♡

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.

The mid summer heat clings to your skin like a second layer as you step off the bus, the pavement radiating warmth even as the sun begins its slow descent. The air is thick, sluggish, the kind of heat that makes you feel icky and want to crawl out of your skin, to cool off under a cold shower.

You push open the library doors, and the rush of cool air is an instant relief, like slipping into a quiet, shaded pool after hours in the sun. The familiar scent of aged paper and dust settles around you as you slide your borrowed books across the return desk, their pages slightly warped from the humidity. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the quiet and the chill seep into you, the buzz of the outside world fading into the hush of shelves and soft footsteps. It’s a small escape, but in this heat, it feels like a gift.

You blink, still half-dazed from the heat, before realizing the usual warm, wrinkled smile of Mrs. Thompson, the librarian, isn’t there to greet you. Instead, behind the desk stands a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of build that suggests he lifts weights but doesn’t just do it for show. His arms strain slightly against the sleeves of his linen shirt, and his thighs look like they could crush watermelons. Or your head. You’re still processing his existence when you belatedly register that his plush lips are moving, saying something you’ve completely missed.

“Sorry,” you stammer, shaking off the stupor. “Could you repeat that?”

He smiles, and oh—dimples. Deep, unfair dimples. Your heartbeat stutters in two places at once at the sight. His big, doe-like eyes catch the library’s warm light, lashes casting delicate shadows as he tilts his head. The rectangular rimless glasses perched on his nose only sharpen the softness of his features, and when he leans forward slightly, you catch a whiff of cedar and bergamot—clean, warm, expensive.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low but bright, “Mrs. Thompson retired last week. I’m Seungcheol. You’re a regular, right? She left notes about you.” His fingers tap the keyboard and you notice how big his hands are. “Said I should keep an eye out for new releases for you.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how much cooler the library is compared to the sweat-dampened back of your blouse. “Yeah,” you manage. “That’d be… great.”

He grins again, and you’re doomed.

Then he turns to type something into the computer and you watch his fingers tap awkwardly at the keyboard while he mutters under his breath. You watch him struggle for a minute, observing as he becomes more and more irritated by the second and then decide to come to rescue.

“Need some help with that? The system’s pretty temperamental.” You suggest your assistance. You only know how it works because you helped Mrs. Thompson quite a few times before, when you volunteered for small book events hosted by the library.

His plump lips curve into a relieved smile, revealing his dimples yet again. “Please. I’ve been fighting with this thing all morning,” he admits, and you only just register that his voice is deeper than you expected. You really must be overheated if your brain works this slow.

Your hands accidentally brush as you come around the desk and reach for the mouse, causing you both to pull back slightly. You feel your cheeks heat up immediately. For a moment you feel very self conscious. Somewhere in the back of your mind you briefly note down like a broken record how his broad shoulders and muscular arms are visible even under his simple linen shirt as he shifts to make room for you at the desk. You guide the new librarian through the library’s outdated computer system, explaining the quirks of the catalog software while he watches attentively. “You have to double-click, wait exactly three seconds, then click again or it freezes,” you explain.

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rich, and you feel it more than hear it—the vibration of sound so deep it goes straight to your core. Gosh, you’re past salvation. “Three seconds, huh? Who programmed this, a sadist?” His voice is teasing, but there’s genuine frustration underneath, and you can’t help but smirk.

“Probably some underpaid intern in the ‘90s,” you say, clicking through the menus with practiced ease. “Mrs. Thompson used to say the library’s budget went entirely into books, so they never upgraded the tech.”

He leans in slightly, his cedar-and-bergamot scent wrapping around you, and in the corner of your eye you catch the way his brow furrows—not in annoyance now, but focus. You barely turn your head to get a better look at him and immediately regret it (well, not really, it would be a crime to regret observing such a handsome face). His lashes are unfairly long up close, and when he blinks, you swear you see the light sparkle in his brown eyes under the library’s soft lighting.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, and his shoulder brushes yours as he shifts again, solid and warm. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him, like he’s been standing in the sun too long, even though you’re fairly certain he’s been locked up in the library for most of the day.

“Just a regular with too much free time,” you reply, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps when he smiles at you.

“Well, I owe you one,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—playful, but with an edge of sincerity. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee after my shift? As payment for IT support.”

Your fingers pause on the mouse. Oh.

Mrs. Thompson never offered coffee.

You glance up at him, at the hopeful tilt of his lips, the way his glasses slide just slightly down his nose—and you realize, belatedly, that the library might’ve just gotten a lot more interesting.

Just as you open your mouth to respond—yes, no, maybe, oh god—a woman approaches the desk, sliding a book across with an expectant look. Your pulse stutters, and you seize the chance to escape, ducking away from the desk before you can embarrass yourself further.

But the space behind the counter is cramped, and Seungcheol is right there, all broad shoulders and solid warmth. You try to sidestep him, but your hip brushes against his arm, and you feel the muscle there tense slightly under the thin linen. “S-Sorry,” you mumble, face burning, as if your body has suddenly forgotten how to navigate basic spatial awareness.

You retreat to the safety of the stacks, but you don’t leave. Instead, you linger, pretending to browse the fiction section while your brain scrambles for an excuse. I can’t go for coffee. I’m a mess. I smell like office sweat and bus exhaust. My hair is probably frizzing from the humidity. He’s wearing linen and smells like a luxury candle, and I—

“Hey.”

His voice is closer than expected. You turn to find Seungcheol leaning slightly against the shelf, arms crossed, those damn dimples making a reappearance. “You never answered me,” he says, tilting his head. “About the coffee.”

Your grip tightens on the book in your hands—some random thriller you definitely aren’t reading. “I, uh—”

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

And then, because the universe hates you, the overhead vent kicks on, blasting a gust of air that sends your hair flying directly into your mouth.

Seungcheol laughs—not meanly, but like he’s genuinely delighted. He reaches out, fingers grazing your wrist as he tugs the book from your grip and slides it back onto the shelf. “Look,” he says, softer now, “if you don’t want to, it’s cool. But if you’re hesitating because you think you’re not…” He gestures vaguely at you, then at himself. “...put together enough or whatever? Trust me, I spent my lunch break hiding in the storage closet eating a sad convenience store sandwich. We’re all disasters here in one way or another.”

You stare at him. His glasses slide slightly to the point of his nose and he lifts his chin before pushing them back in place with the middle finger and his thumb.

“So?” He grins. “Coffee?”

You exhale. Maybe disasters can have caffeine together.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

The minutes stretch as you linger in the library, pretending to browse the shelves while stealing glances at Seungcheol—his broad frame bent over the desk, the way his fingers drum impatiently on the keyboard whenever the system lags, the way his glasses slip down his nose when he squints at the screen. Every time he catches you looking, your face burns, and you quickly duck behind a bookshelf like some flustered teenager with a crush. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown adult. And yet, there’s something about the way his eyes crinkle when he smirks at you that makes your stomach flip.

By the time his shift ends, the sun has dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. The evening air is still thick with summer’s stubborn heat, but there’s a faint breeze now, carrying the scent of pavement and distant rain. You step outside together, and Seungcheol stretches his arms overhead with a groan, his linen shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. You look away quickly.

“So,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “where’s this café you promised?”

You lead the way, slipping into the role of local guide with ease. “It’s just a few blocks down. Best iced coffee in the area—though, fair warning, their pastries are hit or miss.”

He laughs, falling into step beside you. “Noted. Though honestly, after dealing with that ancient computer all day, I’d drink gas station coffee if it had caffeine in it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly from there. You learn he moved here just last month for the library job—a career shift after burning out in corporate hell. “Turns out I like books more than spreadsheets,” he admits with a shrug.

You tell him about your own job—just a business office manager of your local hospital—but mostly, you talk about the city. The hidden dumpling spot by the post office. The park where most of the local seasonal markets and festivals take place. The used bookstore where the owner is a very chatty lady who’d buzz your ears away about the three of her cats if you stay long enough.

Seungcheol listens intently, nodding along, his brown eyes bright with interest. “You’re like a walking Yelp review,” he teases, looking amused.

You shove his arm lightly—then immediately regret it when your fingers meet solid muscle. It takes all your self control to not make an explicitly awed face. “Shut up. You asked for recommendations.”

“I did,” he agrees, grinning. “And now I’m asking for more. Starting with why you didn’t just check out that thriller you were holding earlier.”

You freeze. “You saw that?”

“I see a lot of things,” he says, voice dropping just low enough to make your pulse skip. Then, lighter: “Like how you’ve been avoiding looking at me directly since we left. Am I that scary?”

“No,” you mutter. “Just… making sure we don’t go astray.”

Seungcheol gives you this incredulous look, his lips stretching in a way that gives away the titanic attempt not to laugh. You pretend not to notice, yet again.

The café appears ahead, its neon sign buzzing softly in the dusk. All this time you’re acutely aware of how close he’s walking—close enough that his sleeve brushes your arm, close enough to catch his scent again, warm and woodsy.

Maybe, you think, summer isn’t so unbearable after all.

The library becomes your sanctuary, though not for the reasons it once was. No, on second thought, it becomes an addiction.

You tell yourself it’s about the books, new releases, classics you’ve been meaning to read, anything to justify showing up three times a week when you used to visit once, maybe twice. But the truth is embarrassingly obvious: you’re there for him. For the way Seungcheol’s forearms flex when he reshelves heavy hardcovers. For the way his voice drops to a murmur when the library is quiet, like he’s sharing a secret just with you. For the way his plush lips quirk when you say something witty, like he’s savoring the taste of your words.

It’s pathetic. You’ve never read so much in your life no matter how much you love a good book.

Every interaction is a carefully orchestrated dance. You linger at the desk under the pretense of asking about new arrivals, leaning just a little too close under the guise of peering at his computer screen. His scent that you already memorised by heart somehow—cedar and bergamot, warm and expensive—wraps around you, and you have to clench your thighs together real tight to stop the ache.

“Another thriller?” he asks one afternoon, raising an eyebrow as you slide a well-worn copy of The Silent Patient across the counter. His fingers brush yours when he takes it, deliberate. “You’re burning through these. Should I be worried?”

Your lips stretch in a half-smile. “About what?”

“That you’re researching how to get away with murder.” His eyes flick up, dark and amused. “Or that you’re just trying to impress me.”

The accusation hits too close to home. You are trying to impress him—not with your reading habits, but with the way your nails tap against the desk, the way your skirt rides up when you cross one leg over the other. You want him to look. You want him to want.

“Please,” you scoff, tilting your chin. “I’d never murder someone in a way that could be traced back to a library book.”

Seungcheol laughs and the sound of it coils in your stomach. “Good to know.” He leans in, voice dropping. “But if you were going to kill me… I’d hope you’d at least take me to dinner first.”

Your breath catches.

It’s like this every time now—words laced with something hotter, heavier. A game where neither of you really knows the rules but both refuse to lose.

It’s Tuesday evening. The air in your apartment is thick and suffocating, heavy with humidity you can almost taste when you breathe in. The ancient AC unit in your window groans pathetically, barely pushing out a lukewarm breeze. You kick off your work shoes, peel your damp blouse from your back, and collapse onto the bed with a groan.

You’d gone to the library again today. Again.

It’s becoming a problem.

You’d told yourself you were just returning The Silent Patient and picking up something new—maybe that new romantasy novel everyone’s talking about. But the moment you’d stepped inside, the cool air brushing your flushed skin, your eyes had gone straight to the checkout desk. To him.

Seungcheol had been bent over a stack of returned books, his linen shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. When he’d looked up and seen you, his lips had curled into that slow, knowing smile, the one that made your stomach flip.

“Back so soon?” he’d teased, voice low. “Miss me already?”

You’d rolled your eyes, playing it cool, but your pulse had been racing. You’d felt his gaze on you as you’d browsed the shelves—heavy, lingering. Like he was imagining the same things you were.

Now, lying on your bed in just your bra and panties, you can’t stop thinking about it.

About him.

You’re aching.

With a frustrated sigh, you reach into your nightstand drawer and pull out your vibrator—a sleek, purple thing you’ve had for years. It’s not enough. Not today. You grab the dildo too, the one that’s thick and curved just right.

You’re already wet, your panties sticking to your skin. You slide them off with a whimper, spreading your legs. The vibrator buzzes to life in your hand, and you press it to your clit with a gasp.

Fuck.

You close your eyes, and instantly, Seungcheol is there. You imagine his big hands sliding up your thighs, pushing them apart. His deep voice murmuring in your ear. “You’ve been driving me crazy, coming in here all the time. You want me to see you, don’t you?”

You moan, circling your clit faster with the toy.

In your mind, he’s above you, his body thick and solid, pinning you down in this heat and adding to it with his own body. You wouldn’t mind, in fact the imagery of it makes you wetter. You imagine his lips on your neck, sucking marks into your skin as his fingers slide inside you. “So fucking wet for me,” he growls. “Knew you would be.”

You whimper, arching off the bed. The vibrator isn’t enough—you need more. You reach for the dildo, slicking it with the arousal dripping down your thighs and then quickly grabbing the lube from your nightstand too. You slick up the thing just to be sure. And then guide the silicone cock to your pussy lips.

You imagine it’s Seungcheol.

His cock, thick and heavy, pushing into you.

The stretch burns so good, and you moan, fucking yourself onto the toy. “Seungcheol—”

Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling. You picture him above you, his muscles flexing as he fucks into you, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Look at you,” he rasps. “Taking me so well. Knew you’d be perfect.”

The vibrator buzzes against your clit, and you’re close, so close—

Until you hear your phone buzz on the nightstand. It throws you off a little and yet you ignore it, chasing your release. But it buzzes again. And again. With a frustrated groan, you abandon the dildo to grab it—and freeze. It’s a text. From him.

Seungcheol: Missed you at the library today.

Your breath catches. You’d just been there. Was he… was he messing with you? Before you can overthink it (not that you can think much in your current horny state), another text comes through.

Seungcheol: Were you in a hurry? Your book is glaring at me from the desk.

A photo follows—a blurry shot of the checkout desk, your book still sitting there. Your heart pounds. Is he... flirting? Teasing? Torturing you?

You bite your lip, then struggle to type back with one hand:

You: Oops. Guess I’ll have to come back tomorrow.

The response is immediate.

Seungcheol: Can’t wait.

You whimper.

The vibrator is still buzzing against your clit, temporarily forgotten in your hand. You’re so close, but now your mind is racing with all these questions you aren’t sure you want answers to. Did he know? Was he imagining you like this, spread out and desperate? No, there’s no way he would know, is there?

You unconsciously press the vibrator harder and snivel as your hips jerk once at the harder contact.

Another text. You groan in exasperation, muttering under your breath something about one particularly unfairly hot man distracting you from imagining him do very unholy things to you.

Seungcheol: What are you doing right now?

You nearly drop your phone, cussing quietly, startled. He can’t be seriously making small talk right now. If only he saw what state you’re currently in. Panting, thighs shaking, hair sticking to your forehead from sweat. You feel your frustration grow as type back with trembling fingers:

You: Nothing interesting.

The reply comes seconds later.

Seungcheol: Sure.

You let out a breathless sigh at the smug face emoji he sends afterwards. The thought of him possibly knowing what exactly you’re doing right now send you into overdrive, a series of high-pitched whimpers fills the room the moment your orgasm hits you, crashing over you so hard you choke on your voice and drop your phone somewhere to the side of your bed. Your back arches, your inner muscles clamping around the dildo as you begin to thrust it brutally again just to ride it through your climax, your mind filled with him: his hands, his mouth, his cock.

When you come down, boneless and even sweatier than before, your phone buzzes one last time. You take your time before you reach for it, pulling the dildo out and turning off the vibrator. You know that you need to control yourself otherwise this little indulgence can go on forever. With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and unlock it once again, staring at the message that he sent you.

Seungcheol: Sweet dreams then ;)

You groan, throwing an arm over your face as the realisation of what you just did dawns on you. You’re fucked.

One evening a couple of weeks later, you’re the last patron in the library, pretending to browse the poetry section while he closes up. The fluorescents hum overhead, casting long shadows between the shelves. You hear his footsteps before you see him—confident, unhurried.

“Find anything good?” he asks, suddenly too close.

You turn, and there he is: sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms, his collar slightly undone. His glasses catch the light, hiding his eyes, but you don’t need to see them to know they’re hungry.

“Depends,” you say, holding up a dog-eared copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. “Do you think unrequited love is romantic or just tragic?”

Seungcheol comes closer and plucks the book from your hands, his fingers lingering. “I think,” he murmurs, “if two people want each other, they shouldn’t waste time pretending otherwise.”

The air between you crackles. Seungcheol steps forward, you freeze. Not in fear, rather, in delighted anticipation. You can feel your pussy throbbing just from looking at him move, from him gradually backing you up against the bookshelves. You could kiss him. You should kiss him.

Instead, you sidestep—but Seungcheol doesn’t let you retreat. His hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you flush against him. The book in his grasp hits the carpet with a muffled thud, abruptly forgotten.

“Pretending gets old,” he murmurs, voice rough. His free hand slides up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your skirt. “Don’t you think?”

Your breath hitches. “We’re in a library.”

His grin is all teeth. “And you’re overdue.”

Then he’s backing you into the nearest shelf, the wood creaking under the impact of your weight. His mouth crashes onto yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against your lip until you gasp. He swallows the sound, one broad palm cradling your jaw, the other hiking your leg around his hip. You can feel him already—the thick, insistent press of his cock against your stomach, even through his jeans.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him.

Seungcheol nips at your lower lip, then pulls back just enough to watch you unravel. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he growls. “Flirting over book returns. Smirking at me like you know exactly what I want to do to you.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Guess what? You were right.”

Then he’s sinking to his knees.

The sight of him—broad shoulders, those thick thighs straining his pants, his big hands sliding up your bare legs—makes your cunt throb. He hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them down, letting them pool around your ankles. Seungcheol pushes his glasses up to sit on top of his head and his breath ghosts over your damp skin, and you shudder.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging a single finger through your slick. “All this for me?”

You nod, desperate.

Seungcheol’s eyes darken. “Then hold still.”

His mouth is on you before you can brace yourself—hot, wet, relentless. His tongue laps at you in broad strokes, then flicks your clit just hard enough to make your knees buckle. You grab the shelf behind you, knuckles white, as he eats you out like a man starved. Every suck, every swirl, has you biting back whimpers, your hips jerking against his face.

“Cheol—fuck—”

He groans against you, the vibration making you clench around nothing. Then, without warning, he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just so. Your vision whites out.

“Quiet,” he orders, mouth still working you. “Or I stop.”

You choke back a moan.

He doesn’t stop, continuing to lick and suckle, nosing you and alternating between long licks of tongue pressed flat and quick kitten licks, assaulting your clit.

When you’re trembling on the edge, he pulls away, leaving you gasping. His lips glisten with you. He stands, towering over you, and unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness. His cock springs free and he strokes it—thick, tip already flushed from strain, already leaking precum. Then his free hand slides to the back of your neck, gripping gently and pressing down, guiding. You sink to your knees.

“Good girl,” He praises and taps his cock against your cheek, smearing precum over your skin. The scent of him fills your senses and you mewl quietly, chasing his shaft to smudge an open-mouthed kiss against the girth.

“Open,” he rasps.

You do.

He feeds his cock into your mouth, groaning as your lips stretch around him. “God, yes— just like that.” His hands cradle your face, guiding you, but not forcing. “Take it. You can.”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking as he rocks shallowly into your throat. He's everywhere—the salt of him, the musk, the way his hips stutter when you hum and the sound vibrates through his length. His grip tightens in your hair, just shy of painful.

“Fuck, your mouth,” he grits out. “Should’ve done this weeks ago.”

You whimper around him, and he pulls back, letting you gasp for air. His thumb swipes over your spit-slick lips before he helps you up to your feet yet again. You sway a little and his arms wrap around your waist, stabilising. “You alright?” He hums, leaning down to kiss along your jawline and you nod. “Good.”

“Turn around,” he commands, already guiding you to do just that before your balance fully returns.

You obey, attempting to carefully step free of your underwear as he spins you, but your heel catches in the fabric and you still stumble trying to shake it off while bracing your hands against the shelf. The ancient thing shudders upon impact but holds as you grip the edge, knuckles white. Behind you, Seungcheol huffs a chuckle at your clumsiness and kneads your ass, then spreads you open. His breath hitches.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

Then he’s pushing into you in one smooth thrust, stretching you, filling you. You cry out, and his hand clamps over your mouth.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your ear, hips flush against your ass. “You’ll get us caught.”

He starts slow, rolling his hips in deep, grinding circles that have you seeing stars. Every drag of his cock lights you up inside, the stretch bordering on too much. You’re so wet it’s obscene, the sound of him fucking you filthy in the quiet library. It’s the wet squelching of your juices and skin slapping against skin. You don’t even think you moaning would make a difference. Anyone who hears these sounds will be able to tell what exactly is going on.

“Feel good?” he teases, nipping your shoulder. “Bet you've thought about this. Bet you’ve touched yourself thinking about it.”

You nod, shameless. Because it’s exactly what you did. On multiple occasions.

Seungcheol groans, snapping his hips harder. “Knew it. Knew you were desperate for it.” His hand slides from your mouth to your throat, tilting your head back. “Come on, then. Let me feel you.”

You shatter with a barely restrained whimper. Your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around him so tight he curses, his rhythm faltering. But he doesn’t stop—he fucks you through it, his grip on your hip bruising, his breath ragged in your ear.

“One more,” he demands. “Give me one more.”

You’re oversensitive, wrung out, but his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you’re gone again, your back arching as you sob his name.

Seungcheol growls, slamming into you one last time before he spills deep, his cock pulsing inside you. He keeps you pinned there, both of you trembling, as he rides out his high.

For a moment, the only sound that fills the space between you is your ragged breathing. Then he pulls out, turning you to face him. He swipes his index and middle fingers through the mess between your thighs, then brings it to your lips.

“Taste,” he murmurs.

Your face flushes deeper red but you do as you’re told, your inner walls clamping down on nothing. But you can’t help it, the filth of the moment only turns you on more.

His eyes burn as he watches you suck his fingers clean. “We’re definitely doing that again.”

You lick your lips and laugh breathlessly, boneless against him, pushing the skirt back in place with your weak trembling hands, thinking this was it. “What about the coffee date sequel?”

Seungcheol nips your earlobe. “Oh, we’ll get to that.” He pushes your skirt up again, then smirks when your eyes widen with belated realisation that he’s not done with you. “After round two.”

The library’s lights flicker overhead.

Somewhere, the sweet Mrs. Thompson is rolling in her retirement home unsuspecting of what her charming successor is doing to you in the sanctuary of books she spent most of her life working at.

And you’re definitely getting banned.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.

Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.

His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.

“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”

He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.

“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”

His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”

You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.

You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”

He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.

You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”

A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”

The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.

“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”

He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.

“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.

Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.

He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”

“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”

“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”

Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.

His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.

Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.

“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.

Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.

“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”

“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”

You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.

“I said hold still.”

“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.

“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”

You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”

“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”

“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”

“Ooh, would you—”

“No.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”

“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.

“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”

“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”

“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”

“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”

He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”

You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.

“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.

“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”

The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.

“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”

“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”

“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”

“No promises.”

He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”

“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.

“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”

“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”

Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”

“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”

“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”

He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”

“Really?” you sniffle.

“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”

A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“But am I prettier?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”

Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”

“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”

“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”

“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”

“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”

“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”

“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”

You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”

Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”

“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”

“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”

You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.

“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.

“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”

“We’re literally married.”

“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”

“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”

“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”

He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”

“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”

He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”

“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”

“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”

He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.

You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”

“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.

You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.

“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.

“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Cheol?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”

“Woman, I swear to—”

“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.

“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”

You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”

You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.

“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”

Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.

“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”

“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.

“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.

“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.

“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”

“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”

His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.

“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”

“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.

“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”

“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”

“Third date,” he repeats faintly.

“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”

Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.

“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”

But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.

Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”

“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.

“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.

“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”

You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”

He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”

“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”

“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”

“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.” 

But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.

But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.

But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.

Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.

Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—

Your eyes fly open.

“Oh no.”

The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.

“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.

He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.

“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.

“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”

“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”

His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Cheol.”

“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”

You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”

“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”

“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”

“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”

“I was a disaster.”

“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”

“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.

“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”

“Seungcheol.”

He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”

“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”

Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.

“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.

“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”

“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”

“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”

“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”

“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…

“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”

The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”

“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”

Your breath catches.

“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”

“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”

“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”

“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.

Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.

You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.

“Cheol?”

“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”

You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.

“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”

“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.

“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”

Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.

“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”

“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”

It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”

You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,

“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.

“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”

“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”

He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”

You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”

You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”

This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.

His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”

You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”

“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.

“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”

You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.

“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.

“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”

“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”

Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”

“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”

“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.

“What’s not fair?”

“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”

“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”

Your breath catches. “Are we?”

“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”

“Seungcheol—”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”

You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.

“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”

“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.

“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, god, yes—”

His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…

“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”

His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.

“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”

“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”

“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”

You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”

So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.

About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.

“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.

“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”

“You’re a fein.”

“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”

“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”

“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”

“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.

“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.

“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”

One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”

“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”

“Need what, baby? Use your words.”

“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”

He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.

“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.

“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”

“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.

“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.

“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.

“You really did research.”

“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”

Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”

“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”

His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”

“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.

“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”

And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.

Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.

Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.

“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”

And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.

“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”

“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”

“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”

“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”

The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.

“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.

“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.

“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”

“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”

“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”

“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”

“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”

“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.

You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And if not?”

“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”

“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”

“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”

“And then?”

“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”

“Again?!”

“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”

You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.

“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”

“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.

After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.

The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”

“That’s not—oh—”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”

“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”

“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”

“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.

This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.

“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”

“Cheol, baby please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.

The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.

You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.

You made it halfway through your sandwich.

“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“I’m eating—”

“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”

“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.

“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”

“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.

The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.

“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, god, anywhere—”

“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”

The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.

“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”

You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.

“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.

When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.

“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”

“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.

“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”

The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.

“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.

When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.

You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.

“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.

“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”

He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”

“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”

“Into what?”

“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”

He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”

“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”

“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”

“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”

And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?

Well.

You’d had worse problems.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”

“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.

Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.

You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.

“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”

“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.

What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.

You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.

The office after hours? Check.

The car in the parking garage? Check.

The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.

But this—this was a new level, even for him.

“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”

“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”

“That’s not the point—”

“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”

“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”

“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”

You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”

The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.

It was romantic. Just also obscene.

“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”

There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.

“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”

“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.

“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”

His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”

The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.

“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.

“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.

“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”

You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”

“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”

“You’re counting?”

“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”

His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.

“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.

“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”

“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”

“We literally just finished—”

“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.

“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.

“Anything.”

“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”

His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”

“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”

He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.

This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.

“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”

He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”

“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”

“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”

“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”

But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.

Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.

“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”

He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”

“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”

“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”

“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”

His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”

“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”

“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”

“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”

“You’ve been planning this.”

“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”

And he did.

You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.

Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.

“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”

“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”

“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”

Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.

“Cheol, this is going to tip—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.

“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.

His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”

“Cheol! You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”

“Someone could see—”

“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”

“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”

His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.

“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”

You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.

“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.

The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.

“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”

“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.

“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”

“Kids, plural?”

“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”

“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”

“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”

“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”

You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”

“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”

“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”

“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”

“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”

The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”

“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.

You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.

“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.

You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”

“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”

He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?

Totally worth it.

The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.

You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.

“Did I forget something?”

You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.

“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”

“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”

His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”

Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”

His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”

“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”

“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.

“You’ve been counting?”

“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”

“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”

“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”

“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”

“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”

“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”

“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”

“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”

Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.

Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”

“To seduce me before dinner?”

“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”

His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”

“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”

He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”

“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”

“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.

