Big Dipper⭐

EARLY 2024

The clink of porcelain echoes softly through the kitchen as you stack the last of the dinner plates into the dishwasher. A few streaks of sauce smear the rim of a bowl, and you pause to rinse it before sliding it into place. Behind you, the muffled hum of little giggles and Seungcheol’s voice floats down the hall, low and unmistakably patient.

“Okay, one more page. But that’s it,” he says, probably for the fourth time. Your two girls are always masters of manipulation when it comes to bedtime stories, especially when it’s their dad’s turn.

You smile to yourself, wiping your hands on a dish towel. Moments like—quiet evenings when Seungcheol isn’t buried in work or halfway across the world on tour—are so precious. Having him here to end the day with you and the girls means the world to all four of you.

A few more minutes later, the sink is empty, the counters are clean, and for the first time in hours, the apartment is quiet. You’re heating some water for a late-night cup of tea when footsteps pad toward the kitchen slower than the usual rush ones from tiny feet, the kind of satisfied walk of a man who has just successfully navigated bedtime without a single tear or tantrum.

You look up from the tea bag you’ve just placed inside the mug, eyes drifting to Seungcheol leaning against the doorway, arms folded in a way that highlights his biceps, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

“All tucked in?” you ask, turning off the stove and grabbing the kettle to pour the boiling water into the mug.

He hums. “Out cold. But Hayoon tried to convince me she saw Bluey in the hallway again.”

You snort. That sounds a lot like your youngest daughter.

“She’s got your imagination.”

“And your dramatic flair,” he adds, moving closer.

Seungcheol wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in, while you blow on the rim of the mug, letting yourself lean into him. He smells like your daughters’ baby lotion and bedtime—if that can even be considered a smell.

He places a kiss on the exposed skin of your shoulder. And then, casually—almost too casually for your taste—he says, “So… I’ve been thinking.”

You take a sip of your tea, peeking at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Seungcheol laughs briefly against you. “I don’t know… looking at them tonight, hearing them giggling,” he shrugs, “I think we should have another.”

You let out a small laugh too, placing the mug on the counter and slowly turn in his arms to face him. “Another what?”

Seungcheol looks at you like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “Baby.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, a little shocked by the sudden topic.

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice is gentler, almost shy. A small pout is already forming on his lips. “I love being a dad. And I know you love being a mom just as much. I just feel like we’ve got more love to give.”

You narrow your eyes, playfully. “Are you saying that because we outnumbered you and now you want a boy?”

He laughs again, the sound echoing through the kitchen. “You know it’s not that, baby. As much as I’d love for us to have a boy, I love being a girl dad and would be the happiest man on earth with several of you running around this house.”

You knew all of that from a conversation you had long ago, back to before you were married, before the girls. It was during your third month of dating, when he saw you holding his cousin’s baby at a family dinner. Seungcheol watched you with such soft awe, and later that night, in the car ride back to your place, he told you how much he wanted to be a father someday.

“At least five,” he had said with a smile that made your heart flip. “A whole little team.”

You laughed then, shaking your head as you admitted you had always imagined yourself having at least two. So, you both compromised, settling on a middle ground: three.

You try not to smile, but it creeps in anyway, tugging at the corners of your lips. “Several, huh?”

“Well, at least one more.” He offers you a small smirk, knowing you’re thinking about the same conversation. “Haein is such a great big sister. And I’m sure Hayoon will be too.”

“She really has a middle sister energy, doesn’t she?” Your head tilts to the side thoughtfully, and Seungcheol chuckles, agreeing. You lean into him more, your hands resting on his chest as his fingers lazily trace patterns along your lower back.

Of course you want another child with him. God, you would have as many children as this man wanted if labor wasn’t so difficult. But you’re not sure this is the right time to have another one. Not with everything going on in his and SEVENTEEN’s career, solidifying them as one of the biggest groups K-POP has ever had.

Not to mention your own career. You have always been lucky that your job gives you time to spend with your daughters when they are not at school or daycare. You don’t want to push your luck with your boss by going into a second pregnancy in the span of five years.

“It’s not that I don’t want another,” you begin slowly, your voice quieter now. “I just… I don’t know if we’re ready yet.”

Seungcheol nods, no trace of disappointment on his face, only patience and understanding. “That’s okay,” he reassures you. “I’m not trying to pressure you, baby. I just wanted to put the thought out there, you know?”

You agree with your head, your eyes searching for his. “It’s a big step, don’t you think? Bigger than it was the first or second time, somehow.”

“Three under two.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear and gives you the softest smile. Gosh, you love this man so much that saying this is an understatement. You smile back, touched by how well he understands you.

“Exactly. It’s not just about love. It’s about time. Energy. Sleep. Diapers.”

“Endless diapers,” he echoes with a dramatic shudder that makes you laugh. “And we just got Hayoon out of it.”

“But also… tiny socks. First words. First steps.” You pout, your voice trailing off as the thought settles between the two of you—warm, bright, and a little terrifying in how much you want it all over again.

Seungcheol leans forward and kisses your forehead, lingering there. “We don’t have to decide anything tonight. I just wanted you to know that my heart’s open if yours ever is too.”

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear. It’s comforting, familiar, your home. Maybe you’re not ready to say yes. But you’re not ready to say no either. Which is why your mind starts to wander while you’re there, seeing from where you stand the two Daesangs SEVENTEEN has just won at the last MAMA Awards, shining under the soft light filtering through the living room.

You stare at him, then smile sweetly and pat his chest. “Okay, how about this: when Seventeen wins a Daesang for Artist of the Year at MAMA, I’ll give you another baby.”

Seungcheol’s eyes light up like you’ve just proposed to him. He blinks, completely caught off guard, before a slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.

“Are you serious?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but the twinkle in your eye gives you away.

He lets out another laugh, eyes crinkling, and pulls you even closer. “You do realize that now I have even more motivation to make sure we win it, right?”

You tilt your head, fake amused. “Oh no, what have I done? How am I supposed to live peacefully knowing my hot husband is working hard to put another baby in me?”

Seungcheol freezes for a moment, his eyes darkening with lust as the implication sinks in, not even trying to hide the breeding kink you know so well. When he looks at you again, it’s with a kind of hunger you see almost every night. It’s not rushed or needy, but something deeper, anchored in love and years of wanting you in every way possible.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “You just made Artist of the Year the most personal goal I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, raspy.

You laugh softly, your hand resting over his heart again, leaning into his kiss. “Good. Just don’t tell the boys. They’ll never let me live it down.”

He chuckles. “Deal.”

MAMA Awards Night – Osaka, Japan

It had been an emotional night from the start. You were sitting just offstage, your heart pounding every time they were shown in the crowd, every time a camera panned across the boys in their performance clothes, nervous smiles on their lips.

You were already tearing up by the time they won their first award. But when Ma Dongseok stepped onto the stage, his deep voice announcing that SEVENTEEN was Visa’s Artist of the Year, the tears came down in earnest. You were overwhelmed with pride, and not just for your husband, but for all of them.

By the time Seungcheol finally slips away from the cameras, the press, and the post-win chaos, you’re already waiting for him in the quiet of the dressing room, seated on the couch with his coat folded in your lap. One by one, the other boys have come and gone, stopping to talk to you briefly.

Now, only he remains.

So, when the door creaks open, you don’t look up. You don’t have to. You feel him the second he steps inside.

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence follows.

“I cried,” he says.

You smile, eyes still fixed on the coat in your hands. “I saw.”

“I try not to, but it’s so emotional.”

“I know.”

Footsteps pad across the room, then Seungcheol drops onto the couch beside you with a tired, relieved sigh. He sits in silence for a moment, then leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

You look over at him. His hair is slightly tousled from hours under stage lights, cheeks still faintly flushed from emotion. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from exhaustion, but from everything that comes before this moment.

Without thinking, you reach up and brush your fingers beneath his eye, cleaning up the remains of eyeliner. Seungcheol closes them at your touch.

“I’m so proud of you, Cheol,” you murmur quietly. “Of all of you.”

His lips curve into a faint, tired smile. “I keep thinking about the first time I ever watched MAMA on that small TV in our old dorm.”

You stay silent, just leaning your head gently against his shoulder.

“I used to wonder what it would feel like,” Seungcheol goes on. “To win something like that. I never thought it would be like this. That would mean this much.” He pauses for a beat. “That you would be here for it.”

You lift your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. “Where else would I be, baby?”

He lets out a short, shaky laugh. “Probably somewhere not with two toddlers while your husband tries to make deals about future babies.”

That makes you roll your eyes.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe that’s what you’re thinking about right now.”

He gives you a cheeky grin and leans in, nudging his nose against your cheek. “You made a deal, Mrs. Choi.”

“It was a joke.”

“A verbal agreement is still a contract.”

“You didn’t even sign anything.”

“Well, God forbid a man takes his wife’s word for it.”

You huff a laugh and shove his shoulder lightly, but he catches your hand before it falls, bringing it to his lips. The kiss he presses there is slow, quiet. Reverent.

Your teasing fades.

For a second, the noise of the night disappears again, and all that’s left is him. The man who carries a world of pressure on his back and still comes home every night with arms wide open for his daughters and wife. The man who gives everything to the people he loves, even when there’s barely anything left for himself.

Seungcheol exhales, long and quiet. “I’m saying all this, but… I only want it if you do. You know that, right?”

You turn your face to search his eyes. There’s no pressure there, but you can see just a little bit of hope.

“I want to,” you affirm, voice sure. “I do.”

He stills, analyzing your face in search of something that says otherwise. He finds nothing.

“I’m ready,” you add, your fingers gently brushing the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it more than I realized. And watching you with the girls lately… tonight, seeing you on that stage with the boys… I want this again, Cheol.”

Seungcheol watches you with so much adoration in his eyes your heart races just a little—a lot. A huge smile spreads across your lips.

“Besides… I’m a woman of my word. I said all it takes is a Daesang, and you delivered.”

His breath catches, and for a second, Seungcheol just stares, blinking at you like you’ve hung the stars. He leans close.

“God, I love you.”

It’s the last thing you register before Seungcheol leans over you, his buff body pinning you against the couch while his mouth captures yours in a kiss. His hips settle between your open thighs, and you don’t even hesitate before wrapping your legs around him, fingers tangling in his long hair to keep him close.

There’s no rush in your kiss, not a single drop of desperation. Just fullness. Full of the joy clinging to his skin from earlier, full of the love he carries for you like it’s part of who he is, full of the want he’s been quietly holding back since the second you made that promise in the kitchen all those months ago.

Your fingers find their way to his shirt, pulling him even closer, and Seungcheol moves with you, almost instinctively, like your magnetic field is pushing him deeper than he already is.

His hand slides to your waist, and you can feel his smile still pressed into his kiss, feel the tension melting off his shoulders. It’s a gentle kiss, but there’s an urgency slowly building beneath it, a slow, burning awareness of the moment you’re about to step into.

When you finally pull back, his voice is barely a whisper, forehead resting against yours.

“I love you.”

You smile, breath warm against his lips. “I love you too,” you reply, running your fingers across his cheekbone. “Now take me home, daddy.”

And by home, you meant the hotel room you’re staying at in Osaka.

After being the perfect picture of good behavior in the car ride here, Seungcheol carries you out of the elevator and doesn’t put you down for a second, not even when you reach the hotel room. He manages to slide the keycard with one hand, the other still wrapped securely around you as he holds you bridal style.

The room is dim, lit only by the ambient flow of Osaka’s skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights flickering like scattered stars against the black sky. Seungcheol doesn’t bother with the lamp, though. He shuts the door with one swift kick, then spins to press you up against it, his lips colliding with yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle.

A strong rush of need surges through you, intensifying as you wrap one leg around his hips and draw him closer. Wasting no time, his hands grip your waist and effortlessly lift you off the ground, both of your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, a soft gasp escaping your lips when you feel him already hard.

Rubbing your clothed core against his, you quickly find the friction you’ve been craving since ever since the kiss in the dressing room earlier; and judging by the way one of his hands grabs the back of your thigh while the other slams loud against the door beside your head for balance, so does Seungcheol.

His tongue meets yours, claiming your mouth with a fierceness that leaves no room for resistance, as though he's trying to remind you that you've always been his. And you’ll be doomed before you deny that. Every little cell in your body belongs to him; every atom, every breath that fills your lungs.

Seungcheol rolls into you, and the motion pulls matching, breathless moans from both of you, your head tipping back against the door with a soft thud as your mouth hangs open.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, eyes flickering down to watch the way your fully clothed bodies move together. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

You aren't much different when it comes to him. Especially when his lips wander from your mouth to your jaw before settling at the sensitive curve of your neck—licking, sucking, and peppering desperate kisses that make a rush of thousand shivers race down your spine while his hand traces your side until they give your ass a firm squeeze.

The world outside the hotel room fades into a blur, the only reality you’re stuck in is the delicious pressure of your husband’s body pressed against yours, his familiar, intoxicating scent filling your senses completely, and the insistent rhythm of his heart pounding against your own.

Your fingers fist in his hair and shoulders, pulling him closer. “Cheol,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. It’s more like a desperate plea.

Seungcheol groans against your neck before sinking his teeth into it, claiming as though the sound of his name on your lips sets something primal within him, possessive. His hands grip you together: one sliding up your back to anchor you to him, the other still steady against the door as if the weight of what you’re both feeling right now might knock him over.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he repeats against your skin, now trailing kisses along your collarbone, moving close to your breasts. “You sit there looking like a dream, crying during our speeches, cheering louder than anyone else in that damn room, and all I could think about was getting you alone.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, heat flooding your entire body.

Suddenly, Seungcheol lifts his head, waiting until your eyes lock before continuing, “You have no idea how many times I looked at you tonight and thought, That’s mine. That’s my forever.”

“Yours,” you whisper against his swollen lips, the word urgent and aching, as though you’re trying to prove something you both already know.  “Yours. Forever.”

A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin as Seungcheol goes back to press his lips against your neck—his favorite and beloved spot.

“You’re so beautiful like this.” His lips left your skin with a wet pop. “Desperate and needy for me. Goddamn it, I could come like this and not even be ashamed.”

You pout softly, cupping his face and bringing it close until your foreheads touch, both of you catching your breath already heavy. “Don’t you want to come inside me, Cheol?”

“Mmm,” he actually moans, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide with lust as a sharp inhale cuts through. The way you say it—softly, breathless, almost innocent—punches the air right out of his lungs.

“You’re so hard, daddy,” you murmur, grinding against him just a little before slowly unwrapping your legs from around his waist and rising to your feet again. “We should probably do something about that, don’t you think?”

Seungcheol exhales a shaky breath through his nose, eyes glued to you as you land on your feet. His hands trail down your thighs like he’s reluctant to let go, but he leans back slightly, giving you room, his gaze burning into you with something close to reverence and hunger.

It would’ve been almost shameful how quickly you drop to your knees in front of him, if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Settling back on your heels, hands neatly folded on his thighs, you look up, blinking angelic through your lashes. Seungcheol’s hand cups your cheek and jaw, his thumb dragging over your lips before slipping past them, leaving you no choice but to part them for him.

The hotel room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft city hum bleeding through the windows. Seungcheol’s thumb rests heavily on your tongue, and you close your lips around it, sucking gently, your eyes locked on his the entire time.

The groan that leaves him is guttural. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes, watching you like you’re something holy. “Look at you. On your knees for me.”

You hum around his thumb, and his eyes flutter shut for half a second before snapping back open, like he refuses to miss a single moment of this. Seuncheol pulls his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop, dragging the wet pad of it across your bottom lip before letting his hand slide back into your hair, gripping just enough to tilt your face the way he wants it.

“You did so well tonight, Cheol” you purr, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You deserve to be rewarded.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, fingers working at his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet of the room. “Winning a Daesang like you promised you would.”

“I told you had made that the most personal goal I’ve ever had,” he says, watching your every move.

“And you did,” you whisper, bitting you lip softly. “Now let me show you just how proud I am.”

Your hands move with purpose and, by the time you’re tugging his zipper down, Seungcheol is already breathing heavier, his abs flexing under the fabric of his shirt. After that, you make quick work of his pants, tugging them down and tossing them aside as he shrugs off his shirt, the fabric disappearing somewhere in the room. The sight of him like this—bare-chested, golden skin flushed from arousal, towering above you—is enough to leave you breathless.

Your mouth waters as your eyes drop lower, catching the way his hand wraps around himself through his boxers, giving you a show you’ve seen countless times before but never grow tired of. He was teasing you with something that was probably already branded in your memory and pussy forever and never fails to amaze you: how big he is.

You ease his boxers down slowly, dragging your nails along the sensitive skin of his groin as you go, until they join the rest of his clothes on the floor. His cock springs free, hitting your face with a soft, wet slap, and you giggle, unable to help yourself, feeling a bead of precum paint your cheek. And even after years of this, of him, your mouth still waters at the sight.

Seungcheol throws his head back with a loud groan as you circle your finger around his tip, spreading the precum. When you glance up at him, locking eyes, you cup his cock with one hand and give it a few playful slaps against your cheek. His reaction is immediate—a deep, raw grunt rumbles from his chest, feral and unfiltered.

Your hand looks small wrapped around him, unable to fully close around his girth, and the sight alone makes your thighs press together. “God, you’re so big, Cheollie,” you whisper, half to yourself, giving him a slow stroke from base to tip.

Seungcheol chuckles breathlessly. “You say that every time, baby.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

His thumb strokes your temple, sweeping loose strands of hair away from your face. “Then open for me, pretty girl. Let me see that mouth.”

You do, sticking your tongue out flat for him, and Seungcheol has to grip the base of himself just to steady the twitch that runs through his cock. He guides the tip along your tongue, tapping it there once, twice, before sliding just the head into your mouth.

“Fuck.”

You close your lips around him, sucking gently at first, tongue swirling around the tip like it was your favorite flavor of popsicle, savoring it and lingering there for a while, tongue moving slowly and teasing, the way you know will drive him crazy. His hand tightens in your hair, and you feel the tremor in his thighs beneath your palms.

“Stop teasing,” he rasps, fingers pulling your hair slightly, forcing a moan from your throat that vibrates against his cock.

You take him deeper, still slowly, letting him watch every inch of himself disappear between your lips. Seungcheol’s mouth falls open, a soft, wrecked sound escaping him as your nose bumps against the coarse hair at his base. You swallow around him, throat fluttering, and his knees nearly buckle.

“Holy shit!” His head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you take the opportunity to pull off just enough to breathe, sucking hard on your way up before sinking back down.

Your fingers form a tight “O” around the base, working in sync with your mouth, head bobbing toward his groin, taking more and more with every movement.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he chants, hand cradling the back of your head, guiding you gently but not forcing. He never forces. “You feel so good. Your mouth is fucking heaven, you know that?”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes him hiss through his teeth. He looks down at you again, and the sight of you—kneeling on the hotel carpet in your beautiful dress, mascara starting to blur at the edges, spit already glistening on your chin—makes something animalistic flicker behind his eyes.

“Look at my perfect little wife,” he praises, thumb stroking your cheek where his cock bulges against it. “So pretty with my cock down her throat. Taking me so well.”

The praise sends a bolt of heat straight between your legs, and you whimper, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing faster. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, twisting on the upstroke the way you know he loves.

You can’t help but clench your tights at the sight of him: head slightly tilted back, abs tight, jaw clenched. A view of pure sin. Your paradise. Your husband. Your baby daddy.

“Ah fuck, careful, baby, careful,” Seungcheol warns, his hips stuttering forward once before he catches himself. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that. And I don’t wanna waste it.”

You pull off with a wet sound, licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. “Then don’t waste it,” you whisper against his slit, tongue flicking teasingly. “Give it to me. Come first one in my mouth.”

Seungcheol groans, low and long, his forehead dropping as he stares down at you in disbelief. “Yeah? You want that, baby?”

You nod, blinking up at him with the most innocent expression you can muster while your hand strokes him steadily. “Please, daddy. Wanna taste you before you fill me up. Wanna have every part of you tonight.”

“Christ,” he breathes, and both his hands find your hair, gathering it loosely at the back of your head. “Open up, then.”

You obey, mouth wide, tongue out, and Seungcheol carefully guides himself back between your lips. He sets the pace this time, slow and deep, watching himself disappear into your mouth with dark, hooded eyes.

“Just like that, baby. Suck me just like that. Fuck, look at you…" His voice breaks off into a moan when you swallow around him again. “So pretty. My pretty, perfect wife. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take me.”

You moan in agreement, sinking as far as you can, and Seungcheol’s rhythm falters.

“Such a good little wife,” he growls, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes. “Can’t wait to choke on my cock, huh?  Isn’t that what you want so bad, baby?”

You shake your head with his cock still in your mouth, eyes fluttering with tears as you slowly pull back to take a steady breath through your nose. Then you off again, determined to take more of his thick length into your throat, even if your gag reflex trembles.

That’s when Seungcheol’s touch turns gentle, one hand soothing along your back while the other grips the part in your hair, guiding you forward with slow pressure. Inch by inch, until your nose is pressed against his pelvis, your throat stretching deliciously around him.

The way Seungcheol trembles above you makes it obvious that if you keep this pace, he’s not going to last much longer.

His grip eases, and you pull back for air, gasping as a string of saliva stretches from your lips and tears start to drip down your cheeks. You spit the excess from your mouth—some of it dripping down your chin, but most of it landing messily on Seungcheol’s cock, making it glisten even more

“So messy,” he groans, eyes locked on you to watch you wipe the drool from your bottom lip, still panting softly.

Your watery eyes stared up at him, blinking angelically as you whisper, licking your fingers slowly and teasing, “I like messy, Cheol.”

“I know you do,” he murmurs, caressing your face with a gentleness that contrasts the filth in his voice. “You’re my good little messy slut, aren’t you?”

You nod wordlessly, eyes locked on his as heat coils low in your stomach. His smirk deepens, dark and satisfied.

“I’m close, baby. So close. You want it? You want me to come on that pretty tongue?”

You make a frantic sound of agreement around him, hollowing your cheeks harder, sucking with everything you’ve got. Your hand keeps stroking what your mouth can’t reach, twisting just the way he taught you years ago, and Seungcheol’s breathing turns even more ragged.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” His grip on your hair tightens, and you know he’s right there now. It’s only a matter of seconds. “Coming, baby, I’m—”

The first spurt hits the back of your tongue, hot and heavy, and you moan around him as more follows. Seungcheol pulls back just enough that you can taste him properly, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as his cock pulses on your tongue, filling your mouth with him.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. Take all of it.”

When he’s done, panting above you, you don’t swallow right away. You look up at him, mouth still open, showing him what he gave you. Seungcheol’s eyes darken impossibly further.

“Show me, baby. Show me what daddy gave you.”

You do, tongue coated in white, before you close your mouth and swallow slowly, letting him see the way your throat works around it.

“Fuck.” Seungcheol drops to his knees in front of you before you can even react, his hands cupping your face, thumbs swiping at the corners of your mouth where you’d made a small mess. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, catching what he can, and pushes it back between your lips. “That’s my perfect wife.”

You suck his thumb clean, and he groans, leaning in to kiss you deep, tasting himself on your tongue without a second’s hesitation.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs against your lips. “Absolutely unreal.”

His hands slide down your neck, over your shoulders, and then to the zipper at the back of your dress. Seungcheol tugs it down slowly, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he exposes, worshipful and unhurried. The dress pools around your knees, and Seungcheol’s breath catches at the sight of you in nothing but the delicate lace set you’d chosen for tonight.

His hands roam reverently over your ribs, your waist, up to cup your breasts through the lace. “Look at you. Every single time you take my breath away.”

Your heart stutters, but before you can say anything, Seungcheol kisses you again, scooping you up off the floor with an ease that never fails to make your stomach flip. He carries you to bed and lays you down on the crisp white sheets, following you down, caging you in with his buff body.

His mouth trails down your throat, your collarbone, and lower. He unclasps your bra one-handed—a skill he’d perfected years ago—and tosses it somewhere across the room. His mouth is on you in an instant, tongue lavishing one nipple while his hand palms the other, rolling and tugging until you’re arching off the bed beneath him.

“So pretty, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing between your breasts. “God, I love these. Love how sensitive you are for me.”

Seungcheol works his way lower, kissing across your stomach, pausing right below your navel to press his lips there with a specific kind of tenderness that makes your throat tight.

“Gonna be so pretty here again,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles over the skin. “Round with my third baby.”

