It’s a lazy evening. You’re laying back against the sofa arm, book in hand, feet resting on Seungcheol’s thighs as he scrolls aimlessly through his phone. The sun is starting to set just enough that you reach back to turn the lamp on, filling the room with warm light.

As you come out of your comfortable haze, you realize that you’re hungry. Seungcheol must realize the same thing, because he proclaims, “I’m going to cook us dinner.”

You lower your book to give him an uneasy look. “I was thinking I’d just make us something simple tonight.”

But he’s got that determined look on his face that you know you won’t win against. All you can do is go along with it and hope things turn out okay.

“What’s for dinner?” you ask lightly, hoping your voice doesn’t betray your anxiety. Seungcheol doesn’t often cook but when he does, it never turns out quite right. Meat cooked a bit too long, soups a little overseasoned. His heart is in the right place, but he lacks the technique to see his creations through.

You’ve tried to teach him over the years, but he’s stubborn. He’s convinced he has the “chef instinct” and it’s just a matter of unlocking it.

“Sundubu jjigae!” he announces cheerfully. He lifts your ankles before setting them back onto the cushion, and heads into the kitchen.

Sighing, you slip your bookmark between the pages and slide your book under a throw pillow. Overseasoned soft tofu stew it is. At least there’s instant rice. He can’t ruin rice.

That’s not true, you realize. He’s microwaved it almost to burning before. Maybe you should offer to handle the rice.

Seungcheol is already pulling things out of the fridge. You can hear him humming as he painstakingly chops the vegetables. No matter how many times you’ve tried to show him how to properly chop, he always brushes you off and continues doing things his way.

Which is why you can’t bear to go in there and watch what he’s doing. You take your time fluffing the sofa pillows, refolding the blanket that Joshua lovingly crocheted the two of you as an anniversary gift. It’s a bit itchy and sometimes your toes get caught in the gaps, but it’s a sweet gift so you keep it on the sofa anyway.

Seungcheol often remarks that he’s glad Joshua gave up that particular hobby before it got more out of hand; secretly, so are you. Similarly, you wish Seungcheol would give up his desire to cook. Your cookware wishes the same thing.

“Ow!”

Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, you head into the kitchen. There’s a mess of half-chopped vegetables on the counter and a cutting board overflowing with uneven ingredients. Seungcheol is rummaging in the fridge.

“Are you sure this is right?” You hover near the pot, which is close to boiling over. 

Seungcheol nudges you out of the way to check. His hair is pushed up on one side where he keeps touching it while he checks his phone. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s supposed to look like that.”

“But is it supposed to smell like that?” you press, fighting the urge to turn down the stove. When Seungcheol insisted on making dinner tonight, you were wary. Now, seeing him in action, you’re downright stressed.

“Seungcheol–”

“Have some faith in me, will you? I read the recipe this time, and I–oh!”

The bubbling pot really has boiled over now; reflexively, he grabs for it before you can stop him, getting hot liquid over his fingers. 

His pained whine hurts your heart. Clicking off the stove, you drag him over to the sink and thrust his hand under the cold water. The two of you stand there for a minute, letting the water rush over his reddened fingers.

When you finally shut off the water to check the extent of his injury, he sighs. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know. I definitely know.”

The burn isn’t too bad. Using a clean towel, you dry off his hand before turning towards the stove. Maybe you can at least salvage dinner.

Except, looking at the remains of the soup, you’re not sure you want to. It doesn’t look edible.

“I give up,” he says, tossing the towel onto the counter. “I can’t cook.”

“Darn,” you tease him, hugging him from behind and resting your cheek against his broad back. “No house husband for me.”

“I can do other things,” he protests. “I can clean stuff. Laundry…take out the trash. Stuff like that.”

“Mm. Looks like we’ll just have to split the responsibilities. I can get behind that.”

“What about dinner?”

“Spam egg rice sound good?”

While Seungcheol gingerly cleans up the mess he’s made, you fry off some cubes of spam and scramble some eggs with green onion. Sliding the fluffy eggs over some steaming instant rice, you add a little drizzle of kewpie mayo and some more green onion and sesame seeds for decoration before presenting him with a bowl.

“Nothing fancy, but how’s that for a quick dinner?”

He takes the bowl, looking morose all the while. “Just once I’d like to be the one making you something delicious. I don’t know why I have a kitchen curse.”

“No. Hansol has a kitchen curse,” you correct. “You just don’t listen very well.”

“I try.”

“You don’t. You’re stubborn and ridiculous about it no matter how many times I try to tell you what to do.” Seeing the pout spreading across his handsome face, you pinch his cheek. “And I love you so much anyway.”