“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”

“We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”

You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.

“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

“About the baby thing.”

That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”

You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”

“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”

“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”

He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”

“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”

“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”

“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.

You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.

Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat.

And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.

Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.

Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.

“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.

“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”

The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”

“Que?”

You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.

“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…

“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”

Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.

“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”

Your own heart seems to stop entirely.

“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”

“How early were you testing?”

“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”

“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”

The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.

“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”

Your baby.

“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”

“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”

“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”

Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.

“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”

“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”

Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.

“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”

“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”

“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”

“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”

“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”

“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”

“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”

“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”

The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”

Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”

“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”

“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”

“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.

“Little bit. You?”

“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.

“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.

“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”

“So spoiled.”

“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”

“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”

“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”

“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.

“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”

“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”

“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”

You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly.

Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.

“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”

“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.

All those months of trying.

All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.

Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.

Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.

You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.

Pure, overwhelming joy.

You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.

Best surprise ever.

You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.

Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.

“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.

“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”

You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”

“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”

“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”

“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”

“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”

Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.

His baby. The thought still makes him feral.

“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”

And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.

“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.

“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.

“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”

“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”

You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.

“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.

“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”

“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”

“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.

“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”

“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”

“You just…we literally just—”

“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.

Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.

He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.

You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.

He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”

His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.

“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”

“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.

He does.

“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.

“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.

“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”

“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

“I look pregnant.”

“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”

You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”

“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”

“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”

Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”

“Cheol.”

“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”

“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”

“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”

“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”

“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”

“Exactly, very responsible.”

“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”

“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.

“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.

The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.

This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.

This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.

Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.

Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.

You wake up in your bed.

For a confused moment you just stare at the ceiling, trying to piece together how you got here. Then it all comes back—the club, the frustration, Seungcheol on the couch, his words, his hands, his—

You sit up so fast your head spins. You have to close your eyes and breathe deeper for a good minute before opening them again and taking in your surroundings, just to make sure.

It is your room. You're in your room. But… you're wearing an oversized t-shirt that's definitely not yours. You tug at the collar and bring it closer to your face, sniffing it on reflex. A shudder runs through you when you realise it's Seungcheol's—and you fall back down onto your bed, burrowing yourself deeper into your blanket, with the collar still pulled over your nose. A part of you judges you silently and if you cared more in the moment, you'd agree and call yourself a weirdo and stop immediately, but you can't care less because it smells nice—like him, like cedarwood and a bit of pineapple and bergamot. You let out a minuscule whimper. Fuck. The memories of last night are fuzzy around the edges but the physical evidence is not as subtle—you can still feel the ache between your legs from spreading them wide for too long, the tenderness that speaks to being thoroughly, completely fucked.

You let out a muffled groan. You need coffee. You need to figure out what the hell to do with what you did. And there are so many other things swarming your mind, like—

Knock knock.

"Hey, are you up?" Seungcheol's voice comes through the door. "I made coffee. And I'm onto breakfast. If you want."

"Give me a minute," you rasp back from under the blanket and clear your throat.

Silence follows for a moment, as if he's hesitating on what to do next, and then you hear him move away. You sit up in your bed again, staring at your surroundings for a long moment, then drag yourself out of it and to the bathroom, where you then stare at your reflection in the mirror. You look… fine. A little tired, maybe. Your hair is a mess. But there's something in your expression you barely recognise because it's been so long since the last time you saw yourself like that—a softness around your eyes, a curve to your mouth. You scowl at your own reflection which just happens to be another confirmation.

You look like someone who got fucked stupid and liked it.

Five minutes later you're in the kitchen, feeling a little more like a human after completing your morning routine.

Seungcheol is at the stove, flipping pancakes. He's wearing a different t-shirt—a soft black one that's more of his version of loungewear—and his hair is damp, like he showered, which he probably did. He looks up when you walk in and there's a moment of eye contact that feels charged with everything that happened last night.

"Hey," he greets you, and you catch a note of carefulness in his tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," you admit simply and watch his ears go pink. Something satisfied churns in your chest at the sight of that, you can't help the way your lips twitch in a ghost of a shit-eating grin. You hold yourself back. Barely.

He's so pathetic, you think. You love it. If you were any more cruel, you'd probably tease him about it and make him squirm uncomfortably.

"I, uh. Sorry about that. I mean—not actually sorry, not like I regret it, I mean, if you do I understand, but—if you need anything, like ibuprofen or—"

"Seungcheol."

He stops, blinking at you with his shiny boba eyes, mouth slightly agape and your eyes flicker to his lips for a second, you lick your own unconsciously before meeting his eyes again.

"Last night," you start slowly, "was…"

"Amazing?" he offers, then winces. "Sorry. That was—I'm not trying to—I just—"

"Would you please shut up for a second?"

He does, his jaw snaps shut with a quiet click of his teeth.

You take a breath. "Last night was good. Really good," it's an understatement of the century actually, but Seungcheol doesn't have to know. You don't want to feed his ego. You also don't want to think why exactly you don't want to let him know. "But I was drunk, and I don't know if—I need to know if it was just the alcohol or if…" you trail off, gesticulating vaguely.

Wow, how low have you fallen? Coming up with any type of bullshit just to get railed again, a voice in the back of your head judges.

"It wasn't the alcohol."

You look at Seungcheol. He's put the spatula down, turned to face you fully, and there's something steady in his expression that makes your chest tight.

"I've wanted you since you moved in," he says quietly. "Last night wasn't… I didn't do it because you were drunk. I did it because you asked and because I couldn't really say no to you even if I tried. But I need you to know that if you woke up today and decided it was a mistake, I understand. We can pretend it never happened. I won't make it weird."

There's a distant thought in your head, that you should take his words and run with them. Nod and agree and go back to the way things were before, instead of making it complicated. After all, you really like this apartment and you really don't mind Seungcheol as your flatmate. He's not the worst. You'd hate to look for a different place. But can you actually go back to what it was before after the wildest night of your life that even your drunken state couldn't truly dim in your memory? You don't think so.

So instead you cross the little distance of the kitchen between you and Seungcheol, take his face in your hands and kiss him.

He makes a surprised sound against your mouth then his hands come up to grip your waist and he's kissing you back, deep and hungry, prying your mouth open for him and slipping his tongue against yoursand you can feel him hardening against your hip and it's barely been six hours and you already want him again.

"Pancakes," he gasps against your lips. "Going to burn."

"Fuck the pancakes."

"I don't think that's a good idea. I'd rather fuck you instead."

You pull away to give him an the most disgusted 'ew' face and Seungcheol laughs at that and then swiftly turns off the stove anyways, lifting you onto the counter and settling between your legs and you're wearing his t-shirt with nothing underneath and his hands are pushing it up your thighs and—

"Wait," You put a hand on his chest. He stops immediately, concern flickering in his eyes. "I'm sober right now. Completely sober. Maybe a tiny bit hungover. And I still want this. I need you to know that."

Something soft and bright blooms in Seungcheol's expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, slower this time, savouring the way you feel against his lips. His palms sneak under the hem of his t-shirt on you and settle on your hips, squeezing the soft flesh of it before sliding a little higher, to your waist. Then he drops to his knees in front of the counter, his palms gently sliding down over your legs, and looks up at you with those big brown eyes.

"Then let me taste you," Seungcheol murmurs as his hands travel back up from your calves to your thighs, caressing and squeezing. "I've been thinking about this for months. Let me show you what I can do, hmm?" He presses a kiss to your knee, then another, and another—all of them feather-light and soft.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leans in right as he parts your legs wider for him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Seungcheol's mouth is warm and wet as he wraps his lips around your clit and flicks his tongue against it once. Then he's licking a broad stripe from your centre and up and you just know he's good at this. Of course he is, because the universe has a sick sense of humour. His tongue is skilled in ways that make you wonder exactly what kind of porn he's been watching, and he reads your body like a map finding every spot that makes you gasp and focusing there until you're taken apart on his mouth.

By the time he's done, you've come twice and your legs are useless and you're bracing yourself against the counter with the last bits of strength left in your now-pliant body, head resting against the cupboards as you stare at the ceiling, wondering what you've gotten yourself into.

You feel him trace soothing kisses along the inner side of your thigh before he stands up, licking his lips instead of wiping them clean with the back of his hand. It leaves his lips glistening, chin a mess still. The sight has you clenching around nothing and swallowing. Instead, you reach out and wipe the wetness with your thumb, transfixed on the way his plush lower lip gives under your touch.

There's something almost shy in his expression as he meets your eyes again. "Good?"

"Good?" You laugh, a little hysterically. He does know how to make an understatement. "Good doesn't even begin to cover it."

His smile is like sunrise. "Really?"

"Really," you pull Seungcheol closer, wrap your weakened legs around his waist. One of your hands goes carding through his hair to tug him closer to you, lips to lips. "Now fuck me. Properly. I want to feel you while I'm fully aware."

His eyes go dark but also excited, like a puppy. It's a perplexing combination but you have a feeling—which rings like a warning bell in the back of your mind—that it's going to be addicting.

He carries you back to your room. You barely find a minute to 'call in sick' for a PTO.

That was three weeks ago.

Three weeks of this becoming… a thing. A daily thing where you wake up in your bed—or his—and he's already hard against your ass and you roll over to slide down under the blanket and take him in your mouth before he's even fully opened his eyes. A thing where every time you're both working from home you end up bent over your desk during your lunch break instead of actually having lunch, his hands over your mouth to muffle your screams while his cock splits you open from behind. A thing where you weekends disappear into a haze of sex and takeout and his skin against yours and the sound of his giggles when you say something that he finds funny.

You've learned things about him. Like how he's surprisingly convincing when he wants you to try something—those baby cow eyes, pouting lips and soft voice, please, baby, just try it, I think you'll like it, and somehow you end up in lingerie you'd never have picked for yourself. Tiny scraps of fabric that leave nothing to the imagination and only the way he looks at you makes it worth it. Like how he loves it when you're messy, when things get obscene, when he fucks you so hard you can't form words and you're just this wet, desperate thing under him, taking everything and anything he gives.

You've learned that he has a thing for watching you. For watching his cock disappear inside you, watching your holes stretch around him obscenely, clench and gape and need. He'll prop himself up on his elbows just to look at you, at the place where you're connected, and his expression goes so reverent you feel your heart clenching painfully in your ribcage.

"So pretty," he murmurs sometimes when he's buried deep inside you. "Look at that. Look at you taking all of me. Fuck, you're perfect."

Speaking of making a mess. You've learned that Seungcheol likes to give you a facial, to paint your face with his cum after he's fucked your throat raw, likes to watch it drip down your cheeks while you gasp for air with your mouth wide open and tongue sticking out. He also likes to make you swallow, to feel your throat work around him while he's still lodged deep. And then he gets hard again from the sight of you like that and pounds you full force into the mattress, filling you up with another load, watching it leak out of you when he pulls away.

You've learned his favourite sound is your pussy sopping wet and squelching around him, especially when you're crying, when it's too much and you're trying to get away and he just holds you there and keeps going, keeps fucking you through it until you're sobbing and coming apart and begging for more—all at the same time. He aims for your bladder sometimes, that thick head pressing just right, and makes you squirt until you're shaking and crying in embarrassment, pleading for him to stop without actually meaning it. To be fair, you don't know what you mean or don't in that state he gets you, brain-dead and pliant.

You're basically Seungcheol's toy. His experiment. He reads things, watches things and then he tries them out on you and you hate how much you love it. All this time that you judged Seungcheol and it turns out you're just as depraved as he is. Maybe even more? And oh, do you love being his living clenching cocksleeve while he games, straddling his lap, his dick buried inside you while he clicks away at his keyboard or controller and you just sit there, full and warm, your arms around his neck and your face pressed to his shoulder, on the brink of drifting away until he growls something at his friends or his friends shout so loud in his headset you overhear.

Seungcheol gets so focused on his game sometimes and you just… sit there. Cockwarming him. Feeling him twitch inside you every time he gets excited or frustrated. It's stupid. It's deranging. It makes you so wet you soak his lap. And when you inevitably begin to clench around his cock and roll your hips, squirming to satisfy the growing itch of need, Seungcheol only takes seconds to cut his mic off, not even quitting his game. He would throw the controller and his headset aside, push his gaming chair away from the table to gain some room, his arms wrapping around your body like vices as he pulls you up just enough to start bullying his aching cock into your squelching wet cunt with wild abandon.

What you've also learned is that you have an oral fixation now. A specific one. For him. You find yourself wanting his cock in your mouth at random times—while you're cooking, while you're watching TV, while you're trying to work. Sometimes he just looks at you and you know he knows, and he'll pull down his sweats just enough and nod towards the floor and you're on your knees before you can think better about it.

You hate how you can't get off this high. How you're matching his freak. You didn't know you had this in you—this need, this desperation, this willingness to let him do whatever he wants. It irritates you. It irritates you so much.

But not enough to stop, apparently.

Three out of five work days you're both home. Those days are a write-off. You get your work done in bursts between fuck-sessions, between him bending you over horisontal surfaces and you sucking him off under his desk and him fucking you against the wall in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. You've stopped pretending you have self-control. You don't. Neither does he.

Weekends are worse. Better. You don't leave the apartment. You barely leave the bed. You order food and eat it naked, feed each other bites between making out, fall asleep tangled together and wake up already reaching for each other.

But the most dangerous part of it is that you're developing feelings.

You realise it one morning when you're at work—actual work, in the office, surprisingly, wow—and you catch yourself smiling at your phone because Seungcheol sent you a picture of his parents' cat doing something stupid. Just a picture of a cat with a stupidly cute caption. And you're smiling like an idiot.

You realise it again when you're out with your friends for your monthly cafe catch-up and Jess asks about him and you have to physically stop yourself from saying something borderline sappy or feel proprietary and selfish. You play it cool, roll your eyes and say he's still a loser. But your voice wavers and your eyes flicker to the side as you restrain yourself from visibly cringing and Jess gives you a look that makes you want to crawl under the table.

Long story short, you realise it most when you're away from him. When you're at work and you miss him. When you're with your friends and you wonder what he's doing. When you can't stop thinking about him—not just sex, but him. The way he laughs, the way he furrows his thick eyebrows when he's concentrating. The way he made you tea this morning without you asking, because he remembers you're always cold when you get out of bed.

But then there are filthy thoughts too. You'll be in a meeting and remember last night—how he ruined you, how he fucked you until you were a leaking crying mess, how you were babbling nonsense and he just kept going, kept pushing, kept making you fall apart. And you have to cross your legs under the table and hope you don't stand up with a wet spot on your skirt later.

You're in trouble.

The jealousy thing catches you off guard.

You're in the kitchen, making dinner. Seungcheol is in his room, gaming with his friends. You can hear him through the open doorway, his voice relaxed and easy, and you're not really listening until you hear:

"—at the gym, this girl came up and asked for my number."

Your hand freezes with the knife as you're chopping vegetables. Your hearing suddenly supernatural and wired to him.

"I'm not lying!" he whines in response to something one of his friends said that you didn't hear. "She was doing squats near me and then after her set she just walked up and asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime."

You hold your breath and strain your hearing even more, not noticing the way your body angles itself to catch every sound coming from his room better, the way your head tilts in the slightest way.

"What'd you say?" You hear Wonwoo ask.

"I said I was busy. Which I was. I had work after that." A pause. "But it was nice, you know? First time that's happened in a while."

Your grip on the knife tightens and you imagine your hand closing around a neck instead.

"Bro," Woozi's voice comes up, flat as always. "You need to get out more. A girl asks for your number and you say no because you have to work? That's tragic."

A beat of silence. "I'm not tragic. I'm focused."

"You're bitchless," Hoshi says, and they all laugh.

Seungcheol laughs too but it sounds different—forced or tired maybe. "Whatever, man. There was also this barista at the cafe near my office. She told me I was cute."

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth ache. You can hear that old meme in your head that goes like, Where? Who? You've been where? With who? Mmmh… for real? Oh really? That's how you feel? And you're not having any of it.

"Okay, did you get her number at least?" Wonwoo asks with a note of hope that his friend isn't a totally lost case.

"No, I just got my coffee and left."

More laughter and dissapointed sighs follow in response. "Bitchless," Hoshi repeats in a sing-song manner. "Certified bitchless."

At this point you're gripping the knife so hard your knuckles go white. You want to throw it. You want to march int his room and—and what? Scream at him? Tell his stupid friends he's not bitchless, he's got you, he's had you every day for weeks now? But you're not his girlfriend. You're just his flatmate he fucks. He said that he liked you from day one but you really have no claim on him. No right to be jealous. Because him being physically attracted to you doesn't mean he wants it to be something serious.

The realisation hits you like a punch to the gut.

You go back to choppinh vegetables, channeling your frustratioin into the act until your hands stop shaking.

Later that night, after his friends log off, he finds you in your room. You're pretending to read but you haven't turned a page in twenty minutes. He stands in the doorway for a moment then comes in, sits on the edge of your bed.

"Hey," Seungcheol calls softly. "You okay? You've been quiet all evening."

"I'm fine." Your response is chopped, you know it is and you know you're not doing a good job at making him believe what you say.

"You're not," he reaches out, touches your knee. "What's wrong?"

You look at him over the edge of your book. His big baby cow eyes, his thick brows and plush lips. He's so fucking pretty and he has no idea and some barista told him he was cute and some gym girl asked for his number and you want to claw their eyes out.

"Nothing," you say. "Just tired."

Seungcheol studies you for a long moment. Then he scoots closer, leans in and kisses your forehead and you almost break down in tears.

"Come to bed," he murmurs, rubbing his cheek against yours before leaning down and lightly butting your shoulder with his head, his hair soft and ticklish to your neck. "I'll make you feel better." His lips, slightly chapped and warm, press to the spot just above your collarbone.

You go.

He does.

Seungcheol fucks you slow that night. Not the usual rough, messy, desperate fucking—slow. Gentle. He takes his time, watches your face, kisses your cheeks between every thrust and you feel like you're made of glass, too fragile to be handled without care. His cock fills you up like always but the pace is different, deeper, more intentional. You're on your back, legs wrapped around his waist and he's propped above you, those big eyes locked on yours.

"Tell me what's wrong," he whispers and, embarrasingly enough, you can't hold eye contact, afraid that he'll read you if you don't look away.

"Nothing."

"Liar," he kisses your nose and nuzzles your cheek. "Tell me."

You shake your head because you can't. You can't tell him you're jealous. You can't tell him you want to be the only one who gets to have him. You can't tell him you're falling for him. You don't tell him any of it but you also don't notice they way you cling to him in response, limbs locking around his body as if you're afraid he's going to dissapear any moment.

"Possessive," he murmurs and there's something knowing in his voice, affectionate even. "That's it, isn't it? You heard me talking to the guys."

You tense up and feel your heart hammering in your ribcage like a captured bird. Seungcheol smiles and his smile is soft and warm.

"I didn't give them my number," he says. "Because I didn't want to. I don't want anyone else. I've got you."

"You don't have me," you manage, but your voice comes out quiet, barely a whisper.

"Don't I?" He deliberately rolls his hips and thrusts deeper, making you gasp, making you look at him again. "Whose cock do you take every day? Who gets to see you fall apart over and over, crying and shaking and calling my name?"

What he says is not exactly the most romantic thing to say to a woman. And yet your eyes are burning. You're not going to cry. You're not.

"I don't want anyone else," he says again, softer now. "Just you. Only you. You're the only one I think about. The only one I want. You know that, right?" Every sentence is intermitted with a soft kiss to your cheek, to your temple, to the corner of your lips, to the arch of your brow.

You nod, because you can't speak.

"That's my good girl," he kisses you, slow and sweet, plush lips slotting perfectly against yours. You melt into it, allowing yourself to feel whatever it is you're feeling. And then Seungcheol makes love to you.

His weight presses you into the mattress and you feel the safest you've ever felt with anyone. The pace he goes at doesn't change for a while, staying slow and deep. Seungcheol makes sure you feel him. The stretch, the friction, the weight of his body on top of yours, the way his arms cage you in and his fingers thread through your hair where they can reach, the way his lips are soft and gentle as they pepper your face with kisses between whispered praise and sweet nothings, even when he trails lower, towards your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin there, barely enough to leave marks, it's somehow more intimate than the proper bright love bites he often leaves on your body in the heat of the moment.

He loves you until you're crying for real. These tears are messy—your breath hitching, your nose running, your whole face crumpling like paper. They stream down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable, and you can't hide from them. You can't hide from Seungcheol.

He doesn't let you.

His lips find the first tear before it falls. Then the next. Then the next. He's kissing your cheeks, your closed eyelids, the trembling corner of your mouth, and between each kiss he whispers things—words you can't quite catch but feel in your chest, in the way your ribs loosen, in the way your throat unclogs. I've got you. I know. Let go.

And somehow you do.

You've been holding so much—the jealousy you have no right to feel, the fear of wanting more than you're allowed, the exhaustion of pretending you don't care when every cell in your body cares. It all spills out of you in salt and shuddering breaths, and he catches every piece of it. His thumb wipes your cheek and you lean into every touch. His forehead presses to yours and he stays deep inside you, unmoving, intimately grounding you, reminding you that you're not alone in this.

You don't come after that, not really, but that relief you feel is arguably as liberating as any physical pleasure. Your body clenches around him and releases as you hold Seungcheol tighter in your vulnerability, wrap yourself around him, and with it goes the knot in your stomach, the weight in your chest, and the voices in your head telling you you're temporary grow quieter. The sense of lightness washes over you, warm and slow, pulling something out of you that you didn't know you needed to lose.

And Seungcheol holds you through it. Holds you after, his body heavy and warm against yours, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, against your own bare skin, through every point of contact, returns you to reality of it all. Reminds you of how big and realiable he feels him and gifts you comfort within this feeling of being protected.

His arms lock around you, tight and unyielding, not letting you slip away. His face buries in your hair, and you feel his breath there, warm puffs of it.

"Mine," he whispers, and his voice cracks. "You're mine."

And you don't correct him. You simply don't want to.

The gaming incident happens two weeks later.

You're cockwarming Seungcheol again—it's become your favourite thing, honestly, just sitting on his lap while he games, feeling him inside you, stretched and filled and present. He's in the middle of a match, headset on, focused. You're scrolling on your phone, occasionally pressing kisses to his neck just to feel him twitch.

His friends are loud tonight. You can hear them through the headset, even without wearing one yourself.

"Dude, where's your ult?" Hoshi's voice. "You should've used it."

"I'm saving it," Seungcheol's voice is calm but you can feel the slight tension in his thighs.

"Saving for what? For when you finally get a moment to impress your imaginary girlfriend?"

Wonwoo laughs. "Leave him alone, he's trying."

"Trying what?" Woozi's flat voice comes through. "Trying to pretend he's not bitchless?"

You huff an annoyed breath. You see red.

Before you can think, you're snatching the headset off Seungcheol's head. He makes a surprised sound but you're already talking.

"Hey, assholes."

Silence falls on the other end.

"I don't know who you think you are but he's not bitchless. He's got me. And I'm sitting on his cock right now, so unless you want to hear exactly what it sounds like, I suggest you shut the fuck up about your friend being a loser."

The silence stretches. Then, faintly: "Holy shit."

"Is that real?" Hoshi's voice sounds awed. "Is that actually—"

"Wiat, that's his flatmate," Wonwoo says slowly, evidently piecing things together. "The one he's always talking about?"

"I'm not always talking about her," Seungcheol butts in but you cut him off, already intrigued.

"He's always talking about me?" You look down at him. His ears are bright red and his neck is beginning to burn too. You grin at the sight.

"Not always. Just… sometimes. When you're not around."

Something warm blooms in your chest while Seungcheol holds himself back from fidgeting uncomfortably beneath you. Your attention turns back to the headset.

"He's mine," you say firmly. "So stop giving him shit about being alone. He's not alone. He's got me. Got it?"

"Got it," Hoshi says quickly. "Sorry. We didn't know."

"Yeah, we're really sorry," Wonwoo adds. "We'll, uh, we'll leave you to it."

You hand the headset back to Seungcheol who's staring at you with an expression you can't read. He says something to his friends—you don't have time to catch it—and then he's pulling the headset off again and tossing it aside and his hands are on your hips and he's looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen.

"What?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

"You're so hot," he breathes and the only thing missing from his expression is cartoonish heart-eyes. "You have no idea. The way you just… stood up for me. Claimed me. Fuck."

You feel heat rush to your cheeks. "I just… they were being dicks—"

"I know," he's already hard inside you—was he hard all this time? You can't tell anymore. "And you shut them down. You told them I'm yours."

"You are mine," the words come out before you can stop them. You freeze, waiting for him to laugh, to correct you, to—

"Yeah," he says softly. "I am. I've been yours since the day you moved in. I just didn't think you'd ever want me back like that."

Your throat tightens. You lean down and kiss him, deep and desperate, and then he's moving, standing from his gaming chair and walking over to his bed. He lays you on it, positioning himself above you, sliding back in with one smooth thrust.

"Mine," he breathes against your mouth. "Please say it."

"Yours."

He fucks you like that—slow at first, then faster, then harder, until you're both lost in it. He pushes your legs up, folds you almost in half and drives into you so deep you can't breathe, can't think, can only feel. The new angle has him hitting something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you're creaming all over his cock before you even realise it's happening, crying out his name as your body clenches around him.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, that's it, come on me, come all over my cock."

He keeps going, fucking you through it, and then he's cumming too, hot and deep, and you feel him pulse insde you, filling you up, and it's perfect. It's so perfect it hurts.

Afterwards you lie tangled together on his unmade bed, breathing hard. His hand traces lazy patterns on your skin.

"You know they're never going to let me live this down, right?" he murmurs. "They're going to tease me about having a girlfriend forever."

"I'm not your girlfriend," you say automatically and it pains you. You wish you didn't correct him, what's the point anyways after everything that happened between you.

He's quiet for a moment. "What are you then?"

You stare at the ceiling and realise that you don't have an answer. Or, rather, the one you have scares you too much to voice it.

Months pass. Your sex life doesn't slow down—if anything, it gets more intense, more creative, more intimate in ways that are harder to ignore every time. You've lost count of how many times you've come on his cock, in his mouth, on his fingers. You've lost count of how many times he's painted your skin with his cum, filled your holes, made you cry and scream and beg.

But something else is happening too.

You notice it in the little things. The way he makes you coffee or tea exactly how you like it every morning without asking. The way he knows you've had a bad day juat from the way you kick off your shoes when you come home, and just holds you, no sex, just warmth and quiet and soft kisses to the top of your head and all over your face. The way he leaves notes for you—simple annoying (you love it) things like "your turn to buy milk :P" or "i ate the last of ice cream, sorry" with a little drawn face that you assume is supposed to resemble him.

You notice it in the way Seungcheol looks at you. Soft. Fond. Like you're the most precious thing in this world for him.

You notice it the most when you're ovulating.

You're not sure how he knows. You've never told him about your cycle apart from when you're on your period and you know he doesn't track your cycle but somehow he always knows. One day you'll wake up irritable, snapping at everything, and he'll just look at you with this knowing expression and pull you into his lap.

"Ovulating?" he'll ask and you'll glare at him and he'll laugh in return and kiss your nose.

"Well, first of all, we live together and it's easy to observe you every month. You become more violent and irritable, ouch, yeah, exactly that. Also, you smell a little different," he explains one day when you finally ask. He has pulled you into his lap and his nose is pressed against your neck while he explains. "It's really subtle but I can tell. It's like… I don't know how to describe it. It just changes and I know you need me."

You should find that creepy and you tell him as much, making a whole disgusted face. But you still end up climbing him like a tree.

Today is one of those days. You've been irritable since you woke up, snapping at everything, angry at nothing. You're in the kitchen, aggressively chopping ingredients for the salad you don't even want when Seungcheol pops up in the doorway.