“Cheol…” you whimper, threading your fingers through his hair.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and impossibly warm at the same time. “Yeah, baby? You want that? Want me to put another baby in you?”

“Yes! Yes, please!”

“Then let me get you ready for me first.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and drags them down your legs, tossing them aside. His breath ghosts over your bare cunt, and you shudder.

“Look at you…. already so wet, and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Sucking your cock does that to me,” you whisper, and Seungcheol’s grin is downright sinful.

“Yeah? Then let me return the favor, sweet girl.”

He dives in without warning, tongue flat and hot, dragging up through your folds in one long, slow stroke that makes your back bow off the mattress. His hands push your thighs wider, holding you open for him, and Seungcheol settles in like he has all the time in the world.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, one hand flying to his hair, the other fisting in the sheets.

“Mm. Missed this,” he hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck. His arm slides across your lower stomach, pinning you down as he laps at your clit with focused, deliberate strokes. “Missed how sweet you taste. My favorite fucking meal in the world.”

“Cheol!”

Seungcheol slides one thick finger inside you, and you clench around it immediately, already so worked up. He curls it just right, dragging along the spot that makes you see stars, while his mouth stays locked on your clit—sucking, licking, flicking his tongue in ways that have you writhing beneath him.

“That’s my good girl. Grind on my tongue, baby. Use me.”

A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you cry out, your hand tightening in his hair. Seungcheol groans against your pussy at the sting, and the sound alone almost sends you over.

“Cheol, I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby. I can feel you. Come on my face.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and fingers slamming into you at just the right angle, and you shatter with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs clamping around his head. He works you through it, tongue never letting up, until you’re twitching and pushing at his forehead from oversensitivity.

Seungcheol pulls back with a smug, wet smile, his chin glistening. “One down.”

“Cheollie…” you pant, still coming down.

“Nuh-uh, baby. You know how this goes.” He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth across your skin as he goes, until he’s face to face with you again. Seungcheol kisses you hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “One’s just a warm-up.”

He sits back on his heels, and you have to bite your lip at the sight of him towering over you. Broad shoulders, thick chest, the soft definition of his stomach—all of it flushed pink and warm from want.

You reach for him, and he leans down obligingly, letting you drag your palms across every inch of him. His neck, his jaw, his shoulders, the swell of his biceps.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper.

Seungcheol huffs a laugh. “That’s my line.”

“Not tonight, it’s not.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, and you feel that he’s already hard again—his cock heavy and flushed—and your mouth goes dry.

“C’mere,” he commands, sitting back against the headboard and holding a hand out to you. “Wanna see you ride me first, baby.”

You crawl to him without hesitation, straddling his lap, and he groans as you settle over him, your bare pussy sliding along his cock without taking him yet.

Seungcheol’s hands grip your hips, and his eyes are locked on where your bodies meet. “Fuck, look at us. Look how pretty you look on top of me.”

You brace one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching down to guide him to your entrance. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and both of you gasp in unison at the stretch, at the feel of him bare inside you for the first time in a long, long time.

“Oh, fuck!” Seungcheol fingers dig into your hips. “Baby, you’re not on birth control anymore, are you.”

It’s not a question. His voice is wrecked.

“Stopped it a week ago,” you confirm it against his lips, sinking the rest of the way down until you’re fully seated. “Wanted to be ready. Just in case.”

His head drops back against the headboard with a thud, and a low, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You are trying to kill me.”

“Mm. Just trying to give my husband what he wants.” You roll your hips experimentally, and Seungcheol’s hands fly to your waist, holding you still.

“Wait, wait. Give me a second, baby. You feel too fucking good.”

You settle, hands on his chest, and just breathe with him. His cock throbs inside you, and you’re so full you can barely think.

“Ready?” you ask softly.

He nods, thumbs brushing your hipbones. “Ride me, baby. Nice and slow.”

You lift up on your knees and sink back down, and Seungcheol’s mouth falls open. You do it again, and again, finding a rhythm that has you both trembling.

“That’s fucking it,” he groans, hands sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples. “Just like that. God, you look incredible. My perfect fucking wife riding my cock like she was made for it.”

You whimper, picking up the pace, and Seungcheol’s hips start to meet yours from below. One of his hands slides up your chest, over your collarbone, and settles gently around your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, thumb stroking your pulse.

“You want it, baby?” he asks quietly, watching your face for confirmation.

You nod, tipping your chin up into his palm. His fingers close around your throat, firm but careful, just enough pressure to make your head spin, to make everything narrow down to him and the way he stretches you open.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hips grinding down harder.

“That’s my girl.” His other hand slides around to grip your ass, guiding your movements. “Bounce on it, baby. Show me how much you want it.”

And you do, thighs burning as you ride him harder, and Seungcheol watches you with an expression that borders on worship. His grip tightens on your throat just slightly, and your second orgasm builds embarrassingly fast.

“Cheol, I’m…already…”

Seungcheol releases your throat to snake his hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit immediately. “I know, baby. I feel you.” He guides you through it bringing you closer and closer to the edge while your moans grow louder. “Come on. Come on my cock, sweet girl.”

His thumb circles fast and firm, and you come for the second time, crying out his name as you clench deliciously around him, body shaking violently. Seungcheol groans through it, jaw tight, hips still rocking up to fuck you through it.

“So good, baby. So good for me. Fuck!” He grips your hips hard and lifts you off him, and you whimper at the emptiness. “On your back. Need to see you.”

You barely have time to move before Seungcheol is flipping you himself, laying you back against the pillows and settling between your thighs. He grabs one of your legs and drapes it over his shoulder, then presses back into you in one long, deep stroke.

“Ohhh!” you moan, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

“That’s it. Right there. Right where I belong.” He starts to thrust in earnest now, deep and steady, the new angle letting him hit even deeper. His eyes never leave yours. “This is where I’ve been dreaming about being all night.”

Your fingers claw at his back as Seungcheol leans down to kiss you, his mouth hot and messy, teeth and tongue tangling together.

“You feel me?” he pants against your lips. “Feel how deep I am? Right where a baby goes, baby.”

You sob a moan, nodding, and he grins against your mouth—a little feral, a little sweet.

“Say it,” he demands softly, hips snapping harder. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to come inside me, to fill me up. Want your baby, Cheol, please!” Your voice comes out in desperate moans and gasps at the feel of him, his movements just as desperate.

The sound Seungcheol makes is not quite human. His pace turns punishing, hips slamming into yours, and one of his hands comes down to grip the pillow beside your head.

“Say it again.”

“Give me a baby, please, daddy, please!”

“Fuck. Fuck. You want daddy to breed you, baby? That what you want?”

“Yes! God, yes!”

His hand slides down to your ass and smacks the outside of your thigh, sharp and stinging, and you cry out from the shock of it. Seungcheol soothes the spot with his palm immediately, kissing your temple.

“Turn over,” he growls against your ear. “Wanna see you like this. Wanna do this right.”

You barely have the coordination to obey, but Seungcheol helps you, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your hips up until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He palms your ass, spreading you open, and hums low in his throat.

“Look at that. All mine.” He drags his cock through your folds once, teasing, before pushing back inside in one deep stroke that has both of you groaning.

His hand finds your hair and gathers it into a loose grip, tugging just enough to make your back arch. His other hand grips your hip, and Seungcheol starts to thrust, deep and grinding.

“Seungcheol!” you sob into the sheets.

“Feel me getting in there deep? Yeah?” His hand tugs your hair a little harder, and you moan. “Look at you, taking me so well. Perfect little wife. Perfect fucking pussy. Made for me, aren’t you?”

“Yours, only yours!”

His palm comes down on your ass with a sharp crack, and the sting shoots straight to your clit. “Damn right, only mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to fill up whenever I want.”

He soothes the red mark with his palm, then does it again on the other cheek, and you keen, cunt clenching around him.

“Oh, you liked that, baby? My good girl likes a little sting?”

You nod frantically, and he laughs, low and dark.

“So needy. So greedy for me.” His pace picks up, hips slamming into yours, the wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “Touch yourself for me. Come on my cock one more time. I know you can.”

Your hand slides beneath you, fingers finding your clit, and it takes barely a minute of Seungcheol hammering into you and his voice in your ear before you’re falling apart again.

“That’s it! Fuck, there she is, that’s my girl.”

You come with a broken cry, clenching around him so hard he stutters, and then his rhythm falters entirely, hips jerking erratically. Seungcheol pulls you up by the hair until your back is pressed to his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you there as he grinds up into you. His other hand slides down to rest low on your stomach, and his teeth find your shoulder.

“Take it,” he growls against your skin. “Take all of it, Mrs. Choi.”

Seungcheol comes with a long, guttural groan, hips pressing flush against yours as he empties inside you. You can feel it the way his cock pulses, the warmth of him filling you up, and it draws another whimper from your throat.

He holds you there for a long moment, not letting you move, not letting a drop escape. His hand stays splayed low on your belly, thumb stroking slow circles.

“There we go. Keep it in there for me, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, voice wrecked and tender.

Slowly, gently, Seungcheol lowers you both back to the bed, still buried inside you, his weight warm and heavy on your back. You lie there for a long time, catching your breath, his lips pressing lazy kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, your temple.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You hum, boneless. “Perfect.”

“Good.” His hand slides up to brush your hair back from your face, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You did so well, baby. So, so well.”

You reach a shaky hand back to cup the side of his face, turning your head to catch his lips in a soft, lazy kiss. Seungcheol hums into it, satisfied, and slowly, gently, he starts to shift like he's going to pull out.

“Wait!” you whisper-yell against his mouth, tightening your grip on his jaw. “Don’t. Not yet.”

He stills, his eyes searching yours. “Huh?”

“Stay inside,” you murmur, cheeks burning even after everything. “Just for a minute. I want to make sure it…” you swallow, “… that it sticks.”

Seungcheol’s breath catches like you’ve knocked the air out of him. For a moment, he just stares at you, his pupils blowing wide all over again, and then his mouth is on yours, a little desperate. He groans against your lips, and you feel his cock twitch inside you where he’s still buried deep.

“Fuck, you can’t just say things like that, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Please,” you plea softly. “Just a little longer.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, baby. Anything you want.” His voice is so soft now, so tender. “Come here. Let me hold you.”

Carefully, so carefully, Seungcheol guides you both down onto your side, curling around you from behind without ever slipping out of you. His arm slides beneath your head like a pillow; the other comes to rest low on your stomach, palm splayed wide and warm. His hips stay pressed flush against yours, keeping you full, keeping every drop of him right where you both want it.

“Like this?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

“Just like this.”

Seungcheol hums, satisfied, and presses a slow kiss behind your ear. His thumb strokes over your lower belly in soft, reverent circles, and you feel him twitch inside you again, a soft, pleased sound rumbling in his chest at the way you clench around him in response.

“My perfect wife,” he whispers. “So good for me.”

You close your eyes, tucking your face into the crook of his arm, feeling his heartbeat slow against your back. His body is so warm behind you, so solid, so safe.  

“Cheol?” you call, after a moment.

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your shoulder, then your temple, then the curve of your cheek. His hand spreads a little wider across your belly, holding you closer.

“I love you more, Mrs. Choi. So much more.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

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EARLY 2024

The clink of porcelain echoes softly through the kitchen as you stack the last of the dinner plates into the dishwasher. A few streaks of sauce smear the rim of a bowl, and you pause to rinse it before sliding it into place. Behind you, the muffled hum of little giggles and Seungcheol’s voice floats down the hall, low and unmistakably patient.

“Okay, one more page. But that’s it,” he says, probably for the fourth time. Your two girls are always masters of manipulation when it comes to bedtime stories, especially when it’s their dad’s turn.

You smile to yourself, wiping your hands on a dish towel. Moments like—quiet evenings when Seungcheol isn’t buried in work or halfway across the world on tour—are so precious. Having him here to end the day with you and the girls means the world to all four of you.

A few more minutes later, the sink is empty, the counters are clean, and for the first time in hours, the apartment is quiet. You’re heating some water for a late-night cup of tea when footsteps pad toward the kitchen slower than the usual rush ones from tiny feet, the kind of satisfied walk of a man who has just successfully navigated bedtime without a single tear or tantrum.

You look up from the tea bag you’ve just placed inside the mug, eyes drifting to Seungcheol leaning against the doorway, arms folded in a way that highlights his biceps, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

“All tucked in?” you ask, turning off the stove and grabbing the kettle to pour the boiling water into the mug.

He hums. “Out cold. But Hayoon tried to convince me she saw Bluey in the hallway again.”

You snort. That sounds a lot like your youngest daughter.

“She’s got your imagination.”

“And your dramatic flair,” he adds, moving closer.

Seungcheol wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in, while you blow on the rim of the mug, letting yourself lean into him. He smells like your daughters’ baby lotion and bedtime—if that can even be considered a smell.

He places a kiss on the exposed skin of your shoulder. And then, casually—almost too casually for your taste—he says, “So… I’ve been thinking.”

You take a sip of your tea, peeking at him over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Seungcheol laughs briefly against you. “I don’t know… looking at them tonight, hearing them giggling,” he shrugs, “I think we should have another.”

You let out a small laugh too, placing the mug on the counter and slowly turn in his arms to face him. “Another what?”

Seungcheol looks at you like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “Baby.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, a little shocked by the sudden topic.

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice is gentler, almost shy. A small pout is already forming on his lips. “I love being a dad. And I know you love being a mom just as much. I just feel like we’ve got more love to give.”

You narrow your eyes, playfully. “Are you saying that because we outnumbered you and now you want a boy?”

He laughs again, the sound echoing through the kitchen. “You know it’s not that, baby. As much as I’d love for us to have a boy, I love being a girl dad and would be the happiest man on earth with several of you running around this house.”

You knew all of that from a conversation you had long ago, back to before you were married, before the girls. It was during your third month of dating, when he saw you holding his cousin’s baby at a family dinner. Seungcheol watched you with such soft awe, and later that night, in the car ride back to your place, he told you how much he wanted to be a father someday.

“At least five,” he had said with a smile that made your heart flip. “A whole little team.”

You laughed then, shaking your head as you admitted you had always imagined yourself having at least two. So, you both compromised, settling on a middle ground: three.

You try not to smile, but it creeps in anyway, tugging at the corners of your lips. “Several, huh?”

“Well, at least one more.” He offers you a small smirk, knowing you’re thinking about the same conversation. “Haein is such a great big sister. And I’m sure Hayoon will be too.”

“She really has a middle sister energy, doesn’t she?” Your head tilts to the side thoughtfully, and Seungcheol chuckles, agreeing. You lean into him more, your hands resting on his chest as his fingers lazily trace patterns along your lower back.

Of course you want another child with him. God, you would have as many children as this man wanted if labor wasn’t so difficult. But you’re not sure this is the right time to have another one. Not with everything going on in his and SEVENTEEN’s career, solidifying them as one of the biggest groups K-POP has ever had.

Not to mention your own career. You have always been lucky that your job gives you time to spend with your daughters when they are not at school or daycare. You don’t want to push your luck with your boss by going into a second pregnancy in the span of five years.

“It’s not that I don’t want another,” you begin slowly, your voice quieter now. “I just… I don’t know if we’re ready yet.”

Seungcheol nods, no trace of disappointment on his face, only patience and understanding. “That’s okay,” he reassures you. “I’m not trying to pressure you, baby. I just wanted to put the thought out there, you know?”

You agree with your head, your eyes searching for his. “It’s a big step, don’t you think? Bigger than it was the first or second time, somehow.”

“Three under two.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear and gives you the softest smile. Gosh, you love this man so much that saying this is an understatement. You smile back, touched by how well he understands you.

“Exactly. It’s not just about love. It’s about time. Energy. Sleep. Diapers.”

“Endless diapers,” he echoes with a dramatic shudder that makes you laugh. “And we just got Hayoon out of it.”

“But also… tiny socks. First words. First steps.” You pout, your voice trailing off as the thought settles between the two of you—warm, bright, and a little terrifying in how much you want it all over again.

Seungcheol leans forward and kisses your forehead, lingering there. “We don’t have to decide anything tonight. I just wanted you to know that my heart’s open if yours ever is too.”

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear. It’s comforting, familiar, your home. Maybe you’re not ready to say yes. But you’re not ready to say no either. Which is why your mind starts to wander while you’re there, seeing from where you stand the two Daesangs SEVENTEEN has just won at the last MAMA Awards, shining under the soft light filtering through the living room.

You stare at him, then smile sweetly and pat his chest. “Okay, how about this: when Seventeen wins a Daesang for Artist of the Year at MAMA, I’ll give you another baby.”

Seungcheol’s eyes light up like you’ve just proposed to him. He blinks, completely caught off guard, before a slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.

“Are you serious?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but the twinkle in your eye gives you away.

He lets out another laugh, eyes crinkling, and pulls you even closer. “You do realize that now I have even more motivation to make sure we win it, right?”

You tilt your head, fake amused. “Oh no, what have I done? How am I supposed to live peacefully knowing my hot husband is working hard to put another baby in me?”

Seungcheol freezes for a moment, his eyes darkening with lust as the implication sinks in, not even trying to hide the breeding kink you know so well. When he looks at you again, it’s with a kind of hunger you see almost every night. It’s not rushed or needy, but something deeper, anchored in love and years of wanting you in every way possible.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “You just made Artist of the Year the most personal goal I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, raspy.

You laugh softly, your hand resting over his heart again, leaning into his kiss. “Good. Just don’t tell the boys. They’ll never let me live it down.”

He chuckles. “Deal.”

MAMA Awards Night – Osaka, Japan

It had been an emotional night from the start. You were sitting just offstage, your heart pounding every time they were shown in the crowd, every time a camera panned across the boys in their performance clothes, nervous smiles on their lips.

You were already tearing up by the time they won their first award. But when Ma Dongseok stepped onto the stage, his deep voice announcing that SEVENTEEN was Visa’s Artist of the Year, the tears came down in earnest. You were overwhelmed with pride, and not just for your husband, but for all of them.

By the time Seungcheol finally slips away from the cameras, the press, and the post-win chaos, you’re already waiting for him in the quiet of the dressing room, seated on the couch with his coat folded in your lap. One by one, the other boys have come and gone, stopping to talk to you briefly.

Now, only he remains.

So, when the door creaks open, you don’t look up. You don’t have to. You feel him the second he steps inside.

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence follows.

“I cried,” he says.

You smile, eyes still fixed on the coat in your hands. “I saw.”

“I try not to, but it’s so emotional.”

“I know.”

Footsteps pad across the room, then Seungcheol drops onto the couch beside you with a tired, relieved sigh. He sits in silence for a moment, then leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

You look over at him. His hair is slightly tousled from hours under stage lights, cheeks still faintly flushed from emotion. His eyes are red-rimmed, not from exhaustion, but from everything that comes before this moment.

Without thinking, you reach up and brush your fingers beneath his eye, cleaning up the remains of eyeliner. Seungcheol closes them at your touch.

“I’m so proud of you, Cheol,” you murmur quietly. “Of all of you.”

His lips curve into a faint, tired smile. “I keep thinking about the first time I ever watched MAMA on that small TV in our old dorm.”

You stay silent, just leaning your head gently against his shoulder.

“I used to wonder what it would feel like,” Seungcheol goes on. “To win something like that. I never thought it would be like this. That would mean this much.” He pauses for a beat. “That you would be here for it.”

You lift your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. “Where else would I be, baby?”

He lets out a short, shaky laugh. “Probably somewhere not with two toddlers while your husband tries to make deals about future babies.”

That makes you roll your eyes.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe that’s what you’re thinking about right now.”

He gives you a cheeky grin and leans in, nudging his nose against your cheek. “You made a deal, Mrs. Choi.”

“It was a joke.”

“A verbal agreement is still a contract.”

“You didn’t even sign anything.”

“Well, God forbid a man takes his wife’s word for it.”

You huff a laugh and shove his shoulder lightly, but he catches your hand before it falls, bringing it to his lips. The kiss he presses there is slow, quiet. Reverent.

Your teasing fades.

For a second, the noise of the night disappears again, and all that’s left is him. The man who carries a world of pressure on his back and still comes home every night with arms wide open for his daughters and wife. The man who gives everything to the people he loves, even when there’s barely anything left for himself.

Seungcheol exhales, long and quiet. “I’m saying all this, but… I only want it if you do. You know that, right?”

You turn your face to search his eyes. There’s no pressure there, but you can see just a little bit of hope.

“I want to,” you affirm, voice sure. “I do.”

He stills, analyzing your face in search of something that says otherwise. He finds nothing.

“I’m ready,” you add, your fingers gently brushing the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it more than I realized. And watching you with the girls lately… tonight, seeing you on that stage with the boys… I want this again, Cheol.”

Seungcheol watches you with so much adoration in his eyes your heart races just a little—a lot. A huge smile spreads across your lips.

“Besides… I’m a woman of my word. I said all it takes is a Daesang, and you delivered.”

His breath catches, and for a second, Seungcheol just stares, blinking at you like you’ve hung the stars. He leans close.

“God, I love you.”

It’s the last thing you register before Seungcheol leans over you, his buff body pinning you against the couch while his mouth captures yours in a kiss. His hips settle between your open thighs, and you don’t even hesitate before wrapping your legs around him, fingers tangling in his long hair to keep him close.

There’s no rush in your kiss, not a single drop of desperation. Just fullness. Full of the joy clinging to his skin from earlier, full of the love he carries for you like it’s part of who he is, full of the want he’s been quietly holding back since the second you made that promise in the kitchen all those months ago.

Your fingers find their way to his shirt, pulling him even closer, and Seungcheol moves with you, almost instinctively, like your magnetic field is pushing him deeper than he already is.

His hand slides to your waist, and you can feel his smile still pressed into his kiss, feel the tension melting off his shoulders. It’s a gentle kiss, but there’s an urgency slowly building beneath it, a slow, burning awareness of the moment you’re about to step into.

When you finally pull back, his voice is barely a whisper, forehead resting against yours.

“I love you.”

You smile, breath warm against his lips. “I love you too,” you reply, running your fingers across his cheekbone. “Now take me home, daddy.”

And by home, you meant the hotel room you’re staying at in Osaka.

After being the perfect picture of good behavior in the car ride here, Seungcheol carries you out of the elevator and doesn’t put you down for a second, not even when you reach the hotel room. He manages to slide the keycard with one hand, the other still wrapped securely around you as he holds you bridal style.

The room is dim, lit only by the ambient flow of Osaka’s skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights flickering like scattered stars against the black sky. Seungcheol doesn’t bother with the lamp, though. He shuts the door with one swift kick, then spins to press you up against it, his lips colliding with yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle.

A strong rush of need surges through you, intensifying as you wrap one leg around his hips and draw him closer. Wasting no time, his hands grip your waist and effortlessly lift you off the ground, both of your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, a soft gasp escaping your lips when you feel him already hard.

Rubbing your clothed core against his, you quickly find the friction you’ve been craving since ever since the kiss in the dressing room earlier; and judging by the way one of his hands grabs the back of your thigh while the other slams loud against the door beside your head for balance, so does Seungcheol.

His tongue meets yours, claiming your mouth with a fierceness that leaves no room for resistance, as though he's trying to remind you that you've always been his. And you’ll be doomed before you deny that. Every little cell in your body belongs to him; every atom, every breath that fills your lungs.

Seungcheol rolls into you, and the motion pulls matching, breathless moans from both of you, your head tipping back against the door with a soft thud as your mouth hangs open.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, eyes flickering down to watch the way your fully clothed bodies move together. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

You aren't much different when it comes to him. Especially when his lips wander from your mouth to your jaw before settling at the sensitive curve of your neck—licking, sucking, and peppering desperate kisses that make a rush of thousand shivers race down your spine while his hand traces your side until they give your ass a firm squeeze.

The world outside the hotel room fades into a blur, the only reality you’re stuck in is the delicious pressure of your husband’s body pressed against yours, his familiar, intoxicating scent filling your senses completely, and the insistent rhythm of his heart pounding against your own.

Your fingers fist in his hair and shoulders, pulling him closer. “Cheol,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. It’s more like a desperate plea.

Seungcheol groans against your neck before sinking his teeth into it, claiming as though the sound of his name on your lips sets something primal within him, possessive. His hands grip you together: one sliding up your back to anchor you to him, the other still steady against the door as if the weight of what you’re both feeling right now might knock him over.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he repeats against your skin, now trailing kisses along your collarbone, moving close to your breasts. “You sit there looking like a dream, crying during our speeches, cheering louder than anyone else in that damn room, and all I could think about was getting you alone.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, heat flooding your entire body.