He gives you a sulky look that makes your heart fond. “How much?”

“So, so much.”

“How much is so, so much?”

“Enough that I’m willing to put up with you destroying my pans.”

He glances at the stove before ducking his head. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Yes, you will. Now let’s go eat before it gets cold.”

Loved dressing you up in the morning, each piece of delicate clothing carefully selected and put on you. Loved pinning your curls back with dainty hair clips, making you look even more doll-like. Loved scooping you up and carrying you around in his arms whenever he moved from one room to another. Loved gently setting you down among the many plushies that littered your bed after a long day. Loved crawling in with you. Loved pressing you to him until you both fell asleep. Loved waking you up the next morning with his cock pushing into you, his lovely doll so small and beautiful, whimpering half asleep in his arms. Loved doing it all over again.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t love it either. In fact, it was you, late one night, who suggested the idea to him shyly, reddened face buried in his wide shoulder. Asked him to use you, make you his, in every way possible, from the way you dress to when you speak. When he was silent for a moment too long, your heart sank to your stomach. Too far, you'd pushed too far, this was the end, you ruined it all again, he’s going to leave, you lost another person too early — 

Between the panic and the chasm cracking open in your chest, you didn’t register the way he cradled your frozen body closer, aligning you with him. Not until Wonwoo’s hips rolled up into yours, letting you know exactly how he felt about it. That night, he took you over and over again, held close to his broad chest, held with warmth and safety and care. Held close like a beloved doll.

However, a beloved doll never meant a fully passive one. Wonwoo likes to tie you up, not because you struggle (though he finds it adorable), but because it’s easier for him to do as he pleases with you. Which found you perched on his lap while he wrote lyrics, his other hand between your thighs, stroking your clit mindlessly. Your own hands were bound in front of you with the same meticulousness he performed every action with, then looped to the ring on your pretty collar. You squirmed against him, thoughts melting into oblivion with every gentle pass of fingers. 

The scratch of pen against paper pauses briefly, and he hauls you back to better lean against him, the warmth of his chest seeping into your back.

“Where are you going, hm?”

You were trapped between his chest and the palm of his hand flush against your bare cunt. The soft sound that escaped you was almost pitiful. Wonwoo huffed a laugh against the soft skin where your shoulder met your neck, pressing a tender kiss there. His fingers speed up, work long forgotten, until you were trying to squirm away from the relentless pleasure. The arm curled around your ribs doesn’t let you get far. He unravels you like this, nosing at the plush of your cheek, as you moan and writhe, legs shaking on either side of his, unable to close. 

You wordlessly turn your head in search of his lips, missing them twice in your desperation. Wonwoo smiles, catching your mouth in a deep kiss, hand still working you through your climax. Oversensitivity kicks in, and you whine against his mouth. Tears prick against your eyes when his fingers refuse to slow down, before they pull away without warning. You whine again, whether out of frustration or relief, you couldn’t tell. 

He breaks the kiss, still with that same gentle smile that you fell in love with, so long ago. Adjusting you on his lap, he silently encourages you to lean back against his shoulder. Your eyes drift shut. The scratch of pen on paper starts again, and Wonwoo’s warm hand finds its place back between your thighs, fingers tracing through the mess. 

Your eyes snap open. “Wonwoo-”

“Hush, baby.” You reluctantly quiet down, still shivering in his lap, still without use of your hands or legs, restrained as they are. Dolls shouldn’t speak, anyway. Wonwoo rewards you by dipping two fingers past your pliant lips, pressing down on your tongue until you couldn’t focus on anything but the taste of his skin, covered in you. 

Of course, work wasn’t the only time he held you close and played with you.

Wonwoo sprawls across the couch, long legs spread wide. You sat straddling his thigh, nose buried in the warm skin above his clavicle.  His large, pale hand spidered across your spine, gently caressing you, looking the very picture of relaxation as he lazily flicks through a book with the other.

The same couldn’t be said of you. For the past half-hour, you’ve been grinding desperately against the strong thigh pressed against your cunt, trying to get yourself off to no avail. It didn’t help that your hands were cuffed behind your back this time— Wonwoo’s arm wrapped around your waist was the only thing keeping you steady. 

You briefly wonder about the image the two of you made: his tall stature folded elegantly on the couch, regal features set in unruffled neutrality, princely even in a shirt and sweatpants, and you, naked, golden skin covered in a sheen of sweat, face flushed and crumpled with pleasure as you writhed helplessly on his leg. The master and his pretty doll. The thought sent heat straight to the pit of your stomach, forcing a whimper from you. 