"Hey," he calls carefully. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're ovulating."

You whirl on him, knife still in hand. "Oh stop with this bullshit already, I am not—"

"You are," he doesn't even flinch at the knife point. "Your scent changed this morning. You need to get fucked," he tries to say it with a straight face but fails, plump lips slowly stretching into a mischievous sultry smile. He's really too excited about it. You want to smack his pretty face.

A scowl finds its way onto your lips. "I don't need—"

He crosses the kitchen, pries the knife from your hand and sets it aside carefully, then lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion too. His hands settle on your thighs, pulling your lounge pants down, and he looks at you through his outrageously long lashes with those big dark eyes.

"You're angry because you need me," Seungcheol says quietly while his palms soothe your bared skin. He steps between your thighs and leans in to press a kiss to your lips which you accept on pure reflex despite all irritation. "And that's okay. I'm right here. I've got you. Let me take care of you, deal? You know I can make you feel real good. Chase all that irritation away."

You want to argue and tell him you don't need taking care of, you're a grown capable woman. But then his hand is between your legs, pressing against your needy throbbing cunt through your underwear and you're already wet—of course you're—and the arguments die in your throat with a breathy moan that escapes instead.

"Yeah," he murmurs, lips curling up in a smug smile as he watches the wet patch on your panties grow. "That's what I thought."

He pulls your underwear off of you, revealing your glistening centre to his sight—you can tell the way his pupils blow wide like a cat's in an instance—and sinks to his knees in front of the counter.

Seungcheol parts your thighs wider and you squirm closer to the edge for him, angling your hips just so. He hums appreciatively and presses soft kisses from the inner part of your knee and up, inching closer to your heat, eyes heavy lidded and watching the way your leaky hole winks at him impatiently. What follows is the most thorough, most intense fucking of your life (you think it every time to be totally frank). He eats you out first, until you're shaking and crying from sensitivity, until you've come twice on his tongue and you're whimpering for him to stop, fingers gripping onto the edge of the counter for dear life, face burning from embarrasment at all the nasty sloppy sounds his mouth makes against your puffy, drooling cunt. Then he stands up, pushes his sweats down and lines up that thick, perfect cock with your drenched pussy.

"Look at me," he says.

You do, eyes blurry with tears and unfocused already.

He pushes in.

It's too much. It's always too much, but today is especially too much, and you can feel every inch of him stretching you open, filling you up. He goes slow, so agonizingly slow, letting you feel every second of it, and by the time he's fully seated you're a mess—tears streaming down your cheeks, hands gripping his shoulders and nails leaving tiny crates into his skin, mouth open on a silent scream until you lean forward and press your face into his neck, mewling pathetically as your entire body grows jelly and you feel your brain enter that fuzzy state where you're about to purr for him in a mix of satisfaction and comfort.

Instead you lap at the junction of his neck and shoulder, tongue pressed flat and sloppy before you scrape the spot with your teeth and feel him shudder.

"There you go," Seungcheol breathes brokenly. "That's it."

He starts to move.

It's rough. It's hard. It's exactly what you need. He fucks you on the counter, then on the floor, then bent over the kitchen table, then back in his bedroom, on the bed, in every position he can think of. He doesn't stop until you're a boneless, sobbing mess, empty-brained, until you've lost count of how many times you've come, until you can't form words anymore, just sounds that are so pathetic it's hard to believe they come from an intelligent human being—only you're not exactly intelligent in that moment.

And then he finally cums one last time, buried deep inside you, filling you up to the point it overflows and bubbles in a white obscene ring around the base of his cock as he continues bullying his cum into your thoroughly fucked pussy.

You feel his strong arms wrapped like a vice around your body while he whispers hotly against your ear: "So pretty and mine. Always mine."

You don't have the energy to correct him. You don't want to.

Afterwards he cleans you up with warm washcloth, gentle hands soothing your oversensitive skin. He puts you in one of his t-shirts—the soft gray one you've secretly claimed as yours since that very first time you slept with him—and wraps you in blankets and holds oyu against his chest.

"Better?" he asks, pressing his lips to your forehead.

You nod, already half asleep, all anger and irritability fucked out of you by the man who holds you close. You press a kiss to his collarbone, soft and sleepy, and feel his arms tighten around you.

"Love you," you mumble, not really aware of what you're saying. Not until he goes still beneath you. Then your eyes fly open, you look up at him, heart suddenly pounding. "I didn't—"

"I love you too."

The words hang in the air between you. He's looking at you with his boba eyes, soft and scaread and hopeful all at once, and you realise that he means it, actually. And your heart flutters in your chest with trepidation.

"Since when?" you whisper.

"I don't know, somewhere along the way? Before I even realised what it was," his thumb traces your cheek. "Maybe since you yelled at me for leaving dishes in the sink for the first time. Since you danced in the kitchen to your music when you thought I wasn't watching. Since the first time you fell asleep on my chest and I thought I want you to stay like this forever."

You can't breathe nor can you think. All you can do is look at him, this stupid, perfect, annoying, wonderful man who somehow became everything for you, to you.

"I'm a mess," you manage. "I'm jealous and possessive… but I can't stop wanting you… and I yell at your friends and—"

"I know," Seungcheol is smiling now, that soft sunrise of a smile. "I love all of it. I love all of you."

You kiss him and it's not like your heated kisses, which are desperate or hungry or demanding. You kiss him soft. Sweet. Full of everything you can't find words to express. Because your heart is overflowing and if you don't find a way to express it you're afraid you're going to combust on the spot. Or cry, and you really don't want to cry right now and wake up later with puffy eyes that you can barely open.

When you pull back he's still smiling. And you can't help but press your lips to his for another short kiss because the feeling of him smiling against your mouth is intoxicating. You want to spend your life kissing his lips into these dazzling smiles just to watch his cheeks dimple so prettily.

"So," he says. "Does this mean you'll stop pretending you hate me?"

"I never pretended to hate you."

"You literally called me a loser to your friends."

"You're a loser," you poke his chest and then lean in to press yet another kiss to his plush lips. God is vitness, you're addicted to the man and there's no salvation. "But it was before and you're my loser now, there's huuuge difference."

Seungcheol laughs, bright and happy, and pulls you closer, tucking your body snugly into his, and you fall asleep wrapped in his arms, feeling safer than you've ever felt.

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

seungcheol is about to talk back when a commotion across the room catches his attention. a small group is arriving, filtering in one by one, faces seungcheol definitely recognizes. his heart rate spikes and he cranes his neck the tiniest bit, hoping mingyu doesn't notice.

"ah," mingyu says, bringing the pipe to his lips and sparking the lighter up. "there she is."

it's amazing how you manage to demand the attention of the room at large the second you enter. faces turn to you like flowers toward the sun and you glow under the attention, smiling sweetly and greeting the people around you with hugs and waving the lollipop clutched in your hand excitedly at those who yell your name from deeper into the room. it takes you a second to weave through the throng of people but once seungcheol can see you properly his mouth instantly goes dry— you're wearing all black from head to toe, sinfully tight miniskirt with stockings disappearing into your high boots. a loose shirt just barely brushes your waistband, exposing a little peek of skin just above your belt that seungcheol's eyes linger on for a few seconds too long.

"hey, earth to seungcheol," mingyu says right in his ear, startling him. "stop drooling over y/n for two seconds and answer my question."

"didn't hear you," seungcheol mumbles. you run your fingers through your hair, the rings on your fingers catching the light. your hair is getting even longer, now, and seungcheol thinks it suits you. to be fair though, just about anything would suit you so there's really no point in having a preference. "what'd you say?"

mingyu exhales a thick cloud of milky smoke into the air right in front of seungcheol's eyes but it doesn't stop him from watching as some poor fuck practically falls to his knees in front of you with a drink in his hand. you accept it with a sweet smile that curls your eyes, leaning into the boy's space and toeing the heel of your boot into the carpet. seungcheol ignores the little spark of jealousy that roars to life in his chest, tearing his eyes away. he focuses on the little pipe in mingyu's hand. "nah, not in the mood tonight."

"suit yourself." mingyu shrugs.

you are laughing at something the little call-boy is whispering to you, throwing your head back in a way that makes the glitter smeared high on your cheeks glint under the low light. he wrinkles his nose, draining the rest of his drink.

"based on the way she's still the only thing you seem to be able to focus on i'm gonna guess you still haven't gotten into her pants yet?" mingyu muses.

seungcheol shoots mingyu a look. "trust me, if i had then you and the entire campus would know already. i plan on putting it on a billboard when it finally happens."

"why don't you go talk to her, then? it's not like you to give up."

seungcheol sighs, leaning back into the couch. "what do you want me to do? throw myself at her like the rest of the room is doing?" he gestures at you, who now has the attention of some guy giggling and cracking jokes. it makes him snort; good luck with that, sweetheart. "i'm not desperate."

"are you sure? because i kinda recall you spending every single party this year doing exactly what they're all doing."

"i mean i'm not gonna throw myself at her right now," seungcheol almost whines. "i'm trying something new. shut up."

"ah, the make her come to you method." mingyu nods. "solid."

"so you think she even knows i'm here?"

"seungcheol, you live here."

"maybe i should—"

"oh look, she's headed this way now!" mingyu says, tapping seungcheol excitedly on the shoulder.

seungcheol's eyes snap back to the last place he saw you. you're still standing in the same spot, twisting the bright pink sucker between your fingers and nodding enthusiastically to the guy whispering something in your ear. "no she's n—"

"hey, y/n!" mingyu shouts, reaching up to wave his hand up high in the air. you startle and jerk your head up, searching the crowd for the source of the voice before you spot mingyu and smile, wiggling your fingers in their direction. your eyes snap to seungcheol for a split second and they instantly narrow, making a chill shoot up and down his spine.

"i'm going to fucking kill you," seungcheol says, watching you say goodbye to your friends and start to pick through the crowd on the way over to them.

"okay, hurry, act natural. she's almost here." mingyu pauses, side-eyeing seungcheol. "actually, y/n is so used to you looking at her like that it would be weirder if you tried being normal. you're good."

seungcheol is this close to chewing mingyu out but then you are right in front of him, one hand cocked on your waist and the other carding through your hair at your temple. you look... bored, in a way, like you don't want to be standing there right now, and for some reason you giving him that look, like, instantly turns him on.

"hey," you say, twirling the candy between your fingers. "what are you two doing all the way back here?" you raise yours eyebrows at seungcheol. "you're usually the first one doing keg stands in the middle of the living room."

"seungcheol is just so exhausted,” mingyu pipes up. “you know, it's not easy being the star football player. quarterback and captain. not only that but did you know he's been on the dean's list for the past three semesters? if that's not the kind of quality you want from a long-term partner or even a casual hookup then i don't know what is. in fact—"

"okay!" seungcheol almost shouts, making mingyu snap his mouth shut with a devilish little grin. seungcheol has no idea why he keeps him around. "just tired. practice has been crazy with the big game coming up. you know."

"mm," you hum in agreement. the cheerleading squad works just as hard if not harder than the football team. you share a field during practice, in fact. seungcheol is all too aware of that. "you two smoking?"

"yeah, get in here," mingyu says, passing the pipe and lighter over to you who accepts it happily.

"thank you," you singsong. you turn your attention back to seungcheol. "mind if i have a seat?"

"oh, yeah, yeah. sorry." seungcheol hadn't realized how rude he's being, spread out in the middle of the loveseat leaving nowhere for you to sit down. he's just about to move over to make room when you smile sweetly, stepping forward until your knees are pressed together and then sinking one into the the couch between the arm and seungcheol's thigh, slinging the other over his lap and settling down.

"best seat in the house," you say, eyes boring into seungcheol's. he vaguely registers mingyu snickering at his left, most likely because he must look like a deer in the headlights right now but he doesn't care. having you on his lap is basically the best-case scenario of any situation he could ever find himself in.

"my bed is more comfortable," seungcheol blurts.

mingyu chokes. "alright, that's my cue to leave," he says. "you two can keep that bowl." he slides off the arm of the couch and disappears into the crowd, leaving only you and seungcheol in your own little world.

you giggle, letting your head loll onto his shoulder. you squeeze your knees a little bit around seungcheol's thighs and shift forward until your crotch is just a hair's breath away from seungcheol's zipper. the proximity has seungcheol feeling dizzy and mentally praying that his dick doesn't get the memo embarrass him.

"maybe i'll find out someday," you say airily, but seungcheol knows it's all talk. he's been playing this game with you for far too long.

"you gonna smoke that?" seungcheol says, mostly for something to say. his words crack around the dryness in his throat and he glances at his empty solo cup on the end table next to the couch, really needing another drink right about now, but he's sure as hell not going to make you move to go make another.

"let's share it, yeah?" you say. you bring the pipe to your mouth and wrap your lips around it, sparking the flame to life low in the bowl and inhaling deeply, holding it in your lungs.

seungcheol hadn't really wanted to smoke tonight but what you want you get as far as he's concerned. he starts to reach for the pipe, expecting you to hand it over, but you shake your head and smile, a little wisp of smoke escaping the corner of your lips. you bring your hand to seungcheol's cheek, the back of your knuckle brushing his jaw pressing your thumb on seungcheol's lower lip, urging him to part them.

it takes seungcheol a second to register what you want him to do. you just raise your eyebrows, adding a little more pressure to your touch until your thumb nail dips into the wet part of seungcheol's mouth.

seungcheol finally gets the memo and parts his lips the rest of the way, tipping his head back to inhale, drinking every curl of smoke from your lips into his own lungs. he can feel the heat from his mouth, the two of you so close together he can almost feel your lips brushing. he has to resist the urge to chase it— you keep your eyes on him, half-lidded and already a little bit hazy from drinks, probably from drinking with your friends before heading over to the party. you look like pure sex.

god, seungcheol has never wanted anyone or anything more in his life.

you don't pull back even once seungcheol has exhaled all the smoke. in fact you've somehow gotten closer— your knees press into his waist, the swell of your ass sitting somewhere near where his cock has started stirring, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. the weight of you in his lap is almost torture but you are only making it worse with the way you're looking at him, gaze dark and sultry. like you want him just as much as seungcheol wants you.

the voice in the back of his head, the rational part of seungcheol (if there's even such a thing when he has you in his lap) reminds him that this is just what you do. this push-and-pull, will-they-or-won't-they, absolutely torturous test of patience and sanity.

you both have a pretty long history; the football team and cheerleading squad usually practice at the same time, and from the moment you stepped on that field seungcheol has been enamored with you. it would be nearly impossible to not be—  you're very distracting, the way you prance around in your crop tops and little skirts rolled down low on your hips to make them even shorter than they're supposed to be, much to the dismay of seungcheol's concentration but to the delight of basically every other part of him.

the first time you had tangled your hands together and dragged seungcheol behind the bleachers after practice was only a short couple of weeks into the semester. you'd let seungcheol push you into the fence and slot his knee between your legs, had let him lick hotly into your mouth and tug on your hair until you were both panting and worked up, a flush high on your cheeks. but just as seungcheol was about to suggest you head back to the frat house only a short walk away, you had pulled back, tugging at the hem of your painfully short top and sliding your tongue over your kiss-swollen lips.

that was fun, you'd said. maybe we can finish this next time? 

it became somewhat of an unspoken routine between you. every once in a while—  only every couple of weeks, really, by no means a regular thing— you would be extra distracting during practice, would somehow always be... doing something that seungcheol would deem a hazard to his health, from stretching until you were nearly bent in half, tying your shoelaces, and—  on one particularly excruciating day— doing a full split with your eyes on seungcheol the whole time, lips curled in a way that was far too innocent to not be intentional.

but no matter how much seungcheol wanted to, your little meetups never progressed any further than making out. every single time, just as seungcheol was starting to get really wound up, you would pull away, tell him you had to go, and leave.

needless to say, outside of football and studying there's little that seungcheol has been able to think about outside of you, you and you.

he hasn't even slept with anyone since he and you have started whatever thing you've gotten into. he did once, had picked up some girl who’d been trying to get in his pants for weeks. he ended up fucking her face down with her head pressed into the pillow, trying (and failing) to imagine that it was you trembling underneath him instead.

it didn't work, not even a little bit. if anything it only made him more frustrated, knowing that the only thing that would sate his appetite is a taste of you yourself.

it's excruciating.

you know it, too. it's clear in the way you're looking at him right now, the way you dart your tongue out against the end of the pipe before sliding it between your lips, keeping your eyes on seungcheol the entire time you light up the second half of the bowl and inhale before repeating the motion from before, dipping your head down to exhale the smoke directly into seungcheol's lungs.

he hadn't expected it to turn into a kiss; the second the last bit of smoke curls out from your mouth you push down the few inches to press your lips together, tongue sliding hotly over seungcheol's bottom lip and hands winding around his neck to wrap in his hair. seungcheol responds to it immediately, doesn't even have to think about it before his hands are on your thighs and he's tilting his head to give you better access, meeting your tongue in the space between your lips. you taste like vodka and the strawberry lollipop you'd been sucking on. he's already long associated the taste of artificial strawberry with kissing you, to the point where a few weeks ago his friend had offered him a pink starburst and the second he ate it he'd popped a boner and had to head back to the frat house in shame.

you pull away for air, panting in the pretty way you do against seungcheol's lips as you look at him through your eyelashes. seungcheol runs his hand down your thigh and his hand feels on something smooth— he hadn't realized before that you are wearing a pair of sheer stockings.

"you've been working so hard," you breathe. you massage the pads of your fingers into seungcheol's shoulders, working at the tense muscles there. "maybe there's somewhere we can go to release a little tension, mm? blow off some steam?"

"yeah?" seungcheol asks, hazy. he toys with the edge of your little skirt and you arch your back, pressing your cunt against seungcheol's zipper, making him hiss through his teeth.

"yeah." you parrot. you lean forward to ghost your lips over seungcheol's earlobe, hair brushing featherlight against his temple. "how about you show me where your room is?"

seungcheol shivers— he turns his head and noses against your cheek until you turn your head to meet him, brushing your lips just barely, sweet strawberry and liquor mingling in the shared space. his cock throbs in his jeans and he knows you are close enough that you can feel it, the swell of your ass full-on pressed over it. with a mischievous smirk you grind your hips down, just barely, painfully slow, eyes going dark. seungcheol is vaguely aware that you're both in a room full of people but he can't find himself in it to care if you're giving them a show, too overwhelmed by the feeling of you pressing in on every single one of his senses. you're so fucking intoxicating, even more so than the alcohol and weed coursing through his veins.

he slides his hands under your thighs, standing up and bringing you with him. you giggle, wrapping your legs around seungcheol's waist and winding your arms around his neck. there's dozens of eyes on you both when you make your way through the small crowd at the back of the house and up the stairs leading to the bedrooms, but he doesn't give a fuck about what kind of things people are saying about you. there’s already enough rumors talking about how you both must be hooking up— if anything seungcheol is praying that after tonight there might actually be some truth to them.

it’s a miracle and a half that seungcheol manages to not stumble and fall on his ass on the way up the stairs. once you reach the landing where there's much less prying eyes and attention on you, you immediately surge forward, grabbing a handful of seungcheol's shirt to drag the collar away from his neck, dipping your head to trace his collarbone with your tongue before sucking a bruise just above it. seungcheol shivers at the thought of having your marks on him, hidden just below where everyone will be able to see them— one little slip of his shirt will reveal the tender bruise blooming beneath it.

which— that's not something you've ever done before, marking each other—  you drag your lips over it and then pull back to admire it with hazy eyes, a pleased little smile curling the corner of your lips. within seconds you have your arms back around seungcheol's neck and you're sucking his earlobe into your mouth, laving your tongue over the shell of his ear and working your hips up against seungcheol's lower hips, the press of his cock unmistakably hard even trapped under his too-tight jeans.

"this one?" you gasp against his ear, breath rolling cold over the damp skin. seungcheol nods, letting you reach down and grab the handle before seungcheol kicks the bottom of the door to let you in, spinning to push you up against it to slam it shut the second you're inside. you unwind your legs from seungcheol's waist and drop to the ground, immediately pushing up on your tiptoes to bring your lips together in another kiss, wet and messy and tense with the promise of more to come.

kissing you is like the most addicting drug he's even taken—  he thinks he'd never stop if he didn't have to. he gets lost in the feel of it, the way you flick your tongue in the downright filthy way that never fails to make seungcheol's toes curl, mind immediately going to how it would feel for you to do that against the head of his cock.

seungcheol slots his thigh between your legs in the way he always does, pressing hard— you mewl, throwing your head back and curling your hand into hairs at the base of seungcheol's hair. and this is the way it always starts, the game you never finish playing.

seungcheol licks a fat stripe up the side of your neck before grazing his teeth over your jawline, every little whine he drags from your saliva-slick lips jolting straight to his groin.

"what's it gonna take, huh?" seungcheol mumbles into your skin, sealing the words with the slide of his tongue, tasting salt and perfume clinging to your skin. he slips his fingers underneath the stockings straining around your thigh, hitching your leg up around him to give him better access to roll your hips together. "what's it gonna take for you to let me fuck you?"

"thought you loved the chase," you pant, hands sliding to seungcheol's shoulders for leverage, pushing the collar of his shirt down to expose the golden, sweat-damp line of his neck. "what happened to taking your time?"

"you're a fucking tease is what happened." seungcheol finds your lips again, crashing them together in a messy, wet kiss laced with intent. you let him lick into your mouth, easy, pliant; you like to act like you're in control but seungcheol can see how quickly you fall apart under his hands, is dying to see how much you shake and writhe when split open on his cock. he shivers at the visual, a mess of precum dampening the front of his boxers.

"am i teasing you right now?" your voice doesn't lose the mischievous lilt even as you grind down on seungcheol's clothed cock, words punctuated by filthy little moans that have seungcheol going fucking crazy. "seems like you have me exactly where you want me."

seungcheol groans, not even able to think of a witty response. he just wants so badly it hurts — he grips harder around the stockings, pulling you impossibly closer. his other hand drops to your hip, fingers sliding up under your top to trace the line of skin above your waistband. heat starts to pool behind his lower body already, embarrassingly worked up from just this with all the past context of you edging him over and over again across the last semester. he's always prided himself on his stamina, never thinking he was the type to come in his pants from dry humping like a dog in heat, but then again he didn't think a lot of things were possible before he met you.

your kiss turns sloppier, more desperate; your lips are all puffy and swollen under his and seungcheol pulls back to trace them with the rigid tip of his tongue. your eyes are both half-lidded and glassy and you stare at each other as you roll your hips, panting in the shared space between you.

you've never gone any further than this, and seungcheol is already dreading the second you decide it's time for you to call it quits. seungcheol is so close he can practically taste his release on the tip of his tongue. he tries to tell himself it's different this time; you had told him you were coming up here to release some tension. you're in seungcheol's room, alone, with no risk of being caught or facing awkward walk of shame back home if you get a little messy. but part of him is already thinking ahead to the way you alway pull away, running your hands through your messy hair and flashing a sweet little swollen-lipped smile with a sorry, i have to get home, let's finish this next time? 

you are needy tonight, though. you don't show any signs of stopping, much to seungcheol's delight; you drag your lips down from his neck to his shoulder, leaving a slick trail of saliva, sucking another bruise into seungcheol's skin. you hiss through your teeth and cool the spot when seungcheol jerks harshly on the stocking to hitch you up even higher, forcing you up on the tiptoes of your high boots and wrapping your leg around his waist. seungcheol is grinding down onto you at a feverish pace, now, chasing his release, panting loudly in the room over the thundering boom of the bass outside. he's close, so, so close, and even if he doesn't get to fuck you he still wants to be able to come with you pressed up against you, the the strawberry scent on his nose and the salt of your sweat on his tongue.

"you're so fucking flexible," seungcheol growls, pressing your foreheads together.

"i'm a cheerleader," you gasp cheekily. there's a high red flush on your cheeks and you look so fucking wrecked— his cock drools another flood of precum and the string in his belly tightens nearly to snapping. "i can bend a hell of a lot more than this.”

"oh yeah?" seungcheol slips his fingers from where they're resting on your bare waist and circles them around to your stomach, brushing through the thin panties you're wearing disappearing down into the waistband of your skirt. he thumbs at it, hesitating, asking—  no, begging for permission.

you hum, deliberating. seungcheol's cock physically hurts with how bad he wants you, and the longer he stares at you the more he's torturing himself with wondering how you must look naked, your athletic cheerleader body and your thighs that he wants wrapped around his head more than he wants to be alive.

"how about we make a deal?" you say suddenly, your hazy eyes gaining some clarity, a flicker of mischief. you loosen your grip on seungcheol's hair, pressing gently against his chest in a way that makes seungcheol instantly still his hips. he has to hold back an actual sob, is fully prepared to get on his knees and beg if he has to. at this point he doesn't even care about getting himself off, he just wants you any way he can have you. he'd be happy to eat you out, let you cum out on his tongue, let you ride his face. just the thought of having your legs spread over his lips has his mouth filling with saliva and he ruts his hips forward, biting back an involuntary moan.

"anything," seungcheol answers after a little bit too long. "anything you want."

you giggle but it's different from the way you usually sound, low and sultry rather than pitched high with playfulness. you drag your nails over seungcheol's cheek before tracing your thumb nail over his bottom lip, pausing.

"win the game this weekend. if you do, come find me after. i'll have a surprise for you."

seungcheol blinks. he's so blindsided he doesn't even know what to say. "the game?"

"mmm." you pull away, gently tugging at seungcheol's wrist to make him unwind his hand from around the stockings on your thigh. he hadn't realized how tightly he was holding it until he lets go— his hand hurts. he flexes it a few times, wincing, and then smooths it down the front of his shirt, wrinkled and damp with sweat.

"y/n," seungcheol groans. he lets his head crash back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. he's so frustrated and worked up he feels like he might start whining and begging any second, has half a mind to shove his hand down the front of his pants and get himself off. "what did i ever do to you to deserve this level of torture?"

you giggle. there's a pressure on his jaw and when he opens his eyes it's your hand gripping it as you lean closer, lips brushing his earlobe.