Suddenly, Seungcheol lifts his head, waiting until your eyes lock before continuing, “You have no idea how many times I looked at you tonight and thought, That’s mine. That’s my forever.”

“Yours,” you whisper against his swollen lips, the word urgent and aching, as though you’re trying to prove something you both already know.  “Yours. Forever.”

A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin as Seungcheol goes back to press his lips against your neck—his favorite and beloved spot.

“You’re so beautiful like this.” His lips left your skin with a wet pop. “Desperate and needy for me. Goddamn it, I could come like this and not even be ashamed.”

You pout softly, cupping his face and bringing it close until your foreheads touch, both of you catching your breath already heavy. “Don’t you want to come inside me, Cheol?”

“Mmm,” he actually moans, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide with lust as a sharp inhale cuts through. The way you say it—softly, breathless, almost innocent—punches the air right out of his lungs.

“You’re so hard, daddy,” you murmur, grinding against him just a little before slowly unwrapping your legs from around his waist and rising to your feet again. “We should probably do something about that, don’t you think?”

Seungcheol exhales a shaky breath through his nose, eyes glued to you as you land on your feet. His hands trail down your thighs like he’s reluctant to let go, but he leans back slightly, giving you room, his gaze burning into you with something close to reverence and hunger.

It would’ve been almost shameful how quickly you drop to your knees in front of him, if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Settling back on your heels, hands neatly folded on his thighs, you look up, blinking angelic through your lashes. Seungcheol’s hand cups your cheek and jaw, his thumb dragging over your lips before slipping past them, leaving you no choice but to part them for him.

The hotel room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft city hum bleeding through the windows. Seungcheol’s thumb rests heavily on your tongue, and you close your lips around it, sucking gently, your eyes locked on his the entire time.

The groan that leaves him is guttural. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes, watching you like you’re something holy. “Look at you. On your knees for me.”

You hum around his thumb, and his eyes flutter shut for half a second before snapping back open, like he refuses to miss a single moment of this. Seuncheol pulls his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop, dragging the wet pad of it across your bottom lip before letting his hand slide back into your hair, gripping just enough to tilt your face the way he wants it.

“You did so well tonight, Cheol” you purr, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You deserve to be rewarded.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, fingers working at his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet of the room. “Winning a Daesang like you promised you would.”

“I told you had made that the most personal goal I’ve ever had,” he says, watching your every move.

“And you did,” you whisper, bitting you lip softly. “Now let me show you just how proud I am.”

Your hands move with purpose and, by the time you’re tugging his zipper down, Seungcheol is already breathing heavier, his abs flexing under the fabric of his shirt. After that, you make quick work of his pants, tugging them down and tossing them aside as he shrugs off his shirt, the fabric disappearing somewhere in the room. The sight of him like this—bare-chested, golden skin flushed from arousal, towering above you—is enough to leave you breathless.

Your mouth waters as your eyes drop lower, catching the way his hand wraps around himself through his boxers, giving you a show you’ve seen countless times before but never grow tired of. He was teasing you with something that was probably already branded in your memory and pussy forever and never fails to amaze you: how big he is.

You ease his boxers down slowly, dragging your nails along the sensitive skin of his groin as you go, until they join the rest of his clothes on the floor. His cock springs free, hitting your face with a soft, wet slap, and you giggle, unable to help yourself, feeling a bead of precum paint your cheek. And even after years of this, of him, your mouth still waters at the sight.

Seungcheol throws his head back with a loud groan as you circle your finger around his tip, spreading the precum. When you glance up at him, locking eyes, you cup his cock with one hand and give it a few playful slaps against your cheek. His reaction is immediate—a deep, raw grunt rumbles from his chest, feral and unfiltered.

Your hand looks small wrapped around him, unable to fully close around his girth, and the sight alone makes your thighs press together. “God, you’re so big, Cheollie,” you whisper, half to yourself, giving him a slow stroke from base to tip.

Seungcheol chuckles breathlessly. “You say that every time, baby.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

His thumb strokes your temple, sweeping loose strands of hair away from your face. “Then open for me, pretty girl. Let me see that mouth.”

You do, sticking your tongue out flat for him, and Seungcheol has to grip the base of himself just to steady the twitch that runs through his cock. He guides the tip along your tongue, tapping it there once, twice, before sliding just the head into your mouth.

“Fuck.”

You close your lips around him, sucking gently at first, tongue swirling around the tip like it was your favorite flavor of popsicle, savoring it and lingering there for a while, tongue moving slowly and teasing, the way you know will drive him crazy. His hand tightens in your hair, and you feel the tremor in his thighs beneath your palms.

“Stop teasing,” he rasps, fingers pulling your hair slightly, forcing a moan from your throat that vibrates against his cock.

You take him deeper, still slowly, letting him watch every inch of himself disappear between your lips. Seungcheol’s mouth falls open, a soft, wrecked sound escaping him as your nose bumps against the coarse hair at his base. You swallow around him, throat fluttering, and his knees nearly buckle.

“Holy shit!” His head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you take the opportunity to pull off just enough to breathe, sucking hard on your way up before sinking back down.

Your fingers form a tight “O” around the base, working in sync with your mouth, head bobbing toward his groin, taking more and more with every movement.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he chants, hand cradling the back of your head, guiding you gently but not forcing. He never forces. “You feel so good. Your mouth is fucking heaven, you know that?”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes him hiss through his teeth. He looks down at you again, and the sight of you—kneeling on the hotel carpet in your beautiful dress, mascara starting to blur at the edges, spit already glistening on your chin—makes something animalistic flicker behind his eyes.

“Look at my perfect little wife,” he praises, thumb stroking your cheek where his cock bulges against it. “So pretty with my cock down her throat. Taking me so well.”

The praise sends a bolt of heat straight between your legs, and you whimper, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing faster. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, twisting on the upstroke the way you know he loves.

You can’t help but clench your tights at the sight of him: head slightly tilted back, abs tight, jaw clenched. A view of pure sin. Your paradise. Your husband. Your baby daddy.

“Ah fuck, careful, baby, careful,” Seungcheol warns, his hips stuttering forward once before he catches himself. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that. And I don’t wanna waste it.”

You pull off with a wet sound, licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. “Then don’t waste it,” you whisper against his slit, tongue flicking teasingly. “Give it to me. Come first one in my mouth.”

Seungcheol groans, low and long, his forehead dropping as he stares down at you in disbelief. “Yeah? You want that, baby?”

You nod, blinking up at him with the most innocent expression you can muster while your hand strokes him steadily. “Please, daddy. Wanna taste you before you fill me up. Wanna have every part of you tonight.”

“Christ,” he breathes, and both his hands find your hair, gathering it loosely at the back of your head. “Open up, then.”

You obey, mouth wide, tongue out, and Seungcheol carefully guides himself back between your lips. He sets the pace this time, slow and deep, watching himself disappear into your mouth with dark, hooded eyes.

“Just like that, baby. Suck me just like that. Fuck, look at you…" His voice breaks off into a moan when you swallow around him again. “So pretty. My pretty, perfect wife. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take me.”

You moan in agreement, sinking as far as you can, and Seungcheol’s rhythm falters.

“Such a good little wife,” he growls, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes. “Can’t wait to choke on my cock, huh?  Isn’t that what you want so bad, baby?”

You shake your head with his cock still in your mouth, eyes fluttering with tears as you slowly pull back to take a steady breath through your nose. Then you off again, determined to take more of his thick length into your throat, even if your gag reflex trembles.

That’s when Seungcheol’s touch turns gentle, one hand soothing along your back while the other grips the part in your hair, guiding you forward with slow pressure. Inch by inch, until your nose is pressed against his pelvis, your throat stretching deliciously around him.

The way Seungcheol trembles above you makes it obvious that if you keep this pace, he’s not going to last much longer.

His grip eases, and you pull back for air, gasping as a string of saliva stretches from your lips and tears start to drip down your cheeks. You spit the excess from your mouth—some of it dripping down your chin, but most of it landing messily on Seungcheol’s cock, making it glisten even more

“So messy,” he groans, eyes locked on you to watch you wipe the drool from your bottom lip, still panting softly.

Your watery eyes stared up at him, blinking angelically as you whisper, licking your fingers slowly and teasing, “I like messy, Cheol.”

“I know you do,” he murmurs, caressing your face with a gentleness that contrasts the filth in his voice. “You’re my good little messy slut, aren’t you?”

You nod wordlessly, eyes locked on his as heat coils low in your stomach. His smirk deepens, dark and satisfied.

“I’m close, baby. So close. You want it? You want me to come on that pretty tongue?”

You make a frantic sound of agreement around him, hollowing your cheeks harder, sucking with everything you’ve got. Your hand keeps stroking what your mouth can’t reach, twisting just the way he taught you years ago, and Seungcheol’s breathing turns even more ragged.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” His grip on your hair tightens, and you know he’s right there now. It’s only a matter of seconds. “Coming, baby, I’m—”

The first spurt hits the back of your tongue, hot and heavy, and you moan around him as more follows. Seungcheol pulls back just enough that you can taste him properly, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as his cock pulses on your tongue, filling your mouth with him.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl. Take all of it.”

When he’s done, panting above you, you don’t swallow right away. You look up at him, mouth still open, showing him what he gave you. Seungcheol’s eyes darken impossibly further.

“Show me, baby. Show me what daddy gave you.”

You do, tongue coated in white, before you close your mouth and swallow slowly, letting him see the way your throat works around it.

“Fuck.” Seungcheol drops to his knees in front of you before you can even react, his hands cupping your face, thumbs swiping at the corners of your mouth where you’d made a small mess. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, catching what he can, and pushes it back between your lips. “That’s my perfect wife.”

You suck his thumb clean, and he groans, leaning in to kiss you deep, tasting himself on your tongue without a second’s hesitation.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs against your lips. “Absolutely unreal.”

His hands slide down your neck, over your shoulders, and then to the zipper at the back of your dress. Seungcheol tugs it down slowly, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he exposes, worshipful and unhurried. The dress pools around your knees, and Seungcheol’s breath catches at the sight of you in nothing but the delicate lace set you’d chosen for tonight.

His hands roam reverently over your ribs, your waist, up to cup your breasts through the lace. “Look at you. Every single time you take my breath away.”

Your heart stutters, but before you can say anything, Seungcheol kisses you again, scooping you up off the floor with an ease that never fails to make your stomach flip. He carries you to bed and lays you down on the crisp white sheets, following you down, caging you in with his buff body.

His mouth trails down your throat, your collarbone, and lower. He unclasps your bra one-handed—a skill he’d perfected years ago—and tosses it somewhere across the room. His mouth is on you in an instant, tongue lavishing one nipple while his hand palms the other, rolling and tugging until you’re arching off the bed beneath him.

“So pretty, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing between your breasts. “God, I love these. Love how sensitive you are for me.”

Seungcheol works his way lower, kissing across your stomach, pausing right below your navel to press his lips there with a specific kind of tenderness that makes your throat tight.

“Gonna be so pretty here again,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles over the skin. “Round with my third baby.”

“Cheol…” you whimper, threading your fingers through his hair.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and impossibly warm at the same time. “Yeah, baby? You want that? Want me to put another baby in you?”

“Yes! Yes, please!”

“Then let me get you ready for me first.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and drags them down your legs, tossing them aside. His breath ghosts over your bare cunt, and you shudder.

“Look at you…. already so wet, and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Sucking your cock does that to me,” you whisper, and Seungcheol’s grin is downright sinful.

“Yeah? Then let me return the favor, sweet girl.”

He dives in without warning, tongue flat and hot, dragging up through your folds in one long, slow stroke that makes your back bow off the mattress. His hands push your thighs wider, holding you open for him, and Seungcheol settles in like he has all the time in the world.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, one hand flying to his hair, the other fisting in the sheets.

“Mm. Missed this,” he hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck. His arm slides across your lower stomach, pinning you down as he laps at your clit with focused, deliberate strokes. “Missed how sweet you taste. My favorite fucking meal in the world.”

“Cheol!”

Seungcheol slides one thick finger inside you, and you clench around it immediately, already so worked up. He curls it just right, dragging along the spot that makes you see stars, while his mouth stays locked on your clit—sucking, licking, flicking his tongue in ways that have you writhing beneath him.

“That’s my good girl. Grind on my tongue, baby. Use me.”

A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you cry out, your hand tightening in his hair. Seungcheol groans against your pussy at the sting, and the sound alone almost sends you over.

“Cheol, I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby. I can feel you. Come on my face.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and fingers slamming into you at just the right angle, and you shatter with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs clamping around his head. He works you through it, tongue never letting up, until you’re twitching and pushing at his forehead from oversensitivity.

Seungcheol pulls back with a smug, wet smile, his chin glistening. “One down.”

“Cheollie…” you pant, still coming down.

“Nuh-uh, baby. You know how this goes.” He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth across your skin as he goes, until he’s face to face with you again. Seungcheol kisses you hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue. “One’s just a warm-up.”

He sits back on his heels, and you have to bite your lip at the sight of him towering over you. Broad shoulders, thick chest, the soft definition of his stomach—all of it flushed pink and warm from want.

You reach for him, and he leans down obligingly, letting you drag your palms across every inch of him. His neck, his jaw, his shoulders, the swell of his biceps.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper.

Seungcheol huffs a laugh. “That’s my line.”

“Not tonight, it’s not.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, and you feel that he’s already hard again—his cock heavy and flushed—and your mouth goes dry.

“C’mere,” he commands, sitting back against the headboard and holding a hand out to you. “Wanna see you ride me first, baby.”

You crawl to him without hesitation, straddling his lap, and he groans as you settle over him, your bare pussy sliding along his cock without taking him yet.

Seungcheol’s hands grip your hips, and his eyes are locked on where your bodies meet. “Fuck, look at us. Look how pretty you look on top of me.”

You brace one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching down to guide him to your entrance. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, and both of you gasp in unison at the stretch, at the feel of him bare inside you for the first time in a long, long time.

“Oh, fuck!” Seungcheol fingers dig into your hips. “Baby, you’re not on birth control anymore, are you.”

It’s not a question. His voice is wrecked.

“Stopped it a week ago,” you confirm it against his lips, sinking the rest of the way down until you’re fully seated. “Wanted to be ready. Just in case.”

His head drops back against the headboard with a thud, and a low, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “You are trying to kill me.”

“Mm. Just trying to give my husband what he wants.” You roll your hips experimentally, and Seungcheol’s hands fly to your waist, holding you still.

“Wait, wait. Give me a second, baby. You feel too fucking good.”

You settle, hands on his chest, and just breathe with him. His cock throbs inside you, and you’re so full you can barely think.

“Ready?” you ask softly.

He nods, thumbs brushing your hipbones. “Ride me, baby. Nice and slow.”

You lift up on your knees and sink back down, and Seungcheol’s mouth falls open. You do it again, and again, finding a rhythm that has you both trembling.

“That’s fucking it,” he groans, hands sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples. “Just like that. God, you look incredible. My perfect fucking wife riding my cock like she was made for it.”

You whimper, picking up the pace, and Seungcheol’s hips start to meet yours from below. One of his hands slides up your chest, over your collarbone, and settles gently around your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, thumb stroking your pulse.

“You want it, baby?” he asks quietly, watching your face for confirmation.

You nod, tipping your chin up into his palm. His fingers close around your throat, firm but careful, just enough pressure to make your head spin, to make everything narrow down to him and the way he stretches you open.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hips grinding down harder.

“That’s my girl.” His other hand slides around to grip your ass, guiding your movements. “Bounce on it, baby. Show me how much you want it.”

And you do, thighs burning as you ride him harder, and Seungcheol watches you with an expression that borders on worship. His grip tightens on your throat just slightly, and your second orgasm builds embarrassingly fast.

“Cheol, I’m…already…”

Seungcheol releases your throat to snake his hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit immediately. “I know, baby. I feel you.” He guides you through it bringing you closer and closer to the edge while your moans grow louder. “Come on. Come on my cock, sweet girl.”

His thumb circles fast and firm, and you come for the second time, crying out his name as you clench deliciously around him, body shaking violently. Seungcheol groans through it, jaw tight, hips still rocking up to fuck you through it.

“So good, baby. So good for me. Fuck!” He grips your hips hard and lifts you off him, and you whimper at the emptiness. “On your back. Need to see you.”

You barely have time to move before Seungcheol is flipping you himself, laying you back against the pillows and settling between your thighs. He grabs one of your legs and drapes it over his shoulder, then presses back into you in one long, deep stroke.

“Ohhh!” you moan, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

“That’s it. Right there. Right where I belong.” He starts to thrust in earnest now, deep and steady, the new angle letting him hit even deeper. His eyes never leave yours. “This is where I’ve been dreaming about being all night.”

Your fingers claw at his back as Seungcheol leans down to kiss you, his mouth hot and messy, teeth and tongue tangling together.

“You feel me?” he pants against your lips. “Feel how deep I am? Right where a baby goes, baby.”

You sob a moan, nodding, and he grins against your mouth—a little feral, a little sweet.

“Say it,” he demands softly, hips snapping harder. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to come inside me, to fill me up. Want your baby, Cheol, please!” Your voice comes out in desperate moans and gasps at the feel of him, his movements just as desperate.

The sound Seungcheol makes is not quite human. His pace turns punishing, hips slamming into yours, and one of his hands comes down to grip the pillow beside your head.

“Say it again.”

“Give me a baby, please, daddy, please!”

“Fuck. Fuck. You want daddy to breed you, baby? That what you want?”

“Yes! God, yes!”

His hand slides down to your ass and smacks the outside of your thigh, sharp and stinging, and you cry out from the shock of it. Seungcheol soothes the spot with his palm immediately, kissing your temple.

“Turn over,” he growls against your ear. “Wanna see you like this. Wanna do this right.”

You barely have the coordination to obey, but Seungcheol helps you, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your hips up until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He palms your ass, spreading you open, and hums low in his throat.

“Look at that. All mine.” He drags his cock through your folds once, teasing, before pushing back inside in one deep stroke that has both of you groaning.

His hand finds your hair and gathers it into a loose grip, tugging just enough to make your back arch. His other hand grips your hip, and Seungcheol starts to thrust, deep and grinding.

“Seungcheol!” you sob into the sheets.

“Feel me getting in there deep? Yeah?” His hand tugs your hair a little harder, and you moan. “Look at you, taking me so well. Perfect little wife. Perfect fucking pussy. Made for me, aren’t you?”

“Yours, only yours!”

His palm comes down on your ass with a sharp crack, and the sting shoots straight to your clit. “Damn right, only mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to fill up whenever I want.”

He soothes the red mark with his palm, then does it again on the other cheek, and you keen, cunt clenching around him.

“Oh, you liked that, baby? My good girl likes a little sting?”

You nod frantically, and he laughs, low and dark.

“So needy. So greedy for me.” His pace picks up, hips slamming into yours, the wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “Touch yourself for me. Come on my cock one more time. I know you can.”

Your hand slides beneath you, fingers finding your clit, and it takes barely a minute of Seungcheol hammering into you and his voice in your ear before you’re falling apart again.

“That’s it! Fuck, there she is, that’s my girl.”

You come with a broken cry, clenching around him so hard he stutters, and then his rhythm falters entirely, hips jerking erratically. Seungcheol pulls you up by the hair until your back is pressed to his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you there as he grinds up into you. His other hand slides down to rest low on your stomach, and his teeth find your shoulder.

“Take it,” he growls against your skin. “Take all of it, Mrs. Choi.”

Seungcheol comes with a long, guttural groan, hips pressing flush against yours as he empties inside you. You can feel it the way his cock pulses, the warmth of him filling you up, and it draws another whimper from your throat.

He holds you there for a long moment, not letting you move, not letting a drop escape. His hand stays splayed low on your belly, thumb stroking slow circles.

“There we go. Keep it in there for me, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, voice wrecked and tender.

Slowly, gently, Seungcheol lowers you both back to the bed, still buried inside you, his weight warm and heavy on your back. You lie there for a long time, catching your breath, his lips pressing lazy kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, your temple.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You hum, boneless. “Perfect.”

“Good.” His hand slides up to brush your hair back from your face, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You did so well, baby. So, so well.”

You reach a shaky hand back to cup the side of his face, turning your head to catch his lips in a soft, lazy kiss. Seungcheol hums into it, satisfied, and slowly, gently, he starts to shift like he's going to pull out.

“Wait!” you whisper-yell against his mouth, tightening your grip on his jaw. “Don’t. Not yet.”

He stills, his eyes searching yours. “Huh?”

“Stay inside,” you murmur, cheeks burning even after everything. “Just for a minute. I want to make sure it…” you swallow, “… that it sticks.”

Seungcheol’s breath catches like you’ve knocked the air out of him. For a moment, he just stares at you, his pupils blowing wide all over again, and then his mouth is on yours, a little desperate. He groans against your lips, and you feel his cock twitch inside you where he’s still buried deep.

“Fuck, you can’t just say things like that, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Please,” you plea softly. “Just a little longer.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, baby. Anything you want.” His voice is so soft now, so tender. “Come here. Let me hold you.”

Carefully, so carefully, Seungcheol guides you both down onto your side, curling around you from behind without ever slipping out of you. His arm slides beneath your head like a pillow; the other comes to rest low on your stomach, palm splayed wide and warm. His hips stay pressed flush against yours, keeping you full, keeping every drop of him right where you both want it.

“Like this?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

“Just like this.”

Seungcheol hums, satisfied, and presses a slow kiss behind your ear. His thumb strokes over your lower belly in soft, reverent circles, and you feel him twitch inside you again, a soft, pleased sound rumbling in his chest at the way you clench around him in response.

“My perfect wife,” he whispers. “So good for me.”

You close your eyes, tucking your face into the crook of his arm, feeling his heartbeat slow against your back. His body is so warm behind you, so solid, so safe.  

“Cheol?” you call, after a moment.

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your shoulder, then your temple, then the curve of your cheek. His hand spreads a little wider across your belly, holding you closer.

“I love you more, Mrs. Choi. So much more.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @lunaryoongie @codeinebelle @ojuwme @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @najaeminluvbot @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @vsopesoul @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @junnhuisworld @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @sarahashleight @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite

KIM MINGYU'S (UNHELPFUL) GUIDE TO LOSING YOUR VIRGINITY by @shuaflix BESTFRIEND MINGYU [ s (obv) ] every seventeen reader as read or at least had this fic pop up in their feeds at least once hehe, i remember op posted the teaser and i was sooso excited to read hehe !! and this DID NOTTT disappoint. ps : the thing where they write what they wanna do on whiteboards? i did that irl after being inspired by this fic HAHA HITS DIFFERENT ( CAUSE ITS YOU..) by @gyuswhore BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND MINGYU [ s . a . fluff ] i wrote one of my first fics on my old acc inspired by this fic. this is the absolutely sweetest ever :(( kind of like a coming of age movie ! must read WILTED by @wheeboo BF MINGYU [ a ] hanahaki fics are usually all the same but this one stands out to me <3 its truly one of the most gorgeous fics ever :^) i remember crying reading this ! its simply lovely and a must for angst enjoyers CLARITY by @hannieoftheyear BF'S FRIEND MINGYU [ s . a . cheating ] i wanna be friends with this mingyu so bad.. hes actually such a sweetheart this fic was such a fun read :3 i enjoyed it sm !! author is great w storytelling ALL THINGS END by @yoongiseesawmp3 CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND MINGYU [ a . fluff ] lovely lovely lovelyyyy fic !! this one takes u on a absolute rollercoaster of emotions <3 much love to author ! i liked it a lot

notes i have not been able to compile an entire list of my favs. i have missed out on many shorter fics, simply because i used to read on a different account and was not very keen on bookmarking or reblogging at the time. looking for these took over an hour simply because of how disorganized that account is i am very sorry to any authors i may have missed and to readers who may have enjoyed those works.

