he shrugs. “Depends on the game. I’m competitive.” 

“So am I.”

He grins. “I look forward to it, then.” 

Warming up to Seungcheol is easy. He’s the new hire at Jeonghan and Wonwoo’s office, and they both felt confident enough to bring him into the fold. You can see why - he’s kind and funny, and there’s a charm to him that draws the people around him like moths to a flame. Even with just the four of you sitting in the booth, you feel the magnetism. 

Friday nights at Rusty’s has been a tradition with Jeonghan and Joshua since you had been in college, filling yourself on five dollar wings, three dollar beers and occasionally lukewarm mozzarella sticks. Normally Vin, Wonwoo and Mingyu would be around, but tonight it’s just the smaller group. 

Jeonghan and Joshua slide out of the booth to play darts, shoving one another back and forth, the drink in their step making them a little off balance. You smile fondly as you pluck another beer out of the bucket of ice, struggling to pop the top, your wet hands sliding against the metal cap. 

Wordlessly, Seungcheol holds his hand out. Flushing from the neck down, you hand it over to him with a silent thank you. He pops the top easily, bicep flexing for a moment before he passes it back over, shooting you an award winning grin. 

“Wow, so strong.”

He pouts and you swear you see stars. “Hey, I am strong.” 

“No, no, you are. Thank you.” 

“You shouldn’t tease me. I’m new.” 

“Huh.” You sip your beer, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat. It does nothing to soothe the heat spreading over your skin under the sole attention of Seungcheol. “I don’t remember that being a rule.” 

“I never was one to play by the rules anyway.” 

“Oh, so you’re saying you cheat at games like Jeonghan does.” 

“I like winning.”

You roll your eyes. From the edge of your vision, you see people leave the pool table. Eager to stand up and stretch your legs, you start to slide out of the booth, the wood grain scratching against your jeans as you do. 

“Come on then, cheater. Let’s play pool.” 

“I’m down.” 

Seungcheol follows you. Your fingers grip the glass of your drink tight, knuckles straining. You move around tables and duck around other patrons, hyper aware of the way Seungcheol keeps close to you, the heat of him against your back. 

Next to the rows of dart boards are two pool tables, the felt a faded green with beer stains and other mysterious smudges on the surface. You grab a cue from the rack on the wall, spin it in your hands, and hand it over to Seungcheol. He eyes it, running his fingers along the splintered and dented wood.

Grabbing your cue in one hand and the triangle rack and set it on the table while he collects the balls from the table and the pockets, rolling them over to you. A few feet away, Joshua is already accusing Jeonghan of cheating. You don’t know how you cheat in darts, but you do know if there is a will, Jeonghan will find a way.

“Dangerous to let them have sharp objects,” Seungcheol notes, sliding the last ball over to you. You huff out a laugh, rolling the rack of billiard balls back and forth to set them. “You’re not going to get violent with me, right?”

“I don’t know, are you going to cheat?”

His smile is wicked. “Me? Definitely not.” 

“Hmm. Not convincing.”

Seungcheol presses the flat of his palm over his chest, drawing your eyes to how thick he is in the chest area. You swallow thickly as he says, “Cross my heart.” 

“Whatever you say. What are we playing for?” 

“What will you give me?” 

You look up at the shift in his tone. Dark. Flirty. He leans against the pool table, resting his hip casually as he crosses his arms over his chest. You ignore the way his arms flex, totally focused on the way his eyes are only for you. Intent. Meaningful. 

A warning goes off in your head. You already feel the pull to him, the innate attraction that has your heart hammering. You should brush off the flirtation, move on to other things. Relationships aren’t really your thing, but there’s something about him that makes you know you’ll want more. 

You already do want more. 

“What do you want?” you ask softly, ignoring your better judgment. 

When Seungcheol smiles, you know you’d give him anything. Everything.

“I can think of something, I think.”

-

DAY SEVEN

“I like this,” Seungcheol says, voice rough from use. He buttons his jeans, looking over at you. You’re still half-alive on your bed, a sheen of sweat covering your body. The sheets stick to you when you roll to look at him. “Are you good with casual?”

You’re only half listening, too distracted by his flexing abs. “Hmm?”

Seungcheol looks good tonight. He looks good every night, but tonight he’s in dark jeans and a white sweater. The sweater looks soft like his hair, which has grown longer and hangs in his eyes as he looks down to slip on his shoes. 

“I’m not really looking for a relationship at the moment but this,” he answers, flicking his fingers between the two of you. “It’s good.” 

“Agreed. I’m good with casual. I’m a little too busy for anything more.” 

It’s not a lie. You are too busy to really commit to someone. Again, a warning goes off in your mind like that first night you met him, screaming danger. You ignore it, not ready to give up Seungcheol just yet. 

He grins, pulling his short back over his head. “Cool. If you ever don’t want to or whatever though, let me know, yeah?”

“You too.” 

-

DAY TEN 

Seungcheol [2:06 AM]: Come home with me You [2:06 AM]: Everyone would notice Seungcheol [2:07 AM]: Tell them where you’re going who caaaares Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: Unless you don’t want to tell them then that’s ok Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: I personally don’t care if they know I’m rearranging your guts most nights :)  You [2:10 AM]: CHEOL You [2:10 AM]: Fine pls hold my hand while I do this. They’re going to roast me Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: Holding your hand sooo tight Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: But from like over here tho  You [2:19 AM]: That was so embarrassing. Where did you go Seungcheol [2:19 AM]: She’s so brave, she’s well behaved Seungcheol [2:19 AM]: Standing outside hurry it's cold as dick out here

Seungcheol [4:38 AM]: Don’t forget to text me when you make it home  You [4:52 AM]: Home safe!  

-

DAY TWENTY THREE

You [11:10 PM]: Wyd Seungcheol [11:34 PM]: Need it that bad? You [11:39 PM]: Wow goodnight!!!!! Seungcheol [11:39 PM]: Nah come back Seungcheol [11:43 PM]: COME BACK Seungcheol [11:43 PM]: Omw. Unlock the door You [11:45 PM]: Need it that bad?  Seungcheol [11:45 PM]: Yes actually :) 

-

DAY THIRTY

You slide your finger across the phone, curious as you pick up Seungcheol’s phone call. “Hello?”

“Are you hungry?” 

You look at your watch. It’s almost one in the afternoon, your stomach growling as it realizes that yeah you are kind of hungry. “Actually yeah. Why?”