"you didn't do anything to me, frat boy," you say sweetly, sliding your palm down his jaw and loosely letting your fingers loop around the thickest part of his neck. the rings on your fingers are shockingly cool against his overheated skin. "not yet, anyway."

you pull away all too quickly, stepping to the side and wrapping your hand around seungcheol's door knob, pulling it open. the thundering bass of the party downstairs roars to life, but right before you leave you fish in your purse to produce a brand new strawberry lollipop, taking a second to unwrap it before slipping it into your mouth. you push the wrapper into seungcheol's hand, curling his fingers closed, and then you slip through the door.

the room is draped in muffled sound again when the door snaps shut. seungcheol stares down at the pink wrapper in his hand before wadding it up in frustration, tossing it on his dresser before pulling his shirt over his head as he heads toward the bathroom to take a cold shower, no longer interested in the party.

one thing is for sure: he's going to win that game even if it kills him.

the next week of practice is hell on earth.

you are always there, like no matter where seungcheol turns you're doing some kind of obscene stretching in your tiny little skirt and crop top that shows way more skin than necessary. in fact, seungcheol is ninety-nine percent sure that you are wearing less clothing than usual on purpose just to make seungcheol miserable. it certainly wouldn't be out of character.

his coach and teammates actually get so frustrated with him that they start getting on his case about being distracted when the big game is coming up soon. if you weren't head cheerleader for the very team seungcheol plays for then he'd almost think you're trying to make sure their rivals win rather than them.

his frat throws parties almost every single night leading up to spring break, taking advantage of everyone making it through finals and having a lot of free time. seungcheol is so exhausted he's not really in the mood to party but he still sits downstairs every single night, nursing a drink while he waits for you to arrive.

you don't.

every day after practice he sticks around a little later than usual until both the football team and cheerleaders have left the field, taking extra time to pack his stuff up in the hopes that you will take pity on him and drag him behind the bleachers like you would sometimes do.

you don't.

in a few moments of desperation he actually shoots you a text, something he doesn't often do. he asks what you're doing that night, if you still have finals (and if you need a study partner) thinking maybe if he can get a conversation going then maybe you will hang out with him. you don't even have to do anything. he just wants to be around you. you have to at least reply, right?

you don't.

seungcheol wants to gnaw off his own arm.

thoughts of you consume him nearly every second of every hour of every day: you in your skimpy little practice outfits. you in your tight miniskirt with your stockings. you underneath him, skin slicked with sweat and lips bitten red, mewling and panting as seungcheol opens you up. he wonders if the pretty pink flush you wear high on your cheeks when you get worked up extends down to your chest, wonders which parts of your body are the most sensitive.

it's usually at night when his thoughts wander to the last one, after he's already tried (and failed) to sleep with increasing levels of frustration. it usually ends with him licking a stripe up his palm and shoving his hand down the front of his joggers, jerking his cock fast and hard with the image of you stretching in your little skirt at the forefront of his mind.

it's a very difficult time for him.

but, of course, other than you the biggest thing on his mind is the game. it's going to be a big one, the biggest his school has had in years— they're playing against their longtime rival school, and whichever team wins this year's final game will go down in college football history. seungcheol might even be able to get an offer to go pro off this game alone if he manages to play well and network properly afterward. he would literally be set for life.

no pressure or anything.

three days before the big game, their coach calls their final practice and the team goes out for a big dinner of steak and lobster with the liquor flowing freely on the team coordinator's tab. it's supposed to be an event to build team bonds or something like that, but really it's just an excuse for them to try and drink away the nerves that threaten to consume them knowing one of the most important games of their lives is coming up soon. seungcheol is feeling particularly antsy, knowing that being the star player and quarterback means much of that pressure sits directly on his shoulders.

he's a little tipsy but not uncomfortably so when they finish, and so he decides to walk back to the frat house afterward in an attempt to blow off some steam. but he quickly regrets his decision about halfway through when he realizes how chilly it is, the crisp spring air piercing through the thin material of his simple joggers and letterman jacket thrown over a thin t-shirt from his gym bag.

but then a banner flashes over the top of his phone screen, his text tone blaring a shrill beep that echoes over the abandoned street he's walking down. when he sees who it's from, his skin instantly heats up, mouth going dry.

y/n: hey there frat boy

y/n: got a minute?

seungcheol: for you?

seungcheol: a minute, an hour, as long as you want

y/n: oh yeah? well that's convenient for me

y/n: nervous about the big game?

y/n: i've heard there's a lot at stake

seungcheol: i wonder where you heard that

y/n: ha

y/n: i was talking about the actual stakes, not about ours

y/n: but while we're on the subject, that's actually why i decided to text you this evening :)

seungcheol fumbles his phone and nearly drops it when he reads your last text. his body has an instant reaction to the words, blood pumping like lava and rushing straight down to his groin. aside from loaded glances across the football field, seungcheol hasn't had any interaction with you for the better part of the week and then you come out of nowhere with all this.

classic y/n, honestly. always keeping him on his toes.

seungcheol: oh yeah?

seungcheol: are you finally gonna tell me what the surprise is when we win?

y/n: oh i see

y/n: when you win, not if

y/n: confident

seungcheol: are you hoping we don't win, y/n?

y/n: ha

y/n: if that's what you want to think

y/n: but back to what i was saying before...

y/n: i'm not going to tell you what you get when you win

seungcheol groans. he should have known you were just teasing him some more. it was too good to be true.

but then his text tone rings out again and he glances down at the message.

y/n: how about i show you instead?

seungcheol: fuck y/n

seungcheol: you already know my answer

you don't respond for an excruciatingly long period of time. so long, in fact, that seungcheol makes it all the way back to the frat house before you answer at all, obsessively checking his phone every few seconds the entire time he walks. and, okay, maybe he was walking a little bit faster than he was a few minutes ago, but he doesn't think anyone would blame him for that.

once he gets upstairs and into his room he locks the door behind him, and rather than his usual routine of stripping off his clothes and hopping immediately in the shower he beelines for his bed and sits on the end of it, staring at his phone screen while he anxiously taps his fingers over the back of it.

he's starting to think you aren't going to text him at all when his screen finally lights up with a new message.

y/n: sorry about the wait

seungcheol: i think this the first time you've apologized for making me wait

seungcheol: progress

y/n: quick response

y/n: someone's eager

y/n: where are you right now?

seungcheol: sitting on my bed

y/n: perfect

y/n: you've been so patient for me i thought you deserved a little reward

y/n: and maybe something that will help you relax before the big game

before seungcheol can respond something flashes over the top of his screen.

photo from y/n!

he immediately taps the banner without any hesitation, but he realizes immediately that he probably should have taken a minute to brace himself for what it contains. because the second he lays his eyes on the picture he's pretty sure he actually blacks out for the first ten seconds of the twenty second timer. the picture is of you from behind taken in a mirror—  you're bent over a desk so only your lower half is visible, bare feet curled into the carpet. but the most important, dizzying thing about the photo is what's hanging down over your thighs— just barely covering the swell of your ass is a little pleated skirt that seungcheol recognizes as the girls' cheer uniform.

seungcheol immediately scrambles to pull his joggers down, tucking them under his balls and hissing when he wraps his ice cold hand around his hot, heavy cock. he nearly drops his phone in his haste to replay the photo, thumbing through the precum drooling through his slit as he takes his time admiring it for his second look. there's the faintest peek of your asscheeks from below the skirt, and though seungcheol has seen your ass in your shorts at practice actually seeing a tease of the bare skin has him drooling, pumping his cock a few times with his fist before the picture inevitably ends and the screen goes black again.

y/n: you replayed

y/n: i take it that means you liked my little gift?

seungcheol: that was a little gift?

seungcheol: fuck y/n you're so

seungcheol: are you wearing that right now?

y/n: yep!

y/n: i got all dressed up just for you

y/n: should i wear this on saturday after the game? oh, or maybe during the game would be more fun? unless you think that would be too distracting while you play?

seungcheol: god you're driving me crazy

y/n: oh, i know

y/n: isn't that the point?

y/n: show me

seungcheol: show you?

y/n: i want to see what i do to you

seungcheol switches back over to camera with shaky hands, idly pumping his cock a few more times. the visual of you in the skirt is still fresh in his mind, so burned into him that he thinks it's all he's going to be able to think about for the rest of his life. not that it would be the most horrible thing in the world. he takes a few photos before settling on one of him taken from the front, cock gripped in his hand with precum messily smeared over the tip.

y/n has opened your photo! y/n has replayed your photo!

seungcheol: now who's the one replaying?

y/n: i was taken by surprise

y/n: if i'd known you have such a huge cock maybe i would have let you fuck me sooner

seungcheol: both of us know that's a lie

y/n: what can i do, i like to tease

y/n: and i haven't seen you complaining about it

seungcheol: i have, in fact, been very loudly and frequently complaining about it

y/n: i know your type, seungcheol

y/n: once you get what you want you get bored

y/n: the thrill is all in the chase

y/n: am i wrong?

and… you aren't exactly wrong, seungcheol does have a reputation on campus for being a fuckboy, and he’s definitely been known to jump around and have a lot of partners rather than having a solid arrangement with just one person. but it isn’t necessarily because he likes the chase, more that he hasn’t really found someone that catches his interest for more than a few hookups. he’s not opposed to commitment, he just hasn’t found a reason to commit. there’s a difference, he thinks. subtle, but there.

seungcheol: you’re different

he hits send before he has time to think about the implications of his message. it’s a very bizarre moment of clarity: he’s sitting there with his cock in his hand while having some sort of realization about how he feels about you. because, sure, the ridiculous sexual tension you have between you is the thing that connects you, but seungcheol can’t help but feel like there’s something else there. like maybe if he were able to pick it apart, to remove the lust from the equation and really focus on his thoughts there’s some more complexity behind the reasons he’s so hung up on you that extend beyond just she’s hot and i want to fuck her. there’s something there that makes you different, that makes seungcheol want to pursue you to the point where he hasn’t given up or had any other sexual partners even after months of getting nowhere. with anyone else, seungcheol would have gotten bored and given up a long time ago.

y/n: that’s cute, but it’s not going to get you in my pants any faster

y/n: you’ve been patient for this long, you can wait a little longer

y/n: but!

y/n: since you’ve been so patient, i have a little parting gift

y/n: wanna see?

seungcheol is sort of reeling from his semi-coherent realization but he’s also still ridiculously horny and he thinks maybe a little bit of post-nut clarity will give him more room to think about things. or at least that’s what he tells himself when he types his next message.

seungcheol: fuck, yes

photo from y/n!

it’s a similar angle as the first photo but the camera is dropped a little lower and your back is a little more arched— the lower half of your ass is completely exposed, now, fat and perky all at once, probably the most perfect fucking thing seungcheol has ever seen in his entire life. he starts stroking his cock in earnest, already so worked up from the teasing and the last picture that he can feel himself getting close embarrassingly fast— but then he notices something he hadn’t been able to see before, a little flash of pink peeking out from under the hem of your skirt.

he brings the phone closer to his face so he can see it more clearly, and sure enough there is something there: nestled between your cheeks is the tip of a shiny pink dildo, the skin around your hole slick and wet.

seungcheol bites his fist to stop himself from crying out as he comes hard all over his hand, hips jolting off the bed with the force of it— he comes an obscene amount, so much it drips all over his hand and onto his navel, some of it even splattered over his knee.

it takes him a second to come down from his orgasm but once he does he realizes with a jolt that he’d disappeared even though he saw you sending him texts while he was finishing himself off. he lurches for his phone, which had fallen onto the carpet near his feet at some point during the last minute or so.

y/n: i’ll take your disappearance as a good thing

y/n: i’m going to bed

y/n: glad you enjoyed the sneak peek

y/n: can’t wait for saturday

y/n: hope you win :)

seungcheol: oh trust me

seungcheol: i’m gonna win

they lose.

seungcheol honestly hadn’t really considered this outcome: for some reason he just assumed they would win, had thought that everything was already spelled out in the stars or something and he was destined to win this game and get everything he wanted. he was going to secure an offer to go pro before even entering his senior year and walk out of the stadium with you on his arm and his name in the college football history books.

it’s a low low.

he isn’t really sure how to deal with it.

his team tries to stay in high spirits but naturally most of them are very disappointed. there’s a lot of we’ll get them next time and it’s okay, seungcheol, you still have one more year, knowing this defeat probably hits him the hardest.

seungcheol had purposefully forced himself to not focus on you during the game, not even spending halftime watching the cheerleaders do their routine even though he’d wanted to see it because he knew how hard they worked on it. he figured there would be lots of videos that he could watch later, and the risk of getting distracted was too high. so the first time he sees you for the entire evening is after the game ends when most of his team has already headed back to their dorms and apartments to finish packing their things, preparing to head back home for the break until fall rolls around again and they’d come back and do it all over again, most of them for the last time.

he catches your eyes across the field and gets a pained, apologetic smile and wave in return.  it’s different from the way you usually look at him and something about it kind of hurts, realizing that you probably don’t have any interest in him anymore now that he let his entire school down. which, realistically he knows it’s kind of dramatic to think that way because his team still had a record-breaking season culminating in a very closely tied game against their biggest rivals which is an accomplishment in and of itself, but he can’t help but feel like really dropped the ball and failed in a huge way.

mingyu treats him to dinner before dropping him back off at the frat house. he isn’t heading back home for a few more days still because his parents are on vacation and he’d rather stay here with the few friends who live around campus during the summer than sit around in an empty house, especially when he’s already feeling pretty low.

when he arrives his friend is sitting on the couch with his nose in a book, typical for him, but the second seungcheol opens the door he gives him a pained smile similar to the one you had given him.

“sorry about the game,” he says. “next year will be better. don’t beat yourself up too much.”

seungcheol winces, waving him off in a way that he hopes isn’t rude.

“i’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he says, trudging up the staircase with his gym bag slung over his shoulder. he’d already showered the game off in the locker room and put his football uniform in his bag, choosing to throw on a simple long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of black joggers for the walk back home. at some point he thinks he lost his letterman jacket, almost positive he’d taken it to the game with him, but he probably just left it at home in his haste to leave earlier that morning.

“i’m sure you’ll find a way to distract yourself,” his friend says airily. the statement strikes seungcheol as odd because there’s definitely not anything fun to do in this city during the summer— everything revolves around college life and as such the bars and restaurants are all boring and empty at this time of year. it’s really depressing. maybe he’ll catch up on some of the video games he’s been neglecting in favor of studies and sports.

he cracks his door open and kicks his shoes off, dropping his gym bag on top of them, flipping on his light and heading toward the bed so he can lay there for a while and contemplate his life choices or something.

but when the light flickers on he stops dead in his tracks, lips parting in surprise.

“hey there, frat boy.”

you look like you stepped straight out of his most frantic fantasies: you're sitting on the edge of seungcheol's bed with your legs delicately crossed at the knee, the short, barely-there plaid cheerleading skirt sitting high up on your waist under a white crop top, the hem just barely brushing the tops of your thighs. but what really gets seungcheol, what really makes his skin heat up and his mouth go dry is the fact that his own letterman jacket is hanging low around your shoulders, so big on your dainty little frame that it nearly swallows you up. the sleeves bunch around your hands, the only visible part being the tips of your tiny fingers gripping your signature lollipop stick, candy sliding slick over your lips.

“i,” seungcheol says.

“i know we had a deal,” you say, words slow and unhurried. you uncross your legs and slide one foot underneath yourself, dropping the hand not holding the lollipop down to your thigh wrapped with your usual stockings. the letterman jacket slides further off your shoulder, skin catching the soft light from seungcheol's lamp. “but i thought maybe you’ve already suffered enough. maybe i can help cheer you up?”

seungcheol blinks at you. he sort of thinks maybe he’s having some sort of extremely elaborate fever dream. did he get sick? did he get hit by a car on his way home? if he knew this was what awaited him in the afterlife maybe he wouldn’t have been so afraid of his own mortality.

the strawberry lollipop clinks against your teeth when you slide it over your cheek, cocking your head. a lock of hair falls over your eyes.

“so?” you ask. “what are you waiting for?”

seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. he surges forward, tugging his t-shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner of his room.

“god, i’ve been thinking about this for months,” seungcheol rasps just before he crashes your lips together with enough force to push you back on the bed, caging your smaller frame with his larger one. you giggle into the kiss, winding your arms around his neck and parting your lips easily to slide your tongues together. the sweet strawberry candy on your tongue bursts to life, making seungcheol salivate and turning the kiss messier, wetter; he drags his saliva-slick lips down to your jaw, nipping at it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. “gonna make you wish you never made me wait.”

you arch your back into a pretty curve, making the skirt ride up higher over your thighs. seungcheol slides his hands down your body, dipping under the letterman jacket to trace your waist before roaming down to your thighs, pausing to toy with the hem of your skirt as he explores every inch of exposed skin above your shirt with his tongue. even as long as he’s been waiting he still wants to take his time, wants to savor you— wants to commit the way you feel and taste to memory until it’s burned into his tongue, wants to worship you the way you deserve to be.

“ah, seungcheol,” you gasp, huffing when seungcheol nips at your collarbone. “feels good.”

the fact that you are letting seungcheol touch you like this, giving him the privilege, is something seungcheol refuses to take for granted.

“i’ll make you feel so good, baby,” seungcheol gasps, pushing his hand up into your shirt, rolling your nipple between the pads of his fingers. you gasp, arching up off the bed, hair fanning prettily over the sheets like a halo around your head. “whatever you want me to do, i’ll do it. anything.”

“oh yeah?” the smile on your lips shines through in your tone. “do you wanna know why i made you wait for so long, seungcheol?”

“we’ve gone over this,” seungcheol mumbles into your skin. he pushes the crop top further up your chest to expose both nipples, soft and pink, hardening under the chill of the air conditioner. “because you wanted me to go fucking crazy.”

“you’re not— ah, fuck—” you mewl like a kitten when seungcheol attaches his lips to your nipple and sucks, a high sweet noise that jolts straight down to his cock. “you’re not completely wrong.”

seungcheol pulls off to switch to the other nipple, taking a second to admire his handiwork. your nipple is all hard and wet, puffy and red from his mouth. you look so fucking pretty when you're a little messed up. “not completely ?”

“i wanted to make you— ah, fuck, flick your tongue like that again— wanted to make you snap,” you admit, hissing through your teeth when seungcheol grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud. “wanted to make sure you were s-so worked up that when you can finally have me you’d fucking ruin me.”

seungcheol groans, pulling off your nipple with a little pop and a smear of saliva and sliding his hands down to your waist, admiring how dainty your frame is, the way seungcheol's hands are so big on you that he can wrap his hands almost all the way around. he imagines how it would feel to hold you like that up off the bed while he's fucking into you.

“i’ll ruin you.” seungcheol says, dragging his eyes down to admire the way the skirt falls down over your thighs, the pretty black stockings against your flawless skin. it’s a promise, words loaded with confidence. “i’ll fuck you until you beg me to stop— gonna make you think about me every time you try to walk for days.”

“fuck.” you shiver, your hands twitch against the bedsheets, curling your hands around the cuffs of seungcheol's letterman jacket. “your cock is so fucking big— been thinking about it so much.” you wrap one of your legs around seungcheol's back, sliding your socked foot over his waist. “i fucked myself with my thickest toy and imagined it was you— plugged myself up with it afterward and sent you those pictures while my cunt was still all messy with cum.”

seungcheol is fucking dizzy with your words, dragging his eyes all over your body and admiring the view as he does, feeling like he’s entered some kind of alternate reality where he’s the luckiest man alive. you are a vision, prettier than aphrodite, something that belongs in a museum— he’s delighted to find out that the pretty pink flush that sits high up on your cheeks extends all the way down to your chest and even colors your elbows and knees.

“i feel like i’m dreaming,” seungcheol admits out loud before his mouth catches up to his brain.

“you’re not,” you promise, lifting a hand to drag your nails over seungcheol's neck before pausing to press your thumb against his pulse point. you smile devilishly when you feel how fast seungcheol's heart is beating, flicking your tongue out to wet your lips. “you know, you can stare at me all night if you want, but the least you can do is let me suck your cock while you do it.”

“oh.” seungcheol squeezes his hands around your waist, pulling back the slightest bit. he realizes he’s been staring for what is probably an absurdly long amount of time, and once he comes back to himself it’s like everything floods back to him at once— the warmness of your skin under his hands, the way his cock is already sitting hard and heavy between his legs, the front of his joggers damp with precum. “yeah. fuck, come here— get on your knees.”

you let seungcheol pull you up off the mattress by your waist, setting you delicately on the floor where you sit prettily on your heels and fold your hands in your lap, cocking your head and watching as seungcheol arranges himself at the foot of the bed— you're impatient, though, already clawing at the waistband of seungcheol's sweats the second he’s sitting.

his cock springs free with a wet slap against his belly. you lick your lips, eyes widening as you take it in, dripping with awe and reverence and want, the pink flush on your cheeks darkening. you don’t hesitate to push forward, circling your fingers around the thickest part at the base of his cock.

seungcheol gasps, hips jerking up off the bed— it’s the first time you have touched him like this and it’s more of a shock to his system than he realized it would be, grounding him back in reality. It’s the first taste of this is really fucking happening that he’s gotten so far, the feeling of your warm hand wrapped around his length.

“you’re even bigger in person,” you whine. seungcheol realizes with a groan that your small hand can hardly even wrap all the way around his cock, fingers barely meeting even when you stretch them. “god, i want you to fuck me so bad. nothing’s ever big enough for me, even my biggest toys— i like it when it hurts, wanna be split apart.”

“you’re gonna kill me,” seungcheol gasps. he watches as you play with the precum oozing from his slit, pulling your fingers away to let it stretch in thin, sticky strands that you smear around his cockhead, pumping it a few times to aid the slide of your palm.

“just as long as you don’t die before you fuck me we’re good,” you tease and seungcheol swats you on the arm, earning him a giggle.

“thought you were the one who wanted to get the show on the road and suck me off,” seungcheol says, pushing his hips up into your fist. “i wanna see how pretty your lips look stretched out over my cock.”

you hum like you're deliberating; you press your chest to the end of the bed and angles seungcheol's cock down to smear the head over your lips, coating them in milky white. the first press of your velvety lips has seungcheol hissing, cock jerking in your hand and drooling more precum onto your face that dribbles down the corner of your mouth and down your chin.

“i want you to make me,” you say, pouting. when you speak the thin strands of seungcheol's precum stretch obscenely between your lips and seungcheol bites his lip, heart leaping up into his throat. you are so fucking hot he isn’t sure how he’s going to survive tonight. Maybe he won’t. “i told you i want you to snap. i want you to force my head down, fuck my throat, ruin me. i don’t want you to be gentle, i don’t want you to be kind, i want you to fuck me like a slut.”

god, you are a fucking wet dream as a person. and if you want seungcheol to snap, that’s exactly what he’ll do. you deserve to get fucked the way you need, the way you deserve.

he grips a hand in your hair close to the scalp, so hard you hiss at the burn. your eyes roll back in your head and you actually look relaxed, lighter, like seungcheol is finally giving you what you want. you make a pretty, high-pitched sound, letting your lips drop open so seungcheol can force your head down on his cock, pushing you halfway down on it in one motion. it makes you nearly choke but you take seungcheol's cock like a champ, relaxing your throat so you don’t choke, suffocated moans creeping up your throat and vibrating your mouth in a way that has seungcheol gasping and tightening his grip in your hair.

“is this what you wanted?” he feels the strain of your head frantically trying to nod, held still by seungcheol's firm grip on your hair. he pushes you down even deeper, inch by inch, letting you adjust to the slide until your mouth is fully seated on his cock, strawberry lips stretched around the base and a mess of drool and precum dripping messily down your chin and over seungcheol's balls. “to choke on my cock? for me to force you to choke on my cock? to have all your filthy little holes stretched open and stuffed full?”

“mm,” you moan around his cock in frantic agreement, all you can do with your mouth full of cock. you fist your hand in seungcheol's sweats until your knuckles are white. you're straining against seungcheol's hand to try to force your head down even more.

“fucking cockslut,” seungcheol says and you moan, tightening your grip on seungcheol's sweats. “only been sucking me off for a few minutes and you already want me to fuck your throat? is that what you want, baby?”

your eyes flash up to his. they’re pleading.

i want you to snap. i want you to ruin me. i want you to fuck me like a slut.

seungcheol forces your head down until your nose is pressed into the neatly trimmed patch of hair at the base of his cock and you full-on gag, squeezing the tip of his cock in a way that makes seungcheol cry out and toss his head back. your mouth is so fucking wet, hot, the back of your throat small and tight. you take it so well, gagging and swallowing down the precum that drips from seungcheol's slit while also controlling the pressure of your lips and sliding the flat of your tongue up and down the shaft to add pressure.

you untangle your hand from seungcheol's sweats and slip it between his legs to cup his balls, gently rolling them over your palm and between your fingers. you're still looking up at seungcheol with your eyes, lashes threaded with tears that are starting to well up and drip down the apples of your cheeks from your throat being fucked. you look so pretty gagging on his cock that seungcheol can’t even believe you're real.

his first orgasm is already coming on quickly so he picks up his pace, chasing release— he knows it’s a little early to come but he wants to take the edge off fast so he can recover quickly and fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked later— he picks up the pace, planting his feet on the floor and working his hips up to fuck your throat faster, holding your head still. the noises filling the room are straight up obscene, the slick sloppy slide of his cock pushing into your pliant mouth and the wet gagging every time he hits the back of your throat— seungcheol's gasps and groans, loud and rhythmic. his hand is fisted in the back of your hair so hard it must hurt but you look so blissed and fucked out like having seungcheol's cock forced down your throat is the only thing you've ever wanted, little moans vibrating through your chest that don’t have a chance to escape with the brutal pace of seungcheol's cock fucking into your mouth.

tears start full-on running down your cheeks, tinged with the slight grey of your mascara. you're a fucking vision. 

“gonna c-come,” seungcheol gasps, shuddering. “where do you want me to come, baby? down your throat?”

you pinch seungcheol's thigh to signal him to pull out and seungcheol instantly lets go of your hair, letting you pull himself off with an obscene pop and a huge gasp that sucks all the air out of the room. seungcheol is worried for a second that he’d taken it too far and hurt you but you don’t even miss a beat before you're leaning forward, angling with your mouth open wide under seungcheol's cock and your tongue sticking out.

“on my face,” you gasp. “on my face, hurry, please—”

seungcheol takes himself in his hand and jerks his cock with quick, short strokes, grunting as he feels the heat pool in his groin and then snap— and he’s coming, drenching your tongue and chin in creamy white. you are moaning like you're the one coming, tears still streaming down your face and hands fisted into the hem of your skirt.

“tastes so good,” you say. your voice is cracked and broken from abuse. “god, so fucking good.”

once seungcheol has milked himself of every drop of his release he pushes his softening cock against your lips, smearing it through his own release before dragging it up to the apples of your cheeks, wiping away the grey tear tracks. you wait patiently as he does it, mouth still hanging open with seungcheol's cum pooled on your tongue, eyes wide and unblinking. the second seungcheol shoves his cock back in your mouth you shiver around it, lapping up seungcheol's release tinged with your own tears.

“so fucking perfect,” seungcheol says. “come here.”

you crawl up onto seungcheol's lap, pushing your finger against his bottom lip just like you had the night you'd shotgunned at the frat party— seungcheol parts them easily and then you are hovering over him, dripping his cum mixed with your tears into his mouth. it’s salty and bitter but tinged with the candied strawberry sweetness of your mouth— it’s so fucking dirty it has seungcheol's cock already stirring back to attention. seungcheol surges up and presses your lips together, tongues meeting messily in the center and twisting around the cum and tears, passing between each other before swallowing it all down.

“are you even real, huh?” seungcheol asks when you pull away, dragging his fingers through the mess on your chin and then dropping his hands to your thighs, pushing up under your skirt and letting the fabric pool around his wrists. “wanna fuck you so bad.”

“please,” you say, squeezing your knees around seungcheol's thighs.

“but first, want you to ride my face until i get hard again.” he strokes his fingers over your thighs, tender, gentle. “gonna make you come riding my tongue and then i’ll fuck you open until you’re screaming on my cock like a messy slut.”

you shiver, already nodding your head and frantically pushing at seungcheol's shoulders to lay him flat on his back. you climb up over his chest, planting your knees on either side of seungcheol's arms. your cunt is only inches from his face like this, giving seungcheol a perfect view up your skirt— you've made a mess of yourself, wetness dripping down from your hole.

“i must have saved a galaxy in my past life,” seungcheol muses out loud, making you giggle. he grips the back of your thighs to pull you up closer to his face and you squeal in surprise, falling forward and planting your palms into the mattress. he slides his hands up the back of your thighs and cups your cheeks, groaning at how the fat, pillowy globes of your ass fit so perfectly in his palms. he spreads your cheeks apart, revealing the same pastel pink dildo that had been nestled between your cunt in the photos you had sent him the other night.

seungcheol flicks at the end of the dildo, ripping a gasp from your chest. “already fingered myself open for you,” you admit. “d-did it on your bed before you came home— thought about everything i wanted you to do to me but didn’t let myself come.”

“what did you think about?” seungcheol asks, pinching the end of the dildo between his fingers and twisting it. you shudder, knees slipping over the sheets.

“thought about this.” you say, panting. “thought about riding y-your face, and then you bending me over and fucking me from behind while you called me a whore.”

“you are a whore,” seungcheol says easily and the reaction you have to it is instant, the way your thighs are rubbing against each other against your skirt and you gasp and shiver, gripping at the sheets. “you know what whores do?”