KIM MINGYU'S (UNHELPFUL) GUIDE TO LOSING YOUR VIRGINITY by @shuaflix BESTFRIEND MINGYU [ s (obv) ] every seventeen reader as read or at least had this fic pop up in their feeds at least once hehe, i remember op posted the teaser and i was sooso excited to read hehe !! and this DID NOTTT disappoint. ps : the thing where they write what they wanna do on whiteboards? i did that irl after being inspired by this fic HAHA HITS DIFFERENT ( CAUSE ITS YOU..) by @gyuswhore BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND MINGYU [ s . a . fluff ] i wrote one of my first fics on my old acc inspired by this fic. this is the absolutely sweetest ever :(( kind of like a coming of age movie ! must read WILTED by @wheeboo BF MINGYU [ a ] hanahaki fics are usually all the same but this one stands out to me <3 its truly one of the most gorgeous fics ever :^) i remember crying reading this ! its simply lovely and a must for angst enjoyers CLARITY by @hannieoftheyear BF'S FRIEND MINGYU [ s . a . cheating ] i wanna be friends with this mingyu so bad.. hes actually such a sweetheart this fic was such a fun read :3 i enjoyed it sm !! author is great w storytelling ALL THINGS END by @yoongiseesawmp3 CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND MINGYU [ a . fluff ] lovely lovely lovelyyyy fic !! this one takes u on a absolute rollercoaster of emotions <3 much love to author ! i liked it a lot

notes i have not been able to compile an entire list of my favs. i have missed out on many shorter fics, simply because i used to read on a different account and was not very keen on bookmarking or reblogging at the time. looking for these took over an hour simply because of how disorganized that account is i am very sorry to any authors i may have missed and to readers who may have enjoyed those works.

“You are. You’ve got that little crease between your brows and everything.” You reached out and poked the spot lightly. He swatted your hand away, but there was no real heat in it.

“You talked to Bang Chan the entire night,” he muttered, looking away again. “Like… non-stop. Laughing, leaning in, all that. I was right there, you know.”

You tried not to grin, but it was impossible. This big beefy man, who commanded stages and led twelve other chaotic boys, was jealous because you spent time with a mutual friend.

“Cheollie…” You climbed onto the couch and straddled his lap without warning. His hands automatically went to your waist, even as he tried to maintain his grumpy expression. “Chan and I were catching up. We haven’t seen him in months. You know he’s just a friend.”

Seungcheol huffed, tilting his head back against the couch. “Didn’t look like ‘just a friend’ when you were showing him that video on your phone, heads practically touching.”

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. His pout was devastatingly adorable up close—full lips pushed out, eyes avoiding yours even as his fingers tightened on your hips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.

“I’m not jealous,” he grumbled, but his ears were turning pink. “I just… missed you. We barely got to talk all night.”

Your chest warmed. You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your forehead to his. “I’m sorry, baby. I got carried away catching up. But I’m here now. All yours.”

He stayed quiet for a second, then let out a long sigh, his body finally relaxing under you. His arms slid fully around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re mine,” he mumbled against your shoulder, nuzzling in like a big puppy. “Should’ve been next to me the whole time.”

You laughed softly and carded your fingers through his hair. “Next time I’ll stay glued to your side, okay? No more leaving my big strong boyfriend alone to fend off boredom.”

He made a small, contented sound and tilted his head up, silently asking for a kiss. You gave it to him—slow and sweet, pouring in all the affection he’d missed. Seungcheol melted instantly, one hand sliding up your back, the other squeezing your waist like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

When you pulled back, his eyes were softer, the sulk completely gone.

“Better?” you asked, brushing his hair off his forehead.

He nodded, a shy little smile finally breaking through. “Yeah. But you owe me extra cuddles tonight. And maybe breakfast in bed tomorrow.”

You grinned, kissing him again. “Deal. Anything for my cute, sulky boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” he protested weakly, but he was already pulling you down, tucking you against his chest.

You let him. After all, making it up to Seungcheol was one of your favorite things to do.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

The living room lights were dimmed low, the city humming faintly beyond the windows. Seungcheol was still sprawled on the couch beneath you, his sulky mood long gone, replaced by that warm, hazy look in his eyes after several deep kisses. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his chest as you straddled him.

“Let me make it up to you properly,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I want to take care of you tonight.”

His breath hitched. “Baby…”

You slid down his body with purpose, kissing every inch of his chest and abs before settling between his thick thighs. Seungcheol’s cock was already heavy and leaking when you freed it, veins pulsing under your fingers as you stroked him slowly.

“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, licking a long stripe from base to tip. “So hard and desperate already. All because you got a little jealous?”

Seungcheol groaned, fingers gently threading into your hair. “Yes—shit. I hate seeing you give anyone else that much attention. This cock is yours, baby. Only gets this hard for you.”

You took him into your mouth without warning, sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, eyes watering as you held him there, then pulled back with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting your lips to his throbbing cock.

You started slow, swirling your tongue around the tip, tasting the salt of his skin as you sucked lightly. Seungcheol’s hips twitched, but he stayed still, letting you set the pace. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, working your hand around the base where your mouth couldn’t reach.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, hips twitching. “That throat is sinful. Choke on it again—let me feel how deep you can take me.”

You moaned around his length and obeyed, bobbing your head faster, sucking harder. Filthy, wet sounds filled the room as you worked him—hollowing your cheeks, twisting your hand around the base, and massaging his balls. Every time you took him to the hilt, Seungcheol cursed loudly.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Seungcheol groaned, head tipping back against the couch. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. Look at me, baby.”

You lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him while your lips stretched around his thick shaft. The sight made him curse, hips bucking shallowly into your mouth. You hummed encouragingly, stroking him faster with your hand while your tongue flicked over the head on every pass.

You bobbed your head faster, relaxing your throat to take more of his impressive length. Spit slicked his cock, dripping down to his balls as you worked him with steady, filthy rhythm—sucking hard on the upstroke, then swirling your tongue along the sensitive underside.

“That’s it, baby. Suck my cock like a good little slut. Fuck—your mouth is better than any pussy. I’m gonna cum down your throat if you keep doing that.”

You pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Then do it. Fill my mouth, Cheol. I want to taste every drop.”

He lost it. With a guttural moan, he held your head steady and came hard, thick ropes of cum shooting straight down your throat. You moaned louder in response and swallowed every drop, milking him through it until his body shuddered and he gently tugged you off, oversensitive.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with a satisfied smile and crawled back up. Seungcheol pulled you into his chest immediately, arms wrapping around you tightly as he caught his breath. His heart hammered under your cheek while he stroked your back, pressing soft kisses to your hair.

“God… that was mind-blowing,” he murmured, voice hoarse and blissed out. “You spoil me too much.”

You nuzzled into his neck, cuddling closer. “You deserve it. My big, cute, jealous boyfriend.”

He chuckled weakly, still floating in the afterglow, body limp and warm beneath you. You stayed like that for long minutes—skin to skin, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip—until you felt him twitch against your thigh again. His cock was hardening once more, insistent and ready.

“Already?” you teased, grinding lightly against him.

Seungcheol groaned, hands gripping your ass. “Can’t help it when you’re on top of me like this.”

You sat up, stripping off your clothes until you were completely bare. His eyes darkened with hunger as you positioned yourself over him, guiding his cock to your entrance. You were soaked from pleasuring him, and he slid in easily as you sank down slowly, taking every inch. He stretch you perfectly, filling you so deep you moaned loudly.

“Fuck… you feel so tight,” he hissed, hands flying to your hips, gripping enough to leave marks. “So perfect around me.

“Ride me, baby. Use this cock. It’s all yours.”

You braced your hands on his chest and started bouncing, taking him fast and deep. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed as you rolled your hips, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasped. “Splitting me open every time. I love how you fill me up, Cheol.”

His eyes were glued to where you were connected, watching his cock disappear inside you. “Look at that greedy pussy swallowing me. So wet and tight—made for my cock. Faster, baby. Fuck me like you mean it.”

You rode him harder, thighs burning, pleasure building fast. Seungcheol met every bounce with powerful thrusts from below, hitting that perfect spot inside you relentlessly.

“That’s it, baby,” Seungcheol growled, thrusting up to meet you. “Ride me harder. Use my cock.”

You leaned forward, changing the angle so he hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. “You’re so deep like this… filling me up so good, Cheol. I love how big you are.”

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh as he helped guide your movements. Sweat slicked your bodies. You rode him relentlessly, grinding down on every downstroke, chasing your own pleasure while pushing him toward another peak.

“You gonna cum on my cock?” he panted, eyes locked on where you were joined. “Let me feel you, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna cum—” you cried out.

“Cum on my cock baby” he demanded, voice rough. “Let me feel you squeeze me.”

Your orgasm hit hard, walls pulsing around him. Seungcheol groaned loudly and followed right after, burying himself deep as he pumped you full of cum. Thick, hot spurts painted your insides while he held you down on him, hips stuttering up until he was spent..

You stayed seated on him for a few moments, both of you panting. Eventually you lifted yourself off slowly, his cock slipping out of you. As you moved, you felt his cum start to drip from your pussy—thick white streaks sliding down your thighs.

Seungcheol’s eyes locked onto the sight and something feral flashed across his face.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice suddenly dangerous. “Look at that… my cum leaking out of your pretty hole.”

Before you could respond, he surged up, flipping you onto your back on the couch in one powerful motion. He pushed your legs wide open and slammed back inside you in a single brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out at the sudden fullness, still sensitive from your orgasm.

“Mine,” he snarled, hips snapping forward hard and fast. “This pussy is fucking mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else makes you drip like this.”

He fucked you with raw, possessive need—deep, punishing strokes that made your back arch off the couch. The wet, filthy sound of his cock driving through his own cum filled the room. Every thrust pushed more of his cum out around his shaft, making a mess between your bodies.

“Cheol—oh my god,” you moaned, nails digging into his back.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild. “Feel how deep I am? I’m gonna fill you up again. Pump you so full you’ll be dripping my cum for days. No one else gets to have this. Only me.”

His pace was relentless, hips slamming against yours, the couch creaking under you. He reached between you and rubbed your swollen clit in tight circles, pushing you toward another peak.

“Cum for me again, baby. Want to feel this pussy milk my cock while I breed you.”

The combination of his filthy words, deep thrusts, and skilled fingers sent you spiralling. You came hard, screaming his name as your walls clenched around him. Seungcheol followed with a broken groan, burying himself as deep as possible and flooding you with a second load of cum.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and covered in sweat. His cock stayed buried inside you as he caught his breath, pressing soft kisses on your lips now that the intense wave had passed.

“Fuck… I lose control with you,” he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse. “Can’t help it. You’re too perfect.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his damp hair, body still buzzing. “I love when you do.”

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the bedroom. You stirred first, nestled against Seungcheol’s broad chest, his arm draped heavily around your waist even in sleep. His breathing was deep and even, but the moment you shifted, he tightened his hold and let out a sleepy grumble.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice husky from the night before.

You smiled and tilted your head up, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You said that an hour ago, Cheol.”

One eye cracked open, then the other. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face as memories clearly flooded back. “Morning, troublemaker.”

“Troublemaker?” You propped yourself up on one elbow, tracing a finger down his chest. “I believe I was the one making things up to a certain sulky boyfriend last night.”

He groaned, but it was playful, pulling you fully on top of him so you were straddling his waist. “I wasn’t sulky. I was… strategically quiet.”

You laughed, brushing his messy bed hair out of his eyes. “Strategically quiet? You mean pouting like a big baby because I talked to Chris for twenty minutes.”

Seungcheol’s ears flushed pink, but his hands slid down to squeeze your ass possessively. “Twenty minutes too long. You’re mine. Should’ve been sitting on my lap the whole time.”

“Oh my god, you’re still jealous.” You grinned and leaned down to nip at his bottom lip. “It’s cute. Really cute. Especially when it ends with me on my knees for you… and then riding you until we both saw stars.”

His eyes darkened instantly, hands roaming up your bare back. “Keep talking like that and we’re not getting out of this bed today.”

You rocked your hips teasingly against him, feeling him start to harden beneath you. “Is that a threat or a promise, Mr. Jealous?”

“Both.” He flipped you suddenly, pinning you beneath his warm, solid body. You squealed with laughter as he attacked your neck with kisses and playful bites. “You owe me breakfast in bed, remember? For all that emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” You dissolved into giggles, squirming under him. “You big dramatic baby. Fine—I’ll make you pancakes. But only if you admit you were sulking.”

Seungcheol lifted his head, pretending to think about it while his fingers tickled your sides lightly. “Counter-offer: I admit I was a little jealous, and you make pancakes… naked.”

You raised an eyebrow, still laughing. “Bold request after last night. You sure you’ll even let me leave the bed to cook?”

He kissed you deeply, slow and sweet, before pulling back with a mischievous glint. “I’ll help. I’ll be your personal chef assistant. And if you bend over to get something from the fridge, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, both of you grinning like idiots. “Deal. But if you get distracted and burn the pancakes, I’m telling the members you sulked like a kicked puppy over a mutual friend.”

Seungcheol gasped in mock offense. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, sulky boy.”

He rolled off you with a dramatic sigh, but immediately pulled you up with him, wrapping you in his arms from behind as you both headed toward the kitchen. His chin rested on your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to your neck the entire way.

“Love you,” he murmured against your skin, voice soft despite the playful energy. “Even when you torture me by existing near other people.”

You leaned back into him, heart full. “Love you too. Now come on, sulky baby. Let’s make breakfast before we get distracted again.”

“Hey, Y/N,” he said casually, hiding the way his heart sped up just saying your name again.

The two of you talked a little. You laughed a little too freely, the alcohol warming your skin. And Seungcheol found himself standing a little closer than usual.

You told him about the breakup. The cheating. The healing. “I’ve been single for almost a year,” you confessed. “First time I’ve felt like myself in a long while.”

He didn’t say much, just nodded. But he felt something stir inside him. He had watched you from afar back then—never thinking he stood a chance. You were someone else’s girl. But now?

Now you weren’t.

Later that night, when your friends noticed you were too tipsy to go home alone, they turned to Seungcheol. “You live nearby, right? Can you make sure she gets home safe?”

He nodded without hesitation.

The car ride was filled with soft humming from the radio and your occasional mumbling. Your head rested lightly against the window. Seungcheol tried not to glance at you too much, but failed miserably.

At your doorstep, you almost tripped over the step. Reflexes kicked in—he reached out, catching your by the waist. Your bodies collided softly.

Your hand gripped his jacket.

Seungcheol froze when your eyes met.

You blinked up at him, dazed. And then your eyes scanned his face, lingering on his lips.

“Your eye lashes are so long… so beautiful…” you said, your voice low and breathy.

His throat went dry. “I… I- T-thank you… your eyes are really beautiful too” he murmured. Too quietly.

Your hand slid up to his chest. “Stay,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him.

Your lips were soft, hesitant at first. But as Seungcheol recovered from the shock, he melted into you. His hand cupped the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. You tasted like wine and want. And it was the kind of kiss that made him forget everything else.

You unlocked the door behind you without breaking contact, tugging him inside.

Clothes fell away slowly as you made your way to the bedroom, like a silent agreement. Your shirt slipped over your head. His fingers skimmed along your waist, his lips following suit—trailing kisses along your collarbone, your neck, your jaw.

You gasped softly when he pushes you gently onto the bed, settling between your thighs. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice husky, but tender. “We can stop this if you are not comfortable.”

You nodded, pulling him down again, whispering, “I want this.”

Your bodies fit together like you had done this a thousand times. His hands were everywhere—exploring, caressing. He worshipped you with every touch, every kiss, every slow movement. You moaned his name like it meant something. And maybe it did. He hope it did.

You were warm and soft beneath him, your breath stuttering with every thrust of his hips. He moved slowly at first, savouring the feel of you wrapped around him. You arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders, whispering his name like a secret.

“Seungcheol…”

God, you felt good. Like something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut as his rhythm built, pleasure curled tighter in his core. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

You were everything.

Beneath him, around him, pulling him deeper with every desperate gasp of his name.

Seungcheol gritted his teeth as he drove into you again, harder this time — not rough, but deep and purposeful. Every thrust pulled a moan from you, your legs locked tightly around his waist like you never wanted him to leave. Your walls clenched around him so tightly he could barely breathe.

“Y/N…” he moaned, the sound ripped from his chest like a confession.

Your body arched into him, and he nearly lost it. The way you took him in, the way you trembled for him, the way you looked up at him with need in your eyes — it shattered him.

He couldn’t slow down anymore. He didn’t want to.

His hips pounded into yours, again and again, his grip on your hips tightening as he rutted deeper, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room. But even through the desperation, his hands were still gentle — as if he was afraid of hurting you, of losing you too quickly.

“You feel so good,” he gasped, eyes locked on your face. “So fucking good…”

Your mouth dropped open in a silent moan, eyes fluttering shut. You were close. He could feel it — the way your body tightened around him, how your fingers clutched at his shoulders like lifelines.

“Come for me,” he whispered harshly, forehead pressed to yours, hips thrusting harder, deeper. “Let me feel you.”

Your moan broke into a cry as your body clenched violently around him, heat pulsing through your core. You shattered beneath him, writhing, shaking, chanting his name like a prayer through your release.

And Seungcheol—god, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

The feeling of you pulsing around his cock, the sound of you moaning his name, the thought that this was real — it all crashed over him. With a strangled groan, he buried himself deep inside you and spilled everything he’d been holding in for years.

Every unspoken word. Every lingering look. Every what-if.

He collapsed over you, still trembling, bodies tangled, sweat-drenched and flushed. His face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

He didn’t say it aloud — not yet.

But the way he kissed you afterwards, the way he wrapped his arms around you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You would know.

He wasn’t just in this for the pleasure.

He was already in far too deep.

You laid in silence for a moment, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat.

As the sex afterglow fades, your mind felt clearer. You turned your head to look at him. “Was that a mistake?”

He blinked at the ceiling. “Do you want it to be?”

“No,” you whispered. “I don’t.”

And that’s how it started.

No labels. No promises.

Just warmth when the nights were cold, lips when the world got too quiet, and arms to fall into when loneliness struck too hard.

But what you didn’t know—what Seungcheol still couldn’t say—was that for him, you had never been just a friend.

And maybe… one day, you wouldn’t be just a benefit either.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

It was supposed to be just like every other night.

You called Seungcheol over, your voice tired and frustrated. “I just need to blow off steam,” you’d said, but your tone wasn’t flirtatious—it was exhaustion. Seungcheol could tell. He showed up anyway, arms full with your favourite makgeolli and snacks he picked up without needing to ask.

You sat on the couch together knees brushing, the TV playing something neither of you paid attention to. You ranted—about work, about clients, about your mother pestering you to attend blind dates with men who “checked all the boxes.” Your voice cracked slightly when you said it, and Seungcheol quietly reached out, refilling your empty glass without a word.

You leaned into him slowly, like the weight of the world finally pulled you down. Your head settled on his shoulder, and just sat like that, your complaints eventually turning into soft sighs. Seungcheol said nothing, just listened—like he always did. Always quiet, always steady, always there.

And then… you fell asleep.

It was subtle. Your breathing evened out, and your hand that had been gripping the hem of his shirt relaxed against his leg. Seungcheol looked down at you—lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, lips slightly parted—and something deep inside him twisted.

You looked so soft. So human. And he was so used to seeing you strong.

His arm around you tightened just slightly, pulling you in. Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, whispering so quietly he almost hoped you didn’t hear it.

“Rest, Y/N.”

But you did hear it before drifting into dreamland, too tired to make any response.

The morning glow seeps through the blackout curtains, you stirred awake and as your mind clears, what happened before you fell asleep came back and you could still feel the sensation of his lips on your skin warm and disorienting.

Your eyes fluttered open, only to see Seungcheol still holding you in his arms, like you were something breakable.

And for a second… you didn’t want to move.

It was comforting. Dangerous. His warmth seeped into your bones, and for a moment you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to stay like this. To wake up next to him like this every morning.

But the realization hit too hard, too fast.

You had spent the night together, doing nothing but cuddling and everything family friendly. Things that FWBs with no strings attached would definitely not be doing.

And worst, you were falling for Seungcheol.

Seungcheol stirred awake as your chest tightened. You pulled away abruptly, pretending to yawn and stretch. “Shit—I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” you said, voice clipped.

Seungcheol smiled softly. “You looked like you needed it.”

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Thanks. You should go. It’s late and I need to be in the office early today.”

He hesitated, searching your face, but eventually stood. “Okay.”

You didn’t kiss him goodbye. You didn’t even walk him to the door.

And in the weeks that followed, Seungcheol noticed how you have changed.

You stopped texting first. Stopped asking how he was. You laughed less. You avoided his gaze after he touched you.

And it wrecked Seungcheol.

Because he knew something had shifted after that night.

He just didn’t know what he did wrong—or why, when you had finally let your walls down and leaned into him, you built them back up even higher.

But he also knew better than to push.

Because if he asked, if he pressed, he was afraid he might confess everything.

That he’d been in love with you since before you even knew his name.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

You kept your phone on silent more than usual.

The unread messages from Seungcheol piled up quietly over the days. A “hey” here, a “you okay?” there. Then a couple of calls. Missed. Unreturned. The last one was a voice note—just his soft voice asking, “Did I do something wrong?”

You hadn’t even listened to the whole thing.

It wasn’t that you were mad at him. How could you be?

He had been perfect that night. The way he listened to your ramble, how he didn’t try to distract you with sex but let you rest. The kiss to your temple. The quiet warmth. The way he held you like you meant something to him. It was too much.

Because you had spent the last one year since the start of this relationship, convincing yourself what you both had was safe—comfort, lust, convenience. But that night… he felt like home.

And that scared the hell out of you.

If you let yourself fall, really fall, what if you lost him? What if it stopped being simple and started to hurt? You’re not ready for that. Not after how your heart was broken after the past relationship.

So you backed away. You needed space. Time. You told yourself you were sorting your feelings out—but really, you were scared of how deep they already ran.

Seungcheol was a mess.

He stared at his phone more than he liked to admit. He went over every second of that night again and again. The way you’d fallen asleep on him. The way he’d kissed you, let something slip that he wasn’t supposed to feel, let alone show.

And then you’d changed.

He told himself maybe you were busy. Maybe stressed. But two weeks in, no word, no response—not even to his concern—he was unravelling.

You had never ghosted him before. Not like this.

Not when things had felt… different.

The silence was starting to gnaw at him. What if that night had ruined everything? What if you regretted it?

What if he was right all along—that someone like you could never love someone like him back?

He debated showing up. Just knocking on your door, demanding to talk. But that wasn’t his place, was it? Not officially. Friends with benefits didn’t come with the right to care this much.

But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest. Or the way his fingers hovered over your contact every single night, wondering if one more message would finally be the one you answered.

You finally listened to the voice note.

Late one night, alone in your apartment, curled up on the couch with your knees hugged to your chest. You hit play and heard his voice—soft, hesitant, filled with something that sounded like pain.

“Y/N… I don’t know what I did. I keep thinking about that night. I thought it meant something. I don’t know. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe you didn’t feel what I felt. Just… if you’re okay, can you let me know? Please?”

There was silence after that. Then the quiet click of the message ending.

And you felt your throat tighten, tears slipping down your cheeks.

Because he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He had done everything right.

You just needed to stop being afraid of the way he made your feel.

Seungcheol's voice note was the push factor that you decided it is time for you to talk things out.

The following weekend, on the way to a blind date that your mom had forced on you, you finally replied to Seungcheol, asking if he could visit tonight. Seungcheol replied almost immediately saying that he will be at your place after lunch.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

You smoothed the front of your dress nervously as you took a sip of water. Across from you, the man— Mingyu —was chatting about his travels through Europe, his easy smile and confident demeanour making the conversation flow effortlessly.

He was nice. Polite. Funny, even.

But your mind kept drifting. It wasn’t until your phone buzzed twice in quick succession that your heart sank when you glanced at your screen.

Seungcheol: Who is he? What are you doing with him?

You lifted your head slowly, eyes scanning the restaurant—until they locked with his.

There, just one table behind yours, sat Seungcheol. He wasn’t alone. His parents were there, along with his brother, the four of them midway through lunch. But his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—were pinned solely on you.

Your lips parted in surprise. How did you not noticed them?

Your instinct screamed at your to get up, walk over, say something—but your mind froze.

You looked back at your phone and typed a quick, simple reply:

Y/N: I’m on a blind date.

His response came instantly.

Seungcheol: Stay there after you’re done.

You didn’t reply. You stared at the message for a second longer before locking your screen and placing your phone face down.

Mingyu didn’t seem to notice the shift in your energy, continuing his story about his favourite hidden café in Paris. You nodded, smiling faintly, but your ears were ringing. You could feel Seungcheol’s stare like a flame on your skin.