It was at that noise the warmth of Wonwoo’s hand disappeared from your back and resurfaced on your chest, guiding you back carefully. Still, you barely caught yourself on his thigh. The change in position forced pressure off your clit—too much.

Indignation won over embarrassment,, only for it to turn to a soft moan when his thumb languidly brushed over your nipple. The touch was so light it could’ve been an accident. What was not an accident was the sharp pinch that followed, pulling a strangled wail from you. He soothed it with a firm swipe of his finger, before grabbing your whole tit. Hard. His sharp eyes didn't leave the pages once, even when he groped your chest. Something simply to keep his hands busy. 

Wonwoo bounced his leg the same time he turned a page. The jolt of pleasure it sent through you— after so long denied— made you fall forward back into the crook of his shoulder with a small cry, pushing your breast into his palm.

Any semblance of shame was long cast aside, if your whimpers were anything to go by. He keeps you like that, hand palming the soft swells of your chest, bouncing his leg periodically, almost absentmindedly– just to hear your punched out whines against his skin. An adorable little doll that squeaked when he touched it.

To Wonwoo, there was no activity that could be done if it wasn’t with you. Gaming (the single player kind. He’d be damned if he allowed anyone else to see you this way.) was no exception. Some days you curl up on his lap like a cat, basking in his warmth while you snuggle deeper into his shoulder. Wonwoo pets the closest part of you he can reach during the lulls. Long afternoons stretch and wind like taffy, Wonwoo rocking the two of you back and forth until you drowse in his arms.

On others, like this one, you kneel between his legs, hands tied to the chair around his waist. He makes sure your head is comfortable resting on his lap, his cock half hard and heavy in your mouth. His long calves are firm against your back, caging you in. Safe. It was so, so easy to fall asleep like this, drooling around him, messy and ruined and loved. Wonwoo pets the soft top of your head, a proud owner with a devoted pet.

Surrounded completely by him, you doze, woken up every now and then by his hips bucking into your mouth– gently, gently because he would never hurt his lovely doll, who looked up at him with glossy, lovesick eyes. Lovesick eyes which mirrored his own. His perfect darling who looked the picture of debauchery, pretty dress rucked up around your thighs, knees splayed out on the pillow he specifically bought for this, arms around him in the mimicry of a hug, round mouth stuffed full with him. 

Wonwoo’s heart shatters with the affection he feels for you then. Enough to pull you off him by the hair—gently, always gently— and lean down into a deep kiss you could barely reciprocate, breathless. He slides two fingers into your mouth, the other hand stroking your hair, your face, peppering your face with little kisses. Smiles into every one of them. Pecks the tip of your nose, and oh, your lips are right there, soft and wet and tight around his fingers as you sucked. Pushing down on your tongue, he licks into your open mouth, around his fingers, kissing the slick arch of your mouth and then between the vee of his fingers, eating up every soft noise you make, because it’s all for him, because of him.

Two fingers, as big as they were, weren’t enough to soothe the ache that had formed in your jaw, settled deep in your mind. You whine. Loudly. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling fondly, stroking the side of your head.

“You want daddy’s cock, babydoll? Yeah?” he coos at you. “My darling girl wants to be with me forever, right? Does she want me to take care of her everyday like this? ”

You nod quickly, eyes glistening, wanting him in your mouth, around you. Forget wanting, you needed him like air. More, sometimes. He obliges like he could read your mind, understand that porcelain heart of yours, legs pressing against your back, guiding your head back to him. One hand pushes your head down, until you feel him nudging the back of your throat.

Long hours spent training away your gag reflex (A mission taken on solely by you. Wonwoo spent most of it alarmed, concerned for your well-being and painfully hard) made it ridiculously easy to do fun little tricks like taking him in fully and staring up at him with dark, wet eyes. 

Fun little tricks for you, that is. Wonwoo was actively losing it. You silently will him to look at you, but he pays no heed to your telepathic urging (how dare he), instead throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming heat of your mouth. You lick over his head, taking him even deeper. The groan he lets slip between the harsh breaths is enough to have you moan against him, the vibration making his hips buck up, his body becoming yours.

You bob your head once, twice, and let your teeth graze ever so slightly, and that was enough for him to come undone. You swallow every drop, admiring his lovely face in the throes of pleasure. His cheekbones shone like the moon lived under his skin, and his long neck gleamed with sweat.

Wonwoo knew there was something wrong when you stared at your breakfast glassily, and when you barely spoke to him through it, and refused to touch him after it. He knew it when he saw you gazing at the mirror with the kind of hunger only the eternally starving could have, the hunger of someone who could not eat. And he knew it when you shied away from the hands he placed on your shoulders, but he didn't budge, and you reluctantly let him.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I'm fine." An answer too curt to be anything but fine.