“w-what?”

“ride my tongue until you come.” seungcheol pulls the dildo an inch out and then plunges it deeper, fucking it into your slicked hole. “if you can do that, then i’ll fuck you just like you imagined.”

you inhale deeply and then exhale shaky. “yeah,” you gasp. “fuck, yeah, okay.”

seungcheol idly plays with the dildo for a few more seconds until you huff in frustration, trying to pull up to force seungcheol to pull the dildo out of your hole. “stop teasing me,” you whine.

“payback.” seungcheol replies cheekily, making you roll your eyes. but he's not about to make either of you wait much longer, not with how long he’s been fantasizing about having you sitting on his face.

your hole flutters around nothing when he finally slides the dildo loose. your wetness oozes from inside of your hole and drips onto seungcheol's bottom lip— it smells sweet so he darts his tongue out to taste it.

you taste like fucking strawberry.

he tosses the dildo aside, shoving his hands up under your skirt to grip your thighs and force you down onto your face. you sink onto his mouth like you're meant to sit there, lining your cunt up with seungcheol's mouth and grinding down on it. the first lick of seungcheol's tongue against your cunt has you gasping and mewling already, a sweet sound that echoes off the walls.

if fucking your throat was a religious experience this is somehow even better; you are so fucking loud in the way you show pleasure, so responsive to everything seungcheol does— he curls his tongue to run his tongue around your hole and then slides in as deep as he can go without aid from his fingers. you tremble, grinding your hips down in small circles, chasing the hot, wet feeling of seungcheol's tongue.

“seungcheol, seungcheol, seungcheol.” you are chanting, so far gone— your fingers scramble for purchase against the bedsheets. “deeper, more, please.”

seungcheol spreads your cheeks wider, rubbing his thumb against your entrance and pushing the tip of his thumb in next to his tongue, opening you up so he can push his tongue deeper inside. you moan desperately, working your hips faster— you grind down on seungcheol's tongue, babbling— yes, just like that, just like that— fuck so wet, so hot, so fucking good. 

your knees squeeze seungcheol's head, shaking and trembling like you're trying to crush it. you push up off your hands to sit straight up on seungcheol's face, the letterman jacket falling full off your shoulders and pooling around your hands that you curl into the hem of your skirt as you grind down on seungcheol's tongue and fingers around dry sobs. you're breathtaking from this angle—  well, you are breathtaking from any angle but you're particularly striking like this, the sheen of sweat on your bare shoulders and stomach shining under the golden light of seungcheol's lamp.

“wanna come so bad.” you arch your back as seungcheol drags his tongue down your hole, chest rising and falling with long, labored breaths. “can’t come like this, seungcheol, please, need you to fill my cunt—”

seungcheol hooks his fingers around the stockings on your thigh and tugs on it, making you spread your legs wider and sink even further down on his face until seungcheol can hardly even breathe, a silent way of telling you if you want to come then ride my face harder. and you full-on whine, loud and high pitched, thighs shaking violently like you're struggling to even hold yourself upright anymore. you tangle your hands into your own hair and tugs at the strands in frustration, working your hips messier, more frantically— it’s so wet, so messy, your wetness mixed with saliva coating the entire lower half of seungcheol's face.

you're chasing, chasing, chasing — seungcheol presses his thumb deeper, all the way up to the curve of his hand, stroking and massaging your walls as he works his tongue deeper in beside it.

“oh, fuck—” you suddenly shout. “i’m— i’m right there. right there— please, please, i just need a little more, just a little more — something, anything.” you're babbling, rhythm faltering in your panic, your desperation to get off. you curl your hands in seungcheol's hair and forces his head up as you fuck down onto his face, gasping, pleading, messy sobbing—

and then finally you're coming with a shout, back arching in a curve that looks almost painful, cunt spurting white that hits your skirt and drips down onto seungcheol's face. your bitten lips are open in a silent scream, eyes screwed shut, hole clenching around seungcheol's tongue as you ride it out, babbling a mixture of seungcheol's name mixed with curses.

seungcheol lets you come down before he folds your legs back to push you off his face, tossing you back on the bed in a way that makes you bounce, eyes post-orgasm blissed and hazy. seungcheol's been ready for round two for what feels like forever, cock hard and heavy between his legs. you press your thighs together, smearing the mess of saliva and cum between them, watching as seungcheol reaches down to pump his cock a few times.

“oh,” you say, words slurred. you light up suddenly when you realize what’s happening, eyeing seungcheol's cock with interest. “finally gonna fuck me?”

seungcheol doesn’t even answer, just climbs over your body and parts your legs with his knee, shoving your skirt up over your thighs. he gathers some of the mess dripping from your hole and uses it to slick himself up, lining his hips up and pressing his cockhead against your puffy, swollen entrance.

you squirm, already trying to fuck yourself down on seungcheol's cock the second you feel him press up against you— seungcheol is fucking baffled at how insatiable you are, already desperate to get fucked not even two minutes after you had just come— you're babbling again already, fuck me, fuck me, god I’ve been wanting this so bad, fill me up

seungcheol pushes all the way in to the hilt in one swift motion— your entire body tenses from the stretch, a line appearing between your eyebrows and your abdomen tensing from the burn— seungcheol waits a second to let you adjust, moving his hips in smooth circles to help you get used to the stretch.

“god, you’re so fucking big, fill me up so good — ah, no one has ever filled me like this before—” you gasp. “move, please, fuck me.”

seungcheol pulls out slowly and then slams back in with the lewd slap of his balls against your ass. you cry out, digging your nails into seungcheol's sweat-slicked shoulders to hold yourself steady so seungcheol can pick up the pace, fucking into you over and over, each ripping a string of pretty sounds and swears from your mouth, like music to seungcheol's ears.

“you’re so fucking tight around my cock,” seungcheol groans. “fucking incredible, how are you even real.” 

he pushes his hands to the back of your thighs and practically folds you in half, using the stockings around your thigh to hold your ass up off the bed to fuck even deeper. he can tell when he angles his hips just right and hits your weak spot because you start full-on squealing, eyes rolling into the back of your head and fingers twisting into the bedsheets so hard you rip them off the corners of the mattress.

“feel so full,” your voice sounds hazy, like you're on another planet. “j-just a little more and i’m gonna— fuck, gonna come again—”

“already?” seungcheol asks, picking up the pace until he’s fucking into you almost brutally, hitting your spot full-on with every slam of his hips. “you really are a fucking slut, already came on my tongue and now my cock— how greedy are you? how many times are you gonna come before you’re fucking satisfied?” 

you toss your head back when seungcheol slams into you particularly hard, pushing you halfway up the bed; you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries but seungcheol growls, ripping it away and pinning it over your head

“let me hear every noise i fuck out of you,”

“s-seungcheol can you please— can you—”

“can i?” seungcheol is prepared to do whatever the fuck you want at this point. anything.

“hit me,” you gasp quickly, as if you're embarrassed to even breathe the words to life. “fucking— please. slap me, i’m so so so close, fucking slap me—” 

seungcheol hesitates for a second but he sees the look in your eyes, so desperate, pleading, needing it— he draws his hand back and slaps you full on the cheek, not hard enough to leave a mark but just enough to make you gasp, eyes flying wide.

“like that?”

“n-no, harder.” you are squirming as you whine. “hit me harder. hard enough to leave a mark, make it hurt.”

“alright. okay, ah— fuck, y/n,” seungcheol pants. he brings his hand down again, slapping you hard enough to jerk your face to the side, leaving a faint pink mark on your cheek with a crisp sound that rings out into the room.

“yes!’ your spine goes rigid and your hole clenches around seungcheol's cock. “yes, yes, j-just like that— ‘m so close.”

“still not coming for me? even when i’m slapping you around like a fucking whore?” seungcheol winds his arm back and slaps you again, and again, and you sob as your body goes taut before you start trembling and shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks as you come untouched for the second time, cum flooding from your cunt in thick ropes that shoot up to your chest, covering the hem of seungcheol's jacket and draping over the pleats in your skirt.

your cunt is still wet, puffy and so swollen it looks like it must hurt with how badly it wants to be touched.

seungcheol pulls out before you even finish riding out your orgasm and you panic, scrambling against the sheets. “w-wait, don’t wanna be empty,” you gasp. “put it back, keep fucking me.”

“shh, baby, i’m not done with you yet,” seungcheol promises. he dips his head to press your lips together in a kiss, probably too gentle and tender for all you're doing right now, but even despite everything seungcheol wants you to know you're appreciated, being cared for. “flip over.”

your eyes are shiny when you pull away from the kiss and you nod, rolling over onto your stomach. seungcheol slides off the back of the bed and plants his feet on the ground, pulling you by the calves to the end of the bed and bending you over the edge, pressing a hand down on the small of your back to keep you steady as he slides his cock back inside.

“fuck, look at you,” seungcheol says when he slides in. “came twice already and you’re still greedy for more. insatiable little cumslut.”

he pulls out and slams back in, your sloppy hole sucking him in like you were made to take his cock. you shake from oversensitivity but still take his cock so well, socked toes scrambling against the carpet for purchase but not finding from the way seungcheol is holding you up against the bed. he fucks into your hole, watching the way the hem of the skirt bounces against the thickest part of your ass every time he snaps his hips forward.

"fill me," you gasp, so far gone, drooling onto the bed below. "when are you g-gonna fill me up?”

"soon, baby. you're gonna look so pretty all filled up with my cum," seungcheol says, punctuating his words with harsh slams of his hips that make your ass jiggle. "i'm gonna fill you up so good it spills out of your hole and drips all down your thighs, making you look just like the messy little slut you are."

"oh— fuck, seungcheol," you say weakly. your voice is raspy from overuse but still has the pretty, cheerful lilt to it that it always does. seungcheol bites down on his lip and groans, jerking his hips forward as he slides his hands further up your thighs, under the skirt, letting the fabric pool over his wrists. "s-so big — god, your cock is so perfect, fucking made for me, fucking spoiling me with it."

seungcheol strokes his thumbs over your ass as he fucks into you, mesmerized by how pretty you look underneath him, back curved into a perfect arch, your messy hair damp with sweat and mussed from seungcheol's fingers. "i'll make sure my cock is the only thing you can think about when you get off, how's that sound? gonna fuck you so good, so deep, that i ruin you for anything and anyone else."

"already have," you pant. "n-no one can fuck me like this, only you seungcheol, o-only you, mmh— god, when are you gonna come inside me? i n-need it, i want you to fill me so bad, wanna be full and dripping and warm."

“messy little cumslut,” seungcheol rasps. he slaps you full on the fattest part of your ass and you jerk in surprise before moaning, pressing your forehead down into the mattress. a pretty pink mark in the shape of seungcheol's hand blooms against your skin.

“yeah,” you breathe. “fucking love it, can’t wait to feel you come inside.”

a few more thrusts and seungcheol can feel his release creeping up fast— he digs the pads of his fingers into the meat of your ass, focusing on the sight of the little pleated skirt and the overwhelmed tremble of your legs, and before long he’s coming with a shout, spilling hot and deep into your hole and fucking it into you until you have milked him clean of every drop.

the noises you make as you come are filthy— you're mewling, gasping, begging for more— "please, seungcheol, want more, feels s-so good, so hot, ‘m so full.”

the second seungcheol finishes coming he slips his cock out, earning a whine from you— you're grinding against the mattress, chasing another orgasm with your forehead pressed into the sheets, weakly murmuring seungcheol's name and senseless pleas. seungcheol drops to the ground and spreads your ass, watching the way his cum is already slowly leaking out of your hole, rolling down your inner thigh.

he laps up the drop, tracing the path up to your puffy, abused hole, so messy and wet. you gasp when you feel the first press seungcheol's tongue against your cunt, licking his own release out of you.

"o-oh, seungcheol, that's—" you tremble, grinding your cunt against the mattress. "that's f-filthy, fuck."

seungcheol reaches around your cunt with his fingers, rubbing your cunt slowly as he eats you out, swallowing down every drop of his own cum. your shoulders drop in relief at finally having your neglected cunt touched, fucking into seungcheol's fingers to chase your final orgasm. you come quickly, whimpering weakly as your spent swollen cunt dribbles a pathetic amount of cum onto seungcheol's fingers.

seungcheol pulls himself to his feet and you try to follow suit but the second you stand your knees buckle and you nearly collapse.

“hey, hey, are you okay?” seungcheol asks, catching you around the waist and straightening you up. he gently sets you on the end of the bed but you wince at the pressure on your abused hole, shifting your weight onto your hip instead.

“mm,” you hum in agreement. your eyes are still a little hazy but you don’t look upset, just still far gone. “was so good. thank you.”

seungcheol laughs. “i should be the one thanking you,” he says, settling on the bed next to you. he puts his hand under your thigh to help take some of the pressure off where it hurts. “that was… god, i don’t even have words for it, it was amazing.”

“i was good?” you ask.

“you were perfect.”

you smile, humming contentedly. "i’m tired.”

“why don’t you get cleaned up. i’ll strip the sheets and then we can go to bed, okay? you deserve to get some rest.”

you agree so seungcheol gets to work— he fills the tub in the bathroom and helps ease you into it, filling it with soaps and bath bombs that you pick out yourself (after some mild teasing about why he has such an expansive bath product collection— seungcheol just likes to smell good, okay?) and then he gathers up the filthy clothes and bedsheets and throws them in the wash, grabbing a new set to re-make the bed.

he’s just finished cleaning himself up in the downstairs bathroom and is picking out some clothes from his drawers for you to put on when the bathroom door creaks open and you poke your head out— your skin is scrubbed clean and your hair is damp, a towel wrapped around your body.

“hey,” you say, a little quietly. you seem so much smaller and vulnerable than you usually do and something about it makes warmth flood into seungcheol's chest, stomach fluttering at how domestic it feels for you to be showering in his ensuite. “what are you doing?”

“grabbing you some clothes,” seungcheol says. he gathers up the long-sleeved t-shirt and sweats he’d found and sets them into your arms. “they’ll probably be too big for you, sorry, but they’ll do for now.”

you stare down at them, tongue poked in your cheek. seungcheol can’t help but feel like there’s something wrong and a little wave of anxiety spikes through him, feeling like maybe he did something wrong. had he been too rough with you? had he taken advantage of you somehow? he doesn’t really have much experience with having sex that rough but he knows an important part of it is making sure your partner is taken care of afterward and he wonders if maybe he didn’t do a good job— even though he was planning on cuddling you once you got in bed and making sure you were okay. was he supposed to do it sooner?

you don’t seem to notice his anxiety, dipping back into the bathroom to pull seungcheol's clothes on and re-emerging a minute later, rubbing your damp hair with the towel that was just around your body.

seungcheol is still sort of panicking. “is everything okay?”

“oh, yeah, yeah.” you drape the damp towel over the back of seungcheol's desk chair and then look across the room. “where are my clothes?”

“i threw them in the wash.”

“oh. well, i can come back and get them tomorrow morning, then, i’ll be staying on campus for a few more days.”

seungcheol blinks at you. “you’re leaving?”

you seem taken aback. “yeah?”

“oh.”

you cock your head to the side. “you were acting like i was acting weird but i'm pretty sure you’re the one who’s actually acting weird. what’s wrong?”

“i just uh.” seungcheol pauses. he wonders if you staying the night was a ridiculous expectation. after all, your relationship up until now has been nothing but the promise of sex, definitely not talking or cuddling in seungcheol's bed. you will probably think he’s weird and overstepping boundaries for even suggesting it. “i thought maybe you were going to stay.”

you blink a few times. you seem genuinely taken aback, but definitely not upset. a range of emotions crosses your face but then, finally, a smile curls the corners of your lips.

“you want me to stay?”

“of course i do. we had a great time and i thought we could, uh—”

“cuddle?” you step toward him, your smile curling impossible wider. “talk all night? watch movies?”

seungcheol can feel his cheeks heat up. “actually… yes?”

“huh.” you stop in front of seungcheol, looping your arms over his shoulders. “never pegged you as the romantic type.”

“i’m not? i just, uh.” he swallows down the lump in his throat. “you make me want to be.”

your eyes glitter— you push up on your tiptoes and brush a slight kiss against his lips, mint on your breath. for once you don’t smell like strawberries— you smell like seungcheol. and as much as seungcheol has grown to like the way you taste, the way you smell— he decides he likes it very, very much.

“i think you might make me want to be, too.”

you do spend the night. and then you spend the next night, and the next night after that. it’s amazing how well you both get along when you actually talk instead of dry humping behind the football field, and seungcheol is kinda mad at himself for being so hung up on getting in your pants that he never actually tried to get to know you.

(not that he still doesn't try to get in your pants. the only difference now is that he actually succeeds).

in seungcheol's senior year, his team crushes their rivals in the final game of the season with a landslide victory, earning his name a place in the college football history books and on a contract for a pro team with an offer that makes his head spin.

the best part about the victory, though, is the way you come streaking across the field the moment the game ends, eyes curled with the force of your bright, beaming smile. you leap into seungcheol's arms, crashing your lips together in a kiss that says you did it, you fucking did it, i’m so proud of you. 

so yeah, seungcheol might be a little bit of a cliche: captain of the football team dating the head cheerleader. but he doesn’t mind: life is good.

---------------

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, you were the only one who presented as an omega. All your brothers and sisters were Alphas, which means the hammer really came down on you. Your mother made sure you knew how omegas were supposed to behave. Docile, submissive, made to cater to Alphas. It didn’t matter if the world was moving away from these stereotypes. In your household, your father’s word was law, and that meant you had to fall in line.

You cut them off the second you turned eighteen, not that they cared. The last words your mother ever said to you were that no Alpha would put up with your demands, and you would end up alone with no mate, no pups, no family.

Whatever. You don’t need a family. You would be fine on your own.

That was nearly a decade ago. You are a grown woman now, with a stable job, a cozy house, and good friends. Yes, after struggling through college with no one by your side, struggling to unravel how your family’s beliefs had screwed with your head, you even managed to make friends. Your job is a corporate, boring desk job, but the people there are very nice and accommodating. On your first day there, you met Boo Seungkwan, a fellow omega, who welcomed you as one of his own, metaphorically taking you under his wing.

Seungkwan is unlike any omega you have ever met in your life. He is loud, he takes up space, he gets annoyed with his Alpha friends, snaps at them, even calls them names sometimes. It had shocked you when you first saw him interact with Mingyu, who sat one desk over from you. And it shocked you even more when Mingyu never once shut Seungkwan down, instead engaging in petty banter with just as much zeal. You cannot imagine your father or your brothers tolerating Seungkwan’s tone, but Mingyu took it in stride.

They both fascinated you. And you fascinated them.

Seungkwan is a naturally affectionate person. When he tried to hug you for the first time, every hair on your body stood up, every muscle turning rigid with tension. You cannot explain how it felt, like someone was slashing at your inner omega with knives, and unintentionally, you snarled from deep within your subconscious. Seungkwan nearly flew off you, eyes wide, mouth dropped open. He held his hands up to placate you as you tried to regulate your breaths.

He never touched you again.

You can list off in your head the number of times someone has touched you. Your father, never. When you started walking properly as a toddler was the last time it was your mother. You had shaken hands with teachers at graduation, both high school and college. You had accidentally bumped into people on the subway. The doctor touched you when you went in for checkups, and that was hell too, making your heart pound painfully and your skin feel like it was on fire. You don’t know why you’re like that. You just are. Touching hurts. So you avoid it.

Choi Seungcheol knows exactly what it is.

He is interested in you from the second he first sees you walk into the office. You don’t work in the same team. He is in finance, you are in marketing, but he sees you often because you are on good terms with Seungkwan, and Seungkwan is friends with literally everyone. He likes watching you. You are quiet, calm but witty. You can keep up with someone as hyperactive as Seungkwan quite easily, and you like ribbing on Mingyu sometimes too, who you also seem to be close with. Seungcheol wonders if there is something going on there, but then he sees Seungkwan hug you, your visceral reaction to it, and it all clicks into place.

You’re a touch starved omega.

He has seen it once before when he was a teenager. It isn’t common, and often only happens with severe neglect. It makes no sense to him. You’re so beautiful, and the handful of times Seungcheol has been in the same vicinity as you, he has caught a whiff of your scent. Sweet like honey and flower petals. He cannot imagine that another Alpha has never been interested in you, or tried to court you. His heart aches at the thought of you being so alone for so long, and the Alpha in him wants to comfort you.

But he has to take this slow.

It is a random Thursday evening when Choi Seungcheol approaches you for the first time. You are standing outside the office building, fiddling with your phone, when a very distinctly alpha smell hits your nose. You turn your head to see him there, a mere few feet from you. He offers you a tiny smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” You recognise him. “Seungcheol?”

“That’s me.”

You’ve seen him around the office. You’re not sure what department, but he’s in the break room sometimes when you and Seungkwan are in there. His presence isn’t loud or overwhelming like alphas often are, but there’s a very distinct, confident air about him. He carries himself with the self assured stance of a man who is comfortable in his skin. You like people who know what they want out of life, like Seungkwan, like Seungcheol. But you never had any reason to speak to him before.

“Are you waiting for someone?” He asks.

You shake your head, holding up your phone. “Just looking for a cab. My car’s in the shop, so I’ve been commuting like this.”

He nods. “I can give you a ride home, if that’s okay?”

You hesitate a bit. You don’t want to impose on him, even though he is the one who offered. But you look down at the app again, at how you’ve been looking for something not crazy expensive for the last ten minutes. You weigh your options as he waits patiently for your answer, before reluctantly nodding yes.

Seungcheol’s car smells like him, and it’s the first time his scent hits your nose strongly enough for you to decipher the notes. Cedarwood and leather. It’s heavy, but not potent, grounded in earthly tones. Involuntarily, you feel yourself relax. That doesn’t happen often when you’re among alphas. The only other one you feel remotely okay with is Mingyu.

Seungcheol makes small talk with you as he drives. None of the questions are too invasive; why your car is in the shop, how your current project is going, what are your usual plans for after work. You talk about Seungkwan, the common link between you two, and Seungcheol praises Seungkwan’s people skills, his ability to hold attention during work meetings. You conclude that you like listening to him speak. His voice is deep, kind of brassy without being grating to the ear. It’s soft too, despite being so manly, and you wonder again how an alpha can have such a strong presence while simultaneously being so accommodating.

“Thank you.” You smile at him genuinely, when he stops before your apartment complex. He nods and smiles back, and your breath catches at the little dimple that dents his cheek. Every little thing adds to his allure. You can feel the omega in you stir, and you leave the car before you can dwell on what that means.

You haven’t had much luck with romance in the past. You presented later than most people your age, and by the time you came to terms with your upbringing, trying to break away from it, you were well into college. You know alphas looked at you, of course. They were alphas. Their biology meant that they would sniff out an omega. But it was never about you, specifically. Your aversion to touch worries you sometimes when it comes to finding a mate, but you are also averse to the very idea of a mate, especially after what your mother had always said. You have grown resentful of the idea that an alpha could be anything like the ones you grew up with. So you banish any thought of that from your mind.

Seungcheol starts showing up more and more in your life after that.

When he greets you in the break room and Seungkwan realizes you know each other, he insists that you all sit together, and that’s how you end up having lunch with him every day. He always offers a taste of his food, which you politely decline, insisting he should eat. A few days of this and he starts bringing a smaller box with him, saying you can eat from it without worrying about his portions. It catches you off guard, that he sets food aside for you, but something inside you preens at the thought, and your heart beats faster when you accept the food.

Seungcheol drives you home a few more times as well, saying he lives in the same direction anyway, and you can ride with him until your car is back from being fixed. You wrack your brain on how to repay all his kindness, and you are so caught up in it that Seungkwan has to sit you down and spell it out for you.

“He’s courting you, dumbass.” His eyes bore into you, and you blink hard a few times, trying to process his words.

“No he’s not.” You scowl. “He’s just being kind.”

“He’s cooking extra food and packing it every day for an unmated omega. He is offering to drive home an unmated omega every day.” Seungkwan rolls his eyes.

You bite your lip anxiously, because putting it like that makes it so much more obvious. Is Seungcheol courting you? You have never been courted before. No wonder you didn’t notice.

You fret over it for a few days. And it is on one of your rides home with him that Seungcheol finally speaks up.

“It might not be my place to say, but you seem a little worried.” His voice is low, cautious. “Is something bothering you?”

You have been looking for an opening to bring it up with him anyway, so you try not to think about how Seungcheol guessed that you’re worried and instead ask him what’s been on your mind.

“Seungkwan seems to believe that you are…. courting me.” You try to keep your voice level as you say it, fidgeting on your seat. When he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, you feel your face burn hot.

“I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous.” You shake your head, trying to wave off the annoyance that you now feel at your omega friend. Curse him and his crazy, outlandish suggestions.

“Why would it be ridiculous?” He says finally, eyes still on the road.

“What?”

“The thought of someone courting you shouldn’t be ridiculous.”

Your face is still burning hot. You don’t know what to say to him, how to even begin unraveling why you think this way. Even Seungkwan hasn’t had your trauma dumped on him yet.

Seungcheol’s car slows down in front of your building. He puts it into park and reaches the backseat for his satchel. From it, he removes a black, velvet box. He pulls it open, and you have to strangle a gasp in your mouth as you eye the glittering silver chain of the bracelet. It has a single charm on it, cherries, also silver and gleaming in the light.

“I wanted to gift this to you from the start.” He confesses. “But I figured it would be better to start smaller. Like with food.”

Your heart is beating fast, your eyes trained on the bracelet as he removes it from the box. You don’t dare look up at him. You’re scared. He doesn’t push for you to speak. Silence fills the small space between you two.

“Seungcheol, I-” You hesitate. “I have issues.”

He chuckles a bit, but not unkindly. “We will take this as slow as you want. You call the shots. I’m just asking for a chance to be the one to love you the way I think you deserve.”

You call the shots.

You look at him then, to find that his eyes are already on you. Dark and warm like the earth. It grounds you, and you can feel your shoulders loosen just a bit.

His fingers brush your skin just slightly as he clasps the bracelet on your wrist. Your omega stirs, restless, on guard. You don’t get a wink of sleep that night.

……………………….

Seungkwan is fawning all over your courting gift the next day, nearly beside himself. He’s flushed so red you are afraid he will explode. Mingyu is grinning ear to ear too, swaying in his chair.

“Couldn’t have been anyone better.” He claims. “Seungcheol’s alpha game is on a whole other level. If anyone can wow you, it’s him.”

You don’t have time to question his words, because Seungkwan starts shedding actual tears, and you have to try and console him without any physical contact. That doesn’t work, of course, so Mingyu steps in. It becomes a whole thing, and before you know it, the words slip from your mind.

Seungcheol comes to your desk and asks you to have lunch with him from then onwards. Every day, you sit with him, without Seungkwan now, and he plops a warm, packed lunch in front of you. When you try to protest, he waves it away in dismissal. The omega in you loves it, you realise, being fed like this. You’re sure there’s something deep rooted in your primal nature that approves of being brought food, especially by an alpha that has made it clear he is interested in you.

You are curious about Seungcheol, and he indulges you in every conversation. You learn that he is the youngest of many brothers, all alphas. He’s an athletic guy. He likes to play sports and travel. He has a small, but very loyal circle of friends. You also learn that he has liked you for a long time. It flatters you, even if you find that thought a bit unbelievable. Seungcheol asks that you tell him about yourself as well, your hobbies, your interests, and what you want for your future. He is an attentive listener, and he often lets you drone on and on without feeling any need to edit you. Your heart flutters at how his eyes soften when he looks at you. How he always maintains a distance. He never touches you, not even once. Every word of his feels like balm on your skin.

He asks you on your first date after courting you for a good two months. And he pulls out all the stops for it. It’s romantic, but not overly so that it would freak you out. You both talk yourselves hoarse about any and every topic under the sun, and by the time he walks you to your door, your entire body is buzzing with a warm, comfortable energy.