“I should go,” Mingyu said suddenly, his tone gentle. “I can tell your head’s somewhere else. It’s okay.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed. “Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright.” He smiled kindly. “Honestly, I had a great time, but… I can tell that your mind is occupied by something, or… someone.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.

“Yes, you are right, I do already have someone else that I liked, I’m sorry.” You finally sighed and admitted.

CRASH. But a loud clatter from behind broke your focus.

A few gasps followed the noise as silverware and a teacup hit the floor. You turned just in time to see Seungcheol cursing softly under his breath, tea dripping from his brother’s blouse while a waiter rushed over with napkins.

Your eyes widened.

You caught his brother’s confused look, his mother’s slight frown, but Seungcheol just clenched his jaw and sat back down stiffly. His eyes didn’t meet yours again after that.

Mingyu tried to ignore the commotion behind him and stood up wanting to leave place as soon as possible. “Take care, Y/N. I hope it works out for you.”

You followed him to the entrance and thanked him sincerely before watching him walk away. And once he was gone, you returned to the table, heart thudding in your chest as you picked up your drink.

Not long after, you spotted Seungcheol standing from his table, waving to his family before quietly excusing himself. His brother gave you a lingering glance—something knowing, something unreadable.

He walked towards you, slow and deliberate. His expression was unreadable, lips pressed into a firm line, his jaw tense. He said nothing as he stopped in front of your table. Just looked at you with those unreadable eyes, then muttered, “Let’s go.”

You hesitated before rising and following him out of the restaurant, each step heavy with tension. You didn’t miss how tightly he gripped his keys. Or how tensed his shoulders were.

You had never seen Seungcheol act this way before. You didn’t know whether to be afraid of what he’d say… or of what you’d end up saying in return.

The tension in the car was thick—almost suffocating.

Y/N sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your hands resting in your lap, fingers anxiously picking at your nails. You could feel Seungcheol’s energy beside your—cold, sharp, tightly wound like a coil ready to snap. He wasn’t saying anything. Just staring straight ahead, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

You hated this.

“I didn’t want to go,” you said quietly, breaking the silence. “The blind date. It was all my mom—she wouldn’t stop pushing.”

Still, nothing from him.

Y/N turned to look at him. “I didn’t know you’d be there.”

Seungcheol let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, neither did I.”

His jaw tightened.

They rode in silence after that, back to your apartment.

The moment the door clicked shut, Seungcheol moved.

Before you could even turn around fully, your back hit the wall gently—but firmly—as Seungcheol stepped in close, his presence towering, heated, intense. His breath was uneven, ragged, and the way his eyes searched yours was nothing short of desperate.

“Seungcheol—”

He didn’t let you finish. His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unrelenting, like he’d been starved for you. His kiss was nothing like the ones before—this wasn’t the soft, teasing rhythm they used to fall into. This was wild. Raw. Bruising.

You gasped against his mouth, hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders to steady yourself. He groaned low at the contact, deepening the kiss as his hands roamed—over your back, your waist, up your sides like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

“W-What’s going on?” you whispered breathlessly between kisses, your fingers tugging at his shirt as you tried to anchor yourself. “Seungcheol, talk to me.”

But he didn’t answer. Instead, his lips broke away from yours, moving down to your neck—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there. Nipping, sucking gently at the skin like he needed to mark you, to brand you as his. His hands were urgent as they found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down, exposing you inch by inch.

Seungcheol’s mouth was everywhere—your lips, your neck, the sensitive skin just below your ear—leaving a trail of heat that burned straight through you.

He hadn’t said a word, but everything in the way he touched your screamed louder than any confession could. There was a desperation in his grip, a storm behind his kisses, like he was trying to chase something he feared he’d never catch again.

You could barely think. Your knees buckled under the weight of it all—his body, the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were both his salvation and the source of all his pain.

You gasped as he caught you, steadying you against the wall. “You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin.

Your lips parted to answer, but no sound came out. Only the rise and fall of your chest as your head dropped back against the cool wall, your entire body melting under his hands.

Seungcheol didn’t give you a moment to recover. He scooped you up and strode into your bedroom, the silence now deafening—charged with something heavier than just lust.

When he set you down on the bed gently, despite how upset he seemed.

He hovered over you like a storm waiting to break. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and wild with something more than desire. A contradiction to how he laid your gently on bed.

"You said... there’s someone you like."

The words fell from his lips in a whisper, but they landed like thunder.

You blinked, catching your breath.

His hand slid up your thigh, possessive. His mouth found your collarbone, biting down—not to hurt, but to mark you. “Then why?” he asked, his voice low, cracking. “Why are you still here—with me? Why do you let me touch you like this?”

He kissed you again. There was a bite to it, bruising and hungry, as if he was trying to silence his own thoughts.

“Is it just physical?” he asked against your lips, sucking your bottom lip, rough and urgent. “Do I only exist in your life just to fuck?”

You wanted to answer, but all you could manage was a broken gasp as his hands slid along your body, every movement rougher than usual—more intense, more deliberate.

Your fingers gripped his back, nails digging into his shirt as your head fell to the side, overwhelmed.

This wasn’t how Seungcheol usually touched you.

He was always gentle, always controlled, like he was holding back years of emotion he couldn’t afford to show.

But tonight—he was unrestrained.

Desperate.

Worshipping and breaking you at the same time.

“You make me crazy,” he muttered, forehead pressing into the crook of your neck. “You act like none of this means anything, and still I come back—every time—like I belong to you.”

He pulled you closer, his breath uneven. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come, your mind blurry. The pressure, the heat, the way he was touching you like you was both his sanctuary and his punishment—it had your mind spinning.

You weren’t sure what was louder: your heartbeat or the way your body responded to him.

You had never seen him like this. Never felt him like this.

Rough. Needy. Heartbroken.

And somehow, it only made you fall deeper.

Your body trembled beneath his, your breath shallow as you clung to him, your heart aching with everything you hadn’t said.

Seungcheol pulled off slightly to remove his clothes as he wastes no time plunging his cock into your wet hole. Your eyes roll all the way back in pleasure as Seungcheol starts to split your open on his cock. Not giving you time to adjust, fucking you hard.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it?” he panted, hand squishing your cheeks so that you are facing him. “Look at me as I fuck you dumb baby.”

You whimpered, you could barely keep your eyes open as you got lost in the pleasure he’s giving you.

Seungcheol goes harder, growling at you to keep your eyes open and on him. He needs to make sure there’s no way you could be thinking of someone else other than him.

There was no gentleness in the way he held you now—only raw frustration and something deeper—aching desperation. His touch was feverish, his pace relentless, like he was trying to memorize your body with every second, every breath, every gasp you gave him. Like he believed—truly believed—that this might be the last time he’d ever have you.

And maybe it was.

“Fuck you’re so damn wet. You like it when I’m rough with you?” he hums, satisfied.

Your hands tangled in the sheets, body trembling beneath his as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his voice low and ragged against your skin.

“If he’s the one you like…” he breathed heavily, “then why do you still want me like this?”

Each thrust, each motion, was a plea he didn’t know how to voice.

You tried to respond, to tell this idiot that someone in question is him—you really did—but your voice faltered into a moan, body melting into the bed as you pulled Seungcheol closer, clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He growled, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of you, “So pretty when you’re filled with my cock. Tell me you’re mine. I want to hear you say it. Tell me that you love me and only me.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips parting, only whimpers of pleasure came out.

Seungcheol growls a bit when you don’t answer. He grabs your hips and roughly pulls you to meet his thrusts, making your tits bounce.

Not able to contain yourself any more, you finally let your moans out. Finally saying what he wanted to hear.

He leaned in, breath shaking as he looked you in the eyes.

Jealousy simmering in his chest as he thinks about the possibility of you being with someone else. How everything you had with him was nothing. How he only exist in your life for lust, for pleasure. But he wanted more than that with you.

“Do you even know what you're doing to me?” His voice cracked, and for a split second, the fury in his expression faded into something more painful. His hard and fast thrust slows into gentle grinds. “You're breaking me, Y/N.”

“I thought maybe… just maybe… I could be enough. Even like this,” His large hands tighten on your hips grinder deeper into you, savouring the feeling of your wet pussy. He leans over your body, squishing your tits against his broad chest as he begins to suck on your neck. “Even if all I ever am to you is just a body to fill your bed when you’re lonely.”

Tears stung your eyes.

Because none of that was true.

Because it had never been just about his body.

“N-no, Cheol, it’s not like that.” You finally gained enough strength to say, thoughts tangled in the haze of his touch, his closeness, the emotions radiating from him like a wildfire.

Tons of emotion runs through Seungcheol as his pace picks up again. His leaking cock is reaching so deep inside of you that you could barely think. And you are a moaning mess again.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered against your mouth, his tone cracking open. “Tell me. Was I just convenient for you, all these time? Please.”

You shook your head, “I—Seungcheol, I—”

But the pleasure overwhelmed you again, blurring everything. Nails clawed at his back, your legs tightening around him as he poured everything into your—rage, love, longing of hidden hope.

Seungcheol groaned loudly, tongue entangling yours. His strong hands push your thighs further apart to fuck you deeper. To show his frustration about your inability to response.

“Always so needy for me fuck, what are you going to do without me,” he said against your lips, barely audible.

You mewled for him as he keeps pushing into you. Your juices are making a mess, dampening his abdomen and thighs, making every plunge of his cock sound more lewd than the last.

“Such a selfish brat.” Seungcheol moans, pounding into your warm and wet pussy with hunger and desire. “Fuck. Only needing me when you need my cock. This fucking pussy belongs to me.”

You nod along to his words moans mixing with the  sound of his heavy balls slapping against your skin. “A-all yours, Cheollie. O-only yo-yours.”

“Damn right it’s mine. It’s fucking mine. You’re mine. All of you.”

Seungcheol’s fingers squeeze into the fat of your thighs as he smashes his mouth against yours. His greedy and sloppy with his movements, drinking up your moans like he’s starved for them. When he pulls his messy mouth from yours, he sees the lust in your eyes, your face contorts as you feels the pleasure he gives you.

“No one can fuck me like I do.” Seungcheol can’t hide his smirk. He groans, pushing your legs to the apex of your flexibility so the head of his cock can push against that sensitive, spongy spot deep inside you.

He proves his point by moving in a nearly inhuman pace, cock burying into you so viciously it makes you scream. Nails dig into the rolling muscles of his back, his skin changing colour as you drag your nails down his spine.

“God, Cheollie. Gonna—Gonna...”

“Gonna what, baby girl?” he coos.

Your cunt sucks him in tighter, the prominent veins of his cock brushing against your walls deliciously. It’s like your head is swimming, and you can barely speak.

“G-gonna c-cum! So close, Cheollie! Ah, ah, ah!” Your head falls to the side as you continue to whine, stomach tightening and spasming as Cheol barrels into you.

It’s highly likely that he’ll leave bruises on your skin from how hard his hands are wrapped around you.

“Already?” Seungcheol hums, satisfied. “Oh baby. You just love my cock that much, huh?”

You nodded your head against the pillow, eyes falling shut as you get lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. Seungcheol goes harder, growling at you to keep your eyes open and on him.

“Cum for me, baby.” He commanded, and you can’t not obey.

You let out a high-pitched cry when an overwhelming orgasm consumes you.

Seungcheol keeps fucking you even when he feels the first milking compression of your cunt.

He gritted his teeth and will himself not to heed the call of his own orgasm. He just want to feel you, want to watch you lose your fucking mind over his cock.

To give him assurance that only he can make you lose your mind like this.

And you do. Liquid spurts from your pussy as your stomach clenches and unclenches rhythmically. Slick gushed from your cunt and gathers around the base of his cock. Your face is hot as your lips part in a loud moan.

Seungcheol moans along with you as your back arches into him. He can literally see you fall into the sea of pleasure he threw you into.

Unable to hold back his own orgasm at this point. Seungcheol moans loudly, lips chanting your name again and again like you’re his only saving grace. Hot ropes of his cum shoot into you, painting every inch of your walls.

He smooths his hands down your shaking thighs before he gently lets them go. They fall to the bed as he brings one of his hands to caress your soft cheek and the other to rub soothing circles on your sensitive clit. Seungcheol keeps fucking his cum deeper into you, the aftershocks of your orgasm hum against his cock and trickle down his spine.

“Fuck, I love how you always milk my cock like a hungry slut.” He licks his lips as another gush of slick pours out of you. “Shit, baby. You like it that much?”

Seungcheol is gently rocking into you, murmuring sweet things against your cheek. You’re panting gently as he fucks you through the remainder of your orgasm. His lips nipping the back of your ear as he snuggle deeper into you. His hips slowly come to a stop, and you can tell he’s trying to regain his own senses.

The air in the bedroom was thick with silence, save for the soft rustling of sheets and the slowing breaths they shared. Seungcheol stayed still, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing your for good.

You lay beneath him, your skin still flushed, heart still hammering from the high you both had just come down from. He pressed his face into your shoulder, eyes shut tight.

There was a long pause, before Seungcheol gently pulled out of you, watching juices of his and yours drip out of your abuse pussy.

His eyes trailed back to yours, with a hoarse voice, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You blinked, brow furrowing.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough,” he continued, gently swiping the hair sticking on your forehead. His eyes were filled with regret and something even deeper—fear. “I… I let my emotions take over. And if you never want to see me again after this, I get it. I really do.”

You tilted your head. For a moment, you said nothing. Just stared at him. And then—

You reached up and grabbed his face between both palms, squishing his cheeks slightly, eyes narrowed.

“Yah, Choi Seungcheol,” you muttered, exasperated but tender. “If this were anyone else, I would’ve kicked them out half-naked and blocked them before they could even do anything like this to me, let alone be on my bed.”

His eyes widened slightly, unsure of what you were saying—until you smiled.

“But it’s you.”

His brows knit tighter as your thumbs gently brushes over the apples of his cheeks. You always thought his cheeks were like mochi, so squishy, so delish.

“The person I like… the one I’ve been falling for all this time…” you said softly, your voice almost trembling, “is you.”

Seungcheol stared at you, frozen.

“I was an idiot,” you continued, “for thinking I could keep pretending it was just sex. That I could ignore how my heart races when you show up with my favourite snacks, or how I sleep better after hearing your voice, or how I always feel safest when I’m with you.”

He still hadn’t said anything—but you could feel the way his fingers curled tighter around your waist, how his breath caught in his throat.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “Scared that if I told you, it would ruin everything. But after tonight… after what you said…” You pressed your forehead to his. “I’d rather risk everything than keep hurting you like this.”

A long silence passed between you both.

Then, finally, Seungcheol let out a shaky laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’re serious?”

You nodded, playing with his hair.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all he could do was pull you into a hug so tight it almost knocked the breath out of you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck again, and this time, his voice was full of relief.

“I thought I already lost you. I thought you were going to end things with me today… I- ” he whispered.

“Idiot,” you whispered back, smiling as you wrap your hands around his board shoulders.

“I’ve had a crush on you since university,” he confessed in a rush, like the words had been bursting at the seams for years. “I fell deeper after we started this thing but I kept telling myself I’d take whatever you gave me, even if it was just your body, even if you never looked at me the way I looked at you.”

You tightened your hug around him and kiss his hair, taking in his comforting scent.

“But now that I know you feel the same…” he pulled back and looked into your eyes, his gaze soft but intense, “I’m never letting you go again.”

You smiled as tears gathered in your eyes, and leaned up to kiss him again—this time slowly, full of love, not lust. A promise, not a question.

And as your lips met again, everything between you finally made sense.

“Once high school ends, do you think we’ll still be together?”

“Of course. As if I could ever let you go.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n is halfway through packing her bags for the 5-hour trip it’ll take to go back to her hometown, phone clutched between her ear and shoulder as she reassures her friend that, yes, she is coming and no, she won’t stay the night there. One of her high school classmates is getting married, and they had been close enough for him to invite her to his wedding, hence the trip.

She had learned early on that promises are empty words meant to reassure a burdened heart and fleeting connections are intended to be only that, fleeting. So, when the invitation came in her mail, she was pleasantly surprised. She barely remembers his face anymore; his name, etched on the letter, only evokes a long-lost memory of sitting beside each other in Math, copying off each other’s answers. They had been good friends, though they lacked any emotional connection, which, she thinks, is why they hadn’t contacted each other at all after they graduated. Fast friendship forged by circumstance is what they were. And now, 9 years later, he’s married to his college girlfriend.

Life moves much too fast, sometimes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re weird.”

“Excuse me?” 16-year-old y/n raised an eyebrow at the boy in front of her, her lunch promptly forgotten.

“I mean, who does homework in the middle of watching basketball?”

She frowned, not quite understanding what the boy was referencing at all.

“Last Thursday, we had a basketball match, and I saw you in the crowd, scribbling away. Is it that important that you couldn’t have finished it any other time?”

Y/n chewed on the soft skin inside of her cheek, now knowing exactly what he was talking about and feeling mildly chastised. It’s not her fault that homework was due the next morning and the game was the night before, and she simply could not miss it, what with it being a big game for their school and her friends adamant on dragging her ass there if she refused.

She didn’t bother explaining herself, though, staring at the boy whom she now recognized as one of the players.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said, an easy grin stretched on his lips. “Just wondering if you enjoyed the game is all.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She barely arrives on time, parking her car and briefly touching up her makeup before climbing out. The wedding hall stood before her, elegant and old as ever, bringing memories of attending her relatives’ weddings and sneaking off to the forest behind it with her cousins, dipping their toes in the shallow lake nearby.

The lake is completely covered in moss now, becoming more of a swamp as time passes.

Stepping inside, she’s immediately met with familiar and unfamiliar faces. She can recognize some of them, at least: Hani from English, Soonyoung, who made it his lifestyle to arrive late to classes, and Yuri and her twin, Yuna, whom y/n and everyone else in the school had trouble telling apart.

“Yuri, hey! How have you been?” She hugs her, grinning widely despite herself.

“Close enough. Yuri is doing well.” She points to her twin, something akin to fond exhaustion in her eyes as she points at herself. “Yuna, here, is also doing well. Thank you for asking.”

Oops.

“Some things never change.” Y/n continues smoothly, squeezing Yuna’s hand in a silent apology.

She squeezes back. “They really don’t.”

They find a seat at the tables, surrounded by yet more familiar faces. They fall into conversation, catching up with each other’s lives and going on the usual spiel of ‘you hadn’t changed at all!’. It’s awkward, and it’s nice. Like wearing an old t-shirt that no longer fits you but is still comfortable.

She wonders if he’s here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n was in the library, arranging books, when a voice interrupted her calm focus.  “Word has it that the library is haunted.”

“It is.”

There was a tense silence that dragged on a moment too long. Y/n glanced away from the books she was arranging to see him looking around, eyes wary and chewing on his bottom lip, looking for all the world like he regretted ever bringing it up.

“…. Really?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Y/n has always wondered what would happen if someone were to speak. If, right now, as the usual silence settles across the hall, what would happen if someone broke it?  It would be dramatic, surely. A spectacle.

The wedding continues smoothly, though, and Y/n finds herself in limbo. She is probably dissociating, sending her congratulations, and eating and conversing somewhat dazedly. There is something here within the muted white walls of this hall that tugs at her chest. Her eyes drifted around, oddly wary, searching for a particular set of eyes that haunted her dreams even after all these years.

She dances, takes pictures, and plastered on a smile that felt more and more foreign on her face as the hours went by. It goes on for the next thirty minutes, and it wasn’t until she caught the familiar sight of one of his friends that she snapped out of it.

“He isn’t here. Had some trouble on the road and got stuck.” Seungcheol said with a shrug, his words followed by the murmurs of others, though she didn’t pay attention to them.

The knowledge had somehow unclogged the weight in her throat and replaced another right in her chest. It settles there, and she barely remembers what she replied to the guy, faced with a pitied smile that felt more condescending in her mind’s eye than comforting.

They must’ve known.

Knew that she was a creature of the past, moving forward in life, constantly glancing back at the rearview mirror, hands ready to turn the wheels back.

High school ends, and so does the great, world-shattering romance of Y/n’s love life.

Well, not quite.

They kept talking, at first. Phones exist, and they use them as much as they can, living worlds away from each other. She got a scholarship abroad, and he continued training at the national sports college in the big city. Free time is far and few in between, but for the first two years, they make do with what they have.

The thing about life, though, is that it has a way of pulling you away from people without you realizing it.

Calls went from as frequent as every day, to a few times a month, to once every few months. Their text log is shorter as days pass, and before they know it, radio silence. This is also, perhaps, contributed to by the fact that her phone was stolen, because y/n’s life is apparently written by a middle-aged woman who couldn’t find a better way to move the plot. She lost all their numbers, all the texts, and the means to contact her friends back at home.

Somewhere around April in the third year of their so-called long-distance relationship, he posted a picture of a girl at a coffee shop.

She got the message loud and clear.

It was for the best. That is what she kept telling herself. Their relationship had always felt like cruising on a broken ship, anyway, bound to sink and drown them both. It’s good that they broke it off, at least that is what she assumes if the silence were anything to go by.

So she drowns herself in school, pushing herself forward and barely stopping to breathe or look back. It was for the best. They were both busy and were better off with someone within the same field of study, someone more tangible than a picture on the phone.

y/n has always had a bad habit of refusing what’s good for her, though.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Just one date and you can decide whether I’m worth being in your life or not.”

“If you’re not?”

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“And if you are?”

That same, infuriating grin. “I can show you a whole new world, baby.”

“I’m already regretting this.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Aren’t you glad you dated me?” he said one evening, as they walked out of their favorite coffee shop a few towns over because he swears on his life that their tiramisu was to die for. y/n had always had a sweet tooth, which is why she dated him.

“You had me at the Aladdin reference.” She said, arm looped around his, staring off to the sidewalk. She can feel him jostling her as he snaps his fingers, pointing at her as if he’d rediscovered the meaning of life.

“I fucking knew you’d be into that!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being with him is, to put it simply, easy. You ask any student who was in that school, and they’d say that they were a match made in heaven. They'd say that the moment those two meet eyes, you could almost hear the wedding bells in the distance.

Call it opposite attracts, soulmates, kindred spirits, perfect match, and whatever synonyms the poets made to call lovers. Y/n would simply say that they were somewhat meant to be. Perhaps not meant to last long, but in that moment, in the tangled wires of adolescence and finding their true selves, they found each other. Here’s what the poets would tell you if you asked them to describe their relationship: If y/n were the moon, he was the sun. If y/n was the sun, he was the sunflower. If y/n is overwhelmed and needs a hand to hold, he’d offer his. If he is too tired to even smile, she’d carve a smile on her face for them both. They weren’t half of each other; rather, they were whole on their own but made perfect when together.

And isn’t that damning? It had been so easy, being with him, meeting each other halfway, and urging the other to be better. Their souls had been so perfectly entangled that when ripped apart, y/n lost half of hers. Like ripping off a band-aid and finding your skin coming off with it, sticking to the adhesive. The wound is open and bleeding, and, unfortunately for y/n, she learned all the ways to stitch a physical wound but has no idea how to close an emotional one.

Y/n handed her present to the newly married couple before bidding her goodbye with a promise of inviting them to her wedding, whenever that may be.

She drove off in a daze, passing familiar roads that caused heat to build up behind her eyes. Her plans of not staying the night here still stand; somehow, some part of her refuses to stay in this damned town any longer. She didn’t have bad memories here, quite the opposite, the memories here are good, too good that she feared if she stayed any longer, she’d never leave.

She refused to glance at the rearview mirror.

The clock on the dashboard reads 3:12 am when she arrives at a motel two towns over, bleary-eyed, blinking through the low lighting of the lobby. She had her overnight bag over one shoulder, stumbling into her room and passing out on the strange-smelling bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

They were sitting on the rooftop of their school building, minutes away from sunset— gold casting over their skin, and the wind carrying their words away in its path. Y/n dangled her legs off the edge of the roof; his legs were folded, because despite his height and bright disposition, he’s a scaredy-cat.

“Make plans. You have your whole life figured out and know exactly what you want to do. Meanwhile, here I am, still stuck in the same place.”

Y/n stared at his side profile, still laden with youth but burdened with a weight too heavy for his age. “There is no need to rush; you have your whole life ahead of you to figure it out.” She paused, frowning. “But that isn’t what you’re worried about, is it? You’re never one to rush.”

He smiled sadly, the smile that did not crease the edges of his eyes, the one that meant he didn’t mean it. “Mom doesn’t like the idea of me continuing basketball.”