He stayed silent, and it enveloped you like everything about him. The silence seeped into your skin and throat, swept into your head with the surety of a tsunami, sank into the orifices of your chest (you sometimes wondered if there was anything in there at all— it felt so hollow), reached the depths of your stomach.

The words left from your stomach too. Retching them out was really the right word, the way it came up, and out of your mouth in convulsions, the horrible things you harboured within you like a spider and it's eggs.

The truth was: you were a freak of nature. An anomalous result, a product of your circumstances like any other, the last connection you seemed to have with what it meant to be human. That's where it all stemmed from and now you've made him part of it, subjected him to you, the oddity, you, the less-than-human-more-than -doll sick in the head for all the things you were willing to do to be accepted, to win in relationships (there are 2 losers), to be home in her own skin. There were places his hands couldn't reach, couldn't cleanse and that made you angrier.

By the end of your tirade, shaking and crying and close to collapse, his silence remained. But so did his hands, moving from your shoulders to your back, keeping you up, you realised, from collapsing. Your legs felt numb. Truly a doll, you thought deliriously. All that was left was the two of you and his silence, now coating the sharp shards of glass you called a heart. The silence wasn't there to stay, because he'd leave soon, understand you were beyond help, save himself while he could. You wanted him happy. You wanted him all to yourself and that sent you into a fresh wave of tears, because it was all gone now, you've cut the final threads, cleaned it up like a seam in life. B.W, A.W. Before Wonwoo, after Wonwoo. The thought made you giggle, and you were sure he found you repulsive and frankly ill, and that sobered you up again.

His arms still haven't left their place around you. A croak of your name had you turning around to look at him, and your heart shattered at the tear tracks that mirrored your own. He shouldn't cry, people like him never deserved to know desperation or grief or sadness, you caused it—

As if sensing your thoughts, he scooped you up, interrupting them, and carried you to the bed, setting you on his lap comfortably. And his tears never stopped rolling, not when he buried his face in your shoulder and clung to you like he was afraid you'd be the one walking away. Maybe he recognized the sharp knife trying to glide through yet another relationship.

"Wonwoo?" You tried, placing a gentle hand onto his shoulder. He shook his head, still hidden in the crook of your shoulder.

"Don't leave me." The single sentence shattered you further, and you carded a hand through his dark hair, trying to envelope him like he always did you. You could always become better. For him, you'd force yourself to.

The door opened angrily. You could swear up and down the door could tell you what the person who opened it was feeling at the moment, and today it was frustration and ire.

You felt him before he entered the kitchen, all long legs and broad shoulders. His mouth was set in a tight line, and you could see the stress around his eyes, half hooded behind his glasses. Wonwoo crossed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your face with one hand and tilting your head up before he caught your lips in a kiss that felt like he was trying to devour you. You whined into the kiss, out of breath.

"Wonwoo, the stove—” you gasped.

He chased your mouth again, one arm reaching past you to turn the stove off (insurance wasn't worth it). The kiss only seemed to get more desperate as he poured the frustration of his day into it, until it felt like your lips would bruise. You wouldn't mind that, you thought, you wanted his marks to be raw and aching and permanent.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid an arm under your ass, lifting you effortlessly. The walk to the bedroom was the longest 10 seconds of his life (not entirely true. There was that one time the two of you didn't make it to the bed), and he tossed you on it like you weighed nothing, hunger written all over his face. Wonwoo moved with the quick grace of a predator, sliding between your thighs and flipping your skirt up. Of course you weren't wearing anything underneath, his perfect doll.

The first lick had you crumbling, and he had you on the edge in minutes. A single devastating suck threw you over it almost violently, his tounge working you through it. You sighed, boneless on the mattress, tugging at his hair to pull him up and over you, but he simply pinned your hands to your stomach.

"Hands, baby." It wasn't often he got like this, so you lifted them up obediently. Wonwoo stroked over your clit, rubbing little hearts into it until you came again, dumb with pleasure. And again. And again. After the fifth or sixth orgasm, you couldn't take it anymore, pushing at his shoulders and pulling his hair, trying to close your legs, but Wonwoo was a monolith between your thighs. And determined to make you come over and over until overstimulation could barely describe what you felt, tears of pleasure edged with sweet pain rolling into your hair. You knew if you fought back more, he'd simply tie your hands up and away from you, and tie your knees apart, and give you one more just as punishment for misbehaving. Your pleasure belonged to him. You belonged to him. He'd care of you if you passed out anyway, why are you crying?