“You’re so different, Seungcheol.” You mumble as you lean against the doorframe. He hums inquisitively as he watches you.

“How so?”

“You never ask anything of me.” You watch him. “I don’t understand it.”

Seungcheol sighs, staring off into space for a brief moment.

“I think people get it so wrong.” His voice is so quiet that you almost have to strain to catch it. “Alphas are supposed to be this domineering, uncontrollable, all powerful authority. But that’s just not true. It’s the omegas who are the heart of it. Omegas who hold everything up. An alpha is just…. there to love and protect.”

He stares at his feet then, kicking them slightly.

“I know you struggle with…. touch.” He continues. “I also know that’s not your fault. You’ve been let down so many times that your omega just can’t trust again. I get it.”

When he looks up, his smile is soft, whimsical almost. The dim light of the lobby frames him, makes his brown hair look lighter. “I hope that you can trust me. Not immediately. Not with all of you. But maybe just a little bit.”

When your vision gets misty, you try to blink away the tears, but that only makes them fall past your eyeline. Seungcheol reaches up, ever so slowly, to brush one away with the pad of his thumb. When his skin meets yours, it tingles. Your fingers tremble. You try not to shudder. You close your eyes, and you let his barely there touch linger. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

He holds your hand when he drives.

It starts with just linking his pinky with yours. But you try to take the brave step of allowing more, until your fingers are intertwining with his large, warm ones. His hand in yours feels like an anchor preventing you from floating away. Your omega preens, licks over old wounds, and you try not to think about how good the simple act of holding hands feels. You feel like a teenager, feeling so giddy over just holding hands, but when you see Seungcheol try to tamp down a smile, you let yourself feel this happiness.

He likes placing his hand on your lower back when you walk with him, a silent sign of him being there, someone you can rely on. The first time he scents you, it’s a very cautious brush of his wrist against yours. It makes something uncomfortable zip through your skin, and he doesn’t try it again. But then you miss it, the feeling of him making you just a little bit his, and you shyly brush your wrist over his by yourself during one movie night. He lets you, doesn’t rush, doesn’t stop you. He lets you run your wrist over his until you are satisfied that a part of you smells like him and a part of him smells like you.

Your heat hits the week after that.

It’s more painful this time, since your omega recognizes a specific alpha, knows that there is a potential partner out there who can give you a knot. You cry through it for one night and one day, but then you break, your mind muddled, and you call Seungcheol between broken sobs. His voice only makes you cry more as he tries to placate you over the phone. He knows your omega is being unreasonable. There’s a good chance that you won’t be able to handle it anyway. When he hangs up, you almost fall apart.

You hear knocking on your door an hour later, and your heat-addled brain is convinced that it’s Seungcheol. When you see a random stranger there, an omega at that, your face crumples.

“I come bearing gifts.” The man says with a grin, holding up a large canvas bag. Its familiar scent hits you hard, cedarwood and leather, and you snatch the bag from him. When you open it, you find heaps and heaps of Seungcheol’s clothing. Shirts, sweaters, flannels, and by the smell of them, it is anything he has worn in the last few days. You preen at the scent, shoving your nose into the cloth. It calms you down, you can feel your cramps give way for the first time in hours, and you look up gratefully at the stranger who saved you at a time like this.

His name is Jeonghan, and you remember him from Seungcheol’s stories. You recognise him too, from pictures you’ve seen, now that you aren’t delirious with pain. Jeonghan helps you get back in bed and helps arrange all of Seungcheol’s clothes in your nest. He cooks while you rest, making a good few portions of nutritious, easily heated up stew that will last you for the rest of your heat. He tells you how worried Seungcheol is, how badly he wishes he could be there, and that he hopes his scent can hold you over enough to get you through this. He ends up being right, because after three more slightly less painful nights, your heat finally breaks.

You’re embarrassed when you see Seungcheol next, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He assures you that it’s perfectly normal, and he is even flattered that your omega trusts him enough to want his help during your heat. He asks if the clothes helped, and you thank him for them.

“‘M not giving them back though.” You pout. He only laughs heartily.

“I will give you all of them, sweetheart. Just ask.”

Your heart flutters. Your omega purrs, satisfied.

You go over the events of the heat in the following days once it’s over, how badly you wanted him there, how difficult it was to live off his scent alone, especially as it kept fading from his clothes day after day. When he is sprawled on your couch the next Saturday, you finally ask him to scent you.

His eyes go wide, flitting between yours, as if trying to decipher your state of mind.

“Are you sure?” He sits up, forgetting the TV completely. “You have to think about it. Scenting is….. very intimate.”

You nod. “I have thought about it, Cheol. If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t ask.”

He only hesitates for a moment longer, nodding. “Okay.”

You don’t know what to do with yourself as he turns to face you properly. Your heart is beating fast already, and you play with your fingers, trying to calm down. He must notice, because he reaches for your hands, gently holding them between his own.

“Deep breaths.” He instructs you. “Everything is okay.”

His voice has a deep, calming timbre to it, and you feel yourself soften slightly at his words. This is happening. You are trusting an alpha to invade your most sensitive sense. Despite how nervous you are, you think of the comfort it will bring.

“Can we do it in my nest?”

That catches him by surprise too. That’s two in one day, and if you weren’t so anxious, you would find it a bit comical. But he nods, and you notice how eager it is. Your heart squeezes a bit, and you realise that Seungcheol really has gone so long without acting on his very base instincts of touching and scenting you. His alpha must be restless beyond belief at this point.

Five minutes later, you’re lying on your bed, surrounded by a carefully organized mess of clothes that you’ve built into the perfect nest. You have lots of pieces of clothing in there, and you can see Seungcheol’s nose twitch a bit in annoyance when he catches the scent of another alpha, zeroing in on the wool scarf that once belonged to Mingyu. It’s common knowledge that an omega will create nests from the clothes of any person they find comfort in. You have things from Seungkwan in there too, but they are nothing compared to the huge piles of clothes that belong to Seungcheol, and that placates him a little. He knows that if and when he mates you, he is going to shred Mingyu’s scarf into a million pieces. Until then, you can have it.

He hovers over you, making sure he isn’t crowding you too much. You look more at home here, more at ease, and he wants to think it’s because you are surrounded by his scent. The alpha in his growls deep, satisfied, seeing who he already deems as his omega lying like this between clothes that belong to and smell like him. Your chest rises in a deep inhale before the air leaves you in a long whoosh.

He starts with leaning down to nuzzle against your cheek. You close your eyes, tilting your head to the side and up. You can practically feel how shaky his breath is as you present yourself to him like this, and you marvel at his restraint once again. Your hands clench into fists, and you feel a surge of need in you again.

“Cheolie.” You rasp.

“I’m here.” His breath hits your neck and you shiver at the feeling. Then he leans down to the junction between your neck and shoulder, just over your scent gland. He exhales on it carefully, and it’s warm against your skin. You bite your lower lip hard.

His tongue is tentative as it licks over the now swollen, needy gland. He keeps doing that for a couple of minutes, little kitten licks that relax your limbs the more he swipes over the area. He breathes out again, his breath mixing with the pheromones now coming off you in waves. He leans lower, closer to you, his elbows on either side of your head, before finally latching his lips over your skin to give in a soft suck.

Your back arches involuntarily, pleasure zipping through you. You know your scent is thickening with your arousal, and so is Seungcheol’s. The heady mix of both of them is making your head spin a bit. Seungcheol alternates between licks and sucks, making sure to cover the skin around your glands with his spit too. It feels deliciously territorial, a side of him you have experienced only fleetingly when he places a hand firmly on your waist, or when an alpha gets a bit too close and he stares them down. You wonder about it, about how badly he is holding himself back from pummeling another alpha into the ground when he gets too close. Mingyu has mentioned it a few times, that Seungcheol’s scent sours when he feels jealous. You want to see more of it. You want him to claim you as his.

It’s the first time you feel the need to be claimed, and it makes you whimper. Seungcheol hums into your neck.

“Feel good?” His voice has dropped a few octaves, and the low grunt makes something zip down your core. You barely managed a jerky nod.

“Yes, Alpha.”

The title makes him bristle pleasantly, and he doubles his efforts at making sure your scent glands are bathed in him. He keeps going for what feels like hours. When you walk into the office the next day, Seungkwan’s nose scrunches up, claiming he would confuse you with a mated omega if you reeked even a little bit more.

You get addicted to the feeling of Seungcheol scenting you. And he is more than happy to provide. Every morning, he grips your waist tight, lapping over your neck before you walk into work, making sure everyone in the building knows that you have an alpha you can call your own. He whispers to you how delicious you smell when your scent is mixed with his, how good it makes his alpha feel. You are shy about it still, but he loves it when you carefully and hesitantly kiss over his own scent glands. You don’t know why he would want your scent, but he claims he wants it just as bad, says he is as much yours as you are his.

By the time your next heat rolls around, you are sure you want Seungcheol to spend it with you.

He’s hesitant, naturally. You two have come a long way, but helping you in heat is basically the final step. The end of the line. There’s no coming back from something as intimate as that, and he worries. You know he is only looking out for you, but you also know yourself. There’s no way you can make it through this heat without him now. He could drench his clothes in buckets of his sweat and it still wouldn’t replace the feeling of his lips suckling on your glands, his hands running slowly over your waist. You need him there, and you tell him as much.

Seungcheol takes the preparation during your pre-heat very seriously. He asks for time off for both of you, essentially solidifying in the office what is going to happen. Seungkwan is shameless about it as he teases you, but you whack him upside the head with a thick folder and that shuts him up. Seungcheol shows up at your place with a large bag of his essentials. Anything he will need, some groceries he picked up along the way, and more of his clothes. At this point, you wonder if he has anything left in his closet at all.

He cooks and portions meals for you. He stashes protein bars, electrolyte packets, and a case of water bottles in your room. He doesn’t let you move, telling you to rest as much as you can because you’ll be needing your strength when the heat hits. His implication makes you flush, and you wonder how it will feel. You watch him putter around your room from where you lay in your nest, making sure everything is accessible to him. You’ve never taken a knot before. If you think back to before you met Seungcheol, the very thought of one would repulse you. But as you ponder about it now, him naked over you, skin to skin, shoving the swollen base of his cock inside you, you can’t help but think of how good it will feel.

Seungcheol, as in tune with you as he is, can smell the shift in your scent. He gives you a tiny smile, heavy with understanding.

“Are you still with me, omega?” He asks, leaning over to run a cool hand over the heated skin of your forehead. You hum. Your eyelids feel heavy, and it takes a lot of strength to keep them open. Seungcheol places his hand over your eyes to keep them closed.

“Try and sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You listen to his words without a second thought. It seems your brain is already shutting down, depending on him to tell you what to do. Your nap is short lived and fitful, and when you wake up again, you are breathing heavily. Your shirt is already sticking to your back. Eyes only half open, vision unfocused, you paw at the shirt, trying to lift your heavy arms so you can pull it off.

“Here. Let me.” His voice cuts through the haze. You can feel his hands, still cooler than your body temperature, grip your shirt so he can tug it off you. Cool air hits you, and you wonder if he has turned the thermostat down to better cater to your needs.

“Better?”

You hum, turning towards the sound. You blink furiously until your vision is clear enough to see his head of thick brown hair to your right. You reach for him.

“Alpha.” Your voice trembles, and a painful cramp shoots through your lower stomach. You wince. Seungcheol is on top of you immediately, leaning down to bite gently on your scent gland, as if coaxing your omega to calm down. It listens, settling a bit.

“I’m here.” His weight on you feels heavenly. You can feel your muscles relax. But the cramp persists. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t-” You almost cry out as you feel the cramp sharpen. “I don’t know. Alpha, please-”

He shushes you, hands dipping into the waistband of your shorts until he is tugging them off. They stick to your crotch like skin, leaving wet strings as they part from you. Your inner thighs are already drenched. Seungcheol had noticed as you slept, but he didn’t want to wake you. The more you are turned on, the easier it will be to make you cum multiple times, and the quicker your heat will break in the long run.

He doesn’t wait before he reaches down, carefully rubbing the pads of his fingers over your swollen clit. You gasp and jerk at the feeling, and Seungcheol uses that moment to dip two fingers inside your desperately clenched opening. Your eyes nearly roll up at the feeling, and you don’t hold back your satisfied sigh. It encourages him to sink in to the last knuckle, feeling almost no resistance as your body stretches to accommodate him. All that courting, that dating, that scenting, it may have been slow as hell, near torture for him, but it seems that by now, every cell in your body is moulded to recognise him. He watches you arch into him, your legs spreading more, your pussy greedily sucking his fingers in, and he marvels at how pliant you are under him. You have truly given all of yourself to him, and he takes that as a great responsibility. You’re his omega, bite or not, and he will make sure you are heavy with his pups by the time you leave this nest.

Fuck. Maybe your heat is making him delirious too. His alpha is rearing to knot you. But he needs to prep you first.

You cum on his fingers twice before he even thinks about putting his cock in you. He coaxes each orgasm out of you with the expert curl of his fingers, his lips at your ear, whispering praises that seem to reverberate in your skull about how good you are, the perfect little omega for him, how much he loves your tiny little pussy, how much he loves taking care of you like this, how badly he wants to give you his knot. You’re sobbing by the time he is lining his tip against your entrance, cheeks drenched in heavy tears, still so turned on despite already cumming twice, and when he penetrates you, sinks into you in one fell swoop, you lock around him and cum hard for the third time. He groans, long and low, struggling against the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, watching you writhe under him.

“Good girl.” He coos, voice so gravelly and deep that you could cum again just hearing him talk. “So good for me. So perfect.”

You’re lightheaded, the air feels like cotton pressing into your skin. Your limbs have no power, and you are surprised you can even spread your legs for Seungcheol. Just his massive cock sinking into you is enough to drive you up the wall, and when he finally starts moving, you wail.

Seungcheol encourages you every step of the way. He coaxes you to talk through the rough pounding, even if your words are incoherent and choppy. You babble on about how good his cock feels, how badly you want his knot and his cum. Every sound from you seems to rile him up even more. When you keen, your omega whining long and high pitched in the depths of your chest, it only spurs him on. He fucks you through another orgasm before the base of his cock finally starts to swell, and at the promise of a knot, you writhe desperately.

He shoves himself inside you, knot swelling and locking inside your weeping pussy as he groans and finally cums, flooding your insides with his seed. Tingles run over your skin, through your very bones, as the desperate, primal creature inside you settles, finally sedated, finally happy. Seungcheol’s torso undulates over you, bare skin to bare skin, prolonging his own high so he can dump more of his load inside you. He is shiny with sweat and exertion, and you admire him as the fog in your head lifts. His hair falls over his eyes, and his lips are pretty pink from being bitten raw. You pull him down by his broad shoulders, nuzzling into his neck, nibbling on the skin. He hums and lets you stake your claim on him.

“Better?”

You nod, allowing him to pull you both so you are lying on your sides, waiting for the knot to go down. Your muscles feel muted, like someone flipped a switch inside you. By the time Seungcheol’s knot goes down, you are almost half asleep. He tries his best to make you stay awake long enough to down a bottle of water and a protein bar, promising you food when you wake up next, tucking you carefully into your nest.

The next few days are bliss.

You never associated heats with anything good before. They were always painful experiences, a flurry of cramps and dizziness, like a trial you had to get through. But Seungcheol flips the script around. He pumps you full whenever you ask for it, knot after knot, until you are so satisfied that you can’t think straight, can’t even speak right. You are covered, inside and out, with him. He litters your body with his marks, tongue and teeth working overtime to make sure that no part of you is unblemished. He feeds you during your lucid intervals, bathes you when he can, then fucks another knot into you until you are tuckered out again. When day four hits, your heat finally breaks, and you are more grateful for him than you are for yourself. You can’t imagine it’s easy to keep up with you.

“Are you kidding?” He grins, stretching out beside you in your nest. “You’re a dream. I couldn’t have asked for a better omega. You were so perfect for me, every single day of your heat.”

You flush at the praise. It somehow hits even harder than the words he whispered while driving his cock into you in the throes of heat. He nuzzles your neck, sighing and relaxing beside you, licking over your scent gland. There’s no need for that. You reek of him anyway. But you let him do it, dreaming of the day his teeth break the barrier of your skin there, making you his permanently.

You hope that day comes quicker.

You don’t make a lot of noise as you get the machine ready for a nice cup of coffee. All three of you had gone in on it so you could get the expensive, fancy kind. Jeonghan had called it an investment, and you had wholeheartedly agreed. Seungcheol grumbled about it a little but gave his part of the money anyway. He kept claiming he wasn’t that big on coffee, but ever since you bought it, he has had a cup every morning without fail, something Jeonghan will never stop teasing him on.

The aroma is warm and rich in your nose as it slowly infiltrates the kitchen. You contemplate if you want breakfast now with your coffee or later, and decide to grab an apple. You’re just staring at it, wondering if the brown spot on it is something you can ignore or if you should discard the whole thing, when you hear light pattering on the floors outside.

You expect Jeonghan’s slumped, languid figure to slink into the kitchen, groaning about how tired he is, or maybe Seungcheol with his head of short, spiked hair all over the place and that perpetual pout that undercuts his years of effort building impressive muscle. But it’s neither of them. It’s someone you don’t know.

She blinks owlishly at you, hair tangled on her head and wearing a bright bodycon dress, holding a pair of heels in her hand. Her mascara is smudged, but under the distressed look, you can tell that she is amazingly pretty.

“Hi.” She chirps. It’s soft and almost melodic. You manage to smile back. The air is painfully awkward, so she shifts and takes a hesitant step back.

“I should just go.” She says sheepishly, and before you can say anything (not that you were planning to), she disappears from the doorway of the kitchen. After a few seconds, you hear the front door click shut. You swallow hard, but the knot formed in your throat doesn’t go away.

Friday nights don’t just mean waking up at noon with terrible hangovers. They also mean a girl trying to tiptoe out of Seungcheol’s room. And always a stranger. Never the same one twice.

You sigh and turn back to the coffee machine, which lets out a beep. You quickly take the pot to fill your cup, deciding against adding milk and just taking a sip of the dark mixture. You wince when it slides down your throat, but it’s hot enough and bitter enough that the knot in your throat loosens. You stare at your cup, the swirling liquid, and try your best to not think about your recent interaction.

There’s no point in it. Seungcheol is just….. like that. Someone so unbelievably different that you can’t fathom how you even ended up in the same orbit.

Well, you know exactly how. Yoon Jeonghan.

Jeonghan was in your first ever introductory class in college. He was seated right next to you, and after knowing you for the duration of just one lecture, he asked if you were looking for a place off campus, and then offered you his in the same breath. Apparently he and his roommate were desperate, and they really needed a third cohabitant in order to make rent. You just turned out to be the one who was looking for a place to stay, so you ended up saying yes, because Jeonghan gave you great vibes.

Seungcheol did too, when you met him.

You were immediately taken by him. He was loud and a little rough around the edges, but so endlessly kind. Seungcheol doesn’t look it, but he’s very in-tune with people’s emotions as well as his own. He knows what he wants out of life, he has endless confidence in himself. He’s charismatic, magnetic, and it only helps that he is beyond attractive. Tall, built like a brick house (something he is very proud of), soft dark hair and that charming smile accentuated by a dimple on his right cheek.

That fuckass dimple.

You knew you liked him. It was immediate. You were excited just at the thought of sharing space with him. And so you moved in, giddy at the thought of having your own place for the first time in your life, and sharing it with two guys who looked like seemingly amazing people.

And they truly are. It’s just that you were naïve to think Seungcheol’s appeal didn’t extend to everyone else like it did to you.

He’s like a lighthouse, attracting everyone to him like lost travelers. His friend circle is huge, from the gym dudes like Mingyu and Jihoon he works out with, to the party freaks like Soonyoung and Joshua he spends weekends with. He’s not in a frat, but he moves among a lot of similar people. Then there’s their friends, just an endless network that won’t stop expanding. This means meet-ups and parties every weekend, and that means there’s a girl in his room every two or three weekends.

You can’t even fault him. If someone looks like that, it would be criminal if they didn’t get regular action.

You and Seungcheol are fundamentally different people. You have friends too, but fewer, and more tight-knit. You are a homebody above anything else, and if it wasn’t for your friend Seungkwan, who is the most extroverted person you know outside of Seungcheol, you would never even leave your house. But Seungkwan’s definition of going out is much different to Seungcheol’s. So while Seungcheol likes the gym, pregaming, bowling and frat parties, you have scheduled cooking classes, basket weaving workshops, and arcade tournaments that Hansol drags you to once every month.

You’re poles apart. And you’re content with that. You can float in his periphery, and that’s enough for you. He’s miles out of your league anyway. So you’re happy just being an admirer.

“It’s pathetic.” Hansol often mumbles, voice devoid of any real venom. He sounds disinterested if anything.

“Thanks.” You shoot back. Seungkwan looks at Hansol, offended on your behalf.

“I think it’s cute.” He defends you. You grin at him and pinch his cheek. He swats your hand away, making you laugh.

“How bad can it really be if you just tell him?” Chan pipes up, his head down as he concentrates on pouring his wax into the mold slowly, trying not to spill it. You genuinely think his candle will smell the best out of your group, since he’s the only one truly concentrating. You’re too focused on telling them about the girl in your kitchen this morning.

Hansol snorts, tapping his mold on the table like your instructor told you to. His is a strange, muddy brown color. It smells like shit, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. You and Seungkwan did drag him to this candle making class on a weekend when he could just be sleeping all day, so he could make the worst candle known to man and you will still hype him up.

“She doesn’t have the balls.” He mumbles. You look at him with a gaping mouth.

“Hey!”

Hansol raises a challenging eyebrow. “Do you? You won’t tell him you like him. Ever. I’m not wrong.”

You scowl, feeling deeply offended. He isn’t wrong, and you all know it, because Seungkwan isn’t defending you this time. He just gives you a wince, indicating he agrees with Hansol. Dammit, you’re cornered.

“Your candle smells like shit.” You shoot back.

That distracts him, and he starts doubting and fretting over his candle, leaning down to sniff it over and over. The rest of the workshop is spent trying to salvage Hansol’s attempt, so you don’t get back to the topic you were previously discussing.

Good.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol are both on the couch by the time you come back in the late afternoon. They both look bleary-eyed and half dead, hair still damp on their heads from showering, eating takeout and watching TV. They greet you brightly when you come in, and you slump onto the couch next to them.

“What did you bring us?” Jeonghan asks. You always bring your crafts home, including today. You made three candles, one for each of you, and you’re excited as you take them out of your tote, hand them over, describing the scents you used.

“I made lavender and vanilla for you.” You hand Jeonghan his. He hums and nods in satisfaction as he sniffs, smiling big.

“Oh I need to light this immediately.” He pipes up, quickly standing to trudge into the kitchen. You grin.

“And me?” Seungcheol smiles at you, still leaned back on the couch so he can rest his head on the cushion. You can tell his head is still hurting a little.

“Your favorite.” You smile. “Cherry.”

Seungcheol looks excited as you hand it over. He eyes the dark color for a little bit before bringing it to his nose, sniffing. You watch his eyelashes flutter.

“Oh.” You see his lips tug up in realisation. “It smells like my cologne.”

“Yeah. The other note is sandalwood.” You feel the sides of your face heat up. “You…. you like those scents a lot.”

You immediately feel like you’ve revealed too much when Seungcheol’s eyes soften. He watches you for a few seconds, sniffing again.

“I love it.” He says, turning it over in his hand. It looks comically small in his hold. “It’s perfect.”

You nod jerkily and fidget a little, trying not to think about how fast your heart is racing, or how gentle this moment feels. Intimate, almost, sitting so close to him that your knee almost touches his thigh, his hair half falling into his eyes, the eyes he still has trained on you, the candle you put care into held delicately in his hand.

Jeonghan walks back into the living room with his lit candle, talking about how much trouble he had finding a lighter. The air around you breaks, and you stand up, mumbling something about how you’re tired already, so you’re going to head to bed. It’s only afternoon, and the excuse is bullshit, but you know you can’t be close to Seungcheol much longer without your heart hurting. You don’t feel Seungcheol’s eyes on your back as you leave, and you have no clue about the knowing way Jeonghan looks at his friend.

…………………………

Weekdays are filled with classes. So you have no time to relax.

You think it’s a fundamental flaw in you that you are taking so many classes, but your overachieving tendencies won’t let you back down from even one of them. Some days, it leaves you annoyed and frustrated, but often, those same classes serve as a blessing in disguise, because they preoccupy you so much that you don’t have to worry about any other problem in your life.

By the end of the week, you’re so exhausted that you just want to glue yourself to your bed, vowing not to move for the entire weekend. Of course, Seungkwan always plans something and inevitably drags you out of your humble abode, but you will take what time you have, unwinding and letting your brain shut down after a long and tiring five days. You fall asleep in the middle of your Modern Family marathon, managing to get only halfway through the season before you’re shutting your laptop, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Before you know it, you’re knocked out, and you don’t move until well into the next morning.

You wake up because you’re burning hot. Sweat makes your shirt cling to your back. In fact, your back is so warm that it’s uncomfortable. Your face pinches in annoyance, and you shift a little. At your movement, something tightens around your waist.

Your eyes pop open.

Morning light filters in through the curtains on your windows, setting the room up in a soft glow. You’re on your side, staring at the far off wall of your bedroom. There is weight draped over your waist, a warm touch splayed over your stomach. When you shift again, just slightly, the touch twitches and moves.

A hand.

You almost scream, but then you feel the soft hit of air on the back of your neck, periodic and deep. Like someone exhaling. You breathe in, the smell of cherry and sandalwood in your nose. You would recognise that anywhere. Even barely half conscious, you know who that scent belongs to.

Your entire backside, your torso, your ass, the back of your thighs, are pressed tightly to Seungcheol’s front, his arm a heavy weight draped around you so that he hand grips your stomach gently. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his exhales on your skin. You’ve gone so stiff you can barely feel your body, but you’re hyperaware of every part of you that touches him. You lay there in shock, contemplating.

What the hell is he doing? How did he end up in your room? How did he end up spooning you?

You have no answers, but you do know you need to get out of here. You brace yourself, using your leg in contact with the mattress to push until your body disconnects with Seungcheol’s a little. You freeze when he groans, a low sound that cracks under the weight of sleep, and you barely hold in a gasp when he tugs harshly with the arm around you, making you lurch back so he is once again pressed into you. He curls tighter around you, like his body is melting into yours, and your heart kicks painfully at your ribs. That’s when you feel it, hard and insistent, just nestled between your ass cheeks, his erection straining against the jeans he probably wore to whatever party he attended last night.

Mortification hits your veins like ice. You’re rock still in his arms, not even able to process what the fuck is happening to you. You feel his hand move a little, squeezing subconsciously, his fingers sinking into the plush of your stomach. Your face flames, and you can’t take it anymore. You grip his wrist tight and tug hard, loosening his grip, and immediately lunging out of bed. Your feet barely hit the floor before you’re already making a beeline out of the bedroom and straight into the bathroom. You don’t look back once. You definitely used enough force to wake him, but maybe he was so drunk before he passed out that he didn’t get roused by your movements.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, the horrified look on your face, your wide eyes, and the fact that your heart is beating so fast that it’s making you breath heavily. You lean against the sink, your legs shifting, and you realise you’re wet, nearly soaking through your shorts.

Your hands tremble as you wash them, staring at nothing. You remember how warm Seungcheol was, almost unbearably so, how good it was to feel him against you, the solid frame of him, caging you in like you were meant to be in his arms. His hand, digging into your flesh like it was his, and his bulge, so prominent and urgent, pressing into your ass, inches away from where you need him the most.

You’re so fucked.