“I wasn’t aware that your life is lived by your mom. Oh my god, am I actually talking to Mrs. Kim?” y/n gasped, widening her eyes comically.

He giggled—a high-pitched, tinkling sound that never fails to remind her of a fox’s bark—pushing at her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She snorted, grabbing the hand before he could pull it away, entwining their fingers. “You do what feels right for you, what makes you happy, and what you believe you can do, not someone else. Never live by someone else’s words; you’ll never be satisfied if you do.”

He sighs, the sound so soft she could barely hear it. “I want basketball. I want to play for our country.”

“Then do basketball. Represent the country.”

“And if I fail?”

“That’s easy. You either do it again and again, or find something else. No such thing as starting things a little late, you only find something when you need it, when it’s best for you. If you happen to suddenly want to take up culinary in your 30s, no one’s stopping you.”

He scrunches his nose; the gesture strangely reminds her of a bunny. Perhaps she should stop comparing him to animals. “Why culinary?”

“Figured you’d want to polish those horrendous cooking skills by then.”

She was met with another push to her shoulder.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n wakes up feeling like death had visited her in her sleep and leaves with a friendly reminder. There’s an odd taste like a corpse in her mouth, and the sun is blaring through the open blinds right into her crusty eyes. She went through her morning routine while affectionately cursing herself, changing into loose pants and a shirt before packing everything, ready for the rest of the two-hour trip to her apartment.

After breakfast, that is.

The roads here are familiar, even though she had never lived here, but she had frequented these streets enough. Had she not been so tired last night, she wouldn’t have decided to crash nearby.

She wonders, sometimes, if there will ever come a time when she visits the places of her past, and that familiar ache won’t hurt her as much as it does now.

The grey sidewalks, the bushes of daylilies by the roadside, and that broken street sign that, after all these years, is yet to be fixed. There are echoes here, as she walks by the side of the road, passing by strangers who barely spare her a glance. Echoes of sugar high laughter and stolen kisses, of overpriced desserts and a golden, wolfish grin.

Nostalgia is as bittersweet as it is excruciating,

Stopping in front of the café, it is as if she’s thrown back, nine years ago, when life had seemed so hopeful, and the most stressful thing for her is finishing that essay that is due tomorrow. The pale, dusty yellow sign on the door and the old rickety tables outside are as familiar as the bed in her childhood home.

There’s that tug again in her chest as if warning her of something. Is this the impending doom everyone kept talking about? She’s not ready to die yet, good lord.

She sat at a table by the large window, nursing a cup of mediocre coffee—familiar, aching, and bitter— as she waited for her breakfast to arrive when:

“Y/n.”

Cue the dramatic music.

--

Life moves too fast sometimes; it has a way of pushing people out of your life, and it likes to throw shit at you, knowing that you do not have the emotional or mental capacity to deal with them.

Y/n is not angry or anything.

But it is a close thing.

She was halfway through her coffee, barely feeling her soul re-entering her body, when a voice called her name. A voice. The voice.

Oh.

He looks the same. She compares it to the mental picture that she had hung up in the back of her mind and deduces that, other than losing the baby fat, he looks more or less the same. Sounded the same, too. That same raspy cadence, that same lisp. Slightly more tanned. Longer hair. Sharper jaw. More built. Taller, somehow.

Y/n was frozen in place, staring as he peered down at her, recognition and disbelief evident in his eyes. “It is you.” He whispered to himself, plopping down on the seat in front of her without invitation, heavy as if his legs had given up on him.

He’s always been that way, pushing his way in and out of her life all without her consent. The audacity.

“Mingyu.”

A smile. A hint of sharp canines behind chapped, pale rose lips, “That’s me.”

They stared at each other for a frankly ridiculous amount of time, taking each other in, barely flinching even as the waiter curiously put her pancakes on the table.

“I’m sor— “

“What are yo— “

He gestured for her to go first, ever the gentleman. She swallowed thickly, heart in her throat, hands shaking. “What are you doing here?”

“My car broke down on my way to the wedding yesterday, and I couldn’t find a taxi, so I just stayed the night here instead. You?”

Had they booked the same motel?

“I’m on my way home. Stopped to rest.”

“Ah.”

It’s awkward, and it’s agonizing and terrible, and y/n is pretty sure she had stopped breathing ten minutes ago.

Because here is the irrevocable truth: she had never been the best at moving on. She can keep pushing forward, she can convince herself to never look back, but in between the hustle and the despairing loudness of life, in the welcoming darkness of her own room, and in the tranquility of the night, she keeps looking back.

She will always be a creature of the past.

He is the biggest part of her past.

There has been an open wound in her heart since high school ended; it continued to bleed as she went through college. She always wondered when she’d die of blood loss. Now, with him in front of her, no longer on the other side of the world but just across the table, she thinks, the wound hurts more than ever.

“I’m sorry.” He said, breaking the tense silence.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

“For?”

“Not contacting. Not reaching out.”

“That’s neither of our fault. It’s just how life is.” Who was the girl you posted all those years ago? Have you been well? Does your heart bleed too?

He smiled again, soft, almost nervous. “Glad to know you haven’t changed.”

Y/n wanted to scream.

“Are you finally a doctor?”

She nods, gripping the empty—when had she gulped it down? — cup of coffee as if her life depended on it. “I am. Currently working at a hospital in Seoul.”

“Knew you’d make it.” He said, pride evident in his voice, and there’s a glint in his eyes, glazed over like a layer of glass right above his pupils.

“And your basketball?”

“Working to be on the national team, there’ll be tryouts in a couple of months. If I make it there, then-“

“You’ll be playing for our country. The way you’ve always wanted to.”

His smile falters, clenching his jaw and glancing down at his own hands. “You remember?”

I remember everything.

Y/n stays silent; a plate of untouched pancakes lay on the table. She stares at the liquid gold honey dripping on its side, a thousand unsaid words hanging in the air.

“You helped me, you know.” She looks up, frowning. “Somewhere around my third year of training, I dropped out to take up business like my mom wanted me to. That was the biggest mistake and the hardest two years of my life, especially without you.”

Stop it. Blood bubbles up her throat, seeping from her pores. She looks down at her hands to find them clean.

“I got back in, of course. You were right when you said I couldn’t leave basketball, no matter how hard I tried. I kept coming back. So, I redo all my training. And now the coach wanted me to try for the nationals. It was hard, but your words are there to keep me company.” He said, gentle, reminiscing. Like a silent confession wrapped

“Good for you.” She said. I’m proud of you. I’m so happy for you. Please leave. I knew you’d do a great job. Please come back to me. Does your heart bleed?

Another bout of silence.

She had been lost in thought, trying to push at the bleeding wound and make sure the blood didn’t overflow out of her mouth. She hadn’t noticed his eyes, glazed over and slowly losing their light, the way he’s tapping his feet in anticipation of something, anything, from her.

She looks even more beautiful now, he thought, a lump in his throat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Come on, you can do it.”

“Mingyu, I can’t even fucking stand.”

“That’s why I told you to hold onto me. I can help you stand.”

Y/n had a death grip on his hands, crouching on the ice rink, legs shaking with the effort to stabilize herself on the stupid ice skates.

“What if we both fall and crack our heads open?” she shouted in terror, keeping them both in place.

“We won’t. Come on, aren’t you supposed to be the brave one in the relationship? Man up!”

She squinted up at him, gritting her teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A dimpled grin. “You’ll learn when you grow up.”

“Mingyu, I swear-“

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the closure, isn’t it? The band-aid for her bleeding heart. He’ll tell her that he’s glad he met her, that he wishes the best for her, and they’ll part ways. Strangers again.

She’ll save him the trouble.

“Well, goodbye.” She stands, flashing a smile that she knows doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I wish you the best.” She was about to turn away, about to storm off and cry her heart out to the skies when he called out for her.

There was something in his eyes, something in the way he was on the edge of his seat. Had she spared more than a fleeting glance at him, she’d know what he meant when he said, “Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

She doesn’t know what he meant, doesn’t know why he sounded so distraught. She could barely hear him over the rush of blood in her ears. She left.

Storming down the street, every second of the encounter played in her mind like a broken record. She slammed the door of her car, leaning her head on the steering wheel.

“Knew you’d make it.”

Fidgeting hands, Mingyu only ever fidgets when he’s nervous, or when he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

“You helped me, you know.”

His eyes were glazed over. Why were they? Was he about to cry?

“It was hard, but your words are there to keep me company.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

Mingyu had always had a problem with voicing his wants. He has this innate need to please people, to put others before him, to let others decide for him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

Motherfucker.

Y/n abruptly climbed out of her car, shaking and furious as she stormed from the motel parking lot to the café.

He’s on the other side of the road, looking around frantically. Searching.

Searching for her.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Their eyes met. They’ve always been good at meeting each other halfway, don’t they?

-fin-

I'm only 21, and it already feels like the years are slipping away too fast

--

“Once high school ends, do you think we’ll still be together?”

“Of course. As if I could ever let you go.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n is halfway through packing her bags for the 5-hour trip it’ll take to go back to her hometown, phone clutched between her ear and shoulder as she reassures her friend that, yes, she is coming and no, she won’t stay the night there. One of her high school classmates is getting married, and they had been close enough for him to invite her to his wedding, hence the trip.

She had learned early on that promises are empty words meant to reassure a burdened heart and fleeting connections are intended to be only that, fleeting. So, when the invitation came in her mail, she was pleasantly surprised. She barely remembers his face anymore; his name, etched on the letter, only evokes a long-lost memory of sitting beside each other in Math, copying off each other’s answers. They had been good friends, though they lacked any emotional connection, which, she thinks, is why they hadn’t contacted each other at all after they graduated. Fast friendship forged by circumstance is what they were. And now, 9 years later, he’s married to his college girlfriend.

Life moves much too fast, sometimes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re weird.”

“Excuse me?” 16-year-old y/n raised an eyebrow at the boy in front of her, her lunch promptly forgotten.

“I mean, who does homework in the middle of watching basketball?”

She frowned, not quite understanding what the boy was referencing at all.

“Last Thursday, we had a basketball match, and I saw you in the crowd, scribbling away. Is it that important that you couldn’t have finished it any other time?”

Y/n chewed on the soft skin inside of her cheek, now knowing exactly what he was talking about and feeling mildly chastised. It’s not her fault that homework was due the next morning and the game was the night before, and she simply could not miss it, what with it being a big game for their school and her friends adamant on dragging her ass there if she refused.

She didn’t bother explaining herself, though, staring at the boy whom she now recognized as one of the players.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said, an easy grin stretched on his lips. “Just wondering if you enjoyed the game is all.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She barely arrives on time, parking her car and briefly touching up her makeup before climbing out. The wedding hall stood before her, elegant and old as ever, bringing memories of attending her relatives’ weddings and sneaking off to the forest behind it with her cousins, dipping their toes in the shallow lake nearby.

The lake is completely covered in moss now, becoming more of a swamp as time passes.

Stepping inside, she’s immediately met with familiar and unfamiliar faces. She can recognize some of them, at least: Hani from English, Soonyoung, who made it his lifestyle to arrive late to classes, and Yuri and her twin, Yuna, whom y/n and everyone else in the school had trouble telling apart.

“Yuri, hey! How have you been?” She hugs her, grinning widely despite herself.

“Close enough. Yuri is doing well.” She points to her twin, something akin to fond exhaustion in her eyes as she points at herself. “Yuna, here, is also doing well. Thank you for asking.”

Oops.

“Some things never change.” Y/n continues smoothly, squeezing Yuna’s hand in a silent apology.

She squeezes back. “They really don’t.”

They find a seat at the tables, surrounded by yet more familiar faces. They fall into conversation, catching up with each other’s lives and going on the usual spiel of ‘you hadn’t changed at all!’. It’s awkward, and it’s nice. Like wearing an old t-shirt that no longer fits you but is still comfortable.

She wonders if he’s here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n was in the library, arranging books, when a voice interrupted her calm focus.  “Word has it that the library is haunted.”

“It is.”

There was a tense silence that dragged on a moment too long. Y/n glanced away from the books she was arranging to see him looking around, eyes wary and chewing on his bottom lip, looking for all the world like he regretted ever bringing it up.

“…. Really?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Y/n has always wondered what would happen if someone were to speak. If, right now, as the usual silence settles across the hall, what would happen if someone broke it?  It would be dramatic, surely. A spectacle.

The wedding continues smoothly, though, and Y/n finds herself in limbo. She is probably dissociating, sending her congratulations, and eating and conversing somewhat dazedly. There is something here within the muted white walls of this hall that tugs at her chest. Her eyes drifted around, oddly wary, searching for a particular set of eyes that haunted her dreams even after all these years.

She dances, takes pictures, and plastered on a smile that felt more and more foreign on her face as the hours went by. It goes on for the next thirty minutes, and it wasn’t until she caught the familiar sight of one of his friends that she snapped out of it.

“He isn’t here. Had some trouble on the road and got stuck.” Seungcheol said with a shrug, his words followed by the murmurs of others, though she didn’t pay attention to them.

The knowledge had somehow unclogged the weight in her throat and replaced another right in her chest. It settles there, and she barely remembers what she replied to the guy, faced with a pitied smile that felt more condescending in her mind’s eye than comforting.

They must’ve known.

Knew that she was a creature of the past, moving forward in life, constantly glancing back at the rearview mirror, hands ready to turn the wheels back.

High school ends, and so does the great, world-shattering romance of Y/n’s love life.

Well, not quite.

They kept talking, at first. Phones exist, and they use them as much as they can, living worlds away from each other. She got a scholarship abroad, and he continued training at the national sports college in the big city. Free time is far and few in between, but for the first two years, they make do with what they have.

The thing about life, though, is that it has a way of pulling you away from people without you realizing it.

Calls went from as frequent as every day, to a few times a month, to once every few months. Their text log is shorter as days pass, and before they know it, radio silence. This is also, perhaps, contributed to by the fact that her phone was stolen, because y/n’s life is apparently written by a middle-aged woman who couldn’t find a better way to move the plot. She lost all their numbers, all the texts, and the means to contact her friends back at home.

Somewhere around April in the third year of their so-called long-distance relationship, he posted a picture of a girl at a coffee shop.

She got the message loud and clear.

It was for the best. That is what she kept telling herself. Their relationship had always felt like cruising on a broken ship, anyway, bound to sink and drown them both. It’s good that they broke it off, at least that is what she assumes if the silence were anything to go by.

So she drowns herself in school, pushing herself forward and barely stopping to breathe or look back. It was for the best. They were both busy and were better off with someone within the same field of study, someone more tangible than a picture on the phone.

y/n has always had a bad habit of refusing what’s good for her, though.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Just one date and you can decide whether I’m worth being in your life or not.”

“If you’re not?”

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“And if you are?”

That same, infuriating grin. “I can show you a whole new world, baby.”

“I’m already regretting this.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Aren’t you glad you dated me?” he said one evening, as they walked out of their favorite coffee shop a few towns over because he swears on his life that their tiramisu was to die for. y/n had always had a sweet tooth, which is why she dated him.

“You had me at the Aladdin reference.” She said, arm looped around his, staring off to the sidewalk. She can feel him jostling her as he snaps his fingers, pointing at her as if he’d rediscovered the meaning of life.

“I fucking knew you’d be into that!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being with him is, to put it simply, easy. You ask any student who was in that school, and they’d say that they were a match made in heaven. They'd say that the moment those two meet eyes, you could almost hear the wedding bells in the distance.

Call it opposite attracts, soulmates, kindred spirits, perfect match, and whatever synonyms the poets made to call lovers. Y/n would simply say that they were somewhat meant to be. Perhaps not meant to last long, but in that moment, in the tangled wires of adolescence and finding their true selves, they found each other. Here’s what the poets would tell you if you asked them to describe their relationship: If y/n were the moon, he was the sun. If y/n was the sun, he was the sunflower. If y/n is overwhelmed and needs a hand to hold, he’d offer his. If he is too tired to even smile, she’d carve a smile on her face for them both. They weren’t half of each other; rather, they were whole on their own but made perfect when together.

And isn’t that damning? It had been so easy, being with him, meeting each other halfway, and urging the other to be better. Their souls had been so perfectly entangled that when ripped apart, y/n lost half of hers. Like ripping off a band-aid and finding your skin coming off with it, sticking to the adhesive. The wound is open and bleeding, and, unfortunately for y/n, she learned all the ways to stitch a physical wound but has no idea how to close an emotional one.

Y/n handed her present to the newly married couple before bidding her goodbye with a promise of inviting them to her wedding, whenever that may be.

She drove off in a daze, passing familiar roads that caused heat to build up behind her eyes. Her plans of not staying the night here still stand; somehow, some part of her refuses to stay in this damned town any longer. She didn’t have bad memories here, quite the opposite, the memories here are good, too good that she feared if she stayed any longer, she’d never leave.

She refused to glance at the rearview mirror.

The clock on the dashboard reads 3:12 am when she arrives at a motel two towns over, bleary-eyed, blinking through the low lighting of the lobby. She had her overnight bag over one shoulder, stumbling into her room and passing out on the strange-smelling bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

They were sitting on the rooftop of their school building, minutes away from sunset— gold casting over their skin, and the wind carrying their words away in its path. Y/n dangled her legs off the edge of the roof; his legs were folded, because despite his height and bright disposition, he’s a scaredy-cat.

“Make plans. You have your whole life figured out and know exactly what you want to do. Meanwhile, here I am, still stuck in the same place.”

Y/n stared at his side profile, still laden with youth but burdened with a weight too heavy for his age. “There is no need to rush; you have your whole life ahead of you to figure it out.” She paused, frowning. “But that isn’t what you’re worried about, is it? You’re never one to rush.”

He smiled sadly, the smile that did not crease the edges of his eyes, the one that meant he didn’t mean it. “Mom doesn’t like the idea of me continuing basketball.”

“I wasn’t aware that your life is lived by your mom. Oh my god, am I actually talking to Mrs. Kim?” y/n gasped, widening her eyes comically.

He giggled—a high-pitched, tinkling sound that never fails to remind her of a fox’s bark—pushing at her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She snorted, grabbing the hand before he could pull it away, entwining their fingers. “You do what feels right for you, what makes you happy, and what you believe you can do, not someone else. Never live by someone else’s words; you’ll never be satisfied if you do.”

He sighs, the sound so soft she could barely hear it. “I want basketball. I want to play for our country.”

“Then do basketball. Represent the country.”

“And if I fail?”

“That’s easy. You either do it again and again, or find something else. No such thing as starting things a little late, you only find something when you need it, when it’s best for you. If you happen to suddenly want to take up culinary in your 30s, no one’s stopping you.”

He scrunches his nose; the gesture strangely reminds her of a bunny. Perhaps she should stop comparing him to animals. “Why culinary?”

“Figured you’d want to polish those horrendous cooking skills by then.”

She was met with another push to her shoulder.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/n wakes up feeling like death had visited her in her sleep and leaves with a friendly reminder. There’s an odd taste like a corpse in her mouth, and the sun is blaring through the open blinds right into her crusty eyes. She went through her morning routine while affectionately cursing herself, changing into loose pants and a shirt before packing everything, ready for the rest of the two-hour trip to her apartment.

After breakfast, that is.

The roads here are familiar, even though she had never lived here, but she had frequented these streets enough. Had she not been so tired last night, she wouldn’t have decided to crash nearby.

She wonders, sometimes, if there will ever come a time when she visits the places of her past, and that familiar ache won’t hurt her as much as it does now.

The grey sidewalks, the bushes of daylilies by the roadside, and that broken street sign that, after all these years, is yet to be fixed. There are echoes here, as she walks by the side of the road, passing by strangers who barely spare her a glance. Echoes of sugar high laughter and stolen kisses, of overpriced desserts and a golden, wolfish grin.

Nostalgia is as bittersweet as it is excruciating,

Stopping in front of the café, it is as if she’s thrown back, nine years ago, when life had seemed so hopeful, and the most stressful thing for her is finishing that essay that is due tomorrow. The pale, dusty yellow sign on the door and the old rickety tables outside are as familiar as the bed in her childhood home.

There’s that tug again in her chest as if warning her of something. Is this the impending doom everyone kept talking about? She’s not ready to die yet, good lord.

She sat at a table by the large window, nursing a cup of mediocre coffee—familiar, aching, and bitter— as she waited for her breakfast to arrive when:

“Y/n.”

Cue the dramatic music.

--

Life moves too fast sometimes; it has a way of pushing people out of your life, and it likes to throw shit at you, knowing that you do not have the emotional or mental capacity to deal with them.

Y/n is not angry or anything.

But it is a close thing.

She was halfway through her coffee, barely feeling her soul re-entering her body, when a voice called her name. A voice. The voice.

Oh.

He looks the same. She compares it to the mental picture that she had hung up in the back of her mind and deduces that, other than losing the baby fat, he looks more or less the same. Sounded the same, too. That same raspy cadence, that same lisp. Slightly more tanned. Longer hair. Sharper jaw. More built. Taller, somehow.

Y/n was frozen in place, staring as he peered down at her, recognition and disbelief evident in his eyes. “It is you.” He whispered to himself, plopping down on the seat in front of her without invitation, heavy as if his legs had given up on him.

He’s always been that way, pushing his way in and out of her life all without her consent. The audacity.

“Mingyu.”

A smile. A hint of sharp canines behind chapped, pale rose lips, “That’s me.”

They stared at each other for a frankly ridiculous amount of time, taking each other in, barely flinching even as the waiter curiously put her pancakes on the table.

“I’m sor— “

“What are yo— “

He gestured for her to go first, ever the gentleman. She swallowed thickly, heart in her throat, hands shaking. “What are you doing here?”

“My car broke down on my way to the wedding yesterday, and I couldn’t find a taxi, so I just stayed the night here instead. You?”

Had they booked the same motel?

“I’m on my way home. Stopped to rest.”

“Ah.”

It’s awkward, and it’s agonizing and terrible, and y/n is pretty sure she had stopped breathing ten minutes ago.

Because here is the irrevocable truth: she had never been the best at moving on. She can keep pushing forward, she can convince herself to never look back, but in between the hustle and the despairing loudness of life, in the welcoming darkness of her own room, and in the tranquility of the night, she keeps looking back.

She will always be a creature of the past.

He is the biggest part of her past.

There has been an open wound in her heart since high school ended; it continued to bleed as she went through college. She always wondered when she’d die of blood loss. Now, with him in front of her, no longer on the other side of the world but just across the table, she thinks, the wound hurts more than ever.

“I’m sorry.” He said, breaking the tense silence.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

“For?”

“Not contacting. Not reaching out.”

“That’s neither of our fault. It’s just how life is.” Who was the girl you posted all those years ago? Have you been well? Does your heart bleed too?

He smiled again, soft, almost nervous. “Glad to know you haven’t changed.”

Y/n wanted to scream.

“Are you finally a doctor?”

She nods, gripping the empty—when had she gulped it down? — cup of coffee as if her life depended on it. “I am. Currently working at a hospital in Seoul.”

“Knew you’d make it.” He said, pride evident in his voice, and there’s a glint in his eyes, glazed over like a layer of glass right above his pupils.

“And your basketball?”

“Working to be on the national team, there’ll be tryouts in a couple of months. If I make it there, then-“

“You’ll be playing for our country. The way you’ve always wanted to.”

His smile falters, clenching his jaw and glancing down at his own hands. “You remember?”

I remember everything.

Y/n stays silent; a plate of untouched pancakes lay on the table. She stares at the liquid gold honey dripping on its side, a thousand unsaid words hanging in the air.

“You helped me, you know.” She looks up, frowning. “Somewhere around my third year of training, I dropped out to take up business like my mom wanted me to. That was the biggest mistake and the hardest two years of my life, especially without you.”

Stop it. Blood bubbles up her throat, seeping from her pores. She looks down at her hands to find them clean.

“I got back in, of course. You were right when you said I couldn’t leave basketball, no matter how hard I tried. I kept coming back. So, I redo all my training. And now the coach wanted me to try for the nationals. It was hard, but your words are there to keep me company.” He said, gentle, reminiscing. Like a silent confession wrapped

“Good for you.” She said. I’m proud of you. I’m so happy for you. Please leave. I knew you’d do a great job. Please come back to me. Does your heart bleed?

Another bout of silence.

She had been lost in thought, trying to push at the bleeding wound and make sure the blood didn’t overflow out of her mouth. She hadn’t noticed his eyes, glazed over and slowly losing their light, the way he’s tapping his feet in anticipation of something, anything, from her.