You don’t think twice before jumping into the shower, letting the water pour over your head even though it’s not hair wash day. You don’t even wait for the hot water to come in, just standing beneath the stream as it slowly warms up. The initial shock of cold does wonders, calms your racing heart and smothers the heat in the bottom of your stomach. You let out a shaky breath.

It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. He was probably so drunk he didn’t even realise where he ended up crashing. Your room is the first one on the left, his is the first one on the right. It’s an easy mistake, especially if someone is wasted. It seems like the best explanation, way more plausible than him actually sliding into your bed intentionally, a notion that just sounds absurd in your head.

You don’t know what to do.

You stay in the shower for so long that the pads of your fingers prune and the water turns cold again. You slip your pajamas back onto your wet body, because you didn’t bring a change of clothes with you, and finally, you brace yourself and return to your room, taking a deep inhale before opening the door. The bed is empty. He’s gone.

It’s relieving, because you were in no way prepared to see him. When you look at the clock, you realise it’s almost midday. So you pick up your phone and text Seungkwan, asking what his plans for the day are.

Seungkwan is honestly confused, because you almost never initiate meet-ups yourself, but he doesn’t turn you down. Him and Chan are both free, so you decide to meet up for a simple lunch. Hansol opts out, since his sister is in the city for the weekend. You’re grateful you have someone, because keeping this inside is feeling more and more impossible. As soon as you sit down, you blurt out everything that happened in the morning.

Seungkwan is beside himself, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish, horror struck. He gasps at every detail, but groans disapprovingly when you talk about Seungcheol’s hard-on against your ass.

“You could’ve left that detail out.” He mutters.

“But it’s important!” You insist. “Kwannie, I’m a mess. What do I do? How can I even look him in the eye after this?”

Chan huffs, looking a lot calmer than Seungkwan. “Don’t do anything. Look, you’re right. It was probably a mistake. And if he remembers it at all, he will be pretty embarrassed. So just don’t talk about it at all. Don’t bring it up. Be normal.”

Right. That’s solid advice. Be normal.

But it’s hard to do that, not when you can’t stop thinking about it. The sizzle of his touch is something you’re reminded of when you lay in your bed that night, staring up at your ceiling and remembering how it felt to have his breath hit your skin, so close that you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. And when the heat becomes too much, when your mind goes awry and shuts down, your hand slides into your shorts.

It’s too much. You can’t face him when your brain and your actions are so depraved.

When Hansol finds out what happened, he says what he always does, that this is a problem of your own making.

“You chose this.” He says on Monday, when you finally meet him and tell him everything. “You live with him. It’s unavoidable that something weirdly uncomfortable would happen when you’re in close quarters with someone. And you can’t avoid him. You will see him every day.”

To you, it was always a net positive that you got to see Seungcheol every day, any unrequited feelings aside. Your hidden crush on him was trumped by the fact that he was so endlessly charming to you, your little puppy crush urged on by seeing him, being around him, basking in his presence. But now, that very thing is coming back to bite you in the ass.

You go a whopping three days without coming face to face with him. But then, your sneaking finally fails you. He catches you before classes on Wednesday, cornering you in the kitchen when you’re there to fill up your water bottle.

“I’m really sorry about that night.” He sounds sheepish, embarrassed. You remember Chan’s words, shaking your head in the best way you can think of to placate him.

“It’s fine! You were drunk, you probably don’t even remember that you did it. Honest mistake, right?”

Seungcheol smiles a little, his eyes trained carefully on you.

“Right.” He mutters.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet, and you want to blame it on his embarrassment. You feel uncomfortable, and you wonder if it has to do with what happened between you, or if he’s just being a little weird today.

“I should go.” You mumble. “Just had to fill this up.”

You hold up your water bottle for him to see. His eyes finally leave you to focus on it, and he raises a thick eyebrow.

“That’s new.” He points to the handle. You have a small Sanrio keychain hanging from it. You’re surprised he noticed, but you nod excitedly.

“Hansol’s sister came to see him for the weekend. She got all of us little trinkets.”

Seungcheol hums. “She knows your favorite Sanrio character? That’s cute.”

You smile and nod again, more enthusiastically. “I’m sure Hansol told her….”

A thought enters your head. You tilt your head to the side in thought. “How did you know?”

Seungcheol blinks, then lets out a small laugh. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, sweetheart. It’s plastered all over your room.

Right. Your room. The room he was in because he slept with you in your bed. Your stomach twists and you swallow hard. He looked around your room? When? After waking up? While you were showering? The thought of Seungcheol being in your private space, saying all your little interests laid out everywhere makes your heart flutter. You’re very private about your space, both him and Jeonghan know this. You don’t think either of them have been in your room since they first helped you move in.

You watch Seungcheol from where your back is against the counter. He watches you. You remember that night as the air around you two holds its breath. He was so close, closer than anyone had been in a long, long time. But you bet it was normal for him, this physical intimacy. After all, he’s had a steady rotation of girls in his room for as long as you’ve known him.

Right. This is Choi Seungcheol. Popular, attractive Choi Seungcheol. Wildly out of your league Choi Seungcheol.

“I’m gonna….” You gesture to the door. There’s a knot in your throat, and you don’t think you can speak. Seungcheol blinks and nods, steps away so you can walk past him. Your fingers shake as you tug your shoes on and escape quickly through the front door.

You walk to campus alone, already in agreement with Seungkwan that you will meet him there. You’re grateful for it, because you can go through your jumble of thoughts silently, so you can try to address this deep, uneasy feeling right in the center of your chest. It’s a strange mix of dread and longing that leaves you with a strange emptiness inside, like a sinking hollow. You think, for the first time since you moved in, that maybe being around Choi Seungcheol wasn’t the best idea. Maybe this will ultimately be your unraveling.

The hollow feeling settles like a weight. You walk to class slowly.

You still arrive ten minutes early, but you don’t have to worry about distracting yourself, because Seungkwan is practically buzzing in his seat. You raise a curious eyebrow as you sit next to him, and he immediately turns to you, like he was waiting for you to show up.

“There’s a party.” He says. “In the frat Seokmin is a part of.”

You blink. “Your biology lab partner Seokmin?”

Seungkwan nods. His grin is so wide you’re surprised his face hasn’t split.

“I didn’t know he was in a frat.” You mumble, pulling your laptop out and setting it on your desk.

“Well, he is.” Seungkwan answers impatiently. “Anyway, he and I just finished wrapping up the end of semester project. And I guess he’s super happy about it, because he said we should stop by the frat this Friday night for some party they’re having.”

You eye Seungkwan, giving him an incredulous look.

“You? At a frat party?” Seungkwan really isn’t the type. But then you pause. “Wait, what do you mean ‘we’?”

Now Seungkwan has the decency to look a little sheepish. “I was hoping you would go with me.”

“No.”

Seungkwan immediately starts pleading, like he was expecting exactly this. Which wouldn’t be surprising. You despise parties. You had gone to a few at the very beginning of freshman year since you were so curious about college parties, and every single one of them without fail were horrific experiences. This was before you met Seungkwan and the guys. The people you were friends with at the time always got shitfaced, leaving you to pick up after them and get them home at the end of the night. The drinks there were usually awful unless you were bringing your own. And everyone was horny out of their minds, just chatting so they could hook up. All of this is turned up to a hundred when the party is at a frat, which this particular one will be.

“Ask Hansol.”

“He already said no.”

“Chan, then.”

“You know he’s not good with crowds. Listen,” he looks at you so earnestly it makes your heart squeeze, “I know you don’t like parties. But please, we have to do this. I’ve never been to one ever. First and last time, I promise. I’m just so curious.”

You hesitate. You understand where Seungkwan is coming from. You had the same curiosity as him way back then, and no matter how much you tell him that you already know it won’t be his cup of tea, he really needs to see it himself to swear off them like you. So you sigh painfully and nod, slightly placated by the fact that it makes Seungkwan cheer so loudly and hug you until you can’t breathe, promising he will treat you to lunch for the next two weeks.

Sounds like a good deal.

When you get back home that evening, Jeonghan is frying something on the stove. You seat yourself on the kitchen island, telling him about your day, because he’s always kind enough to ask.

“Oh, by the way.” You tack on. “I’m going to a party this Friday.”

That makes Jeonghan pause, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “A party? You?”

You sigh. “I know. Seungkwan was invited and he’s never been to one before so he kinda talked me into it. It’s at Sigma Tau Nu.”

Jeonghan looks even more shocked. He lets out a laugh. “A frat party.”

You nod.

He whistles low, turning back to his sizzling pan. “Seungcheol’s not gonna be happy.”

That makes you pause. You scowl at Jeonghan’s back. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, not bothering to turn around again. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me. Why won’t Seungcheol be happy?”

Before Jeonghan can answer, another voice speaks up.

“I won’t be happy about what?”

You stiffen, turning to the kitchen doorway. You didn’t hear the front door at all. Seungcheol is covered in sweat, still in his gym clothes, face a little flushed. His gym bag hangs over his shoulder. You swallow tightly, looking away so you won’t stare. Jeonghan, however, has no qualms about speaking.

“She’s going to Sigma Tau Nu on Friday.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps to you, eyes wide. “What?”

You fidget. “Seungkwan was invited.”

“So?”

You can’t help but frown. “So, he’s my friend. I’m going with him.”

“Like hell you are.”

Your jaw drops. Jeonghan barks out a laugh. You want to strangle him, but you’re too shocked at how Seungcheol’s voice has hardened. In fact, his blatant and sharp refusal has only managed to irritate you.

“Why not?” You sound petulant.

Seungcheol is walking to the fridge, pulling out a water bottle. “Because that place is a cesspool.”

“You go there every weekend.” Your voice is accusatory. Something in Seungcheol’s face flickers.

“That’s different.”

The irritation in you is swelling now into more of an anger. You don’t appreciate his tone, or whatever superiority complex he has that makes him think it’s okay for him to go but not you.

“So you can go but I can’t?” Your voice is louder than before. Even Jeonghan pauses, turning to look at you both cautiously. “Why? I’m not good enough for your parties?”

Seungcheol’s face hardens, and you almost back down. He has never, ever, looked at you like that before. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“Looks like it.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what is it about?”

He huffs, annoyed. “I’m just saying. Sigma Tau Nu…. the guys there…. they aren’t good.”

“You’re a guy there.”

His face drops. It’s such a slight shift, but immediate, and his expression turns a muted and stoney smooth. His grip on his bottle tightens until the plastic crinkles a little, but his face is almost forlorn.

“I know.”

You don’t know what to say.

Seungcheol sighs, as if to break the heavy silence, hiking the bag he has on his shoulder a bit further up before walking past you to leave.

“Just don’t go, okay?”

You and Jeonghan are left standing in the kitchen after he’s gone, just staring at each other in the silence.

………………………………

“Seungcheol can fuck off.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face as you apply finishing touches to yourself. But Seungkwan is not discouraged by your silence, continuing to rant on from where he’s sitting on your bed.

“No, seriously. Where does he get off telling you what to do?”

You sigh and shake your hair out, staring at yourself in the mirror. “He’s just looking out for me.”

That earns a scoff from your friend. “As if. More like he’s looking out for himself. He doesn’t want you to see what a sleazy, pervy bastard he is and how many girls he indulges when he goes out. Wants you to think he’s a good person.”

“He is a good person.” You turn to scowl at him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. You keep going.

“Let it go, Kwannie. We’re going anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”

It really doesn’t, because you’re all dolled up already and ready to go. You’re in a plain black dress, nothing too fancy, thin straps and a flared out skirt. It’s from your freshman year, and to your dismay, it’s a little tighter on you at the bodice, but nothing that doesn’t fit, so you’re rolling with it. Seungkwan also made it a point to tell you twice that you look hot, so you’re taking that as a good indication.

“Ready?” He prompts, you nod.

“Remember our agreement. One hour. You get a feel of the place. Then we leave.”

He nods enthusiastically. You can’t help but smile.

The place is packed. You feel dread already when you and Seungkwan climb out of your cab, but your friend looks alarmingly apprehensive, enough for you to suck up your own negative feelings. You’re already here, might as well try and make this as enjoyable for Seungkwan as possible.

“Come on.” You take his arm, walking up the front steps and in through the open door. The music is so loud, the lights are dim enough that you’re worried about something spilling on your dress accidentally. Seungkwan has a death grip on your hand, and you try to navigate to the kitchen.

“Boo Seungkwan!” The voice is booming, so loud and bright, and it immediately catches both your and Seungkwan’s attention. From the relief on his face, you know instantly that this is Seokmin. He’s grinning wide, and draping an arm around his shoulder is another man with spiky blond hair and sharp eyes. They introduce themselves, Seokmin and his frat brother Soonyoung, and you do the same. Soonyoung watches you closely.

“I’ve never seen you here before.” He shouts over the music, leaning closer to you to speak. You think you would have heard him just fine even without it, but you suspect he is doing it on purpose to get close to you. This may not be your thing, but you’re not an idiot.

“I don't usually come to parties.” You reply, trying to be polite. Somewhere behind your back, Seokmin is putting drinks into plastic cups. You can see the exact path Soonyoung’s eyes take as they drag down your body, lingering on your chest. You almost want to sigh.

“Want a tour?” He offers. “I’ll show you around.”

You want to say no, but a tour would mean you and Seungkwan can see everything quickly and leave. So you nod and turn around, linking an arm with Seungkwan to pull him along. He’s got a cup in his hand, already half empty, and you want to groan. Drunk Seungkwan is almost impossible to deal with.

Soonyoung doesn’t seem perturbed. He just nods and gestures for you two to follow along. You make it through the seas of people in the huge house as he points and shouts names. You don’t even understand half of them, but you’re not particularly interested. Seokmin is trailing behind all of you, and when Seungkwan’s cup empties, he exchanges it for a new one. You wince. Seungkwan is a notorious lightweight. You play drinking games all the time, and he’s always the first one to tap out, leaning heavily on Hansol as he gets dragged out of your apartment. With the way his cheeks are flushing at a concerning rate, you know he’s getting to that point already.

Soonyoung occasionally grips your arm to steer you in the right direction. Seungkwan’s hold on you keeps increasing as you navigate through the house. Then, you’re in the living room, and your eyes find the large, sprawling couch pushing against the far wall, particularly, the man lounging on the corner of it.

He has a cup in his hand, arm thrown around a girl pressed to his side. On the arm of the couch next to him is a guy you vaguely recognise as his gym buddy. You watch him bring the cup to his lips and throw it back in one big gulp, shaking it at his friend when it’s empty, who just snorts and pours more in it from the bottle of clear liquid he’s holding.

His head turns to look at his glass, but his eyes meet yours instead. You see the exact moment he recognises you.

You feel it again, that hollow feeling in your chest, mixed with something else this time. You almost don’t recognise him. His hair is tousled, carelessly swept, his top is sleeveless and tight, silver chain hanging from his neck, pants baggy, legs sprawled without a care in the world. Your eyes are still on each other when the girl on his side leans in and whispers something in his ear, following it up with running her tongue up the side of his neck.

Bile rises in your throat. You look away.

Seungkwan has downed his glass, again, and Soonyoung is gesturing for you to follow him to some other part of the house. But the music is changing into something faster, and Seungkwan’s eyes widen with a gasp as he recognises it.

“This is the first song I know!” He exclaims. You want to snort at how excited he is. “Can we dance?”

Oh no. You open your mouth to protest, but Soonyoung nods enthusiastically and points to the dance floor not far off from where you are. You can feel Seungcheol’s eyes burning holes in the back of your head as Seungkwan tugs you along with him. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow, because at that moment, he’s bombarded by another group of people. You’re left with Seungkwan only, which you prefer.

Except, Seungkwan is drunk, and pulling you close so you can sway together. You snort and indulge him, fully aware of how touchy he gets with alcohol in his system. He’s singing along to the song, hands on your waist, bobbing back and forth, side to side. You grin, laughing. You genuinely didn’t imagine yourself having a good time at this place, but being here with your friend is a little fun, though you would only begrudgingly admit that.

The song picks up, getting wilder, and you let yourself go to the music with Seungkwan. He’s laughing and grinning, turning you around so his back is against you. Bad idea, because as soon as you open your eyes, they meet heated, dark ones from across the room.

Seungcheol is watching, and he doesn’t look happy.

The girl by his side is now on her phone, tapping away. He’s not interested, raising his cup to his mouth and taking a long gulp while his stare is trained on you. Your heart pounds. You feel Seungkwan’s hands on your hips, your waist. There’s a voice in your head, and you listen to it, eyes fully on Seungcheol as you reach an arm up and behind you, running it through your friend’s hair.

Seungcheol’s face pinches. His lip curls in an ugly snarl. It catches you so off guard that you immediately turn back to Seungkwan, your heart pounding.

“I need air.” You shout over the music. “It’s too hot here.”

Seungkwan nods and points to the back of the house, past the staircase. You contemplate leaving your friend there. He’s having a good time, and you can let him dance a little before you start insisting that you should leave. Sliding glass doors take you into the patio overlooking the backyard. You take a deep breath.

The patio is less crowded, though there’s still people milling around. There’s a couple a few feet to your right, making out against the wall. You make a face and walk away from them. The cool air is working, clearing your head just a little. You wonder if there’s something in the hot, humid air inside that clouded your judgement, that made you look Seungcheol straight in the eye as you let your drunk friend sway you side to side. What did you want to achieve? Did you want to get a reaction out of him? Why? He doesn’t care about you that way, so what was the point?

Part of you is still annoyed at him because of the semi-argument in the kitchen. The other part is just…. sad.

“You came.”

You close your eyes. You were hoping he would leave you alone for the night.

“I did.” You reply.

Seungcheol stops right next to you, a little closer than you would like. You can feel the heat of his body. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays.

“Don’t worry, Seungkwan and I are just going to have one more drink and leave. I won’t….. disturb you much longer.”

He says your name, a tone of defeat in his voice. Your stomach twists. You turn to him, and for a brief second, your eyes meet his. He has that same look in them, that quiet desolation he had when he was with you in the kitchen. The heat from before, the simmering annoyance, has gone.

“Seungcheol.” Your throat tightens. Your chest is so hollow. “Just make sure to crash in your own bed this time. Okay?”

You turn and walk back into the house.

……………………………………

You don’t know the longest time you’ve gone without speaking to Seungcheol. You’ve never had any reason to count. You do now, and it has been seven days.

Seungkwan thanked you profusely for going with him to the party, vowed never to go again (that made you laugh), then bought you lunch for four days straight before you felt bad and just started paying for your own. You don’t think his experience was worth two weeks of comped meals, but you have a feeling he knows you’re bummed about something, so he keeps offering to pay.

You don’t even know why you’re bummed. You just are. And Seungkwan isn’t the only one who has noticed.

Jeonghan has been walking on eggshells with you too, watching you intently when you’re having a meal together, taking note of the fact that you leave to lock yourself in your room as soon as it becomes close to the time Seungcheol is due back home. It’s easy to avoid him because he himself makes no effort to talk to you either. It should make you glad, since it means you can dance around whatever this suffocating feeling between you two is. But it doesn’t. All you feel is more hollow, more crushed.

Something has changed between you, definitely for the worse. You regret going to that party every single day.

To Jeonghan’s credit, he never asks. You wonder if Seungcheol told him, but then you ask yourself what exactly there is to tell. Literally nothing happened. You don’t even know what to call that little stint on the dance floor, or the heavy way his eyes traveled over you. As for the girl he was with, you’re just upset because the man you have been pining for your whole life has a roster of romantic prospects outside of you. For so long, you had only known about it, like it was some far away entity, but seeing it with your own eyes, some unknown girl sprawled half on top of him, it broke something in you that you don’t know how to move on from. So while you grapple with your own mess of feelings, you just know you need to stay far, far away from him.

But seven days after your self-imposed Seungcheol ban, your roommate has apparently had enough, and he decides to break it. You hear a knock on your door and hum, expecting it to be Jeonghan asking about dinner or something. But instead, a head of thick brown hair pops in through your door.

“Can I come in?”

You're shocked for a good few seconds, before nodding and gesturing to him to do so. Seungcheol lumbers in, hesitating for a second before opting to sit on the chair in front of your desk, turning it around to face you. You’re still frozen in place, crosslegged on your bed, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

You blink. “You didn’t do anything. What are you sorry for?”

He lets out a laugh, but it’s bitter and mirthless. “For everything. For all of it. For telling you not to go to that party. For going there myself and letting you see me like that. For even being like that….”

“Seungcheol.” You protest. “You didn’t do anything-”

“I did.” He cuts you off. “You don’t know it, but I did. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my drunk, stupid mind thought it was a good idea to end up in your room that night. That I somehow genuinely believed that I could wake up next to you and you would be mine.”

Your heart pounds. Blood roars in your ears.

“I remember all of it.” He whispers, his eyes not leaving yours for a second. “How I felt that night. How badly I just wanted to be with you. No drink was helping, no one…..” He laughs again, shakes his head as if admonishing himself.

“You know what my drunken plan originally was? I wanted to wake you up and finally just tell you how much I love you. But I was so drunk and exhausted that by the time I got to you I just ended up passing out on your bed.”

“And then the next morning. I was awake the second you first moved. And I didn’t want to let go. Call it brain fog, I don’t know. I hoped I could lie there forever and just…… hold you.”

You only break your eye contact from Seungcheol when your vision swims, getting wetter and more blurred.

“This isn’t funny.” Your voice shakes.

“I’m not joking.”

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your frantic thoughts. Never, never in your life did you expect this. You remember that morning again, how Seungcheol’s hand tightened on you, how your ass pressed hard against his-

“You were awake.” It isn’t really a question.

“I was.”

When your eyes meet his again, it’s different. Something sizzles, sharp and anticipatory, like the air around you is afraid to move. But Seungcheol isn’t. He stands up and walks closer to where you are sitting, one knee planting on the mattress, until he’s right in front of you. His eyes are like melting pots of brown, and the intensity in them takes your breath away.

“You felt it, right?” He whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. You turn me on so much.”

You can’t move even if you try. It feels like something has severed the connection between your brain and body. When Seungcheol leans in, you don’t resist. Your eyelids flutter when you feel his breath on the side of your neck, just like that morning. His lips brush just so over your skin.

“Cheol….”

He hums, shifts just a smidge, and his lips plant a chaste kiss under your ear. But you don’t say anything more. You don’t know if you can. You’re overwhelmed, both physically and mentally, and the smell of the cherry and sandalwood in his cologne is making your mind foggy.

“Let me show you.” He whispers. “Let me show you how much I love you, just like I wanted to that night, just like I dreamed of for so long.”

You’re human, after all. And you’re weak for him. You’ve always been weak for him, and that’s why you’ve let all of it happen. Him in your bed, you at his party. So you turn your head and let your lips brush over his. You can almost feel his shaky sigh just before he closes the distance between you.

It’s rushed from the start, like he’s desperate. You feel the same, hands reaching up to cup his face, your heart squeezing when you realise that this is finally happening. You’re kissing Seungcheol, the guy you’ve been deeply enamoured with for as long as you’ve known him. The guy you never, ever thought you would have in this way, but still imagined it in the depths of the night when there was no one but you and your fingers. He was here now, on the same bed that you thought filthy things about him in, kissing you like he needs to steal the air from your lungs. He tilts his head, lips sliding over yours, capturing your bottom lip between his. He nibbles softly and it makes you moan.

The sound does something to him, because he curses brokenly and reaches for you. Strong hands grip your waist and tug, pulling you closer. Your legs scramble to find purchase, settling on either side of his as he pulls you into his lap. His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and wet, and you can feel something flutter right in the base of your stomach. Your panties are already damp, but from what you can feel, he’s straining through his sweatpants too. You whine into him.

“Cheol…”

He groans, hands digging into your flesh. They slide under your shirt to run over your bare skin. You instinctively arch into him.

“Love it when you call me that.” He rasps. “Only you do. Only you.”

So you say it again, whisper it into his mouth while his tongue is in yours, and you can feel how his force increases, how he unravels just a little bit more. His hands under your shirt get more frantic, and finally he pushes up, peeling it off your body. You let him, but when the cold air hits your skin, you realise you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Fuck.” He curses softly, eyeing your half naked body. You feel your skin heat under his gaze, squirming a little.

“Beautiful. You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

No, I’m not. Your mind immediately supplies. Because it’s true. You can’t help but think of all the girls he’s had like this, in his lap while he runs his tongue down the column of their throats, nipping here and there. He probably feels you stiffen, because he pulls away and looks you in the eyes, his expression cautious.

“What’s wrong?”

You swallow tightly and shake your head, leaning forward to kiss him again. But he pulls his head back before you can, watching you closely.

“Tell me, sweetheart. What is it?”

Your heart squeezes. You try to arrange your thoughts and look for words. You feel Seungcheol’s hands run up and down your back and sides comfortingly.

“I just don’t want this to be a one time thing.” You finally say, because you don’t want to tell him how much doubt you have. How deeply ingrained it is within you that you can never be with someone like him. You’re almost halfway certain that even this, what is happening right now, is some extreme exhaustion-induced dream and you will wake up to a cold, empty bed, but you don’t want to think about that.

Seungcheol’s eyes dart between your own. His face is soft, open, like he’s coming to the slow realisation of what you mean. When he sighs, you feel his breath on your skin. He leans forward so his forehead is pressed to yours. You don’t dare break your stare, even if it makes you go a little cross-eyed.

“I would never do that to you.” He whispers. “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

Your breath hitches. Your hands on his shoulders tremble.

“I dream about you every night. I lay in my bed and I think of having you next to me. But I never did anything about it. You’ve always felt so far away. Like I can’t dare touch you or you will be tainted.”

Your eyebrows furrow. You watch as Seungcheol’s gaze dims into something like resignation.

“But seeing you at that party with Seungkwan, having you see me like that.” He shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “I knew something had to change. And it had to come from me. Whatever illusion I had in my head about us being just roommates, and me being happy with that, it wasn’t working.”

His hold tightens on you with that last sentence, hands running over your bare back again. His fingertips slide under the waistband of your shorts, just an inch, teasing you. You arch into him.

Seungcheol’s eyes travel to your lips and stay there. The air around you feels like it’s charging up again.

“Saw your little friend draped all over you, and I couldn’t stand it. Why does he get to touch you but I can’t?”

Your lips brush again. Your arms wind around his shoulders. “You can.”

“Hm?”

You can feel your cheeks heat. “You can touch me.”

Something flickers in Seungcheol’s eyes. “Where, baby?”

Baby. A shiver runs down your spine. “Everywhere.”

Your lips meet again. It’s hungry. It’s desperate. You feel his hand cup the back of your head, guide your movements like he wants them to, and it goes straight to your core, tightening it. You know you’re soaking your shorts, and you realise belatedly that you’re not wearing underwear either. Embarrassment hits you fleetingly, but before you can think about it more, Seungcheol is pushing forward to lay you on the bed, your hair sprawling on the pillow. He doesn’t break the kiss even once, fitting his hips between your legs and grinding into your heat. You gasp and cry out.

“You make the prettiest sounds.” He groans. “So responsive. I haven’t even done anything yet. Haven’t even touched you the way I want to.”

But he has. He’s all over you, taking over your every sense, infiltrating you until you can feel him thrumming in the hollows of your bones. You arch into him when he nips at your neck again, teeth digging in teasingly. If he leaves marks, so be it. You will wear them proudly. How long have you spent fantasising about having his lips on you? And here he is now, trailing kisses down until he reaches your chest. His tongue peeks out, smooths over your left nipple so that it is laved in his spit. He blows air on it, making you gasp. You wouldn’t see his smirk if it weren’t for the fact that a dimple cleaves through his right cheek. He pops your nipple in his mouth and sucks.