She looks even more beautiful now, he thought, a lump in his throat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Come on, you can do it.”

“Mingyu, I can’t even fucking stand.”

“That’s why I told you to hold onto me. I can help you stand.”

Y/n had a death grip on his hands, crouching on the ice rink, legs shaking with the effort to stabilize herself on the stupid ice skates.

“What if we both fall and crack our heads open?” she shouted in terror, keeping them both in place.

“We won’t. Come on, aren’t you supposed to be the brave one in the relationship? Man up!”

She squinted up at him, gritting her teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A dimpled grin. “You’ll learn when you grow up.”

“Mingyu, I swear-“

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the closure, isn’t it? The band-aid for her bleeding heart. He’ll tell her that he’s glad he met her, that he wishes the best for her, and they’ll part ways. Strangers again.

She’ll save him the trouble.

“Well, goodbye.” She stands, flashing a smile that she knows doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I wish you the best.” She was about to turn away, about to storm off and cry her heart out to the skies when he called out for her.

There was something in his eyes, something in the way he was on the edge of his seat. Had she spared more than a fleeting glance at him, she’d know what he meant when he said, “Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

She doesn’t know what he meant, doesn’t know why he sounded so distraught. She could barely hear him over the rush of blood in her ears. She left.

Storming down the street, every second of the encounter played in her mind like a broken record. She slammed the door of her car, leaning her head on the steering wheel.

“Knew you’d make it.”

Fidgeting hands, Mingyu only ever fidgets when he’s nervous, or when he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

“You helped me, you know.”

His eyes were glazed over. Why were they? Was he about to cry?

“It was hard, but your words are there to keep me company.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

Mingyu had always had a problem with voicing his wants. He has this innate need to please people, to put others before him, to let others decide for him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the brave one?”

Motherfucker.

Y/n abruptly climbed out of her car, shaking and furious as she stormed from the motel parking lot to the café.

He’s on the other side of the road, looking around frantically. Searching.

Searching for her.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Their eyes met. They’ve always been good at meeting each other halfway, don’t they?

-fin-

I'm only 21, and it already feels like the years are slipping away too fast

--

The first time Seungcheol saw you, he hadn’t expected you to change his life. 

But you did. 

It was a rainy night, the kind that made the city feel heavy and distant. He had just finished dinner with some friends at a fancy little restaurant tucked away in a quieter part of town. The rain had begun to fall harder as the evening dragged on, and one by one, his friends piled into their cars, eager to leave before the storm worsened. 

Seungcheol, however, didn’t mind the rain. He found something calming about it—something grounding. The cold droplets against the palm of his hand, the soothing rhythm of water hitting the pavement, the way the world seemed to slow down around him. 

He stood under the tent just outside the restaurant’s entrance, letting the scent of rain fill his lungs, closing his eyes for a moment. 

Then he heard it. 

A soft whimper. Barely audible over the sound of the rain, but it made him pause. 

He looked around, confused, until eventually, his gaze landed on you. 

You were sitting against a building, your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as your body shook with sobs. The rain pelted you, but you didn’t move. The tears streaming down your face mixed with the water falling from the sky, a miserable portrait of a heartbroken stranger. 

He knew he should’ve minded his own business, just turn and leave. People cried on the streets all the time. It was none of his concern.

But something about you, sitting there so broken and vulnerable in the middle of a storm, kept him rooted in place. The world was pulling at his attention in every direction, but somehow, you were the only thing he could focus on. 

Before he could even second-guess himself, his feet were moving. 

He stepped from under the awning, the rain instantly soaking through his jacket. The cold hit him all at once, but it didn’t matter. All he could think about was getting to you. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, his fingers trembling as he made his way toward you. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t know what he would say, but he couldn’t just walk away. 

As he approached, he hesitated, watching you cry. The sight of you so defeated made something inside him twist painfully. You looked like the world had crushed you. 

You looked up, eyes landing on the handkerchief in his outstretched hand, your eyes bleary, tear streaked and swollen, but when they met his, something in Seungcheol’s chest constricted. 

You were beautiful. You were still beautiful even in your sorrow. A raw, unguarded beauty that left him speechless for a moment. He didn’t know why, or how, but your pain felt like it was bleeding into his own heart. 

“Are you okay?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

Your eyes lingered on him for a long time, almost as if trying to assess him. The silence stretched between you, the air thick with unspoken words. You didn’t answer him right away. 

Maybe you were embarrassed. Maybe you didn’t want to be seen like this, so broken and exposed. 

Finally, your voice broke the silence—a soft, bitter laugh escaping your lips. 

“Unless you can turn back time or fix my entire life, I don’t think you can help me.” 

He exhaled a quiet breath, looking down at the handkerchief in his hand, unsure of what to do next. But instead of pulling away or walking off, his feet just planted him beside you. 

“I’m not offering to fix anything,” he said softly, sitting down next to you. “I’m just offering to sit with you. Unless you want to be alone.” 

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything. The rain continued to pour relentlessly, but neither of you moved. You just sat there—two strangers in the storm, caught in your own separate worlds of pain. 

You could have told him to leave. He didn’t belong there, after all, if his tailored suit was anything to go by. He wasn’t supposed to be part of your brokenness. He could have walked away, could have left just like his friends, gone to his life and left you in your misery. 

It would have been easy. 

But instead, you stayed silent, allowing him to sit beside you. 

Neither of you spoke for what felt like hours. The rain grew heavier, colder, but it didn’t matter. 

Seungcheol didn’t ask. He just let you cry, the sound of your sobs blending with the storm, creating an odd sense of peace in that moment. It was like time itself had slowed down, as if the universe had given you this one brief, fleeting moment to be vulnerable—to be sad—and to not have to explain why. 

When you finally stood up, your body tired and cold from the rain, you didn’t thank him. 

You didn’t offer some half-hearted smile. 

You didn’t ask for anything more from him. You simply stood, the weight of your grief still heavy on your shoulders, but with a quiet sense of gratitude for the stranger who had sat with you in the rain as you turned away from him. 

“I hope you heal!” Seungcheol yells out, voice cutting through the rain. You didn’t turn around to acknowledge him, you just continued on your way. 

Seungcheol watched you walk away, unable to explain the way his heart tightened at the sight. 

He didn’t know your name, didn’t know anything about you, but in that moment—the way you let him in for just a few minutes—stayed with him. 

He didn’t realize it then, but that night, he had met the woman who would beautifully torment his thoughts for months to come. 

The months passed, but you never truly left his thoughts. He couldn’t help it. The memory of you sitting in the rain, a stranger yet so familiar in your pain, lingered. And no matter how many times he told himself to move on, to forget about that moment, something about you refused to fade. 

He found himself wondering where you were, if you were doing okay, if you were still hurting. 

There was something about the way your eyes had met his that night—something that made him feel like he should have done more. 

Something that made him want to know you better. 

And then, on one cold evening, it happened. 

He wasn’t prepared for it. He never would have been. 

The second time Seungcheol saw you, it was completely unexpected. 

He had been invited to a gala by Jeonghan, a close friend, who was one of the guest speakers. Jeonghan had been raving about the event for weeks, and despite Seungcheol’s lack of interest in social gatherings, he couldn’t say no to his persistent friend. 

As soon as he entered the small hall, Seungcheol was struck by the extravagance of it all. The space was decked out in shimmering gold accents, white roses arranged in vases on every table and diamond chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings, casting a soft glow on the entire room. 

The sounds of light chatter of Korea’s elite and clinking glasses filled the air as they mingled, exchanging pleasantries in their finest attire. 

Seungcheol had just been about to grab a drink when the sharp click of a microphone cutting through the noise silenced the room. Everyone’s heads turned toward the stage. He glanced up, expecting to see a high-profiler figure or perhaps Jeonghan. 

But his breath caught in his throat when he saw you. 

There you were, standing confidently in front of a podium, dressed in a sleek, form-fitting black dress that complimented your figure perfectly. The dress was elegant but understated, the kind of dress that exuded both professionalism and allure. Your hair was neatly styled, and your expression was calm, focused. The poise with which you stood there made you look every bit the powerful woman in charge. 

For a moment, it felt like time stopped. His eyes couldn’t pull away from you as you spoke. Your voice, smooth and steady, resonated through the room as you welcomed the guests, your words clear and authoritative. 

You weren’t crying anymore. You weren’t the vulnerable, broken stranger he had met that night in the rain so many nights ago. You were strong, poised, and completely in control. 

It took him a second to register, but when he did, it hit him—you were the event manager. 

You weren’t the fragile woman sitting on the sidewalk anymore. You had risen from that and in the process, you had become someone he could never have anticipated. 

He stood there, frozen, watching you. You didn’t seem to notice him in the crowd, too absorbed in the event, too absorbed in your role. But for Seungcheol, the sight of you standing there, the woman you had become, was something that had his heart thumping a little faster than it should. 

As the night progressed, Seungcheol found himself unable to keep his eyes off of you. He couldn’t help but watch as you moved effortlessly through the crowd, overseeing everything with the kind of grace and precision that only someone truly in control could process. 

While others mingled and networked, you stayed behind the scenes, making sure every detail of the gala was running smoothly. 

He wanted to talk to you, to say something. But every time he tried to move through the crowd, you were always a step ahead, surrounded by others, too busy with the event. He told himself it was foolish, that he shouldn’t be trying to catch your attention. But still, he found himself searching for you in every corner of the room, hoping for even a brief moment to speak to you. 

It wasn’t until later in the evening, when the gala had started to wind down and the energy in the room had shifted, that Seungcheol finally found his chance. 

He was standing by the door, this time not in the midst of the crowd, but standing alone out on the terrace. The cool night air seemed to calm everything in the room, and you stood there, leaning against the railing, looking over the city lights. 

For a moment, you looked completely detached from everything, as if you were lost in your thoughts. 

He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, hands slipping into the pockets of his suit. 

Say something. His mind urged. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said before he could stop himself. 

“Dumbass.” He mentally slapped himself. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

You turned slowly at the sound of his voice, your expression unreadable. But when your gaze met his, something flickered in your eyes—recognition, curiosity, maybe even the faintest trace of amusement. 

He swore he felt his breath hitch. 

Your expression remained neutral, but you offered him a small smile. 

“I could say the same to you,” you replied smoothly. “I thought you’d be busy enjoying the gala.” 

He shrugged slightly, eyes scanning your figure, taking in the way the city lights reflected against your skin. 

“I was. But then I saw you standing here,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. 

There was something about you in this moment—alone, away from all the noise that made him feel like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. 

“It’s a little late for a break, isn’t it? Or are you just done with being the event manager for the night?” he asked, teasing lightly, though there was a genuine curiosity behind his words. 

Your lips parted in what almost resembled a chuckle, but it was soft, almost bitter. 

“Just needed a minute to breathe,” you murmured. 

The moment stretched between them, fragile yet charged with something unspoken. The distant murmur of the gala guests inside faded into the background, the occasional clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter feeling worlds away. 

Out here, on the terrace, it was just the two of them. 

The crisp night air carried a soft breeze, stirring the loose strands of your hair, making you look almost unreal under the glow of the city lights. 

Seungcheol watched you carefully, drinking in the sight of you. You looked so different from the last time he had seen you—no longer drenched in rain, no longer trembling and small. 

And he wondered. 

Before he could stop himself. Before he could think better of it, the question was already leaving his lips. 

“Have you healed?” 

The reaction was immediate. He watched as your body tensed, fingers curling slightly at your sides. You hesitated, as if the question had physically knocked the air from your lungs. 

It was the last thing he had said to you before you had walked away that night. 

The night you left him standing there, in the rain, taking a bit of his heart with you. 

You exhaled softly, gaze dropping for a fraction of a second before you lifted your head, forcing a small, brave smile onto your lips. 

“I…” you hesitated, as if you weren’t sure what to say. As if you had never truly let yourself answer that question even in your own mind. 

And then, after a beat, you met his eyes again, that same guarded smile still in place. 

“I’m fine now. I’ve moved on.” You said so simply. 

It was a lie. 

Seungcheol saw it immediately. The way your fingers fidgeted slightly, the way your breath caught just a little too sharply, the way your eyes betrayed you despite the convincing tone in your voice. 

You were trying so hard to make it seem like the past didn’t linger. That it didn’t haunt you. That whatever had once broken you had long since been buried. 

But he saw through it. 

The sadness was still there, tucked away beneath the layers of strength you had built around yourself. 

He wanted to believe you. Wanted to take those words as truth and let them settle in his chest. Then perhaps he could let you go. He’d stop thinking about you. But there was something in your gaze—something quiet and lingering, something that said I’m still learning how to breathe again. 

Seungcheol had never been one to pry, had never been the type to demand answers that someone wasn’t ready to give. And so, even though he knew the truth—that you were still healing, that the scars hadn’t fully faded—he didn’t call you out on the lie. 

You shifted your weight, looking away before exhaling softly. 

“I should… probably get back inside.” you said, nodding toward the ballroom. 

Seungcheol swallowed down the urge to stop you, to ask something—anything, so that you’d stay by his side just a little longer, but he knew it would be wrong of him. 

So he nodded instead, forcing an easy smile. 

“Of course. Don’t let me hold you back.” You nodded in return, taking a step forward toward the doors, but before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out—

“Wait!” you turned back, brows furrowed in confusion.

Seungcheol hesitated for just a second, but then he stepped forward.  “I never got to ask for your name.” 

For a moment, you just stared at him. He wondered if you’d tell him, if you’d brush it off. If you’d just disappear again just like you did the first time. 

But then, in a voice so soft it barely carried over the evening breeze, you said, “My name’s Y/n.” 

Something about hearing it—hearing your name—sent a warmth curling through his chest. 

Seungcheol let a small, boyish smile pull at his lips. “I’m Seungcheol.” 

You gave him a polite nod,

“It was nice seeing you again… Seungcheol…” 

And then you turned, stepping back inside, disappearing into the golden glow of the gala. 

But Seungcheol stood frozen in place, just as he did that first time. 

Your voice lingered in the air, wrapping around him like an invisible thread. 

That night, when he laid in bed staring at his ceiling, when he closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him under, it was the sound of your voice—soft yet certain, saying his name—that replayed in his mind. 

Again and again. 

Months passed since the night of the gala and Seungcheol couldn’t shake the thought of you. He found himself wondering when he’d see you again. 

And then, on a sunny afternoon, Seungcheol saw you again. 

He realized that it wasn’t just a coincidence anymore—it was fate. 

The cafe was quiet, the kind of peaceful atmosphere that almost begged you to stay a little longer. On his way to meet his friend, he had decided to get a drink, but as he entered the cafe something caught his eyes. 

There, sitting at a table by the window, was you. 

He froze for a second, taking in the sight of you—completely engrossed in your work. He hadn’t expected to run into you again, but here you were, sitting at a small table by the window, working on your laptop. The soft glow of the cafe lights made you look almost ethereal—completely absorbed in your task, and for a moment, Seungcheol forgot about the world around him. 

Time seemed to slow. The air around him felt thick, like everything had faded into the background, and it was just you in his line of sight. 

You were so engrossed in your work, yet so beautiful in your quiet intensity. He watched you absentmindedly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and the way your fingers flew over the keys with ease. 

But then reality set back in. He needed to stop looking, to stop getting caught up in something that felt like it was too good to be true. But instead, he found himself at the counter ordering two drinks—one for him, one for you. 

It wasn’t planned, but he didn’t really care. His feet carried him toward your table before he could stop himself. 

He set the drinks down in front of you, causing you to look up, confused at first. He watched as your eyes widened when you saw who it was, and your lips parted as you blinked a few times in recognition. 

“Oh… Seungcheol.” you said, your voice a little soft, a little surprised. 

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.  “We need to stop seeing each other like this,” he teased, trying to make the situation lighter than it was. You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching in amusement. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, first there was the rain,” he said, casually sitting down across from you. “Then the gala. And now… this. We’re starting to look like we’re stalking each other.” 

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You keep showing up, though. I can’t help it if I just happen to be in the right place at the right time,” you shot back, a sly smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

“I guess it’s my fault then,” he replied, leaning against the chair casually. “Can’t stop running into you.” 

You laughed softly, the sound light and warm, and for a moment, everything around them seemed to disappear. Just the two of them, in this quiet corner of the cafe, a strange familiarity growing between them. 

Seungcheol glanced down at the watch on his wrist, realizing with a small jolt that he was running late. He had a few things to wrap up for the day, and the last thing he wanted was to leave. A part of him dreaded saying goodbye to you, but he had no choice. 

“Listen,” he said, his voice gentle as he looked at you, “I need to get going, but…” His words faltered for a moment as he hesitated.  “Would you like to go out for dinner with me?” 

He watched as your eyes flickered, and he could almost see the wheels turning in your head. The hesitation was clear—he could feel it in the slight pause that followed his question. He knew you’d been through a lot, and though he didn’t want to push, he couldn’t just walk away without trying. 

“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, I just…” Seungcheol trailed off, unsure of how to make it sound right. “I just want to spend time with you, to get to know each other better?” 

You looked at him for a long moment, your gaze steady as if weighing the decision in your mind. There was a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, but also something else—an openness that hadn’t been there the first time he’d met you. Maybe it was the memories of that moment, when he sat beside you in the rain and simply offered you comfort without asking for anything in return. 

After a brief silence, you nodded, your smile small but genuine.  “Okay,” you agreed, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. “Dinner sounds nice.” 

Seungcheol’s heart gave a quick, surprised beat. “Really?” 

You raised an eyebrow at his reaction, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Yes, really. I think I owe you a thank you for, you know, that night,” you said, your voice softer now, as if you were remembering that first encounter too. 

Seungcheol grinned, feeling a strange warmth spreading through him. He wasn’t sure why, but the way you spoke—like there was no burden between you two—made him feel lighter. 

“I don’t need a thank you, but…” He paused, glancing down at his phone. “Let’s exchange numbers then.”  

You reached for your phone, tapping in your number and he followed suit. As he saved your contact, a surge of happiness filled him. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he saw your name appear on his screen. 

“Well, I’ll text you then. Let’s figure out when,” he said, feeling a bit of that nervous excitement bubbling in his chest. Seungcheol’s stupid grin didn’t fade as he looked at you, feeling giddy, the anticipation of the dinner hanging in the air. 

You nodded, a soft smile still lingering on your lips. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll be looking forward to it.” 

Seungcheol chuckled, his heart light. He walked out of the cafe, the cool evening air brushing against his face. His steps felt lighter, as if the weight of the day had lifted, replaced by a giddy warmth in his chest. 

He couldn’t help the stupid grin that spread across his face as he made his way down the street, every thought in his mind swirling around you. 

As the days passed, Seungcheol found himself impatiently waiting. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart skipped a beat, hoping it would be a message from you. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this eager to see someone. 

He couldn’t wait to see you again. 

But when the day rolled around, it wasn’t what he had expected. 

The dinner was supposed to be a chance to relax, get to know each other better, but as Seungcheol sat across from you, he couldn’t shake the sense that there was something that you weren’t letting him in on. 

The conversation flowed, casual and light, but the tension in the air was undeniable. Everytime Seungcheol felt like he was peeling back a layer, you’d retreat, closing off like a shell that refused to open. 

He noticed how you smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He noticed the way you carefully chose your words, weighing them before they left your mouth. You were guarded. Like you were keeping a part of yourself hidden away—afraid, perhaps, of being hurt again. 

He had learned that much about you from the first time you met—and now he couldn’t help but wonder how many walls had you built around yourself since then. How much had you been through that made you so wary of letting anyone close? 

It was hard to focus on the food in front of him. Instead, he kept his eyes on you, watching the way your fingers grazed your glass, how your smile never quite reached your eyes. He could sense the distance you were keeping, the quiet reluctance in every glance you sent his way. 

As he pulled up to the curb outside your place, Seungcheol couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment was somehow different. His stomach twisted in a way he couldn’t explain, an unsettling sense that he was about to watch something slip away from him. 

“Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. 

“Yeah… me too…” Seungcheol replied, his tone mirroring the same quiet sentiment. There was a fleeting moment of awkwardness, the kind that had crept into the air between you two during the entire dinner. 

“Well, I should get going now. It’s getting late.” you said after a moment of silence. 

“Yeah…” Seungcheol murmured, unable to mask the reluctance in his voice. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to go—it was just that… this felt different. 

His fingers lingered on the steering wheel as he watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. The silence between you both hung heavily, unspoken words hanging in the air, but neither of you seemed to know how to bridge the gap. 

You opened the door, sliding out of the car with practiced grace, your figure fading as you closed the door softly behind you. 

“Good night, Seungcheol.” you said, your voice almost too quiet now, a hint of something—maybe finality lingering in the words. 

“Goodnight…” He watched you, his eyes tracing your movements, his mind racing as you walked toward your house. 

It was then that it hit him. Watching you walk away felt different. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something in his chest twisted uncomfortably. A tightness he hadn’t expected—a kind of ache that seemed to grip him when he realized that maybe, just maybe, this was it. 

The last time he would see you. 

The thought of that, of never seeing you again, gnawed at him. 

He didn’t want it to end here, not like this. 

He couldn’t let it. 

Without thinking, without considering the consequences, Seungcheol quickly stepped out of the car, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Without thinking, he walked over to you, the pace of his heartbeat quickening as he approached. He grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, turning you to face him. 

The suddenness of it startled you. Your wide eyes met his, filled with a mix of confusion and something else—something else that made Seungcheol’s chest tighten with the weight of unspoken words. 

“Seungcheol?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion, but Seungcheol didn’t care. 

He didn’t want to lose this moment. He didn’t want to walk away from this, not with the way his heart was racing, not with the way you looked at him. 

He couldn’t lose you now. 

His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer. 

“Tell me you don’t feel it too,” he said, his voice raw, more vulnerable than he’d ever allowed himself to be. 

Before you could speak, his hand gently guided yours to his chest, right where his heart was beating rapidly. 

“Tell me you don’t feel this.” 

A silence fell over you both, the night air thick with the weight of his words. Seungcheol’s heart was racing, and he was almost terrified of what would come next. But he couldn’t stand the idea of never knowing. 

You looked at him, and he saw the hesitation, the fear behind your eyes. You were just as scared as he was, just as unsure about where this would lead. 

And so, Seungcheol waited. And as the seconds stretched on, he felt the world slow, as if everything had led to this single, fragile moment. 

He shook his head, a small, almost disbelieving laugh escaping him. 

“Three times, Y/n…” he paused, his gaze unwavering as he held you there in front of him. 

“Three times the universe has put you in front of me, and you expect me to just walk away again?” 

The night air seemed thicker, and the sounds of the city around them faded into a distant hum. All that was left was the two of you standing in the quiet, the weight of Seungcheol’s confession hanging between you. 

You hesitated, but before you could say anything, he pulled you closer, just enough so he could brush his thumb across your cheek, a silent plea for you to understand what he was trying to say. The walls you’d built up seemed to crumble, piece by piece, and in that instant, Seungcheol felt a flicker of hope. 

“Don’t walk away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Don’t let this be the last time.” 

You looked at him, and for the first time that evening, Seungcheol saw something in your eyes—a softness, a vulnerability that mirrored his own feelings. He saw you. Just like the you he met for the very first time. 

And in that moment, Seungcheol knew one thing for sure; this wasn’t the end. 

No matter how much you tried to walk away, he wasn’t going to let you.

The first time Seungcheol met you, he hadn’t expected you to change his life. 

But you did. 

You turned his carefully structured world upside down. You had been something warm, something real in a life that often felt cold and calculated.

And against all odds, you had become his home. 

But now, that home felt empty. 

He laid in your shared bed, staring at the ceiling, his chest tight with something he couldn't even name anymore. 

Regret? 

Guilt? 

Desperation? 

Maybe all of it at once. 

Seungcheol closes his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he wasn’t in this cold, empty room. 

He’s somewhere warmer. Somewhere safe. 

It had been a late summer night, the kind where the air was thick with heat, but neither of you had cared. You were both lying on the rooftop of Seungcheol’s home, a shared blanket beneath you, a half-empty bottle of wine beside you, and the city lights stretching endlessly ahead. 

He remembered how you had laid there beside him, eyes scanning the sky, searching for stars that barely peeked through the glowing skyline. 

“There’s one!” you had said excitedly, rolling onto your side to look at him. Your hair cascaded over your shoulder, the faint glow of the city reflecting in your eyes. 

He turned his head toward you, barely sparing the sky a glance. 

“Yeah?” he murmured, his lips curving into a smile. “Where?” 

“Right there,” you whispered, lifting his hand and pointing his finger in the general direction. 

Seungcheol had no idea if there was actually a star there. He hadn’t looked. 

He had been too caught up in the way you were watching him, the way your fingers curled around his hand, holding onto him like you never wanted to let go.

Seungcheol had no idea if there had actually been a star there. He hadn’t cared. 

“You’re not even looking,” you had excused, teasing lilt to your voice.  

“I am,” he had said, and maybe he wasn’t talking about the stars at all. 

You had stared at him for a second longer before laughing, shaking your head as you let go of his hand and flopped back onto your back again. 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And yet, you’re still here.” you had hummed in agreement, reaching for the bottle of wine and taking a sip before passing it to him. 

“Guess that makes me impossible too.” 

He had taken the bottle but never drank. Instead, he had turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow just to watch you. The way you looked so at peace, eyes full of wonder, lips slightly parted as if you were lost in thought. 

The way your dress spread around you, how one of your legs bent at the knee as you absentmindedly traced patterns onto the blanket beneath you. 

And before he could stop himself, the words had slipped out—soft, but certain.  “Marry me.” he could see the way your eyes had widened before you laughed, shaking your head.  “Cheol—” 

“No. I’m serious.” He had reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours, holding on just a little tighter. His heart had been pounding, but he had never been more sure of anything in his life.  “Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but one day. One day I want to marry you.” 

He remembered the way you had gone silent. He could still picture the way your gaze searched his, looking for any hint of doubt, any sign that he was saying it just because of the moment. 

But he had meant it. 

Every word. 

And then—slowly, so slowly—a smile had crept onto your lips, soft and knowing.  “Okay.” 

Just that. One word. And it had been enough. 

He had kissed you then, right there under the barely-there stars, pouring every ounce of love he had into it. And in that moment, he had known—this was it. 

This was the feeling people spent their whole lives chasing. 

But now, that warmth, that love—it was all gone. 

And he was alone in the aftermath of it. 

He turned onto his side, reaching out of instinct for the warmth that used to be there. His fingers meeting nothing but cold sheets. The pillows still carry the faintest trace of your scent, but it’s fading, just like everything else. 

His throat tightens. 

“Y/n…” he whispers, barely a breath of sound. A desperate plea to the silence. 

But silence is all that answers him. 

His eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut, willing himself not to break. 

But the weight of it crashes over him anyway. The weight of your absence. 

The weight of all the moments he let slip through his fingers. 

You were gone. 

And it was all his fault. 

Three times. 

Three times, fate had placed you in front of him. 

Three times, he had a chance. 

But he had ruined it and watched you walk away. 

And now, as he laid in the coldness of your once shared bedroom, he knew he couldn’t just sit around and wait for fate to bring you back to him.

This time he was going to find you. 

To fight for you. 

author's note 2: So? What do we all think? Pleast let me know! I would love to hear what all of you have to say. I know, I'm a meanie for leaving you guys hanging yet again, but I promise all of you that a third part is in the works.

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.

You were melting under his touch, little noises slipping from your glossy lips and sending his brain racing through ways he could make your noises louder. They were the same breathy moans you gave him when he made you forget your own name as he fucked you nice and slow.

Seungcheol doesn’t even realize he’s stopped rubbing on your back until you’re gasping his name as his hips rut against your ass mindlessly. His cock is thick and heavy in his swim trunks and nestled right between your ass cheeks, which makes your swim bottoms bunch and rub against your clit.

Every little roll of his hips has his eyes drooping, your little noises turning from something soft to a neediness he liked to hear before he made you beg for his cock.

His hands move to either side of your head, the wedding ring flashing under the sun as he drapes his big body over yours more. He knows that if anyone comes near, they’d see him humping you like a dog in rut, and fuck, it makes his cock twitch knowing you’re trapped underneath him. He forces you to feel every drag of his cock as he grinds up into you, and relishes the way your cheeks flush, your eyes swirling with the haziness he feels in his head.

“Fuck baby, I think I could cum just like this.” You whimper when he confesses this. His chest is warm against your back, and your pussy is drooling, weeping for more. Only two little pieces of fabric separate you, but the idea of your husband making a mess just like this? You can’t stop the whine that falls from your lips in response.

“Cheol-“ you don’t even finish your sentence because Seungcheol is leaning back onto his knees while his hand encircles the back of your neck, keeping you down. His tongue kisses his teeth in a soft reprimand, his fingers squeezing your neck a little as he humps you like his own personal toy.

“No, not Cheol.” His voice is deeper, his breath coming out in soft pants and grunts as his fat cock rubs against your cunt rougher, the two pieces of fabric separating you adding to the friction. “Want to try that again?”

You can feel the warmth in your stomach twisting, and you are somewhat embarrassed by how fast you are to cumming by him doing this, but your mind still tries to process his words. Your moans are becoming more broken, your mouth watering as his hand around the back of your neck keeps you from moving.

You’re helpless and at his mercy, and it feels so good. “H-husband. My husband.”

You don’t have to look to know Seungcheol’s grin is big and cocky. He hums in approval, and another wave of tingles courses through your body, only to stop at your pretty pussy.

“That’s right. My wife, my pretty little wife.” His teeth flash in the smile he wears, and he can feel a few wads of his precum spill into his swim trunks, creating a wet patch that he grinds into your ass. “I’m your husband, and I only want you saying my name when you’re creaming on my cock, okay?”

You don’t even have a chance to reply before Seungcheol moves your swim bottoms to the side. The view of your pussy has him rolling his eyes back like it’s the first time. Your pretty pussy is a mess, dripping with arousal and asking for him to ruin it.

And he plans to do just that.

His hand moves from the back of your neck to join his other hand between your thighs. His thumbs spread your puffy folds apart, giving him an intimate view of your pretty cunt and making you widen your eyes to see if anyone was looking.

“We’re in public!” You yelp, but Seungcheol is already swirling his thick thumb over your clit just to see your pretty hole wink back at him.

“You’re the one who wanted to leave our room.” He says it like somehow it’s your problem, and his eyes watch the way your cunt seeps with a new wave of your honeyed slick. “If anyone sees, let them. They can see how you were made just for me.” His smirk grows into something more feral, “arch your back for me, yeah- just like that.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, your cheeks flushing as your lips parted for the little gasps you let out. You can’t believe him, and you can’t believe you’re letting this happen, but your body is betraying you with each sloppy heart he rubs onto your clit. You no longer just want him, you need him, and when he leans down, one hand on your lower back to keep you arched for him, your eyes roll as he spits.

A wad of his saliva smacks onto your dripping cunt, and your gasp makes him chuckle. He smears his spit in with your slick, rubbing it onto your clit with his laugh ringing in your ears. “My wife, you’re all mine, aren't ya? Mine to play with, mine to have.”

Your heart skips, jumps, and leaps before your letting everything go, your hips pushing back to present yourself to your husband as you whine. “All yours, I’m all yours.”

And that’s all he needs to pull his cock out from his swim trunks. He uses your slick to coat his cock, and then he’s back to covering your body with his. “That’s right, now let me take care of my needy little wife.”

You would snort because this is all his fault for making you this way, but you can’t think when he notches the thick tip of his cock to your entrance and pushes in. You’ve had sex with your husband before you two had gotten married, and you literally fucked the other day - waking him up to you sinking onto his cock the day after your wedding happened - but it still felt like the first time.

Seungcheol was big, thick in bullying his way into your sweet cunt, and long. His mushroom tip dragged over your velvety walls until it kissed your cervix in greeting, and you couldn’t take it. The fact that anyone could walk close to you two and see, the fact that you both were still wearing clothes, your bottoms pushed to the side while his cock stretched you open, it was enough to push you over the edge with a silent cry.

And Seungcheol enjoyed every moment of it. He used his large hands to spread your cheeks apart and watched the way your needy cunt fluttered around his shaft, desperately milking his cock as your thighs trembled under his strong ones. He doesn’t move; instead, he lets you buck your hips back, fucking yourself onto his cock as you gush wet and slick onto his shaft with little whimpers.

When your first orgasm subsides into a low hum, that’s when he moves. He drags his cock halfway out of your addictive cunt, and sees the mess your pussy made before he surges forward. His thrust punches out another moan from you, something beautifully mixed between a gasp and a whine, and then he does it again, and again, and again.

He moves his hips forward and backward in firm rolls, nice and slow, so you can feel every drag along your plush walls as he smacks the back of your cunt with mean kisses. He makes you see stars after each push forward. His warm chest is glued to your back, keeping a heavy weight on top of you, reminding you who made you feel like this.

Seungcheol's wedding ring stays in your eyesight, glimmering under the sun's rays, and adding to your hazy thoughts as Seungcheol carves his way deeper. He forced your legs closed by using his knees, making your pussy wrap around his shaft tighter, and building the pressure in your lower stomach. The cold metal of his chain nudged into the back of your neck with each thrust, causing a cool contrast between your heated skin, and you were quickly feeling the familiar knot in your stomach build.

"Your pussy's always so wet, Baby. She likes talking back, huh?" Cheol's grunts are right by your ear, his lips brushing along your neck and making your eyes roll as the wet squelches of your pussy grow louder. The first orgasm had made you sticky and wet, perfect for Seungcheol to fuck you deeper, and his hand slid around you, tilting your hips up so he could push down on the spot in your lower stomach with a cocky smirk.

His cock surged forward, and his palm could feel the bulge he created. He pushed his hand down and did it again, and your mouth gaped as he repeated the action, over and over again. "Can you feel me right there?" He huffed, and your pussy squeezed around him in response, trying to keep him there as he nipped at the spot under your ear. "Yeah, that's it, keep sucking on my cock like that, and I'll put you in a mating press in front of everyone, Baby."

You knew he meant it, and it only had you gushing another wave of your slick on his cock, a tremble in your whimpers making it known how hot you found his words. The idea of him taking you in front of everyone had your mind turning into mush, a bubble of drool forming at the corner of your mouth, and Seungcheol's hips stuttered.

"You like that, huh? Like the idea of me breeding this pussy in front of everyone? Want to show everyone how well you take me? How wet you get sucking my cock in deeper?" His hand slid down your stomach and between your thighs, gathering your slick that ringed around his shaft and smearing it into your pulsing clit. "How about you show me how pretty you look cumming on my cock again, hmm?"

His fingers swirled and stroked your clit while his cock swirled inside, giving you no time to think, and you came again, with a sob that was muffled by his other hand.

He fucked you through your second orgasm, praising you throughout it all, and stroking your clit until your legs twitched with each stroke. You had just realized he was spelling out M-I-N-E when he pushed his hips forward again, reminding you he hadn't cum yet. "You tired, Baby? Want me to take you back to the room?"

His fat tip gave another filthy kiss to your soft cervix, spilling another wad of his precum, and your whimper continued to be muffled by his hand over your mouth.

"What's that? Want me to stuff you with my cum first so I can eat it out when we get back?" His smile was sleazy, and your pussy fluttered as he laughed tauntingly. He really couldn't get enough of you, his wife, his pretty wife. And he planned to use your honeymoon to the fullest. He kept your mouth covered, his hips angling back to focus on the spot that would surely make you dumb on his cock. "Okay, Baby, let me use this pussy as it deserves."

a part of this universe

대박 - you made it to the end!

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“oh, that’s rich coming from you cheol, i’m the one that’s pissed at you right now—surely i won’t be regretting anything.” you finally decide to bite back.

“you being pissed at me doesn’t warrant you to fucking block your own fucking boyfriend, and what the fuck were you doing on mingyu’s story?” another bang across your poor door.

thank god seungcheol had arranged for only top quality products to be furnished throughout this apartment he’d gifted you a year ago.

“yeah well—you can go and cry about it to your other bitches, i’m sure someone would love to listen to you and offer you some comfort” you faked cooed—you were not going to let this one slide.

“baby—what the fuck are you talking about? you know i don’t even bat an eye at anyone else…everyone fuckin’ knows how i’m fucking obsessed with you, i— you know it too baby!” you hear how his voice starts to strain, and you know he’s right.

ever since you both were linked, it was like an otherworldly connection that only you and him could comprehend.

soulmates—if you must. equally bat shit crazy; crazy for each other at least. well, as what they always say, negative cancels out negative right? together, you and cheol swear nothing else could feel more right.

you came to him on a hazy friday night, and he finally had a face to the name he’s been hearing thrown around the office floors. he’d been captivated by you the minute he laid his eyes on you—in your velvet black dress, donned in silver jewelry that brought out the sparkle in your eyes.

—and, what seungcheol wants, seungcheol gets. by the end of the night, he finds himself removing your jewelry, having you writhe under him, screaming and moaning the whole night, and he’s not sure if you’ve fallen for his trap, or he yours.

it must’ve been love at first sight, he always tells you.

he’s everything you ever wanted, the possessive, ever so passionate man that never takes no for an answer. he made you feel alive, made you feel like you were worth trashing the world for.

some call it insanity, but you weren’t any better. which leads to why you were in your current predicament—you were livid.

it’s not like cheol wasn’t allowed to be around the female species, just not the pretty ones. and especially not if they wear extra short skirts and extra red lips around your boyfriend.

yeah yeah…it’s not like he could avoid female employees, especially being a young and an extremely attractive director, next in line for the CEO position.

the new influx of female employees with the new batch of hires were something else, flocking towards your boyfriend blatantly every chance they get.

he may have just been doing his job to facilitate but—did he have to cross the line with his overtly friendly nature? not necessary, you think.

and you loved to play the game. blocking him all over your social media—only for him to lose his mind when he sees you dancing on mingyu’s instagram story at the club downtown.

you know how much he hates when you hang out with your guy friends, especially ones with a certain playful nature—mingyu.

to say he went berserk would be an understatement. you grin behind the door, the taste of satisfaction at the tip of your tongue, knowing you got him back.

“baby, fuck, i’ll get rid of all of ‘em—whoever it is—fuck, they’re gone by next week” and who are you if not someone that falters at such sweet words from your beau’s mouth.

that click of a door makes him sigh out a breath of relief before he immediately engulfs you in a tight embrace, stroking your hair and kissing the crown of your head.

“you’ll really fire them for me babe?” your eyes soften as they look up into his, and he swoons at how pretty your eyes are, admiring your current docile state—when you’re not being batshit crazy.

he carefully removes the wine glass from you, placing on top of your black coffee table which he chose, before grabbing your cheek and pulling you in for a sloppy passionate kiss.

“anything for my baby, you are the future wife of the company’s soon-to-be CEO after all.” he smirks, rubbing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“and what she wants, she gets,” he whispers before pulling your lips towards his before you could say anything else.

his tongue explores every crevice of your mouth, tugging your own tongue playfully and soothing out every bite he gives your lower lip.

“my baby—you look fuckin’ gorgeous. i can never let you stay angry at me, hmm?” he pecks your forehead.

“gonna remind you why you’re mine and i’m yours baby,” he peppers feather kisses down your jaw tenderly.

“yeah? think i need to put my little brat in place, remind her why daddy only loves her, and how daddy only has eyes for her,” he kisses down your clavicle and sucks on a hollow spot which makes your knees buckle.

“mmffh—cheol….” you know it, you’re excited for it. you love it when he reminds you how obsessed he is with you.

“wonder what’s waiting for me underneath this pretty pink robe,” he gently tugs at the string of your little bow tied at the front.

a second later and your ribbon unravels, allowing the flimsy fabric to fall to the sides, and cheol lets out the most animalistic groan when he sees you completely bare and supple for him.

“so fucking pretty yeah?” he pushes you up against the nearest flat surface he can find, hands moving in urgency, grabbing any flesh of yours he can fit in those big hands of his.

you whine out as you feel his calloused hands squeezing your tits so hard, while his mouth gets busy along your jaw again. but those lips can’t stay away from your tits—he starts sucking and slurping all over—marking your mounds as you pull tightly on his locks, sinful moans after moans falling from your lips.

he breaks apart from your tits and you pout.

“my pretty girl, hands up for me.” he grabs your wrists and places them above your head and you keep them there.

“so good for me,” he sinks down and kisses all around your glistening cunt, making you squirm unconsciously. he holds on to your hips, before diving in fully, inserting that warm pink muscle deep inside your cunt you knock your head back against the wall, letting out the breathiest moan.

“pretty girl is all mine. my cunt, my tits, my girl, the prettiest.” he breathes out before he swings a leg over his shoulder and continues devouring your leaking cunt. his tongue curls up and like a deranged animal it plays with your g-spot frantically. he moans around your cunt so deeply, before he moves up and sucks your warm and swollen clit, teeth grazing every few seconds.

“cheol—too fast too fast—i’m gonna cum soon daddy,” you feel yourself reach your breaking point sooner tonight.

“that’s all i want baby, cum all over my face for me. i’m all yours to cum on,” he switches between the insane speed of his tongue and hard suction of his lips and the ribbon inside you unravels before you know it.

you let out the loudest string of moans, shaking as you clench and let out all your juices all over his face and his tongue.

cheol closes his eyes and soaks in the heavenly moment he wants to last forever. he takes in everything—your scent, your taste and continues lapping on your cunt to suck you dry.

you whine before grabbing his locks, pushing away due to oversensitivity. he looks up at you with glistening lips, and your stomach churns at the sight, feeling a new pool of arousal forming again.

he stands up, eye to eye with you, stroking a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re so fucking perfect baby, no one should dare to even stand next to you.”

he leans forward, rubbing his clothed bulge against your soaked cunt. “you feel that baby? only you can do that to me, i just need a thought of you and i go fucking insane,” he grabs your hand, guiding it to his huge bulge.

you rub teasingly above the fabric before smirking at him knowingly, “you like me that much?”

“baby, i love you so fucking much—even i can’t comprehend it. swear i’ll die without you,” he leans his forehead against yours, with an arm propped up on the wall beside your head.

you rub faster, enjoying the moment of cheol unraveling just by a touch from you.

“swear i’ll die if you don’t touch me now—and if i’m not inside you right now baby, need you,” he breaks out in desperation and you give in, unzipping and allowing him to step out of his pants.

wasting no time, he gets rid of his boxers and goes over to the couch to sit down, tapping his thigh twice, you immediately shuffle over to sit on him, warm cunt hovering over his growing cock.

“don’t tease baby, told you i need to be inside you now,” he grabs your waist before aligning your cunt to slowly sink down his red cock that’s bursting with veins, feeling like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t feel you wrapped around him.

“f-fuuuck,” you moan out, stomach twisting at how good cheol feels when he’s fully inside you, and you start to ride him, chasing that impending high that you know is coming.

“baby—you feel too fucking good, s’unreal,” cheol croaks out as he grips onto your hips tighter, guiding your pace, not wanting to come in you too quickly.

his wandering hands move on to playing with your swollen tits, your nipples so puffy from earlier it drives him crazy, “so pretty, so fucking sensitive for me always, fuck,” he tugs on them, eliciting a louder whine from you.

his keeps a hand on your tits, occasionally giving it light slaps across and he salivates at the way it jiggles. another hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck which looks too clean for him.

your face contorts in an unexplainable pleasure, and he knows he’s got you at you tipping point. “cheol—daddy, squeeze harder,” you prompt him, wanting him to push you over the edge faster.

“yeah? my little slut wants daddy to go harder? you dirty girl, my dirty girl though— my pretty dirty girl,” he groans, hands squeezing tighter at the pulse points, while he strikes one tight slap across your tits and you can’t stop moaning.

he can’t stop singing praises for his pretty baby, and all he wants is to express how much he adores you every second.

“so close daddy so close, wanna cum wanna cum,” cheol snaps his hips up faster, while maintaining the pressure around your neck.

“gonna make you cum so hard around daddy, then pump you full of daddy’s cum after—show you how much daddy loves you, yeah?” he revels in the way your voice breaks at the incessant amount of moans escaping your mouth.

“gonna cum—daddy can i cum now?” you bit down on your lips, feeling something in your lower abdomen growing and growing, threatening to spill over any minute.

“my pretty baby always so polite—yes baby, cum for daddy now,” and you let go, seeing white as you convulse and jerk around him, crying out his name repeatedly.

his grip around your neck holds you in place, “fuuuckk that’s it baby, let daddy see how hard he made you cum,” cheol will never get tired of watching you cum—especially when it’s around his cock.

“gonna let daddy pump you full now baby? i’m about to cum okay baby,” he starts to snap his hips up even rougher, before releasing a hot load inside of you with a groan and you moan at the feeling as it reaches deep inside you.

“fuuuuck, that’s it baby, take it all, take all of daddy’s cum yeah—you’re mine baby,” he moans out, panting as the last few drops paints your walls with his essence

cheol’s heart swells at the thought of you being so full of his cum—full of him. he thinks there’s no other way to express that you’re fully his other than this act of claiming.

he kisses you, stroking your cheek and uttering words of affection against your lips—and you feel that all is right with the world again.

WANTED IT TO BE LONGER THAN THIS! will be writing more of this au!! but for now,, thank you guys so much for 400 again!! can’t wait to be putting out more works soon! love u guys xx 🖤💋

he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder, and you feel his hands slowly start to wander. it’s innocent at first, his fingers tracing little patterns on your thighs, but then one of his hands starts sliding up.

“cheol,” you say softly, not even looking up.

“hmm?” he replies, his voice all sweet and casual, like he’s not already halfway to breaking the unspoken no-touchy rule you’ve set for nights like this.

“don’t,” you mumble, but there’s no heat behind it, and you both know it.

his hand pauses for like, half a second before continuing its journey. his fingers sneak under the hem of your shorts, brushing against the bare skin beneath. you squirm a little, your legs pressing together instinctively, but all that does is trap his hand where it is.

“you’re not stopping me,” he teases, his voice low in your ear, and you feel his smirk more than you see it.

“cheol, seriously—”

and then he moves. his legs come up, wrapping around yours and locking them in place, spreading you open in a way that makes you gasp.

“cheol!”

“what?” he says, feigning innocence as his fingers dip between your legs, finding exactly what he’s looking for. “you’re not stopping me,” he repeats, his tone teasing but firm, like he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

your breath hitches as his fingers start to move, tracing over the thin fabric of your shorts like he’s testing how far he can push you. you let out a shaky little “stop,” but it’s half-hearted at best, and you’re pretty sure he knows it.

“stop?” he echoes, his voice dripping sweetness. “you don’t sound like you want me to stop.”

“i do,” you tease weakly, but the way your hips tilt up to meet his hand completely betrays you.

“sure you do,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts now, brushing against your bare skin. “you’re so convincing, baby.”

you let out a soft whimper as he finds your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your head fall back against his shoulder.

“cheol—”

“shh,” he soothes, his lips brushing against your ear. “just let me take care of you, okay? you’ve had a long day. you deserve this.”

your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in your ear, the sound shooting straight to your core. your lips hover near his ear, and you gasp when his fingers slide inside you, the wet, obscene noises filling the space between your breaths.

schlk—schlk—schlk

every slide is unrelenting, curling and hitting that spot, making tears flood your eyes. his cock is rock hard, pressing right against your ass, and you can feel him twitch through the fabric of his sweats.

“fuck, baby, squeezing my fingers like this. you missed me, hm?”

you let out a choked moan, your hips tilting to meet his thrusts, but he keeps you pinned, his legs still locking yours open.

“you’re dripping all over my hand...listen,”

your back arches further, your face finding his neck as your cheeks flush with embarassment, his free hand snakes up to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“you wanna cum? hm? answer me,” he taunts, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “i can feel it, the way you’re clenching. but i don’t know if you deserve it yet.”

“cheol—!”

“hmm?” he hums, adding another finger, making your walls flutter around him. “use your words, baby. beg for it. tell me how bad you need me to make you come.”

you shake your head, too stubborn to give him the satisfaction, but then he shifts his hand, his thumb pressing against your clit just right, and you unravel.

“please!” you gasp, your voice cracking as your nails dig into his scalp.

“that’s my girl,” he growls, his hips rocking against you, his cock throbbing against your ass like he’s holding back just as much as you are.

his fingers work you faster, the wet noises getting louder, more vulgar, and your moans turn into broken cries. “such a good girl,” he coos, though his tone is still dripping with teasing. “but fuck, you’re so easy to ruin, aren’t you? just a little fingering, and you’re falling apart on me.”

his words push you closer, every filthy syllable lighting you up, until your body tenses and you cum around his fingers, the schelching present until you melt on his chest.

“that’s it, my baby...make a mess for me. let me feel you.”