Seungcheol works you over while you whine and moan. Your hands meet his hair, running through the short ones on the back of his head before burying your fingers into it and tugging. He hums into your skin, and you can feel the vibration. It makes you clench desperately, making your hips buck.

“Cheol, please…”

He pops off your nipple after one last hard suck. You’re already taking in big, heaving breaths, like you’re losing your senses. You feel his tongue run up your sternum.

“What do you want, baby?”

You squirm, buck up again so that it brushes over his crotch. He chuckles.

“Impatient little thing. All you have to do is ask nicely.”

You blink through wet eyes, meeting his half-lidded, heated gaze. “I did. I said please.”

He groans. “Say it again, then.”

You make sure you’re looking him right in the eye as you buck up again. “Please.”

Seungcheol’s fingers hook in your shorts and he tugs them down. His face twists when he realises you’re not wearing underwear. He curses long and low, pushing your legs open to peer down at the mess between them.

“Dirty girl.” He moans. “No panties?”

You shake your head. “I don’t wear them to bed.”

His eyes widen as he thinks back.

“That night….”

You know exactly what he is referring to. The night he spent in your room, spooning you. You shake your head.

“Fucking hell.” His lips crash into yours, near feral as he devours you. You whimper and let him, hooking one leg over his waist.

“Could’ve fucked you back then, right? Just pushed your shorts aside and put my cock in you. Bet you would’ve loved that.”

You would, in your deep, dark fantasies. The thought of just being used by him is so hot that it lights your nerves on fire. You tug his shirt, having had enough, and he immediately obliges, pulling it off. Your mouth waters as you eyes the large expanses of smooth skin stretched over his muscles. You’ve never seen Seungcheol shirtless around the house, he’s very careful about it. The most you have seen is his arms through those tight tanks he loves so much. You run your hands over him as he goes back to licking and nipping at your neck, hooking his thumbs in his sweatpants so he can take them and his boxers off in one go.

His cock springs up and hits his navel. He’s thick, so much that it makes you suck it a long breath. All the blood that has rushed to it has left it aching hard and throbbing, shiny at the head with precum. You’re just wondering how you can even take it all the way in when he slides down your body once again, this time going further than your breasts, until he’s settling between your open legs. Your face flames, fighting the urge to close your thighs when he stares at you like that, licking over his bottom lip.

He runs his fingers down your soft, heated folds, one on each side in a V-shape. He spreads his index and middle fingers, opening you up.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He mumbles, leaning down to barely dance his tongue through your slit. Your legs jerk at the feeling. He’s holding you open, which makes his touch hit deeper, in more sensitive places. You sigh when he flattens his tongue over you finally, licking a thick stripe. His hands position themselves on your inner thighs, keeping you open and his head shifts side to side, running his lips and tongue over every part of you.

He’s amazing at this.

He’s eating you out like he’s starving for it, eyelids fluttering, nearly rolling up, and just the sight of Seungcheol like this, face progressively getting more and more flushed and he leans down and sticks his tongue as far as it can go inside your cunt, has you shaking and crying, your high approaching embarrassingly fast. You want to sob, tell him to stop, that it’s too much all at once, but it feels so unbelievably good that you won’t dare, locking your legs over his broad shoulders, hands fisting the sheets as you wail and cum with no warning. His hold on you is iron strong, holding you in place and not stopping the rapid flicks of his tongue until tears slide down your face and you push his head away. He parts from you with a loud, filthy slurp, licking his lips. He’s breathing hard, but not as hard as you while you’re shaking from your orgasm.

He uses his index and middle finger to wipe the lower half of his face, his chin, the line of his jaw. Then he shifts forward to kneel between your trembling legs again. He taps the two slicked up fingers on your mouth.

“Open up, baby.”

You do, lapping your tongue over the digits as they slide into your mouth, making sure not to break eye contact with him. He watches heatedly as you suck on his fingers.

“Jesus.” He breathes. “Why’d I stay away from you for so long?”

He pulls them out when they’re slick with your spit, reaching down and immediately prodding at your entrance. You sigh and buck up. He smirks, a sexy sight that you barely have time to process before he’s sliding both fingers inside you at once. You gasp and arch, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. He’s already curling his fingers, slowly pumping them in and out.

“God.” You whimper, instinctively reaching down to grab his arm. He doesn’t mind, letting you hold it as he fingers you. You feel his muscles shift with every movement under your palms. As he works you open, he occupies his mouth with your neck and shoulder again, nipping and kissing. You realise Seungcheol is a little bit of a biter, not that you’re complaining.

You’re barely down from your last orgasm, so this one takes an even shorter time to build up. You moan with every ram of his fingers into you, he’s murmuring little encouragements and praises into your skin. His voice is rougher, breathier, and it acts as the catalyst that hurtles you over the edge again. This orgasm is just as intense, if not more, leaving your limbs boneless and your head empty. Your breaths come out chopped and heavy as he slows down, needling out the last remnants of your high.

“Gorgeous.” He hums. “I could do that for hours. Just make you fall apart over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”

Your insides twist. Seungcheol shuffles until he’s seated fully between your legs again. He watches your cunt flutter and twitch, already used and abused. You watch him wrap a large hand around his thick girth, jerking himself harshly a few times. He slaps his shaft over your slit. You gasp and jerk. His eyes shoot up to you and he smirks teasingly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Too much?”

You vehemently shake your head. “N-no. Want your cock.”

He hums, running the swollen, leaking head through your folds. He rubs it back and forth over your clit. You whimper.

“Sure about that?”

You nod and buck your hips up. It catches against your opening, making you gasp. “Please, Cheol.”

That does it for him, because he’s lining himself up and leaning down over you, pressing his forehead to yours before pushing forward. Your jaw goes slack as he carves his way in through your gummy walls, inch by inch, until you feel his pelvis meet yours.

“God, you’re still tight as hell.” He grits. “After taking my fingers like that too. Why didn’t you loosen up, baby? Wanted to stay nice and snug for me?”

His words are filthy, and never something you ever imagined coming from his mouth, in his delicious, raspy voice. You don’t say anything, brain wiped clean as he chooses that moment to start thrusting. It feels divine, he’s so thick that he stretches and hits all your spots without even angling his hips any which way. His tip nudges your cervix just slightly with every thrust, a fluttering sensation ensuing in your stomach. Everything is so much, so intense, that it’s hard to even breathe. Your eyelids fight to close, but you keep them open, because no way in hell would you miss the sight before you right now.

The muscles in Seungcheol’s arms flex and shift, hands planted on either side of your head to hold himself up. His skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat that shines under the lights of your bedroom. His torso undulates, precise and well aimed thrusts that hit just the right spots. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, face pinched in arousal and focus. His hair sticks to his temples, the rest is messed up because of how much you’ve run your hands through it. The apples of his cheeks are colored a lovely shade of pink that makes him look sensual, his eyelashes curling over his skin when he closes his eyes.

You wish you could burn this image in your mind forever.

He’s watching you just like you’re watching him, and you see the exact moment his face softens.

“Look at you.” He coos. “So pretty. So sexy like this. I imagined this, you know? When you had Seungkwan all over you, I imagined you under me.”

You whimper. The train of thought of last week’s party somehow riles him up again. His thrusts get harder, your skin stinging slightly with every ram of his hips into yours.

“And then there was fucking Soonyoung-” Seungcheol punches out. “Eyeing you like a piece of meat. If he got his hands on you, I would break every bone in his body.”

You mewl and shake your head vigorously. You can barely speak, but you’re desperate for him to know. “There’s no one, Cheolie. Only you. I only want you.”

You claw at his shoulders, tugging him down when you’re unable to resist, planting a searing kiss on his mouth. He groans into you.

“That’s right. Mine. My girl, my body, my cunt. All this is mine.”

You feel his hand sneak between your bodies so he can toy with your clit. It makes you cry out, already so sensitive from being toyed with.

“I’m not cumming until I feel your pussy milk it out of me.” He grunts, thrusts getting sloppier, and you keen. He’s determined to get you there one more time, and with how wound up you are, you know you will give it to him.

He cums at the same time as you, your walls contracting around his sloppy final thrusts. Your sweaty bodies writhe together, pressing into each other and on the bed, his hands digging into your hips and thighs while you rake your nails down his back. Finally, he buries himself deep and stills.

You sigh as tension slowly drains from your body. Seungcheol takes a moment before pulling out, flopping down next to you with a grunt and running a hand through his sweaty hair. You watch him and he eyes you back, a small smile crossing his face. He grips your arm and tugs, maneuvering you so you’re on your side, his front against your back. You giggle. It’s the same position, except this time, you’re both naked.

Silence descends over both of you, your eyelids heavy with slowly encroaching sleep. You’re roused when you hear Seungcheol softly speak.

“I meant it, you know?” He mumbles. “That I’m in love with you. Been in love with you for a while now.”

You can’t help your giddy smile. You rest your hand on the back of his and squeeze. “I have been too, for a while.”

You can feel his smile on the back of your neck. “Good.”

You fall asleep to his lips laying careful kisses on your shoulder.

you’d gotten used to being invisible.

in fact, it was almost a requirement.

as the newest intern on going seventeen’s video team, your job wasn’t to shoot or edit anything anyone would actually see.

your job was to carry the gear, back up hours of footage, label hard drives, and to keep your head down while everyone else did the real work.

it wasn’t glamorous. most days, it barely felt worth the stress.

however, it was for seventeen.

you’d been a fan of theirs since you were a teenager. their posters on your wall, their lyrics scribbled into the margins of your school notes, their music tangled up in every memory that mattered.

that phase of your life had dulled slightly over the years. the screaming-concert-girl energy giving way to bills and responsibilities, but the pull hadn’t completely left. no matter how much your life shifted, their music still sat somewhere deep, familiar like a heartbeat.

you hadn’t even met them yet.

two months in, and the closest you’d gotten was sorting through hours of raw footage of them.

if anything, it had only made the distance feel sharper. because in those clips, they didn’t look like the untouchable seventeen that you grew up idolizing.

they looked…human.

mingyu always humming under his breath when he sketched between takes. seokmin laughing at the crew’s bad jokes. wonwoo feeding a stray cat outside of the studio while waiting for the next setup.

so many tiny moments. the kind of moments fans never usually get to see. moments you shouldn’t have even noticed, but did anyways.

you kept those observations locked up. because here, you weren’t a fan. you were the intern who didn’t speak unless spoken to.

especially around your boss.

he’d made it clear from day one; you were there to observe, to assist only when asked, and to stay out of the way.

any time your mouth opened, his glare said ‘don’t even think about it.’

so you didn’t. at least, not until the meeting.

the boardroom felt colder than usual, the air conditioning humming just loud enough to fill the spaces between the clipped conversations circling the table.

you sat near the end, laptop open but your fingers still, the screen nothing more than a prop to make you look busy. around you, producers, managers, and department heads volleyed the same buzzwords back and forth like a game they’ve played at least a hundred times: branding. visibility. engagement.

every word felt rehearsed.

you were the youngest in the room by at least a decade, and probably the only one who knew what ‘viral’ actually looked like online. not that anyone cared what you thought.

at the head of the table, seungcheol leaned back in his chair, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, while his phone balanced loosely in one hand. every so often, his thumb scrolled. his expression seemed detached, but not completely disinterested.

it was the first time you’d ever seen him in person, or any of them for that matter.

he didn’t seem larger than life the way you’d always imagined. he just seemed…tired. present, but guarded, as though he was only half tethered to the room.

without warning, he set his phone down. the sound wasn’t loud, but it still cut through the chatter like a blade.

“i don’t want another fully scripted episode,” he began, keeping his voice calm but stern. “sure it might be entertaining, but at the end of the day, we aren’t actors. i want people to see us. the actual humans. not the stage version. not the brand.”

his fingertip tapped once against the phone as his gaze moved slowly across the table. “but every time we try, it turns into something overly planned and fake. i don’t want that. does anyone have any actual suggestions?”

the room remained silent for a moment, most people pretending to think instead of admitting they were scared to speak up.

someone cleared their throat before offering, “we could do something documentary-style. stripped down, honest, but polished enough to feel intentional.”

“or another variety show,” another chimed in. “the fans always seem to love those.”

someone else pitched a ‘day in the life’ series that already sounded like another performance.

seungcheol didn’t so much as blink. his fingers tapped against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm, while his other hand brushed over the edge of his phone like he wasn’t really listening anymore.

your boss exhaled through his nose, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, “he wants authentic, but he doesn’t understand media. you can’t have both.”

you told yourself to let it go. to swallow the thought clawing its way up your throat.

but before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“what if we didn’t plan anything at all?”

the shift was immediate. heads turned, the weight of their stares landing on you like a punch to the chest.

“y/n,” your boss said sharply. his polite smile for the table didn’t match the warning in his eyes when they cut towards you. “we’ve been over this. you’re here to observe, not to pitch ideas.”

the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have, like every breath in the room was waiting for your response.

another voice broke through the silence. it was calm and low, but enough to make the whole room still. “let her finish.”

the tapping had stopped, and seungcheol’s gaze was on you now, seemingly intrigued by what you had to say.

“go ahead,” he said, softer this time.

your breath caught, but the evenness in his tone steadied you.

“maybe something like a vacation,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “no promos. no ads. no actual camera crew. just all of you together—hanging out, playing games, cooking, drinking, arguing over dumb stuff.”

the pause felt different this time. lighter even.

“it wouldn’t be about performances or challenges,” you went on. “it’d be in the in-between moments. the stuff that usually gets cut. nothing scripted, nothing forced. just seventeen being seventeen.

you shifted slightly in your seat, your voice softer but a little steadier now.

“people don’t care about perfect,” you said. “they want real. something that feels like one of you just picked up a phone and started filming. little pieces of your dynamic as a group instead of a whole production.”

for the first time today, his mouth tugged upward. not a full smile, just a flicker of one starting.

“now that,” he said quietly, leaning back again, “sounds like something we’d actually want to do.”

his eyes lingered on you, just for a moment, before he asked, “what’s your name?”

“y/n,” you answered, quieter than you intended.

he repeated it once, like he was testing the weight of it, before his gaze slid back to your boss.

“next time she talks, let her finish.” he ordered. his voice never rose, but the edge was sharp enough to leave no room for argument.

your boss’s nod was quick, his jaw tight. “understood. my apologies.”

seungcheol’s fingers brushed over his phone as he shifted in his chair, his tone lighter now that the tension had broken. “that’s enough for now,” he said.

his gaze found you again as the room started to move. “y/n, could you stick around for a bit? i want to hear more about your idea.”

the scrape of chairs filled the room as everyone started packing up. your boss got up without a word, adjusting his jacket. as he passed, his eyes cut to you with a silent ‘i’ll deal with you later’ before he walked out with the rest.

you didn’t even bother reacting, just slowly closed your laptop and waited for the last of the voices to fade.

when the door clicked closed, it felt like a huge weight of stress had already fallen off of your shoulders.

seungcheol leaned back in his chair, his elbow hooked over the armrest, phone loose in his hand as his eyes shifted back to you.

“sorry about him,” he said finally, his voice calm and even. “he didn’t need to talk to you like that.”

you shrugged, leaning back too. “he’s like that with everyone. pretty sure scowling is just his default setting.”

the corner of his mouth tugged, but his brows furrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking. “and you just…put up with that?”

“beats arguing,” you said, a faint grin slipping through. “he’s not exactly a ray of sunshine. i just let him sulk and do my job.”

that pulled a quiet laugh out of him, the kind that felt like it even surprised him.

for a moment, he studied you like he was trying to place something. then, tilting his head slightly, he asked, “how old are you, anyway? you seem…young.”

you arched a brow, your lips twitching at your joke before it even left your mouth. “you know you’re not supposed to ask a woman that, right? most people consider it rude.”

his eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. “i—no, i didn’t mean—”

you couldn’t hold it in any longer, a soft laugh slipping out as you waved him off. “relax, seungcheol. i’m kidding. i’m twenty-two.”

he let out a low laugh of his own, shaking his head as the tension in his shoulders eased. “you’re not really what i expected. and please, call me cheol. seungcheol is too formal.”

“okay deal,” you said, sitting up slightly, feigning curiosity. “but enlighten me—what exactly were you expecting? someone who only nods, smiles, and whispers ‘yes, sir’ every five seconds?”

his mouth curved a little more, though that calm, deliberate look never left. “no. just…people don’t usually talk to me like that in here. i think most of them would pass out if i even looked at them for too long.”

“yeah, well,” you said, resting your chin in your hand, “someone’s gotta keep things interesting.”

he leaned forward a little, his elbows resting on the table now. “so…this vacation,” he said, voice low but curious. “what are you actually picturing? somewhere away from the city, i’m assuming. but what do you actually want us doing?”

you leaned forward too, twirling your pen lazily between your fingers. “that depends on what you actually want people to see. you’re the one who doesn’t want to read a script anymore. so, what’s left? what does the ‘real’ seventeen look like?”

he went quiet for a beat, gaze lowering like he was actually considering it. “i don’t know. i guess just… whatever happens when no one’s trying to turn it into content.”

you nodded slowly. “so no staged characters, no fake setups. got it.”

that earned the faintest smile from him, his eyes staying on yours. “right. none of that.”

you placed your pen down onto the table, tilting your head. “so…how do you actually see this working? like, all of these moments that you want to share. did you want to just set up cameras all over the place that we rent?”

“i don’t really know yet,” he admitted, leaning back slightly with a shy smile. “i was kinda hoping you’d help me figure it out.”

“so what—am i your new assistant now?” you teased, a hint of a smirk playing at your lips.

“i mean,” he paused, like he was actually considering it. “you could be.”

you pretended to think deeply for a moment before turning towards him again, “alright, then. sounds like i’ll have to follow you everywhere. constantly. i should probably just move in, honestly. rent’s a nightmare right now anyways.”

he blinked, his face still calm but clearly trying to process. “…you’re serious?”

you stared for a beat before laughing. “no! oh my god. no, i’m not showing up at your place with a suitcase asking which room’s mine. i was joking.”

his brow lifted slightly, still watching you like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “you just said it so casually.”

“that’s the point,” you said, grinning. “that’s how jokes work. i exaggerate, you panic, everyone wins.”

a quiet huff of a laugh escaped him, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but couldn’t stop himself.

“alright,” you said, tapping your pen again, “so, now that i’m your fake roommate-slash-assistant-slash-stalker, we need to come up with a cool concept. it can’t just be some million dollar mansion. that screams press release.”

he drummed his fingers lightly against his the table, his gaze drifting. “i feel like it should be something that we can all have fun doing together.”

you hummed, pretending to scribble something but only drawing a lopsided circle. “what if we rented a lake house? honestly, just putting all of you in one place would be entertaining enough.”

his mouth tugged, like a thought had just clicked into place. “what if…we rented a lake house and bought one of those massive inflatable water parks? you know, like the kind you race across.”

you froze, trying to picture thirteen grown men sprinting across a floating obstacle course. it was exactly the kind of chaos people would watch unironically, purely for the entertainment of it.

you raised a brow, keeping your expression neutral. “why do i get the feeling this would end very badly for at least one of you?”

he shrugged, a faint glint of amusement crossing his eyes. “people will remember it,” he said. “and the ones who don’t will still think it’s funny. either way, it works.”

you let out a soft laugh, leaning back as you scribbled it out in your notebook just to make it official. “alright. giant inflatable waterpark it is. absolutely ridiculous, but somehow perfect. congratulations, cheol. you’ve officially matched my energy.”

he tilted his head slightly, an amused look lingering as he studied you. “was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“yeah,” you said with a grin. “don’t get used to it though, i’m saving the rest for your retirement speech.”

that got another laugh out of him, a genuine one. the kind that slipped out before he even realized it.

before you could keep the momentum going, your phone buzzed against your notebook, lighting up with the name you’d been expecting, but still dreaded.

mr. buzzkill: we need to talk when you’re done. do not leave until i find you.

a quiet laugh slipped out of you as you glanced at the screen, shaking your head.

seungcheol’s brow arched. “what’s so funny?”

you tilted the phone toward him so he could see the message.

the second his eyes landed on the contact name, a sharp cackle left his mouth, like it caught him off guard.

“mr. buzzkill?” he read, still grinning as his eyes flicked up to you. “that’s really what you call your boss?”

you nodded, completely unbothered. “yep. it was between that or ‘asshole’. this one felt friendlier.”

his grin lingered, another low chuckle slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “he’s really calling you in for a lecture because you pitched an idea?”

“yep,” you said again, tipping your chair back slightly. “he’ll talk at me for five minutes, i’ll nod, we’ll both pretend it mattered, and then i’ll leave. i honestly think he just does it to feel important or something.”

his amusement lingered for a beat, his gaze shifting toward the door before he said, almost too casually, “or i’ll just fire him.”

you stared at him. “…you’re joking.”

he didn’t even glance up, thumb already flicking through his contacts. “i’m not. he’s terrible at his job anyways.”

“wait—” you started, but he’d already tapped the screen and set the phone on speaker, as casual as if he were ordering lunch.

two rings later, “yes, sir?”

“come back to the conference room,” seungcheol said evenly. “quickly, please.”

click.

you blinked at him, absolutely stunned.

three long seconds passed before you slapped a hand over your mouth in an attempt to muffle the laugh threatening to break free. “you’re actually doing it. oh my god.”

“you said he likes feeling important,” seungcheol murmured, eyes still on his phone as if this was the most routine thing in the world. “we’ll see just how important he feels in about two minutes.”

you choked on a laugh, doubling forward against the table. “you can’t just—you cannot fire someone in the middle of the day because they annoyed me!”

his gaze finally lifted, calm as ever, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “i can if they annoy me.”

the door opened then, your boss stepping in with confusion etched across his face. “sir?”

“sit,” seungcheol ordered, gesturing to the chair across from you.

the man hesitated for a moment but eventually moved, slowly lowering himself into the chair.

he wasn’t even given the chance to get comfortable before seungcheol spoke again, his voice smooth but cutting. “you’re done here. clean your office out by the end of the day.”

your boss froze, his eyes wide in shock. “i—what? sir, with all due respect, i—”

“you can’t manage your team, you slow every project down, and apparently, you’d rather waste your time lecturing interns than actually doing your job,” seungcheol cut in, voice still calm but final. “we don’t need that here.”

your boss opened his mouth, then thought better of it. after a stiff pause, he stood up and walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.

the silence that followed stretched for a moment, the faint hum of the air conditioning suddenly loud in the empty room.

you leaned back in your chair, still trying your best not to laugh. “so…is this just a normal morning for you? casually detonating someone’s career before lunch?”

seungcheol slid his phone into his pocket, leaning back as if nothing had happened. “he wasn’t exactly holding the place together. better to cut it clean.”

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over. “clean? you barely even let him sit down. i think he got, what, half a breath before you pulled the trigger?”

his mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “would you have preferred i gave him a speech first? held his hand a little?”

you smirked. “nah, speeches are boring. this way’s much more entertaining. though now i feel like i should be worried.”

his brow arched slightly. “worried?”

you leaned forward slightly, your tone teasing. “you can really just snap your fingers and make people vanish. that’s kind of terrifying, cheol.”

“terrifying?” he echoed, one brow lifting. “or motivating?”

“both,” you said with a grin. “guess i should stay on your good side before you ‘cut it clean’ with me too.”

another low, unplanned laugh slipped out of him.

“hm,” you tilted your head at the sound. “maybe if i can keep making you laugh, i’ll actually be safe.”

he shook his head slightly, still watching you. “don’t push your luck, kid.”

you grinned, settling back into your chair. “so,” you said, gesturing loosely toward the now-empty seat across from you, “what happens to me now? do i just wander the halls like an orphan until someone decides they need my help?”

“no,” he said simply, like it was already settled. “you’ll be with me now. we’ll figure out the rest as we go.”

you blinked. “just like that?”

“just like that,” he repeated, unbothered. “welcome to your actual job.”

you exhaled a short laugh, shaking your head. “must be nice, having the kind of pull where you can just rearrange people’s lives like that.”

“you sound jealous,” he said, voice steady but his gaze flicking toward you with something just a little sharper.

“maybe a little,” you admitted, resting back in your chair. “if i asked for something right now, would it just… happen? like magic? new job, new car, maybe a pony for the apartment?”

his mouth twitched, barely noticeable. “depends on what you ask for.”

you tilted your head, studying him. “that’s a dangerous thing to tell someone who’s only been in the same room as you for, what, a few hours?”

he didn’t even blink. “you’re the one who wanted to move in with me a few minutes ago.”

you snorted. “yeah, as a joke.”

his brow lifted slightly. “maybe. but you looked pretty serious when you said it.”

“because my rent is disgusting,” you said, letting out a small huff of a laugh. “if you’re offering a free place to stay, i’ll take it. no questions asked. i’ll even water your plants, assuming you even own any.”

his mouth curved, faint amusement flickering in his expression. “i don’t.”

“figured,” you leaned back again. “so, when does my actual job start? you never actually told me what exactly i’d be doing.”

he slipped his phone from his pocket, glanced at the time, then slid it back. “actually, there’s something i want you to come with me to, tonight. consider it practice.”

“tonight?” you repeated, brows lifting. “you just fired my boss, like, five minutes ago.”

“and now i’m your boss,” he said easily, like that was reason enough. “which means i get to make the rules. it’s just a listening session. it’s low-key. you can just handle all of the behind-the-scenes content or whatever.”

you tilted your head, pretending to weigh it. “right. ‘low-key’. meaning i’ll be hovering awkwardly in the corner with a camera while you drink barcadi and act like like an idiot with your friends.”

his smirk deepened, like he was holding back a laugh. “something like that. just be ready by seven. i’ll have a car sent for you.”

you stared at him for a beat. “you know, you could at least ask if i’m free tonight. normal bosses do that.”

he met your gaze, unbothered. “normal bosses didn’t just hand you a promotion, did they?”

your mouth opened, then shut it again, because technically, he wasn’t wrong.

“fine,” you said finally, leaning back a little. “seven it is. but, just so we’re on the same page…what exactly am i walking into? because the way you’re selling it, i can’t tell if this is actually work or if i’m about to end up in some underground, members-only jazz club.”

he let out a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. “guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

he pulled on his jacket as he stood, glancing at you once more before heading for the door. “don’t be late. we’ll see if you’re as good at this job as you were at making your last boss hate you.”

you smirked. “oh, don’t worry. i’m great at both.”

his hand was already on the door when he glanced back over his shoulder. “oh, and y/n?” he paused for a moment to make sure you were looking at him.

“make sure you dress like you actually work for me tonight. nothing formal, just…put together. something you can move in. don’t embarrass me,” a faint smile tugged at his mouth, like he could already tell you were overthinking it.

before you could even ask what that was supposed to mean, or figure out what ‘put together’ translates to for someone who probably considers designer suits casual, he was gone, leaving you staring at the door and wondering how your day had managed to turn into this so fast.

by the time you got home, the clock on your stove blinked 5:12 p.m. it wasn’t enough time to get ready without rushing, but it was enough time to overthink every single choice you’ve made today.

you dropped your bag by the couch and stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, replaying his voice in your head.

dress like you work for me.

something you can move in.

don’t embarrass me.

easy for him to say. for someone whose normal clothes probably cost more than your monthly rent, that could literally mean anything.

the thought followed you into your bedroom, lingering even as you opened your closet. you ran your fingers slowly along the hangers, like the right outfit might magically reveal itself if you stalled long enough.

it wasn’t a date. this was work.

except it didn’t feel like work when you started pulling out the clothes you normally saved for nights when you wanted to be seen.

after a few false starts, you landed on the only combination that didn’t make you question yourself. a black cropped top, a fitted black skirt, and your favorite leather jacket. it was bold, but not loud.

the knee-high boots, the ones that always made you stand taller even when you didn’t feel it, pulled the entire look together.

you paused in front of the mirror, smoothing the skirt absently before letting your hands fall back to your sides.

was it professional? not really.